attitude toward her was a mixture of fear and shame because of the
manner in which she was likely to view his predicament--his moral
if not his social failure. Would she be willing to believe the
story prepared by Belknap and Jephson as to his change of heart?
But even apart from that, to have her come here now and look at him
through these bars when he was so disgraced--to be compelled to
face her and talk to her day after day! Her clear, inquiring,
tortured eyes! Her doubt as to his innocence, since he could feel
that even Belknap and Jephson, in spite of all their plans for him,
were still a little dubious as to that unintentional blow of his.
They did not really believe it, and they might tell her that. And
would his religious, God-fearing, crime-abhorring mother be more
credulous than they?
Being asked again what he thought ought to be done about his
parents, he replied that he did not believe he could face his
mother yet--it would do no good and would only torture both.
And fortunately, as he saw it, apparently no word of all that had
befallen him had yet reached his parents in Denver. Because of
their peculiar religious and moral beliefs, all copies of worldly
and degenerate daily papers were consistently excluded from their
home and Mission. And the Lycurgus Griffiths had had no desire to
inform them.
Yet one night, at about the time that Belknap and Jephson were most
seriously debating the absence of his parents and what, if
anything, should be done about it, Esta, who some time after Clyde
had arrived in Lycurgus had married and was living in the southeast
portion of Denver, chanced to read in The Rocky Mountain News--and
this just subsequent to Clyde's indictment by the Grand Jury at
Bridgeburg:
"BOY SLAYER OF WORKING GIRL INDICTED
"Bridgeburg, N. Y., Aug. 6: A special Grand Jury appointed by
Governor Stouderback, of this state, to sit in the case of Clyde
Griffiths, the nephew of the wealthy collar manufacturer of the
same name, of Lycurgus, New York, recently charged with the killing
of Miss Roberta Alden, of Biltz, New York, at Big Bittern Lake in
the Adirondacks on July 8th last, to-day returned an indictment
charging murder in the first degree.
"Subsequent to the indictment, Griffiths, who in spite of almost
overwhelming evidence, has persisted in asserting that the alleged
crime was an accident, and who, accompanied by his counsel, Alvin
Belknap, and Reuben Jephson, of this city, was arraigned before
Supreme Court Justice Oberwaltzer, pleaded not guilty. He was
remanded for trial, which was set for October 15th.
"Young Griffiths, who is only twenty-two years of age, and up to
the day of his arrest a respected member of Lycurgus smart society,
is alleged to have stunned and then drowned his working-girl
sweetheart, whom he had wronged and then planned to desert in favor
of a richer girl. The lawyers in this case have been retained by
his wealthy uncle of Lycurgus, who has hitherto remained aloof.
But apart from this, it is locally asserted, no relative has come
forward to aid in his defense."
Esta forthwith made a hurried departure for her mother's home.
Despite the directness and clarity of this she was not willing to
believe it was Clyde. Still there was the damning force of
geography and names--the rich Lycurgus Griffiths, the absence of
his own relatives.
As quickly as the local street car would carry her, she now
presented herself at the combined lodging house and mission known
as the "Star of Hope," in Bildwell Street, which was scarcely
better than that formerly maintained in Kansas City. For while it
provided a number of rooms for wayfarers at twenty-five cents a
night, and was supposed to be self-supporting, it entailed much
work with hardly any more profit. Besides, by now, both Frank and
Julia, who long before this had become irked by the drab world in
which they found themselves, had earnestly sought to free
themselves of it, leaving the burden of the mission work on their
father and mother. Julia, now nineteen, was cashiering for a local
downtown restaurant, and Frank, nearing seventeen, had but recently
found work in a fruit and vegetable commission house. In fact, the
only child about the place by day was little Russell, the
illegitimate son of Esta--now between three and four years of age,
and most reservedly fictionalized by his grandparents as an orphan
whom they had adopted in Kansas City. He was a dark-haired child,
in some ways resembling Clyde, who, even at this early age, as
Clyde had been before him, was being instructed in those
fundamental verities which had irritated Clyde in his own
childhood.
At the time that Esta, now a decidedly subdued and reserved wife,
entered, Mrs. Griffiths was busy sweeping and dusting and making up
beds. But on sight of her daughter at this unusual hour
approaching, and with blanched cheeks signaling her to come inside
the door of a vacant room, Mrs. Griffiths, who, because of years of
difficulties of various kinds, was more or less accustomed to
scenes such as this, now paused in wonder, the swiftly beclouding
mist of apprehension shining in her eyes. What new misery or ill
was this? For decidedly Esta's weak gray eyes and manner indicated
distress. And in her hand was folded a paper, which she opened and
after giving her mother a most solicitous look, pointed to the
item, toward which Mrs. Griffiths now directed her look. But what
was this?
"BOY SLAYER OF WORKING-GIRL SWEETHEART INDICTED."
"CHARGED WITH THE KILLING OF MISS ROBERTA ALDEN AT BIG BITTERN LAKE
IN THE ADIRONDACKS ON JULY 8 LAST."
"RETURNED INDICTMENT CHARGING MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE."
"IN SPITE OF ALMOST OVERWHELMING CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE."
"PLEADED NOT GUILTY."
"REMANDED FOR TRIAL."
"SET FOR OCTOBER 15."
"STUNNED AND DROWNED HIS WORKING-GIRL SWEETHEART."
"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 some one--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 course, it can't be
true. It can't be true. If he should hear!" (She was thinking of
her husband.) "And after Russell, too. And Clyde's trouble there
in Kansas City. Poor Mamma. She has so much trouble."
Together, after a time, and avoiding Asa who was in an adjoining
room helping with the cleaning, the two made their way to the
general mission room below, where was silence and many placards
which proclaimed the charity, the wisdom, and the sustaining
righteousness of God.
Chapter 18
The telegram, worded in the spirit just described, was forthwith
despatched care of Belknap and Jephson, who immediately counseled
Clyde what to reply--that all was well with him; that he had the
best of advice and would need no financial aid. Also that until
his lawyers advised it, it would be best if no member of the family
troubled to appear, since everything that could possibly be done to
aid him was already being done. At the same time they wrote Mrs.
Griffiths, assuring her of their interest in Clyde and advising her
to let matters rest as they were for the present.
Despite the fact that the Griffiths were thus restrained from
appearing in the east, neither Belknap nor Jephson were averse to
some news of the existence, whereabouts, faith and sympathy of
Clyde's most immediate relatives creeping into the newspapers,
since the latter were so persistent in referring to his isolation.
And in this connection they were aided by the fact that his
mother's telegram on being received in Bridgeburg was at once read
by individuals who were particularly interested in the case and by
them whispered to the public and the press, with the result that in
Denver the family was at once sought out and interviewed. And
shortly after, there was circulated in all the papers east and west
a more or less complete account of the present state of Clyde's
family, the nature of the mission conducted by them, as well as
their narrow and highly individualistic religious beliefs and
actions, even the statement that often in his early youth Clyde had
been taken into the streets to sing and pray--a revelation which
shocked Lycurgus and Twelfth Lake society about as much as it did
him.
At the same time, Mrs. Griffiths, being an honest woman and whole-
heartedly sincere in her faith and in the good of her work, did not
hesitate to relate to reporter after reporter who called, all the
details of the missionary work of her husband and herself in Denver
and elsewhere. Also that neither Clyde nor any of the other
children had ever enjoyed the opportunities that come to most.
However, her boy, whatever the present charge might be, was not
innately bad, and she could not believe that he was guilty of any
such crime. It was all an unfortunate and accidental combination
of circumstances which he would explain at the trial. However,
whatever foolish thing he might have done, it was all to be
attributed to an unfortunate accident which broke up the mission
work in Kansas City a few years before and compelled the removal of
the family from there to Denver, leaving Clyde to make his way
alone. And it was because of advice from her that he had written
her husband's rich brother in Lycurgus, which led to his going
there--a series of statements which caused Clyde in his cell to
tingle with a kind of prideful misery and resentment and forced him
to write his mother and complain. Why need she always talk so much
about the past and the work that she and his father were connected
with, when she knew that he had never liked it and resented going
on the streets? Many people didn't see it as she and his father
did, particularly his uncle and cousin and all those rich people he
had come to know, and who were able to make their way in so
different and much more brilliant fashion. And now, as he said to
himself, Sondra would most certainly read this--all that he had
hoped to conceal.
Yet even in the face of all this, because of so much sincerity and
force in his mother, he could not help but think of her with
affection and respect, and because of her sure and unfailing love
for him, with emotion. For in answer to his letter she wrote that
she was sorry if she had hurt his feelings or injured him in any
way. But must not the truth be shown always? The ways of God were
for the best and surely no harm could spring from service in His
cause. He must not ask her to lie. But if he said the word, she
would so gladly attempt to raise the necessary money and come to
his aid--sit in his cell and plan with him--holding his hands--but
as Clyde so well knew and thought at this time and which caused him
to decide that she must not come yet--demanding of him the truth--
with those clear, steady blue eyes of hers looking into his own.
He could not stand that now.
For, frowning directly before him, like a huge and basalt headland
above a troubled and angry sea, was the trial itself, with all that
it implied--the fierce assault of Mason which he could only
confront, for the most part, with the lies framed for him by
Jephson and Belknap. For, although he was constantly seeking to
salve his conscience with the thought that at the last moment he
had not had the courage to strike Roberta, nevertheless this other
story was so terribly difficult for him to present and defend--a
fact which both Belknap and Jephson realized and which caused the
latter to appear most frequently at Clyde's cell door with the
greeting: "Well, how's tricks to-day?"
The peculiarly rusty and disheveled and indifferently tailored
character of Jephson's suits! The worn and disarranged effect of
his dark brown soft hat, pulled low over his eyes! His long, bony,
knotty hands, suggesting somehow an enormous tensile strength. And
the hard, small blue eyes filled with a shrewd, determined cunning
and courage, with which he was seeking to inoculate Clyde, and
which somehow did inoculate him!
"Any more preachers around to-day? Any more country girls or
Mason's boys?" For during this time, because of the enormous
interest aroused by the pitiable death of Roberta, as well as the
evidence of her rich and beautiful rival, Clyde was being visited
by every type of shallow crime-or-sex-curious country bumpkin
lawyer, doctor, merchant, yokel evangelist or minister, all friends
or acquaintances of one or another of the officials of the city,
and who, standing before his cell door betimes, and at the most
unexpected moments, and after surveying him with curious, or
resentful, or horrified eyes, asked such questions as: "Do you
pray, brother? Do you get right down on your knees and pray?"
(Clyde was reminded of his mother and father at such times.) Had
he made his peace with God? Did he actually deny that he had
killed Roberta Alden? In the case of three country girls: "Would
you mind telling us the name of the girl you are supposed to be in
love with, and where she is now? We won't tell any one. Will she
appear at the trial?" Questions which Clyde could do no more than
ignore, or if not, answer as equivocally or evasively or
indifferently as possible. For although he was inclined to resent
them, still was he not being constantly instructed by both Belknap
and Jephson that for the good of his own cause he must try to
appear genial and civil and optimistic? Then there came also
newspaper men, or women, accompanied by artists or photographers,
to interview and make studies of him. But with these, for the most
part and on the advice of Belknap and Jephson he refused to
communicate or said only what he was told to say.
"You can talk all you want," suggested Jephson, genially, "so long
as you don't say anything. And the stiff upper lip, you know. And
the smile that won't come off, see? Not failing to go over that
list, are you?" (He had provided Clyde with a long list of
possible questions which no doubt would be asked him on the stand
and which he was to answer according to answers typewritten beneath
them, or to suggest something better. They all related to the trip
to Big Bittern, his reason for the extra hat, his change of heart--
why, when, where.) "That's your litany, you know." And then he
might light a cigarette without ever offering one to Clyde, since
for the sake of a reputation for sobriety he was not to smoke here.
And for a time, after each visit, Clyde finding himself believing
that he could and would do exactly as Jephson had said--walk
briskly and smartly into court--bear up against every one, every
eye, even that of Mason himself--forget that he was afraid of him,
even when on the witness stand--forget all the terror of those many
facts in Mason's possession, which he was to explain with this list
of answers--forget Roberta and her last cry, and all the heartache
and misery that went with the loss of Sondra and her bright world.
Yet, with the night having once more fallen, or the day dragging on
with only the lean and bearded Kraut or the sly and evasive Sissel,
or both, hanging about, or coming to the door to say, "Howdy!" or
to discuss something that had occurred in town, or to play chess,
or checkers, Clyde growing more and more moody and deciding, maybe,
that there was no real hope for him after all. For how alone he
was, except for his attorneys and mother and brother and sisters!
Never a word from Sondra, of course. For along with her recovery
to some extent from her original shock and horror, she was now
thinking somewhat differently of him--that after all it was for
love of her, perhaps, that he had slain Roberta and made himself
the pariah and victim that he now was. Yet, because of the immense
prejudice and horror expressed by the world, she was by no means
able to think of venturing to send him a word. Was he not a
murderer? And in addition, that miserable western family of his,
pictured as street preachers, and he, too,--or as a singing and
praying boy from a mission! Yet occasionally returning in thought,
and this quite in spite of herself, to his eager, unreasoning and
seemingly consuming enthusiasm for her. (How deeply he must have
cared to venture upon so deadly a deed!) And hence wondering
whether at some time, once this case was less violently before the
public eye, it might not be possible to communicate with him in
some guarded and unsigned way, just to let him know, perhaps, that
because of his great love for her she desired him to know that he
was not entirely forgotten. Yet as instantly deciding, NO, no--her
parents--if they should learn--or guess--or the public, or her one-
time associates. Not now, oh, not now at least. Maybe later if he
were set free--or--or--convicted--she couldn't tell. Yet suffering
heartaches for the most part--as much as she detested and abhorred
the horrible crime by which he had sought to win her.
And in the interim, Clyde in his cell, walking to and fro, or
looking out on the dull square through the heavily barred windows,
or reading and re-reading the newspapers, or nervously turning the
pages of magazines or books furnished by his counsel, or playing
chess or checkers, or eating his meals, which, by special
arrangement on the part of Belknap and Jephson (made at the request
of his uncle), consisted of better dishes than were usually
furnished to the ordinary prisoner.
Yet with the iterated and reiterated thought, based on the
seemingly irreparable and irreconcilable loss of Sondra, as to
whether it was possible for him to go on with this--make this, as
he at times saw it, almost useless fight.
At times, in the middle of the night or just before dawn, with all
the prison silent--dreams--a ghastly picture of all that he most
feared and that dispelled every trace of courage and drove him
instantly to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, his eyes
strained, a cold damp upon his face and hands. That chair,
somewhere in the State penitentiary. He had read of it--how men
died in it. And then he would walk up and down, thinking how, how,
in case it did not come about as Jephson felt so sure that it
would--in case he was convicted and a new trial refused--then,
well--then, might one be able to break out of such a jail as this,
maybe, and run away? These old brick walls. How thick were they?
But was it possible that with a hammer or a stone, or something
that some one might bring him--his brother Frank, or his sister
Julia, or Ratterer, or Hegglund--if only he could get in
communication with some one of them and get him or her to bring him
something of the kind-- If only he could get a saw, to saw those
bars! And then run, run, as he should have in those woods up there
that time! But how? And whither?
Chapter 19
OCTOBER 15--with gray clouds and a sharp, almost January wind that
herded the fallen leaves into piles and then scurried them in crisp
and windy gusts like flying birds here and there. And, in spite of
the sense of struggle and tragedy in the minds of many, with an
electric chair as the shadowy mental background to it all, a sense
of holiday or festival, with hundreds of farmers, woodsmen,
traders, entering in Fords and Buicks--farmer wives and husbands--
daughters and sons--even infants in arms. And then idling about
the public square long before the time for court to convene, or, as
the hour neared, congregating before the county jail in the hope of
obtaining a glimpse of Clyde, or before the courthouse door nearest
the jail, which was to be the one entrance to the courtroom for the
public and Clyde, and from which position they could see and assure
entrance into the courtroom itself when the time came. And a flock
of pigeons parading rather dismally along the cornices and gutters
of the upper floor and roof of the ancient court.
And with Mason and his staff--Burton Burleigh, Earl Newcomb, Zillah
Saunders, and a young Bridgeburg law graduate by the name of
Manigault--helping to arrange the order of evidence as well as
direct or instruct the various witnesses and venire-men who were
already collecting in the antechamber of the now almost nationally
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