The scent of the pines was heavy in the languid air. Bright sunshine
fell upon the grass, and the drowsy stillness was scarcely broken by the
splash of ripples on the beach. Aynsley, now fast recovering, lay in a
couch hammock where a patch of shadow checkered the smooth expanse of
Osborne's lawn. His face was thin, and his eyes were half closed, though
he was by no means asleep. The glare tired him, but his mind was busy
and he was tormented by doubts.
Ruth sat near him with a book, from which she had been reading aloud.
Her thin summer dress clung in graceful lines to her finely molded
figure; the large hat cut off the light from her face, which was quietly
serious, and there was a delicacy in its coloring and a curious liquid
glow in her eyes.
Aynsley was not an artist, but the picture she made filled him with a
sense of harmonious beauty. There was a repose about the girl which
generally had its effect on him; but as he watched her Aynsley felt the
hard throbbing of his heart. He had admired her greatly since they first
met, and it was now some time since appreciation had grown into love;
but the man was shrewd in some respects, and had seen that her
inclination was not toward him. She was too friendly, too frankly
gracious; he would rather have noticed some shy reserve. He had waited
with strong patience, until her tender care of him in his illness had
given him a vague hope. He feared it might prove illusory, but he could
keep his secret no longer, and summoned courage to test his fortune.
"Ruth," he said, "I'll have to get back to the mill next week. Though it
has been very pleasant, I've been loafing long enough."
She looked up abruptly, for her thoughts had been far away and he had
held no place in them.
"I suppose you must go when you are strong enough," she answered rather
absently. "Still, you have not recovered, and perhaps they can get on
without you."
This was not encouraging. Her tone was kind, but she had shown no
anxiety to detain him, and if she had wished to do so it would have been
easy to give him a hint. For all that, he must learn his fate.
"It's possible; in fact, I've a suspicion that they get on better when
I'm away; but that is not the point. I've been here some time, and have
made a good many demands on you. Now that you have cured me, I have no
excuse for abusing your good nature."
"You're not abusing it," she responded in a friendly tone. "Besides, if
you need the assurance, I enjoyed taking care of you. Though the nurses
really did the work, it's nice to feel oneself useful."
Though she smiled he was not much cheered. The care she had given him
was, in a sense, impersonal: she would have been as compassionate to a
stranger.
"I can understand," he said. "You are full of kindness, and must, so to
speak, radiate it. It's a positive relief to you. Anyway, that's
fortunate for me, because I shouldn't have been lying here, almost fit
now, if you hadn't taken me in hand."
"That's exaggeration," she replied with a faint blush, which he seized
upon as the first favorable sign.
"Not at all," he declared firmly. "You saved my life; I knew it when I
wakened up the morning the fever left me, and the doctor practically
admitted it when I asked him." He paused and gave her a steady look,
though his heart was beating fast. "And since you saved it, my life
belongs to you. It's a responsibility you have incurred. Anyway, the
life you gave me back when I'd nearly lost it is a poor thing, and not
much use to me unless I can persuade you to share it. Perhaps, in good
hands, it's capable of improvement."
Ruth was moved. She saw the deep trust and the longing in his eyes, and
he had spoken with a touch of humor, which, she thought, was brave
because it covered his want of hope. She could not doubt his love, and
she knew it was worth much. The knowledge brought the color to her face
and disturbed her.
"Aynsley," she said, "I'm sorry, but--"
He made a protesting gesture.
"Wait a minute! You did not know that I loved you. I read that in your
friendly candor. I felt that I was aiming too high but I couldn't give
up the hope of winning you some day, and I meant to be patient. Now I
expect you have got a painful shock; but I'm going away next week--and I
was swept off my feet."
"It isn't a shock," she answered with a smile that hid some confusion.
"You're too modest, Aynsley; any sensible girl would feel proud of your
offer. But, for all that, I'm afraid--"
"Please think it over," he begged. "Though I'm by no means what you have
a right to expect, there's this in my favor that, so far as I'm capable
of it, you can make what you like of me. Then I'm starting on a new
career, and there's nobody who could help me along like you."
Ruth was silent for a few moments, lost in disturbing thought. She knew
his virtues and his failings, and she trusted him. Now she realized with
a sense of guilt that she had not been quite blameless. She had seen his
love for her, and, while she had never led him on, she might have
checked him earlier; she could not be sure that she had altogether
wished to do so. She was fond of him; indeed, she was willing to love
him, but somehow was unable to do so.
"Aynsley," she said, "I'm more sorry than I can tell you; but you really
must put me out of your mind."
"It's going to be difficult," he answered grimly. "But I believe you
like me a little?"
"I think the trouble is that I like you too much--but not in the way
that you wish."
"I understand. I've been too much of a comrade. But if I were very
patient, you might, perhaps, get to like me in the other way?"
"It would be too great a risk, Aynsley."
"I'll take it and never blame you if you find the thing too hard." The
eagerness suddenly died out of his voice. "But that would be very rough
on you--to be tied to a man--" He broke off and was silent for a moment
before he looked up at her with grave tenderness. "Ruth dear, is it
quite hopeless?"
"I'm afraid so," she said softly, but with a note in her voice which
Aynsley could not misinterpret.
"Very well," he acquiesced bravely. "I have to fight this thing, but you
shall have no trouble on my account. I find the light rather strong out
here; if you will excuse me, I think I'll go in."
Rising with obvious weakness, he moved off toward the house; and Ruth,
realizing that he had been prompted by consideration for her, sat still
and wondered why she had refused him. He was modest, brave, unselfish,
and cheerful; indeed, in character and person he was all that she
admired; but she could not think of him as her husband. She pondered it,
temporizing, half afraid to be quite honest with herself, until in a
flash the humiliating truth was plain and she blushed with shame and
anger. The love she could not give Aynsley had already been given,
unasked, to another who had gone away and forgotten her.
She knew little about him, and she knew Aynsley well. Aynsley was rich,
and Jimmy was obviously poor--he might even have other disadvantages;
but she felt that this was relatively of small importance. Somehow he
belonged to her, and, though she struggled against the conviction, she
belonged to him. That was the end of the matter.
Growing cooler, she began to reason, and saw that she had blamed herself
too hastily. After all, though Jimmy had made no open confession, he had
in various ways betrayed his feelings, and there was nothing to prove
that he had forgotten her. Poverty might have bound him to silence;
moreover, there was reason to believe that he was away in a lonely
region, cut off from all communication with the outer world. Perhaps he
often thought about her; but these were futile speculations, and
banishing them with an effort she went into the house.
The next day Clay found Ruth sitting on the veranda.
"So you would not have my boy!" he said abruptly.
"Has he told you?" she asked with some embarrassment.
"Oh, no! But I'm not a fool, and his downcast look was hint enough. I
don't know if you're pleased to hear he has taken the thing to heart. It
ought to be flattering."
"I'm very sorry." Ruth's tone was indignant. "I think you are unjust."
"And showing pretty bad taste? Well, I'm not a man of culture, and I'm
often unpleasant when I'm hurt. I suppose you know the boy had set his
whole mind on getting you? But of course you knew it, perhaps for some
time; you wouldn't be deceived on a point like that."
"I can't see what you expect to gain by trying to bully me!" Ruth
flashed at him angrily, for her conscience pricked her.
Clay laughed with harsh amusement. He had broken many clever and
stubborn men who had stood in his way, and this inexperienced girl's
defiance tickled him.
"My dear," he said, "I'm not trying to do anything of the kind. If I
were, I'd go about it on a very different plan. Aynsley's a good son, a
straight man without a grain of meanness, and you could trust him with
your life."
"Yes," she answered softly, "I know. I'm very sorry--I can't say
anything else."
Clay pondered for a few moments. Her frank agreement disarmed him, but
he could not understand his forbearance. He had won Aynsley's mother in
the face of the determined opposition of her relatives, and there was a
primitive strain in him. Had all this happened when he was younger he
would have urged his son to carry Ruth off by force, and now, although
the times had changed, there were means by which she could, no doubt, be
compelled to yield. Still, although he was not scrupulous, and it might
be done without Aynsley's knowledge, he would not consider it. She had
saved the boy's life, and he had, moreover, a strange respect for her.
"Well," he conceded, "you look as if you knew your mind, and I guess
Aynsley must make the best of it."
Ruth was relieved when he left her, but she was also puzzled by a
curious feeling that she was no longer afraid of him. In spite of his
previous declaration of gratitude, she had dreaded his resentment; and
now that uneasiness had gone. He had said nothing definite to reassure
her, but she felt that while he regretted her refusal, she could look
upon him as a friend instead of a possible enemy.
During the evening she told her father, who had been absent for a day or
two.
"I am not surprised," he said; "I even hoped you would take him.
However, it's too late now, and if you hadn't much liking for Aynsley I
wouldn't have urged you."
"I was sure of that," Ruth said with an affectionate glance.
"How did Clay take your refusal of his son?"
"I think he took it very well. He paid me a compliment as he went away."
She noticed her father's look of relief, and it struck her as being
significant.
"You have reason to feel flattered," he said, "because Clay's apt to
make trouble when he is thwarted. For all that, it's unfortunate your
inclinations didn't coincide with his wishes."
"Why?" Ruth asked sharply.
Osborne looked amused at her bluntness.
"Well, I really think Aynsley has a good deal to recommend him: money,
position, pleasant manners, and an estimable character. Since you're not
satisfied, it looks as if you were hard to please."
"I have no fault to find with him," Ruth answered with a blush. "Still,
one doesn't make up a list of the good qualities one's husband ought to
have."
"It might not be a bad plan," Osborne said humorously; "anyway, if you
could find a man to meet the requirements." He dropped his bantering
manner. "I'm sorry you dismissed Aynsley, but if you are satisfied that
it was best, there's no more to be said."
He turned away, and Ruth pondered what she had heard. It was plain that
her father shrank from offending Clay; and that seemed to confirm the
vague but unpleasant suspicions she had entertained about their business
relations. Somehow she felt that not yet had she got at the bottom of
her father's dealings with that man.