with this as he had promised.
But this meant that he would be leaving with her before ever he
should have visited Sondra at Twelfth Lake at all, and without ever
seeing her any more really. And, besides, as he so well knew, he
had not saved the sum necessary to make possible the new venture on
which she was insisting. In vain it was that Roberta now explained
that she had saved over a hundred, and they could make use of that
once they were married or to help in connection with whatever
expenses might be incurred in getting to wherever he should decide
they were going. All that he would see or feel was that this meant
the loss of everything to him, and that he would have to go away
with her to some relatively near-by place and get work at anything
he could, in order to support her as best he might. But the misery
of such a change! The loss of all his splendid dreams. And yet,
racking his brains, he could think of nothing better than that she
should quit and go home for the time being, since as he now argued,
and most shrewdly, as he thought, he needed a few more weeks to
prepare for the change which was upon them both. For, in spite of
all his efforts, as he now falsely asserted, he had not been able
to save as much as he had hoped. He needed at least three or four
more weeks in which to complete the sum, which he had been looking
upon as advisable in the face of this meditated change. Was not
she herself guessing, as he knew, that it could not be less than a
hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars--quite large sums in her
eyes--whereas, above his current salary, Clyde had no more than
forty dollars and was dreaming of using that and whatever else he
might secure in the interim to meet such expenses as might be
incurred in the anticipated visit to Twelfth Lake.
But to further support his evasive suggestion that she now return
to her home for a short period, he added that she would want to fix
herself up a little, wouldn't she? She couldn't go away on a trip
like this, which involved marriage and a change of social contacts
in every way, without some improvements in her wardrobe. Why not
take her hundred dollars or a part of it anyhow and use it for
that? So desperate was his state that he even suggested that. And
Roberta, who, in the face of her own uncertainty up to this time as
to what was to become of her had not ventured to prepare or
purchase anything relating either to a trousseau or layette, now
began to think that whatever the ulterior purpose of his
suggestion, which like all the others was connected with delay, it
might not be unwise even now if she did take a fortnight or three
weeks, and with the assistance of an inexpensive and yet tolerable
dressmaker, who had aided her sister at times, make at least one or
two suitable dresses--a flowered gray taffeta afternoon dress, such
as she had once seen in a movie, in which, should Clyde keep his
word, she could be married. To match this pleasing little costume,
she planned to add a chic little gray silk hat--poke-shaped, with
pink or scarlet cherries nestled up under the brim, together with a
neat little blue serge traveling suit, which, with brown shoes and
a brown hat, would make her as smart as any bride. The fact that
such preparations as these meant additional delay and expense, or
that Clyde might not marry her after all, or that this proposed
marriage from the point of view of both was the tarnished and
discolored thing that it was, was still not sufficient to take from
the thought of marriage as an event, or sacrament even, that proper
color and romance with which it was invested in her eyes and from
which, even under such an unsatisfactory set of circumstances as
these, it could not be divorced. And, strangely enough, in spite
of all the troubled and strained relations that had developed
between them, she still saw Clyde in much the same light in which
she had seen him at first. He was a Griffiths, a youth of genuine
social, if not financial distinction, one whom all the girls in her
position, as well as many of those far above her, would be
delighted to be connected with in this way--that is, via marriage.
He might be objecting to marrying her, but he was a person of
consequence, just the same. And one with whom, if he would but
trouble to care for her a little, she could be perfectly happy.
And at any rate, once he had loved her. And it was said of men--
some men, anyway (so she had heard her mother and others say) that
once a child was presented to them, it made a great difference in
their attitude toward the mother, sometimes. They came to like the
mother, too. Anyhow for a little while--a very little while--if
what she had agreed to were strictly observed, she would have him
with her to assist her through this great crisis--to give his name
to her child--to aid her until she could once more establish
herself in some way.
For the time being, therefore, and with no more plan than this,
although with great misgivings and nervous qualms, since, as she
could see, Clyde was decidedly indifferent, she rested on this.
And it was in this mood that five days later, and after Roberta had
written to her parents that she was coming home for two weeks at
least, to get a dress or two made and to rest a little, because she
was not feeling very well, that Clyde saw her off for her home in
Biltz, riding with her as far as Fonda. But in so far as he was
concerned, and since he had really no definite or workable idea, it
seemed important to him that only silence, SILENCE was the great
and all essential thing now, so that, even under the impending edge
of the knife of disaster, he might be able to think more, and more,
and more, without being compelled to do anything, and without
momentarily being tortured by the thought that Roberta, in some
nervous or moody or frantic state, would say or do something which,
assuming that he should hit upon some helpful thought or plan in
connection with Sondra, would prevent him from executing it.
And about the same time, Sondra was writing him gay notes from
Twelfth Lake as to what he might expect upon his arrival a little
later. Blue water--white sails--tennis--golf-horseback riding--
driving. She had it all arranged with Bertine, as she said. And
kisses--kisses--kisses!
Chapter 42
Two letters, which arrived at this time and simultaneously, but
accentuated the difficulty of all this.
Pine Point Landing, June 10th
CLYDE MYDIE:
How is my pheet phing? All whytie? It's just glorious up here.
Lots of people already here and more coming every day. The Casino
and golf course over at Pine Point are open and lots of people
about. I can hear Stuart and Grant with their launches going up
toward Gray's Inlet now. You must hurry and come up, dear. It's
too nice for words. Green roads to gallop through, and swimming
and dancing at the Casino every afternoon at four. Just back from
a wonderful gallop on Dickey and going again after luncheon to mail
these letters. Bertine says she'll write you a letter to-day or
tomorrow good for any week-end or any old time, so when Sonda says
come, you come, you hear, else Sonda whip hard. You baddie, good
boy.
Is he working hard in the baddie old factory? Sonda wisses he was
here wiss her instead. We'd ride and drive and swim and dance.
Don't forget your tennis racquet and golf clubs. There's a dandy
course on the Casino grounds.
This morning when I was riding a bird flew right up under Dickey's
heels. It scared him so that he bolted, and Sonda got all switched
and scwatched. Isn't Clydie sorry for his Sonda?
She is writing lots of notes to-day. After lunch and the ride to
catch the down mail, Sonda and Bertine and Nina going to the
Casino. Don't you wish you were going to be there? We could dance
to "Taudy." Sonda just loves that song. But she has to dress now.
More to-morrow, baddie boy. And when Bertine writes, answer right
away. See all 'ose dots? Kisses. Big and little ones. All for
baddie boy. And wite Sonda every day and she'll write 'oo.
More kisses.
To which Clyde responded eagerly and in kind in the same hour. But
almost the same mail, at least the same day, brought the following
letter from Roberta.
Biltz, June 10th.
DEAR CLYDE:
I am nearly ready for bed, but I will write you a few lines. I had
such a tiresome journey coming up that I was nearly sick. In the
first place I didn't want to come much (alone) as you know. I feel
too upset and uncertain about everything, although I try not to
feel so now that we have our plan and you are going to come for me
as you said.
(At this point, while nearly sickened by the thought of the
wretched country world in which she lived, still, because of
Roberta's unfortunate and unavoidable relation to it, he now
experienced one of his old time twinges of remorse and pity in
regard to her. For after all, this was not her fault. She had so
little to look forward to--nothing but her work or a commonplace
marriage. For the first time in many days, really, and in the
absence of both, he was able to think clearly--and to sympathize
deeply, if gloomily. For the remainder of the letter read:)
But it's very nice here now. The trees are so beautifully green
and the flowers in bloom. I can hear the bees in the orchard
whenever I go near the south windows. On the way up instead of
coming straight home I decided to stop at Homer to see my sister
and brother-in-law, since I am not so sure now when I shall see
them again, if ever, for I am resolved that they shall see me
respectable, or never at all any more. You mustn't think I mean
anything hard or mean by this. I am just sad. They have such a
cute little home there, Clyde--pretty furniture, a victrola and
all, and Agnes is so very happy with Fred. I hope she always will
be. I couldn't help thinking of what a dear place we might have
had, if only my dreams had come true. And nearly all the time I
was there Fred kept teasing me as to why I don't get married, until
I said, "Oh, well, Fred, you mustn't be too sure that I won't one
of these days. All good things come to him who waits, you know."
"Yes, unless you just turn out to be a waiter," was the way he hit
me back.
But I was truly glad to see mother again, Clyde. She's so loving
and patient and helpful. The sweetest, dearest mother that ever,
ever was. And I just hate to hurt her in any way. And Tom and
Emily, too. They have had friends here every evening since I've
been here--and they want me to join in, but I hardly feel well
enough now to do all the things they want me to do--play cards and
games--dance.
(At this point Clyde could not help emphasizing in his own mind the
shabby home world of which she was a part and which so recently he
had seen--that rickety house! those toppling chimneys! Her uncouth
father. And that in contrast to such a letter as this other from
Sondra.)
Father and mother and Tom and Emily just seem to hang around and
try to do things for me. And I feel remorseful when I think how
they would feel if they knew, for, of course, I have to pretend
that it is work that makes me feel so tired and depressed as I am
sometimes. Mother keeps saying that I must stay a long time or
quit entirely and rest and get well again, but she just don't know
of course--poor dear. If she did! I can't tell you how that makes
me feel sometimes, Clyde. Oh, dear!
But there, I mustn't put my sad feelings over on you either. I
don't want to, as I told you, if you will only come and get me as
we've agreed. And I won't be like that either, Clyde. I'm not
that way all the time now. I've started to get ready and do all
the things it'll take to do in three weeks and that's enough to
keep my mind off everything but work. But you will come for me,
won't you, dear? You won't disappoint me any more and make me
suffer this time like you have so far, for, oh, how long it has
been now--ever since I was here before at Christmas time, really.
But you were truly nice to me. I promise not to be a burden on
you, for I know you don't really care for me any more and so I
don't care much what happens now, so long as I get out of this.
But I truly promise not to be a burden on you.
Oh, dear, don't mind this blot. I just don't seem to be able to
control myself these days like I once could.
But as for what I came for. The family think they are clothes for
a party down in Lycurgus and that I must be having a wonderful
time. Well, it's better that way than the other. I may have to
come as far as Fonda to get some things, if I don't send Mrs. Anse,
the dressmaker, and if so, and if you wanted to see me again before
you come, although I don't suppose you do, you could. I'd like to
see you and talk to you again if you care to, before we start. It
all seems so funny to me, Clyde, having these clothes made and
wishing to see you so much and yet knowing that you would rather
not do this. And yet I hope you are satisfied now that you have
succeeded in making me leave Lycurgus and come up here and are
having what you call a good time. Are they so very much better
than the ones we used to have last summer when we went about to the
lakes and everywhere? But whatever they are, Clyde, surely you can
afford to do this for me without feeling too bad. I know it seems
hard to you now, but you don't want to forget either that if I was
like some that I know, I might and would ask more. But as I told
you I'm not like that and never could be. If you don't really want
me after you have helped me out like I said, you can go.
Please write me, Clyde, a long, cheery letter, even though you
don't want to, and tell me all about how you have not thought of me
once since I've been away or missed me at all--you used to, you
know, and how you don't want me to come back and you can't possibly
come up before two weeks from Saturday if then.
Oh, dear, I don't mean the horrid things I write, but I'm so blue
and tired and lonely that I can't help it at times. I need some
one to talk to--not just any one here, because they don't
understand, and I can't tell anybody.
But there, I said I wouldn't be blue or gloomy or cross and yet I
haven't done so very well this time, have I? But I promise to do
better next time--tomorrow or next day, because it relieves me to
write to you, Clyde. And won't you please write me just a few
words to cheer me up while I'm waiting, whether you mean it or not,
I need it so. And you will come, of course. I'll be so happy and
grateful and try not to bother you too much in any way.
Your lonely
BERT
And it was the contrast presented by these two scenes which finally
determined for him the fact that he would never marry Roberta--
never--nor even go to her at Biltz, or let her come back to him
here, if he could avoid that. For would not his going, or her
return, put a period to all the joys that so recently in connection
with Sondra had come to him here--make it impossible for him to be
with Sondra at Twelfth Lake this summer--make it impossible for him
to run away with and marry her? In God's name was there no way?
No outlet from this horrible difficulty which now confronted him?
And in a fit of despair, having found the letters in his room on
his return from work one warm evening in June, he now threw himself
upon his bed and fairly groaned. The misery of this! The horror
of his almost insoluble problem! Was there no way by which she
could be persuaded to go away--and stay--remain at home, maybe for
a while longer, while he sent her ten dollars a week, or twelve,
even--a full half of all his salary? Or could she go to some
neighboring town--Fonda, Gloversville, Schenectady--she was not so
far gone but what she could take care of herself well enough as
yet, and rent a room and remain there quietly until the fatal time,
when she could go to some doctor or nurse? He might help her to
find some one like that when the time came, if only she would be
willing not to mention his name.
But this business of making him come to Biltz, or meeting her
somewhere, and that within two weeks or less. He would not, he
would not. He would do something desperate if she tried to make
him do that--run away--or--maybe go up to Twelfth Lake before it
should be time for him to go to Biltz, or before she would think it
was time, and then persuade Sondra if he could--but oh, what a
wild, wild chance was that--to run away with and marry him, even if
she wasn't quite eighteen--and then--and then--being married, and
her family not being able to divorce them, and Roberta not being
able to find him, either, but only to complain--well, couldn't he
deny it--say that it was not so--that he had never had any
relationship, other than that which any department head might have
with any girl working for him. He had not been introduced to the
Gilpins, nor had he gone with Roberta to see that Dr. Glenn near
Gloversville, and she had told him at the time, she had not
mentioned his name.
But the nerve of trying to deny it!
The courage it would take.
The courage to try to face Roberta when, as he knew, her steady,
accusing, horrified, innocent, blue eyes would be about as difficult
to face as anything in all the world. And could he do that? Had he
the courage? And would it all work out satisfactorily if he did?
Would Sondra believe him--once she heard?
But just the same in pursuance of this idea, whether finally he
executed it or not, even though he went to Twelfth Lake, he must
write Sondra a letter saying that he was coming. And this he did
at once, writing her passionately and yearningly. At the same time
he decided not to write Roberta at all. Maybe call her on long
distance, since she had recently told him that there was a neighbor
near-by who had a telephone, and if for any reason he needed to
reach her, he could use that. For writing her in regard to all
this, even in the most guarded way, would place in her hands, and
at this time, exactly the type of evidence in regard to this
relationship which she would most need, and especially when he was
so determined not to marry her. The trickery of all this! It was
low and shabby, no doubt. Yet if only Roberta had agreed to be a
little reasonable with him, he would never have dreamed of
indulging in any such low and tricky plan as this. But, oh,
Sondra! Sondra! And the great estate that she had described,
lying along the west shore of Twelfth Lake. How beautiful that
must be! He could not help it! He must act and plan as he was
doing! He must!
And forthwith he arose and went to mail the letter to Sondra. And
then while out, having purchased an evening paper and hoping via
the local news of all whom he knew, to divert his mind for the time
being, there, upon the first page of the Times-Union of Albany, was
an item which read:
ACCIDENTAL DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT PASS LAKE--UPTURNED CANOE AND FLOATING
HATS REVEAL PROBABLE LOSS OF TWO LIVES AT RESORT NEAR PITTSFIELD--
UNIDENTIFIED BODY OF GIRL RECOVERED--THAT OF COMPANION STILL
MISSING
Because of his own great interest in canoeing, and indeed in any
form of water life, as well as his own particular skill when it
came to rowing, swimming, diving, he now read with interest:
Pancoast, Mass., June 7th.... What proved to be a fatal boat
ride for two, apparently, was taken here day before yesterday by an
unidentified man and girl who came presumably from Pittsfield to
spend the day at Pass Lake, which is fourteen miles north of this
place.
Tuesday morning a man and a girl, who said to Thomas Lucas, who
conducts the Casino Lunch and Boat House there, that they were from
Pittsfield, rented a small row-boat about ten o'clock in the
morning and with a basket, presumably containing lunch, departed
for the northern end of the lake. At seven o'clock last evening,
when they did not return, Mr. Lucas, in company with his son
Jeffrey, made a tour of the lake in his motor boat and discovered
the row-boat upside down in the shallows near the north shore, but
no trace of the occupants. Thinking at the time that it might be
another instance of renters having decamped in order to avoid
payment, he returned the boat to his own dock.
But this morning, doubtful as to whether or not an accident had
occurred, he and his assistant, Fred Walsh, together with his son,
made a second tour of the north shore and finally came upon the
hats of both the girl and the man floating among some rushes near
the shore. At once a dredging party was organized, and by three
o'clock to-day the body of the girl, concerning whom nothing is
known here, other than that she came here with her companion, was
brought up and turned over to the authorities. That of the man has
not yet been found. The water in the immediate vicinity of the
accident in some places being over thirty feet deep, it is not
certain whether the trolling and dredging will yield the other body
or not. In the case of a similar accident which took place here
some fifteen years ago, neither body was ever recovered.
To the lining of the small jacket which the girl wore was sewed the
tag of a Pittsfield dealer. Also in her shoe lining was stamped
the name of Jacobs of this same city. But other than these there
was no evidence as to her identity. It is assumed by the
authorities here that if she carried a bag of any kind it lies at
the bottom of the lake.
The man is recalled as being tall, dark, about thirty-five years of
age, and wore a light green suit and straw hat with a white and
blue band. The girl appears to be not more than twenty-five, five
feet five inches tall, and weighs 130 pounds. She wore her hair,
which was long and dark brown, in braids about her forehead. On
her left middle finger is a small gold ring with an amethyst
setting. The police of Pittsfield and other cities in this
vicinity have been notified, but as yet no word as to her identity
has been received.
This item, commonplace enough in the usual grist of summer
accidents, interested Clyde only slightly. It seemed odd, of
course, that a girl and a man should arrive at a small lake
anywhere, and setting forth in a small boat in broad daylight thus
lose their lives. Also it was odd that afterwards no one should be
able to identify either of them. And yet here it was. The man had
disappeared for good. He threw the paper down, little concerned at
first, and turned to other things--the problem that was confronting
him really--how he was to do. But later--and because of that, and
as he was putting out the light before getting into bed, and still
thinking of the complicated problem which his own life here
presented, he was struck by the thought (what devil's whisper?--
what evil hint of an evil spirit?)--supposing that he and Roberta--
no, say he and Sondra--(no, Sondra could swim so well, and so could
he)--he and Roberta were in a small boat somewhere and it should
capsize at the very time, say, of this dreadful complication which
was so harassing him? What an escape? What a relief from a
gigantic and by now really destroying problem! On the other hand--
hold--not so fast!--for could a man even think of such a solution
in connection with so difficult a problem as his without committing
a crime in his heart, really--a horrible, terrible crime? He must
not even think of such a thing. It was wrong--wrong--terribly
wrong. And yet, supposing,--by accident, of course--such a thing
as this did occur? That would be the end, then, wouldn't it, of
all his troubles in connection with Roberta? No more terror as to
her--no more fear and heartache even as to Sondra. A noiseless,
pathless, quarrelless solution of all his present difficulties, and
only joy before him forever. Just an accidental, unpremeditated
drowning--and then the glorious future which would be his!
But the mere thinking of such a thing in connection with Roberta at
this time--(why was it that his mind persisted in identifying her
with it?) was terrible, and he must not, he must not, allow such a
thought to enter his mind. Never, never, never! He must not. It
was horrible! Terrible! A thought of murder, no less! Murder?!!!
Yet so wrought up had he been, and still was, by the letter which
Roberta had written him, as contrasted with the one from Sondra--so
delightful and enticing was the picture of her life and his as she
now described it, that he could not for the life of him quite expel
that other and seemingly easy and so natural a solution of all his
problem--if only such an accident could occur to him and Roberta.
For after all he was not planning any crime, was he? Was he not
merely thinking of an accident that, had it occurred or could it
but occur in his case.... Ah--but that "COULD IT BUT OCCUR."
There was the dark and evil thought about which he must not, HE
MUST NOT THINK. He MUST NOT. And yet--and yet,... He was an
excellent swimmer and could swim ashore, no doubt--whatever the
distance. Whereas Roberta, as he knew from swimming with her at
one beach and another the previous summer, could not swim. And
then--and then--well and then, unless he chose to help her, of
course....
As he thought, and for the time, sitting in the lamplight of his
own room between nine-thirty and ten at night, a strange and
disturbing creepiness as to flesh and hair and finger-tips assailed
him. The wonder and the horror of such a thought! And presented
to him by this paper in this way. Wasn't that strange? Besides,
up in that lake country to which he was now going to Sondra, were
many, many lakes about everywhere--were there not? Scores up there
where Sondra was. Or so she had said. And Roberta loved the out-
of-doors and the water so--although she could not swim--could not
swim--could not swim. And they or at least he was going where
lakes were, or they might, might they not--and if not, why not?
since both had talked of some Fourth of July resort in their
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