THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER
Drew placed his own chair close beside Ruth's--as close as he dared.
And they talked.
There was something in the witchery of that moonlit night that seemed
to remove certain restraints and reserves imposed by the cold light of
day, and they spoke more freely of their lives and hopes and ambitions
than would have been possible a few hours earlier.
The girl told of the main events that had filled her nineteen years of
life. Her voice was tender when she spoke of her mother, whose memory
remained with her as a benediction. After she had been deprived by
death of this gentle presence, she, Ruth, had stayed with relatives in
Santa Barbara and Los Angeles during her vacations and had passed the
rest of her time at boarding school. She had neither sister nor
brother, and she spoke feelingly of this lack, which had become more
poignant since her mother's death. She had felt lonely and restless,
and the bright spots in her life had been those which were made for her
by the return of her father from his voyages.
Of her father she spoke with enthusiasm. Nobody could have been more
thoughtful of her comfort and happiness than he had been. The fact
that they were all that were left of their family, had made them the
more dependent for their happiness on each other, and the affection
between them was very strong.
It had been her dearest wish that he should be able to retire from the
sea entirely, so that she could make a home for him ashore. As far as
means went, she supposed he was able to give up his vocation now if he
chose. But he was still in the prime of health and vigor, and she had
little doubt that the sea--that jealous mistress--would beckon to him
for years to come.
This time she could not bear being left behind, and as the voyage
promised to be a short one, he had yielded to her persuasions to be
taken along.
Drew listened with the deepest sympathy and interest, watching the play
of emotion that accompanied her words and made her mobile features even
more charming than usual.
Encouraged by her confidences, he in turn told her of his experiences
and ambitions. He could scarcely remember his parents, and to this
degree his life had been even more lonely than her own. He had come to
the city from an inland town in New York State when he was but little
over seventeen, and had secured a position in the chandlery shop. He
had worked hard and had gained the confidence and good will of his
employer, of whose goodness of heart he spoke in the warmest terms.
His own feeling for Tyke, he explained, was what he imagined he would
have felt for his father if the latter had lived. He had felt that he
was progressing, and had been fairly content until lately.
But now--and his voice took on a tone that stirred Ruth as she
listened--he had been shaken entirely out of that contentment. He had
suddenly realized that life held more than he had ever dreamed. There
was something new and rich and vital in it, something full of promise
and enchantment, something that he must have, something that he would
give his soul to get.
He had grown so earnest as he talked, so compelling, his eyes so glowed
with fire and feeling, that Ruth, though thrilled, felt almost
frightened at his intensity. She knew perfectly well what he meant,
knew that he was wooing her with all his heart and soul. And the
knowledge was sweet to her.
But he had come too far and fast in his wooing, and she was not yet at
the height of her own emotion. To be sure, he had attracted her
strongly from the very first. From the day when she had met him on the
pier, she had thought often of the gallant young knight who had aided
her in her emergency, and his delight when he had found her on her
father's ship had been only a shade greater than her own.
But, although her heart was in a tumult and she secretly welcomed his
advances, she did not want to be carried off her feet by the sheer
ardor of his passion. She wanted to study him, to know him better, and
to know her own feelings. She was not to be won too easily and
quickly. An obscure virginal instinct rather resented the excessive
sureness of this impetuous suitor.
So she roused herself from the soft languor into which the moonlight
and his burning words had plunged her, and rallied, jested and parried,
until, despite his efforts, the conversation took a lighter tone.
"You've made quite an impression on daddy," she laughed. "He thinks it
was wonderfully clever of you to get at the meaning of that map and the
confession as quickly as you did."
"I'm glad if he likes me," Drew answered. "I may have to ask him
something important before long, and it will be a good thing to stand
well with him."
"He'll be on your side," she replied lightly. "I wouldn't dare tell
you all the nice things he has said about you. It might make you
conceited, and goodness knows----"
"Am I conceited?" he asked quickly.
"All men are," she answered evasively.
"I don't think I am," he protested. "As a matter of fact, I'm very
humble. I find myself wondering all the time if I am worthy."
"Worthy of what?" she asked.
"Worthy of getting what I want," he answered.
"The doubloons?" she asked mischievously. "Dear me! I can hardly
imagine you in a humble role. To see the confident Mr. Drew in such a
mood would certainly be refreshing."
"Don't call me Mr. Drew," he protested. "It sounds so formal. We're
going to be so like one big family on this ship for the next few weeks
that it seems to me we might cut out some of the formality without
hurting anything."
"What shall I call you then?" she asked demurely.
"There are lots of things that I should like to have you call me if I
dared suggest them," he replied. "But for the present, suppose you
call me Allen."
"Very well, then--Allen," she conceded.
His pulses leaped.
"I don't suppose I'd dare go further and beg permission to call you
Ruth?" he hazarded.
"Make it Miss Ruth," she teased.
"No, Ruth," he persisted.
"Oh, well," she yielded, "I suppose you'll have to have it your own
way. It's frightful to have to deal with such an obstinate man as you
are, Mr.--Allen."
"It's delightful to have to deal with such a charming girl as you are,
Miss--Ruth."
They laughed happily.
"It's getting late," she said, drawing herself up out of the warm nest
that Drew had made for her, "and I think I really ought to go below."
"Don't go yet," he begged. "It isn't a bit late."
"How late is it?" she asked.
He drew out his watch and looked at it in the moonlight.
"I told you it wasn't late," he declared, putting the watch back in his
pocket.
"You don't dare let me look at it," she laughed.
"It must be fast," he affirmed.
"You're a deceiver," she retorted. "Really I must go. You wouldn't
rob me of my beauty sleep, would you?"
"Leave that to other girls," he suggested. "You don't need it."
"You're a base flatterer," she chided.
Drew reluctantly gathered up her wraps, and, with a last lingering look
at the glory of the sea and sky, they went below.
It was not really necessary for him to take her hand as they parted for
the night, but he did so.
"Good night, Ruth," he said softly.
"Good night--Allen," she answered in a low voice.
His eyes held hers for a moment, and then she vanished.
It was the happiest night that Drew had ever known. He had opened his
heart to her--not so far as he would have liked and dared, but as far
as she had permitted him. And in the soft beauty of her eyes he
thought that he had detected the beginnings of what he wanted to find
there. And she had permitted him to call her "Ruth." And she had
called him "Allen." How musical the name sounded, coming from her lips!
It was fortunate that he had the memory of that night to comfort him in
the days that followed.
Ruth was more distracting than ever the next morning when she appeared,
fresh and radiant, at the breakfast table. But in some impalpable way
she seemed to have withdrawn within herself. Perhaps she felt that she
had let herself go too far in the glamour of the moonlight.
She was, if anything, gayer than before, full of bright quips and
sayings that kept them laughing, but she distributed her favors
impartially to all. And she was blandly unresponsive to Drew's efforts
to monopolize her attentions.
It was so all through that day and the next. There was nothing about
her that was stiff or repellant, but, nevertheless, Drew felt that she
was keeping him at arm's length. It was as though she had served
notice that she would be a jolly comrade, but nothing more.
Poor Drew, unused to the ways of women, could not understand her. He
tried again and again to get her by herself, in the hope that he might
regain the ground that seemed to be slipping away from under him. But
she seemed to have developed a sudden fondness for the society of her
father and Grimshaw, and she managed in some way to include one or both
of them in the walks and chats that Drew sought to make exclusive.
Then, too, there was Parmalee.
That young man fully recovered from his seasickness after the third day
out and resumed his place in the life of the ship.
Ruth had been full of solicitude and attentions during his illness, and
when he again took his place at table, she expressed her pleasure with
a warmth that Drew felt was unnecessary. His own congratulations were
much more formal.
Parmalee seemed to feel that he had appeared somewhat at a disadvantage
in succumbing to the illness which the others had escaped, and the
feeling put him on his mettle. He made special efforts to be genial
and companionable, and his conversation sparkled with jests and
epigrams. He could talk well; and even Drew had to admit to himself
grudgingly that the other young man was brilliant.
Ruth, always fond of reading, had turned to books in her loneliness
after her mother's death and had read widely for a girl of nineteen,
and their familiarity with literature made a common ground on which she
and Parmalee could meet with interest. He had brought along quite a
number of volumes which he offered to lend to Ruth and to Drew.
Ruth thanked him prettily and accepted. Drew thanked him cooly and
declined.
All three were sitting on deck one afternoon, while Tyke and the
captain talked earnestly apart. Ruth's dainty fingers were busy with
some bit of embroidery. Her eyes were bent on her work, but the eyes
of the young men rested on her. And both were thinking that the object
of their gaze was well worth looking at.
Ruth herself knew perfectly well the attraction she exerted. And she
would have been less than human if she had not been pleased with it.
What girl of nineteen would not enjoy the homage of a Viking and a
troubadour?
She was not a coquette, but there was a certain satisfaction that she
could not wholly deny herself in playing one off against the other. It
would do Drew no harm to make him a little less sure of himself and of
her. In her heart she liked his Lochinvar methods, while, at the same
time, she rather resented them. She was no cave woman, to be dragged
off at will by a determined lover.
She had a real liking for Parmalee. He was suave, polished and
deferential. His attentions gallant without being obtrusive, and his
geniality and culture made him a very pleasant companion.
"We're like the Argonauts going out after the Golden Fleece," Parmalee
was remarking.
"Yes," Ruth smiled, looking up from her work, "it doesn't seem as
though this were the twentieth century at all. Here we are, as much
adventurers as they were in the old times of Jason and his companions."
"Let's hope we'll be as lucky as they were," said Drew. "If I remember
rightly, they got what they went after."
"And yet when they started out they weren't a bit more sure than we
are," rejoined Parmalee.
"And we won't find any old dragon waiting to swallow us, as they did,"
laughed Ruth.
"Well, whether we find the treasure or not, we'll have plenty of fun in
hunting for it," prophesied Parmalee. "Somehow, I feel that we are on
the brink of a great adventure. I think I know something of the
feeling of the old explorers when they first came down to these parts.
Do you remember the way Keats describes it, Miss Ruth?"
"I don't recall," answered Ruth.
"I'll go and get the book. I have it in my cabin. Or wait. Perhaps I
can remember the way it goes." He paused a moment, and then began:
"Then feel I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien."
"What noble verse!" exclaimed Ruth.
Drew remained silent.
"The very air of these southern seas is full of romance," went on
Parmalee. "And of tradition too. Have you ever heard the story of
Drake's drum?"
"What is it?" asked Ruth.
"The old drum of Sir Francis Drake that called his men to battle is
still preserved in the family castle in England," explained Parmalee.
"It went with him on all his voyages. It beat the men to quarters in
the fight with the Spanish Armada and in all his battles on the Spanish
Main, when, to use his own words, he was 'singeing the whiskers of the
King of Spain.' He was buried at sea in the West Indies, and the drum
beat taps when his body was lowered into the waves.
"The story goes that when Drake was dying he ordered that the drum
should be sent back to England. Whenever the country should be in
mortal danger, his countrymen were to beat that drum, and Drake's
spirit would come back and lead them to victory."
"And have they ever done it?" asked Ruth, intensely interested.
"Twice," replied Parmalee. "Once when the Dutch fleet entered the
Thames with a broom at the masthead to show that they were going to
sweep the British from the seas. They beat it again when Nelson broke
the sea power of Napoleon at Trafalgar.
"Here's what an English writer supposes Drake to have said when he was
dying:
'Take my drum to England, hang it by the shore,
Strike it when your powder's running low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port of heaven
And drum them up the Channel, as we drummed them long ago.'"
"How stirring that is!" cried Ruth, clapping her hands.
"Yes," admitted Drew, a little dryly. "They must have forgotten to
beat it though at the time of the American Revolution."
It was a discordant note and all felt it.
"Oh, how horrid of you!" exclaimed Ruth. "You take all the romance out
of the story."
"I'm sorry," said Drew, instantly penitent.
"I don't believe you are a bit," declared Ruth. "And Mr. Parmalee told
that story so beautifully," she added, with a wicked little desire to
punish Drew.
"Cross my heart and hope to die," protested Drew, to appease his
divinity. "Put any penance on me you like. I'll sit in sackcloth and
put ashes on my head if you say so, and you'll never hear a whimper."
"He seems to be suffering horribly," said Parmalee, a bit
sarcastically, "and you know, Miss Ruth, that cruel and unusual
punishments are forbidden by the Constitution. I think you'd better
forgive him."
Ruth laughed and the tension was broken. But there was still a little
feeling of restraint, and after a few minutes Parmalee excused himself
and strolled away.
Ruth kept on stitching busily, her face bent studiously over her work.
Drew looked at her miserably, bitterly regretting the momentary impulse
to which he had yielded. He knew in his heart that he had been jealous
of the impression that Parmalee, by his easy and graceful narration,
had seemed to be making on Ruth, and he hated himself for it.
"Ruth," he said softly.
She seemed not to have heard him.
"Ruth," he repeated.
"Yes?" she answered, but without looking up.