An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

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.

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 Lycurgus Griffiths, for reasons of their own, had decided not to aid him further. But she⁠—if she were but able to face the world with a sound claim⁠—might still aid him. Had not the Lord aided her thus far? Yet to face the world and the Lord with her just one plea she must know from him⁠—now⁠—the truth as to whether he had intentionally or unintentionally struck Roberta⁠—whether intentionally or unintentionally he had left her to die. She had read the evidence and his letters and had noted all the defects in his testimony. But were those things as contended by Mason true or false?

Clyde, now as always overawed and thrown back on himself by that uncompromising and shameless honesty which he had never been able quite to comprehend in her, announced, with all the firmness that he could muster⁠—yet with a secret quavering chill in his heart⁠—that he had sworn to the truth. He had not done those things with which he had been charged. He had not. But, alas, as she now said to herself, on observing him, what was that about his eyes⁠—a faint flicker perhaps. He was not so sure⁠—as self-convinced and definite as she had hoped⁠—as she had prayed he would be. No, no, there was something in his manner, his words, as he spoke⁠—a faint recessive intonation, a sense of something troubled, dubious, perhaps, which quite froze her now.

He was not positive enough. And so he might have plotted, in part at least, as she had feared at first, when she had first heard of this⁠—might have even struck her on that lone, secret lake!⁠—who could tell? (the searing, destroying power of such a thought as that). And that in the face of all his testimony to the contrary.

But “Jehovah, jirah, Thou wilt not require of a mother, in her own and her son’s darkest hour, that she doubt him⁠—make sure his death through her own lack of faith? Oh, no⁠—Thou wilt not. O Lamb of God, Thou wilt not!” She turned; she bruised under her heel the scaly head of this dark suspicion⁠—as terrifying to her as his guilt was to him. “O Absalom, my Absalom!” Come, come, we will not entertain such a thought. God himself would not urge it upon a mother. Was he not here⁠—her son⁠—before her, declaring firmly that he had not done this thing. She must believe⁠—she would believe him utterly. She would⁠—and did⁠—whatever fiend of doubt might still remain locked in the lowest dungeon of her miserable heart. Come, come, the public should know how she felt. She and her son would find a way. He must believe and pray. Did he have a Bible? Did he read it? And Clyde having been long since provided with a Bible by a prison worker, assured her that he had and did read it.

But now she must go first to see his lawyers, next to file her dispatch, after which she would return. But once out on the street being immediately set upon by several reporters and eagerly questioned as to the meaning of her presence here. Did she believe in her son’s innocence? Did she or did she not think that he had had a fair trial? Why had she not come on before? And Mrs. Griffiths, in her direct and earnest and motherly way, taking them into her confidence and telling how as well as why she came to be here, also why she had not come before.

But now that she was here she hoped to stay. The Lord would provide the means for the salvation of her son, of whose innocence she was convinced.