“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
T he 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?