Hot sunshine poured into the clearing on the shore of Puget Sound where
Henry Osborne had his dwelling. The pretty, wooden house, with its wide
veranda and scrollwork decoration, was finely situated in a belt of tall
pine forest. The resinous scent of the conifers crept into its rooms;
and in front a broad sweep of grass, checkered with glowing flower-beds,
ran down to the shingle beach. Rocky islets, crested with somber firs,
dotted the sparkling sound, and beyond them, climbing woods and hills,
steeped in varying shades of blue, faded into the distance, with behind
them all a faint, cold gleam of snow. The stillness of the afternoon was
emphasized by the soft splash of ripples on the beach and the patter of
the water which the automatic sprinklers flung in glistening showers
across the thirsty grass.
Caroline Dexter, lately arrived from a small New England town, sat in
the shade of a cedar. She was elderly and of austere character. The
plain and badly cut gray dress displayed the gauntness of her form, and
her face was of homely type; but her glance was direct, and those who
knew her best had learned that her censorious harshness covered a warm
heart. Now she was surveying her brother-in-law's house and garden with
a disapproving expression. All she saw indicated prosperity and taste,
and though she admitted that riches were not necessarily a snare, she
hoped Henry Osborne had come by them honestly.
She had never been quite sure about him, and it was not with her
goodwill that he had married her younger sister. She thought him lax and
worldly; but after his wife's death, which was a heavy blow to Caroline,
she had taken his child into her keeping and tenderly cared for her.
Indeed, she ventured to believe that she had molded Ruth Osborne's
character and won her affection. The girl might have fallen into worse
hands, for, in spite of her narrow outlook, Caroline Dexter was
unflinchingly upright.
Sitting stiffly erect in the garden chair, she turned to her niece, who
reclined with negligent grace in a canvas lounge. This, Caroline
thought, was typical of the luxurious indolence of the younger
generation, but, for all that, Ruth had some of the sterner virtues. The
girl was pretty, and though her aunt believed that beauty is a deceptive
thing, it was less dangerous when purged of pride and vanity. Caroline
hoped that the strictness with which she had brought up her niece had
freed her of these failings.
"Well, dear," she said, "this is a pretty place; and your father's
affairs have evidently improved. It's sad your dear mother didn't live
to enjoy it."
Though her dress and appearance were provincial, the austere simplicity
of her manner had in it something of distinction, and her accent was
singularly clean.
Ruth looked up at her with an air of thoughtful regret.
"Yes; I often feel that, when I think of the hard struggle she must have
had. Though I was very young then, I can remember the shabby
boardinghouses we stayed in, and my mother's pale, anxious face when she
and my father used to talk in the evenings. He seldom speaks about those
days, but I know he does not forget."
"It is to his credit that he never married again," Miss Dexter remarked
with a bluntness in which there was nothing coarse. "He loved your
mother, and one can forgive him much for that."
"But have you much to forgive? And, after all, men do sometimes marry
twice."
"And sometimes oftener! No doubt they're good enough for the women who
take them; but the love of a true man or woman is stronger than death!"
There was a warmth in the voice of this apparently unsentimental aunt
that surprised Ruth.
"You seem to speak with feeling," the girl said, half mockingly.
A shadow crept into Miss Dexter's eyes as she gazed, unseeingly, at a
seabird poised over the water; but almost immediately she turned to her
niece with her usual matter-of-fact calm.
"We were talking of your father's affairs," she said. "I notice a sinful
extravagance here: servants you do not need, a gasoline launch, and two
automobiles."
Ruth laughed.
"Father must get to town quickly, and cars sometimes break down;
besides, I believe he can afford them all. I sometimes think you are
rather hard on him."
"I'll admit that I have often wondered how he got his money. One cannot
make a fortune quickly without meeting many temptations. I suppose you
know your Uncle Charles had to lend him a thousand dollars soon after
you were born, and it was not paid back until a few years ago? Does your
father never tell you anything about his business?"
"I haven't thought of asking him," Ruth answered with some warmth. "He
has always been very kind to me, and I know that whatever he does is
right."
"A proper feeling," her aunt commented. "No doubt, he is no worse than
the others; but men's ideas are very lax nowadays."
Ruth was more amused than resentful. Though she was her father's staunch
partisan, she believed her aunt distrusted the makers of rapid fortunes
as a class rather than her brother-in-law in particular, and that her
frugal mind shrank with old-fashioned aversion from modern luxury. For
all that, Caroline Dexter had roused the girl's curiosity as to her
father's fortune and she determined to learn something about his years
of struggle when opportunity offered.
A moving cloud of dust rose among the firs where the descending road
crossed the hillside, and a big gray automobile flashed across an
opening. Ruth knew the car, and there was only one man of her
acquaintance who would bring it down the water-seamed dip at that
reckless speed.
"It's Aynsley," she said, with a pleased expression. "I'll bring him
here."
"And who is Aynsley?"
"I forgot you don't know. He's Aynsley Clay, the son of my father's old
partner, and runs in and out of the house when he's at home."
Turning away, she hurried toward the house, and as she reached it a
young man came out on the veranda. He was dressed in white flannel, with
a straw hat and blue serge jacket, and his pleasant face was bronzed by
the sea.
"I came right through," he said, holding out his hand. "It was
particularly nice of you to leave your chair to meet me."
"I'm glad to see you back," Ruth responded. "Did you have a pleasant
time? When did you get home?"
"Left the yacht at Portland yesterday, and came straight on. Found the
old man out of town, and decided I'd stop at Martin's place. I'm due
there this evening."
"But it's twenty miles off over the mountains, and this isn't the
nearest way."
Clay laughed, with a touch of diffidence that became him.
"What's twenty miles, even on a hill road, when you're anxious to see
your friends?"
He watched her as closely as he dared, for some hint of response, but he
was puzzled by her manner.
"It isn't a road," she laughed. "Some day you'll come here in pieces."
"I wonder whether you'd be sorry?"
"You ought to know. But come along--I believe my aunt is curious about
you."
When he was presented, Miss Dexter gave him a glance of candid scrutiny.
Aynsley was marked by a certain elegance and careless good humor, which
were not the qualities she most admired in young men, but she liked his
face and the frankness of his gaze. If he were one of the idle rich, he
was, she thought, a rather good specimen.
"What is your profession?" she asked him bluntly, when they had talked a
few moments.
"It's rather difficult to state, because my talents and pursuits are
varied. I'm a bit of a naturalist, and something of a yachtsman, while I
really think I'm smart at handling a refractory automobile. When I was
younger, it was my ambition to ride a raw cayuse, but now one grapples
with the mysteries of valves and cams. The times change, though one
can't be sure that they improve."
"Then you don't do anything?"
"I'm afraid you hold my father's utilitarian views, but there's room for
a difference of opinion about what constitutes hard work. To-day, for
instance, I spent two hours lying on my back beneath the car and fitting
awkward little bolts into holes; then I drove her fifty miles in three
hours over a villainous road, graded with rocks and split fir-trees. As
I've another twenty miles to go, my own opinion is that I'll have done
enough for any ordinary man when I get through."
"And how much better off is the community for your labors?"
"It's some consolation that nobody's much the worse, but I've known the
community suffer when it was slow in getting out of the way."
Though she shook her head disapprovingly, there was a gleam of amusement
in Miss Dexter's eyes.
"I suppose you're a product of your age, and can't be blamed for the
outlook your environment has forced upon you. After all, there are more
harmful toys than cars and yachts; enjoy them strenuously while you can.
It may fit you for something sterner when you lose your taste for them.
And there's something in your look which makes me think that time may
come."
A half-hour later Ruth and Aynsley were strolling together through a
grove of pines by the water's edge.
"What did you think of my aunt?" she asked.
"I think Miss Dexter is a very fine lady. What's more, I begin to see
where you got something I've noticed about you. I suppose you know that
you and she are not unlike?"
Ruth smiled. Her aunt was hard-featured and very badly dressed; but she
knew that these were not the points which had impressed him.
"The good impression seems to have been mutual," she said; "and to tell
the truth, I was slightly surprised. She's generally severe to idlers."
"I knew she'd spot me by my clothes, and I played up to the part. It
pleases people when you fall in with the ideas they form about you. But
speaking of idlers reminds me that before I went away the old man was
getting after me about wasting my talents; opined it was time I did
something, and said he'd stand for the losses I'd no doubt make in the
first two years if I'd run the Canadian mill he's lately bought. I
pointed out that it might cost him more than the boats and cars, and he
answered that he'd consider it as a fine for the way he brought me up.
However, we won't talk about that. It's too fine a day."
This was characteristic of him and Ruth laughed. He was careless and
inconsequent, but they had been friends for a long time and she liked
him. It was perhaps curious that she had never troubled herself about
his feeling for her, and had gone on taking his unexacting friendship
for granted. It was seldom that he became sentimental, and then she had
no trouble in checking him.
"Well," she said, "you have told me nothing about your voyage. You must
have seen something of interest, and had a few adventures."
"It's a good rule to avoid adventures when you can, and we followed it.
Perhaps the most interesting thing was my meeting with three men who
were fishing on a lonely island far up to the north."
"Fishing? That doesn't sound very exciting."
They sat down where an opening in the pines gave them a view of climbing
forests and sparkling sound, and Aynsley lighted a cigarette.
"That's what they seemed to be doing, but I've had my suspicions about
it since. If they caught anything, it would be a long way from a market,
and, though they were dirty and ragged enough, two of them hadn't the
look of regular fishermen. One rather amusing fellow was very much of
the kind you'd meet at a sporting club, and the other had the stamp of a
navy or first-class mailboat man. He was English."
Ruth looked up quickly. Jimmy had often been in her thoughts since she
had last seen him; although, as he had shown no anxiety to avail himself
of her invitation, she had made no inquiries about him. Osborne,
however, had visited Vancouver, and, seeing the vessel at the wharf, had
inquired about Farquhar and learned that he had left the ship on her
previous voyage. Ruth resented his silence, but she could not forget
him.
"What was the man like?" she asked.
"Which of them?"
"The last one; the navy man." She found it slightly embarrassing to
answer the question.
Aynsley gave her a keen glance.
"So far as I can recollect, he had light hair, and his eyes were a
darker blue than you often see; about my age, I think, and unmistakably
a sailor, but he had a smart look and the stamp of command. Do you know
anybody like that?"
Ruth did not answer with her usual frankness; although she did not doubt
that this was the second mate with whom she had spent many evenings on
the big liner's saloon deck.
"Oh, of course, we met several steamboat officers, and they're much of a
type," she answered in an indifferent tone.
Aynsley saw that she was on her guard. Girls, he understood, often had a
partiality for mailboat officers who were generally men of prepossessing
appearance and manners. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, for he
was usually diffident with Ruth. Although he had long admired her, he
knew that he would not gain anything by an attempt to press his suit.
"Anyway," he said, "they were pleasant fellows, and seemed to be having
a hard time. Between the ice and gales and fog, it's by no means a
charming neighborhood."
"Wasn't it on one of those islands that my father was wrecked, and lost
the gold he was bringing down?"
"Somewhere about there. Islands are plentiful in the North." Aynsley
paused and laughed. "Still, as my respected parent had some interest in
the gold, I shouldn't imagine they lost much. Losing things is not a
habit of his. I believe he had a share in the vessel, too."
"But she went down."
"That wouldn't matter. The underwriters would have an opportunity for
paying up--probably rather more than she was worth. Considering my
parentage, it's curious I have no business talent."
"Your father and mine have had dealings for a long time, haven't they?"
"They have stood by each other for a good many years. It looks as if you
and I were destined to be friends; but I sometimes think you don't
understand just what your friendship is to me."
"Of course, we are good friends," Ruth said carelessly; "but you have
plenty others."
"I have a host of acquaintances; but you're different from the rest.
That doesn't sound very original, but it's what I feel. There's an
intangible something that's very fine about you; something rare and
old-fashioned that belongs more to the quiet corners of the New England
States than to our mushroom cities. It comes of long and careful
cultivation, and isn't to be found in places that spring up in a night."
"Both my father's and my mother's people lived frugally in a very
provincial Eastern town."
"It proves my point. I know the kind of place: a 'Sleepy Hollow,' where
nothing happens that hasn't happened in the same way before, left as it
was when the tide of American life poured West across the plains. One
can imagine your mother's people being bound by old traditions and
clinging to the customs of more serious days. That, I think, is how you
got your gracious calm, your depth of character, and a sweetness I've
found in no one else."
Ruth rose with a smiling rebuke, and firmly turned the conversation into
another channel.
"Yes, I know," Aynsley said despondently. "I'm not to talk like that.
When I play the good-natured idiot people applaud, but they put me down
smartly when I speak the truth."
"You are never in the least idiotic," Ruth smiled. "But if you are to
cross the hills before dark, it's time we gave you something to eat."
He turned to her, half resigned and half indignant.
"Oh, well! If the auto jumps a bushman's bridge or goes down into a
gulch, you'll be sorry you snubbed me."
"We won't anticipate anything so direful," Ruth responded; then, with a
sudden change of tone, she added: "Take that post in your father's mill,
Aynsley; I think you ought."
He studied her a moment and then made a sign of assent.
"All right! I'll do it," he said.
An hour later she watched him start the car, and then sat down among the
pines to think, for there were questions which required an answer.
Aynsley was very likable. Beyond that she did not go. Her thoughts
turned to Farquhar, and she wondered why she so resented his dropping
out of sight. She knew little about him, but she could not forget the
evenings when they leaned on the rails together as the great ship went
steadily across the moonlit sea. Now, for she believed he was the man
Aynsley had met, he was in the desolate North, and she wondered what he
was doing there, and what perils he had to face. It cost her an effort
to banish him from her mind; but there was another question which had
aroused her curiosity. How had her father spent the years when she was
in her aunt's care, before he had grown rich? He had told her nothing
about his struggles, but she must ask. Sometimes he looked careworn and
she could give him better sympathy if it were based on understanding.
And how had his riches been gained, so quickly? Ruth had the utmost
confidence in her father, which even her aunt's doubts could not shake;
nevertheless, she resolved to question him.