The Secret of the Reef

Strolling to a seat by the waterside, he lighted a cigar and tried to analyze his feelings, which were somewhat puzzling. Aynsley longed for the girl, and Clay approved his choice; he had hitherto given the boy all that he desired, but there was now a difference. While he had a freebooter’s conscience, and would willingly have seized by force what would please his son, he felt that Ruth Osborne was safe from his generally unsparing grasp. It was true that Aynsley had demanded a pledge of inaction, but Clay was not sure that this alone would have deterred him. He felt that his hands were tied, and he could not understand the reason. However, Aynsley was young and rich and handsome; he would be a fool if he could not win the girl on his own merits. Then the crushing anxiety Clay had thrown off for a few minutes returned. After all, the boy might not live to prosper in his suit.

It was two or three days later when Clay met the doctor coming downstairs late one evening, and led him into the hall.

“The boy’s not coming round,” he said shortly. “What do you think? Give it to me straight; I’ve no use for professional talk.”

“I’m frankly puzzled. He’s certainly no better, though I’ve seen some hopeful symptoms. It’s no longer what I’ll call the mechanical injury that’s making the trouble; we have patched that up. His feverish restlessness is burning up his strength; and Miss Osborne is the only person who can calm him. In fact, the way he responds to her is rather remarkable.”

“Never mind that!” Clay interrupted. “It isn’t what I asked.”

“Well, I’m inclined to look for a crisis to-night. If he gets through the early morning, things may take a turn; but a good deal depends on his sleeping, and I’ve given him all the sedatives I dare. Miss Osborne has promised to keep watch with the nurse, though she looks badly tired.”

Clay turned away, and the anxious hours that followed left their mark on him. Men called him hard and callous, but he loved his son, and Aynsley was moreover the object of all his ambitions. Social popularity and political influence had no charms for Clay; commercial control and riches were his aim. He knew his ability as a gatherer, but he did not know how to spend, and, when the boy had made good in the business world, he should have the best that society and culture could give. Now, however, a few hours would determine whether all Clay’s hopes must crumble into dust. He trusted the doctor; but, having a strong man’s suspicion of medicine, he trusted Ruth Osborne more.

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.