forever, no doubt, all sentiment in connection with him. She
was free. She had beauty—wealth. Now some other——
He got up and walked to his cell door to still a great pain:
Over the way, in that cell the Chinaman had once occupied,
was a Negro—Wash Higgins. He had stabbed a waiter in a
restaurant, so it was said, who had refused him food and
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then insulted him. And next to him was a young Jew. He
had killed the proprietor of a jewelry store in trying to rob it.
But he was very broken and collapsed now that he was
here to die—sitting for the most part all day on his cot, his
head in his hands. Clyde could see both now from where
he stood—the Jew holding his head. But the Negro on his
cot, one leg above the other, smoking—and singing—
Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin’…. hmp!
Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin’… hmp!
Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin’… hmp!
Foh me! Foh me!
And then Clyde, unable to get away from his own thoughts,
turning again.
Condemned to die! He. And this was the end as to Sondra.
He could feel it. Farewell. “Although she is never to see you
again.” He threw himself on his couch—not to weep but to
rest—he felt so weary. Lycurgus. Fourth Lake. Bear Lake.
Laughter—kisses—smiles. What was to have been in the
fall of the preceding year. And now—a year later.
But then,—that young Jew. There was some religious chant
into which he fell when his mental tortures would no longer
endure silence. And oh, how sad. Many of the prisoners
had cried out against it. And yet, oh, how appropriate now,
somehow.
“I have been evil. I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh!
Oh! I have been unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I
have joined with those who have done evil things. Ohl Oh!
Oh! I have stolen. I have been false. I have been cruel! Oh!
Oh! Oh!”
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And the voice of Big Tom Rooney sentenced for killing
Thomas Tighe, a rival for the hand of an underworld girl.
“For Christ’s sake! I know you feel bad. But so do I. Oh, for
God’s sake, don’t do that!”
Clyde, on his cot, his thoughts responding rhythmically to
the chant of the Jew—and joining with him silently—“I have
been evil. I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh! Oh! I
have been unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I have
joined with those who have done evil things. Oh! Oh! Oh! I
have been false. I have been cruel. I have sought to
murder. Oh! Oh! Oh! And for what? A vain—impossible
dream! Oh! Oh! Oh! … Oh! Oh! Oh! …”
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.
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Chapter 33
THE 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 apear 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.
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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 he 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
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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 starcely 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,