To insist on his marrying her, whereas if she would only go
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her own way—as she could with his help—she might still
save both of them all this trouble.
But no, she would not, and he would not marry her and that
was all there was to it. She need not think that she could
make him. No, no, no! At times, when in such moods, he
felt that he could do anything—drown her easily enough,
and she would only have herself to blame.
Then again his more cowering sense of what society would
think and do, if it knew, what he himself would be
compelled to think of himself afterwards, fairly well satisfied
him that as much as he desired to stay, he was not the one
to do anything at all and in consequence must flee.
And so it was that Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday
following Roberta’s letter received on Monday, had passed.
And then, on Thursday night, following a most torturesome
mental day on his and Roberta’s part for that matter, this is
what he received:
Biltz, Wednesday, June 30th.
DEAR CLYDE:
This is to tell you that unless I hear from you either by
telephone or letter before noon, Friday, I shall be in
Lycurgus that same night, and the world will know how
you have treated me. I cannot and will not wait and
suffer one more hour. I regret to be compelled to take
this step, but you have allowed all this time to go in
silence really, and Saturday is the third, and without any
plans of any kind. My whole life is ruined and so will
yours be in a measure, but I cannot feel that I am
entirely to blame. I have done all I possibly could to
make this burden as easy for you as possible and I
certainly regret all the misery it will cause my parents
and friends and all whom you know and hold dear. But I
will not wait and suffer one hour more.
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ROBERTA.
And with this in his hands, he was finally all but numbed by
the fact that now decidedly he must act. She was actually
coming! Unless he could soothe or restrain her in some
manner she would be here to-morrow—the second. And yet
the second, or the third, or any time until after the Fourth,
was no time to leave with her. The holiday crowds would be
too great. There would be too many people to see—to
encounter. There must be more secrecy. He must have at
least a little more time in which to get ready. He must think
now quickly and then act. Great God! Get ready. Could he
not telephone her and say that he had been sick or so
worried on account of the necessary money or something
that he could not write—and that besides his uncle had sent
for him to come to Greenwood Lake over the Fourth. His
uncle! His uncle! No, that would not do. He had used his
name too much. What difference should it make to him or
her now, whether he saw his uncle once more or not? He
was leaving once and for all, or so he had been telling her,
on her account, was he not? And so he had better say that
he was going to his uncle, in order to give a reason why he
was going away so that, possibly, he might be able to return
in a year or so. She might believe that. At any rate he must
tell her something that would quiet her until after the Fourth
—make her stay up there until at least he could perfect
some plan—bring himself to the place where he could do
one thing or the other. One thing or the other.
Without pausing to plan anything more than just this at this
time, he hurried to the nearest telephone where he was
least likely to be overheard. And, getting her once more,
began one of those long and evasive and, in this instance,
ingratiating explanations which eventually, after he had
insisted that he had actually been sick—confined to his
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room with a fever and hence not able to get to a telephone
—and because, as he now said, he had finally decided that
it would be best if he were to make some explanation to his
uncle, so that he might return some time in the future, if
necessary—he, by using the most pleading, if not actually
affectionate, tones and asking her to consider what a state
he had been in, too, was able not only to make her believe
that there was some excuse for his delay and silence, but
also to introduce the plan that he now had in mind; which
was if only she could wait until the sixth, then assuredly,
without fail as to any particular, he would meet her at any
place she would choose to come—Homer, Fonda,
Lycurgus, Little Falls—only since they were trying to keep
everything so secret, he would suggest that she come to
Fonda on the morning of the sixth in order to make the
noon train for Utica. There they could spend the night since
they could not very well discuss and decide on their plans
over the telephone, now, and then they could act upon
whatever they had decided. Besides he could tell her better
then just how he thought they ought to do. He had an idea—
a little trip maybe, somewhere before they got married or
after, just as she wished, but—something nice anyhow—
(his voice grew husky and his knees and hands shook
slightly as he said this, only Roberta could not detect the
sudden perturbation within him). But she must not ask him
now. He could not tell her over the phone. But as sure as
anything, at noon on the sixth, he would be on the station
platform at Fonda. All she had to do after seeing him was to
buy her ticket to Utica and get in one coach, and he would
buy his separately and get in another—the one just ahead
or behind hers. On the way down, if she didn’t see him at
the station beforehand, he would pass through her car for a
drink so that she could see that he was there—no more
than that—but she mustn’t speak to him. Then once in
Utica, she should check her bag and he would follow her
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out to the nearest quiet corner. After that he would go and
get her bag, and then they could go to some little hotel and
he would take care of all the rest.
But she must do this. Would she have that much faith in
him? If so, he would call her up on the third—the very next
day—and on the morning of the sixth—sure, so that both he
and she would know that everything was all right—that she
was starting and that he would be there. What was that?
Her trunk? The little one? Sure. If she needed it, certainly
bring it. Only, if he were she, he would not trouble to try to
bring too much now, because once she was settled
somewhere, it would be easy enough to send for anything
else that she really needed.
As Clyde stood at the telephone in a small outlying drug
store and talked—the lonely proprietor buried in a silly
romance among his pots and phials at the back—it seemed
as though the Giant Efrit that had previously materialized in
the silent halls of his brain, was once more here at his elbow
—that he himself, cold and numb and fearsome, was being
talked through—not actually talking himself.
Go to the lake which you visited with Sondra!
Get travel folders of the region there from either the
Lycurgus House here or the depot.
Go to the south end of it and from there walk south,
afterwards.
Pick a boat that will upset easily—one with a round bottom,
such as those you have seen here at Crum Lake and up
there.
Buy a new and different hat and leave that on the water—
one that cannot be traced to you. You might even tear the
lining out of it so that it cannot be traced.
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Pack all of your things in your trunk here, but leave it, so
that swiftly, in the event that anything goes wrong, you can
return here and get it and depart.
And take only such things with you as will make it seem as
though you were going for an outing to Twelfth Lake—not
away, so that should you be sought at Twelfth Lake, it will
look as though you had gone only there, not elsewhere.
Tell her that you intend to marry her, but after you return
from this outing, not before.
And if necessary strike a light blow, so as to stun her—no