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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.
[Illustration: "'I HAVE LOVED YOU WITH MY WHOLE HEART'"]
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.
They were at the very mouth of the inlet. The white-capped surface
of the lake swelled and tossed before them. The boat was wallowing
heavily.
Maltham's paleness changed to a greenish-grey. He uttered a shrill
scream--a cry of weakly helpless terror. "Put about! For God's sake put
about!" he gasped. "We shall be drowned!"
For answer, she hauled the sheet a little and brought the boat still
closer into the wind--heading straight out into the lake. "I told
you once that the _Nixie_ could sail into the wind's eye," she said,
coolly. "Now she is doing it. Does she not go well?"
At that, being desperate, he rallied a little. Springing to his feet,
but standing unsteadily, he grasped the tiller and tried to shift the
helm. Ulrica, standing firmly, laid her hand flat against his breast
and thrust him away savagely--with such force that he reeled backward
and fell, striking against the combing and barely missing going over
the side.
"You fool!" she exclaimed. "Do you not see that it is too late?" She
did not trouble herself to look at him. Her gaze was fixed in a keen
ecstasy on the great oncoming waves.
What she said was true--it was too late. They were fairly out on the
open lake, and all possibility of return was gone. To try to go about
would be to throw the _Nixie_ into the trough of the sea--and so send
her rolling over like a log. At the best, the little boat could live in
that surge and welter for only a very few minutes more.
Maltham did not attempt to rise. His fall had hurt him, and what little
was left of his spirit was cowed. He lay in a miserable heap, uttering
little whimpering moans. The complaining noise that he made annoyed
her. For the last time she looked at him, burning him for an instant
with her glowing eyes. "Silence, you coward!" she cried, fiercely--and
at her strong command he was still. Then her look was fixed on the
great oncoming waves again, and she cast him out from her mind.
Even in her rage--partly because of it--Ulrica felt in every drop of
her Norse blood the glow and the thrill of this glorious battle with
great waters. The sheer delight of it was worth dying for--and so
richly worth living through to the very last tingling instant that she
steered with a strong and a steady hand. And again--as she stood firmly
on the tossing boat, her draperies blown close about her, her loosened
hair streaming out in golden splendour--she was Aslauga's very self.
Sorrow and life together were ending well for her--in high emotion
that filled and satisfied her soul. Magnificent, commanding, defiant,
she sailed on in joyful triumph: glad and eager to give herself
strongly to the strong death-clasp of the waves.
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