evidence, as well as Clyde’s first folly in Kansas City, that
had caused her to wonder—and fear. Why was he unable
to explain that folder? Why couldn’t he have gone to the
girl’s aid when he could swim so well? And why did he
proceed so swiftly to the mysterious Miss X—whoever she
was? Oh, surely, surely, surely, she was not going to be
compelled, in spite of all her faith, to believe that her eldest
—the most ambitious and hopeful, if restless, of all of her
children, was guilty of such a crime! No! She could not
doubt him—even now. Under the merciful direction of a
living God, was it not evil in a mother to believe evil of a
child, however dread his erring ways might seem? In the
silence of the different rooms of the mission, before she
had been compelled to remove from there because of
curious and troublesome visitors, had she not stood many
times in the center of one of those miserable rooms while
sweeping and dusting, free from the eye of any observer—
her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her strong, brown
face molded in homely and yet convinced and earnest lines
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—a figure out of the early Biblical days of her six-thousand-
year-old world—and earnestly directing her thoughts to that
imaginary throne which she saw as occupied by the living,
giant mind and body of the living God—her Creator. And
praying by the quarter and the half hour that she be given
strength and understanding and guidance to know of her
son’s innocence or guilt—and if innocent that this searing
burden of suffering be lifted from him and her and all those
dear to him and her—or if guilty, she be shown how to do—
how to endure the while he be shown how to wash from his
immortal soul forever the horror of the thing he had done—
make himself once more, if possible, white before the Lord.
“Thou art mighty, O God, and there is none beside Thee.
Behold, to Thee all things are possible. In Thy favor is Life.
Have mercy, O God. Though his sins be as scarlet, make
him white as snow. Though they be red like crimson, make
them as wool.”
Yet in her then—and as she prayed—was the wisdom of
Eve in regard to the daughters of Eve. That girl whom
Clyde was alleged to have slain—what about her? Had she
not sinned too? And was she not older than Clyde? The
papers said so. Examining the letters, line by line, she was
moved by their pathos and was intensely and pathetically
grieved for the misery that had befallen the Aldens.
Nevertheless, as a mother and woman full of the wisdom of
ancient Eve, she saw how Roberta herself must have
consented—how the lure of her must have aided in the
weakening and the betrayal of her son. A strong, good girl
would not have consented—could not have. How many
confessions about this same thing had she not heard in the
mission and at street meetings? And might it not be said in
Clyde’s favor—as in the very beginning of life in the Garden
of Eden—“the woman tempted me”?
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Truly—and because of that——
“His mercy endureth forever,” she quoted. And if His mercy
endureth—must that of Clyde’s mother be less?
“If ye have faith, so much as the grain of a mustard seed,”
she quoted to herself—and now, in the face of these
importuning reporters added: “Did my son kill her? That is
the question. Nothing else matters in the eyes of our
Maker,” and she looked at the sophisticated, callous youths
with the look of one who was sure that her God would
make them understand. And even so they were impressed
by her profound sincerity and faith. “Whether or not the jury
has found him guilty or innocent is neither here nor there in
the eyes of Him who holds the stars in the hollow of His
hand. The jury’s finding is of men. It is of the earth’s earthy.
I have read his lawyer’s plea. My ‘son himself has told me
in his letters that he is not guilty. I believe my son. I am
convinced that he is innocent.”
And Asa in another corner of the room, saying little.
Because of his lack of comprehension of the actualities as
well as his lack of experience of the stern and motivating
forces of passion, he was unable to grasp even a tithe of
the meaning of this. He had never understood Clyde or his
lacks or his feverish imaginings, so he said, and preferred
not to discuss him.
“But,” continued Mrs. Griffiths, “at no time have I shielded
Clyde in his sin against Roberta Alden. He did wrong, but
she did wrong too in not resisting him. There can be no
compromising with sin in any one. And though my heart
goes out in sympathy and love to the bleeding heart of her
dear mother and father who have suffered so, still we must
not fail to see that this sin was mutual and that the world
should know and judge accordingly. Not that I want to
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shield him,” she repeated. “He should have remembered
the teachings of his youth.” And here her lips compressed
in a sad and somewhat critical misery. “But I have read her
letters too. And I feel that but for them, the prosecuting
attorney would have no real case against my son. He used
them to work on the emotions of the jury.” She got up, tried
as by fire, and exclaimed, tensely and beautifully: “But he is
my son! He has just been convicted. I must think as a
mother how to help him, however I feel as to his sin.” She
gripped her hands together, and even the reporters were
touched by her misery. “I must go to him! I should have
gone before. I see it now.” She paused, discovering herself
to be addressing her inmost agony, need, fear, to these
public ears and voices, which might in no wise understand
or care.
“Some people wonder,” now interrupted one of these same
—a most practical and emotionally calloused youth of
Clyde’s own age—“why you weren’t there during the trial.
Didn’t you have the money to go?”
“I had no money,” she replied simply. “Not enough, anyhow.
And besides, they advised me not to come—that they did
not need me. But now—now I must go—in some way—I
must find out how.” She went to a small shabby desk, which
was a part of the sparse and colorless equipment of the
room. “You boys are going downtown,” she said. “Would
one of you send a telegram for me if I give you the money?”
“Sure!” exclaimed the one who had asked her the rudest
question. “Give it to me. You don’t need any money. I’ll
have the paper send it.” Also, as he thought, he would write
it up, or in, as part of his story.
She seated herself at the yellow and scratched desk and
after finding a small pad and pen, she wrote: “Clyde—Trust
in God. All things are possible to Him. Appeal at once.
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1098
Read Psalm 51. Another trial will prove your innocence. We
will come to you soon. Father and Mother.”
“Perhaps I had just better give you the money,” she added,
nervously, wondering whether it would be well to permit a
newspaper to pay for this and wondering at the same time if
Clyde’s uncle would be willing to pay for an appeal. It might
cost a great deal. Then she added: “It’s rather long.”
“Oh, don’t bother about that!” exclaimed another of the trio,
who was anxious to read the telegram. “Write all you want.
We’ll see that it goes.”
“I want a copy of that,” added the third, in a sharp and
uncompromising tone, seeing that the first reporter was
proceeding to take and pocket the message. “This isn’t
private. I get it from you or her—now!”
And at this, number one, in order to avoid a scene, which
Mrs. Griffiths, in her slow way, was beginning to sense,
extracted the slip from his pocket and turned it over to the
others, who there and then proceeded to copy it.
At the same time that this was going on, the Griffiths of
Lycurgus, having been consulted as to the wisdom and cost
of a new trial, disclosed themselves as by no means
interested, let alone convinced, that an appeal—at least at
their expense—was justified. The torture and socially—if not
commercially—destroying force of all this—every hour of it
a Golgotha! Bella and her social future, to say nothing of
Gilbert and his—completely overcast and charred by this
awful public picture of the plot and crime that one of their
immediate blood had conceived and executed! Samuel
Griffiths himself, as well as his wife, fairly macerated by this