McKenzie drove the _Amy Anderson_ for Porto Rico in a manner that gave
his small crew some trepidation whenever there was more than ordinary
wind blowing. He felt that he had to give vent to his feelings--to
blow off steam as it were--and as he was too good-natured a man to
take it out of his crew, he took it out of the vessel, and kept sail
on her at times when prudence suggested otherwise.
On these occasions, he twirled the wheel himself and seemed to take a
savage pleasure in hounding the schooner along, and several times he
had her with half the deck under lee water and threatening to jump the
masts over the side. Try as he might, he could not erase Ruth
Nickerson from his mind, and with harassing persistence, the memory of
the night in Halifax and the afternoon at Salvage Island kept rising
before him--odious and inexplicable comparisons which tormented his
thoughts and wrung his heart. He couldn't fathom the complex feminine
nature which was capable of shifting around so quick. In his opinion,
Ruth had led him on; he had bared his soul to her, and she had spurned
him, cut him adrift, and given her heart and hand to another two
months after he concluded she was his, and his alone.
When he thought of this, and of the visions, dreams and ambitions in
which Ruth played so prominent a part, he endured mental agony which
demanded relief. As he had neither taste nor inclination for drink or
brutality, he found a counter distraction in driving the vessel. And
under such pressure, the _Amy Anderson_ arrived off San Juan nine days
after leaving Eastville, with her foretopmast gone and all her light
sails split through sail-dragging in one or two hard breezes.
In the Porto Rican city, he sought solace in riding into the
country--leaving the schooner early in the morning and returning late
at night. During these solitary excursions he debated his future
course of action, and finally concluded to carry on as though nothing
had interfered with his peace of mind. Ruth Nickerson would live in
Halifax after she was married and he would see but little of her in
Eastville. He loved that town; liked its people, and the Bank
fisheries gave him a vocation and a livelihood which he enjoyed and
which catered to his fascination for the sea and the myriad life which
dwelt within it. In future, he would live and act as though Ruth
Nickerson never existed. This was his resolution, but he found it
terribly hard to forget.
An hour before sailing for Halifax with a cargo of barrelled molasses,
the agent brought him three letters which came in the morning's
mail-boat from New York. One was from his mother, the other from
Judson Nickerson, but the hand-writing on the third--a small pink
envelope--made his heart leap. His first impulse was to tear it open,
but pride arrested him. "She's not worth it," he growled. "Mother
comes first." And he thrust Ruth's letter into his pocket, adding
under his breath, "Explanations, most likely ... or an announcement."
Mrs. McKenzie's letter was a long one and it bubbled over with news.
"You are a regular hero here," she wrote, "and I have a bone to pick
with you for not telling me about your swimming ashore through the
surf and saving all those people. I am both proud and vexed with you,
but I think my pride will overcome any vexation I may have at your
failure to tell me more about the wreck and what you did. Everybody is
talking about you, and, oh, sonny, but I'm proud. To-day, a cablegram
came addressed to you from your friend Mr. McGlashan in Glasgow. I
opened it and it runs: _Remain in Eastville. Will arrive Halifax July
fifteenth. Very important. McGlashan._ I suppose you know what it is
about. I saw Ruth Nickerson this morning. She was quite ill after the
wreck and doesn't look very well yet."
He folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket for a second
perusal later, but one item in it seemed to run in his mind. "Ruth ...
ill?" he murmured, and slowly and deliberately, he reached into his
pocket and took out her letter. For a space he gazed at the familiar
handwriting on the envelope, then he broke it open and took out a
sheet of pale pink paper folded in half, and with a firm-set mouth and
cold eyes, he straightened it out. For a moment, the writing danced
before his eyes, with the excited blood pounding from heart to brain,
then his self-possession returned and he read the two or three lines
which it contained.