The Secret of the Reef

As a matter of fact he was justified, for Ruth did her part that night. It was hot and still, and the door and the window of the sick room were opened. A small, carefully shaded lamp diffused a dim light, and now and then a passing draught stirred the curtains and brought in a faint coolness and the scent of the pines. The tired girl found it wonderfully refreshing as she sat near the bed in a straight-backed chair: she dare not choose one more comfortable lest drowsiness overpower her.

Aynsley was restless, but she thought rather less so than usual, and now and then he spoke feebly but sensibly.

“You won’t go away,” he begged once in a weak voice, and she smiled reassuringly as she laid a cool hand on his hot, thin arm.

For a while he lay with closed eyes, though he did not seem to sleep, and then, opening them suddenly, he looked round with eagerness as if in search of her.

“That fellow means to get me; he won’t miss next time!” he murmured later, and she supposed his wandering mind was occupied with memories of the affray at the mill. Then he added with difficulty: “You’ll stand him off, won’t you? You can, if you want.”

“Of course,” Ruth said with compassion and half admiring sympathy, for she was young enough to set a high value on physical courage and manly strength, and her patient, though so pitifully helpless now, had bravely held his post. It was daunting to see this fine specimen of virile manhood brought so low.

When the doctor came in some time later he looked down at Aynsley before he turned to Ruth.

“No sleep yet?” he asked softly.

Aynsley heard him and looked up.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m very tired, but I can’t rest. How can I when those brutes are burning the gang-saw shed?”

The doctor gave Ruth a warning glance, whispered to the nurse, and went out, passing Clay, who had crept upstairs without his shoes and stood lurking in the shadow on the landing.

“No change,” he said, and drew the anxious man away.

It was after midnight now and getting colder. There was no sound in the house, and none from outside, except when now and then a faint elfin sighing came from the tops of the pines. A breeze was waking, and Ruth, oppressed by the heat and fatigue, was thankful for it. She looked at her watch, and then wrapped it in a handkerchief because its monotonous ticking had grown loud in the deep silence. She knew that the dreaded time when human strength sinks lowest was near, and she felt with a curious awe that death was hovering over her patient’s bed.

“I can’t see,” he said very faintly, and stretching out a thin hand searched for touch of her.

She took it in a protecting grasp, and Aynsley sighed and lay quiet. After a while the doctor came in again, noiselessly, and, looking down at the motionless figure, nodded as if satisfied, while Ruth sank into the most comfortable pose she could adopt. It was borne in upon her as she felt his fingers burn upon her hand that she was holding Aynsley’s life; and whatever the effort cost her she must not let go. Soon she grew cramped and longed to move, but that was impossible: Aynsley was asleep at last, and it might be fatal to disturb him. Then, though she tried to relax her muscles, the strain of the fixed pose became intolerable; but she called up all her resolution and bore it. After all, the pain was welcome, because it kept her awake, and she was getting very drowsy.

Clay, creeping up again, stopped outside the door. He could not see his son, but he watched the girl with a curious stirring of his heart. The dim light fell on her face, showing the weariness and pity in it, and the man, though neither a sentimentalist nor imaginative, was filled with a deep respect. He could not think it was a woman’s tenderness for her lover he saw. There was no hint of passion in her fixed and gentle eyes; hers was a deep and, in a sense, an impersonal pity, protective and altogether unselfish; and he wondered, half abashed, how she would have looked had she loved his son. Then, encouraged by her attitude and the quietness of the nurse, he softly moved away.

Day was breaking when the doctor came down into the hall, followed by Ruth, and stopped when Clay beckoned him.

“My news is good,” he said. “He’s sound asleep, and I think the worst is past.”

He moved on, and Clay turned to Ruth, feeling strangely limp with the reaction. The girl’s face was white and worn, but it was quiet, and Clay noticed with a pang the absence of exultant excitement.

“It’s you I have to thank,” he said hoarsely. “I want you to remember that my promise holds good.”

“Yes,” Ruth answered with a languid smile. “Still, that doesn’t seem to matter and I’m very tired.”

He moved aside to let her pass, and watched her with a heartfelt gratitude as she went slowly down a corridor.

CHAPTER XV – ILLUMINATION

The scent of the pines was heavy in the languid air. Bright sunshine fell upon the grass, and the drowsy stillness was scarcely broken by the splash of ripples on the beach. Aynsley, now fast recovering, lay in a couch hammock where a patch of shadow checkered the smooth expanse of Osborne’s lawn. His face was thin, and his eyes were half closed, though he was by no means asleep. The glare tired him, but his mind was busy and he was tormented by doubts.

Ruth sat near him with a book, from which she had been reading aloud. Her thin summer dress clung in graceful lines to her finely molded figure; the large hat cut off the light from her face, which was quietly serious, and there was a delicacy in its coloring and a curious liquid glow in her eyes.

Aynsley was not an artist, but the picture she made filled him with a sense of harmonious beauty. There was a repose about the girl which generally had its effect on him; but as he watched her Aynsley felt the hard throbbing of his heart. He had admired her greatly since they first met, and it was now some time since appreciation had grown into love; but the man was shrewd in some respects, and had seen that her inclination was not toward him. She was too friendly, too frankly gracious; he would rather have noticed some shy reserve. He had waited with strong patience, until her tender care of him in his illness had given him a vague hope. He feared it might prove illusory, but he could keep his secret no longer, and summoned courage to test his fortune.

“Ruth,” he said, “I’ll have to get back to the mill next week. Though it has been very pleasant, I’ve been loafing long enough.”

She looked up abruptly, for her thoughts had been far away and he had held no place in them.

“I suppose you must go when you are strong enough,” she answered rather absently. “Still, you have not recovered, and perhaps they can get on without you.”

This was not encouraging. Her tone was kind, but she had shown no anxiety to detain him, and if she had wished to do so it would have been easy to give him a hint. For all that, he must learn his fate.

“It’s possible; in fact, I’ve a suspicion that they get on better when I’m away; but that is not the point. I’ve been here some time, and have made a good many demands on you. Now that you have cured me, I have no excuse for abusing your good nature.”

“You’re not abusing it,” she responded in a friendly tone. “Besides, if you need the assurance, I enjoyed taking care of you. Though the nurses really did the work, it’s nice to feel oneself useful.”

Though she smiled he was not much cheered. The care she had given him was, in a sense, impersonal: she would have been as compassionate to a stranger.

“I can understand,” he said. “You are full of kindness, and must, so to speak, radiate it. It’s a positive relief to you. Anyway, that’s fortunate for me, because I shouldn’t have been lying here, almost fit now, if you hadn’t taken me in hand.”

“That’s exaggeration,” she replied with a faint blush, which he seized upon as the first favorable sign.

“Not at all,” he declared firmly. “You saved my life; I knew it when I wakened up the morning the fever left me, and the doctor practically admitted it when I asked him.” He paused and gave her a steady look, though his heart was beating fast. “And since you saved it, my life belongs to you. It’s a responsibility you have incurred. Anyway, the life you gave me back when I’d nearly lost it is a poor thing, and not much use to me unless I can persuade you to share it. Perhaps, in good hands, it’s capable of improvement.”

Ruth was moved. She saw the deep trust and the longing in his eyes, and he had spoken with a touch of humor, which, she thought, was brave because it covered his want of hope. She could not doubt his love, and she knew it was worth much. The knowledge brought the color to her face and disturbed her.

“Aynsley,” she said, “I’m sorry, but – ”

He made a protesting gesture.

“Wait a minute! You did not know that I loved you. I read that in your friendly candor. I felt that I was aiming too high but I couldn’t give up the hope of winning you some day, and I meant to be patient. Now I expect you have got a painful shock; but I’m going away next week – and I was swept off my feet.”

“It isn’t a shock,” she answered with a smile that hid some confusion. “You’re too modest, Aynsley; any sensible girl would feel proud of your offer. But, for all that, I’m afraid – ”

“Please think it over,” he begged. “Though I’m by no means what you have a right to expect, there’s this in my favor that, so far as I’m capable of it, you can make what you like of me. Then I’m starting on a new career, and there’s nobody who could help me along like you.”

Ruth was silent for a few moments, lost in disturbing thought. She knew his virtues and his failings, and she trusted him. Now she realized with a sense of guilt that she had not been quite blameless. She had seen his love for her, and, while she had never led him on, she might have checked him earlier; she could not be sure that she had altogether wished to do so. She was fond of him; indeed, she was willing to love him, but somehow was unable to do so.

“Aynsley,” she said, “I’m more sorry than I can tell you; but you really must put me out of your mind.”

“It’s going to be difficult,” he answered grimly. “But I believe you like me a little?”

“I think the trouble is that I like you too much – but not in the way that you wish.”

“I understand. I’ve been too much of a comrade. But if I were very patient, you might, perhaps, get to like me in the other way?”

“It would be too great a risk, Aynsley.”

“I’ll take it and never blame you if you find the thing too hard.” The eagerness suddenly died out of his voice. “But that would be very rough on you – to be tied to a man – ” He broke off and was silent for a moment before he looked up at her with grave tenderness. “Ruth dear, is it quite hopeless?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said softly, but with a note in her voice which Aynsley could not misinterpret.

“Very well,” he acquiesced bravely. “I have to fight this thing, but you shall have no trouble on my account. I find the light rather strong out here; if you will excuse me, I think I’ll go in.”

Rising with obvious weakness, he moved off toward the house; and Ruth, realizing that he had been prompted by consideration for her, sat still and wondered why she had refused him. He was modest, brave, unselfish, and cheerful; indeed, in character and person he was all that she admired; but she could not think of him as her husband. She pondered it, temporizing, half afraid to be quite honest with herself, until in a flash the humiliating truth was plain and she blushed with shame and anger. The love she could not give Aynsley had already been given, unasked, to another who had gone away and forgotten her.

She knew little about him, and she knew Aynsley well. Aynsley was rich, and Jimmy was obviously poor – he might even have other disadvantages; but she felt that this was relatively of small importance. Somehow he belonged to her, and, though she struggled against the conviction, she belonged to him. That was the end of the matter.

Growing cooler, she began to reason, and saw that she had blamed herself too hastily. After all, though Jimmy had made no open confession, he had in various ways betrayed his feelings, and there was nothing to prove that he had forgotten her. Poverty might have bound him to silence; moreover, there was reason to believe that he was away in a lonely region, cut off from all communication with the outer world. Perhaps he often thought about her; but these were futile speculations, and banishing them with an effort she went into the house.

The next day Clay found Ruth sitting on the veranda.

“So you would not have my boy!” he said abruptly.

“Has he told you?” she asked with some embarrassment.

“Oh, no! But I’m not a fool, and his downcast look was hint enough. I don’t know if you’re pleased to hear he has taken the thing to heart. It ought to be flattering.”

“I’m very sorry.” Ruth’s tone was indignant. “I think you are unjust.”

“And showing pretty bad taste? Well, I’m not a man of culture, and I’m often unpleasant when I’m hurt. I suppose you know the boy had set his whole mind on getting you? But of course you knew it, perhaps for some time; you wouldn’t be deceived on a point like that.”

“I can’t see what you expect to gain by trying to bully me!” Ruth flashed at him angrily, for her conscience pricked her.

Clay laughed with harsh amusement. He had broken many clever and stubborn men who had stood in his way, and this inexperienced girl’s defiance tickled him.

“My dear,” he said, “I’m not trying to do anything of the kind. If I were, I’d go about it on a very different plan. Aynsley’s a good son, a straight man without a grain of meanness, and you could trust him with your life.”

“Yes,” she answered softly, “I know. I’m very sorry – I can’t say anything else.”

Clay pondered for a few moments. Her frank agreement disarmed him, but he could not understand his forbearance. He had won Aynsley’s mother in the face of the determined opposition of her relatives, and there was a primitive strain in him. Had all this happened when he was younger he would have urged his son to carry Ruth off by force, and now, although the times had changed, there were means by which she could, no doubt, be compelled to yield. Still, although he was not scrupulous, and it might be done without Aynsley’s knowledge, he would not consider it. She had saved the boy’s life, and he had, moreover, a strange respect for her.

“Well,” he conceded, “you look as if you knew your mind, and I guess Aynsley must make the best of it.”

Ruth was relieved when he left her, but she was also puzzled by a curious feeling that she was no longer afraid of him. In spite of his previous declaration of gratitude, she had dreaded his resentment; and now that uneasiness had gone. He had said nothing definite to reassure her, but she felt that while he regretted her refusal, she could look upon him as a friend instead of a possible enemy.

During the evening she told her father, who had been absent for a day or two.

“I am not surprised,” he said; “I even hoped you would take him. However, it’s too late now, and if you hadn’t much liking for Aynsley I wouldn’t have urged you.”

“I was sure of that,” Ruth said with an affectionate glance.

“How did Clay take your refusal of his son?”

“I think he took it very well. He paid me a compliment as he went away.”

She noticed her father’s look of relief, and it struck her as being significant.

“You have reason to feel flattered,” he said, “because Clay’s apt to make trouble when he is thwarted. For all that, it’s unfortunate your inclinations didn’t coincide with his wishes.”

“Why?” Ruth asked sharply.

Osborne looked amused at her bluntness.

“Well, I really think Aynsley has a good deal to recommend him: money, position, pleasant manners, and an estimable character. Since you’re not satisfied, it looks as if you were hard to please.”

“I have no fault to find with him,” Ruth answered with a blush. “Still, one doesn’t make up a list of the good qualities one’s husband ought to have.”

“It might not be a bad plan,” Osborne said humorously; “anyway, if you could find a man to meet the requirements.” He dropped his bantering manner. “I’m sorry you dismissed Aynsley, but if you are satisfied that it was best, there’s no more to be said.”

He turned away, and Ruth pondered what she had heard. It was plain that her father shrank from offending Clay; and that seemed to confirm the vague but unpleasant suspicions she had entertained about their business relations. Somehow she felt that not yet had she got at the bottom of her father’s dealings with that man.

CHAPTER XVI – A GHOST OF THE PAST

It was the evening before Aynsley’s departure, and he and Clay and the Osbornes were sitting on the veranda. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and the inlet stretched back, smooth as oil and shining in the evening light. The tops of the tall cedars were motionless; not a ripple broke upon the beach; the only sound was the soft splash of water somewhere among the trees.

The heat had been trying all day, and Aynsley glanced languidly at the faint white line of snow that rose above the silver mist in the blue distance.

“It would be cool up there, and that snow makes one long for the bracing North,” he said. “This is one of the occasions when I don’t appreciate being a mill owner. To-morrow I’ll be busy with dusty books, in a stifling office that rattles with the thumping of engines.”

“It’s good for a man to work,” Miss Dexter remarked.

“No doubt, but it has its disadvantages now and then, as you would agree if a crowd of savage strikers had chased you about your mill. Then, if it weren’t for my business ties, I’d send the captain word to get steam up on the yacht, and take you all to the land of mist and glaciers, where you can get fresh air to breathe.”

“Wouldn’t you miss the comforts, though I dare say you call them necessities, that surround you here? One understands that people live plainly in Alaska.”

Miss Dexter indicated the beautifully made table which stood within reach, set out with glasses and a big silver tankard holding iced liquor. Round this, choice fruit from California was laid on artistic plates.

“We could take some of them along; and we’re not so luxurious as you think,” Aynsley replied. “In fact, I feel just now that I’d rather live on canned goods and splash about in the icy water, like some fishermen we met, than sit in my sweltering office, worrying over accounts and labor troubles.”

“Those fishermen seem to stick in your memory,” Ruth interposed.

“Is it surprising? You must admit that they roused even your curiosity, and you hadn’t my excuse because you hadn’t seen them.”

“What fishermen were they?” Clay asked.

Ruth wished she had not introduced the subject.

“Some men he met on an island in the North,” she said with a laugh. “Aynsley seems to have envied their simple life, and I dare say it would be pleasant in this hot weather. Still, I can’t imagine his seriously practising it; handling wet nets and nasty, slimy fish, for example.”

“It wasn’t the way they lived that impressed me,” Aynsley explained. “It was the men. With one exception, they didn’t match their job; and so far as I could see, they hadn’t many nets. Then something one fellow said suggested that he didn’t care whether they caught much fish or not.”

“After all, they may have been amateur explorers like yourself, though they weren’t fortunate enough to own a big yacht. I don’t suppose you would have been interested if you had known all about them.”

“Where was the island?” Clay broke in.

Aynsley imagined that Ruth was anxious to change the subject, and he was willing to indulge her.

“I remember the latitude,” he said carelessly, “but there are a lot of islands up there, and I can’t think of the longitude west.”

Clay looked sharply at Osborne, and Ruth noticed that her father seemed disturbed.

“I guess you could pick the place out on the chart?” Clay asked Aynsley.

“It’s possible. I don’t, however, carry charts about. They’re bulky things, and not much use except when you are at sea.”

“I have one,” said Osborne and Ruth felt anxious when he rang a bell.

She suspected that she had been injudicious in starting the topic, and she would rather it were dropped, but she hesitated about giving Aynsley a warning glance. His father might surprise it, and she would have to offer Aynsley an explanation afterward. Getting up, she made the best excuse that occurred to her and went into the house. She knew where the chart was kept, and thought that she might hide it. She was too late, however, because as she took it from a bookcase a servant opened the door.

“Mr. Osborne sent me for a large roll of thick paper on the top shelf,” the maid said.

As she had the chart in her hands, Ruth was forced to give it to the girl, and when she returned to the veranda Aynsley pointed out the island. Ruth saw her father’s lips set tight.

“What kind of boat did the fellows have?” Clay asked.

“She was quite a smart sloop, but very small.” Aynsley tried to lead his father away from the subject. “At least, that was the rig she’d been intended for, by the position of the mast, but they’d divided the single headsail for handier working. After all, we’re conservative in the West, for you’ll still find people sticking to the old big jib, though it’s an awkward sail in a breeze. They’ve done away with it on the Atlantic coast, and I sometimes think we’re not so much ahead of the folks down East – ”

“What was her name?” Clay interrupted him.

Aynsley saw no strong reason for refusing a reply, particularly as he knew that if he succeeded in putting off his father now, the information would be demanded later.

“She was called Cetacea.”

Ruth unobtrusively studied the group. Miss Dexter was frankly uninterested; and Aynsley looked as if he did not know whether he had done right or not. Osborne’s face was firmly set and Clay had an ominously intent and resolute expression. Ruth suspected that she had done a dangerous thing in mentioning the matter, and she regretted her incautiousness; though she did not see where the danger lay. For all that, she felt impelled to learn what she could.

“Was it the island where you were wrecked?” she asked Clay.

He looked at her rather hard, and then laughed.

“I think so, but the experience was unpleasant, and I don’t feel tempted to recall the thing.”

Afterward he talked amusingly about something else, and half an hour had passed when he got up.

“I expect it’s cooler on the beach,” he said. “Will any of you come along?”

They sat still, except Osborne, who rose and followed him, and when they reached a spot where the trees hid them from the house Clay stopped.

“I suppose what you heard was a bit of a shock,” he remarked.

“It was a surprise. I don’t think you were tactful in making so much of the affair.”

“One has to take a risk, and if I’d waited until I had Aynsley alone and then made him tell me what he knew, it might have looked significant. In a general way, the thing you’re willing to talk over in public isn’t of much account.”

“There’s truth in that,” Osborne assented.

“I have no wish to set the boy thinking,” Clay resumed. “I take it we’re both anxious that our children should believe the best of us.”

His glance was searching, and Osborne made a sign of agreement.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Trace the sloop. We don’t want mysterious strangers prospecting round that reef. When I’ve found out all I can, the fellows will have to be bought or beaten off.”

“Very well; I leave the thing to you.”

“Rather out of your line now?” Clay suggested with an ironical smile. “However, I will admit you deserve some sympathy.”

“For that matter, we both need it. You’re no better off than I am.”

“I think I am,” Clay replied. “My character is pretty well known and has been attacked so often that nobody attaches much importance to a fresh disclosure; in fact, people seem to find something humorous in my smartness. You’re fixed differently; though you slipped up once, you afterward took a safe and steady course.”

Osborne lighted a cigar to hide his feelings; for his companion’s jibe had reached its mark. He had when poverty rendered the temptation strong, engaged in an unlawful conspiracy with Clay, and the profit he made by it had launched him on what he took care should be a respectable business career. Now and then, perhaps, and particularly when he acted in concert with Clay, his dealings would hardly have passed a high standard of ethics, but on the whole they could be defended, and he enjoyed a good name on the markets. Now a deed he heartily regretted, and would have undone had he been able, threatened to rise from the almost forgotten past and torment him. Worse than all, he might again be forced into a crooked path to cover up his fault.