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Steven A. Greenlaw
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Handbook of
Cognition
Edited by
Koen Lamberts
and
Robert Goldstone
Lambert-prelims.qxd 9/14/2004 2:19 PM Page i
HANDBOOK
of
COGNITION
Lambert-prelims.qxd 9/14/2004 2:19 PM Page ii
Lambert-prelims.qxd 9/14/2004 2:19 PM Page iii
HANDBOOK
of
COGNITION
Edited by
KOEN LAMBERTS
and ROBERT L. GOLDSTONE
Lambert-prelims.qxd 9/14/2004 2:19 PM Page iv
ISBN 0-7619-7277-3
Contents
Acknowledgements xiv
Preface xvi
Part One: PERCEPTION, ATTENTION AND ACTION
1 Visual Perception I: Basic Principles 3
Johan Wagemans, Felix A. Wichmann and Hans Op de Beeck
3 Auditory Perception 71
Christopher J. Plack
4 Attention 105
Claus Bundesen and Thomas Habekost
5 Action and Motor Skills: Adaptive Behaviour for Intended Goals 130
Yvonne Delevoye-Turrell and Alan M. Wing
vi CONTENTS
12 Reading 276
Alexander Pollatsek and Keith Rayner
13 Reasoning 297
Nick Chater, Evan Heit and Mike Oaksford
Index 437
Lambert-prelims.qxd 9/14/2004 2:19 PM Page vii
List of Contributors
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS ix
James M. McQueen is a member of the scientific staff at the Max Planck Institute
for Psycholinguistics, Nijmegen, The Netherlands, where he has been since 1993.
Prior to that appointment, he held a postdoctoral position at the MRC Applied
Psychology Unit, Cambridge, UK. He studies spoken language processing, espe-
cially spoken word recognition. His research focuses on the way in which the
information in the speech signal makes contact with stored lexical knowledge as
we process spoken language, on how we perceive speech sounds, and on how we
segment the acoustically continuous speech signal into discrete words during
speech comprehension.
x LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS
in 1991 and has been there since. The focus of his recent research efforts has been
on the development of statistical methods for testing and selecting among mathe-
matical models of cognition, especially Bayesian inference methods and minimum
description length.
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS xi
work has studied the recognition of objects by pigeons, and the discrimination of
variability by pigeons, baboons and humans.
Acknowledgements
The author and publishers wish to thank the following for permission to use copyright
material:
CHAPTER 1
Figure 1.1
Wandell, 1995, Foundations of Vision, Fig 7.16, p. 222. Sunderland MA: Sinauer
Figure 1.2
Adelson, E. H., & Bergen, J. R. (1991). ‘The plenoptic function and the elements
of early vision’, Fig 1.8, in, Landy, M. S., & Movshon A. (Eds.), Computational
Models of Visual Processing. Cambridge MA: MIT Press
Figure 1.3
Adelson, E. H., & Bergen, J. R. (1991). ‘The plenoptic function and the elements
of early vision’, Fig 1.14, in, Landy, M. S., & Movshon A. (Eds.), Computational
Models of Visual Processing. Cambridge MA: MIT Press
Figure 1.4
Adelson, E. H., & Bergen, J. R. (1991). ‘The plenoptic function and the elements
of early vision’, Fig 1.15, in, Landy, M. S., & Movshon A. (Eds.), Computational
Models of Visual Processing. Cambridge MA: MIT Press
CHAPTER 2
Figure 2.1
Farah, Martha (1990), Visual Agnosia: Disorders of Object Recognition, Figs 16 &
17, p. 61. Cambridge MA: MIT Press
Figure 2.3
Reprinted from Cognitive Psychology, Vol 21(2). Tarr, M. J., & Pinker ‘Mental
Rotation and Orientation-Depdence in Shape’, Fig 1, p. 243, and Fig 6, p. 255,
1989, with permission from Elsevier.
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justified in laughing, suh, at my foolish fancy—that went wrong
mainly because the Yankee ca'pentah whom I employed to realize it
was a hopelessly damned fool. But it was a creditable sentiment,
suh, which led me to desiah to reproduce heah in godfo'saken
Minnesotah my ancestral home in the grand old State of South
Cahrolina—the house that my grandfatheh built theah and named
Eutaw Castle, as I have named its pore successeh, because of the
honorable paht he bo' in the battle of Eutaw Springs. The result, I
admit, is a thing to laugh at, suh—but not the ideah. No, suh, not
the ideah! But come in, suh, come in! The exterioh of Eutaw Castle
may be a failuah; but within it, suh, yo' will find in this cold No'th'en
region the genuine wahm hospitality of a true Southe'n home!"
Maltham perceived that the only apology which he could offer for
laughing at this absurd house—the absurdity of which became rather
pathetic, he thought, in view of its genesis—was to accept its
owner's invitation to enter it. Acting on this conclusion, he turned
into the enclosure—the gate, hanging loosely on a single hinge, was
standing open—and mounted the veranda steps.
As he reached the top step his host advanced and shook hands with
him warmly. "Yo'ah vehy welcome, suh," he said; and added, after
putting his hand to a pocket in search of something that evidently
was not there: "Ah, I find that I have not my cahd-case about me.
Yo' must pehmit me to introduce myself: Majoh Calhoun Ashley, of
the Confedehrate sehvice, suh—and vehy much at youahs."
Maltham started a little as he heard this name, and the small shock
so far threw him off his balance that as he handed his card to the
Major he said: "Then it was your name that I saw just now in—" And
stopped short, inwardly cursing himself for his awkwardness.
"That yo' saw in the little graveyahd, on the tomb of my eveh-
beloved wife, suh," the Major replied—with a quaver in his voice
which compelled Maltham mentally to reverse his recent
generalizations. The Major was silent for a moment, and then
continued: "Heh grave is not yet mahked fitly, suh, as no doubt yo'
obsehved. Cihcumstances oveh which I have had no control have
prevented me from erecting as yet a suitable monument oveh heh
sacred remains. She was my queen, suh"—his voice broke again
—"and of a line of queens: a descendant, suh, from a collateral
branch of the ancient royal house of Sweden. I am hoping, I am
hoping, suh, that I shall be able soon to erect oveh heh last resting-
place a monument wo'thy of heh noble lineage and of hehself. I am
hoping, suh, to do that vehy soon."
The Major again was silent for a moment; and then, pulling himself
together, he looked at Maltham's card—holding it a long way off
from his eyes. "Youah name is familiar to me, suh," he said, "though
fo' the moment I do not place it, and I am most happy to make
youah acquaintance. But come in, suh, come in. I am fo'getting
myself—keeping you standing this way outside of my own doah."
He took Maltham cordially by the arm and led him through the
doorway into a wide bare hall; and thence into a big room on the
right, that was very scantily furnished but that was made cheerful by
a rousing drift-wood fire. Over the high mantel-piece was hung an
officer's sword with its belt. On the buckle of the belt were the
letters C. S. A. Excepting this rather pregnant bit of decoration, the
whitewashed walls were bare.
The Major bustled with hospitality—pulling the bigger and more
comfortable of two arm-chairs to the fire and seating Maltham in it,
and then bringing out glasses and a bottle from a queer structure of
unpainted white pine that stood at one end of the room and had the
look of a sideboard gone wrong.
"At the moment, suh," he said apologetically, "my cellah is badly
fuhnished and I am unable to offeh yo' wine. But if yo' have an
appreciative taste fo' Bourbon," he went on with more assurance, "I
am satisfied that yo' will find the ahticle in this bottle as sound as
any that the noble State of Kentucky eveh has produced. Will yo'
oblige me, suh, by saying when!"
Not knowing about the previous wet night, and its still lingering
consequences, the promptness with which Maltham said "when"
seemed to disconcert the Major a little—but not sufficiently to deter
him from filling his own glass with a handsome liberality. Holding it
at a level with his lips, he turned toward his guest with the obvious
intention of drinking a toast.
"May I have a little water, please?" put in Maltham.
"I beg youah pahdon, suh. I humbly beg youah pahdon," the Major
answered. "I am not accustomed to dilute my own liquoh, and I
most thoughtlessly assumed that yo' would not desiah to dilute
youahs. I trust that yo' will excuse my seeming rudeness, suh. Yo'
shall have at once the bevehrage which yo' desiah."
While still apologizing, the Major placed his glass on the table and
went to the door. Opening it he called: "Ulrica, my child, bring a
pitcheh of fresh wateh right away."
Again Maltham gave a little start—as he had done when the Major
had introduced himself. In a vague sub-conscious way he felt that
there was something uncanny in thus finding living owners of names
which he had seen, within that very hour, scarcely legible above an
uncared-for grave. But the Major, talking on volubly, did not give him
much opportunity for these psychological reflections; and presently
there was the sound of footsteps in the hall outside, and then the
door opened and the owner of the grave-name appeared.
IV
When the dinner was ended he made a stroke for the chance that he
wanted. "Will you show me your boat?" he asked. "I'm a bit of a
sailor myself, and I should like to see her very much indeed."
"Oh, would you? I am so glad!" she answered eagerly. And then
added more quietly: "It is a real pleasure to show you the Nixie. I
am very fond of her and very proud of her. Father gave her to me
three years ago—after he sold a lot over in West Superior. And it was
very good of him, because he does not like sailing at all. Will you
come now? It is only a step down to the wharf."
The Major declared that he must have his after-dinner pipe in
comfort, and they went off without him—going out by a side door
and across a half-acre of kitchen-garden, still in winter disorder, to
the wharf on the bay-side where the Nixie was moored. She was a
half-decked twenty-foot cat-boat, clean in her lines and with the look
of being able to hold her own pretty well in a blow.
"Is she not beautiful?" Ulrica asked with great pride. And presently,
when Maltham came to a pause in his praises, she added
hesitatingly: "Would you—would you care to come out in her for a
little while?"
"Indeed I would!" he answered instantly and earnestly.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Ulrica exclaimed. "I do want you to see
how wonderfully she sails!"
The boat was moored with her stern close to the wharf and with her
bow made fast to an outstanding stake. When they had boarded her
Ulrica cast off the stern mooring, ran the boat out to the stake and
made fast with a short hitch, and then—as the boat swung around
slowly in the slack air under the land—set about hoisting the sail.
She would not permit Maltham to help her. He sat aft, steadying the
tiller, watching with delight her vigorous dexterity and her display of
absolute strength. When she had sheeted home and made fast she
cast off the bow mooring, and then stepped aft quickly and took the
tiller from his hand. For a few moments they drifted slowly. Then the
breeze, coming over the tree-tops, caught them and she leaned
forward and dropped the centreboard and brought the boat on the
wind. It was a leading wind, directly off the lake, that enabled them
to make a single leg of it across the bay. As the boat heeled over
Maltham shifted his seat to the weather side. This brought him a
little in front of Ulrica, and below her as she stood to steer. From
under the bows came a soft hissing and bubbling as the boat slid
rapidly along.
"Is she not wonderful?" Ulrica asked with a glowing enthusiasm.
"Just see how we are dropping that big sloop over yonder—and the
Nixie not half her size! But the Nixie is well bred, you see, and the
sloop is not. She is as heavy all over as the Nixie is clean and fine.
Father says that breeding is everything—in boats and in horses and
in men. He says that a gentleman is the finest thing that God ever
created. It was because the Southerners all were gentlemen that
they whipped the Yankees, you know."
"But they didn't—the Yankees whipped them."
"Only in the last few battles, father says—and those did not count,
so far as the principle is concerned," Ulrica answered conclusively.
Maltham did not see his way to replying to this presentation of the
matter and was silent. Presently she went on, with a slight air of
apology: "I hope you did not mind my looking at you so much while
we were at dinner, Mr. Maltham. You see, except father, you are the
only gentleman I ever have had a chance to look at close, that way,
in my whole life. Father will not have much to do with the people
living up in town. Most of them are Yankees, and he does not like
them. None of them ever come to see us. The only people I ever
talk with are our neighbours; and they are just common people, you
know—though some of them are as good as they can be. And as
father always is talking about what a gentleman ought to be or
ought not to be it is very interesting really to meet one. That was
the reason why I stared at you so. I hope you did not mind."
"I'm glad I interested you, even if it was only as a specimen of a
class," Maltham answered. "I hope that you found me a good
specimen." Her simplicity was so refreshing that he sought by a
leading question to induce a farther exhibition of it. "What is your
ideal of a gentleman?" he asked.
"Oh, just the ordinary one," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "A
gentleman must be absolutely brave, and must kill any man who
insults him—or, at least, must hurt him badly. He must be absolutely
honest—though he is not bound, of course, to tell all that he knows
when he is selling a horse. He must be absolutely true to the woman
he loves, and must never deceive her in any way. He must not
refuse to drink with another gentleman unless he is willing to fight
him. He must protect women and children. He must always be
courteous—though he may be excused for a little rudeness when he
has been drinking and so is not quite himself. He must be hospitable
—ready to share his last crust with anybody, and his last drink with
anybody of his class. And he must know how to ride and shoot and
play the principal games of cards. Those are the main things. You
are all that, are you not?"
She looked straight at him as she asked this question, speaking still
in the same entirely matter-of-fact tone. But Maltham did not look
straight back at her as he answered it. The creed that she set forth
had queer articles in it, but its essentials were searching—so
searching that his look was directed rather indefinitely toward the
horizon as he replied, a little weakly perhaps: "Why, of course."
She seemed to be content with this not wholly conclusive answer;
but as he was not content with it himself, and rather dreaded a
cross-examination, he somewhat suddenly shifted the talk to a
subject that he was sure would engross her thoughts. "How
splendidly the Nixie goes!" he said. "She is a racer, and no mistake!"
"Indeed she is!" Ulrica exclaimed, with the fervour upon which he
had counted. "She is the very fastest boat on the bay. And then she
is so weatherly! Why, I can sail her into the very eye of the wind!"
"Yes, she has the look of being weatherly. But she wouldn't be if you
didn't manage her so well. Who taught you how to sail?"
"It was old Gustav Bergmann—one of the fishermen here on the
Point, you know. And he said," she went on with a little touch of
pride, "that he never could have made such a good sailor of me if I
had not had it in my blood—because I am a Swede."
"But you are an American."
Ulrica did not answer him immediately, and when she did speak it
was with the same curiously slow thoughtfulness that he had
observed when she was explaining the difference between her
father's life and her own life in the solitude of Minnesota Point.
"I do not think I am," she said. "I do not know many American
women, but I am not like any American woman I know. You see, I
am very like my mother. Father says so, and I feel it—I cannot tell
you just how I feel it, but I do. For one thing, I am more than half a
savage, father says—like some of the wild Indians he has known. He
is in fun, of course, when he says that; but he really is right, I am
sure. Did you ever want to kill anybody, Mr. Maltham?"
"No," said Maltham with a laugh, "I never did. Did you?"
Ulrica remained grave. "Yes," she answered, "and I almost did it,
too. You see, it was this way: A man, one of the campers down on
the Point, was rude to me. He was drunk, I think. But I did not think
about his being drunk, and that I ought to make allowances for him.
Somehow, I had not time to think. Everything got red suddenly—and
before I knew what I was doing I had out my knife. The man gave a
scream—not a cry, but a real scream: he must have been a great
coward, I suppose—and jumped away just as I struck at him. I cut
his arm a little, I think. But I am not sure, for he ran away as hard
as he could run. I was very sorry that I had not killed him. I am very
sorry still whenever I think about it. Now that was not like an
American woman. At least, I do not know any American woman who
would try to kill a man that way because she really could not help
trying to. Do you?"
"No," Maltham answered, drawing a quick breath that came close to
being a gasp. Ulrica's entire placidity, and her argumentative
manner, had made her story rather coldly thrilling—and it was quite
thrilling enough without those adjuncts, he thought.
She seemed pleased that his answer confirmed her own opinion.
"Yes, I think I am right about myself," she went on. "I am sure that
it is my Swedish blood that makes me like that. We do not often get
angry, you know, we Swedes: but when we do, our anger is rage.
We do not think nor reason. Suddenly we see red, as I did that day,
and we want to strike to kill. It is queer, is it not, that we should be
made like that?"
Maltham certainly was discovering the strange thoughts that he had
set himself to search for. They rather set his nerves on edge. As she
uttered her calm reflection upon the oddity of the Swedish
temperament he shivered a little.
"I am afraid that you are cold," she said anxiously. "Shall we go
about? Father will not like it if I make you uncomfortable."
"I am not at all cold," he answered. "And the sailing is delightful.
Don't let us go about yet."
"Well, if you are quite sure that you are not cold, we will not. I do
want to take you down to the inlet and show you what a glorious
sea is running on the lake to-day. It is only half a mile more."
They sailed on for a little while in silence. The swift send of the boat
through the water seemed so to fill Ulrica with delight that she did
not care to speak—nor did Maltham, who was busied with his own
confused thoughts. Suddenly some new and startling concepts of
manhood and of womanhood had been thrust into his mind. They
puzzled him, and he was not at all sure that he liked them. But he
was absolutely sure that this curious and very beautiful woman who
had uttered them interested him more profoundly than any woman
whom ever he had known. That fact also bothered him, and he tried
to blink it. That he could not blink it was one reason why his
thoughts were confused. Presently, being accustomed to slide along
the lines of least resistance, he gave up trying. "After all," was his
conclusion, so far as he came to a conclusion, "it is only for a day."
VI
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.
VII
Maltham left his office early the next afternoon and went down the
Point again. He had no headache, the wind had shifted to the
southward, and all about him was a flood of spring sunshine. Yet
even under these cheerful conditions he found the Point rather
drearily desolate. He gave the graveyard a wide berth when he came
to it, and looked away from it. His desire was strong that he might
forget where he had seen Ulrica's name for the first time. He was
not superstitious, exactly; but his sub-consciousness that the
direction in which he was sliding—along the lines of least resistance
—was at least questionable, made him rather open to feelings about
bad and good luck.
Being arrived at Eutaw Castle, he inferred from what the Major said
and from what Ulrica looked that the domestic storm of the previous
day had been a vigorous one—and was glad that he had kept out of
it. But it had blown over pretty well, and his good-natured chaff
about their adventure swept away the few remaining clouds.
"It is vehy handsome of yo', suh," said the Major, "to treat the
matteh as yo' do. My daughteh's conduct was most inexcusable—fo'
when she cahried yo' into that great dangeh she broke heh sacred
wo'd to me."
"But it was quite as much my fault as hers," Maltham answered. "I
should not have let her go. You see, the sailing was so delightfully
exciting that we both lost our heads a little. Luckily, I got mine back
before it was too late."
"Yo' behaved nobly, suh, nobly! My daughteh has told me how youah
only thought was of heh dangeh, and how white yo' went when yo'
realized youah inability to save heh if the boat went down. Those
weh the feelings of a gentleman, suh, and of a vehy gallant
gentleman—such as yo' suahly ah. Youah conduct could not have
been fineh, Mr. Maltham, had yo' been bo'n and bred in South
Cahrolina. Suh, I can say no mo' than that!"
Ulrica took little part in the talk. Her eyes were dull and she moved
languidly, as though she were weary. Not until her father left the
room—going to fetch his maps and charts, that he might
demonstrate the Point's glorious future—did she speak freely.
"I could not sleep last night, Mr. Maltham," she said hurriedly. "I lay
awake the whole night—thinking about what I had done, and about
what you must think about me for doing it. If I had drowned you,
after breaking my word to father that way, it would have been
almost murder. It was very noble of you, just now, to say that it was
as much your fault as it was mine. But it was not. It was my fault all
the way through."
"But the danger was just as great for you as it was for me," Maltham
answered. "You would have been drowned too, you know."
"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
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