more, yielding himself to his friendship and influence. That high
spirituality. That beautiful voice. And quoting always such
soothing things. "Brethren NOW are we the children of God. And it
doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that when He
shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.
And every man that has this hope 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. And every good and
every perfect gift is from above and cometh down from the Father of
lights, with whom is no variableness, 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 appealing to 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, of course. He seemed to feel
that it was necessary for Clyde to purge his soul to him--or some
one like him--a material and yet spiritual emissary of God. But
just there was the trouble. For there was all of that false
testimony he had given in the trial, yet on which had been based
his appeal. To go back on that now, and when his 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 sought to dicker in such a
way. No, no. That was not right either. What would the Rev.
McMillan think of him if he knew 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 was no doubt that he
had plotted to kill Roberta there at first--a most dreadful thing
as he now saw it. For the complications and the fever in
connection with his desire for Sondra having subsided somewhat, it
was possible on occasion now for him to reason without the
desperate sting and tang of the mental state that had characterized
him at the time when he was so immediately in touch with her.
Those terrible, troubled days when in spite of himself--as he now
understood it (Belknap's argument having cleared it up for him) he
had burned with that wild fever which was not unakin in its
manifestations to a form of insanity. The beautiful Sondra! The
glorious Sondra! The witchery and fire of her smile then! Even
now that dreadful fever was not entirely out but only smoldering--
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 have succumbed 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 with
contempt? And would the Court of Appeals think differently? He
feared not. And yet was it not true? Or was he all wrong? Or
what? Could the Rev. McMillan or any one else to whom he would
explain tell him as to that? He would 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
been able to execute it. And that had not been brought out in the
trial, because the false form of defense used permitted no
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 saw and brooded on it,
which were not so easily to be disposed of. Perhaps the two worst
were, first, that in bringing Roberta there to that point on that
lake--that lone spot--and then growing so weak and furious with
himself because of his own incapacity to do evil, he had frightened
her into rising and trying to come to him. And that in the 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. McMillan say to that? And since because of that she had
fallen into the water, was he not guilty of her falling? It was a
thought that troubled him very much now--his constructive share of
guilt in all that. Regardless of what Oberwaltzer had said there
at the trial in regard to his swimming away from her--that if she
had accidentally fallen in the water, it was no crime on his part,
supposing he refused to rescue her,--still, as he now saw it, and
especially when taken in connection with all that he had thought in
regard to Roberta up to that moment, it was a crime just the same,
was it not? Wouldn't God--McMillan--think so? And unquestionably,
as Mason had so shrewdly pointed out at the trial, he might have
saved her. And would have too, no doubt, if she had been Sondra--
or even the Roberta of the summer before. Besides, the fear of her
dragging him down had been no decent fear. (It was at nights in
his bunk at this time that he argued and reasoned with himself,
seeing that McMillan was urging him now to repent and make peace
with his God.) Yes, he would have to admit that to himself.
Decidedly and instantly he would have sought to save her life, if
it had been Sondra. And such being the case, he would have to
confess that--if he confessed at all to the Rev. McMillan--or to
whomever else one told the truth--when one did tell it--the public
at large perhaps. But such a confession once made, would it not
surely and 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 jeopardize his case when God
already knew what the truth was? Truly, truly he was sorry. He
could see how terrible all this was now--how much misery and
heartache, apart from the death of Roberta, he had caused. But
still--still--was not life sweet? Oh, if he could only get out!
Oh, if he could only go away from here--never to see or hear or
feel anything more of this terrible terror that now hung over him.
The slow coming dark--the slow coming dawn. The long night! The
sighs--the groans. The tortures by day and by night until it
seemed at times as though he should go mad; and would perhaps
except for McMillan, who now appeared devoted to him--so kind,
appealing and reassuring, too, at times. He would just like to sit
down some day--here or somewhere--and tell him all and get him 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 times he felt so sure that
his mother's and the Rev. Duncan McMillan's prayers would do him so
much more good with this God than any prayers of his own would.
Somehow he couldn't pray yet. And at times hearing McMillan pray,
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 and salvation--a letter or note from Sondra.
It came through the warden's office and by the hand of the Rev.
Preston Guilford, the Protestant chaplain of the prison, but was
not signed. It was, however, on good paper, and because the rule
of the prison so requiring had been opened and read. Nevertheless,
on account of the nature of the contents which seemed to both the
warden and the Rev. Guilford to be more charitable and punitive
than otherwise, and because plainly, if not verifiably, it was from
that Miss X of repute or notoriety in connection with his trial, it
was decided, after due deliberation, that Clyde should be permitted
to read it--even that it was best that he should. Perhaps it would
prove of value as a lesson. The way of the transgressor. And so
it was handed to him at the close of a late fall day--after a long
and dreary summer had passed (soon a year since he had entered
here). And he taking it. And although it was typewritten with no
date nor place on the envelope, which was postmarked New York--yet
sensing somehow that it might be from her. And growing decidedly
nervous--so much 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 has suffered 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 and happiness."
But no signature--no trace of her own handwriting. She was afraid
to sign her name and she was too remote from him in her mood now to
let him know where she was. New York! But it might have been sent
there from anywhere 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 when night at last falls upon
the faintest remaining gleam of dusk in the west. A dim, weakening
tinge of pink--and then 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 any time. And then this letter.
So this was the end of all that wonderful dream! And for this he
had sought so desperately to disengage himself from Roberta--even
to the point of deciding to slay her. This! This! He toyed with
the letter, then held it quite still. Where was she now? Who in
love with, maybe? She had had time to change perhaps. She had
only been captivated by him a little, maybe. And then that
terrible revelation in connection with him had destroyed forever,
no doubt, all sentiment in connection with him. She was free. She
had 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 once occupied, was a Negro--
Wash Higgins. He had stabbed a waiter in a restaurant, so it was
said, who had refused him food and then insulted him. And next to
him was a young Jew. He had killed the proprietor of a jewelry
store in trying to rob it. But he was very broken and collapsed
now that he was here to die--sitting for the most part all day on
his cot, his head in his hands. Clyde could see both now from
where he stood--the Jew holding his head. 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! Foh me!"
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 to see 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 year later.
But then,--that young Jew. There was some religious chant into
which he fell when his mental tortures would no longer endure
silence. And oh, how sad. Many of the prisoners had cried out
against it. And yet, oh, how appropriate now, somehow.
"I have been evil. I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh!
Oh! I have been unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I have
joined with those who have done evil things. Oh! Oh! Oh! I have
stolen. I have been false. I have been cruel! Oh! Oh! Oh!"
And the voice of Big Tom Rooney sentenced for killing Thomas Tighe,
a rival for the hand of an underworld girl. "For Christ's sake! I
know you feel bad. But so do I. Oh, for God's sake, don't do
that!"
Clyde, on his cot, his thoughts responding rhythmically to the
chant of the Jew--and joining with him silently--"I have been evil.
I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh! Oh! I have been
unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I have joined with those
who have done evil things. Oh! Oh! Oh! I have been false. I
have been cruel. I have sought to murder. Oh! Oh! Oh! And for
what? A vain--impossible dream! Oh! Oh! Oh!... Oh! Oh!
Oh!..."
When the guard, an hour later, placed his supper on the shelf in
the door, he made no move. Food! And when the guard returned in
another thirty minutes, there it was, still untouched, as was the
Jew's--and was taken away in silence. Guards knew when blue devils
had seized the inmates of these cages. They couldn't eat. And
there were times, too, when even guards couldn't eat.
Chapter 33
The depression resulting even after two days was apparent to the
Reverend McMillan, who was concerned to know why. More recently,
he had been led to believe by Clyde's manner, his visits, if not
the fact that the totality of his preachments, had not been greeted
with as much warmth as he would have liked, that by degrees Clyde
was being won to his own spiritual viewpoint. With no little
success, as it had seemed to him, he had counseled Clyde as to the
folly of depression and despair. "What! Was not the peace of God
within his grasp and for the asking. To one who sought God and
found Him, as he surely would, if he sought, there could be no
sorrow, but only joy. 'Hereby know we that we dwell in Him, and He
in us, because He hath given us of His spirit.'" So he preached or
read,--until finally--two weeks after receiving the letter from
Sondra and because of the deep depression into which he had sunk on
account of it, Clyde was finally moved to request of him that he try
to induce the warden to allow him to be taken to some other cell or
room apart from this room or cell which seemed to Clyde to be filled
with too many of his tortured thoughts, in order that he might talk
with him and get his advice. As he told the Reverend McMillan, he
did not appear to be able to solve his true responsibility in
connection with all that had so recently occurred in his life, and
because of which he seemed not to be able to find that peace of mind
of which McMillan talked so much. Perhaps...,--there must be
something wrong with his viewpoint. Actually he would like to go
over the offense of which he was convicted and see if there was
anything wrong in his understanding of it. He was not so sure now.
And McMillan, greatly stirred,--an enormous spiritual triumph,
this--as he saw it--the true reward of faith and prayer, at once
proceeding to the warden, who was glad enough to be of service in
such a cause. And he permitted the use of one of the cells in the
old death house for as long as he should require, and with no guard
between himself and Clyde--one only remaining in the general hall
outside.
And there Clyde began the story of his relations with Roberta and
Sondra. Yet because of all that had been set forth at the trial,
merely referring to most of the evidence--apart from his defense--
the change of heart, as so; afterwards dwelling more particularly
on the fatal adventure with Roberta in the boat. Did the Reverend
McMillan--because of the original plotting--and hence the original
intent--think him guilty?--especially in view of his obsession over
Sondra--all his dreams in regard to her--did that truly constitute
murder? He was asking this because, as he said, it was as he had
done--not as his testimony at the trial had indicated that he had
done. It was a lie that he had experienced a change of heart. His
attorneys had counseled that defense as best, since they did not
feel that he was guilty, and had thought that plan the quickest
route to liberty. But it was a lie. In connection with his mental
state also there in the boat, before and after her rising and
attempting to come to him,--and that blow, and after,--he had not
told the truth either--quite. That unintentional blow, as he now
wished to explain, since it affected his efforts at religious
meditation,--a desire to present himself honestly to his Creator,
if at all (he did not then explain that as yet he had scarcely
attempted to so present himself)--there was more to it than he had
been able yet to make clear, even to himself. In fact even now to
himself there was much that was evasive and even insoluble about
it. He had said that there had been no anger--that there had been
a change of heart. But there had been no change of heart. In
fact, just before she had risen to come to him, there had been a
complex troubled state, bordering, as he now saw it, almost upon
trance or palsy, and due--but he could scarcely say to what it was
due, exactly. He had thought at first--or afterwards--that it was
partly due to pity for Roberta--or, at least the shame of so much
cruelty in connection with her--his plan to strike her. At the
same time there was anger, too,--hate maybe--because of her
determination to force him to do what he did not wish to do.
Thirdly--yet he was not so sure as to that--(he had thought about
it so long and yet he was not sure even now)--there might have been
fear as to the consequences of such an evil deed--although, just at
that time, as it seemed to him now, he was not thinking of the
consequences--or of anything save his inability to do as he had
come to do--and feeling angry as to that.
Yet in the blow--the accidental blow that had followed upon her
rising and attempting to come to him, had been some anger against
her for wanting to come near him at all. And that it was perhaps--
he was truly not sure, even now, that had given that blow its so
destructive force. It was so afterward, anyhow, that he was
compelled to think of it. And yet there was also the truth that in
rising he was seeking to save her--even in spite of his hate. That
he was also, for the moment at least, sorry for that blow. Again,
though, once the boat had upset and both were in the water--in all
that confusion, and when she was drowning, he had been moved by the
thought: "Do nothing." For thus he would be rid of her. Yes, he
had so thought. But again, there was the fact that all through, as
Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson had pointed out, he had been swayed by
his obsession for Miss X, the super motivating force in connection
with all of this. But now, did the Reverend McMillan, considering
all that went before and all that came after--the fact that the
unintentional blow still had had anger in it--angry dissatisfaction
with her--really--and that afterwards he had not gone to her
rescue--as now--honestly and truly as he was trying to show--did he
think that that constituted murder--mortal blood guilt for which
spiritually, as well as legally, he might be said to deserve death?
Did he? He would like to know for his own soul's peace--so that he
could pray, maybe.
The Reverend McMillan hearing all this--and never in his life
before having heard or having had passed to him so intricate and
elusive and strange a problem--and because of Clyde's faith in and
regard for him, enormously impressed. And now sitting before him
quite still and pondering most deeply, sadly and even nervously--so
serious and important was this request for an opinion--something
which, as he knew, Clyde was counting on to give him earthly and
spiritual peace. But, none-the-less, the Reverend McMillan was
himself too puzzled to answer so quickly.
"Up to the time you went in that boat with her, Clyde, you had not
changed in your mood toward her--your intention to--to--"
The Reverend McMillan's face was gray and drawn. His eyes were
sad. He had been listening, as he now felt, to a sad and terrible
story--an evil and cruel self-torturing and destroying story. This
young boy--really--! His hot, restless heart which plainly for the
lack of so many things which he, the Reverend McMillan, had never
wanted for, had rebelled. And because of that rebellion had sinned
mortally and was condemned to die. Indeed his reason was as
intensely troubled as his heart was moved.
"No, I had not."
"You were, as you say, angry with yourself for being so weak as not
to be able to do what you had planned to do."
"In a way it was like that, yes. But then I was sorry, too, you
see. And maybe afraid. I'm not exactly sure now. Maybe not,
either."
The Reverend McMillan shook his head. So strange! So evasive! So
evil! And yet--
"But at the same time, as you say, you were angry with her for
having driven you to that point."
"Yes."
"Where you were compelled to wrestle with so terrible a problem?"
"Yes."
"Tst! Tst! Tst! And so you thought of striking her."
"Yes, I did."
"But you could not."
"No."
"Praised be the mercy of God. Yet in the blow that you did strike--
unintentionally--as you say--there was still some anger against
her. That was why the blow was so--so severe. You did not want
her to come near you."
"No, I didn't. I think I didn't, anyhow. I'm not quite sure. It
may be that I wasn't quite right. Anyhow--all worked up, I guess--
sick almost. I--I--" In his uniform--his hair cropped so close,
Clyde sat there, trying honestly now to think how it really was
(exactly) and greatly troubled by his inability to demonstrate to
himself even--either his guilt or his lack of guilt. Was he--or
was he not? And the Reverend McMillan--himself intensely strained,
muttering: "Wide is the gate and broad the way that leadeth to
destruction." And yet finally adding: "But you did rise to save
her."
"Yes, afterwards, I got up. I meant to catch her after she fell
back. That was what upset the boat."
"And you did really want to catch her?"
"I don't know. At the moment I guess I did. Anyhow I felt sorry,
I think."
"But can you say now truly and positively, as your Creator sees
you, that you were sorry--or that you wanted to save her then?"
"It all happened so quick, you see," began Clyde nervously--
hopelessly, almost, "that I'm not just sure. No, I don't know that
I was so very sorry. No. I really don't know, you see, now.
Sometimes I think maybe I was, a little, sometimes not, maybe. But
after she was gone and I was on shore, I felt sorry--a little. But
I was sort of glad, too, you know, to be free, and yet frightened,
too--You see--"
"Yes, I know. You were going to that Miss X. But out there, when
she was in the water--?"
"No."
"You did not want to go to her rescue?"
"No."
"Tst! Tst! Tst! You felt no sorrow? No shame? Then?"
"Yes, shame, maybe. Maybe sorrow, too, a little. I knew it was
terrible. I felt that it was, of course. But still--you see--"
"Yes, I know. That Miss X. You wanted to get away."
"Yes--but mostly I was frightened, and I didn't want to help her."
"Yes! Yes! Tst! Tst! Tst! If she drowned you could go to that
Miss X. You thought of that?" The Reverend McMillan's lips were
tightly and sadly compressed.
"Yes."
"My son! My son! In your heart was murder then."
"Yes, yes," Clyde said reflectively. "I have thought since it must
have been that way."
The Reverend McMillan paused and to hearten himself for this task
began to pray--but silently--and to himself: "Our Father who art
in Heaven--hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be
done--on earth as it is in Heaven." He stirred again after a time.
"Ah, Clyde. The mercy of God is equal to every sin. I know it.
He sent His own son to die for the evil of the world. It must be
so--if you will but repent. But that thought! That deed! You
have much to pray for, my son--much. Oh, yes. For in the sight of
God, I fear,--yes-- And yet-- I must pray for enlightenment.
This is a strange and terrible story. There are so many phases.
It may be but pray. Pray with me now that you and I may have
light." He bowed his head. He sat for minutes in silence--while
Clyde, also, in silence and troubled doubt, sat before him. Then,
after a time he began:
"Oh, Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger; neither chasten me in Thy
hot displeasure. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak. Heal me
in my shame and sorrow for my soul is wounded and dark in Thy
sight. Oh, let the wickedness of my heart pass. Lead me, O God,
into Thy righteousness. Let the wickedness of my heart pass and
remember it not."
Clyde--his head down--sat still--very still. He, himself, was at
last shaken and mournful. No doubt his sin was very great. Very,
very terrible! And yet-- But then, the Reverend McMillan ceasing
and rising, he, too, rose, the while McMillan added: "But I must
go now. I must think--pray. This has troubled and touched me
deeply. Oh, very, Lord. And you--my son--you return and pray--
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