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.