Lord, it was all so terrible! He was so alone, even in these last
few and elusive hours (the swift passing of the days), with his
mother and also the Reverend McMillan here with him, but neither
understanding.
But, apart from all this and much worse, he was locked up here and
they would not let him go. There was a system--a horrible routine
system--as long since he had come to feel it to be so. It was
iron. It moved automatically like a machine without the aid or the
hearts of men. These guards! They with their letters, their
inquiries, their pleasant and yet really hollow words, their trips
to do little favors, or to take the men in and out of the yard or
to their baths--they were iron, too--mere machines, automatons,
pushing and pushing and yet restraining and restraining one--within
these walls, as ready to kill as to favor in case of opposition--
but pushing, pushing, pushing--always toward that little door over
there, from which there was no escape--no escape--just on and on--
until at last they would push him through it never to return!
NEVER TO RETURN!
Each time he thought of this he arose and walked the floor.
Afterwards, usually, he resumed the puzzle of his own guilt. He
tried to think of Roberta and the evil he had done her, to read the
Bible--even--lying on his face on the iron cot--repeating over and
over: "Lord, give me peace. Lord, give me light. Lord, give me
strength to resist any evil thoughts that I should not have. I
know I am not wholly white. Oh, no. I know I plotted evil. Yes,
yes, I know that. I confess. But must I really die now? Is there
no help? Will you not help me, Lord? Will you not manifest
yourself, as my mother says you will--for me? Will you get the
Governor to change my sentence before the final moment to life
imprisonment? Will you get the Reverend McMillan to change his
views and go to him, and my mother, too? I will drive out all
sinful thoughts. I will be different. Oh, yes, I will, if you
will only spare me. Do not let me die now--so soon. Do not. I
will pray. Yes, I will. Give me the strength to understand and
believe--and pray. Oh, do!"
It was like this in those short, horrible days between the return
of his mother and the Reverend McMillan from their final visit to
the Governor and in his last hour that Clyde thought and prayed--
yet finally in a kind of psychic terror, evoked by his uncertainty
as to the meaning of the hereafter, his certainty of death, and the
faith and emotions of his mother, as well as those of the Reverend
McMillan, who was about every day with his interpretations of
divine mercy and his exhortations as to the necessity of complete
faith and reliance upon it, he, himself coming at last to believe,
not only must he have faith but that he had it--and peace--complete
and secure. In that state, and at the request of the Reverend
McMillan, and his mother, finally composing, with the personal aid
and supervision of McMillan, who changed some of the sentences in
his presence and with his consent, an address to the world, and
more particularly to young men of his own years, which read:
In the shadow of the Valley of Death it is my desire to do
everything that would remove any doubt as to my having found Jesus
Christ, the personal Savior and unfailing friend. My one regret at
this time is that I have not given Him the preeminence in my life
while I had the opportunity to work for Him.
If I could only say some one thing that would draw young men to Him
I would deem it the greatest privilege ever granted me. But all I
can now say is, "I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded
that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him
against that day" [a quotation that McMillan had familiarized him
with].
If the young men of this country could only know the joy and
pleasure of a Christian life, I know they would do all in their
power to become earnest, active Christians, and would strive to
live as Christ would have them live.
There is not one thing I have left undone which will bar me from
facing my God, knowing that my sins are forgiven, for I have been
free and frank in my talks with my spiritual adviser, and God knows
where I stand.
My task is done, the victory won.
CLYDE GRIFFITHS.
Having written this--a statement so unlike all the previous
rebellious moods that had characterized him that even now he was,
not a little impressed by the difference, handing it to McMillan,
who, heartened by this triumph, exclaimed: "And the victory IS
won, Clyde. 'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.' You
have His word. Your soul and your body belong to Him. Praised,
everlastingly, be His name."
And then so wrought up was he by this triumph, taking both Clyde's
hands in his and kissing them and then folding him in his arms:
"My son, my son, in whom I am well pleased. In you God has truly
manifested His truth. His power to save. I see it. I feel it.
Your address to the world is really His own voice to the world."
And then pocketing the note with the understanding that it was to
be issued after Clyde's death--not before. And yet Clyde having
written this, still dubious at moments. Was he truly saved? The
time was so short? Could he rely on God with that absolute
security which he had just announced now characterized him? Could
he? Life was so strange. The future so obscure. Was there really
a life after death--a God by whom he would be welcomed as the
Reverend McMillan and his own mother insisted? Was there?
In the midst of this, two days before his death and in a final
burst of panic, Mrs. Griffiths wiring the Hon. David Waltham: "Can
you say before your God that you have no doubt of Clyde's guilt?
Please wire. If you cannot, then his blood will be upon your head.
His mother." And Robert Fessler, the secretary to the Governor
replying by wire: "Governor Waltham does not think himself
justified in interfering with the decision of the Court of
Appeals."
At last the final day--the final hour--Clyde's transfer to a cell
in the old death house, where, after a shave and a bath, he was
furnished with black trousers, a white shirt without a collar, to
be opened at the neck afterwards, new felt slippers and gray socks.
So accoutered, he was allowed once more to meet his mother and
McMillan, who, from six o'clock in the evening preceding the
morning of his death until four of the final morning, were
permitted to remain near him to counsel with him as to the love and
mercy of God. And then at four the warden appearing to say that it
was time, he feared, that Mrs. Griffiths depart leaving Clyde in
the care of Mr. McMillan. (The sad compulsion of the law, as he
explained.) And then Clyde's final farewell to his mother, before
which, and in between the silences and painful twistings of heart
strings, he had managed to say:
"Mama, you must believe that I die resigned and content. It won't
be hard. God has heard my prayers. He has given me strength and
peace." But to himself adding: "Had he?"
And Mrs. Griffiths exclaiming: "My son! My son, I know, I know.
I have faith too. I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He is
yours. Though we die--yet shall we live!" She was looking
heavenward, and seemed transfixed. Yet as suddenly turning to
Clyde and gathering him in her arms and holding him long and firmly
to her, whispering: "My son--my baby--" And her voice broke and
trailed off into breathlessness--and her strength seemed to be
going all to him, until she felt she must leave or fall-- And so
she turned quickly and unsteadily to the warden, who was waiting
for her to lead her to Auburn friends of McMillan's.
And then in the dark of this midwinter morning--the final moment--
with the guards coming, first to slit his right trouser leg for the
metal plate and then going to draw the curtains before the cells:
"It is time, I fear. Courage, my son." It was the Reverend
McMillan--now accompanied by the Reverend Gibson, who, seeing the
prison guards approaching, was then addressing Clyde.
And Clyde now getting up from his cot, on which, beside the
Reverend McMillan, he had been listening to the reading of John,
14, 15, 16: "Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God--
believe also in me." And then the final walk with the Reverend
McMillan on his right hand and the Reverend Gibson on his left--the
guards front and rear. But with, instead of the customary prayers,
the Reverend McMillan announcing: "Humble yourselves under the
mighty hand of God that He may exalt you in due time. Cast all
your care upon Him for He careth for you. Be at peace. Wise and
righteous are His ways, who hath called us into His eternal glory
by Christ Jesus, after that we have suffered a little. I am the
way, the truth and the life--no man cometh unto the Father but by
me."
But various voices--as Clyde entered the first door to cross to the
chair room, calling: "Good-by, Clyde." And Clyde, with enough
earthly thought and strength to reply: "Good-by, all." But his
voice sounding so strange and weak, even to himself, so far distant
as though it emanated from another being walking alongside of him,
and not from himself. And his feet were walking, but automatically,
it seemed. And he was conscious of that familiar shuffle--shuffle--
as they pushed him on and on toward that door. Now it was here; now
it was being opened. There it was--at last--the chair he had so
often seen in his dreams--that he so dreaded--to which he was now
compelled to go. He was being pushed toward that--into that--on--
on--through the door which was now open--to receive him--but which
was as quickly closed again on all the earthly life he had ever
known.
It was the Reverend McMillan, who, gray and weary--a quarter of an
hour later, walked desolately--and even a little uncertainly--as
one who is physically very weak--through the cold doors of the
prison. It was so faint--so weak--so gray as yet--this late winter
day--and so like himself now. Dead! He, Clyde, had walked so
nervously and yet somehow trustingly beside him but a few minutes
before--and now he was dead. The law! Prisons such as this.
Strong, evil men who scoffed betimes where Clyde had prayed. That
confession! Had he decided truly--with the wisdom of God, as God
gave him to see wisdom? Had he? Clyde's eyes! He, himself--the
Reverend McMillan had all but fainted beside him as that cap was
adjusted to his head--that current turned on--and he had had to be
assisted, sick and trembling, from the room--he upon whom Clyde had
relied. And he had asked God for strength,--was asking it.
He walked along the silent street--only to be compelled to pause
and lean against a tree--leafless in the winter--so bare and bleak.
Clyde's eyes! That look as he sank limply into that terrible
chair, his eyes fixed nervously and, as he thought, appealingly and
dazedly upon him and the group surrounding him.
Had he done right? Had his decision before Governor Waltham been
truly sound, fair or merciful? Should he have said to him--that
perhaps--perhaps--there had been those other influences playing
upon him?... Was he never to have mental peace again, perhaps?
"I know my Redeemer liveth and that He will keep him against that
day."
And then he walked and walked hours before he could present himself
to Clyde's mother, who, on her knees in the home of the Rev. and
Mrs. Francis Gault, Salvationists of Auburn, had been, since four-
thirty, praying for the soul of her son whom she still tried to
visualize as in the arms of his Maker.
"I know in whom I have believed," was a part of her prayer.
SOUVENIR
Dusk, of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of the city of San
Francisco--tall and gray in the evening shade.
And up a broad street from the south of Market--now comparatively
hushed after the din of the day, a little band of five--a man of
about sixty, short, stout, yet cadaverous as to the flesh of his
face--and more especially about the pale, dim eyes--and with bushy
white hair protruding from under a worn, round felt hat--a most
unimportant and exhausted looking person, who carried a small,
portable organ such as is customarily used by street preachers and
singers. And by his side, a woman not more than five years his
junior--taller, not so broad, but solid of frame and vigorous--with
snow white hair and wearing an unrelieved costume of black--dress,
bonnet, shoes. And her face broader and more characterful than her
husband's, but more definitely seamed with lines of misery and
suffering. At her side, again, carrying a Bible and several hymn
books--a boy of not more than seven or eight--very round-eyed and
alert, who, because of some sympathetic understanding between him
and his elderly companion, seemed to desire to walk close to her--a
brisk and smart stepping--although none-too-well dressed boy. With
these three, again, but walking independently behind, a faded and
unattractive woman of twenty-seven or eight and another woman of
about fifty--apparently, because of their close resemblance, mother
and daughter.
It was hot, with the sweet languor of a Pacific summer about it
all. At Market, the great thoroughfare which they had reached--and
because of threading throngs of automobiles and various lines of
cars passing in opposite directions, they awaited the signal of the
traffic officer.
"Russell, stay close now." It was the wife speaking. "Better take
hold of my hand."
"It seems to me," commented the husband, very feeble and yet
serene, "that the traffic here grows worse all the time."
The cars clanged their bells. The automobiles barked and snorted.
But the little group seemed entirely unconscious of anything save a
set purpose to make its way across the street.
"Street preachers," observed a passing bank clerk to his cashier
girl friend.
"Sure--I see them up here nearly every Wednesday."
"Gee, it's pretty tough on the little kid, I should think. He's
pretty small to be dragged around on the streets, don't you think,
Ella?"
"Well, I'll say so. I'd hate to see a brother of mine in on any
such game. What kind of a life is that for a kid anyhow?"
commented Ella as they passed on.
Having crossed the street and reached the first intersection
beyond, they paused and looked around as though they had reached
their destination--the man putting down his organ which he
proceeded to open--setting up, as he did so, a small but adequate
music rack. At the same time his wife, taking from her grandson
the several hymnals and the Bible he carried, gave the Bible as
well as a hymnal to her husband, put one on the organ and gave one
to each of the remaining group including one for herself. The
husband looked somewhat vacantly about him--yet, none-the-less with
a seeming wide-eyed assurance, and began with:
"We will begin with 276 tonight. 'How firm a foundation.' All
right, Miss Schoof."
At this the younger of the two women--very parched and spare--
angular and homely--to whom life had denied quite all--seated
herself upon the yellow camp chair and after arranging the stops
and turning the leaves of the book, began playing the chosen hymn,
to the tune of which they all joined in.
By this time various homeward bound individuals of diverse
occupations and interests noticing this small group so advantageously
disposed near the principal thoroughfare of the city, hesitated a
moment,--either to eye them askance or to ascertain the character
of their work. And as they sang, the nondescript and indifferent
street audience gazed, held by the peculiarity of such an
unimportant group publicly raising its voice against the vast
skepticism and apathy of life. That gray and flabby and ineffectual
old man, in his worn and baggy blue suit. This robust and yet
uncouth and weary and white-haired woman; this fresh and unsoiled
and unspoiled and uncomprehending boy. What was he doing here? And
again that neglected and thin spinster and her equally thin and
distrait looking mother. Of the group, the wife stood out in the
eyes of the passers-by as having the force and determination which,
however blind or erroneous, makes for self-preservation, if not
real success in life. She, more than any of the others, stood up
with an ignorant, yet somehow respectable air of conviction. And as
several of the many who chanced to pause, watched her, her hymn-book
dropped to her side, her glance directed straight before her into
space, each said on his way: "Well, here is one, who, whatever her
defects, probably does what she believes as nearly as possible." A
kind of hard, fighting faith in the wisdom and mercy of the definite
overruling and watchful and merciful power which she proclaimed was
written in her every feature and gesture.
The song was followed with a long prayer and by the wife; then a
sermon by the husband, testimonies by the others--all that God had
done for them. Then the return march to the hall, the hymnals
having been gathered, the organ folded and lifted by a strap over
the husband's shoulder. And as they walked--it was the husband
that commented: "A fine night. It seemed to me they were a little
more attentive than usual."
"Oh, yes," returned the younger woman that had played the organ.
"At least eleven took tracts. And one old gentleman asked me where
the mission was and when we held services."
"Praise the Lord," commented the man.
And then at last the mission itself--"The Star of Hope. Bethel
Independent Mission, Meetings every Wednesday and Saturday night, 8
to 10. Sundays at 11, 3, 8. Everybody welcome." And under this
legend in each window--"God is Love." And below that again in
smaller type: "How long since you wrote to Mother."
"Kin' I have a dime, grandma? I wana' go up to the corner and git
an ice-cream cone." It was the boy asking.
"Yes, I guess so, Russell. But listen to me. You are to come
right back."
"Yes, I will, grandma, sure. You know me."
He took the dime that his Grandmother had extracted from a deep
pocket in her dress and ran with it to the ice-cream vendor.
Her darling boy. The light and color of her declining years. She
must be kind to him, more liberal with him, not restrain him too
much, as maybe, maybe, she had-- She looked affectionately and yet
a little vacantly after him as he ran. "For HIS sake."
The small company, minus Russell, entered the yellow, unprepossessing
door and disappeared.
THE END
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