Part 6

"Oh, that would not have counted. It would not have counted at all. I should have got only what I deserved."

Maltham came close to her and took her hand. "Don't you think that it would have counted for a good deal to _me_?" he asked. Then he dropped her hand quickly and moved away from her as the Major re-entered the room.

Inasmuch as he would have been drowned along with her, this speech was lacking in logic; but Ulrica, who was not on the lookout for logic just then, was more than satisfied with it. Suddenly she was elate again. For the dread that had kept her wakeful had vanished: his second thoughts about the peril into which she had taken him had not set him against her--he still was the same! She could not answer him with her lips, but she answered him with her eyes.

Maltham's feelings were complex as he saw the effect that his words had upon her. He had made several resolutions not to say anything of that sort to her again. Even if she did like flirting (as he had put it in his own mind) it was not quite the thing, under the existing conditions, for him to flirt with her. He resolutely kept the word flirting well forward in his thoughts. It agreeably qualified the entire situation. As he very well knew, Miss Strangford was not above flirting herself. But it was not easy to classify under that head Ulrica's sudden change in manner and the look that she had given him. In spite of himself, his first impression of her would come back and get in the way of the new impression that he very much wished to form. When he first had seen her--only the day before, but time does not count in the ordinary way in the case of those who have been close to the gates of death together--he had felt the fire that was in her, and had known that it slumbered. After what he had just seen in her eyes he could not conquer the conviction that the fire slumbered no longer and that he had kindled its strong flame.

Nor did he wholly wish to conquer this conviction. It was thrillingly delightful to think that he had gained so great a power over her, for all her queenliness, in so short a time. Over Miss Strangford--the contrast was a natural one--he had very little power. That young lady was not queenly, but she had a notable aptitude for ruling--and came by it honestly, from a father whose hard head and hard hand made him conspicuous even among Chicago men of affairs. It was her strength that had attracted him to her; and the discovery that with her strength was sweetness that had made him love her. He was satisfied that she loved him in return--but he could not fancy her giving him such a look as Ulrica had just given him; still less could he fancy her whole being irradiated by a touch and a word.

And so he came again to the same half-formed conclusion that he had come to in the boat on the preceding day: he would let matters drift along pleasantly a little farther before he set them as they should be with a strong hand.

This chain of thought went through his mind while the Major was exhibiting the maps and expounding the Point's future; and his half-conclusion was a little hastened by the Major's abrupt stop, and sudden facing about upon him with: "I feah, suh, that yo' do not quite follow me. If I have not made myself cleah, suh, I will present the matteh in anotheh way."

Maltham shot a quizzical glance at Ulrica--which made her think that she knew where his thoughts had been wool-gathering, and so brought more light to her eyes--and answered with a becoming gravity: "The fact is I didn't quite catch the point that you were making, Major, and I'll be very much obliged if you'll take the trouble to go over it again."

"It is no trouble--it is a pleasuah, suh," the Major replied with an animated affability. And with that he was off again, and ran on for an hour or more--until he had established the glorious future of Minnesota Point in what he believed to be convincing terms. "When the time to which I am looking fo'wa'd comes, Mr. Maltham, and it will come vehy soon, suh," he said in enthusiastic conclusion, "it stands to reason that the fortunes of this great metropolis of the No'thwest will be fo'eveh and unchangeably established. Only I must wahn yo', suh, that we must begin to get ready fo' it right away. We must take time by the fo'lock and provide at once--I say at once, suh--fo' the needs of that magnificent futuah that is almost heah now!"

He took a long breath as he finished his peroration, and then came down smiling to the level of ordinary conversation and added: "I feah, Mr. Maltham, that I pehmit my enthusiasm to get away with me a little. I feah I may even boah yo', suh. I promise not to say anotheh wohd on the subject this evening. And now, as it is only a little while befo' suppeh, we cannot do betteh, suh, than to take a drink."

Maltham had not intended to stay to supper. He even had intended not to. But he did--and on through the evening until the Major had to warn him that he either must consent to sleep in Eutaw Castle or else hurry along up the Point before the ferry-boat stopped running for the night. The Major urged him warmly to stay. Finding that his invitation certainly would not be accepted, he went off for a lantern--and was rather put out when Maltham declined it and said that he could find his way very well by the light of the stars.

Actually, Maltham did not find his way very well by the light of the stars. Two or three times he ran against trees. Once--this was while he was trying to give the graveyard a wide offing--he stumbled over a root and fell heavily. When he got up again he found that he had wrenched his leg, and that every step he took gave him intense pain. But he was glad of his flounderings against trees, and of his fall and the keen pain that followed it--for he was savage with himself.

And yet it was not his fault, he grumbled. Why had the Major gone off that way to hunt up a lantern--and so left them alone? Toward the end of his walk--his pain having quieted his excitement, and so lessened his hatred of himself--he added much more lightly: "But what does a single kiss amount to, after all?"

VIII

It was on a day in the early autumn that Maltham at last decided definitely--making effective his half-formed resolution of the spring-time--to stop drifting and to set things as they should be with a strong hand. But he had to admit, even as he formed this resolution, that setting things quite as they should be no longer was within his power.

The summer had gone quickly, most astonishingly quickly, he thought; and for the most part pleasantly--though it had been broken by certain interludes, not pleasant, during which he had been even more savage with himself than he had been during that walk homeward from Eutaw Castle in the dark. But, no matter how it had gone, the summer definitely was ended--and so were his amusing sessions with the Major over the future of Minnesota Point, and his sails with Ulrica on the lake and about the bay. Ice already had begun to form in the sheltered parts of the harbour, and the next shift of wind into the North would close the port for the winter by freezing everything hard and fast. All the big ships had steamed away eastward. On the previous day he had despatched the last vessel of his own line. His work for the season was over, and he was ready to return to Chicago. In fact, he had his berth engaged on that night's train. Moreover, in another month he was to be married: in her latest letter Miss Strangford had fixed the day. Then they were going over to the Riviera, and probably to Egypt. In the spring they were coming back again, but not to Duluth nor even to Chicago. He was to take charge of the Eastern office of the line, and their home would be in New York. These various moves were so definite and so final as to justify him in saying to himself, as he did say to himself, that the Duluth episode was closed.

He had hesitated about going down to Eutaw Castle to say good-bye, but in the end had perceived that the visit was a necessity. The Major and Ulrica knew that he was to leave Duluth when navigation was closed for the winter--indeed, of late, Ulrica had referred to that fact frequently--but he had not confided to them the remainder of his rather radical programme. He meant to do that later by letter--from the Riviera or from Egypt. In the mean time, until he was married and across the Atlantic, it was essential to keep unbroken the friendly relations which had made his summer--even with its bad interludes--so keenly delightful to him; and to go away without paying a farewell visit he knew would be to risk a rupture that very easily might lead on to a catastrophe. Moreover, as he said to himself, there need not be anything final about it. Even though the harbour did freeze, the railways remained open--and it was only sixteen hours from Chicago to Duluth by the fast train. To suggest that he might be running up again soon would be a very simple matter: and would not be straining the truth, for he knew that the pull upon him to run up in just that way would be almost irresistibly strong.

In fact, the pull was of such strength that all of his not excessive will power had to be exerted to make him go away at all--at least, to go away alone. Very many times he had thought of the possibility of reversing his programme completely: of making his wedding journey with Ulrica, and of writing from some far-off place to Miss Strangford that he had happened to marry somebody else and that she was free. But each time that he had considered this alternative he had realized that its cost would come too high: a break with his own people, the loss of the good berth open to him in New York, the loss of his share of Miss Strangford's share of the grain-elevators and other desirable properties which would come to her when her father died. But for these practical considerations, as he frequently and sorrowingly had assured himself, he would not have hesitated for a moment--being satisfied that, aside from them, such a reversal of his plans would be better in every way. For he knew that while Miss Strangford had and Ulrica had not his formal promise to marry her, it was Ulrica who had the firmer hold upon his heart; and he also knew that while Ulrica would meet his decision against her savagely--and, as he believed, feebly--with her passion, Miss Strangford would meet the reverse of that decision calmly and firmly with her strength. The dilemma so nearly touched the verge of his endurance that he even had contemplated evading it altogether by shooting himself. But he had not got beyond contemplation. For that sort of thing he was lacking in nerve.

It was because facing what he knew was a final parting--even though Ulrica would not know it--would be so bitter hard for him that he had hesitated about making his visit of good-bye. But when he had decided that it was a necessity--that the risk involved in not making it outweighed the pain that it would cost him--he came about again: adding to his argument, almost with a sob, that he could not go away like that, anyhow--that he _must_ see her once more!

And so he went down the Point again, knowing that he went for the last time--and on much the same sort of a day, as it happened, as that on which his first visit had been made: a grey, chill day, with a strong wind drawing down the lake that tufted it with white-caps and that sent a heavy surf booming in upon the shore. He had no headache, but he had a heartache that was still harder to bear.

He had intended to take the tram-car--that he might hurry down to the Castle, and get through with what he had to do there, and so away again quickly. But when he had crossed the canal he let the car go off without him--for the good reason that the meeting and the parting might not come so soon. And for this same reason he walked slowly, irresolutely. Once or twice he halted and almost turned back. It all was very unlike his brisk, assured advance on that far back day--ages before, it seemed to him--when he went down the Point for the first time.

As he went onward, slowly, he was thinking about that day: how it had been without intention that he turned eastward instead of westward when he started on his walk; how a whim of the moment had led him to cross the canal; how the mere chance of the three church-bound women hurrying into the ferry-boat had prevented his immediate return. He fell to wondering, dully, what "chance" is, anyway--this force which with a grim humour uses our most unconsidered actions for the making or the unmaking of our lives; and the hopeless puzzle of it all kept his mind unprofitably employed until he had passed the last of the little houses, and had gone on through the stunted pines, and so was come to the desolate graveyard.

He did not shun the graveyard, as he had shunned it all the summer long. The need for that was past--now that, in reality, Ulrica's name had come to be to him a name upon a grave. For a while he stood with his arms resting on the broken fence, looking before him in a dull way and feeling a dull surprise because he found the dismal place still precisely as he remembered it. That in so very long a time it should not have become more ruinous seemed to him unreasonable. Then he walked on past the little church, still slowly and hesitatingly, and so came at last to the Castle. Oddly enough, the Major was standing again at the same lower window, and saw him, and came out to welcome him. For a moment he had a queer feeling that perhaps it still was that first day--that he might have been dozing in the pine woods, somewhere, and that the past summer was all a dream.

The Major was beaming with friendliness. "Aha, Masteh Geo'ge, I'm glad to see yo' and to congratulate yo'!" he said heartily. And he gave Maltham a cordial dig in the ribs as he added: "Yo' ah a sly dog, a vehy sly dog, my boy, to keep youah secret from us! But I happened to be up in town yestehday, and by the mehest chance I met Captain Todd, of youah boat, and he told me why yo' ah going back to Chicago in such a huhy, suh! It is a great match, a magnificent match that yo' ah making, Geo'ge, and I congratulate yo' with all my haht. I should be glad of the oppo'tunity to congratulate Miss Strangfo'd also. Fo' I am not flattehing yo', Geo'ge, when I tell yo' that she could not have found a betteh husband had she gone to look fo' him in South Cahrolina. Suh, I can say no mo' than that!"

The Major's speech was long enough, fortunately, for Maltham to get over the shock of its beginning before he had to answer it. But even with that breathing space his answer was so lame that the Major had to invent an excuse for its lack of heartiness. "I don't doubt that afteh youah chilly walk, Geo'ge, yo' ah half frozen," he said. "Come right in and have a drink. It will do yo' good, suh. It will take the chill out of youah bones!"

Maltham was glad to accept this invitation, and the size of the drink that he took did the Major's heart good. "That's right, Geo'ge!" he said with great approval. "A South-Cahrolinian couldn't show a betteh appreciation of good liquoh than that!" He raised his glass and continued: "I drink, suh, to Miss Strangfo'd's health, and to youahs. May yo' both have the long lives of happiness that yo' both desehve!"

He put down his empty glass and added: "I will call Ulrica. She will be glad to see yo' and to offeh yo' heh congratulations." He paused for a moment, and then went on in a less cheerful tone: "But I must wahn yo', Geo'ge, that she has a bad headache and is not quite hehself to-day--and so may not manifest that wahm co'diality in regahd to youah present and futuah happiness that she suahly feels. I confess, Geo'ge," the Major continued anxiously, "I am not quite comfo'table about heh. She seems mo' out of so'ts than a meah headache ought to make heh. And fo' the last month and mo', as yo' may have obsehved youahself, she has not seemed to be hehself at all. I don't mind speaking this way frankly to yo', Geo'ge, fo' yo' know how my haht is wrapped up in heh. As I once told yo', it was only my love fo' that deah child that kept me alive when heh motheh left me," the Major's voice was very unsteady, "and it is God's own truth that if anything went wrong with heh; if--if I weh to lose heh too, Geo'ge, I suahly should want to give right up and die. I could not live without heh--I don't think that I could live without heh fo' a single day!"

There were tears in the Major's eyes as he spoke, and his last word was almost a sob. Maltham was very pale. He did not attempt an answer.

"Thank yo', Geo'ge," the Major went on presently. "I see by youah looks that I have youah sympathy. I am most grateful to yo' fo' it, most grateful indeed!" In a moment he added: "Hahk! She's coming now! I heah heh step outside. Hahk how heavy and slow it is--and she always as light on heh feet as a bird! To heah heh walk that way almost breaks my haht!" And then he checked himself suddenly, and tried to look rather unusually cheerful as Ulrica entered the room.

IX

Being braced to meet some sort of a storm, Maltham was rather put about by not encountering it. Ulrica certainly was looking the worse for her headache--her eyes were duller than usual, and there were dark marks under them, and she was very pale; but she did not seem to be at all excited, and the greeting that she gave him was out of the ordinary only in that she did not offer him her hand. He drew a quick breath, and the tense muscles of his mind relaxed. If she were taking it in that quiet way, he thought, he had worked himself into heroics for nothing. And then, quite naturally, he felt a sharp pang of resentment because she did take it so quietly. Her calmness ruffled his self-love.

As she remained silent, making no reference to Maltham's engagement, the Major felt that the proprieties of the case were not being attended to and prompted her. "I have been wishing Geo'ge joy and prospehrity, my deah," he said. "Have yo' nothing to say to him youahself about his coming happiness?"

"Yes," she answered slowly, "I have a great deal to say to him--so much that I am going to carry him off in the _Nixie_ to say it." She turned to Maltham and added: "You will come with me for a last sail, will you not?"

Maltham hesitated, and then answered doubtfully: "Isn't it a little cold for sailing to-day? Your father says that you are not feeling well. I do think that it will be better not to go--unless you really insist upon it, of course."

"Yo' mustn't think of such a thing!" the Major struck in peremptorily. "The weatheh is like ice. Yo' will catch yo' death of cold!"

"It is no colder, father, than that day when I took George out in the _Nixie_ for the first time--and it will do my head good," Ulrica answered. And added, to Maltham: "I do insist. Come!"

Against the Major's active remonstrance, and against Maltham's passive resistance, she carried her point. "Come!" she said again--and led Maltham out by the side door into the ragged garden. There she left him for a moment and returned to her father--who was standing in a very melancholy way before the fire.

"Do not mind, father," she said. "It is the best thing for me--it is the only thing for me."

He looked at her inquiringly, puzzled by her words and by her vehement tone. Suddenly she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Remember always, father, that I have loved you with my whole heart for almost my whole life long. And remember always," she went on with a curiously savage earnestness, "that I am loving you with my whole heart--with every bit of it--to-day!"

"I am suah yo' ah, my daughteh," the Major answered, very huskily.

She kissed him again, holding him tight in her arms. Then she unclasped her arms with a sudden quick energy and swiftly left the room.

She led Maltham silently to the boat, and silently--when she had cast off the mooring--motioned to him to enter it. He found this silence ominous, and tried to break it. But the commonplace words which he wanted to speak would not come.

And then, as he sat in the stern and mechanically steadied the tiller while she hoisted the sail, the queer feeling again came over him that it still was that wonderful first day. This feeling grew stronger as all that he remembered so well was repeated: Ulrica's rapid movement aft to the tiller; his own shifting of his seat; her quick loosing of the centreboard as the wind caught them; and then the heeling over of the boat, and her steady motion, and the bubbling hiss of the water beneath the bow. It all so lulled him, so numbed his sense of time and fact, that suddenly he looked up in her face and smiled--just as he had done on that first day.

But the look in Ulrica's eyes killed his smile, and brought him back with a sharp wrench to reality. Her eyes no longer were dull. They were glowing--and they seemed to cut into him like knives.

"Well," she asked, "have you anything to say for yourself?"

"No," he answered, "except that fate has been too strong for me."

"Fate sometimes is held accountable for a great deal," she said dryly, but with a catch in her voice.

They were silent again, and for a long while. The boat was running down the bay rapidly--even more rapidly, the wind being much stronger, than on that first day. They could hear, as they had not heard then, the surf crashing upon the outer beach of the Point.

The silence became more than he could stand. "Can you forgive me?" he asked at last.

Ulrica looked at him with a curious surprise. "No," she answered quite calmly. "Think for a moment about what you have done and about what you intend to do. Do you not see that it is impossible?"

"But I love you!" he cried eagerly. "I love you more than I can tell. It is not my will that is separating us--it is fate!"

Her look softened for an instant as he began, but as he ended it hardened again. She did not answer him. A strong gust of wind heeled the boat farther over. They were going at a slashing rate. Before them the inlet was opening. The booming of the surf was very loud.

He saw that his words had taken hold upon her, and repeated them: "I do love you, Ulrica--and, oh, you don't know how very wretched I have been! More than once in this past month I have been very near killing myself."

She gave him a searching look, and seemed satisfied that he spoke the truth. "I am glad that you have wanted to kill yourself," she said slowly and earnestly. They were at the mouth of the inlet. As she spoke, she luffed sharply and they entered it close-hauled.

"Yes," she repeated, speaking still more earnestly, "I am very glad of that. It makes me feel much easier in my mind about what I am going to do."

Her tone startled him. He looked up at her quickly and anxiously. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Drown you," she answered simply.

For an instant he did not take in the meaning of her words. Then his face became very white, though he tried to smile. His voice shook as he said: "I do not think that this is a good time for joking." The boat was biting her way into the wind sharply, plunging and bucketing through the partly spent waves which came in from outside.

"You know that I am not joking," Ulrica answered very quietly. "I am going to drown you, and to drown myself too. I have thought it all out, and this seems the best thing to do. It is the best for father," her voice trembled, "and it is the best," she went on again, firmly, "for me. As for you, it does not matter whether it is the best for you or not--it is what you deserve. For you are a liar and a traitor--a liar and a traitor to me, and to that other woman too!" As she spoke these last words her calmness left her, and there was the ring of passionate anger in her tone. The fire that she had been smothering, at last was in full blaze.