entirely. And then, turning to see if he could not get back as
he had come, there directly behind him were arrayed an
entangled mass of snakes that at first looked more like a
pile of brush. But above it waved the menacing heads of at
least a score of reptiles, forked tongues and agate eyes.
And in front now, as he turned swiftly, a horned and savage
animal—huge, it was—its heavy tread crushing the brush—
blocked the path in that direction. And then, horrified and
crying out in hopeless desperation, once more he awoke—
not to sleep again that night.
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Chapter 43
YET a thought such as that of the lake, connected as it was
with the predicament by which he was being faced, and
shrink from it though he might, was not to be dismissed as
easily as he desired. Born as it was of its accidental relation
to this personal problem that was shaking and troubling and
all but disarranging his own none-too-forceful mind, this
smooth, seemingly blameless, if dreadful, blotting out of two
lives at Pass Lake, had its weight. That girl’s body—as
some peculiar force in his own brain now still compelled
him to think—being found, but the man’s not. In that
interesting fact—and this quite in spite of himself—lurked a
suggestion that insisted upon obtruding itself on his mind—
to wit, that it might be possible that the man’s body was not
in that lake at all. For, since evil-minded people did
occasionally desire to get rid of other people, might it not be
possible that that man had gone there with that girl in order
to get rid of her? A very smooth and devilish trick, of
course, but one which, in this instance at least, seemed to
have succeeded admirably.
But as for him accepting such an evil suggestion and acting
upon it … never! Yet here was his own problem growing
hourly more desperate, since every day, or at least every
other day, brought him either letters from Roberta or a note
from Sondra—their respective missives maintaining the
same relative contrast between ease and misery, gayety of
mood and the somberness of defeat and uncertainty.
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To Roberta, since he would not write her, he was
telephoning briefly and in as non-committal a manner as
possible. How was she? He was so glad to hear from her
and to know that she was out in the country and at home,
where it must be much nicer than in the factory here in this
weather. Everything was going smoothly, of course, and
except for a sudden rush of orders which made it rather
hard these last two days, all was as before. He was doing
his best to save a certain amount of money for a certain
project about which she knew, but otherwise he was not
worrying about anything—and she must not. He had not
written before because of the work, and could not write
much—there were so many things to do—but he missed
seeing her in her old place, and was looking forward to
seeing her again soon. If she were coming down toward
Lycurgus as she said, and really thought it important to see
him, well, that could be arranged, maybe—but was it
necessary right now? He was so very busy and expected to
see her later, of course.
But at the same time he was writing Sondra that assuredly
on the eighteenth, and the week-end following, if possible,
he would be with her.
So, by virtue of such mental prestidigitation and
tergiversation, inspired and animated as it was by his desire
for Sondra, his inability to face the facts in connection with
Roberta, he achieved the much-coveted privilege of again
seeing her, over one week-end at least, and in such a
setting as never before in his life had he been privileged to
witness.
For as he came down to the public dock at Sharon,
adjoining the veranda of the inn at the foot of Twelfth Lake,
he was met by Bertine and her brother as well as Sondra,
who, in Grant’s launch, had motored down the Chain to pick
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him up. The bright blue waters of the Indian Chain. The tall,
dark, spear pines that sentineled the shores on either side
and gave to the waters at the west a band of black shadow
where the trees were mirrored so clearly. The small and
large, white and pink and green and brown lodges on every
hand, with their boathouses. Pavilions by the shore. An
occasional slender pier reaching out from some spacious
and at times stately summer lodge, such as those now
owned by the Cranstons, Finchleys and others. The green
and blue canoes and launches. The gay hotel and pavilion
at Pine Point already smartly attended by the early arrivals
here! And then the pier and boathouse of the Cranston
Lodge itself, with two Russian wolfhounds recently acquired
by Bertine lying on the grass near the shore, apparently
awaiting her return, and a servant John, one of a half dozen
who attended the family here, waiting to take the single bag
of Clyde, his tennis racquet and golf sticks. But most of all
he was impressed by the large rambling and yet smartly-
designed house, with its bright geranium-bordered walks,
its wide, brown, wicker-studded veranda commanding a
beautiful view of the lake; the cars and personalities of the
various guests, who in golf, tennis or lounging clothes were
to be seen idling here and there.
At Bertine’s request, John at once showed him to a
spacious room overlooking the lake, where it was his
privilege now to bathe and change for tennis with Sondra,
Bertine and Grant. After dinner, as explained by Sondra,
who was over at Bertine’s for the occasion, he was to come
over with Bertine and Grant to the Casino, where he would
be introduced to such as all here knew. There was to be
dancing. To-morrow, in the morning early, before breakfast,
if he chose—he should ride with her and Bertine and Stuart
along a wonderful woodland trail through the forests to the
west which led to Inspiration Point and a more distant view
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of the lake. And, as he now learned, except for a few such
paths as this, the forest was trackless for forty miles.
Without a compass or guide, as he was told, one might
wander to one’s death even—so evasive were directions to
those who did not know. And after breakfast and a swim
she and Bertine and Nina Temple would demonstrate their
new skill with Sondra’s aquaplane. After that, lunch, tennis,
or golf, a trip to the Casino for tea. After dinner at the lodge
of the Brookshaws of Utica across the lake, there was to be
dancing.
Within an hour after his arrival, as Clyde could see, the
program for the week-end was already full. But that he and
Sondra would contrive not only moments but possibly hours
together he well knew. And then he would see what new
delight, in connection with her many-faceted temperament,
the wonderful occasion would provide. To him, in spite of
the dour burden of Roberta, which for this one week-end at
least he could lay aside, it was as though he were in
Paradise.
And on the tennis grounds of the Cranstons, it seemed as
though never before had Sondra, attired in a short, severe
white tennis skirt and blouse, with a yellow-and-green
dotted handkerchief tied about her hair, seemed so gay,
graceful and happy. The smile that was upon her lips! The
gay, laughing light of promise that was in her eyes
whenever she glanced at him! And now and then, in
running to serve him, it was as though she were poised bird-
like in flight—her racquet arm high, a single toe seeming
barely to touch the ground, her head thrown back, her lips
parted and smiling always. And in calling twenty love, thirty
love, forty love, it was always with a laughing accent on the
word love, which at once thrilled and saddened him, as he
saw, and rejoiced in from one point of view, she was his to
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take, if only he were free to take her now. But this other
black barrier which he himself had built!
And then this scene, where a bright sun poured a flood of
crystal light upon a greensward that stretched from tall
pines to the silver rippling waters of a lake. And off shore in
a half dozen different directions the bright white sails of
small boats—the white and green and yellow splashes of
color, where canoes paddled by idling lovers were passing
in the sun! Summertime—leisure—warmth—color—ease—
beauty—love—all that he had dreamed of the summer
before, when he was so very much alone.
At moments it seemed to Clyde that he would reel from
very joy of the certain fulfillment of a great desire, that was