She was up here on a vacation for about a month, explained Titus, slowly and meticulously. She wasnt feeling so very good and she came home to rest up a bit. But she was all right when she left. You dont mean to tell me, Mr. Mason, that anything has gone wrong with her, do you? He lifted one long, brown hand to his chin and cheek in a gesture, of nervous inquiry. If I thought there was anything like that ? He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair.
Have you had any word from her since she left here? Mason went on quietly, determined to extract as much practical information as possible before the great blow fell. Any information that she was going anywhere but back there?
No, sir, we havent. Shes not hurt in any way, is she? Shes not done anything thats got her into trouble? But, no, that couldnt be. But your questions! The way you talk. He was now trembling slightly, the hand that sought his thin, pale lips, visibly and aimlessly playing about his mouth. But instead of answering, the district attorney drew from his pocket the letter of Roberta to her mother, and displaying only the handwriting on the envelope, asked: Is that the handwriting of your daughter?
Yes, sir, thats her handwriting, replied Titus, his voice rising slightly. But what is this, Mr. District Attorney? How do you come to have that? Whats in there? He clinched his hands in a nervous way, for in Masons eyes he now clearly foresaw tragedy in some form. What is this this what has she written in that letter? You must tell me if anything has happened to my girl! He began to look excitedly about as though it were his intention to return to the house for aid to communicate to his wife the dread that was coming upon him while Mason, seeing the agony into which he had plunged him, at once seized him firmly and yet kindly by the arms and began:
Mr. Alden, this is one of those dark times in the lives of some of us when all the courage we have is most needed. I hesitate to tell you because I am a man who has seen something of life and I know how you will suffer.
She is hurt. She is dead, maybe, exclaimed Titus, almost shrilly, the pupils of his eyes dilating.
Orville Mason nodded.
Roberta! My first born! My God! Our Heavenly Father! His body crumpled as though from a blow and he leaned to steady himself against an adjacent tree. But how? Where? In the factory by a machine? Oh, dear God! He turned as though to go to his wife, while the strong, scar-nosed district attorney sought to detain him.
One moment, Mr. Alden, one moment. You must not go to your wife yet. I know this is very hard, terrible, but let me explain. Not in Lycurgus. Not by any machine. No! No drowned! In Big Bittern. She was up there on an outing on Thursday, do you understand? Do you hear? Thursday. She was drowned in Big Bittern on Thursday in a boat. It overturned.
The excited gestures and words of Titus at this point so disturbed the district attorney that he found himself unable to explain as calmly as he would have liked the process by which even an assumed accidental drowning had come about. From the moment the word death in connection with Roberta had been used by Mason, the mental state of Alden was that of one not a little demented. After his first demands he now began to vent a series of animal-like groans as though the breath had been knocked from his body. At the same time, he bent over, crumpled up as from pain then struck his hands together and threw them to his temples.
My Roberta dead! My daughter! Oh, no, no, Roberta! Oh, my God! Not drowned! It cant be. And her mother speaking of her only an hour ago. This will be the death of her when she hears it. It will kill me, too. Yes, it will. Oh, my poor, dear, dear girl. My darling! Im not strong enough to stand anything like this, Mr. District Attorney.
He leaned heavily and wearily upon Masons arms while the latter sustained him as best he could. Then, after a moment, he turned questioningly and erratically toward the front door of the house at which he gazed as one might who was wholly demented. Whos to tell her? he demanded. How is any one to tell her?
But, Mr. Alden, consoled Mason, for your own sake, for your wifes sake, I must ask you now to calm yourself and help me consider this matter as seriously as you would if it were not your daughter. There is much more to this than I have been able to tell you. But you must be calm. You must allow me to explain. This is all very terrible and I sympathize with you wholly. I know what it means. But there are some dreadful and painful facts that you will have to know about. Listen. Listen.
And then, still holding Titus by the arm he proceeded to explain as swiftly and forcefully as possible, the various additional facts and suspicions in connection with the death of Roberta, finally giving him her letter to read, and winding up with: A crime! A crime, Mr. Alden! Thats what we think over in Bridgeburg, or at least thats what were afraid of plain murder, Mr. Alden, to use a hard, cold word in connection with it. He paused while Alden, struck by this the element of crime gazed as one not quite able to comprehend. And, as he gazed, Mason went on: And as much as I respect your feelings, still as the chief representative of the law in my county, I felt it to be my personal duty to come here to-day in order to find out whether there is anything that you or your wife or any of your family know about this Clifford Golden, or Carl Graham, or whoever he is who lured your daughter to that lonely lake up there. And while I know that the blackest of suffering is yours right now, Mr. Alden, I maintain that it should be your wish, as well as your duty, to do whatever you can to help us clear up this matter. This letter here seems to indicate that your wife at least knows something concerning this individual his name, anyhow. And he tapped the letter significantly and urgently.
The moment the suggested element of violence and wrong against his daughter had been injected into this bitter loss, there was sufficient animal instinct, as well as curiosity, resentment and love of the chase inherent in Titus to cause him to recover his balance sufficiently to give silent and solemn ear to what the district attorney was saying. His daughter not only drowned, but murdered, and that by some youth who according to this letter she was intending to marry! And he, her father, not even aware of his existence! Strange that his wife should know and he not. And that Roberta should not want him to know.
And at once, born for the most part of religion, convention and a general rural suspicion of all urban life and the mystery and involuteness of its ungodly ways, there sprang into his mind the thought of a city seducer and betrayer some youth of means, probably, whom Roberta had met since going to Lycurgus and who had been able to seduce her by a promise of marriage which he was not willing to fulfil. And forthwith there flared up in his mind a terrible and quite uncontrollable desire for revenge upon any one who could plot so horrible a crime as this against his daughter. The scoundrel! The raper! The murderer!
Here he and his wife had been thinking that Roberta was quietly and earnestly and happily pursuing her hard, honest way in Lycurgus in order to help them and herself. And from Thursday afternoon until Friday her body had lain beneath the waters of that lake. And they asleep in their comfortable beds, or walking about, totally unaware of her dread state. And now her body in a strange room or morgue somewhere, unseen and unattended by any of all those who loved her so and tomorrow to be removed by cold, indifferent public officials to Bridgeburg.