In the interim the mental state of Clyde since that hour when, the
water closing over Roberta, he had made his way to the shore, and then,
after changing his clothes, had subsequently arrived at Sharon and the
lakeside lodge of the Cranstons, was almost one of complete mental
derangement, mainly caused by fear and confusion in his own mind as to
whether he did or did not bring about her untimely end. At the same
time at the lakeside the realization that if by any chance he were
then and there found, skulking south rather than returning north to
the inn at Big Bittern to report this seeming accident, there would be
sufficient hardness and cruelty to the look of it all to convince any
one that a charge of murder should be made against him, had fiercely
tortured him. For, as he now saw it, he really was not guilty--was he,
since at the last moment he had experienced that change of heart?
But who was going to believe that now, since he did not go back to
explain? And it would never do to go back now! For if Sondra should
hear that he had been on this lake with this factory girl--that he had
registered with her as husband and wife ... God!
And then trying to explain to his uncle afterwards, or his cold,
hard cousin--or all those smart, cynical Lycurgus people! No! No!
Having gone so far he must go on. Disaster--if not death--lay in the
opposite direction. He would have to make the best of this terrible
situation--make the best of this plan that had ended so strangely and
somewhat exculpatorily for him.
And yet these woods! This approaching night. The eerie loneliness and
danger of it all now. How now to do, what to say, if met by any one. He
was so confused--mentally and nervously sick. The crackle of a twig and
he leaped forward as a hare.
And in this state, it was that after having recovered his bag and
changed his clothes, wringing out his wet suit and attempting to dry
it, then packing it in his bag under some dry twigs and pine-needles
and burying the tripod beneath a rotting log, that he plunged into
the woods after night had fallen. Yet meditating more and more on his
very strange and perilous position. For supposing, just as he had
unintentionally struck at her, and they had fallen into the water and
she uttered those piercing and appealing cries, there had been some
one on the shore--some one watching--one of those strong, hardy men
whom he had seen loitering about during the day and who might even at
this moment be sounding a local alarm that would bring a score of such
men to the work of hunting for him this very night! A man hunt! And
they would take him back and no one would ever believe that he had not
intentionally struck her! They might even lynch him before he could
so much as secure a fair trial. It was possible. It had been done. A
rope around his neck. Or shot down in these woods, maybe. And without
an opportunity to explain how it had all come about--how harried and
tortured he had been by her for so long. They would never understand
that.
And so thinking he hurried faster and faster--as fast as strong and
serried and brambly young firs and dead branches that cracked most
ominously at times would permit, thinking always as he went that the
road to Three Mile Bay must be to his right hand, the moon to his left
when it should rise.
But, God, what was that?
Oh, that terrible sound!
Like a whimpering, screeching spirit in this dark!
There!
What was it?
He dropped his bag and in a cold sweat sunk down, crouching behind a
tall, thick tree, rigid and motionless with fear.
That sound!
But only a screech-owl! He had heard it several weeks before at the
Cranston lodge. But here! In this wood! This dark! He must be getting
on and out of here. There was no doubt of that. He must not be thinking
such horrible, fearful thoughts, or he would not be able to keep up his
strength or courage at all.
But that look in the eyes of Roberta! That last appealing look! God! He
could not keep from seeing it! Her mournful, terrible screams! Could he
not cease from hearing them--until he got out of here anyhow?
Had she understood, when he struck her, that it was not intentional--a
mere gesture of anger and protest? Did she know that _now_, wherever
she was--in the bottom of the lake--or here in the dark of these woods
beside him, mayhap? Ghosts! Hers. But he must get out of this--out of
this! He must--and yet the safety of these woods, too. He must not be
too brash in stepping out into any road, either. Pedestrians! People
in search of him, maybe! But did people really live after death? Were
there ghosts? And did they know the truth? Then she must know--but how
he plotted before that, too. And what would she think of that! And was
she here now reproachfully and gloomily pursuing him with mistaken
accusations, as true as it might be that he had intended to kill her
at first? He had! He had! And that was the great sin, of course. Even
though he had not killed her, yet something had done it for him! That
was true.
But ghosts--God--spirits that might pursue you after they were dead,
seeking to expose and punish you--seeking to set people on your track,
maybe! Who could tell? His mother had confessed to him and Frank and
Esta and Julia that she believed in ghosts.
And then at last the moon, after three such hours of stumbling,
listening, waiting, perspiring, trembling. No one in sight now, thank
God! And the stars overhead--bright and yet soft, as at Pine Point
where Sondra was. If she could see him now, slipping away from Roberta
dead in that lake, his own hat upon the waters there! If she could have
heard Roberta's cries! How strange, that never, never, never would
he be able to tell her that because of her, her beauty, his passion
for her and all that she had come to mean to him, he had been able to
... to ... to ... well, _attempt_ this terrible thing--kill a girl
whom once he had loved. And all his life he would have this with him,
now,--this thought! He would never be able to shake it off--never,
never, never. And he had not thought of that, before. It was a terrible
thing in its way, just that, wasn't it?
But then suddenly there in the dark, at about eleven o'clock, as he
afterwards guessed, the water having stopped his watch, and after he
had reached the highroad to the west--and walked a mile or two,--those
three men, quick, like ghosts coming out of the shadow of the woods.
He thought at first that having seen him at the moment he had struck
Roberta or the moment afterward, they had now come to take him. The
sweating horror of that moment! And that boy who had held up the
light the better to see his face. And no doubt he had evinced most
suspicious fear and perturbation, since at the moment he was most
deeply brooding on all that had happened, terrorized really by the
thought that somehow, in some way, he had left some clue that might
lead directly to him. And he did jump back, feeling that these were men
sent to seize him. But at that moment, the foremost, a tall, bony man,
without appearing to be more than amused at his obvious cowardice, had
called, "Howdy, stranger!" while the youngest, without appearing to be
suspicious at all, had stepped forward and then turned up the light.
And it was then that he had begun to understand that they were just
countrymen or guides--not a posse in pursuit of him--and that if he
were calm and civil they would have no least suspicion that he was the
murderer that he was.
But afterward he had said to himself--"But they will remember me,
walking along this lonely road at this hour with this bag, won't they?"
And so at once he had decided that he must hurry--hurry--and not be
seen by any others anywhere there.
Then, hours later and just as the moon was lowering toward the west,
a sickly yellow pallor overspreading the woods and making the night
even more wretched and wearisome, he had come to Three Mile Bay
itself--a small collection of native and summer cottages nestling at
the northernmost end of what was known as the Indian Chain. And in
it, as he could see from a bend in the road, a few pale lights still
twinkling. Stores. Houses. Street lamps. But all dim in the pale
light--so dim and eerie to him. One thing was plain--at this hour and
dressed as he was and with his bag in hand, he could not enter there.
That would be to fix curiosity as well as suspicion on him, assuredly,
if any one was still about. And as the launch that ran between this
place and Sharon, from whence he would proceed to Pine Point, did not
leave until eight-thirty, he must hide away in the meantime and make
himself as presentable as possible.
And accordingly re-entering a thicket of pines that descended to the
very borders of the town, there to wait until morning, being able to
tell by a small clock-face which showed upon the sides of a small
church tower, when the hour for emerging had arrived. But, in the
interim debating,--"Was it wise so to do?" For who might not be here
to wait for him? Those three men--or some one else who might have
seen?--Or an officer, notified from somewhere else. Yet deciding after
a time that it was best to go just the same. For to stalk along in the
woods west of this lake--and by night rather than day--seeing that by
day he might be seen, and when by taking this boat he could reach in
an hour and a half--or two hours at the most--the Cranston lodge at
Sharon, whereas by walking he would not arrive until to-morrow,--was
not that unwise, more dangerous? Besides, he had promised Sondra and
Bertine that he would be there Tuesday. And here it was Friday! Again,
by to-morrow, might not a hue and cry be on--his description sent
here and there--whereas this morning--well, how could Roberta have
been found as yet? No, no. Better this way. For who knew him here--or
could identify him as yet with either Carl Graham or Clifford Golden.
Best go this way,--speedily, before anything else in connection with
her developed. Yes, yes. And finally, the clock-hands pointing to
eight-ten, making his way out, his heart beating heavily as he did so.
At the foot of this street was the launch which steamed from here to
Sharon. And as he loitered he observed the bus from Raquette Lake
approaching. It now occurred to him, if he encountered any one he knew
on the steamer dock or boat, could he not say that he was fresh from
Raquette Lake, where Sondra, as well as Bertine, had many friends,
or in case they themselves came down on the boat, that he had been
there the day before. What matter whose name or lodge he mentioned--an
invented one, if need be.
And so, at last, making his way to the boat and boarding it. And later
at Sharon, leaving it again and without, as he thought, appearing to
attract any particular attention at either end. For, although there
were some eleven passengers, all strangers to him, still no one other
than a young country girl in a blue dress and a white straw hat, whom
he guessed to be from this vicinity, appeared to pay any particular
attention to him. And her glances were admiring rather than otherwise,
although sufficient, because of his keen desire for secrecy, to cause
him to retire to the rear of the boat, whereas the others appeared to
prefer the forward deck. And once at Sharon, knowing that the majority
were making for the railway station to catch the first morning train
down, he followed briskly in their wake, only to turn into the nearest
lunch-room in order to break the trail, as he hoped. For although he
had walked the long distance from Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay, and
previously had rowed all afternoon, and merely made a pretense of
eating the lunch which Roberta had prepared at Grass Lake, still even
now he was not hungry. Then seeing a few passengers approaching from
the station, yet none whom he knew, he joined these again as though
just coming to the inn and launch from the train.
For at this time there had come to him the thought that this south
train from Albany, as well as Utica being due here at this hour, it
was only natural that he should seem to come on that. Pretending
first, therefore, to be going to the station, yet stopping en route to
telephone Bertine and Sondra that he was here, and being assured that
a car rather than a launch would be sent for him, he explained that
he would be waiting on the west veranda of the inn. En route also he
stopped at a news stand for a morning paper, although he knew there
could be nothing in it as yet. And he had barely crossed to the veranda
of the inn and seated himself before the Cranston car approached.
And in response to the greeting of the Cranston family chauffeur,
whom he knew well, and who smiled most welcomingly, he was now able
to achieve a seemingly easy and genial smile, though still inwardly
troubled by his great dread. For no doubt by now, as he persistently
argued with himself, the three men whom he had met had reached Big
Bittern. And by now both Roberta and he must assuredly have been
missed, and maybe, who knows, the upturned boat with his hat and her
veil discovered! If so, might they not have already reported that they
had seen such a man as himself, carrying a bag, and making his way
to the south in the night? And, if so, would not that, regardless of
whether the body was found or not, cause them to become dubious as to
whether a double drowning had occurred? And supposing by some strange
chance her body should come to the surface? Then what? And might there
not be a mark left by that hard blow he had given her? If so, would
they not suspect murder, and his body not coming up and those men
describing the man they had seen, would not Clifford Golden or Carl
Graham be suspected of murder?
But neither Clifford Golden nor Carl Graham were Clyde Griffiths by
any means. And they could not possibly identify Clyde Griffiths--with
either Clifford Golden or Carl Graham. For had he not taken every
precaution, even searching through Roberta's bag and purse there at
Grass Lake while at his request after breakfast she had gone back to
see about the lunch? Had he not? True, he had found those two letters
from that girl, Theresa Bouser, addressed to Roberta at Biltz, and he
had destroyed them before ever leaving for Gun Lodge. And as for that
toilet set in its original case, with the label "Whitely-Lycurgus" on
it, while it was true that he had been compelled to leave that, still
might not any one--Mrs. Clifford Golden, or Mrs. Carl Graham--have
bought that in Whitely's, and so without the possibility of its being
traced to him? Assuredly. And as for her clothes, even assuming that
they did go to prove her identity, would it not be assumed, by her
parents as well as others, that she had gone on this trip with a
strange man by the name of Golden or Graham, and would they not want
that hushed up without further ado? At any rate, he would hope for the
best--keep up his nerve, put on a strong, pleasant, cheerful front
here, so that no one would think of him as the one, since he had not
actually killed her, anyhow.
Here he was in this fine car. And Sondra, as well as Bertine, waiting
for him. He would have to say that he was just up from Albany--had
been on some errand over there for his uncle which had taken all of
his time since Tuesday. And while he should be blissfully happy with
Sondra, still here were all of those dreadful things of which now all
of the time he would be compelled to think. The danger that in some
inadvertent way he had not quite covered all the tracks that might lead
to him. And if he had not! Exposure! Arrest! Perhaps a hasty and unjust
conviction--punishment, even! Unless he was able to explain about
that accidental blow. The end of all his dreams in connection with
Sondra--Lycurgus--the great life that he had hoped for himself. But
could he explain as to that? Could he? God!