Aynsley, sitting near an open window in his office, laid down his pen
and looked out with a sense of satisfaction. A great raft of lumber was
ready to start down the river, and men were scrambling about it loosing
the mooring-chains. The pond was full of logs lately run down on a
freshet, and the green flood swirled noisily past them. Its color
indicated that the snow was melting fast on the lofty inland ranges, and
sweet resinous scents rose from the stacks of cedar where the sunshine
struck hot upon them. A cloud of smoke streamed across the long sheds
and streaked the pines behind the mill with a dingy smear; and the
scream of saws and the crash of flung-out boards filled the clearing.
All this suggested profitable activity; and Aynsley's satisfaction
deepened as he glanced at some letters which a clerk handed him. They
contained orders, and he foresaw that he would soon have to increase the
capacity of the mill. He was thinking over a scheme for doing so when
his father was shown in. Clay smiled at his surprise, and sat down in
the nearest chair, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you locate on the ground-floor instead of making people walk
up those blamed awkward steps?" he asked.
"I can see better from here what's going on," Aynsley explained. "I find
it saves me a little money now and then."
Clay beamed upon him.
"There was a time when I didn't expect to hear you talk like that.
However, you have a pretty good mill-boss and secretary, haven't you? Do
you think you could leave them to look after matters for a little
while?"
"I suppose I could," Aynsley answered dubiously. "They know more about
the business than I do; but, for all that, I'd rather be on the spot.
Things seem to go wrong unless you look closely after them."
"They do; you're learning fast, my son. It looks as if the mill is
getting hold of you."
Aynsley took a plan of some buildings from a drawer.
"What do you think of this?" he asked. "We could keep the new saws busy,
but the job would cost about twenty thousand dollars. Could you let me
have the money, or shall I go to the bank?"
Clay inspected the plan carefully.
"It's a good scheme," he declared. "If trade keeps steady, you'll soon
get the cost back. I could lend you the money easily but perhaps you'd
better try the bank. You've got to stand by yourself sooner or later;
and it seems to me that you're getting pretty steady on your feet. Guess
you're not sorry now I made you work?"
Aynsley pondered the question. In some respects the business was not to
his taste, but in spite of this it was rapidly engrossing his attention.
There was a fascination in directing, planning for the future, and
bringing about results.
"No," he said. "In fact, I'm getting a good deal more satisfaction out
of it than I expected."
"That should help you in another matter. You won't take your not getting
Osborne's girl quite so hard."
For a few moments Aynsley sat still with knitted brows. It was his habit
to be honest with himself, and he saw that to some extent his father was
right. He thought of Ruth with deep tenderness and regret, and he
believed that he would always do so, but the poignant sense of loss
which he had at first experienced had gone. He did not think that he was
fickle or disloyal to her, but his new interests had somehow dulled the
keenness of his pain.
"I suppose that's true," he answered quietly.
"Your real trouble will begin when you see her getting fond of another
man. What are you going to do about it then?"
Aynsley winced.
"It's rather hard to speak about, but, if the fellow's fit for her, I'll
try to bear it and wish them well."
"You'll make good," Clay commented with dry approval. "But I've been
getting off the track. You have been sticking to your work pretty
closely, and, as things are going, you can leave it without much risk. I
want you to take me North for a few weeks in the yacht. The doctor
recommends the trip."
It struck Aynsley that his father was not looking well. He had lost his
high color, his face had grown pouchy under the eyes, and he had a
strained, nervous look. Aynsley had some business on hand which demanded
his personal attention, but he recognized his duty to his father. Then,
the North had its fascination, and the thought of another grapple with
gray seas, smothering fog, and biting gales appealed to him.
"Very well," he said. "When do you want to go?"
"As soon as we can get away. Next week, if possible. You had better tell
the captain to get his crew and coal on board."
Aynsley called his secretary, and when Clay left he had arranged to meet
him at Victoria in a fortnight.
The time was, however, extended; for on getting the yacht ready for sea
some repairs to rigging and engines were found needful, and these took
longer than the skipper expected. At last Clay received word that they
would be finished in a few days, and he paid a visit to Osborne.
Reaching the house in the evening, he sat talking with his host in the
library after dinner. A shaded lamp stood on a table laid out with wine
and cigars, but this was the only light and beyond its circle of
illumination the large room was shadowy. The floor was of polished wood,
but a fine rug stretched from near the table to the door, where heavy
portieres hung. The men spoke in quiet, confidential voices as they
smoked.
"The Farquhar gang have separated, and I've lost track of them, but if
they can scrape up three or four hundred dollars between them I'll be
surprised," Clay said. "They're going to have some trouble in fitting
out their boat; and she's a very small thing, anyway. Though the delay
has worried me, we should get up there long before they do, and we only
need a few days of fine weather to finish the job."
"There's some risk in your taking the diver and Aynsley," Osborne
cautioned. "You may have some difficulty in keeping both in the dark."
"It oughtn't to be hard. I take the owner's berth with the small
sitting-room attached, and everything we bring up will go straight in
there--and I'll keep the key. The diver's business ends when he puts the
stuff on deck, and after it's stowed nobody will touch it but myself."
"Aynsley may want to see it, and ask questions."
"Then he won't be gratified. I have him pretty well drilled, and he
knows when to stop. Besides, I'll find him useful. When anything needs
talking over, I'll have him to consult with instead of a paid man. The
skipper's more of a sailing-master. Aynsley takes command."
"Still, you can't keep everything from him," Osborne persisted. "It
seems to me there are too many people who must, to some extent, be taken
into your confidence. That's where Farquhar has the advantage. He has
only two partners, whom he can rely upon."
"Shucks! You get to imagining trouble! Some of the gold is there all
right, and, if it's needful, I can make a show with that. For all that,
I'd like a companion who knew as much as I did, and I feel a bit sore
because I have to go without. It's your place to see me through, but
you've got so blamed fastidious lately."
"I'm not going," Osborne answered softly, for Clay had raised his voice.
"I've had enough to do with the wreck."
Clay indicated the handsome room and its rich fittings with a wave of
his hand.
"You have had your share of the plunder, and you hadn't a shack to call
your own when I first got hold of you. Now, when I'm up against an
awkward job, you go back on me. However, if I wanted you--"
He broke off, looking up sharply as a draught of colder air entered the
room; and Osborne, turning with a start, saw Ruth standing on the rug.
Her face was in shadow, for she was outside the direct illumination of
the shaded lamp, but so far as he could discern, her attitude was easy
and natural.
"Walter has just come back with the car and brought this telegram," she
said. "I thought it might be important."
Osborne was partly reassured by her voice. She spoke in her normal tone,
but he wished he could see her better.
"Thank you," he said, opening the envelope. "We'll have finished our
talk before very long."
Ruth went out in silence, and Clay looked hard at Osborne.
"Could she have heard?"
"I don't think so. I hope not."
"I'd soon have found out if it had been a man," Clay said grimly.
"Anyhow, all she could have picked up wouldn't give her much of a clew."
He was wrong. Ruth's suspicions had already been aroused, and now Clay
had justified them out of his own mouth. She knew that he was going
north where Jimmy, who had spoken of some plan for improving his
fortune, had been engaged at the wreck. Clay had mentioned a share of
the plunder, so something was far from straight. Worse still, he seemed
to have been urging her father to go with him.
It had cost her an effort to maintain her composure when she gave him
the telegram, and her face was pale when she went downstairs and sat in
a corner of the empty hall. Ruth had had a shock. Until lately she had
given her indulgent father her wholehearted affection and respect. His
life had long been hard, but she believed he had at last achieved
success by courage and integrity. Then she began to distrust his
association with Clay, and by degrees perplexing doubts had grown up.
She was imaginative, and when she began to form a theory, odd facts that
had accidentally come to her knowledge had fitted in. Vessels, she knew,
were sometimes lost by their owners' consent and frauds perpetrated on
the underwriters. It was horrible to think that, but what Clay had said
indicated something of the kind.
Then, as she recovered from the shock, she felt pitiful, and tried to
make excuses for her father. He must have been hard pressed when he
yielded to temptation, and his partner had, no doubt, placed it in his
way. She was filled with a desire to protect him. He must be saved from
the evil influence that had led him into wrong. She remembered that Clay
had declared he owed her a debt of gratitude. She would remind him of
it. He must release her father from whatever hold he had on him; she had
a curious confidence that he would do so if she begged it.
She waited, nerving herself for the effort, until he came downstairs and
then she beckoned him into the empty drawing-room.
"I suppose my father's busy?"
"Yes; he has a letter to write."
Clay leaned carelessly on a chair-back, watching her as she stood
quietly confronting him. The intentness of her expression and her
stillness were significant. She suspected something, and he was sorry
for her; if he could remove her suspicions, he would do so.
"Then he won't be down for some minutes," she said. "I have something to
say--you have been trying to make him go North with you?"
"No; not exactly. I'm not sure I could make him; he's pretty determined.
Don't you want him to go?"
"No!" she cried. "You mustn't take him! And in future you must leave him
alone. I can't let you force him to do things he hates!"
Clay smiled at her vehemence.
"It looks as if you suspected me of leading him astray. Now, in a sense,
that's hardly fair to either of us. Don't you think your father has a
will of his own?"
"I know you have some power over him, and I beg you not to use it."
Clay pulled out a chair.
"I think you had better sit down while we talk this thing over. To begin
with, your father and I are old friends; we have faced hard times
together and shared very rough luck. It seems to me that gives us some
claim on each other."
"That is not what I mean," Ruth said firmly.
Clay was determined to spare her as far as he could.
"Then, if you suspect some other influence, I'd better warn you that
you're too young and inexperienced to form a reliable opinion. You hear
something that startles you, and, without understanding it, you make a
blind guess. Take it from me that your father is known as one of the
straightest business men in this State." He paused and laughed. "In
fact, he's getting too particular for me. I'm 'most afraid I'll have to
drop him."
"That is what I want you to do; I mean as a business partner."
"Then you wouldn't quite bar me out as a private acquaintance?"
"No," Ruth answered slowly. "Somehow, I feel that you might prove a good
friend."
"Thanks. Now I want you to listen. I'm not going to defend my commercial
character. I've taken up a good many risky deals and put them through,
fighting the men who meant to down me as best I could; but all my
business hasn't been a raid on somebody else's property. In fact, you
can't play the bold pirate too often. Very well; now and then, when I
was doing an innocent trade, I wanted a respectable associate as a kind
of guarantee, and asked your father to stand in. He's known as a
straight man, and my having him helped to disarm suspicion; I'll admit
that I found him useful in that respect. I hope I've said enough to
satisfy you?"
Though his manner was humorous, Ruth felt somewhat comforted. His
explanation sounded plausible, and she was glad to make the most of it;
but it did not banish all her doubts.
"I don't want him to have anything to do with your northern trip," she
persisted.
"Why?"
Ruth hesitated, and Clay felt moved to sympathy. There was distress and
perplexity in her face, but what touched him most was something in her
manner that suggested confidence in his ability to help her.
"I'm afraid; I feel that no good can come of it," she said with an
appealing look. "You mustn't let him have any part in it."
"Very well." Clay leaned forward, speaking in an earnest tone. "Set your
mind at rest. You have my word that your father shall have no share in
what I hope to do at the wreck. What's more, he doesn't know all my
plans about her. There's nothing in them that can injure him; on the
contrary, if I can carry them out, it will be to his benefit, in a way
that he doesn't expect and that you could find no fault with."
Ruth felt that he was speaking the truth; giving her a pledge of greater
importance than she could gage. His manner had impressed her, and she
was conscious of keen relief.
"Thank you," she said, getting up. "You must forgive my frankness--it
seemed needful."
"It's a compliment, because it shows that, after all, you have some
faith in me." He added, with a smile, "You won't regret it."
Ruth left him with a lighter heart. She did not know whether she had
been too hard on Clay or not, but she felt that she could trust him.