[Illustration]
As they neared the inlet the water roughened a little and the wind grew
stronger. Ulrica eased off the sheet, and steadied it with a turn
around the pin. In a few minutes more they had opened the inlet fairly,
and beyond it could see the lake--stretching away indefinitely until
its cold grey surface was lost against the cold grey sky. A very heavy
sea was running. In every direction was the gleam of white-caps. On the
beaches to the left and right of them a high surf was booming in. They
ran on, close-hauled, until they were nearly through the inlet and were
come into a bubble of water that set the boat to dancing like a cork.
Now and then, as she fell off, a wave would take her with a thump and
cover them with a cloud of spray.
The helm was pulling hard, but Ulrica managed it as easily and as
knowingly as she had managed the setting of the sail--standing with
her feet well apart, firmly braced, her tall figure yielding to the
boat's motion with a superb grace. Suddenly a gust of wind carried
away her hat, and in another moment the great mass of her golden hair
was blowing out behind her in the strong eddy from the sail. Her face
was radiant. Every drop of her Norse blood was tingling in her veins.
Aslauga herself never was more gloriously beautiful--and never more
joyously drove her boat onward through a stormy sea.
But Maltham did not perceive her beauty, nor did he in the least share
her glowing enthusiasm. He had passed beyond mere nervousness and was
beginning to be frightened. It seemed to him that she let the boat fall
off purposely--as though to give the waves a chance to buffet it, and
then to show her command over them by bringing it up again sharply into
the wind; and he was certain that if they carried on for another five
minutes, and so got outside the inlet, they would be swamped.
"Don't you think that we had better go about?" he asked. It did not
please him to find that he had not complete control over his voice.
"But it is so glorious," she answered. "Shall we not keep on just a
little way?"
"No!" he said sharply. "We must go about at once. We are in great
danger as it is." He felt that he had turned pale. In spite of his
strong effort to steady it, his voice shook badly and also was a little
shrill.
"Oh, of course," she replied, with a queer glance at him that he did
not at all fancy; "if you feel that way about it we will." The radiance
died away from her face as she spoke, and with it went her intoxication
of delight. And then her expression grew anxious as she looked about
her, and in an anxious tone she added: "Indeed you are quite right, Mr.
Maltham. We really are in a bad place here. I ought never to have come
out so far. We must try to get back at once. But it will not be easy. I
am not sure that the _Nixie_ will stand it. I am sure, though, that she
will do her best--and I will try to wear her as soon as I see a chance."
She luffed a little, that she might get more sea-room to leeward, and
scanned the oncoming waves closely but without a sign of fear. "Now I
think I can do it," she said presently, and put up the helm.
It was a ticklish move, for they were at the very mouth of the inlet,
but the _Nixie_ paid off steadily until she came full into the trough
of the sea. There she wallowed for a bad ten seconds. A wave broke
over the coaming of the cockpit and set it all aflow. Maltham went
still whiter, and began to take off his coat. It was with the greatest
difficulty that he kept back a scream. Then the boat swung around to
her course--Ulrica's hold upon the tiller was a very steady one--and in
another minute they were sliding back safely before the wind. In five
minutes more they were in the smooth water of the bay.
Ulrica was the first to speak, and she spoke in most contrite tones.
"It was very, very wrong in me to do that, Mr. Maltham," she said. "And
it was wicked of me, too--for I have given my solemn promise to father
that I never will go out on the lake when it is rough at all. Please,
please forgive me for taking you into such danger in such a foolish
way. It was touch and go, you know, that we pulled through. Please say
that you forgive me. It will make me a little less wretched if you do."
The danger was all over, and Maltham had got back both his color and
his courage again. "Why, it was nothing!" he said. "Or, rather, it was
a good deal--for it gave me a chance to see what a magnificent sailor
you are. And--and it was splendidly exciting out there, wasn't it?"
"Wasn't it!" she echoed rapturously. "And oh," she went on, "I _am_ so
glad that you take it that way! It is a real load off my mind! Will you
please take the tiller for a minute while I put up my hair?"
As she arranged the shining masses of her golden hair--her full
round arms uplifted, the wind pressing her draperies close about
her--Maltham watched her with a burning intentness. The glowing
reaction following escape from mortal peril was upon him and the tide
of his barely saved life was running full. In Ulrica's stronger nature
the same tide may have been running still more impetuously. For an
instant their eyes met. She flushed and looked away.
He did not speak, and the silence seemed to grow irksome to her. She
broke it, but with a perceptible effort, as she took the tiller again.
"Do you know," she said, "I did think for a minute that you were
scared." She laughed a little, and then went on more easily: "And if
you really had been scared I should have known, of course, that you
were not a gentleman! Was it not absurd?"
Her words roused him, and at the same time chilled him. "Yes, it was
very absurd," he answered not quite easily. And then, with presence of
mind added: "But I _was_ scared, and badly scared--for you. I did not
see how I possibly could get you ashore if the boat filled."
"You could not have done it--we should have been drowned," Ulrica
replied with quiet conviction. "But because you are a gentleman it was
natural, I suppose, for you not to think about yourself and to worry
that way about me. You could not help it, of course--but I like it, all
the same."
Maltham reddened slightly. Instead of answering her he asked: "Would
you mind running up along the Point and landing me on the other side of
the canal? I want to hurry home and get into dry things--and that will
save me a lot of time, you know."
"Oh," she cried in a tone of deep concern, "are you not coming back
with me? I shall have a dreadful time with father, and I am counting on
you to help me through."
Maltham had foreseen that trouble with the Major was impending, and
wanted to keep out of it. He disliked scenes. "Of course, if you want
me to, I'll go back with you," he answered. And added, drawing himself
together and shivering a little, "I don't believe that I shall catch
much cold."
"What a selfish creature I am!" Ulrica exclaimed impetuously. "Of
course you must hurry home as fast as you can. What I shall get from
father will not be the half of what I deserve. And to think of my
thinking about your getting me off from a scolding at the cost of your
being ill! Please do not hate me for it--though you ought to, I am
sure!"
Having carried his point, Maltham could afford to be amiable again. He
looked straight into her eyes, and for an instant touched her hand, as
he said: "No, I shall not--hate you!" His voice was low. He drawled
slightly. The break gave to his phrase a telling emphasis.
It was not quite fair. He knew thoroughly the game that he was playing;
while Ulrica, save so far as her instinct might guide her, did not know
it at all. She did not answer him--and he was silent because silence
just then was the right move. And so they went on without words until
they were come to the landing-place beside the canal. Even then--for
he did not wish to weaken a strong impression--he made the parting a
short one: urging that she also must hurry home and get on dry clothes.
It did not strike her, either then or later, that he would have shown
a more practical solicitude in the premises had he not made her come
three miles out of her way.
Indeed, as she sailed those three miles back again, her mind was in
no condition to work clearly. In a confused way, that yet was very
delightful, she went over to herself the events of that wonderful
day--in which, as she vaguely realized, her girlhood had ended and her
womanhood had begun. But she dwelt most upon the look that he had given
her when he told her, with the break in his phrase, that he would not
hate her; and upon the touch of his hand at parting, and his final
speech, also with a break in it: "I shall see you to-morrow--if you
care to have me come."
At the club that evening Maltham wrote a very entertaining letter
to Miss Eleanor Strangford, in Chicago: telling her about the queer
old Major and his half-wild daughter, and how the daughter had taken
him out sailing and had brought him back drenched through. He was a
believer in frankness, and this letter--while not exhaustive--was
of a sort to put him right on the record in case an account of his
adventures should reach his correspondent by some other way. He would
have written it promptly in any circumstances. It was the more apposite
because he had promised to write every Sunday to Miss Strangford--to
whom he was engaged.