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
T he 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 —”