more—so that falling in the water, she will drown the more
easily.
Do not fear!
Do not be weak!
Walk through the woods by night, not by day—so that when
seen again you will be in Three Mile Bay or Sharon—and
can say that you came from Racquette or Long Lake south,
or from Lycurgus north.
Use a false name and alter your handwriting as much as
possible.
Assume that you will be successful.
And whisper, whisper—let your language be soft, your tone
tender, loving, even. It must be, if you are to win her to your
will now.
So the Efrit of his own darker self.
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Chapter 46
AND then at noon on Tuesday, July sixth, the station
platform of the railroad running from Fonda to Utica, with
Roberta stepping down from the train which came south
from Biltz to await Clyde, for the train that was to take them
to Utica was not due for another half hour. And fifteen
minutes later Clyde himself coming from a side street and
approaching the station from the south, from which position
Roberta could not see him but from where, after turning the
west corner of the depot and stationing himself behind a
pile of crates, he could see her. How thin and pale indeed!
By contrast with Sondra, how illy-dressed in the blue
traveling suit and small brown hat with which she had
equipped herself for this occasion—the promise of a
restricted and difficult life as contrasted with that offered by
Sondra. And she was thinking of compelling him to give up
Sondra in order to marry her, and from which union he
might never be able to extricate himself until such time as
would make Sondra and all she represented a mere
recollection. The difference between the attitudes of these
two girls—Sondra with everything offering all—asking
nothing of him; Roberta, with nothing, asking all.
A feeling of dark and bitter resentment swept over him and
he could not help but feel sympathetic toward that unknown
man at Pass Lake and secretly wish that he had been
successful. Perhaps he, too, had been confronted by a
situation just like this. And perhaps he had done right, too,
after all, and that was why it had not been found out. His
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nerves twitched. His eyes were somber, resentful and yet
nervous. Could it not happen again successfully in this
case?
But here he was now upon the same platform with her as
the result of her persistent and illogical demands, and he
must be thinking how, and boldly, he must carry out the
plans which, for four days, or ever since he had telephoned
her, and in a dimmer way for the ten preceding those, he
had been planning. This settled course must not be
interfered with now. He must act! He must not let fear
influence him to anything less than he had now planned.
And so it was that he now stepped forth in order that she
might see him, at the same time giving her a wise and
seemingly friendly and informative look as if to say, “You
see I am here.” But behind the look! If only she could have
pierced beneath the surface and sensed that dark and
tortured mood, how speedily she would have fled. But now
seeing him actually present, a heavy shadow that was
lurking in her eyes lifted, the somewhat down-turned
corners of her mouth reversed themselves, and without
appearing to recognize him, she nevertheless brightened
and at once proceeded to the window to purchase her ticket
to Utica, as he had instructed her to do.
And she was now thinking that at last, at last he had come.
And he was going to take her away. And hence a kind of
gratefulness for this welling up in her. For they were to be
together for seven or eight months at the least. And while it
might take tact and patience to adjust things, still it might
and probably could be done. From now on she must be the
very soul of caution—not do or say anything that would
irritate him in any way, since naturally he would not be in
the best mood because of this. But he must have changed
some—perhaps he was seeing her in a more kindly light—
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sympathizing with her a little, since he now appeared at last
to have most gracefully and genially succumbed to the
unavoidable. And at the same time noting his light gray suit,
his new straw hat, his brightly polished shoes and the dark
tan suitcase and (strange, equivocal, frivolous erraticism of
his in this instance) the tripod of a recently purchased
camera together with his tennis racquet in its canvas case
strapped to the side—more than anything to conceal the
initials C. G.—she was seized with much of her old-time
mood and desire in regard to his looks and temperament.
He was still, and despite his present indifference to her, her
Clyde.
Having seen her secure her ticket, he now went to get his
own, and then, with another knowing look in her direction,
which said that everything was now all right, he returned to
the eastern end of the platform, while she returned to her
position at the forward end.
(Why was that old man in that old brown winter suit and hat
and carrying that bird cage in a brown paper lookingat him
so? Could he sense anything? Did he know him? Had he
ever worked in Lycurgus or seen him before?)
He was going to buy a second straw hat in Utica to-day—he
must remember that—a straw hat with a Utica label, which
he would wear instead of his present one. Then, when she
was not looking, he would put the old one in his bag with
his other things. That was why he would have to leave her
for a little while after they reached Utica—at the depot or
library or somewhere—perhaps as was his first plan, take
her to some small hotel somewhere and register as Mr. and
Mrs. Carl Graham or Clifford Golden or Gehring (there was
a girl in the factory by that name) so if they were ever
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traced in any way, it would be assumed that she had gone
away with some man of that name.
(That whistle of a train afar off. It must be coming now. His
watch said twelve-twenty-seven.)
And again he must decide what his manner toward her in
Utica must be—whether very cordial or the opposite. For
over the telephone, of course, he had talked very soft and
genial-like because he had to. Perhaps it would be best to
keep that up, otherwise she might become angry or
suspicious or stubborn and that would make it hard.
(Would that train never get here?)
At the same time it was going to be very hard on him to be
so very pleasant when, after all, she was driving him as she
was—expecting him to do all that she was asking him to do
and yet be nice to her. Damn! And yet if he weren’t?—
Supposing she should sense something of his thoughts in
connection with this—really refuse to go through with it this
way and spoil his plans.
(If only his knees and hands wouldn’t tremble so at times.)
But no, how was she to be able to detect anything of that
kind, when he himself had not quite made up his mind as to
whether he would be able to go through with it or not? He
only knew he was not going away with her, and that was all
there was to that. He might not upset the boat, as he had
decided on the day before, but just the same he was not
going away with her.
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But here now was the train. And there was Roberta lifting
her bag. Was it too heavy for her in her present state? It
probably was. Well, too bad. It was very hot to-day, too. At
any rate he would help her with it later, when they were
where no one could see them. She was looking toward him
to be sure he was getting on—so like her these days, in her
suspicious, doubtful mood in regard to him. But here was a
seat in the rear of the car on the shady side, too. That was
not so bad. He would settle himself comfortably and look
out. For just outside Fonda, a mile or two beyond, was that
same Mohawk that ran through Lycurgus and past the
factory, and along the banks of which the year before, he
and Roberta had walked about this time. But the memory of
that being far from pleasant now, he turned his eyes to a
paper he had bought, and behind which he could shield
himself as much as possible, while he once more began to