girls--Sondra with everything offering all--asking nothing of him;
Roberta, with nothing, asking all.
A feeling of dark and bitter resentment swept over him and he could
not help but feel sympathetic toward that unknown man at Pass Lake
and secretly wish that he had been successful. Perhaps he, too,
had been confronted by a situation just like this. And perhaps he
had done right, too, after all, and that was why it had not been
found out. His nerves twitched. His eyes were somber, resentful
and yet nervous. Could it not happen again successfully in this
case?
But here he was now upon the same platform with her as the result
of her persistent and illogical demands, and he must be thinking
how, and boldly, he must carry out the plans which, for four days,
or ever since he had telephoned her, and in a dimmer way for the
ten preceding those, he had been planning. This settled course
must not be interfered with now. He must act! He must not let
fear influence him to anything less than he had now planned.
And so it was that he now stepped forth in order that she might see
him, at the same time giving her a wise and seemingly friendly and
informative look as if to say, "You see I am here." But behind the
look! If only she could have pierced beneath the surface and
sensed that dark and tortured mood, how speedily she would have
fled. But now seeing him actually present, a heavy shadow that was
lurking in her eyes lifted, the somewhat down-turned corners of her
mouth reversed themselves, and without appearing to recognize him,
she nevertheless brightened and at once proceeded to the window to
purchase her ticket to Utica, as he had instructed her to do.
And she was now thinking that at last, at last he had come. And he
was going to take her away. And hence a kind of gratefulness for
this welling up in her. For they were to be together for seven or
eight months at the least. And while it might take tact and
patience to adjust things, still it might and probably could be
done. From now on she must be the very soul of caution--not do or
say anything that would irritate him in any way, since naturally he
would not be in the best mood because of this. But he must have
changed some--perhaps he was seeing her in a more kindly light--
sympathizing with her a little, since he now appeared at last to
have most gracefully and genially succumbed to the unavoidable.
And at the same time noting his light gray suit, his new straw hat,
his brightly polished shoes and the dark tan suitcase and (strange,
equivocal, frivolous erraticism of his in this instance) the tripod
of a recently purchased camera together with his tennis racquet in
its canvas case strapped to the side--more than anything to conceal
the initials C. G.--she was seized with much of her old-time mood
and desire in regard to his looks and temperament. He was still,
and despite his present indifference to her, her Clyde.
Having seen her secure her ticket, he now went to get his own, and
then, with another knowing look in her direction, which said that
everything was now all right, he returned to the eastern end of the
platform, while she returned to her position at the forward end.
(Why was that old man in that old brown winter suit and hat and
carrying that bird cage in a brown paper looking at him so? Could
he sense anything? Did he know him? Had he ever worked in
Lycurgus or seen him before?)
He was going to buy a second straw hat in Utica to-day--he must
remember that--a straw hat with a Utica label, which he would wear
instead of his present one. Then, when she was not looking, he
would put the old one in his bag with his other things. That was
why he would have to leave her for a little while after they
reached Utica--at the depot or library or somewhere--perhaps as was
his first plan, take her to some small hotel somewhere and register
as Mr. and Mrs. Carl Graham or Clifford Golden or Gehring (there
was a girl in the factory by that name) so if they were ever traced
in any way, it would be assumed that she had gone away with some
man of that name.
(That whistle of a train afar off. It must be coming now. His
watch said twelve-twenty-seven.)
And again he must decide what his manner toward her in Utica must
be--whether very cordial or the opposite. For over the telephone,
of course, he had talked very soft and genial-like because he had
to. Perhaps it would be best to keep that up, otherwise she might
become angry or suspicious or stubborn and that would make it hard.
(Would that train never get here?)
At the same time it was going to be very hard on him to be so very
pleasant when, after all, she was driving him as she was--expecting
him to do all that she was asking him to do and yet be nice to her.
Damn! And yet if he weren't?--Supposing she should sense something
of his thoughts in connection with this--really refuse to go
through with it this way and spoil his plans.
(If only his knees and hands wouldn't tremble so at times.)
But no, how was she to be able to detect anything of that kind,
when he himself had not quite made up his mind as to whether he
would be able to go through with it or not? He only knew he was
not going away with her, and that was all there was to that. He
might not upset the boat, as he had decided on the day before, but
just the same he was not going away with her.
But here now was the train. And there was Roberta lifting her bag.
Was it too heavy for her in her present state? It probably was.
Well, too bad. It was very hot to-day, too. At any rate he would
help her with it later, when they were where no one could see them.
She was looking toward him to be sure he was getting on--so like
her these days, in her suspicious, doubtful mood in regard to him.
But here was a seat in the rear of the car on the shady side, too.
That was not so bad. He would settle himself comfortably and look
out. For just outside Fonda, a mile or two beyond, was that same
Mohawk that ran through Lycurgus and past the factory, and along
the banks of which the year before, he and Roberta had walked about
this time. But the memory of that being far from pleasant now, he
turned his eyes to a paper he had bought, and behind which he could
shield himself as much as possible, while he once more began to
observe the details of the more inward scene which now so much more
concerned him--the nature of the lake country around Big Bittern,
which ever since that final important conversation with Roberta
over the telephone, had been interesting him more than any other
geography of the world.
For on Friday, after the conversation, he had stopped in at the
Lycurgus House and secured three different folders relating to
hotels, lodges, inns and other camps in the more remote region
beyond Big Bittern and Long Lake. (If only there were some way to
get to one of those completely deserted lakes described by that
guide at Big Bittern--only, perhaps, there might not be any row-
boats on any of these lakes at all!) And again on Saturday, had he
not secured four more circulars from the rack at the depot (they
were in his pocket now)? Had they not proved how many small lakes
and inns there were along this same railroad, which ran north to
Big Bittern, to which he and Roberta might resort for a day or two
if she would--a night, anyhow, before going to Big Bittern and
Grass Lake--had he not noted that in particular--a beautiful lake
it had said--near the station, and with at least three attractive
lodges or country home inns where two could stay for as low as
twenty dollars a week. That meant that two could stay for one
night surely for as little as five dollars. It must be so surely--
and so he was going to say to her, as he had already planned these
several days, that she needed a little rest before going away to a
strange place. That it would not cost very much--about fifteen
dollars for fares and all, so the circulars said--if they went to
Grass Lake for a night--this same night after reaching Utica--or on
the morrow, anyhow. And he would have to picture it all to her as
a sort of honeymoon journey--a little pleasant outing--before
getting married. And it would not do to succumb to any plan of
hers to get married before they did this--that would never do.
(Those five birds winging toward that patch of trees over there--
below that hill.)
It certainly would not do to go direct to Big Bittern from Utica
for a boat ride--just one day--seventy miles. That would not sound
right to her, or to any one. It would make her suspicious, maybe.
It might be better, since he would have to get away from her to buy
a hat in Utica, to spend this first night there at some inexpensive,
inconspicuous hotel, and once there, suggest going up to Grass Lake.
And from there they could go to Big Bittern in the morning. He
could say that Big Bittern was nicer--or that they would go down to
Three Mile Bay--a hamlet really as he knew--where they could be
married, but en route stop at Big Bittern as a sort of lark. He
would say that he wanted to show her the lake--take some pictures of
her and himself. He had brought his camera for that and for other
pictures of Sondra later.
The blackness of this plot of his!
(Those nine black and white cows on that green hillside.)
But again, strapping that tripod along with his tennis racquet to
the side of his suitcase, might not that cause people to imagine
that they were passing tourists from some distant point, maybe, and
if they both disappeared, well, then, they were not people from
anywhere around here, were they? Didn't the guide say that the
water in the lake was all of seventy-five feet deep--like that
water at Pass Lake? And as for Roberta's grip--oh, yes, what about
that? He hadn't even thought about that as yet, really.
(Those three automobiles out there running almost as fast as this
train.)
Well, in coming down from Grass Lake after one night there (he
could say that he was going to marry her at Three Mile Bay at the
north end of Greys Lake, where a minister lived whom he had met),
he would induce her to leave her bag at that Gun Lodge station,
where they took the bus over to Big Bittern, while he took his with
him. He could just say to some one--the boatman, maybe, or the
driver, that he was taking his camera in his bag, and ask where the
best views were. Or maybe a lunch. Was that not a better idea--to
take a lunch and so deceive Roberta, too, perhaps? And that would
tend to mislead the driver, also, would it not? People did carry
cameras in bags when they went out on lakes, at times. At any rate
it was most necessary for him to carry his bag in this instance.
Else why the plan to go south to that island and from thence
through the woods?
(Oh, the grimness and the terror of this plan! Could he really
execute it?)
But that strange cry of that bird at Big Bittern. He had not liked
that, or seeing that guide up there who might remember him now. He
had not talked to him at all--had not even gotten out of the car,
but had only looked out at him through the window; and in so far as
he could recall the guide had not even once looked at him--had
merely talked to Grant Cranston and Harley Baggott, who had gotten
out and had done all the talking. But supposing this guide should
be there and remember him? But how could that be when he really
had not seen him? This guide would probably not remember him at
all--might not even be there. But why should his hands and face be
damp all the time now--wet almost, and cold--his knees shaky?
(This train was following the exact curve of this stream--and last
summer he and Roberta. But no--)
As soon as they reached Utica now this was the way he would do--and
must keep it well in mind and not get rattled in any way. He must
not--he must not. He must let her walk up the street before him,
say a hundred feet or so between them, so that no one would think
he was following her, of course. And then when they were quite
alone somewhere he would catch up with her and explain all about
this--be very nice as though he cared for her as much as ever now--
he would have to--if he were to get her to do as he wanted. And
then--and then, oh, yes, have her wait while he went for that extra
straw hat that he was going to--well, leave on the water, maybe.
And the oars, too, of course. And her hat--and--well--
(The long, sad sounding whistle of this train. Damn. He was
getting nervous already.)
But before going to the hotel, he must go back to the depot and put
his new hat in the bag, or better yet, carry it while he looked for
the sort of hotel he wanted, and then, before going to Roberta,
take the hat and put it in his bag. Then he would go and find her
and have her come to the entrance of the hotel he had found and
wait for him, while he got the bags. And, of course, if there was
no one around or very few, they would enter together, only she
could wait in the ladies' parlor somewhere, while he went and
registered as Charles Golden, maybe, this time. And then, well, in
the morning, if she agreed, or to-night, for that matter, if there
were any trains--he would have to find out about that--they could
go up to Grass Lake in separate cars until they were past Twelfth
Lake and Sharon, at any rate.
(The beautiful Cranston Lodge there and Sondra.)
And then--and then--
(That big red barn and that small white house near it. And that
wind-mill. So like those houses and barns that he had seen out
there in Illinois and Missouri. And Chicago, too.)
And at the same time Roberta in her car forward thinking that Clyde
had not appeared so very unfriendly to her. To be sure, it was
hard on him, making him leave Lycurgus in this way, and when he
might be enjoying himself as he wished to. But on the other hand,
here was she--and there was no other way for her to be. She must
be very genial and yet not put herself forward too much or in his
way. And yet she must not be too receding or weak, either, for,
after all, Clyde was the one who had placed her in this position.
And it was only fair, and little enough for him to do. She would
have a baby to look after in the future, and all that trouble to go
through with from now on. And later, she would have to explain to
her parents this whole mysterious proceeding, which covered her
present disappearance and marriage, if Clyde really did marry her
now. But she must insist upon that--and soon--in Utica, perhaps--
certainly at the very next place they went to--and get a copy of
her marriage certificate, too, and keep it for her own as well as
the baby's sake. He could get a divorce as he pleased after that.
She would still be Mrs. Griffiths. And Clyde's baby and hers would
be a Griffiths, too. That was something.
(How beautiful the little river was. It reminded her of the Mohawk
and the walks she and he had taken last summer when they first met.
Oh, last summer! And now this!)
And they would settle somewhere--in one or two rooms, no doubt.
Where, she wondered--in what town or city? How far away from
Lycurgus or Biltz--the farther from Biltz the better, although she
would like to see her mother and father again, and soon--as soon as
she safely could. But what matter, as long as they were going away
together and she was to be married?
Had he noticed her blue suit and little brown hat? And had he
thought she looked at all attractive compared to those rich girls
with whom he was always running? She must be very tactful--not
irritate him in any way. But--oh, the happy life they could have
if only--if only he cared for her a little--just a little...
And then Utica, and on a quiet street Clyde catching up with
Roberta, his expression a mixture of innocent geniality and good-
will, tempered by worry and opposition, which was really a mask for
the fear of the deed that he himself was contemplating--his power
to execute it--the consequences in case he failed.
Chapter 47
And then, as planned that night between them--a trip to Grass Lake
the next morning in separate cars, but which, upon their arrival
and to his surprise, proved to be so much more briskly tenanted
than he anticipated. He was very much disturbed and frightened by
the evidence of so much active life up here. For he had fancied
this, as well as Big Bittern, would be all but deserted. Yet here
now, as both could see, it was the summer seat and gathering place
of some small religious organization or group--the Winebrennarians
of Pennsylvania--as it proved with a tabernacle and numerous
cottages across the lake from the station. And Roberta at once
exclaiming:
"Now, there, isn't that cute? Why couldn't we be married over
there by the minister of that church?"
And Clyde, puzzled and shaken by this sudden and highly unsatisfactory
development, at once announced: "Why, sure--I'll go over after a
bit and see," yet his mind busy with schemes for circumventing her.
He would take her out in a boat after registering and getting
settled and remain too long. Or should a peculiarly remote and
unobserved spot be found... but no, there were too many people
here. The lake was not large enough, and probably not very deep.
It was black or dark like tar, and sentineled to the east and north
by tall, dark pines--the serried spears of armed and watchful
giants, as they now seemed to him--ogres almost--so gloomy,
suspicious and fantastically erratic was his own mood in regard to
all this. But still there were too many people--as many as ten on
the lake.
The weirdness of it.
The difficulty.
But whisper:--one could not walk from here through any woods to
Three Mile Bay. Oh, no. That was all of thirty miles to the south
now. And besides this lake was less lonely--probably continually
observed by members of this religious group. Oh, no--he must say--
he must say--but what--could he say? That he had inquired, and
that no license could be procured here? Or that the minister was
away, or that he required certain identifications which he did not
have--or--or, well, well--anything that would serve to still
Roberta until such hour to-morrow, as the train south from here
left for Big Bittern and Sharon, where, of course, they would
surely be married.
Why should she be so insistent? And why, anyhow, and except for
her crass determination to force him in this way, should he be
compelled to track here and there with her--every hour--every
minute of which was torture--an unending mental crucifixion really,
when, if he were but rid of her! Oh, Sondra, Sondra, if but now
from your high estate, you might bend down and aid me. No more
lies! No more suffering! No more misery of any kind!
But instead, more lies. A long and aimless and pestilential search
for water-lilies, which because of his own restless mood, bored
Roberta as much as it did him. For why, she was now thinking to
herself as they rowed about, this indifference to this marriage
possibility, which could have been arranged before now and given
this outing the dream quality it would and should have had, if
only--if only he had arranged for everything in Utica, even as she
had wanted. But this waiting--evasion--and so like Clyde, his
vacillating, indefinite, uncertain mood, always. She was beginning
to wonder now as to his intentions again--whether really and truly
he did intend to marry her as he had promised. Tomorrow, or the
next day at most, would show. So why worry now?
And then the next day at noon, Gun Lodge and Big Bittern itself and
Clyde climbing down from the train at Gun Lodge and escorting
Roberta to the waiting bus, the while he assured her that since
they were coming back this way, it would be best if she were to
leave her bag here, while he, because of his camera as well as the
lunch done up at Grass Lake and crowded into his suitcase, would
take his own with him, because they would lunch on the lake. But
on reaching the bus, he was dismayed by the fact that the driver
was the same guide whom he had heard talk at Big Bittern. What if
it should prove now that this guide had seen and remembered him!
Would he not at least recall the handsome Finchley car--Bertine and
Stuart on the front seat--himself and Sondra at the back--Grant and
that Harley Baggott talking to him outside?
At once that cold perspiration that had marked his more nervous and
terrified moods for weeks past, now burst forth on his face and
hands. Of what had he been thinking, anyhow? How planning? In
God's name, how expect to carry a thing like this through, if he
were going to think so poorly? It was like his failing to wear his
cap from Lycurgus to Utica, or at least getting it out of his bag
before he tried to buy that straw hat; it was like not buying the
straw hat before he went to Utica at all.
Yet the guide did not remember him, thank God! On the contrary he
inquired rather curiously, and as of a total stranger: "Goin' over
to the lodge at Big Bittern? First time up here?" And Clyde,
enormously relieved and yet really tremulous, replied: "Yes," and
then in his nervous excitement asked: "Many people over there to-
day?" a question which the moment he had propounded it, seemed
almost insane. Why, why, of all questions, should he ask that?
Oh, God, would his silly, self-destructive mistakes never cease?
So troubled was he indeed, now, that he scarcely heard the guide's
reply, or, if at all, as a voice speaking from a long way off.
"Not so many. About seven or eight, I guess. We did have about
thirty over the Fourth, but most o' them went down yesterday."
The stillness of these pines lining this damp yellow road along
which they were traveling; the cool and the silence; the dark
shadows and purple and gray depths and nooks in them, even at high
noon. If one were slipping away at night or by day, who would
encounter one here? A blue-jay far in the depths somewhere uttered
its metallic shriek; a field sparrow, tremulous upon some distant
twig, filled the silver shadows with its perfect song. And
Roberta, as this heavy, covered bus crossed rill and thin stream,
and then rough wooden bridges here and there, commented on the
clarity and sparkle of the water: "Isn't that wonderful in there?
Do you hear the tinkling of that water, Clyde? Oh, the freshness
of this air!"
And yet she was going to die so soon!
God!
But supposing now, at Big Bittern--the lodge and boathouse there--
there were many people. Or that the lake, peradventure, was
literally dotted with those that were there--all fishermen and all
fishing here and there, each one separate and alone--no privacy or
a deserted spot anywhere. And how strange he had not thought of
that. This lake was probably not nearly as deserted as he had
imagined, or would not be to-day, any more than Grass Lake had
proved. And then what?
Well, flight then--flight--and let it go at that. This strain was
too much--hell--he would die, thinking thoughts like these. How
could he have dreamed to better his fortunes by any so wild and
brutal a scheme as this anyhow--to kill and then run away--or
rather to kill and pretend that he and she had drowned--while he--
the real murderer--slipped away to life and happiness. What a
horrible plan! And yet how else? How? Had he not come all this
way to do this? And was he going to turn back now?
And all this time Roberta at his side was imagining that she was
not going to anything but marriage--tomorrow morning sure; and now
only to the passing pleasure of seeing this beautiful lake of which
he had been talking--talking, as though it were something more
important and delectable than any that had as yet been in her or
his life for that matter.
But now the guide was speaking again, and to him: "You're not
mindin' to stay over, I suppose. I see you left the young lady's
bag over there." He nodded in the direction of Gun Lodge.
"No, we're going on down to-night--on that 8:10. You take people
over to that?"
"Oh, sure."
"They said you did--at Grass Lake."
But now why should he have added that reference to Grass Lake, for
that showed that he and Roberta had been there before coming here.
But this fool with his reference to "the young lady's bag"! And
leaving it at Gun Lodge. The Devil! Why shouldn't he mind his own
business? Or why should he have decided that he and Roberta were
not married? Or had he so decided? At any rate, why such a
question when they were carrying two bags and he had brought one?
Strange! The effrontery! How should he know or guess or what?
But what harm could it do--married or unmarried? If she were not
found--"married or unmarried" would make no difference, would it?
And if she were, and it was discovered that she was not married,
would that not prove that she was off with some one else? Of
course! So why worry over that now?
And Roberta asking: "Are there any hotels or boarding houses on
the lake besides this one we're going to?"
"Not a one, miss, outside o' the inn that we're goin' to. There
was a crowd of young fellers and girls campin' over on the east
shore, yisterday, I believe, about a mile from the inn--but whether
they're there now or not, I dunno. Ain't seen none of 'em to-day."
A crowd of young fellows and girls! For God's sake! And might not
they now be out on the water--all of them--rowing--or sailing--or
what? And he here with her! Maybe some of them from Twelfth Lake!
Just as he and Sondra and Harriet and Stuart and Bertine had come
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