What a relief from a gigantic and by now really destroying problem!
On the other hand — hold — not so fast! — for could a man even think of such a solution in connection with so difficult a problem as his without committing a crime in his heart, really — a horrible, terrible crime?
He must not even think of such a thing.
It was wrong — wrong — terribly wrong.
And yet, supposing — by accident, of course — such a thing as this did occur?
That would be the end, then, wouldn’t it, of all his troubles in connection with Roberta?
No more terror as to her — no more fear and heartache even as to Sondra.
A noiseless, pathless, quarrelless solution of all his present difficulties, and only joy before him forever.
Just an accidental, unpremeditated drowning — and then the glorious future which would be his!
But the mere thinking of such a thing in connection with Roberta at this time —(why was it that his mind persisted in identifying her with it?) was terrible, and he must not, he must not, allow such a thought to enter his mind.
Never, never, never!
He must not.
It was horrible!
Terrible!
A thought of murder, no less!
Murder?!!!
Yet so wrought up had he been, and still was, by the letter which Roberta had written him, as contrasted with the one from Sondra — so delightful and enticing was the picture of her life and his as she now described it, that he could not for the life of him quite expel that other and seemingly easy and so natural a solution of all his problem — if only such an accident could occur to him and Roberta.
For after all he was not planning any crime, was he?
Was he not merely thinking of an accident that, had it occurred or could it but occur in his case. . . .
Ah — but that “COULD IT BUT OCCUR.”
There was the dark and evil thought about which he must not, HE MUST NOT THINK. He MUST NOT.
And yet — and yet, . . .
He was an excellent swimmer and could swim ashore, no doubt — whatever the distance.
Whereas Roberta, as he knew from swimming with her at one beach and another the previous summer, could not swim.
And then — and then — well and then, unless he chose to help her, of course . . . .
As he thought, and for the time, sitting in the lamplight of his own room between nine-thirty and ten at night, a strange and disturbing creepiness as to flesh and hair and finger-tips assailed him.
The wonder and the horror of such a thought!
And presented to him by this paper in this way.
Wasn’t that strange?
Besides, up in that lake country to which he was now going to Sondra, were many, many lakes about everywhere — were there not? Scores up there where Sondra was. Or so she had said.
And Roberta loved the out- of-doors and the water so — although she could not swim — could not swim — could not swim.
And they or at least he was going where lakes were, or they might, might they not — and if not, why not? since both had talked of some Fourth of July resort in their planning, their final departure — he and Roberta.
But, no! no!
The mere thought of an accident such as that in connection with her, however much he might wish to be rid of her — was sinful, dark and terrible!
He must not let his mind run on any such things for even a moment.
It was too wrong — too vile — too terrible!
Oh, dreadful thought!
To think it should have come to him!
And at this time of all times — when she was demanding that he go away with her!
Death!
Murder!
The murder of Roberta!
But to escape her of course — this unreasonable, unshakable, unchangeable demand of hers!
Already he was quite cold, quite damp — with the mere thought of it.
And now — when — when —!
But he must not think of that!
The death of that unborn child, too!!
But how could any one even think of doing any such thing with calculation — deliberately?
And yet — many people were drowned like that — boys and girls — men and women — here and there — everywhere the world over in the summer time.
To be sure, he would not want anything like that to happen to Roberta.