alone. Repent. Ask of God on your knees His forgiveness and He
will hear you. Yes, He will. And to-morrow--or as soon as I
honestly can--I will come again. But do not despair. Pray always--
for in prayer alone, prayer and contrition, is salvation. Rest in
the strength of Him who holds the world in the hollow of His hand.
In His abounding strength and mercy, is peace and forgiveness. Oh,
yes."
He struck the iron door with a small key ring that he carried and
at once the guard, hearing it, returned.
Then having escorted Clyde to his cell and seen him once more shut
within that restraining cage, he took his own departure, heavily
and miserably burdened with all that he had heard. And Clyde was
left to brood on all he had said--and how it had affected McMillan,
as well as himself. His new friend's stricken mood. The obvious
pain and horror with which he viewed it all. Was he really and
truly guilty? Did he really and truly deserve to die for this?
Was that what the Reverend McMillan would decide? And in the face
of all his tenderness and mercy?
And another week in which, moved by Clyde's seeming contrition, and
all the confusing and extenuating circumstances of his story, and
having wrestled most earnestly with every moral aspect of it, the
Reverend McMillan once more before his cell door--but only to say
that however liberal or charitable his interpretation of the facts,
as at last Clyde had truthfully pictured them, still he could not
feel that either primarily or secondarily could he be absolved from
guilt for her death. He had plotted--had he not? He had not gone
to her rescue when he might have. He had wished her dead and
afterwards had not been sorry. In the blow that had brought about
the upsetting of the boat had been some anger. Also in the mood
that had not permitted him to strike. The facts that he had been
influenced by the beauty and position of Miss X to the plotting of
this deed, and, after his evil relations with Roberta, that she had
been determined he should marry her, far from being points in
extenuation of his actions, were really further evidence of his
general earthly sin and guilt. Before the Lord then he had sinned
in many ways. In those dark days, alas, as Mr. McMillan saw it, he
was little more than a compound of selfishness and unhallowed
desire and fornication against the evil of which Paul had
thundered. It had endured to the end and had not changed--until he
had been taken by the law. He had not repented--not even there at
Bear Lake where he had time for thought. And besides, had he not,
from the beginning to end, bolstered it with false and evil
pretenses? Verily.
On the other hand, no doubt if he were sent to the chair now in the
face of his first--and yet so clear manifestation of contrition--
when now, for the first time he was beginning to grasp the enormity
of his offense--it would be but to compound crime with crime--the
state in this instance being the aggressor. For, like the warden
and many others, McMillan was against capital punishment--
preferring to compel the wrong-doer to serve the state in some way.
But, none-the-less, he felt himself compelled to acknowledge, Clyde
was far from innocent. Think as he would--and however much
spiritually he desired to absolve him, was he not actually guilty?
In vain it was that McMillan now pointed out to Clyde that his
awakened moral and spiritual understanding more perfectly and
beautifully fitted him for life and action than ever before. He
was alone. He had no one who believed in him. NO ONE. He had no
one, whom, in any of his troubled and tortured actions before that
crime saw anything but the darkest guilt apparently. And yet--and
yet--(and this despite Sondra and the Reverend McMillan and all the
world for that matter, Mason, the jury at Bridgeburg, the Court of
Appeals at Albany, if it should decide to confirm the jury at
Bridgeburg), he had a feeling in his heart that he was not as
guilty as they all seemed to think. After all they had not been
tortured as he had by Roberta with her determination that he marry
her and thus ruin his whole life. They had not burned with that
unquenchable passion for the Sondra of his beautiful dream as he
had. They had not been harassed, tortured, mocked by the ill-fate
of his early life and training, forced to sing and pray on the
streets as he had in such a degrading way, when his whole heart and
soul cried out for better things. How could they judge him, these
people, all or any one of them, even his own mother, when they did
not know what his own mental, physical and spiritual suffering had
been? And as he lived through it again in his thoughts at this
moment the sting and mental poison of it was as real to him as
ever. Even in the face of all the facts and as much as every one
felt him to be guilty, there was something so deep within him that
seemed to cry out against it that, even now, at times, it startled
him. Still--there was the Reverend McMillan--he was a very fair
and just and merciful man. Surely he saw all this from a higher
light and better viewpoint than his own. While at times he felt
strongly that he was innocent, at others he felt that he must be
guilty.
Oh, these evasive and tangled and torturesome thoughts!! Would he
never be able--quite--to get the whole thing straightened out in
his own mind?
So Clyde not being able to take advantage truly of either the
tenderness and faith and devotion of so good and pure a soul as the
Reverend McMillan or the all merciful and all powerful God of whom
here he stood as the ambassador. What was he to do, really? How
pray, resignedly, unreservedly, faithfully? And in that mood--and
because of the urge of the Reverend Duncan, who was convinced by
Clyde's confession that he must have been completely infused with
the spirit of God, once more thumbing through the various passages
and chapters pointed out to him--reading and re-reading the Psalms
most familiar to him, seeking from their inspiration to catch the
necessary contrition--which once caught would give him that peace
and strength which in those long and dreary hours he so much
desired. Yet never quite catching it.
Parallel with all this, four more months passed. And at the end of
that time--in January, 19--, the Court of Appeals finding (Fulham,
Jr., reviewing the evidence as offered by Belknap and Jephson)--
with Kincaid, Briggs, Truman and Dobshutter concurring, that Clyde
was guilty as decided by the Cataraqui County jury and sentencing
him to die at some time within the week beginning February 28th or
six weeks later--and saying in conclusion:
"We are mindful that this is a case of circumstantial evidence and
that the only eyewitness denies that death was the result of crime.
But in obedience to the most exacting requirements of that manner
of proof, the counsel for the people, with very unusual thoroughness
and ability has investigated and presented evidence of a great
number of circumstances for the purpose of truly solving the
question of the defendant's guilt or innocence.
"We might think that the proof of some of these facts standing by
themselves was subject to doubt by reason of unsatisfactory or
contradictory evidence, and that other occurrences might be so
explained or interpreted as to be reconcilable with innocence. The
defense--and very ably--sought to enforce this view.
"But taken all together and considered as a connected whole, they
make such convincing proof of guilt that we are not able to escape
from its force by any justifiable process of reasoning and we are
compelled to say that not only is the verdict not opposed to the
weight of evidence, and to the proper inference to be drawn from
it, but that it is abundantly justified thereby. Decision of the
lower court unanimously confirmed."
On hearing this, McMillan, who was in Syracuse at the time,
hurrying to Clyde in the hope that before the news was conveyed
officially, he should be there to encourage him spiritually, since,
only with the aid of the Lord, as he saw it--the eternal and ever
present help in trouble--would Clyde be able to endure so heavy a
blow. And finding him--for which he was most deeply grateful--
wholly unaware of what had occurred, since no news of any kind was
conveyed to any condemned man until the warrant for his execution
had arrived.
After a most tender and spiritual conversation--in which he quoted
from Matthew, Paul and John as to the unimportance of this world--
the true reality and joy of the next--Clyde was compelled to learn
from McMillan that the decision of the court had gone against him.
And that though McMillan talked of an appeal to the Governor which
he--and some others whom he was sure to be able to influence would
make--unless the Governor chose to act, within six weeks, as Clyde
knew, he would be compelled to die. And then, once the force of
that fact had finally burst on him--and while McMillan talked on
about faith and the refuge which the mercy and wisdom of God
provided--Clyde, standing before him with more courage and
character showing in his face and eyes than at any time previously
in his brief and eager career.
"So they decided against me. Now I will have to go through that
door after all,--like all those others. They'll draw the curtains
for me, too. Into that other room--then back across the passage--
saying good-bye as I go, like those others. I will not be here any
more." He seemed to be going over each step in his mind--each step
with which he was so familiar, only now, for the first time, he was
living it for himself. Now, in the face of this dread news, which
somehow was as fascinating as it was terrible, feeling not as
distrait or weak as at first he had imagined he would be. Rather,
to his astonishment, considering all his previous terror in regard
to this, thinking of what he would do, what he would say, in an
outwardly calm way.
Would he repeat prayers read to him by the Reverend McMillan here?
No doubt. And maybe gladly, too. And yet--
In his momentary trance he was unconscious of the fact that the
Reverend Duncan was whispering:
"But you see we haven't reached the end of this yet. There is a
new Governor coming into office in January. He is a very sensible
and kindly man, I hear. In fact I know several people who know
him--and it is my plan to see him personally--as well as to have
some other people whom I know write him on the strength of what I
will tell them."
But from Clyde's look at the moment, as well as what he now said,
he could tell that he was not listening.
"My mother. I suppose some one ought to telegraph her. She is
going to feel very bad." And then: "I don't suppose they believed
that those letters shouldn't have been introduced just as they
were, did they? I thought maybe they would." He was thinking of
Nicholson.
"Don't worry, Clyde," replied the tortured and saddened McMillan,
at this point more eager to take him in his arms and comfort him
than to say anything at all. "I have already telegraphed your
mother. As for that decision--I will see your lawyers right away.
Besides--as I say--I propose to see the Governor myself. He is a
new man, you see."
Once more he was now repeating all that Clyde had not heard before.
Chapter 34
The scene was the executive chamber of the newly elected Governor
of the State of New York some three weeks after the news conveyed
to Clyde by McMillan. After many preliminary and futile efforts on
the part of Belknap and Jephson to obtain a commutation of the
sentence of Clyde from death to life imprisonment (the customary
filing of a plea for clemency, together with such comments as they
had to make in regard to the way the evidence had been misinterpreted
and the illegality of introducing the letters of Roberta in their
original form, to all of which Governor Waltham, an ex-district
attorney and judge from the southern part of the state, had been
conscientiously compelled to reply that he could see no reason for
interfering) there was now before Governor Waltham Mrs. Griffiths
together with the Reverend McMillan. For, moved by the widespread
interest in the final disposition of Clyde's case, as well as the
fact that his mother, because of her unshaken devotion to him, and
having learned of the decision of the Court of Appeals, had once
more returned to Auburn and since then had been appealing to the
newspapers, as well as to himself through letters for a correct
understanding of the extenuating circumstances surrounding her son's
downfall, and because she herself had repeatedly appealed to him for
a personal interview in which she should be allowed to present her
deepest convictions in regard to all this, the Governor had at last
consented to see her. It could do no harm. Besides it would tend
to soothe her. Also variable public sentiment, whatever its
convictions in any given case, was usually on the side of the form
or gesture of clemency--without, however, any violence to its
convictions. And, in this case, if one could judge by the
newspapers, the public was convinced that Clyde was guilty. On the
other hand, Mrs. Griffiths, owing to her own long meditations in
regard to Clyde, Roberta, his sufferings during and since the trial,
the fact that according to the Reverend McMillan he had at last been
won to a deep contrition and a spiritual union with his Creator
whatever his original sin, was now more than ever convinced that
humanity and even justice demanded that at least he be allowed to
live. And so standing before the Governor, a tall, sober and
somewhat somber man who, never in all his life had even so much as
sensed the fevers or fires that Clyde had known, yet who, being a
decidedly affectionate father and husband, could very well sense
what Mrs. Griffiths' present emotions must be. Yet greatly
exercised by the compulsion which the facts, as he understood them,
as well as a deep-seated and unchangeable submission to law and
order, thrust upon him. Like the pardon clerk before him, he had
read all the evidence submitted to the Court of Appeals, as well as
the latest briefs submitted by Belknap and Jephson. But on what
grounds could he--David Waltham, and without any new or varying
data of any kind--just a reinterpretation of the evidence as
already passed upon--venture to change Clyde's death sentence to
life imprisonment? Had not a jury, as well as the Court of Appeals,
already said he should die?
In consequence, as Mrs. Griffiths began her plea, her voice shaky--
retracing as best she could the story of Clyde's life, his virtues,
the fact that at no time ever had he been a bad or cruel boy--that
Roberta, if not Miss X, was not entirely guiltless in the matter--
he merely gazed at her deeply moved. The love and devotion of such
a mother! Her agony in this hour; her faith that her son could not
be as evil as the proven facts seemed to indicate to him and every
one else. "Oh, my dear Governor, how can the sacrifice of my son's
life now, and when spiritually he has purged his soul of sin and is
ready to devote himself to the work of God, repay the state for the
loss of that poor, dear girl's life, whether it was accidentally or
otherwise taken--how can it? Can not the millions of people of the
state of New York be merciful? Cannot you as their representative
exercise the mercy that they may feel?"
Her voice broke--she could not go on. Instead she turned her back
and began to cry silently, while Waltham, shaken by an emotion he
could not master, merely stood there. This poor woman! So
obviously honest and sincere. Then the Reverend McMillan, seeing
his opportunity, now entering his plea. Clyde had changed. He
could not speak as to his life before--but since his incarceration--
or for the last year, at least, he had come into a new understanding
of life, duty, his obligations to man and God. If but the death
sentence could be commuted to life imprisonment--
And the Governor, who was a very earnest and conscientious man,
listened with all attention to McMillan, whom, as he saw and
concluded was decidedly an intense and vital and highly idealistic
person. No question in his own mind but what the words of this
man--whatever they were, would be true--in so far as his own
understanding would permit the conception of a truth.
"But you, personally, Mr. McMillan," the Governor at last found
voice to say, "because of your long contact with him in the prison
there--do you know of any material fact not introduced at the trial
which would in any way tend to invalidate or weaken any phase of
the testimony offered at the trial? As you must know this is a
legal proceeding. I cannot act upon sentiment alone--and
especially in the face of the unanimous decision of two separate
courts."
He looked directly at McMillan, who, pale and dumb, now gazed at
him in return. For now upon his word--upon his shoulders
apparently was being placed the burden of deciding as to Clyde's
guilt or innocence. But could he do that? Had he not decided,
after due meditation as to Clyde's confessions, that he was guilty
before God and the law? And could he now--for mercy's sake--and in
the face of his deepest spiritual conviction, alter his report of
his conviction? Would that be true--white, valuable before the
Lord? And as instantly deciding that he, Clyde's spiritual
adviser, must not in any way be invalidated in his spiritual worth
to Clyde. "Ye are the salt of the earth; but if the salt have lost
his savor, wherewith shall it be salted?" And forthwith he
declared: "As his spiritual advisor I have entered only upon the
spiritual, not the legal aspect of his life." And thereupon
Waltham at once deciding, from something in McMillan's manner that
he, like all others, apparently, was satisfied as to Clyde's guilt.
And so, finally finding courage to say to Mrs. Griffiths: "Unless
some definite evidence such as I have not yet seen and which will
affect the legality of these two findings can be brought me, I have
no alternative, Mrs. Griffiths, but to allow the verdict as written
to stand. I am very sorry--oh, more than I can tell you. But if
the law is to be respected its decisions can never be altered
except for reasons that in themselves are full of legal merit. I
wish I could decide differently. I do indeed. My heart and my
prayers go with you."
He pressed a button. His secretary entered. It was plain that the
interview was ended. Mrs. Griffiths, violently shaken and deeply
depressed by the peculiar silence and evasion of McMillan at the
crucial moment of this interview when the Governor had asked such
an all important and direct question as to the guilt of her son,
was still unable to say a word more. But now what? Which way? To
whom to turn? God, and God only. She and Clyde must find in their
Creator the solace for his failure and death in this world. And as
she was thinking and still weeping, the Reverend McMillan
approached and gently led her from the room.
When she was gone the Governor finally turned to his secretary:
"Never in my life have I faced a sadder duty. It will always be
with me." He turned and gazed out upon a snowy February landscape.
And after this but two more weeks of life for Clyde, during which
time, and because of his ultimate decision conveyed to him first by
McMillan, but in company with his mother, from whose face Clyde
could read all, even before McMillan spoke, and from whom he heard
all once more as to his need of refuge and peace in God, his
Savior, he now walked up and down his cell, unable to rest for any
length of time anywhere. For, because of this final completely
convincing sensation, that very soon he was to die, he felt the
need, even now of retracing his unhappy life. His youth. Kansas
City. Chicago. Lycurgus. Roberta and Sondra. How swiftly they
and all that was connected with them passed in review. The few,
brief, bright intense moments. His desire for more--more--that
intense desire he had felt there in Lycurgus after Sondra came and
now this, this! And now even this was ending--this--this-- Why,
he had scarcely lived at all as yet--and these last two years so
miserably between these crushing walls. And of this life but
fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight of the
filtering and now feverish days left. They were going--going. But
life--life--how was one to do without that--the beauty of the days--
of the sun and rain--of work love, energy, desire. Oh, he really
did not want to die. He did not. Why say to him so constantly as
his mother and the Reverend McMillan now did to resolve all his
care in divine mercy and think only of God, when now, now, was all?
And yet the Reverend McMillan insisting that only in Christ and the
hereafter was real peace. Oh, yes--but just the same, before the
Governor might he not have said--might he not have said that he was
not guilty--or at least not entirely guilty--if only he had seen it
that way--that time--and then--then--why then the Governor might
have commuted his sentence to life imprisonment--might he not? For
he had asked his mother what the Reverend McMillan had said to the
Governor--(yet without saying to her that he had ever confessed all
to him), and she had replied that he had told him how sincerely he
had humbled himself before the Lord--but not that he was not
guilty. And Clyde, feeling how strange it was that the Reverend
McMillan could not conscientiously bring himself to do more than
that for him. How sad. How hopeless. Would no one ever
understand--or give him credit for his human--if all too human and
perhaps wrong hungers--yet from which so many others--along with
himself suffered?
But worse yet, if anything, Mrs. Griffiths, because of what the
Reverend McMillan had said--or failed to say, in answer to the
final question asked by Governor Waltham--and although subsequently
in answer to an inquiry of her own, he had repeated the statement,
she was staggered by the thought that perhaps, after all, Clyde was
as guilty as at first she had feared. And because of that asking
at one point:
"Clyde, if there is anything you have not confessed, you must
confess it before you go."
"I have confessed everything to God and to Mr. McMillan, Mother.
Isn't that enough?"
"No, Clyde. You have told the world that you are innocent. But if
you are not you must say so."
"But if my conscience tells me that I am right, is not that
enough?"
"No, not if God's word says differently, Clyde," replied Mrs.
Griffiths nervously--and with great inward spiritual torture. But
he chose to say nothing further at that time. How could he discuss
with his mother or the world the strange shadings which in his
confession and subsequent talks with the Reverend McMillan he had
not been able to solve. It was not to be done.
And because of that refusal on her son's part to confide in her,
Mrs. Griffiths, tortured, not only spiritually but personally. Her
own son--and so near death and not willing to say what already
apparently he had said to Mr. McMillan. Would not God ever be done
with this testing her? And yet on account of what McMillan had
already said,--that he considered Clyde, whatever his past sins,
contrite and clean before the Lord--a youth truly ready to meet his
Maker--she was prone to rest. The Lord was great! He was merciful.
In His bosom was peace. What was death--what life--to one whose
heart and mind were at peace with Him? It was nothing. A few years
(how very few) and she and Asa and after them, his brothers and
sisters, would come to join him--and all his miseries here would be
forgotten. But without peace in the Lord--the full and beautiful
realization of His presence, love, care and mercy...! She was
tremulous at moments now in her spiritual exaltation--no longer
quite normal--as Clyde could see and feel. But also by her prayers
and anxiety as to his spiritual welfare, he was also able to see how
little, really, she had ever understood of his true moods and
aspirations. He had longed for so much there in Kansas City and he
had had so little. Things--just things--had seemed very important
to him--and he had so resented being taken out on the street as he
had been, before all the other boys and girls, many of whom had all
the things that he so craved, and when he would have been glad to
have been anywhere else in the world than out there--on the street!
That mission life that to his mother was so wonderful, yet, to him,
so dreary! But was it wrong for him to feel so? Had it been?
Would the Lord resent it now? And, maybe, she was right as to her
thoughts about him. Unquestionably he would have been better off if
he had followed her advice. But how strange it was, that to his own
mother, and even now in these closing hours, when above all things
he craved sympathy--but more than sympathy, true and deep
understanding--even now--and as much as she loved and sympathized
with, and was seeking to aid him with all her strength in her stern
and self-sacrificing way,--still he could not turn to her now and
tell her, his own mother, just how it all happened. It was as
though there was an unsurmountable wall or impenetrable barrier
between them, built by the lack of understanding--for it was just
that. She would never understand his craving for ease and luxury,
for beauty, for love--his particular kind of love that went with
show, pleasure, wealth, position, his eager and immutable
aspirations and desires. She could not understand these things.
She would look on all of it as sin--evil, selfishness. And in
connection with all the fatal steps involving Roberta and Sondra, as
adultery--unchastity--murder, even. And she would and did expect
him to be terribly sorry and wholly repentant, when, even now, and
for all he had said to the Reverend McMillan and to her, he could
not feel so--not wholly so--although great was his desire now to
take refuge in God, but better yet, if it were only possible, in her
own understanding and sympathetic heart. If it were only possible.
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