trouble to go through with from now on. And later, she
would have to explain to her parents this whole mysterious
proceeding, which covered her present disappearance and
marriage, if Clyde really did marry her now. But she must
insist upon that—and soon—in Utica, perhaps—certainly at
the very next place they went to—and get a copy of her
marriage certificate, too, and keep it for her own as well as
the baby’s sake. He could get a divorce as he pleased after
that. She would still be Mrs. Griffiths. And Clyde’s baby and
hers would be a Griffiths, too. That was something.
(How beautiful the little river was. It reminded her of the
Mohawk and the walks she and he had taken last summer
when they first met. Oh, last summer! And now this!)
And they would settle somewhere—in one or two rooms, no
doubt. Where, she wondered—in what town or city? How
far away from Lycurgus or Biltz—the farther from Biltz the
better, although she would like to see her mother and father
again, and soon—as soon as she safely could. But what
matter, as long as they were going away together and she
was to be married?
Had he noticed her blue suit and little brown hat? And had
he thought she looked at all attractive compared to those
rich girls with whom he was always running? She must be
very tactful—not irritate him in any way. But—oh, the happy
life they could have if only—if only he cared for her a little—
just a little …
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And then Utica, and on a quiet street Clyde catching up with
Roberta, his expression a mixture of innocent geniality and
good-will, tempered by worry and opposition, which was
really a mask for the fear of the deed that he himself was
contemplating—his power to execute it—the consequences
in case he failed.
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Chapter 47
AND then, as planned that night between them—a trip to
Grass Lake the next morning in separate cars, but which,
upon their arrival and to his surprise, proved to be so much
more briskly tenanted than he anticipated. He was very
much disturbed and frightened by the evidence of so much
active life up here. For he had fancied this, as well as Big
Bittern, would be all but deserted. Yet here now, as both
could see, it was the summer seat and gathering place of
some small religious organization or group—the
Winebrennarians of Pennsylvania—as it proved with a
tabernacle and numerous cottages across the lake from the
station. And Roberta at once exclaiming:
“Now, there, isn’t that cute? Why couldn’t we be married
over there by the minister of that church?”
And Clyde, puzzled and shaken by this sudden and highly
unsatisfactory development, at once announced: “Why, sure
—Ill go over after a bit and see,” yet his mind busy with
schemes for circumventing her. He would take her out in a
boat after registering and getting settled and remain too
long. Or should a peculiarly remote and unobserved spot be
found … but no, there were too many people here. The lake
was not large enough, and probably not very deep. It was
black or dark like tar, and sentineled to the east and north
by tall, dark pines—the serried spears of armed and
watchful giants, as they now seemed to him—ogres almost
—so gloomy, suspicious and fantastically erratic was his
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own mood in regard to all this. But still there were too many
people—as many as ten on the lake.
The weirdness of it
The difficulty.
But whisper:—one could not walk from here through any
woods to Three Mile Bay. Oh, no. That was all of thirty
miles to the south now. And besides this lake was less
lonely—probably continually observed by members of this
religious group. Oh, no—he must say—he must say—but
what—could he say? That he had inquired, and that no
license could be procured here? Or that the minister was
away, or that he required certain identifications which he did
not have—or—or, well, well—anything that would serve to
still Roberta until such hour to-morrow, as the train south
from here left for Big Bittern and Sharon, where, of course,
they would surely be married.
Why should she be so insistent? And why, anyhow, and
except for her crass determination to force him in this way,
should he be compelled to track here and there with her—
every hour—every minute of which was torture—an
unending mental crucifixion really, when, if he were but rid
of her! Oh, Sondra, Sondra, if but now from your high
estate, you might bend down and aid me. No more lies! No
more suffering! No more misery of any kind!
But instead, more lies. A long and aimless and pestilential
search for water-lilies, which because of his own restless
mood, bored Roberta as much as it did him. For why, she
was now thinking to herself as they rowed about, this
indifference to this marriage possibility, which could have
been arranged before now and given this outing the dream
quality it would and should have had, if only—if only he had
arranged for everything in Utica, even as she had wanted.
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But this waiting—evasion—and so like Clyde, his
vacillating, indefinite, uncertain mood, always. She was
beginning to wonder now as to his intentions again—
whether really and truly he did intend to marry her as he
had promised. Tomorrow, or the next day at most, would
show. So why worry now?
And then the next day at noon, Gun Lodge and Big Bittern
itself and Clyde climbing down from the train at Gun Lodge
and escorting Roberta to the waiting bus, the while he
assured her that since they were coming back this way, it
would be best if she were to leave her bag here, while he,
because of his camera as well as the lunch done up at
Grass Lake and crowded into his suitcase, would take his
own with him, because they would lunch on the lake. But on
reaching the bus, he was dismayed by the fact that the
driver was the same guide whom he had heard talk at Big
Bittern. What if it should prove now that this guide had seen
and remembered him! Would he not at least recall the
handsome Finchley car—Bertine and Stuart on the front
seat—himself and Sondra at the back—Grant and that
Harley Baggott talking to him outside?
At once that cold perspiration that had marked his more
nervous and terrified moods for weeks past, now burst forth
on his face and hands. Of what had he been thinking,
anyhow? How planning? In God’s name, how expect to
carry a thing like this through, if he were going to think so
poorly? It was like his failing to wear his cap from Lycurgus
to Utica, or at least getting it out of his bag before he tried to
buy that straw hat; it was like not buying the straw hat
before he went to Utica at all.
Yet the guide did not remember him, thank God! On the
contrary he inquired rather curiously, and as of a total
stranger: “Goin’ over to the lodge at Big Bittern? First time
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up here?” And Clyde, enormously relieved and yet really
tremulous, replied: “Yes,” and then in his nervous
excitement asked: “Many people over there to-day?” a
question which the moment he had propounded it, seemed
almost insane. Why, why, of all questions, should he ask
that? Oh, God, would his silly, self-destructive mistakes
never cease?
So troubled was he indeed, now, that he scarcely heard the
guide’s reply, or, if at all, as a voice speaking from a long
way off. “Not so many. About seven or eight, I guess. We
did have about thirty over the Fourth, but most o’ them went
down yesterday.”
The stillness of these pines lining this damp yellow road
along which they were traveling; the cool and the silence;
the dark shadows and purple and gray depths and nooks in
them, even at high noon. If one were slipping away at night
or by day, who would encounter one here? A blue-jay far in
the depths somewhere uttered its metallic shriek; a field
sparrow, tremulous upon some distant twig, filled the silver
shadows with its perfect song. And Roberta, as this heavy,
covered bus crossed rill and thin stream, and then rough
wooden bridges here and there, commented on the clarity
and sparkle of the water: “Isn’t that wonderful in there? Do
you hear the tinkling of that water, Clyde? Oh, the
freshness of this air!”
And yet she was going to die so soon!
God!
But supposing now, at Big Bittern—the lodge and boat-
house there—there were many people. Or that the lake, per-
adventure, was literally dotted with those that were there—
all fishermen and all fishing here and there, each one