For nearly an hour Boyd Emerson sat alone on the deck of The Grande Dame, a prey to conflicting emotions, the while he waited for Mildred to appear. There was no one to dispute his presence now, for the tourists who had followed Doctor Berry from the shore in hushed excitement avoided him, and the sailors made no effort to carry out their earlier instructions; hence he was allowed opportunity to adjust himself to the sudden change. It was not so much the unexpected downfall of Willis Marsh, and the new light thus thrown upon his own enterprise that upset him, as a puzzling alteration in his own purposes and inclinations. He had come out to the yacht defiantly, to make good his threat, and to force an understanding with Mildred Wayland, but now that he was here and his way made easy he began to question his own desires. Now that he thought about it, that note, instead of filling him with dismay, had rather left him relieved. It was as if he had been freed of a burden, and this caused him a vague uneasiness. Was it because he was tired by the struggle for this girl, for whom he had labored so faithfully? After three years of unflagging devotion, was he truly relieved to have her dismiss him? Or was it that here, in this primal country, stripped of all conventions, he saw her and himself in a new light? He did not know.
The late twilight was fading when Mildred came from her state-room. She found Boyd pacing the deck, a cigar between his teeth.
"Where are those people?" she inquired.
"They went ashore. Marsh doesn't care to press a charge against the
Indian."
"I hear he is not badly hurt, after all."
"That is true. But it was a close shave."
Mildred shuddered. "It was horrible!"
"I never dreamed that Constantine would do such a thing, but he is more Russian than Aleut, and both he and his sister are completely under the spell of the priest. They are intensely religious, and their idea of damnation is very vivid."
"Have you seen father?"
"We had a short talk."