Seven weeks after she had searched for the first jessamine, Ruth Chase
was again at St. Augustine. But in the meanwhile she had made a long
journey, having accompanied her husband to California. Chase had
unexpectedly come back to Florida, to see David Patterson. When he
reached New York on his return from the West, and learned that Patterson
had been stricken down by illness at Palatka, he decided that the best
thing he could do would be to go to Palatka himself immediately.
Ruth was delighted. "That means St. Augustine for me, doesn't it? Mother
and Dolly are still there. Oh, I _am_ so glad!"
"Why, Ruthie, do you care so much about it as all that? Why didn't you
say so before?" said Chase, looking up from his letters. "Then I could
have taken you down there in any case. Whereas now it's only this
accident of Patterson's being laid up that has made me decide to go. You
must _tell_ me what you want, always. It's the only way we can possibly
get along," he concluded, with mock severity.
Ruth gazed at the fire; for in New York, at the end of March, it was
still cold. "I love St. Augustine. I was _so_ happy there this winter,"
she said, musingly.
"Shall I build you a house near the sea-wall?" inquired her husband,
gathering up his letters and telegrams. As he left the room, he paused
beside her long enough to pass his hand fondly over her hair.
It was arranged that Walter Willoughby, who had returned with them from
California, should also accompany them southward. For there were certain
details of the Western enterprise which Patterson understood better than
any one else did, as he had devoted his attention to them for six
months; it now became important that these details should be explained
to the younger man, in the (possible) case of Patterson's being laid up
for some time longer. After one day in New York, therefore, Chase and
his wife and young Willoughby started for the land of flowers. At
Savannah a telegram met them: "Horace Chase, Pulaski House, Savannah.
Come alone. Patterson."
"When he's sick, he is always tremendously scared," commented Chase. "I
suppose we shall have to humor him. But I'll soon stir him up, and make
him feel better, Walter, and then I'll wire for you to come over at
once. Probably within twenty-four hours." After taking his wife to St.
Augustine, he crossed to Palatka alone. Walter was to wait at St.
Augustine for further directions.
The young New-Yorker agreed to everything. He was in excellent spirits;
throughout the whole Californian expedition he had, in truth, been
living in a state of inward excitement, though his face showed nothing
of it. For his uncle had consented, and he (Walter) had got his foot
into the stirrup at last. The ride might be breakneck, and it might be
hard; but at least it would not be long, and it would end at the
wished-for goal. Between two such riders as Patterson and Horace Chase
(Horace Chase especially; best of all, Horace Chase!), he could not fall
behind; they would sweep him along between them; he should come in
abreast. A closer acquaintance with Chase had only increased his
admiration for the man's extraordinary mind. "If ever there was a genius
for directing big combinations, here's one with a vengeance!" he said to
himself.
On the second day after Chase's departure for Palatka, Ruth and her
mother, in the late afternoon, drove across the Sebastian River by way
of the red bridge, and thence to the barrens. These great tree-dotted
Florida prairies possess a charm for far-sighted eyes; their broad,
unfenced, unguarded expanses, stretching away on all sides, carpeted
with flowers and ferns, and the fans of the dwarf-palmetto, have an air
of freedom that is alluring. Walter Willoughby accompanied the two
ladies, perched in the little seat behind. He had, in fact, nothing else
to do, as Chase had as yet sent no telegram.
They drove first to the Ponce de Leon spring. And Ruth made them drink:
"so that we shall always be young!"
Leaving the spring, they drove to another part of the barren. Here the
violets grew so thickly that they made the ground blue. "I must have
some," said Ruth, joyously. And leaving her mother comfortably leaning
back in the phaeton under her white umbrella, she jumped out and began
to gather the flowers with her usual haste and impetuosity. "Why don't
you come and help?" she said to Walter. "You're terribly lazy. Tie the
ponies to that tree, and set to work."
Walter obeyed. But he only gathered eight violets; then he stopped, and
stood fanning himself with his straw hat. "It is very warm," he said.
"Won't you let me get pitcher-plants instead? There are ever so many
over there. They are so large that eight of them will make a splendid
show." Daily companionship for seven weeks had made him feel thoroughly
at his ease with her. He had forgiven her for those old delays which she
had unknowingly caused in his plans; he now associated her with his
good-fortune, with his high hopes. She had been in the gayest spirits
throughout their stay in California, and this, too, had chimed in with
his mood.
"Pitcher-plants!" said Ruth. "Horrid, murdering things! Let them alone."
But they strolled that way to look at them; and then they walked on
towards a ridge, where she was sure that they should find calopogon.
Beyond the ridge there was a clear pool, whose amber-colored water
rested on a bed of silver sand; along one side rose the tall, delicate
plumes of the _Osmunda regalis_. "Isn't it lovely?" said Ruth. "I don't
believe there is anything more beautiful in all Florida!"
"Yes, one thing," thought Walter, "and that is Ruth Chase." For Ruth's
beauty had deepened richly during the past half-year. It was not Walter
alone who had noticed the change, every one spoke of it. At present his
eyes could not but note it once more, as she stood there in her white
dress under the ferns.
Then suddenly his thoughts were diverted in another direction. "I'm sure
that's for me!" he exclaimed. For he had discerned in the distance a
little negro boy on horseback. "He is bringing me my telegram at last--I
mean the one from your husband, Mrs. Chase, which I have been expecting
for two days. The stupid is following the road. I wonder if I couldn't
make him see me from here, so as to gain time?" And taking off his hat,
he waved it high in the air. But the child kept on his course. "Perhaps
I can make him hear," said Walter. He shouted, whistled, called. But all
to no purpose. "We might as well go back towards the phaeton," he
suggested. And they started.
"What will the telegram be?" said Ruth, arranging her violets as she
walked on. "Have you any idea?"
"A very clear one; it will tell me to arrive at Palatka as soon as
possible."
"And, from Palatka, do you go back to New York?"
"Yes; immediately."
"We shall be in New York, too, by the middle of April. You are to stay
in New York, aren't you?"
"Yes. It is to be my post in the game which will end, we trust, in your
husband's piling up still higher his great fortune, while _I_ shall have
laid very solidly the foundation of mine. Good! that boy sees me at
last." For the little negro, suddenly leaving the road, was galloping
directly towards them over the barren, his bare feet flapping the flanks
of his horse to increase its speed. Walter ran forward to meet him, took
the telegram, tore open the envelope, and read the message within. Then,
after rewarding the messenger (who went back to town in joyful
opulence), he returned to Ruth.
"Palatka?" she said, as he came up.
"No. Something entirely different. And very unexpected. I am to go to
California; I am to start to-morrow morning. And I am to stay
there--live there. It will be for a year or two, I suppose; at any rate,
until this new campaign of your husband's planning has been fought out
and won--as won it surely will be. For Patterson, it seems, won't be
able to go at present, and I am to take his place. Later, he hopes to be
on the spot. But even then I am to remain, they tell me. My instructions
will be here to-night by letter." He felt, inwardly, a great sense of
triumph that he was considered competent--already considered
competent--to take charge of the more important post. And as he put the
telegram in his pocket, the anticipation of success came to him like a
breeze charged with perfume; his pulses had a firm, quick beat; the
future--a future of his own choosing--unrolled itself brightly before
him.
Ruth had made no reply. After a moment her silence struck him--struck
him even in his preoccupation--and he turned to look at her.
Her face had a strange, stiffened aspect, as though her breathing had
suddenly been arrested.
"Are you ill?" he asked, alarmed.
"Oh no; I am only tired. Where is the phaeton? I have lost sight of it."
"Over there; don't you see your mother's white parasol?"
"Let us go back to her. But no--not just yet. I'll wait a moment or two,
as I'm so tired." And, turning her back to him, she sat down on a fallen
pine-tree, and rested her head on her hand.
"I can bring the phaeton over here?" Walter suggested. "There is no
road, but the ground is smooth."
She shook her head.
After a moment he began to talk; partly to fill the pause, partly to
give expression to the thoughts that occupied his own mind--occupied it
so fully that he did not give close heed to her. She was suddenly tired.
Well, that was nothing unusual; it was always something sudden;
generally a sudden gayety. At any rate, she could rest there comfortably
until she felt able to go on. "It's very odd to me to think that
to-morrow I shall be on my way to California again," he began. "That's
what I get by being the poor one of the company, Mrs. Chase! Your
husband, and Patterson, and my uncle, they sit comfortably at home; but
they send _me_ from pillar to post without the least scruple. I don't
mind the going. But the staying--that's a change indeed. To live in
California--I have had a good many ideas in my mind, but I confess I
have never had that." He laughed. But it was easy to see that the idea
pleased him greatly.
Ruth turned. Her eyes met his. And then, startled, amazed, the young man
read in their depths something that was to him an intense surprise.
At the same moment she rose. "I can go now. Mother will be wondering
where I am," she said.
He accompanied her in silence, his mind in a whirl. She said a few words
on ordinary subjects. Every now and then her voice came near failing
entirely, and she paused. But she always began again. Just before she
reached the phaeton she took a gray gauze veil from her pocket, and tied
it hastily across her face under her broad-brimmed hat. Mrs. Franklin
was waiting for them in lazy tranquillity. While Walter untied the
ponies, Ruth took the small seat behind. "Just for a change," she
explained. Walter, therefore, in her vacant place, drove them back to
town. Having taken Mrs. Franklin home, he left Ruth at her own door. "As
I'm off early to-morrow morning, Mrs. Chase, I'll bid you good-by now,"
he said, as the waiting servant came forward to the ponies' heads. She
gave him her hand. He could not see her face distinctly through that
baffling gray veil.
That evening at eleven o'clock he passed the house again; he was taking
a farewell stroll on the sea-wall. As he went by, he saw that there was
a light in the drawing-room. "She has not gone to bed," he thought. He
jumped down from the wall, crossed the road, and, going up the steps,
put his hand on the bell-knob. But a sudden temptation took possession
of him, and, instead of ringing, he opened the door. "If her mother is
with her, I'll pretend that I found it ajar," he said to himself. But
there were no voices, all was still. His step had made no sound on the
thick rugs, and, advancing, he drew aside a curtain. On a couch in a
corner of the drawing-room was Ruth Chase, alone, her face hidden in her
hands.
She started to her feet as he came in. "After all, Mrs. Chase, I found
that I wanted more of a good-by--" he began. And then, a second time, in
her eyes he read the astonishing, bewildering story. "She is still
unconscious of what it is," he thought. "If I go away at once--at once
and forever--no harm is done. And that is what I shall do." This was his
intention, and he knew that he should follow it. The very certainty,
however, made him allow himself a moment or two of delay. For how
beautiful she was, and how deeply she loved him! He could not help
offering, as it were, a tribute to both; it seemed to him that he would
be a boor not to do so. And then, before he knew it, he had gone
further. "You see how it is with me," he began. "You see that I love
you; I myself did not know it until now." (What was this he was telling
her? And somehow, for the moment, it was true!) "Don't think that I do
not understand," he went on. "I understand all--all--" While he was
uttering these words he met her eyes again. And then he felt that he was
losing his head. "What am I doing? I'm not an abject fool!" he managed
to say to himself, mutely--mutely but violently. And he left the house.
It took all his strength to do it.