blasting flash from his well-intentioned, though seemingly
impractical and nonsensical good deed. Had not a long,
practical struggle with life taught him that sentiment in
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business was folly? Up to the hour he had met Clyde he
had never allowed it to influence him in any way. But his
mistaken notion that his youngest brother had been unfairly
dealt with by their father! And now this! This! His wife and
daughter compelled to remove from the scene of their
happiest years and comforts and live as exiles—perhaps
forever—in one of the suburbs of Boston, or elsewhere—or
forever endure the eyes and sympathy of their friends! And
himself and Gilbert almost steadily conferring ever since as
to the wisdom of uniting the business in stock form with
some of the others of Lycurgus or elsewhere—or, if not
that, of transferring, not by degrees but speedily, to either
Rochester or Buffalo or Boston or Brooklyn, where a main
plant might be erected. The disgrace of this could only be
overcome by absenting themselves from Lycurgus and all
that it represented to them. They must begin life all over
again—socially at least. That did not mean so much to
himself or his wife—their day was about over anyhow. But
Bella and Gilbert and Myra—how to rehabilitate them in
some way, somewhere?
And so, even before the trial was finished, a decision on the
part of Samuel and Gilbert Griffiths to remove the business
to South Boston, where they might decently submerge
themselves until the misery and shame of this had in part at
least been forgotten.
And because of this further aid to Clyde absolutely refused.
And Belknap and Jephson then sitting down together to
consider. For obviously, their time being as valuable as it
was—devoted hitherto to the most successful practice in
Bridgeburg—and with many matters waiting on account of
the pressure of this particular case—they were by no
means persuaded that either their practical self-interest or
their charity permitted or demanded their assisting Clyde
without further recompense. In fact, the expense of
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appealing this case was going to be considerable as they
saw it. The record was enormous. The briefs would be
large and expensive, and the State’s allowance for them
was pitifully small. At the same time, as Jephson pointed
out, it was folly to assume that the western Griffiths might
not be able to do anything at all. Had they not been
identified with religious and charitable work this long while?
And was it dot possible, the tragedy of Clyde’s present
predicament pointed out to them, that they might through
appeals of various kinds raise at least sufficient money to
defray the actual costs of such an appeal? Of course, they
had not aided Clyde up to the present time but that was
because his mother had been notified that she was not
needed. It was different now.
“Better wire her to come on,” suggested Jephson,
practically. “We can get Oberwaltzer to set the sentence
over until the tenth if we say that she is trying to come on
here. Besides, just tell her to do it and if she says she can’t
we’ll see about the money then. But she’ll be likely to get it
and maybe some towards the appeal too.”
And forthwith a telegram and a letter to Mrs. Griffiths,
saying that as yet no word had been said to Clyde but none-
the-less his Lycurgus relatives had declined to assist him
further in any way. Besides, he was to be sentenced not
later than the tenth, and for his own future welfare it was
necessary that some one—preferably herself—appear. Also
that funds to cover the cost of an appeal be raised, or at
least the same guaranteed.
And then Mrs. Griffiths, on her knees praying to her God to
help her. Here, now, he must show his Almighty hand—his
never-failing mercy. Enlightenment and help must come
from somewhere—otherwise how was she to get the fare,
let alone raise money for Clyde’s appeal?
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Yet as she prayed—on her knees—a thought. The
newspapers had been hounding her for interviews. They
had followed her here and there. Why had she not gone to
her son’s aid? What did she think of this? What of that?
And now she said to herself, why should she not go to the
editor of one of the great papers so anxious to question her
always and tell him how great was her need? Also, that if
he would help her to reach her son in time to be with him on
his day of sentence that she, his mother, would report the
same for him. These papers were sending their reporters
here, there—even to the trial, as she had read. Why not her
—his mother? Could she not speak and write too? How
many, many tracts had she not composed?
And so now to her feet—only to sink once more on her
knees: “Thou hast answered me, oh, my God!” she
exclaimed. Then rising, she got out her ancient brown coat,
the commonplace brown bonnet with strings—based on
some mood in regard to religious livery—and at once
proceeded to the largest and most important newspaper.
And because of the notoriety of her son’s trial she was
shown directly to the managing editor, who was as much
interested as he was impressed and who listened to her
with respect and sympathy. He understood her situation
and was under the impression that the paper would be
interested in this. He disappeared for a few moments—then
returned. She would be employed as a correspondent for a
period of three weeks, and after that until further notice. Her
expenses to and fro would be covered. An assistant, into
whose hands he would now deliver her would instruct her
as to the method of preparing and filing her
communications. He would also provide her with some
ready cash. She might even leave tonight if she chose—the
sooner, the better. The paper would like a photograph or
two before she left. But as he talked, and as he noticed, her
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eyes were closed—her head back. She was offering thanks
to the God who had thus directly answered her plea.
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Chapter 28
BRIDGEBURG and a slow train that set down a tired, distrait
woman at its depot after midnight on the eighth of
December. Bitter cold and bright stars. A lone depot
assistant who on inquiry directed her to the Bridgeburg
Central House—straight up the street which now faced her,
then two blocks to her left after she reached the second
street. The sleepy night clerk of the Central House
providing her instantly with a room and, once he knew who
she was, directing her to the county jail. But she deciding
after due rumination that now was not the hour. He might
be sleeping. She would go to bed and rise early in the
morning. She had sent him various telegrams. He knew
that she was coming.
But as early as seven in the morning, rising, and by eight
appearing at the jail, letters, telegrams and credentials in
hand. And the jail officials, after examining the letters she
carried and being convinced of her identity, notifying Clyde
of her presence. And he, depressed and forlorn, on hearing
this news, welcoming the thought of her as much as at first
he had dreaded her coming. For now things were different.
All the long grim story had been told. And because of the
plausible explanation which Jephson had provided him, he
could face her perhaps and say without a quaver that it was
true—that he had not plotted to kill Roberta—that he had
not willingly left her to die in the water. And then hurrying
down to the visitor’s room, where, by the courtesy of Slack,
he was permitted to talk with his mother alone.
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On seeing her rise at his entrance, and hurrying to her, his
troubled intricate soul not a little dubious, yet confident also
that it was to find sanctuary, sympathy, help, perhaps—and
that without criticism—in her heart. And exclaiming with
difficulty, as a lump thickened in his throat: “Gee, Ma! I’m
glad you’ve come.” But she too moved for words—her
condemned boy in her arms—merely drawing his head to
her shoulder and then looking up. The Lord God had
vouchsafed her this much. Why not more? The ultimate
freedom of her son—or if not that, at least a new trial—a fair
consideration of the evidence in his favor which had not
been had yet, of course. And so they stood for several
moments.
Then news of home, the reason for her presence, her duty
as a correspondent to interview him—later to appear with
him in court at the hour of his sentence—a situation over
which Clyde winced. Yet now, as he heard from her, his
future was likely to depend on her efforts alone. The