say. It is from Psalm 10:11: ‘He hath said in his heart, God
hath forgotten. He hideth His face.’ And I am told to say to
you that He does not hide His face. Rather I am told to
quote this to you from the Eighteenth Psalm: ‘They
prevented me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was
my stay. He sent from above, He took me, He drew me out
of many waters.’
“‘He delivered me from my strong enemy.
“‘And from them which hated me, for they were too many
for me.
“‘He brought. me forth also unto a large place.
“‘He delivered me because He delighted in me.’
“Clyde, those are all words addressed to you. They come to
me here to say to you just as though they were being
whispered to me. I am but the mouthpiece for these words
spoken direct to you. Take counsel with your own heart.
Turn from the shadow to the light. Let us break these bonds
of misery and gloom; chase these shadows and this
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darkness. You have sinned. The Lord can and will forgive.
Repent. Join with Him who has shaped the world and
keeps it. He will not spurn your faith; He will not neglect
your prayers. Turn—in yourself—in the confines of this cell—
and say: ‘Lord, help me. Lord, hear Thou my prayer. Lord,
lighten mine eyes!’
“Do you think there is no God—and that He will not answer
you? Pray. In your trouble turn to Him—not me—or any
other. But to Him. Pray. Speak to Him. Call to Him. Tell Him
the truth and ask for help. As surely as you are here before
me—and if in your heart you truly repent of any evil you
have done— truly, truly, you will hear and feel Him. He will
take your hand. He will enter this cell and your soul. You will
know Him by the peace and the light that will fill your mind
and heart. Pray. And if you need me again to help you in
any way—to pray with you—or to do you any service of any
kind—to cheer you in your loneliness—you have only to
send for me; drop me a card. I have promised your mother
and I will do what I can. The warden has my address.” He
paused, serious and conclusive in his tone—because up to
this time, Clyde had looked more curious and astonished
than anything else.
At the same time because of Clyde’s extreme youthfulness
and a certain air of lonely dependence which marked him
ever since his mother and Nicholson had gone: “I’ll always
be in easy reach. I have a lot of religious work over in
Syracuse but I’ll be glad to drop it at any time that I can
really do anything more for you.” And here he turned as if to
go.
But Clyde, now taken by him—his vital, confident and kindly
manner—so different to the tense, fearful and yet lonely life
here, called after him: “Oh, don’t go just yet. Please don’t.
It’s very nice of you to come and see me and I’m obliged to
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you. My mother wrote me you might. You see, it’s very
lonely here. I haven’t thought much of what you were
saying, perhaps, because I haven’t felt as guilty as some
think I am. But I’ve been sorry enough. And certainly any
one in here pays a good deal.” His eyes looked very sad
and strained.
And at once, McMillan, now deeply touched for the first time
replied: “Clyde, you needn’t worry. I’ll come to see you
again within a week, because now I see you need me. I’m
not asking you to pray because I think you are guilty of the
death of Roberta Alden. I don’t know. You haven’t told me.
Only you and God know what your sins and your sorrows
are. But I do know you need spiritual help and He will give
you that—oh, fully. ‘The Lord will be a refuge for the
oppressed; a refuge in time of trouble.’”
He smiled as though he were now really fond of Clyde. And
Clyde feeling this and being intrigued by it, replied that there
wasn’t anything just then that he wanted to say except to
tell his mother that he was all right—and make her feel a
little better about him, maybe, if he could. Her letters were
very sad, he thought. She worried too much about him.
Besides he, himself, wasn’t feeling so very good—not a
little run down and worried these days. Who wouldn’t be in
his position? Indeed, if only he could win to spiritual peace
through prayer, he would be glad to do it. His mother had
always urged him to pray—but up to now he was sorry to
say he hadn’t followed her advice very much. He looked
very distrait and gloomy—the marked prison pallor having
long since settled on his face.
And the Reverend Duncan, now very much touched by his
state, replied: “Well, don’t worry, Clyde. Enlightenment and
peace are surely going to come to you. I can see that. You
have a Bible there, I see. Open it anywhere in Psalms and
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read. The 51st, 91st, 23rd. Open to St. John. Read it all—
over and over. Think and pray—and think on all the things
about you—the moon, the stars, the sun, the trees, the sea
—your own beating heart, your body and strength—and ask
yourself who made them. How did they come to be? Then,
if you can’t explain them, ask yourself if the one who made
them and you—whoever he is, whatever he is, wherever he
is, isn’t strong and wise enough and kind enough to help
you when you need help—provide you with light and peace
and guidance, when you need them. Just ask yourself what
of the Maker of all this certain reality. And then ask Him—
the Creator of it all—to tell you how and what to do. Don’t
doubt. Just ask and see. Ask in the night—in the day. Bow
your head and pray and see. Verily, He will not fail you. I
know because I have that peace.”
He stared at Clyde convincingly—then smiled and
departed. And Clyde, leaning against his cell door, began to
wonder. The Creator! His Creator! The Creator of the
World! … Ask and see——!
And yet—there was still lingering here in him that old
contempt of his for religion and its fruits,—the constant and
yet fruitless prayers and exhortations of his father and
mother. Was he going to turn to religion now, solely
because he was in difficulties and frightened like these
others? He hoped not. Not like that, anyway.
Just the same the mood, as well as the temperament of the
Reverend Duncan McMillan—his young, forceful, convinced
and dramatic body, face, eyes, now intrigued and then
moved Clyde as no religionist or minister in all his life
before ever had. 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.
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Chapter 32
THE 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
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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