An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

No relative has come forward.

It was thus that her eye and her mind automatically selected the most essential lines. And then as swiftly going over them again.

Clyde Griffiths, nephew of the wealthy collar manufacturer of Lycurgus, New York.

Clyde⁠—her son! And only recently⁠—but no, over a month ago⁠—(and they had been worrying a little as to that, she and Asa, because he had not⁠—) July 8th! And it was now August 11th! Then⁠—yes! But not her son! Impossible! Clyde the murderer of a girl who was his sweetheart! But he was not like that! He had written to her how he was getting along⁠—the head of a large department, with a future. But of no girl. But now! And yet that other little girl there in Kansas City. Merciful God! And the Griffiths, of Lycurgus, her husband’s brother, knowing of this and not writing! Ashamed, disgusted, no doubt. Indifferent. But no, he had hired two lawyers. Yet the horror! Asa! Her other children! What the papers would say! This mission! They would have to give it up and go somewhere else again. Yet was he guilty or not guilty? She must know that before judging or thinking. This paper said he had pleaded not guilty. Oh, that wretched, worldly, showy hotel in Kansas City! Those other bad boys! Those two years in which he wandered here and there, not writing, passing as Harry Tenet. Doing what? Learning what?

She paused, full of that intense misery and terror which no faith in the revealed and comforting verities of God and mercy and salvation which she was always proclaiming, could for the moment fend against. Her boy! Her Clyde! In jail, accused of murder! She must wire! She must write! She must go, maybe. But how to get the money! What to do when she got there. How to get the courage⁠—the faith⁠—to endure it. Yet again, neither Asa nor Frank nor Julia must know. Asa, with his protesting and yet somehow careworn faith, his weak eyes and weakening body. And must Frank and Julia, now just starting out in life, be saddled with this? Marked thus?

Merciful God! Would her troubles never end?

She turned, her big, work-worn hands trembling slightly, shaking the paper she held, while Esta, who sympathized greatly with her mother these days because of all she had been compelled to endure, stood by. She looked so tired at times, and now to be racked by this! Yet, as she knew, her mother was the strongest in the family⁠—so erect, so square-shouldered, defiant⁠—a veritable soul pilot in her cross-grained, uniformed way.

“Mamma, I just can’t believe it can be Clyde,” was all Esta could say now. “It just can’t be, can it?”

But Mrs. Griffiths merely continued to stare at that ominous headline, then swiftly ran her gray-blue eyes over the room. Her broad face was blanched and dignified by an enormous strain and an enormous pain. Her erring, misguided, no doubt unfortunate, son, with all his wild dreams of getting on and up, was in danger of death, of being electrocuted for a crime⁠—for murder! He had killed someone⁠—a poor working-girl, the paper said.

“Ssh!” she whispered, putting one finger to her own lips as a sign. “He” (indicating Asa) “must not know yet, anyhow. We must wire first, or write. You can have the answers come to you, maybe. I will give you the money. But I must sit down somewhere now for a minute. I feel a little weak. I’ll sit here. Let me have the Bible.”

On the small dresser was a Gideon Bible, which, sitting on the edge of the commonplace iron bed, she now opened instinctively at Psalms 3 and 4.

“Lord, how are they increased that trouble.”

“Hear me, when I call, O God of my righteousness.”

And then reading on silently, even placidly apparently, through 6, 8, 10, 13, 23, 91, while Esta stood by in silent amazement and misery.

“Oh, Mamma, I just can’t believe it. Oh, this is too terrible!” But Mrs. Griffiths read on. It was as if, and in spite of all this, she had been able to retreat into some still, silent place, where, for the time being at least, no evil human ill could reach her. Then at last, quite calmly closing the book, and rising, she went on:

“Now, we must think out what to say and who to send that telegram to⁠—I mean to Clyde, of course⁠—at that place, wherever it is⁠—Bridgeburg,” she added, looking at the paper, and then interpolating from the Bible⁠—“By terrible things in righteousness wilt thou answer us, O God!” “Or, maybe, those two lawyers⁠—their names are there. I’m afraid to wire Asa’s brother for fear he’ll wire back to him.” (Then: “Thou art my bulwark and my strength. In Thee will I trust.”) “But I suppose they would give it to him if we sent it care of that judge or those lawyers, don’t you think? But it would be better if we could send it to him direct, I suppose. (‘He leadeth me by the still waters.’) Just say that I have read about him and still have faith and love for him, but he is to tell me the truth and what to do. If he needs money we will have to see what we can do, I suppose. (‘He restoreth my soul.’)”

And then, despite her sudden peace of the moment, she once more began wringing her large, rough hands. “Oh, it can’t be true. Oh, dear, no! After all, he is my son. We all love him and have faith. We must say that. God will deliver him. Watch and pray. Have faith. Under his wings shalt thou trust.”

She was so beside herself that she scarcely knew what she was saying. And Esta, at her side, was saying: “Yes, Mamma! Oh, of course! Yes, I will! I know he’ll get it all right.” But she, too, was saying to herself: “My God! My God! What could be worse than this⁠—to be accused of murder! But, of