The difficulty!
The danger of losing Sondra.
And yet, murder —
He wiped his hot and wet face, and paused and gazed at a group of trees across a field which somehow reminded him of the trees of . . . well . . . he didn’t like this road.
It was getting too dark out here.
He had better turn and go back.
But that road at the south and leading to Three Mile Bay and Greys Lake — if one chose to go that way — to Sharon and the Cranston Lodge — whither he would be going afterwards if he did go that way.
God!
Big Bittern — the trees along there after dark would be like that — blurred and gloomy.
It would have to be toward evening, of course.
No one would think of trying to . . . well . . . in the morning, when there was so much light.
Only a fool would do that.
But at night, toward dusk, as it was now, or a little later.
But, damn it, he would not listen to such thoughts.
Yet no one would be likely to see him or Roberta either — would they — there?
It would be so easy to go to a place like Big Bittern — for an alleged wedding trip — would it not — over the Fourth, say — or after the fourth or fifth, when there would be fewer people.
And to register as some one else — not himself — so that he could never be traced that way.
And then, again, it would be so easy to get back to Sharon and the Cranstons’ by midnight, or the morning of the next day, maybe, and then, once there he could pretend also that he had come north on that early morning train that arrived about ten o’clock.
And then . . .
Confound it — why should his mind keep dwelling on this idea?
Was he actually planning to do a thing like this?
But he was not!
He could not be!
He, Clyde Griffiths, could not be serious about a thing like this.
That was not possible.
He could not be. Of course!
It was all too impossible, too wicked, to imagine that he, Clyde Griffiths, could bring himself to execute a deed like that.
And yet . . .
And forthwith an uncanny feeling of wretchedness and insufficiency for so dark a crime insisted on thrusting itself forward.
He decided to retrace his steps toward Lycurgus, where at least he could be among people. ? Chapter 45
T here are moments when in connection with the sensitively imaginative or morbidly anachronistic — the mentality assailed and the same not of any great strength and the problem confronting it of sufficient force and complexity — the reason not actually toppling from its throne, still totters or is warped or shaken — the mind befuddled to the extent that for the time being, at least, unreason or disorder and mistaken or erroneous counsel would appear to hold against all else.
In such instances the will and the courage confronted by some great difficulty which it can neither master nor endure, appears in some to recede in precipitate flight, leaving only panic and temporary unreason in its wake.
And in this instance, the mind of Clyde might well have been compared to a small and routed army in full flight before a major one, yet at various times in its precipitate departure, pausing for a moment to meditate on some way of escaping complete destruction and in the coincident panic of such a state, resorting to the weirdest and most haphazard of schemes of escaping from an impending and yet wholly unescapable fate.
The strained and bedeviled look in his eyes at moments — the manner in which, from moment to moment and hour to hour, he went over and over his hitherto poorly balanced actions and thoughts but with no smallest door of escape anywhere.
And yet again at moments the solution suggested by the item in The Times–Union again thrusting itself forward, psychogenetically, born of his own turbulent, eager and disappointed seeking. And hence persisting.
Indeed, it was now as though from the depths of some lower or higher world never before guessed or plumbed by him . . . a region otherwhere than in life or death and peopled by creatures otherwise than himself . . . there had now suddenly appeared, as the genie at the accidental rubbing of Aladdin’s lamp — as the efrit emerging as smoke from the mystic jar in the net of the fisherman — the very substance of some leering and diabolic wish or wisdom concealed in his own nature, and that now abhorrent and yet compelling, leering and yet intriguing, friendly and yet cruel, offered him a choice between an evil which threatened to destroy him (and against his deepest opposition) and a second evil which, however it might disgust or sear or terrify, still provided for freedom and success and love.
Indeed the center or mentating section of his brain at this time might well have been compared to a sealed and silent hall in which alone and undisturbed, and that in spite of himself, he now sat thinking on the mystic or evil and terrifying desires or advice of some darker or primordial and unregenerate nature of his own, and without the power to drive the same forth or himself to decamp, and yet also without the courage to act upon anything.
For now the genie of his darkest and weakest side was speaking.
And it said:
“And would you escape from the demands of Roberta that but now and unto this hour have appeared unescapable to you?
Behold!
I bring you a way.
It is the way of the lake — Pass Lake.
This item that you have read — do you think it was placed in your hands for nothing?
Remember Big Bittern, the deep, blue-black water, the island to the south, the lone road to Three Mile Bay?
How suitable to your needs!
A row-boat or a canoe upset in such a lake and Roberta would pass forever from your life.
She cannot swim!
The lake — the lake — that you have seen — that I have shown you — is it not ideal for the purpose?
So removed and so little frequented and yet comparatively near — but a hundred miles from here.