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. The
beautiful Sondra! The glorious Sondral 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
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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
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—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.
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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. The way of the
transgressor. And so it was handed to him at the close of a
late fall day—after a long and dreary summer had passed
(soon a year since he had entered here). And he taking it.
And although it was typewritten with no date nor place on
the envelope, which was postmarked New York—yet
sensing somehow that it might be from her. And growing
decidedly nervous—so much so that his hand trembled
slightly. And then reading—over and over and over—during
many days thereafter: “Clyde—This is so that you will not
think that some one once dear to you has utterly forgotten
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you. She has suffered much, too. And though she can
never understand how you could have done as you did, still,
even now, although she is never to see you again, she is
not without sorrow and sympathy and wishes you freedom
and happiness.”
But no signature—no trace of her own handwriting. She
was afraid to sign her name and she was too remote from
him in her mood now to let him know where she was. New
York! But it might have been sent there from anywhere to
mail. And she would not let him know—would never let him
know—even though he died here later, as well he might.
His last hope—the last trace of his dream vanished.
Forever! It was at that moment, as when night at last falls
upon the faintest remaining gleam of dusk in the west. A
dim, weakening tinge of pink—and then the dark.
He seated himself on his cot. The wretched stripes of his
uniform and his gray felt shoes took his eye. A felon. These
stripes. These shoes. This cell. This uncertain, threatening
prospect so very terrible to contemplate at any time. And
then this letter. So this was the end of all that wonderful
dream! And for this he had sought so desperately to
disengage himself from Roberta—even to the point of
deciding to slay her. This! This! He toyed with the letter,
then held it quite still. Where was she now? Who in love
with, maybe? She had had time to change perhaps. She
had only been captivated by him a little, maybe. And then
that terrible revelation in connection with him had destroyed