The personal conviction and force of such an individual as the Reverend McMillan, while in one sense an oldstory to Clyde and not anything which so late as eighteen months before could have moved him in any way(since all his life he had been accustomed to something like it), still here, under these circumstances, affectedhim differently. Incarcerated, withdrawn from the world, compelled by the highly circumscribed nature of thisdeath house life to find solace or relief in his own thoughts, Clyde's, like every other temperament similarlylimited, was compelled to devote itself either to the past, the present or the future. But the past was so painful tocontemplate at any point. It seared. and burned. And the present (his immediate surroundings) as well as thefuture with its deadly fear of what was certain to happen in case his appeal failed, were two phases equallyfrightful to his waking consciousness.
What followed then was what invariably follows in the wake of every tortured consciousness. From what itdreads or hates, yet knows or feels to be unescapable, it takes refuge in that which may be hoped for--or at leastimagined. But what was to be hoped for or imagined? Because of the new suggestion offered by Nicholson, anew trial was all that he had to look forward to, in which case, and assuming himself to be acquitted thereafter,he could go far, far away--to Australia--or Africa--or Mexico--or some such place as that, where, under adifferent name--his old connections and ambitions relating to that superior social life that had so recentlyintrigued him, laid aside, he might recover himself in some small way. But directly in the path of that hopefulimagining, of course, stood the death's head figure of a refusal on the part of the Court of Appeals to grant him anew trial. Why not--after that jury at Bridgeburg? And then--as in that dream in which he turned from the tangleof snakes to face the tramping rhinoceros with its two horns--he was confronted by that awful thing in theadjoining room--that chair! That chair! Its straps and its flashes which so regularly dimmed the lights in thisroom. He could not bear to think of his entering there--ever. And yet supposing his appeal was refused! Away!
He would like to think no more about it.
But then, apart from that what was there to think of? It was that very question that up to the time of the arrival ofthe Rev. Duncan McMillan, with his plea for a direct and certainly (as he insisted) fruitful appeal to the Creatorof all things, that had been definitely torturing Clyde. Yet see--how simple was his solution!
"It was given unto you to know the Peace of God," he insisted, quoting Paul and thereafter sentences fromCorinthians, Galatians, Ephesians, on how easy it was--if Clyde would but repeat and pray as he had asked himto--for him to know and delight in the "peace that passeth all understanding." It was with him, all around him. He had but to seek; confess the miseries and errors of his heart, and express contrition. "Ask, and ye shall receive;seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For EVERY ONE that asketh, receiveth; and hethat seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. For what man is there of you whom, if his sonask bread, will give him a stone; or, if he ask fish, will give him a serpent?" So he quoted, beautifully andearnestly.
And yet before Clyde always was the example of his father and mother. What had they? It had not availed themmuch--praying. Neither, as he noticed here, did it appear to avail or aid these other condemned men, the majorityof whom lent themselves to the pleas or prayers of either priest or rabbi or minister, one and the other of whomwas about daily. Yet were they not led to their death just the same--and complaining or protesting, or mad likeCutrone, or indifferent? As for himself, up to this he had not been interested by any of these. Bunk. Notions. Ofwhat? He could not say. Nevertheless, here was the appealing Rev. Duncan McMillan. His mild, serene eyes. Hissweet voice. His faith. It moved and intrigued Clyde deeply. Could there--could there? He was so lonely--sodespairing--so very much in need of help.
Was it not also true (the teaching of the Rev. McMillan-- influencing him to that extent at least) that if he had leda better life--had paid more attention to what his mother had said and taught--not gone into that house ofprostitution in Kansas City--or pursued Hortense Briggs in the evil way that he had--or after her, Roberta--hadbeen content to work and save, as no doubt most men were--would he not be better off than he now was? Butthen again, there was the fact or truth of those very strong impulses and desires within himself that were so very,very hard to overcome. He had thought of those, too, and then of the fact that many other people like his mother,his uncle, his cousin, and this minister here, did not seem to be troubled by them. And yet also he was given toimagining at times that perhaps it was because of superior mental and moral courage in the face of passions anddesires, equivalent to his own, which led these others to do so much better. He was perhaps just willfullydevoting himself to these other thoughts and ways, as his mother and McMillan and most every one else whomhe had heard talk since his arrest seemed to think.
What did it all mean? Was there a God? Did He interfere in the affairs of men as Mr. McMillan was nowcontending? Was it possible that one could turn to Him, or at least some creative power, in some such hour asthis and when one had always ignored Him before, and ask for aid? Decidedly one needed aid under suchcircumstances--so alone and ordered and controlled by law--not man--since these, all of them, were the veriestservants of the law. But would this mysterious power be likely to grant aid? Did it really exist and hear theprayers of men? The Rev. McMillan insisted yes. "He hath said God hath forgotten; He hideth His face. But Hehas not forgotten. He has not hidden His face." But was that true? Was there anything to it? Tortured by the needof some mental if not material support in the face of his great danger, Clyde was now doing what every otherhuman in related circumstances invariably does--seeking, and yet in the most indirect and involute and all butunconscious way, the presence or existence at least of some superhuman or supernatural personality or powerthat could and would aid him in some way--beginning to veer--however slightly or unconsciously as yet,--towardthe personalization and humanization of forces, of which, except in the guise of religion, he had not the faintestconception. "The Heavens declare the Glory of God, and the Firmament sheweth His handiwork." He recalledthat as a placard in one of his mother's mission windows. And another which read: "For He is Thy life and Thylength of Days." Just the same--and far from it as yet, even in the face of his sudden predisposition toward theRev. Duncan McMillan, was he seriously moved to assume that in religion of any kind was he likely to findsurcease from his present miseries?
And yet the weeks and months going by--the Rev. McMillan calling regularly thereafter, every two weeks at thelongest, sometimes every week and inquiring after his state, listening to his wants, advising him as to his healthand peace of mind. And Clyde, anxious to retain his interest and visits, gradually, more and more, yieldinghimself to his friendship and influence. That high spirituality. That beautiful voice. And quoting always suchsoothing things. "Brethren NOW are we the children of God. And it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but weknow that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is. And every man that has thishope in him purifieth himself even as He is pure.""Hereby know that we dwell in Him and He in us, because He hath given us of His spirit.""For ye are bought with a price.""Of His own will begot He us with the word of truth, and we should be a kind of first fruits of His creatures. Andevery good and every perfect gift is from above and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is novariableness, neither shadow of turning.""Draw nigh unto God and He will draw nigh unto you."He was inclined, at times, to feel that there might be peace and strength--aid, even--who could say, in appealingto this power. It was the force and the earnestness of the Rev. McMillan operating upon him.
And yet, the question of repentance--and with it confession. But to whom? The Rev. Duncan McMillan, ofcourse. He seemed to feel that it was necessary for Clyde to purge his soul to him--or some one like him--amaterial and yet spiritual emissary of God. But just there was the trouble. For there was all of that falsetestimony he had given in the trial, yet on which had been based his appeal. To go back on that now, and whenhis appeal was pending. Better wait, had he not, until he saw how that appeal had eventuated.
But, ah, how shabby, false, fleeting, insincere. To imagine that any God would bother with a person who soughtto dicker in such a way. No, no. That was not right either. What would the Rev. McMillan think of him if heknew what he was thinking?
But again there was the troubling question in his own mind as to his real guilt--the amount of it. True there wasno doubt that he had plotted to kill Roberta there at first--a most dreadful thing as he now saw it. For thecomplications and the fever in connection with his desire for Sondra having subsided somewhat, it was possibleon occasion now for him to reason without the desperate sting and tang of the mental state that had characterizedhim at the time when he was so immediately in touch with her. Those terrible, troubled days when in spite ofhimself--as he now understood it (Belknap's argument having cleared it up for him) he had burned with that wildfever which was not unakin in its manifestations to a form of insanity. The beautiful Sondra! The gloriousSondra! The witchery and fire of her smile then! Even now that dreadful fever was not entirely out but onlysmoldering-- smothered by all of the dreadful things that had since happened to him.
Also, it must be said on his behalf now, must it not--that never, under any other circumstances, would he havesuccumbed to any such terrible thought or plot as that--to kill any one--let alone a girl like Roberta--unless he had been so infatuated--lunatic, even. But had not the jury there at Bridgeburg listened to that plea withcontempt? And would the Court of Appeals think differently? He feared not. And yet was it not true? Or was heall wrong? Or what? Could the Rev. McMillan or any one else to whom he would explain tell him as to that? Hewould like to talk to him about it--confess everything perhaps, in order to get himself clear on all this. Further,there was the fact that having plotted for Sondra's sake (and God, if no one else, knew that) he still had not beenable to execute it. And that had not been brought out in the trial, because the false form of defense used permittedno explanation of the real truth then--and yet it was a mitigating circumstance, was it not--or would the Rev.
McMillan think so? A lie had to be used, as Jephson saw it. But did that make it any the less true?
There were phases of this thing, the tangles and doubts involved in that dark, savage plot of his, as he now sawand brooded on it, which were not so easily to be disposed of. Perhaps the two worst were, first, that in bringingRoberta there to that point on that lake--that lone spot--and then growing so weak and furious with himselfbecause of his own incapacity to do evil, he had frightened her into rising and trying to come to him. And that inthe first instance made it possible for her to be thus accidentally struck by him and so made him, in part at least,guilty of that blow--or did it?--a murderous, sinful blow in that sense. Maybe. What would the Rev. McMillansay to that? And since because of that she had fallen into the water, was he not guilty of her falling? It was athought that troubled him very much now--his constructive share of guilt in all that. Regardless of whatOberwaltzer had said there at the trial in regard to his swimming away from her--that if she had accidentallyfallen in the water, it was no crime on his part, supposing he refused to rescue her,--still, as he now saw it, andespecially when taken in connection with all that he had thought in regard to Roberta up to that moment, it was acrime just the same, was it not? Wouldn't God--McMillan--think so? And unquestionably, as Mason had soshrewdly pointed out at the trial, he might have saved her. And would have too, no doubt, if she had beenSondra--or even the Roberta of the summer before. Besides, the fear of her dragging him down had been nodecent fear. (It was at nights in his bunk at this time that he argued and reasoned with himself, seeing thatMcMillan was urging him now to repent and make peace with his God.) Yes, he would have to admit that tohimself. Decidedly and instantly he would have sought to save her life, if it had been Sondra. And such being thecase, he would have to confess that--if he confessed at all to the Rev. McMillan--or to whomever else one toldthe truth--when one did tell it--the public at large perhaps. But such a confession once made, would it not surelyand truly lead to his conviction? And did he want to convict himself now and so die?
No, no, better wait a while perhaps--at least until the Court of Appeals had passed on his case. Why jeopardizehis case when God already knew what the truth was? Truly, truly he was sorry. He could see how terrible all thiswas now--how much misery and heartache, apart from the death of Roberta, he had caused. But still--still--wasnot life sweet? Oh, if he could only get out! Oh, if he could only go away from here--never to see or hear or feelanything more of this terrible terror that now hung over him. The slow coming dark--the slow coming dawn. Thelong night! The sighs--the groans. The tortures by day and by night until it seemed at times as though he shouldgo mad; and would perhaps except for McMillan, who now appeared devoted to him--so kind, appealing andreassuring, too, at times. He would just like to sit down some day--here or somewhere--and tell him all and gethim to say how really guilty, if at all, he thought him to be--and if so guilty to get him to pray for him. At timeshe felt so sure that his mother's and the Rev. Duncan McMillan's prayers would do him so much more good withthis God than any prayers of his own would. Somehow he couldn't pray yet. And at times hearing McMillanpray, softly and melodiously, his voice entering through the bars--or, reading from Galatians, Thessalonians,Corinthians, he felt as though he must tell him everything, and soon.
But the days going by until finally one day six weeks after--and when because of his silence in regard to himself,the Rev. Duncan was beginning to despair of ever affecting him in any way toward his proper contrition andsalvation--a letter or note from Sondra. It came through the warden's office and by the hand of the Rev. PrestonGuilford, the Protestant chaplain of the prison, but was not signed. It was, however, on good paper, and becausethe rule of the prison so requiring had been opened and read. Nevertheless, on account of the nature of thecontents which seemed to both the warden and the Rev. Guilford to be more charitable and punitive thanotherwise, and because plainly, if not verifiably, it was from that Miss X of repute or notoriety in connectionwith his trial, it was decided, after due deliberation, that Clyde should be permitted to read it--even that it wasbest that he should. Perhaps it would prove of value as a lesson. The way of the transgressor. And so it washanded to him at the close of a late fall day--after a long and dreary summer had passed (soon a year since he hadentered here). And he taking it. And although it was typewritten with no date nor place on the envelope, whichwas postmarked New York--yet sensing somehow that it might be from her. And growing decidedly nervous--somuch so that his hand trembled slightly. And then reading--over and over and over--during many days thereafter:
"Clyde--This is so that you will not think that some one once dear to you has utterly forgotten you. She hassuffered much, too. And though she can never understand how you could have done as you did, still, even now,although she is never to see you again, she is not without sorrow and sympathy and wishes you freedom andhappiness."But no signature--no trace of her own handwriting. She was afraid to sign her name and she was too remote fromhim in her mood now to let him know where she was. New York! But it might have been sent there fromanywhere to mail. And she would not let him know--would never let him know--even though he died here later,as well he might. His last hope--the last trace of his dream vanished. Forever! It was at that moment, as whennight at last falls upon the faintest remaining gleam of dusk in the west. A dim, weakening tinge of pink--andthen the dark.
He seated himself on his cot. The wretched stripes of his uniform and his gray felt shoes took his eye. A felon.
These stripes. These shoes. This cell. This uncertain, threatening prospect so very terrible to contemplate at anytime. And then this letter. So this was the end of all that wonderful dream! And for this he had sought sodesperately to disengage himself from Roberta--even to the point of deciding to slay her. This! This! He toyedwith the letter, then held it quite still. Where was she now? Who in love with, maybe? She had had time tochange perhaps. She had only been captivated by him a little, maybe. And then that terrible revelation inconnection with him had destroyed forever, no doubt, all sentiment in connection with him. She was free. Shehad beauty--wealth. Now some other-He got up and walked to his cell door to still a great pain. Over the way, in that cell the Chinaman had onceoccupied, was a Negro--Wash Higgins. He had stabbed a waiter in a restaurant, so it was said, who had refusedhim food and then insulted him. And next to him was a young Jew. He had killed the proprietor of a jewelrystore in trying to rob it. But he was very broken and collapsed now that he was here to die--sitting for the mostpart all day on his cot, his head in his hands. Clyde could see both now from where he stood--the Jew holding hishead. But the Negro on his cot, one leg above the other, smoking--and singing--"Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin' . . . hmp! Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin' . . . hmp! Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin' . . . hmp! Foh me! Fohme!"And then Clyde, unable to get away from his own thoughts, turning again.
Condemned to die! He. And this was the end as to Sondra. He could feel it. Farewell. "Although she is never tosee you again." He threw himself on his couch--not to weep but to rest--he felt so weary. Lycurgus. Fourth Lake.
Bear Lake. Laughter--kisses--smiles. What was to have been in the fall of the preceding year. And now--a yearlater.
But then,--that young Jew. There was some religious chant into which he fell when his mental tortures would nolonger endure silence. And oh, how sad. Many of the prisoners had cried out against it. And yet, oh, howappropriate now, somehow.