observe the details of the more inward scene which now so
much more concerned him—the nature of the lake country
around Big Bittern, which ever since that final important
conversation with Roberta over the telephone, had been
interesting him more than any other geography of the world.
For on Friday, after the conversation, he had stopped in at
the Lycurgus House and secured three different folders
relating to hotels, lodges, inns and other camps in the more
remote region beyond Big Bittern and Long Lake. (If only
there were some way to get to one of those completely
deserted lakes described by that guide at Big Bittern—only,
perhaps, there might not be any row-boats on any of these
lakes at all!) And again on Saturday, had he not secured
four more circulars from the rack at the depot (they were in
his pocket now)? Had they not proved how many small
lakes and inns there were along this same railroad, which
ran north to Big Bittern, to which he and Roberta might
resort for a day or two if she would—a night, anyhow,
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before going to Big Bittern and Grass Lake—had he not
noted that in particular—a beautiful lake it had said—near
the station, and with at least three attractive lodges or
country home inns where two could stay for as low as
twenty dollars a week. That meant that two could stay for
one night surely for as little as five dollars. It must be so
surely—and so he was going to say to her, as he had
already planned these several days, that she needed a little
rest before going away to a strange place. That it would not
cost very much—about fifteen dollars for fares and all, so
the circulars said—if they went to Grass Lake for a night—
this same night after reaching Utica—or on the morrow,
anyhow. And he would have to picture it all to her as a sort
of honeymoon journey—a little pleasant outing—before
getting married. And it would not do to succumb to any plan
of hers to get married before they did this—that would
never do.
(Those five birds winging toward that patch of trees over
there—below that hill.)
It certainly would not do to go direct to Big Bittern from
Utica for a boat ride—just one day—seventy miles. That
would not sound right to her, or to any one. It would make
her suspicious, maybe. It might be better, since he would
have to get away from her to buy a hat in Utica, to spend
this first night there at some inexpensive, inconspicuous
hotel, and once there, suggest going up to Grass Lake. And
from there they could go to Big Bittern in the morning. He
could say that Big Bittern was nicer—or that they would go
down to Three Mile Bay—a hamlet really as he knew—
where they could be married, but en route stop at Big
Bittern as a sort of lark. He would say that he wanted to
show her the lake—take some pictures of her and himself.
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He had brought his camera for that and for other pictures of
Sondra later.
The blackness of this plot of his!
(Those nine black and white cows on that green hillside.)
But again, strapping that tripod along with his tennis racquet
to the side of his suitcase, might not that cause people to
imagine that they were passing tourists from some distant
point, maybe, and if they both disappeared, well, then, they
were not people from anywhere around here, were they?
Didn’t the guide say that the water in the lake was all of
seventy-five feet deep—like that water at Pass Lake? And
as for Roberta’s grip—oh, yes, what about that? He hadn’t
even thought about that as yet, really.
(Those three automobiles out there running almost as fast
as this train.)
Well, in coming down from Grass Lake after one night there
(he could say that he was going to marry her at Three Mile
Bay at the north end of Greys Lake, where a minister lived
whom he had met), he would induce her to leave her bag at
that Gun Lodge station, where they took the bus over to Big
Bittern, while he took his with him. He could just say to
some one—the boatman, maybe, or the driver, that he was
taking his camera in his bag, and ask where the best views
were. Or maybe a lunch. Was that not a better idea—to
take a lunch and so deceive Roberta, too, perhaps? And
that would tend to mislead the driver, also, would it not?
People did carry cameras in bags when they went out on
lakes, at times. At any rate it was most necessary for him to
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carry his bag in this instance. Else why the plan to go south
to that island and from thence through the woods?
(Oh, the grimness and the terror of this plan! Could he really
execute it?)
But that strange cry of that bird at Big Bittern. He had not
liked that, or seeing that guide up there who might
remember him now. He had not talked to him at all—had
not even gotten out of the car, but had only looked out at
him through the window; and in so far as he could recall the
guide had not even once looked at him—had merely talked
to Grant Cranston and Harley Baggott, who had gotten out
and had done all the talking. But supposing this guide
should be there and remember him? But how could that be
when he really had not seen him? This guide would
probably not remember him at all—might not even be there.
But why should his hands and face be damp all the time
now—wet almost, and cold—his knees shaky?
(This train was following the exact curve of this stream—
and last summer he and Roberta. But no—)
As soon as they reached Utica now this was the way he
would do—and must keep it well in mind and not get rattled
in any way. He must not—he must not. He must let her
walk up the street before him, say a hundred feet or so
between them, so that no one would think he was following
her, of course. And then when they were quite alone
somewhere he would catch up with her and explain all
about this—be very nice as though he cared for her as
much as ever now—he would have to—if he were to get
her to do as he wanted. And then—and then, oh, yes, have
her wait while he went for that extra straw hat that he was
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going to—well, leave on the water, maybe. And the oars,
too, of course. And her hat—and—well—
(The long, sad sounding whistle of this train. Damn. He was
getting nervous already.)
But before going to the hotel, he must go back to the depot
and put his new hat in the bag, or better yet, carry it while
he looked for the sort of hotel he wanted, and then, before
going to Roberta, take the hat and put it in his bag. Then he
would go and find her and have her come to the entrance
of the hotel he had found and wait for him, while he got the
bags. And, of course, if there was no one around or very
few, they would enter together, only she could wait in the
ladies’ parlor somewhere, while he went and registered as
Charles Golden, maybe, this time. And then, well, in the
morning, if she agreed, or to-night, for that matter, if there
were any trains—he would have to find out about that—they
could go up to Grass Lake in separate cars until they were
past Twelfth Lake and Sharon, at any rate.
(The beautiful Cranston Lodge there and Sondra.)
And then—and then—
(That big red barn and that small white house near it. And
that wind-mill. So like those houses and barns that he had
seen out there in Illinois and Missouri. And Chicago, too.)
And at the same time Roberta in her car forward thinking
that Clyde had not appeared so very unfriendly to her. To
be sure, it was hard on him, making him leave Lycurgus in
this way, and when he might be enjoying himself as he
wished to. But on the other hand, here was she—and there
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was no other way for her to be. She must be very genial
and yet not put herself forward too much or in his way. And
yet she must not be too receding or weak, either, for, after
all, Clyde was the one who had placed her in this position.
And it was only fair, and little enough for him to do. She
would have a baby to look after in the future, and all that