Читать книгу The Secret of the Reef - Bindloss Harold - Страница 8

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.”