An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser (librera reader txt) 📗

don’t know. At the moment I guess I did. Anyhow I felt sorry, I think.”

“But can you say now truly and positively, as your Creator sees you, that you were sorry⁠—or that you wanted to save her then?”

“It all happened so quick, you see,” began Clyde nervously⁠—hopelessly, almost, “that I’m not just sure. No, I don’t know that I was so very sorry. No. I really don’t know, you see, now. Sometimes I think maybe I was, a little, sometimes not, maybe. But after she was gone and I was on shore, I felt sorry⁠—a little. But I was sort of glad, too, you know, to be free, and yet frightened, too⁠—You see⁠—”

“Yes, I know. You were going to that Miss X. But out there, when she was in the water⁠—?”

“No.”

“You did not want to go to her rescue?”

“No.”

“Tst! Tst! Tst! You felt no sorrow? No shame? Then?”

“Yes, shame, maybe. Maybe sorrow, too, a little. I knew it was terrible. I felt that it was, of course. But still⁠—you see⁠—”

“Yes, I know. That Miss X. You wanted to get away.”

“Yes⁠—but mostly I was frightened, and I didn’t want to help her.”

“Yes! Yes! Tst! Tst! Tst! If she drowned you could go to that Miss X. You thought of that?” The Reverend McMillan’s lips were tightly and sadly compressed.

“Yes.”

“My son! My son! In your heart was murder then.”

“Yes, yes,” Clyde said reflectively. “I have thought since it must have been that way.”

The Reverend McMillan paused and to hearten himself for this task began to pray⁠—but silently⁠—and to himself: “Our Father who art in Heaven⁠—hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done⁠—on earth as it is in Heaven.” He stirred again after a time.

“Ah, Clyde. The mercy of God is equal to every sin. I know it. He sent His own son to die for the evil of the world. It must be so⁠—if you will but repent. But that thought! That deed! You have much to pray for, my son⁠—much. Oh, yes. For in the sight of God, I fear⁠—yes⁠—And yet⁠—I must pray for enlightenment. This is a strange and terrible story. There are so many phases. It may be but pray. Pray with me now that you and I may have light.” He bowed his head. He sat for minutes in silence⁠—while Clyde, also, in silence and troubled doubt, sat before him. Then, after a time he began:

“Oh, Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger; neither chasten me in Thy hot displeasure. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak. Heal me in my shame and sorrow for my soul is wounded and dark in Thy sight. Oh, let the wickedness of my heart pass. Lead me, O God, into Thy righteousness. Let the wickedness of my heart pass and remember it not.”

Clyde⁠—his head down⁠—sat still⁠—very still. He, himself, was at last shaken and mournful. No doubt his sin was very great. Very, very terrible! And yet⁠—But then, the Reverend McMillan ceasing and rising, he, too, rose, the while McMillan added: “But I must go now. I must think⁠—pray. This has troubled and touched me deeply. Oh, very, Lord. And you⁠—my son⁠—you return and pray⁠—alone. Repent. Ask of God on your knees His forgiveness and He will hear you. Yes, He will. And tomorrow⁠—or as soon as I honestly can⁠—I will come again. But do not despair. Pray always⁠—for in prayer alone, prayer and contrition, is salvation. Rest in the strength of Him who holds the world in the hollow of His hand. In His abounding strength and mercy, is peace and forgiveness. Oh, yes.”

He struck the iron door with a small key ring that he carried and at once the guard, hearing it, returned.

Then having escorted Clyde to his cell and seen him once more shut within that restraining cage, he took his own departure, heavily and miserably burdened with all that he had heard. And Clyde was left to brood on all he had said⁠—and how it had affected McMillan, as well as himself. His new friend’s stricken mood. The obvious pain and horror with which he viewed it all. Was he really and truly guilty? Did he really and truly deserve to die for this? Was that what the Reverend McMillan would decide? And in the face of all his tenderness and mercy?

And another week in which, moved by Clyde’s seeming contrition, and all the confusing and extenuating circumstances of his story, and having wrestled most earnestly with every moral aspect of it, the Reverend McMillan once more before his cell door⁠—but only to say that however liberal or charitable his interpretation of the facts, as at last Clyde had truthfully pictured them, still he could not feel that either primarily or secondarily could he be absolved from guilt for her death. He had plotted⁠—had he not? He had not gone to her rescue when he might have. He had wished her dead and afterwards had not been sorry. In the blow that had brought about the upsetting of the boat had been some anger. Also in the mood that had not permitted him to strike. The facts that he had been influenced by the beauty and position of Miss X to the plotting of this deed, and, after his evil relations with Roberta, that she had been determined he should marry her, far from being points in extenuation of his actions, were really further evidence of his general earthly sin and guilt. Before the Lord then he had sinned in many ways. In those dark days, alas, as Mr. McMillan saw it, he was little more than a compound of selfishness and unhallowed desire and fornication against the evil of which Paul had thundered. It had endured to the end and had not changed⁠—until he had been taken by the law. He had not repented⁠—not even there at Bear Lake where he had time for thought. And besides, had he not, from the beginning to end, bolstered it