up two weeks before--some of them friends of the Cranstons,
Harriets, Finchleys or others who had come up here to play and who
would remember him, of course. And again, then, there must be a
road to the east of this lake. And all this knowledge and their
presence there now might make this trip of his useless. Such silly
plotting! Such pointless planning as this--when at least he might
have taken more time--chosen a lake still farther away and should
have--only so tortured had he been for these last many days, that
he could scarcely think how to think. Well, all he could do now
was to go and see. If there were many he must think of some way to
row to some real lonely spot or maybe turn and return to Grass
Lake--or where? Oh, what could or would he do--if there were many
over here?
But just then a long aisle of green trees giving out at the far end
as he now recalled upon a square of lawn, and the lake itself, the
little inn with its pillared verandah, facing the dark blue waters
of Big Bittern. And that low, small red-roofed boathouse to the
right on the water that he had seen before when he was here. And
Roberta exclaiming on sight, "Oh, it is pretty, isn't it--just
beautiful." And Clyde surveying that dark, low island in the
distance, to the south, and seeing but few people about--none on
the lake itself--exclaiming nervously, "Yes, it is, you bet." But
feeling half choked as he said it.
And now the host of the inn himself appearing and approaching--a
medium-sized, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who was saying most
intriguingly, "Staying over for a few days?"
But Clyde, irritated by this new development and after paying the
guide a dollar, replying crustily and irritably, "No, no--just came
over for the afternoon. We're going on down to-night."
"You'll be staying over for dinner then, I suppose? The train
doesn't leave till eight-fifteen."
"Oh, yes--that's so. Sure. Yes, well, in that case, we
will."... For, of course, Roberta on her honeymoon--the day
before her wedding and on a trip like this, would be expecting her
dinner. Damn this stocky, red-faced fool, anyway.
"Well, then, I'll just take your bag and you can register. Your
wife'll probably be wanting to freshen up a bit anyway."
He led the way, bag in hand, although Clyde's greatest desire was
to snatch it from him. For he had not expected to register here--
nor leave his bag either. And would not. He would recapture it
and hire a boat. But on top of that, being compelled "for the
register's sake," as Boniface phrased it, to sign Clifford Golden
and wife--before he could take his bag again.
And then to add to the nervousness and confusion engendered by all
this, thoughts as to what additional developments or persons, even,
he might encounter before leaving on his climacteric errand--
Roberta announcing that because of the heat and the fact that they
were coming back to dinner, she would leave her hat and coat--a hat
in which he had already seen the label of Braunstein in Lycurgus--
and which at the time caused him to meditate as to the wisdom of
leaving or extracting it. But he had decided that perhaps
afterwards--afterwards--if he should really do this--it might not
make any difference whether it was there, or not. Was she not
likely to be identified anyhow, if found, and if not found, who was
to know who she was?
In a confused and turbulent state mentally, scarcely realizing the
clarity or import of any particular thought or movement or act now,
he took up his bag and led the way to the boathouse platform. And
then, after dropping the bag into the boat, asking of the boathouse
keeper if he knew where the best views were, that he wanted to
photograph them. And this done--the meaningless explanation over,
assisting Roberta (an almost nebulous figure, she now seemed,
stepping down into an insubstantial row-boat upon a purely
ideational lake), he now stepped in after her, seating himself in
the center and taking the oars.
The quiet, glassy, iridescent surface of this lake that now to both
seemed, not so much like water as oil--like molten glass that, of
enormous bulk and weight, resting upon the substantial earth so
very far below. And the lightness and freshness and intoxication
of the gentle air blowing here and there, yet scarcely rippling the
surface of the lake. And the softness and furry thickness of the
tall pines about the shore. Everywhere pines--tall and spearlike.
And above them the humped backs of the dark and distant Adirondacks
beyond. Not a rower to be seen. Not a house or cabin. He sought
to distinguish the camp of which the guide had spoken. He could
not. He sought to distinguish the voices of those who might be
there--or any voices. Yet, except for the lock-lock of his own
oars as he rowed and the voice of the boathouse keeper and the
guide in converse two hundred, three hundred, five hundred, a
thousand feet behind, there was no sound.
"Isn't it still and peaceful?" It was Roberta talking. "It seems
to be so restful here. I think it's beautiful, truly, so much more
beautiful than that other lake. These trees are so tall, aren't
they? And those mountains. I was thinking all the way over how
cool and silent that road was, even if it was a little rough."
"Did you talk to any one in the inn there just now?"
"Why, no; what makes you ask?"
"Oh, I thought you might have run into some one. There don't seem
to be very many people up here to-day, though, does there?"
"No, I don't see any one on the lake. I saw two men in that
billiard room at the back there, and there was a girl in the
ladies' room, that was all. Isn't this water cold?" She had put
her hand over the side and was trailing it in the blue-black
ripples made by his oars.
"Is it? I haven't felt it yet."
He paused in his rowing and put out his hand, then resumed. He
would not row directly to that island to the south. It was--too
far--too early. She might think it odd. Better a little delay.
A little time in which to think--a little while in which to
reconnoiter. Roberta would be wanting to eat her lunch (her
lunch!) and there was a charming looking point of land there to the
west about a mile further on. They could go there and eat first--
or she could--for he would not be eating today. And then--and
then--
She was looking at the very same point of land that he was--a
curved horn of land that bent to the south and yet reached quite
far out into the water and combed with tall pines. And now she
added:
"Have you any spot in mind, dear, where we could stop and eat? I'm
getting a little hungry, aren't you?" (If she would only not call
him DEAR, here and now!)
The little inn and the boathouse to the north were growing
momentarily smaller,--looking now, like that other boathouse and
pavilion on Crum Lake the day he had first rowed there, and when he
had been wishing that he might come to such a lake as this in the
Adirondacks, dreaming of such a lake--and wishing to meet such a
girl as Roberta--then-- And overhead was one of those identical
woolly clouds that had sailed above him at Crum Lake on that
fateful day.
The horror of this effort!
They might look for water-lilies here today to kill time a little,
before--to kill time... to kill, (God)--he must quit thinking of
that, if he were going to do it at all. He needn't be thinking of
it now, at any rate.
At the point of land favored by Roberta, into a minute protected
bay with a small, curved, honey-colored beach, and safe from all
prying eyes north or east. And then he and she stepping out
normally enough. And Roberta, after Clyde had extracted the lunch
most cautiously from his bag, spreading it on a newspaper on the
shore, while he walked here and there, making strained and yet
admiring comments on the beauty of the scene--the pines and the
curve of this small bay, yet thinking--thinking, thinking of the
island farther on and the bay below that again somewhere, where
somehow, and in the face of a weakening courage for it, he must
still execute this grim and terrible business before him--not allow
this carefully planned opportunity to go for nothing--if--if--he
were to not really run away and leave all that he most desired to
keep.
And yet the horror of this business and the danger, now that it was
so close at hand--the danger of making a mistake of some kind--if
nothing more, of not upsetting the boat right--of not being able
to--to--oh, God! And subsequently, maybe, to be proved to be what
he would be--then--a murderer. Arrested! Tried. (He could not,
he would not, go through with it. No, no, no!)
And yet Roberta, sitting here with him now on the sand, feeling
quite at peace with all the world as he could see. And she was
beginning to hum a little, and then to make advisory and practical
references to the nature of their coming adventure together--their
material and financial state from now on--how and where they would
go from here--Syracuse, most likely--since Clyde seemed to have no
objection to that--and what, once there, they would do. For
Roberta had heard from her brother-in-law, Fred Gabel, of a new
collar and shirt factory that was just starting up in Syracuse.
Might it not be possible for Clyde, for the time being at least, to
get himself a position with that firm at once? And then later,
when her own worst trouble was over, might not she connect herself
with the same company, or some other? And temporarily, since they
had so little money, could they not take a small room together,
somewhere in some family home, or if he did not like that, since
they were by no means so close temperamentally as they once had
been, then two small adjoining rooms, maybe. She could still feel
his unrelenting opposition under all this present show of courtesy
and consideration.
And he thinking, Oh, well, what difference such talk now? And
whether he agreed or whether he did not. What difference since he
was not going--or she either--that way. Great God! But here he
was talking as though tomorrow she would be here still. And she
would not be.
If only his knees would not tremble so; his hands and face and body
continue so damp.
And after that, farther on down the west shore of this small lake
in this little boat, to that island, with Clyde looking nervously
and wearily here and there to see that there was no one--no one--
not anywhere in sight on land or water--no one. It was so still
and deserted here, thank God. Here--or anywhere near here might
do, really,--if only he had the courage so to do now, which he had
not,--yet. Roberta trailing her hand in the water, asking him if
he thought they might find some water-lilies or wild flowers
somewhere on shore. Water-lilies! Wild flowers! And he
convincing himself as he went that there were no roads, cabins,
tents, paths, anything in the form of a habitation among these
tall, close, ranking pines--no trace of any little boat on the
widespread surface of this beautiful lake on this beautiful day.
Yet might there not be some lone, solitary hunter and trapper or
guide or fisherman in these woods or along these banks? Might
there not be? And supposing there were one here now somewhere?
And watching!
Fate!
Destruction!
Death! Yet no sound and no smoke. Only--only--these tall, dark,
green pines--spear-shaped and still, with here and there a dead
one--ashen pale in the hard afternoon sun, its gaunt, sapless arms
almost menacingly outstretched.
Death!
And the sharp metallic cry of a blue-jay speeding in the depths of
these woods. Or the lone and ghostly tap-tap-tap of some solitary
woodpecker, with now and then the red line of a flying tanager, the
yellow and black of a yellow-shouldered blackbird.
"Oh, the sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home."
It was Roberta singing cheerfully, one hand in the deep blue water.
And then a little later--"I'll be there Sunday if you will," one of
the popular dance pieces of the day.
And then at last, after fully an hour of rowing, brooding, singing,
stopping to look at some charming point of land, reconnoitering
some receding inlet which promised water-lilies, and with Roberta
already saying that they must watch the time and not stay out too
long,--the bay, south of the island itself--a beautiful and yet
most funereally pine-encircled and land delimited bit of water--
more like a smaller lake, connected by an inlet or passage to the
larger one, and yet itself a respectable body of water of perhaps
twenty acres of surface and almost circular in form. The manner in
which to the east, the north, the south, the west, even, except for
the passage by which the island to the north of it was separated
from the mainland, this pool or tarn was encircled by trees! And
cat-tails and water-lilies here and there--a few along its shores.
And somehow suggesting an especially arranged pool or tarn to which
one who was weary of life and cares--anxious to be away from the
strife and contentions of the world, might most wisely and yet
gloomily repair.
And as they glided into this, this still dark water seemed to grip
Clyde as nothing here or anywhere before this ever had--to change
his mood. For once here he seemed to be fairly pulled or lured
along into it, and having encircled its quiet banks, to be
drifting, drifting--in endless space where was no end of anything--
no plots--no plans--no practical problems to be solved--nothing.
The insidious beauty of this place! Truly, it seemed to mock him--
this strangeness--this dark pool, surrounded on all sides by those
wonderful, soft, fir trees. And the water itself looking like a
huge, black pearl cast by some mighty hand, in anger possibly, in
sport or phantasy maybe, into the bosom of this valley of dark,
green plush--and which seemed bottomless as he gazed into it.
And yet, what did it all suggest so strongly? Death! Death! More
definitely than anything he had ever seen before. Death! But also
a still, quiet, unprotesting type of death into which one, by
reason of choice or hypnosis or unutterable weariness, might
joyfully and gratefully sink. So quiet--so shaded--so serene.
Even Roberta exclaimed over this. And he now felt for the first
time the grip of some seemingly strong, and yet friendly
sympathetic, hands laid firmly on his shoulders. The comfort of
them! The warmth! The strength! For now they seemed to have a
steadying effect on him and he liked them--their reassurance--their
support. If only they would not be removed! If only they would
remain always--the hands of this friend! For where had he ever
known this comforting and almost tender sensation before in all his
life? Not anywhere--and somehow this calmed him and he seemed to
slip away from the reality of all things.
To be sure, there was Roberta over there, but by now she had faded
to a shadow or thought really, a form of illusion more vaporous
than real. And while there was something about her in color, form
that suggested reality--still she was very insubstantial--so very--
and once more now he felt strangely alone. For the hands of the
friend of firm grip had vanished also. And Clyde was alone, so
very much alone and forlorn, in this somber, beautiful realm to
which apparently he had been led, and then deserted. Also he felt
strangely cold--the spell of this strange beauty overwhelming him
with a kind of chill.
He had come here for what?
And he must do what?
Kill Roberta? Oh, no!
And again he lowered his head and gazed into the fascinating and
yet treacherous depths of that magnetic, bluish, purple pool,
which, as he continued to gaze, seemed to change its form
kaleidoscopically to a large, crystalline ball. But what was that
moving about in this crystal? A form! It came nearer--clearer--
and as it did so, he recognized Roberta struggling and waving her
thin white arms out of the water and reaching toward him! God!
How terrible! The expression on her face! What in God's name was
he thinking of anyway? Death! Murder!
And suddenly becoming conscious that his courage, on which he had
counted so much this long while to sustain him here, was leaving
him, and he instantly and consciously plumbing the depths of his
being in a vain search to recapture it.
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
(The weird, haunting cry of that unearthly bird again. So cold, so
harsh! Here it was once more to startle him out of his soul flight
into a realization of the real or unreal immediate problem with all
of its torturesome angles that lay before him.)
He must face this thing! He must!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
What was it sounding--a warning--a protest--condemnation? The same
bird that had marked the very birth of this miserable plan. For
there it was now upon that dead tree--that wretched bird. And now
it was flying to another one--as dead--a little farther inland and
crying as it did so. God!
And then to the shore again in spite of himself. For Clyde, in
order to justify his having brought his bag, now must suggest that
pictures of this be taken--and of Roberta--and of himself,
possibly--on land and water. For that would bring her into the
boat again, without his bag, which would be safe and dry on land.
And once on shore, actually pretending to be seeking out various
special views here and there, while he fixed in his mind the exact
tree at the base of which he might leave his bag against his
return--which must be soon now--must be soon. They would not come
on shore again together. Never! Never! And that in spite of
Roberta protesting that she was getting tired; and did he not think
they ought to be starting back pretty soon? It must be after five,
surely. And Clyde, assuring her that presently they would--after
he had made one or two more pictures of her in the boat with those
wonderful trees--that island and this dark water around and beneath
her.
His wet, damp, nervous hands!
And his dark, liquid, nervous eyes, looking anywhere but at her.
And then once more on the water again--about five hundred feet from
shore, the while he fumbled aimlessly with the hard and heavy and
yet small camera that he now held, as the boat floated out nearer
the center. And then, at this point and time looking fearfully
about. For now--now--in spite of himself, the long evaded and yet
commanding moment. And no voice or figure or sound on shore. No
road or cabin or smoke! And the moment which he or something had
planned for him, and which was now to decide his fate at hand! The
moment of action--of crisis! All that he needed to do now was to
turn swiftly and savagely to one side or the other--leap up--upon
the left wale or right and upset the boat; or, failing that, rock
it swiftly, and if Roberta protested too much, strike her with the
camera in his hand, or one of the oars at his right. It could be
done--it could be done--swiftly and simply, were he now of the mind
and heart, or lack of it--with him swimming swiftly away thereafter
to freedom--to success--of course--to Sondra and happiness--a new
and greater and sweeter life than any he had ever known.
Yet why was he waiting now?
What was the matter with him, anyhow?
Why was he waiting?
At this cataclysmic moment, and in the face of the utmost, the most
urgent need of action, a sudden palsy of the will--of courage--of
hate or rage sufficient; and with Roberta from her seat in the
stern of the boat gazing at his troubled and then suddenly
distorted and fulgurous, yet weak and even unbalanced face--a face
of a sudden, instead of angry, ferocious, demoniac--confused and
all but meaningless in its registration of a balanced combat
between fear (a chemic revulsion against death or murderous
brutality that would bring death) and a harried and restless and
yet self-repressed desire to do--to do--to do--yet temporarily
unbreakable here and now--a static between a powerful compulsion to
do and yet not to do.
And in the meantime his eyes--the pupils of the same growing
momentarily larger and more lurid; his face and body and hands
tense and contracted--the stillness of his position, the balanced
immobility of the mood more and more ominous, yet in truth not
suggesting a brutal, courageous power to destroy, but the imminence
of trance or spasm.
And Roberta, suddenly noticing the strangeness of it all--the
something of eerie unreason or physical and mental indetermination
so strangely and painfully contrasting with this scene, exclaiming:
"Why, Clyde! Clyde! What is it? Whatever is the matter with you
anyhow? You look so--so strange--so--so-- Why, I never saw you
look like this before. What is it?" And suddenly rising, or
rather leaning forward, and by crawling along the even keel,
attempting to approach him, since he looked as though he was about
to fall forward into the boat--or to one side and out into the
water. And Clyde, as instantly sensing the profoundness of his own
failure, his own cowardice or inadequateness for such an occasion,
as instantly yielding to a tide of submerged hate, not only for
himself, but Roberta--her power--or that of life to restrain him in
this way. And yet fearing to act in any way--being unwilling to--
being willing only to say that never, never would he marry her--
that never, even should she expose him, would he leave here with
her to marry her--that he was in love with Sondra and would cling
only to her--and yet not being able to say that even. But angry
and confused and glowering. And then, as she drew near him,
seeking to take his hand in hers and the camera from him in order
to put it in the boat, he flinging out at her, but not even then
with any intention to do other than free himself of her--her touch--
her pleading--consoling sympathy--her presence forever--God!
Yet (the camera still unconsciously held tight) pushing at her with
so much vehemence as not only to strike her lips and nose and chin
with it, but to throw her back sidewise toward the left wale which
caused the boat to careen to the very water's edge. And then he,
stirred by her sharp scream, (as much due to the lurch of the boat,
as the cut on her nose and lip), rising and reaching half to assist
or recapture her and half to apologize for the unintended blow--yet
in so doing completely capsizing the boat--himself and Roberta
being as instantly thrown into the water. And the left wale of the
boat as it turned, striking Roberta on the head as she sank and
then rose for the first time, her frantic, contorted face turned to
Clyde, who by now had righted himself. For she was stunned,
horror-struck, unintelligible with pain and fear--her lifelong fear
of water and drowning and the blow he had so accidentally and all
but unconsciously administered.
"Help! Help!
"Oh, my God, I'm drowning, I'm drowning. Help! Oh, my God!
"Clyde, Clyde!"
And then the voice at his ear!
"But this--this--is not this that which you have been thinking and
wishing for this while--you in your great need? And behold! For
despite your fear, your cowardice, this--this--has been done for
you. An accident--an accident--an unintentional blow on your part
is now saving you the labor of what you sought, and yet did not
have the courage to do! But will you now, and when you need not,
since it is an accident, by going to her rescue, once more plunge
yourself in the horror of that defeat and failure which has so
tortured you and from which this now releases you? You might save
her. But again you might not! For see how she strikes about. She
is stunned. She herself is unable to save herself and by her
erratic terror, if you draw near her now, may bring about your own
death also. But you desire to live! And her living will make your
life not worth while from now on. Rest but a moment--a fraction of
a minute! Wait--wait--ignore the pity of that appeal. And then--
then-- But there! Behold. It is over. She is sinking now. You
will never, never see her alive any more--ever. And there is your
own hat upon the water--as you wished. And upon the boat, clinging
to that rowlock a veil belonging to her. Leave it. Will it not
show that this was an accident?"
And apart from that, nothing--a few ripples--the peace and
solemnity of this wondrous scene. And then once more the voice of
that weird, contemptuous, mocking, lonely bird.
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
The cry of that devilish bird upon that dead limb--the wier-wier.
And then Clyde, with the sound of Roberta's cries still in his
ears, that last frantic, white, appealing look in her eyes,
swimming heavily, gloomily and darkly to shore. And the thought
that, after all, he had not really killed her. No, no. Thank God
for that. He had not. And yet (stepping up on the near-by bank
and shaking the water from his clothes) had he? Or, had he not?
For had he not refused to go to her rescue, and when he might have
saved her, and when the fault for casting her in the water, however
accidentally, was so truly his? And yet--and yet--
The dusk and silence of a closing day. A concealed spot in the
depths of the same sheltering woods where alone and dripping, his
dry bag near, Clyde stood, and by waiting, sought to dry himself.
But in the interim, removing from the side of the bag the unused
tripod of his camera and seeking an obscure, dead log farther in
Дата добавления: 2015-09-29; просмотров: 33 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |