Was there a God?
Did He interfere in the affairs of men as Mr. McMillan was now contending?
Was it possible that one could turn to Him, or at least some creative power, in some such hour as this and when one had always ignored Him before, and ask for aid?
Decidedly one needed aid under such circumstances — so alone and ordered and controlled by law — not man — since these, all of them, were the veriest servants of the law.
But would this mysterious power be likely to grant aid?
Did it really exist and hear the prayers of men?
The Rev. McMillan insisted yes.
“He hath said God hath forgotten; He hideth His face.
But He has not forgotten.
He has not hidden His face.”
But was that true?
Was there anything to it?
Tortured by the need of some mental if not material support in the face of his great danger, Clyde was now doing what every other human in related circumstances invariably does — seeking, and yet in the most indirect and involute and all but unconscious way, the presence or existence at least of some superhuman or supernatural personality or power that could and would aid him in some way — beginning to veer — however slightly or unconsciously as yet — toward the personalization and humanization of forces, of which, except in the guise of religion, he had not the faintest conception.
“The Heavens declare the Glory of God, and the Firmament sheweth His handiwork.”
He recalled that as a placard in one of his mother’s mission windows.
And another which read:
“For He is Thy life and Thy length of Days.”
Just the same — and far from it as yet, even in the face of his sudden predisposition toward the Rev. Duncan McMillan, was he seriously moved to assume that in religion of any kind was he likely to find surcease from his present miseries?
And yet the weeks and months going by — the Rev. McMillan calling regularly thereafter, every two weeks at the longest, sometimes every week and inquiring after his state, listening to his wants, advising him as to his health and peace of mind.
And Clyde, anxious to retain his interest and visits, gradually, more and 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.