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

“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!

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 everyone, 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 handing 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.

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 reopened. 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. That 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 someone 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! 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 someone 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