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[115] 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[116] 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[117] 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 en[118]durance 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[119] 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[120] 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 mak[121]ing, 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!"
[122] 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[123] 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.
