of the jurors was saying: “Yes”—Clyde was listening to
them, not to Jephson. Why should each one say that with
so much emphasis? Was there not one who felt that he
might not have done as Mason had said—struck her
intentionally? Was there not one who even half-believed in
that change of heart which Belknap and Jephson had
insisted that he had experienced? He looked at them all—
little and big. They were like a blackish-brown group of
wooden toys with creamish-brown or old ivory faces and
hands. Then he thought of his mother. She would hear of
this now, for here were all these newspaper writers and
artists and photographers assembled to hear this. And what
would the Griffiths—his uncle and Gilbert—think now? And
Sondra! Sondra! Not a word from her. And through all this
he had been openly testifying, as Belknap and Jephson had
agreed that he must do—to the compelling and directing
power of his passion for her—the real reason for all this!
But not a word. And she would not send him any word now,
of course—she who had been going to marry him and give
him everything!
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But in the meantime the crowd about him silent although—
or perhaps because—intensely satisfied. The little devil
hadn’t “gotten by.” He hadn’t fooled the twelve sane men of
this county with all that bunk about a change of heart. What
rot! While Jephson sat and stared, and Belknap, his strong
face written all over with contempt and defiance, making his
motions. And Mason and Burleigh and Newcomb and
Redmond thinly repressing their intense satisfaction behind
masks preternaturally severe, the while Belknap continued
with a request that the sentence be put off until the
following Friday—a week hence, when he could more
conveniently attend, but with Justice Oberwaltzer replying
that he thought not—unless some good reason could be
shown. But on the morrow, if counsel desired, he would
listen to an argument. If it were satisfactory he would delay
sentence—otherwise, pronounce it the following Monday.
Yet, even so, Clyde was not concerned with this argument
at the moment. He was thinking of his mother and what she
would think—feel. He had been writing her so regularly,
insisting always that he was innocent and that she must not
believe all, or even a part, of what she read in the
newspapers. He was going to be acquitted sure. He was
going to go on the stand and testify for himself. But now …
now … oh, he needed her now—so much. Quite every one,
as it seemed now, had forsaken him. He was terribly,
terribly alone. And he must send her some word quickly. He
must. He must. And then asking Jephson for a piece of
paper and a pencil, he wrote: “Mrs. Asa Griffiths, care of
Star of Hope Mission, Denver, Colorado. Dear mother—I
am convicted—Clyde.” And then banding that to Jephson,
he asked him, nervously and weakly, if he would see that it
was sent right away. “Right away, son, sure,” replied
Jephson, touched by his looks, and waving to a press boy
who was near gave it to him together with the money.
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AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY
And then, while this was going on, all the public exits being
locked until Clyde, accompanied by Sissel and Kraut, had
been ushered through the familiar side entrance through
which he had hoped to escape. And while all the press and
the public and the still-remaining jury gazing, for even yet
they had not seen enough of Clyde but must stare into his
face to see how he was taking it. And because of the local
feeling against him, Justice Oberwaltzer, at Slack’s request,
holding court un-adjourned until word was brought that
Clyde was once more locked in his cell, whereupon the
doors were re-opened. And then the crowd surging out but
only to wait at the courtroom door in order to glimpse, as he
passed out, Mason, who now, of all the figures in this case,
was the true hero—the nemesis of Clyde—the avenger of
Roberta. But he not appearing at first but instead Jephson
and Belknap together, and not so much depressed as
solemn, defiant—Jephson, in particular, looking
unconquerably contemptuous. Then some one calling:
“Well, you didn’t get him off just the same,” and Jephson
replying, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Not yet, but this
county isn’t all of the law either.” Then Mason, immediately
afterward—a heavy, baggy overcoat thrown over his
shoulder, his worn soft hat pulled low over his eyes—and
followed by Burleigh, Heit, Newcomb and others as a royal
train—while he walked in the manner of one entirely
oblivious of the meaning or compliment of this waiting
throng. For was he not now a victor and an elected judge!
And as instantly being set upon by a circling, huzzahing
mass—the while a score of those nearest sought to seize
him by the hand or place a grateful pat upon his arm or
shoulder. “Hurrah for Orville!”“Good for you, Judge!” (his
new or fast-approaching title). “By God! Orville Mason, you
deserve the thanks of this county!”“Hy-oh! Heigh!
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1092
Heigh!”“Three cheers for Orville Mason!” And with that the
crowd bursting into three resounding huzzahs—which Clyde
in his cell could clearly hear and at the same time sense the
meaning of.
They were cheering Mason for convicting him. In that large
crowd out there there was not one who did not believe him
totally and completely guilty. Roberta—her letters—her
determination to make him marry her—her giant fear of
exposure—had dragged him down to this. To conviction. To
death, maybe. Away from all he had longed for—away from
all he had dreamed he might possess. And Sondra!
Sondra! Not a word! Not a word! And so now, fearing that
Kraut or Sissel or some one might be watching (ready to
report even now his every gesture), and not willing to show
after all how totally collapsed and despondent he really
was, he sat down and taking up a magazine pretended to
read, the while he looked far, far beyond it to other scenes—
his mother—his brother and sisters—the Griffiths—all he
had known. But finding these unsubstantiated mind visions
a little too much, he finally got up and throwing off his
clothes climbed into his iron cot.
“Convicted! Convicted!” And that meant that he must die!
God! But how blessed to be able to conceal his face upon a
pillow and not let any one see—however accurately they
might guess!
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1093
Chapter 27
THE dreary aftermath of a great contest and a great failure,
with the general public from coast to coast—in view of this
stern local interpretation of the tragedy—firmly convinced
that Clyde was guilty and, as heralded by the newspapers
everywhere, that he had been properly convicted. The
pathos of that poor little murdered country girl! Her sad
letters! How she must have suffered! That weak defense!
Even the Griffiths of Denver were so shaken by the
evidence as the trial had progressed that they scarcely
dared read the papers openly—one to the other—but, for
the most part, read of it separately and alone, whispering
together afterwards of the damning, awful deluge of
circumstantial evidence. Yet, after reading Belknap’s
speech and Clyde’s own testimony, this little family group
that had struggled along together for so long coming to
believe in their own son and brother in spite of all they had
previously read against him. And because of this—during
the trial as well as afterwards—writing him cheerful and
hopeful letters, based frequently on letters from him in
which he insisted over and over again that he was not
guilty. Yet once convicted, and out of the depths of his
despair wiring his mother as he did—and the papers
confirming it—absolute consternation in the Griffiths family.
For was not this proof? Or, was it? All the papers seemed
to think so. And they rushed reporters to Mrs. Griffiths, who,
together with her little brood, had sought refuge from the
unbearable publicity in a remote part of Denver entirely
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1094
removed from the mission world. A venal moving-van
company had revealed her address.
And now this American witness to the rule of God upon
earth, sitting in a chair in her shabby, nondescript
apartment, hard-pressed for the very means to sustain
herself—degraded by the milling forces of life and the fell
and brutal blows of chance—yet serene in her trust—and
declaring: “I cannot think this morning. I seem numb and
things look strange to me. My boy found guilty of murder!
But I am his mother and I am not convinced of his guilt by
any means! He has written me that he is not guilty and I
believe him. And to whom should he turn with the truth and
for trust if not to me? But there is He who sees all things
and who knows.”
At the same time there was so much in the long stream of