He was interested, arrested and charmed by the man’s faith — whether at once or not at all — ever — he could come to put the reliance in it that plainly this man did. ? Chapter 32
T he personal conviction and force of such an individual as the Reverend McMillan, while in one sense an old story 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, affected him differently.
Incarcerated, withdrawn from the world, compelled by the highly circumscribed nature of this death house life to find solace or relief in his own thoughts, Clyde’s, like every other temperament similarly limited, was compelled to devote itself either to the past, the present or the future.
But the past was so painful to contemplate at any point.
It seared. and burned.
And the present (his immediate surroundings) as well as the future with its deadly fear of what was certain to happen in case his appeal failed, were two phases equally frightful to his waking consciousness.
What followed then was what invariably follows in the wake of every tortured consciousness.
From what it dreads or hates, yet knows or feels to be unescapable, it takes refuge in that which may be hoped for — or at least imagined.
But what was to be hoped for or imagined?
Because of the new suggestion offered by Nicholson, a new 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 a different name — his old connections and ambitions relating to that superior social life that had so recently intrigued him, laid aside, he might recover himself in some small way.
But directly in the path of that hopeful imagining, of course, stood the death’s head figure of a refusal on the part of the Court of Appeals to grant him a new trial.
Why not — after that jury at Bridgeburg?
And then — as in that dream in which he turned from the tangle of snakes to face the tramping rhinoceros with its two horns — he was confronted by that awful thing in the adjoining room — that chair! That chair!
Its straps and its flashes which so regularly dimmed the lights in this room.
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 of the Rev. Duncan McMillan, with his plea for a direct and certainly (as he insisted) fruitful appeal to the Creator of 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 from Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians, on how easy it was — if Clyde would but repeat and pray as he had asked him to — 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 he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.
For what man is there of you whom, if his son ask bread, will give him a stone; or, if he ask fish, will give him a serpent?” So he quoted, beautifully and earnestly.
And yet before Clyde always was the example of his father and mother.
What had they?
It had not availed them much — praying.
Neither, as he noticed here, did it appear to avail or aid these other condemned men, the majority of whom lent themselves to the pleas or prayers of either priest or rabbi or minister, one and the other of whom was about daily.
Yet were they not led to their death just the same — and complaining or protesting, or mad like Cutrone, or indifferent?
As for himself, up to this he had not been interested by any of these.
Bunk.
Notions.
Of what?
He could not say.
Nevertheless, here was the appealing Rev. Duncan McMillan.
His mild, serene eyes.
His sweet voice.
His faith.
It moved and intrigued Clyde deeply.
Could there — could there?
He was so lonely — so despairing — 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 led a better life — had paid more attention to what his mother had said and taught — not gone into that house of prostitution in Kansas City — or pursued Hortense Briggs in the evil way that he had — or after her, Roberta — had been content to work and save, as no doubt most men were — would he not be better off than he now was?
But then 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 to imagining at times that perhaps it was because of superior mental and moral courage in the face of passions and desires, equivalent to his own, which led these others to do so much better.
He was perhaps just willfully devoting himself to these other thoughts and ways, as his mother and McMillan and most every one else whom he had heard talk since his arrest seemed to think.
What did it all mean?