Aynsley lay in danger for a long time; and Clay never left the mill. At
last, however, the boy began to recover slowly, but when he grew well
enough to notice things the scream of the saws and the throb of the
engines disturbed him. The light wooden building vibrated with the roar
of the machinery; and when the machinery stopped the sound of the river
gurgling about the log booms broke his sleep. He grumbled continually.
"How long does the doctor mean to keep me here?" he asked his father one
day.
"I can't say, but I understand that you can't be moved just yet," Clay
answered. "Aren't you comfortable?"
"Can you expect me to be, with the whole place jingling and shaking? If
I'm to get better it must be away from the mill."
"I'll see what the doctor thinks; but there's the difficulty that I
don't know where to take you. You wouldn't be much quieter in Seattle.
It's curious, now I think of it, that I haven't had a home for a good
many years, though I didn't seem to miss it until this thing happened."
Aynsley made a sign of languid agreement. He could not remember his
mother, and his father had not kept house within his recollection. For
the last few years he had rented luxurious rooms in a big hotel which
Aynsley shared with him when not away visiting or on some sporting trip;
but Aynsley now shrank from the lack of privacy and the bustle that went
on all day and most of the night. There was not a restful nook in the
huge, ornate building, which echoed with footsteps and voices, the clang
of the street-cars, and the harsh grinding of electric elevators.
"I want to go somewhere where it's quiet," he said.
"Then I guess I'll have to hire a bushman's shack or take you to sea in
the yacht. It never struck me before, but quietness is mighty hard to
find in this country. We're not a tranquil people."
"I couldn't stand for a voyage," Aynsley grumbled. "She's a wet boat
under sail if there's any breeze, and I don't want to crawl about
dodging the water. Then the fool man who designed her put the only
comfortable rooms where the propeller shakes you to pieces when the
engines are going."
On the whole, Clay felt relieved, particularly as Aynsley's hardness to
please implied that he was getting better. He had spent some time at the
mill and had a number of irons in the fire. It would damage his business
if they got overheated or perhaps cooled down before they could be used.
"Well," he suggested, "perhaps Osborne would take us in."
Aynsley's eyes brightened. Osborne's house was the nearest approach to a
home he had ever known. It was seldom packed with noisy guests like
other houses he visited, and one was not always expected to take part in
some strenuous amusement. The place was quiet and beautiful and all its
appointments were in artistic taste. He thought of it with longing as a
haven of rest where he could gather strength from the pine-scented
breezes and bask in Ruth's kindly sympathy.
"That would be just the thing! I feel that I could get better there.
Will you write to him?"
"First mail," Clay promised with a twinkle; "but I'm not sure that
Ruth's at home. Anyway, I've a number of letters to write now."
"I expect I've been pretty selfish in claiming all your time; but, if
Osborne will have me, it will give you a chance of going up to town and
looking after things."
"That's so," Clay replied. "As a matter of fact, some of them need it."
The doctor rather dubiously consented to his patient's being moved, and
Clay neglected no precaution that might soften the journey. As he feared
that the jolting of the railroad cars might prove injurious, a special
room was booked on a big Sound steamer, and it was only Aynsley's
uncompromising refusal to enter it that prevented his bringing out an
ambulance-van to convey him to the wharf. He reached the vessel safely
in an automobile, and as she steamed up the Sound he insisted on
throwing off his wraps and trying to walk about. The attempt fatigued
him, and he leaned on the rail at the top of a stairway from a lower
deck when the steamer approached a pine-shrouded island.
A tide-race swirled past the point, flashing in the sunshine a luminous
white and green, and Aynsley took his hand from the rail and stood
unsupported watching the shore glide by. As he was facing, he could not
see an ugly half-tide rock that rose out of the surging flood not far
ahead, and he was taken off his guard when the helm was pulled hard
over. The fast vessel listed with a sudden slant as she swung across the
stream, and Aynsley, losing his balance, fell down a few stairs and
struck a stanchion with his side. He clung to it, gasping and white in
face, and when Clay ran down to him there was blood on his lips.
"I'm afraid the confounded thing has broken out again," he said.
They carried him into the saloon, and Clay summoned the captain, who
came docilely at his bidding. It appeared that there was no doctor among
the passengers, and the boat was billed to call at several places before
she reached Seattle. None of these stops could be cut out, and the
captain suggested that it would be better to land the injured man as
intended, and send for assistance by fast automobile. Aynsley nodded
feebly when he heard this.
"Put me ashore," he murmured. "I'll be all right there."
An hour later the call of the whistle rang among the pines that rolled
down to the beach, and as the side-wheels beat more slowly a launch came
off across the clear, green water. Aynsley, choking back a cough, feebly
raised himself.
"If Ruth's on board that boat, she mustn't be scared," he said. "I'm
going down as if there was nothing wrong."
"You're going down in the arms of the two biggest seamen I can get,"
Clay replied. "If that doesn't please you, we'll lower you in a slung
chair."
Aynsley submitted when he found that he could not get up; and Ruth,
sitting with her father in the stern of the launch, started as she saw
him carried down the gangway. His face was gray and haggard when they
laid him on a cushioned locker, and the girl was moved to pity. But the
shock resolved some doubts that had long troubled her. She was startled
and sorry for Aynsley, but that was all; she did not feel the fear and
the suspense which she thought might have been expected.
Ansley saw her grave face, and looked up with a faint smile.
"I feel horribly ashamed," he said. "If I'd known I'd make a fool of
myself--"
"Hush!" Ruth laid her hand on him with a gentle, restraining touch as
she saw the effort it cost him to speak. "You must be quiet. We are
going to make you better."
"Yes," he said disjointedly. "I've been longing--knew I'd get all right
here--but I didn't expect--to turn up like this--"
A choking cough kept him still, and he hurriedly wiped his lips with a
reddened handkerchief.
"I am afraid it may be very bad," Clay whispered to Osborne. "Some miles
to the nearest 'phone call, isn't it?"
Osborne nodded affirmatively, and as they neared the beach he waved his
hand to a man on the lawn.
"Car!" he shouted. "Get her out! I'll tie up the boat."
With some trouble Aynsley was carried into the house, and the doctor who
arrived some hours later looked grave when he saw him. The next morning
he brought two nurses, and for several days his patient hovered between
life and death. He was delirious most of the time, but there were
intervals when his fevered brain partly recovered its balance and he
asked for Ruth. It was seldom that he spoke to her sensibly when she
came, but it was obvious that her presence had a soothing effect, for
his eyes followed her with dull satisfaction, and a few quiet words from
her would sometimes lull him to the sleep he needed.
Ruth felt her power, and used it for his benefit without hesitation and
without much thought about its cause. She was filled with pity and with
a curious, protective tenderness for the man, and there was satisfaction
in feeling that he needed her. It was her duty and pleasure to assist as
far as possible in his recovery. Clay watched her with growing
admiration, and sometimes she became disturbed under his searching
glance. She felt that he was curious about the motive which sustained
her in her task, and this caused her some uneasiness, for she suspected
that she might presently have to make it clear to herself and to others.
But the time for this had not come. Aynsley was still in danger, and all
concerned must concentrate their attention on the fight for his life.
Once when she left his room with an aching head and heavy eyes after a
long watch with the nurse, who could not control her fevered patient
without the girl's assistance, Clay met her on the stairs, and as he
gave her a swift, inquiring glance, she saw that his face was worn.
"Asleep at last," she said. "I think he'll rest for a few hours."
He looked at her with gratitude and some embarrassment, which was
something she had never seen him show.
"And you?" he asked. "How much of this can you stand for?"
Ruth did not think the question was prompted by consideration for her.
He would be merciless in his exactions, but she could forgive him this
because it was for his son's sake. Besides, there was subtle flattery in
his recognition of her influence.
"I dare say I can hold out as long as I am needed," she answered with a
smile. "After all, the nurses and the doctor are the people on whom the
worst strain falls."
"Bosh!" he exclaimed with rough impatience. "I guess you know you're
more use than all three together. Why that's so doesn't matter at
present; there the thing is."
Ruth blushed, though she was angry with herself as she felt her face
grow hot, because she had no wish that he should startle her into any
display of feeling; but, to her relief, he no longer fixed his eyes on
her.
"My dear," he said, "I want your promise that you'll pull him through.
You can, if you are determined enough; and he's all I have. Hold him
back--he's been slipping downhill the last few days--and there's nothing
you need hesitate about asking from me."
"Though it may not be much, I'll do what I can." Ruth's tone was
slightly colder. "But one does not expect--"
"Payment for a kindness?" Clay suggested. "Well, I suppose the best
things are given for nothing and can't be bought, but that has not been
my luck. What I couldn't take by force I've had to pay for at full
market price. The love of a bargain is in my blood. Pull my son through,
and whatever I can do for you won't make me less your debtor."
Ruth was silent a moment. She had of late been troubled by a vague
uneasiness on her father's account, and with a sudden flash of insight
she realized that it might be well to have the man's gratitude.
"After all, I may ask you for a favor some day," she answered, smiling.
"You won't find me go back on my word," he promised.
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.