And how easy for you and Roberta to go there — not directly but indirectly — on this purely imaginative marriage-trip that you have already agreed to.
And all that you need do now is to change your name — and hers — or let her keep her own and you use yours.
You have never permitted her to speak of you and this relationship, and she never has.
You have written her but formal notes.
And now if you should meet her somewhere as you have already agreed to, and without any one seeing you, you might travel with her, as in the past to Fonda, to Big Bittern — or some point near there.”
“But there is no hotel at Big Bittern,” at once corrected Clyde. “A mere shack that entertains but few people and that not very well.”
“All the better.
The less people are likely to be there.”
“But we might be seen on the train going up together.
I would be identified as having been with her.”
“Were you seen at Fonda, Gloversville, Little Falls?
Have you not ridden in separate cars or seats before and could you not do so now?
Is it not presumably to be a secret marriage? Then why not a secret honeymoon?”
“True enough — true enough.”
“And once you have arranged for that and arrive at Big Bittern or some lake like it — there are so many there — how easy to row out on such a lake?
No questions.
No registry under your own name or hers.
A boat rented for an hour or half-day or day.
You saw the island far to the south on that lone lake.
Is it not beautiful?
It is well worth seeing.
Why should you not go there on such a pleasure trip before marriage?
Would she not be happy so to do — as weary and distressed as she is now — an outing — a rest before the ordeal of the new life?
Is not that sensible — plausible?
And neither of you will ever return presumably.
You will both be drowned, will you not?
Who is to see?
A guide or two — the man who rents you the boat — the innkeeper once, as you go.
But how are they to know who you are? Or who she is?
And you heard the depth of the water.”
“But I do not want to kill her. I do not want to kill her.
I do not want to injure her in any way.
If she will but let me go and she go her own way, I will be so glad and so happy never to see her more.”
“But she will not let you go or go her way unless you accompany her.
And if you go yours, it will be without Sondra and all that she represents, as well as all this pleasant life here — your standing with your uncle, his friends, their cars, the dances, visits to the lodges on the lakes.
And what then?
A small job!
Small pay!
Another such period of wandering as followed that accident at Kansas City.
Never another chance like this anywhere.
Do you prefer that?”
“But might there not be some accident here, destroying all my dreams — my future — as there was in Kansas City?”
“An accident, to be sure — but not the same.
In this instance the plan is in your hands.
You can arrange it all as you will.
And how easy!
So many boats upsetting every summer — the occupants of them drowning, because in most cases they cannot swim.
And will it ever be known whether the man who was with Roberta Alden on Big Bittern could swim?
And of all deaths, drowning is the easiest — no noise — no outcry — perhaps the accidental blow of an oar — the side of a boat.
And then silence!