And the left wale of the boat as it turned, striking Roberta on the head as she sank and then rose for the first time, her frantic, contorted face turned to Clyde, who by now had righted himself.
For she was stunned, horror-struck, unintelligible with pain and fear — her lifelong fear of water and drowning and the blow he had so accidentally and all but unconsciously administered.
“Help! Help!
“Oh, my God, I’m drowning, I’m drowning.
Help!
Oh, my God!
“Clyde, Clyde!”
And then the voice at his ear!
“But this — this — is not this that which you have been thinking and wishing for this while — you in your great need?
And behold!
For despite your fear, your cowardice, this — this — has been done for you.
An accident — an accident — an unintentional blow on your part is now saving you the labor of what you sought, and yet did not have the courage to do!
But will you now, and when you need not, since it is an accident, by going to her rescue, once more plunge yourself in the horror of that defeat and failure which has so tortured you and from which this now releases you?
You might save her.
But again you might not!
For see how she strikes about.
She is stunned.
She herself is unable to save herself and by her erratic terror, if you draw near her now, may bring about your own death also.
But you desire to live!
And her living will make your life not worth while from now on.
Rest but a moment — a fraction of a minute!
Wait — wait — ignore the pity of that appeal.
And then — then — But there!
Behold.
It is over.
She is sinking now.
You will never, never see her alive any more — ever.
And there is your own hat upon the water — as you wished.
And upon the boat, clinging to that rowlock a veil belonging to her.
Leave it.
Will it not show that this was an accident?”
And apart from that, nothing — a few ripples — the peace and solemnity of this wondrous scene.
And then once more the voice of that weird, contemptuous, mocking, lonely bird.
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
The cry of that devilish bird upon that dead limb — the wier-wier.
And then Clyde, with the sound of Roberta’s cries still in his ears, that last frantic, white, appealing look in her eyes, swimming heavily, gloomily and darkly to shore.
And the thought that, after all, he had not really killed her.
No, no.
Thank God for that.
He had not.
And yet (stepping up on the near-by bank and shaking the water from his clothes) had he?
Or, had he not?
For had he not refused to go to her rescue, and when he might have saved her, and when the fault for casting her in the water, however accidentally, was so truly his?
And yet — and yet —
The dusk and silence of a closing day.
A concealed spot in the depths of the same sheltering woods where alone and dripping, his dry bag near, Clyde stood, and by waiting, sought to dry himself.
But in the interim, removing from the side of the bag the unused tripod of his camera and seeking an obscure, dead log farther in the woods, hiding it.
Had any one seen?