—if not death—lay in the opposite direction. He would have
to make the best of this terrible situation—make the best of
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this plan that had ended so strangely and somewhat
exculpatorily for him.
And yet these woods! This approaching night. The eerie
loneliness and danger of it all now. How now to do, what to
say, if met by any one. He was so confused—mentally and
nervously sick. The crackle of a twig and he leaped forward
as a hare.
And in this state it was that, after having recovered his bag
and changed his clothes, wringing out his wet suit and
attempting to dry it, then packing it in his bag under some
dry twigs and pine-needles and burying the tripod beneath
a rotting log, that he plunged into the woods after night had
fallen. Yet meditating more and more on his very strange
and perilous position. For supposing, just as he had
unintentionally struck at her, and they had fallen into the
water and she uttered those piercing and appealing cries,
there had been some one on the shore—some one
watching—one of those strong, hardy men whom he had
seen loitering about during the day and who might even at
this moment be sounding a local alarm that would bring a
score of such men to the work of hunting for him this very
night! A man hunt! And they would take him back and no
one would ever believe that he had not intentionally struck
her! They might even lynch him before he could so much
as secure a fair trial. It was possible. It had been done. A
rope around his neck. Or shot down in these woods,
maybe. And without an opportunity to explain how it had all
come about—how harried and tortured he had been by her
for so long. They would never understand that.
And so thinking he hurried faster and faster—as fast as
strong and serried and brambly young firs and dead
branches that cracked most ominously at times would
permit, thinking always as he went that the road to Three
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Mile Bay must be to his right hand, the moon to his left
when it should rise.
But, God, what was that?
Oh, that terrible sound!
Like a whimpering, screeching spirit in this dark!
There!
What was it?
He dropped his bag and in a cold sweat sunk down,
crouching behind a tall, thick tree, rigid and motionless with
fear.
That sound!
But only a screech-owl! He had heard it several weeks
before at the Cranston lodge. But here! In this wood! This
dark! He must be getting on and out of here. There was no
doubt of that. He must not be thinking such horrible, fearful
thoughts, or he would not be able to keep up his strength or
courage at all.
But that look in the eyes of Roberta! That last appealing
look! God! He could not keep from seeing it! Her mournful,
terrible screams! Could he not cease from hearing them—
until he got out of here anyhow?
Had she understood, when he struck her, that it was not
intentional—a mere gesture of anger and protest? Did she
know that now, wherever she was—in the bottom of the lake
—or here in the dark of these woods beside him, mayhap?
Ghosts! Hers. But he must get out of this—out of this! He
must—and yet the safety of these woods, too. He must not
be too brash in stepping out into any road, either.
Pedestrians! People in search of him, maybe! But did
people really live after death? Were there ghosts? And did
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they know the truth? Then she must know—but how he
plotted before that, too. And what would she think of that!
And was she here now reproachfully and gloomily pursuing
him with mistaken accusations, as true as it might be that
he had intended to kill her at first? He had! He had! And
that was the great sin, of course. Even though he had not
killed her, yet something had done it for him! That was true.
But ghosts—God—spirits that might pursue you after they
were dead, seeking to expose and punish you—seeking to
set people on your track, maybe! Who could tell? His
mother had confessed to him and Frank and Esta and Julia
that she believed in ghosts.
And then at last the moon, after three such hours of
stumbling, listening, waiting, perspiring, trembling. No one
in sight now, thank God! And the stars overhead—bright
and yet soft, as at Pine Point where Sondra was. If she
could see him now, slipping away from Roberta dead in that
lake, his own hat upon the waters there! If she could have
heard Roberta’s cries! How strange, that never, never,
never would he be able to tell her that because of her, her
beauty, his passion for her and all that she had come to
mean to him, he had been able to … to … to … well,
attempt this terrible thing—kill a girl whom once he had
loved. And all his life he would have this with him, now,—
this thought! He would never be able to shake it off—never,
never, never. And he had not thought of that, before. It was
a terrible thing in its way, just that, wasn’t it?
But then suddenly there in the dark, at about eleven
o’clock, as he afterwards guessed, the water having
stopped his watch, and after he had reached the highroad
to the west—and walked a mile or two,—those three men,
quick, like ghosts coming out of the shadow of the woods.
He thought at first that having seen him at the moment be
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had struck Roberta or the moment afterward, they had now
come to take him. The sweating horror of that moment! And
that boy who had held up the light the better to see his face.
And no doubt he had evinced most suspicious fear and
perturbation, since at the moment he was most deeply
brooding on all that had happened, terrorized really by the
thought that somehow, in some way, he had left some clue
that might lead directly to him. And he did jump back,
feeling that these were men sent to seize him. But at that
moment, the foremost, a tall, bony man, without appearing
to be more than amused at his obvious cowardice, had
called, “Howdy, stranger!” while the youngest, without
appearing to be suspicious at all, had stepped forward and
then turned up the light. And it was then that he had begun
to understand that they were just countrymen or guides—
not a posse in pursuit of him—and that if he were calm and
civil they would have no least suspicion that he was the
murderer that he was.
But afterward he had said to himself—“But they will
remember me, walking along this lonely road at this hour
with this bag, won’t they?” And so at once he had decided
that he must hurry—hurry—and not be seen by any others
anywhere there.
Then, hours later and just as the moon was lowering toward
the west, a sickly yellow pallor overspreading the woods
and making the night even more wretched and wearisome,
he had come to Three Mile Bay itself—a small collection of
native and summer cottages nestling at the northernmost
end of what was known as the Indian Chain. And in it, as he
could see from a bend in the road, a few pale lights still
twinkling. Stores. Houses. Street lamps. But all dim in the
pale light—so dim and eerie to him. One thing was plain—
at this hour and dressed as he was and with his bag in
hand, he could not enter there. That would be to fix curiosity
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as well as suspicion on him, assuredly, if any one was still
about. And as the launch that ran between this place and
Sharon, from whence he would proceed to Pine Point, did
not leave until eight-thirty, he must hide away in the
meantime and make himself as presentable as possible.
And accordingly re-entering a thicket of pines that
descended to the very borders of the town, there to wait
until morning, being able to tell by a small clock-face which
showed upon the sides of a small church tower, when the
hour for emerging had arrived. But, in the interim debating,
—“Was it wise so to do?” For who might not be here to wait
for him? Those three men—or some one else who might
have seen?—Or an officer, notified from somewhere else.
Yet deciding after a time that it was best to go just the
same. For to stalk along in the woods west of this lake—
and by night rather than day—seeing that by day he might
be seen, and when by taking this boat he could reach in an