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“You must have felt anxious with all your gold on board,” Ruth said.
“No,” replied Osborne, with a moment’s hesitation, which she missed. “Clay had insured the vessel and his shipments by her on a kind of floating policy. I believe he had some trouble to effect it, but he managed to get the thing arranged through a broker with whom he had a little influence.”
“Clay seems to have a good deal of influence,” Ruth thoughtfully remarked. “How does he get it?”
“It’s a gift of his,” Osborne answered, with a curious smile. “However, to go back to my tale, I knew the gold was insured, because, as joint owner, I had to sign a declaration about its value, which would go by another vessel with the bill of lading. To tell the truth, I was getting more anxious about my personal safety, for the cold and mist and wild weather were wearing on the nerves. At last, the gale blew itself out; but the haze got thicker as the sea began to fall; and one night I was awakened by a shock that threw me out of my berth. As I got a few clothes on I felt her strike again, and when I ran out on the deck, half dressed, it was clear that she had made her last voyage. She lay, canted over, across the sea, with her after-part sinking and the long swell which still ran breaking over her. You could see the smooth slopes of water roll out of the dark and melt into foam that covered half the deck, while the planking crushed in with a horrible sound as the reef ground through her bilge. There was, however, no panic. The miners quietly helped to swing the boats out; and, seeing that she was holding together, I went with Clay and two seamen to open the strong-room. It was reached through a trap in the cabin floor, but some beams in breaking had jambed this fast, and we attacked the deck with bars and axes.
“It was sharply slanted, the poop heaved and worked as the swell roared about it, and a big lamp that still burned hung at an extraordinary angle with the bulkhead. I remember that a maple sideboard which had wrenched itself away and slipped down to leeward, lay, smashed to pieces, in a pool of water; but there was no time to lose in looking about. We all worked well, but Clay did more than any of us. He was half dressed, his face was savage and dripping with sweat, and he swung his ax in a fury, regardless of the rest. In fact, his mood puzzled me afterward.”
“But his gold was below!” said Ruth.
“It was fully insured,” Osborne explained. “I didn’t think Clay was likely to make such desperate efforts for the benefit of the underwriters; and he was not acting a part, because when the slant of floor got steeper and we were warned to come out before she slipped off the reef, he shouted reckless offers of money to the men to encourage them to keep on. We might have broken through if we had had a few more minutes, though the strong-room must have been already flooded, but the lamp fell as she reeled when a roller struck her, and we were left in darkness with the water washing about our feet. It drove us out and she was obviously going down when we waded across the after-deck. A boat lay under the quarter, but it was swept clear as soon as I dropped on board, and as we lurched away on the long swell there was a heavy crash. Then a blue light flared up and showed us other boats, and only half the wreck left, looming black amid spouting foam.
“It seemed that nobody had been left behind, and those who could row took the oars in turns through the dreary night. In the darkness we missed an island which lay not far off, and it was two days later when we landed on a desolate mainland beach. We were there a fortnight, living, for the most part, on shellfish, and then, fortunately, a Canadian sealing schooner ran into a neighboring inlet for water. She took us on board, and, as we filled her up, it was a relief when she transferred us to a wooden propeller off the northern end of Vancouver Island.”
“Then the gold was lost?”
“All that was in the strong-room; the miners saved most of theirs. Nobody was blamed for the wreck, the underwriters paid, and when a salvage expedition failed to recover anything, there was an end of the matter. The gold lies at the bottom of the sea, and though I don’t know that I’m superstitious, I think that’s the best place for it. From the beginning, it brought nobody luck.”
“It had a tragic story,” Ruth agreed. “I wonder what would happen if somebody fished it up?”
Osborne laughed.
“There’s not much fear of that. The wreck must have slipped off the reef soon after we left, because the salvage people found both halves of her in deep water; but the strong tides and the bad weather prevented them from working and they declared that she would be buried in the sand before another attempt could be made.”
He turned to her with a smile in his eyes.
“Now, little girl,” he said, “you know all about it, and I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I found it very interesting,” Ruth replied with a thoughtful air. “In reality, it was the insurance payment that gave you a start?”
“In a sense.” Osborne’s tone was grave. “Still, it was not what I’d now consider a large amount, and I’ve sometimes felt that I wouldn’t be sorry for an excuse to give it back.”
“I don’t suppose Clay ever felt that way,” Ruth said.
“One wouldn’t imagine so. What Clay gets he keeps. He’s not the man to let his imagination run away with him.”
Osborne rose and strolled across the lawn, but Ruth sat still in the gathering dark. It was a curious story she had heard, but she thought she could understand her father’s feeling regarding the gold. It had brought him bitter disappointment and permanent lameness, as well as hardships and suffering. There was, however, something puzzling in Clay’s determined attempt to break into the strong-room while the ship was going to pieces. He was insured against all loss, and he was not the man to take undue personal risks. Then Ruth’s thoughts returned to the gold, which had a fascination for her. After all, it was, perhaps, not impossible that it should be recovered. A spell of unusually fine weather or a change in the currents might make another attempt easier. Treasure often had been taken from vessels long after they had sunk. Ruth thought of Jimmy Farquhar, engaged in some mysterious occupation on an island in the North. It seemed extravagant to suppose that he had found the wreck; but it was not impossible. It would be a curious thing if he should bring up from the depth what her father had lost. But her father had said the gold brought bad luck in its train.
The darkness crept up across the lawn and hovered round the girl, enshrouding her, as she thought of Jimmy Farquhar on the lonely island in the North and puzzled over his connection with the ill-fated gold.
CHAPTER XI – FATHER AND SON
Osborne did not go to town on Saturdays, and he and Ruth were sitting in a shady corner of the lawn during the hot afternoon when a cloud of dust whirled up among the firs. The speed with which it streaked the climbing forest had its significance to Ruth, but when a big gray car flashed across an opening her expression changed.
“There’s no mistaking Aynsley’s trail,” Osborne laughed. “He blazes it on the bodies of straying chickens and hogs; but I imagine you noticed that he wasn’t alone.”
“I did; and I would have been quite as pleased if he had left his father at home.”
“So I surmised.” Osborne smiled. “It seems to be what the older generation is intended for; but Clay’s not the man to take kindly to the shelf and, everything considered, you couldn’t blame him. Aynsley’s the more ornamental – a fine figure of a man as he sits at the wheel; but his father’s the driving force that makes the machine go. So far, his son hasn’t made much of anything unless the material was put ready to his hand.”
“At least, he has done no harm.”
“That’s a very negative virtue. It isn’t thought highly of in this country.”
“I told him not long ago that he ought to work,” Ruth replied in unguarded confidence.
“It will be interesting to see if he follows your advice. His friends have been urging the course for several years without much effect.”
“He means to take charge of the Canadian mill; but, of course, he may have a number of reasons for doing so,” Ruth added hastily.
Osborne made no comment. Of late, he had begun to wonder where her friendship for Aynsley would lead, and although it would not have displeased him had she shown any tenderness for the man, he could discover no sign of this.
He went forward to meet his guests, and when they came out of the house a few minutes later Aynsley went straight across the lawn to greet Ruth and Miss Dexter, who had joined her niece, while Clay and Osborne followed a path which led through the pines. Clay was strongly made and burly, with very dark hair and eyes and a somewhat fleshy face. He looked as if he enjoyed good living; but the alertness of his expression redeemed it from sensuality. He had an air of rakish boldness which rather became him, and his careless dress added to this effect. In white Panama hat, well-cut clothes negligently put on, with a heavy gold watch-chain, diamond studs, and a black silk band round his waist, Clay looked more of a swashbuckler than a sober business man. His appearance was not altogether deceptive, for, although he used modern methods with great shrewdness, he had habits and characteristics more in keeping with the romantic ’49.
“Have you held on to those Elk Park building lots?” he asked.
Osborne nodded. “Yes.”
“Still got an option on the adjoining frontage?”
“I believe so; the offer wasn’t quite formal.”
“Then wire and clinch the deal. Do it right now.”
“Ah! The municipal improvement scheme is going through?”
“Sure. I got the tip by ‘phone as I was leaving. Whatcom serves me pretty well, but there are other fellows to take a hand in the game, and the news will leak out some time this evening. We’re an hour or two ahead – that’s all. Here, write your message.”
Taking a telegram blank from his pocket, he handed it to Osborne; and then swung off his hat with ceremonious gallantry as he came suddenly upon the others through an opening in the pines. Ruth gave him a rather cold bow, for his voice carried well, and she had heard enough to disturb her. She did not expect much from Clay; but it looked as if her father were abetting him in a conspiracy to take an unfair advantage of some civic improvements. She had no justification for questioning either of them; but her aunt, who was seldom diffident, proceeded to deal with the matter boldly when Osborne joined them after dispatching the telegram.
“What’s this I hear, Henry?” Miss Dexter asked.
“I can’t say. You were not intended to hear anything,” Osborne replied with a patient air.
“Then your friend should talk lower. Have you been buying up property the city needs?”
“It’s a fairly common practice. I suppose you don’t approve of it?”
“Need you ask?” Miss Dexter bristled with Puritanical indignation. “Have you any moral right to tax the people because they want a healthier and cleaner town? Is this the example you would set your daughter?”
Osborne smiled tolerantly.
“It’s hardly likely that Ruth will feel tempted to speculate in real estate. Besides, the tax is optional. The people needn’t pay it unless they like.”
“That’s a quibble,” Miss Dexter replied shrewdly. “They wouldn’t buy your lots at an extravagant price if there was another site available.”
“It’s unwise to jump at conclusions. As a matter of fact, there are two better sites in the market.”
Miss Dexter looked puzzled.
“If that’s true,” she declared, “the matter’s more suspicious than before. There’s something not straight.”
“I’m afraid there often is,” Osborne responded good-humoredly. “Still, while I can’t hope for your approval of all my doings, I don’t think you have much reason to question my veracity.”
“I have none. I beg your pardon, Henry,” Miss Dexter said with some dignity. “I’m glad to say that I’ve always found your word reliable.”
“That’s something to my credit, anyway.” Osborne turned to Clay. “My sister-in-law has no admiration for our modern business ethics.”
“There she shows sense,” Clay answered with a smile. “I’m old-fashioned enough to believe, ma’am, that the less women have to do with business the better.”
“Why?” Miss Dexter demanded sternly.
“You have a better part in life; we look to you to raise the national tone, to protect the family morals, and keep the home clean.”
Osborne looked amused, and Aynsley undutifully grinned, but Miss Dexter’s expression hinted at rather grim astonishment.
“How is it to be done?” she asked. “What’s the use in our cleaning when you men are allowed to muss up things?”
“That sounds logical,” Aynsley put in. “I’m afraid we really need reforming.”
“You do,” Miss Dexter replied with an air of dry amusement which somewhat surprised her niece. “Idle men in particular are bound to make trouble.”
“It was the busy ones I was thinking of. My idea is that a man’s most dangerous when he’s making money.”
“What’s that?” Clay turned upon his son sternly.
“I believe I heard you agree with Miss Dexter, sir, when she condemned our commercial morality?”
“There’s a difference; she’s a lady,” Clay replied in a decided tone.
Aynsley laughed and turned away with Ruth, who was in a thoughtful mood, for what she had heard deepened her distrust of Clay and made her anxious about his influence on her father. She admitted that, in her inexperience she could not presume to judge what was right for him, but she felt troubled.
“Have you told your father you will take over the mill?” she asked Aynsley.
“Yes; and I believe he was immensely gratified, though he only said he was glad to see I was coming to my senses. However, on thinking it over, I half regret my decision. The old man has money enough for both of us, and, to my mind, driving a car or sailing a yacht is much less risky work than trying to get ahead of the people you deal with.”
“But is that necessary? Can’t you carry on a business without taking advantage of your rivals and customers?”
“I’m hardly in a position to judge, but from what I’ve heard it seems difficult. When I take up the mill I’ve got to make it pay. It would be a bad shake-up for the old man if I only lost the money he put in. He’d feel himself disgraced, and it would be a heavy strain on his affection. Though he tells me I’m a fool pretty often, he’s really fond of me.”
“Yes,” said Ruth; “I’ve noticed that, and I like him for it. After all, you need some sympathy. The situation’s complicated.”
“That’s so. I’m half afraid I’m not smart enough to grapple with it. Of course, there is such a thing as compromise: you can do your best all round, but make a small concession here and there.”
“I’m not sure that would work. Isn’t there a risk of the concessions becoming too numerous? It would be safer not to give way at all.”
“It sounds a drastic rule. The trouble is that my relatives and friends expect too much of me, and I suspect that some of them are pulling opposite ways.”
Ruth felt sorry for him. Though he was careless, he was honest, and she thought he would shrink from anything that was mean and savored of trickery. Now, however, he had to stand a searching test: he would be expected to make the sawmill pay, and Clay would not be satisfied with a small profit. Ruth felt that she had assumed some responsibility in persuading him to undertake an uncongenial task; for if he proved unfitted for it, his troubles would be numerous. For all that, she could not believe that it was impossible to get rich uprightly.
“After all,” she said, “you will have every advantage. The best assistants and the latest machinery.”
“That’s true. But they’re liabilities. I mean they’ll be scored against me, and I’ll have to prove I’ve made the most efficient use of them. In a way, I’d rather make a start with poorer tools.”
“That sounds weak; and you’re not often so hesitating.”
“It’s something to know your limitations,” Aynsley answered. “Besides, I feel that I have to do you and the old man credit after the rather reckless confidence you have both shown in me.”
“I am sure mine was justified,” Ruth said softly.
Aynsley turned to her quickly. She was wonderfully attractive with her slender figure in light summer drapery outlined against the darkness of the surrounding pines; and the dusky background emphasized her fine coloring. Her face, however, was quietly grave. He could see no trace of the tender shyness he longed for, not even a hint of coquetry, which might have warranted some advance. He sometimes thought that Ruth did not know her power and had not quite awakened yet; but it was obvious that she had spoken in mere friendly kindness, and he must be content with that.
“Thank you,” he answered in a voice that was slightly strained. “I’ll certainly have to pull myself together and see what I can do.”
They heard his father calling and, turning back to the lawn, they found Clay ready to go. He had, he explained to Miss Dexter, only called for a word with Osborne, though he found it hard to tear himself away. She heard him with a twinkle in her eyes, and afterward watched him cross the lawn with his jaunty air. Somehow he made a more romantic figure than his handsome son.
“A man of many talents, I think,” she said. “One wonders whether he makes the best use of them.”
“That depends on one’s point of view; and it’s not our affair,” Osborne remarked.
“It is certainly not mine. How far it may be yours, I can’t tell, but a man of that kind doesn’t walk alone. Where he goes he drags others after him.”
Osborne laughed as the hum of the car rushing along the hillside came back to them.
“The pace he sets is generally hot,” he admitted; “but I imagine his son is at present gratifying his love of speed.”
As a matter of fact, Clay was then leaning back on the cushions, with his hat jammed tightly on, while he watched Aynsley, whose face was presented to him in clearly cut profile. The car was traveling very fast along one of the rough dirt-roads of the country, throwing up red dust and withered needles and bouncing among the ruts. High overhead there hung a roof of somber foliage, pierced by shafts of glittering light and supported by the columnar trunks of great Douglas firs. There were holes in the uneven surface of the road deep enough to wreck the machine, and though boggy stretches had been laid with small, split logs, these left bare, broad spaces where the wheels sank in the soft soil. Aynsley never slackened speed. He avoided the dangers with judgment and nerve, while the car lurched as it twisted in and out, now clinging to the edge of the bank with tires that brushed the fern, now following a devious track made by wagon wheels. It was an exhibition of fine driving; and Clay, who was a shrewd judge of men, noticed the coolness, courage, and quick decision his son displayed. He took risks that could not be avoided, but he was bold without being rash, and this appealed to his father, who studied him with a puzzled feeling. Considering his strength of character, it was strange that Aynsley had done nothing yet; and Clay was, perhaps, not altogether mistaken in deeming no occupation of importance, unless it was connected with the earning of money. He held that a calling which enriched a man was generally of some benefit to his country.
“I had a letter from Vancouver this morning,” he said, as they climbed a hill and the slower pace made conversation possible. “They’re putting the new engine in and expect to start the mill in a fortnight.”
“I’ll be ready then,” said Aynsley.
Clay noticed that, although his tone conveyed no hint of eagerness, his expression was resolute. If the boy’s task was not quite congenial, he meant to undertake it, which was satisfactory.
“There’s another matter I want to talk about. That’s a nice girl of Osborne’s, though I guess you might do better.”
Aynsley turned his head so he could see his father.
“The remark is obviously absurd, sir.”
Clay chuckled.
“It’s a proper feeling. I find no fault with it. Anyway, I’m glad to see that this time you’re looking nearer your own level. I felt a bit worried about you some years ago.”
Taken by surprise, as he was, the blood crept into Aynsley’s face. He had been infatuated with a girl in a cigar store, and it was disconcerting to learn that his father had known all about the affair. Clay had said nothing, but Aynsley had no doubt that he would have acted had he thought it needful.
“Well,” he said with some confusion, “I was at a sentimental age, but I wasn’t so foolish as you seem to think. Miss Neston was quite good enough for me, and I’d like you to remember it, since you have mentioned the matter.”
“We’ll let it go,” Clay answered dryly. “I guess you have a different idea of your value now. But you don’t seem to be making much progress with Ruth Osborne. I suppose you really want her?”
They had passed the steepest pitch of the hill, but Aynsley threw in the lowest gear and turned quietly to his father.
“You have a rather crude way of putting things; but you can take it that I want her more than anything in the world.”
“Very well. I can get her for you.”
Aynsley made an abrupt movement, and then said slowly, “I think not. This is a matter in which you can’t help me; I want you to understand it.”
His resolute manner puzzled Clay, who had not often found him so determined.
“It seems to me that needs an explanation.”
“Then I’ll try to give you one. You have given me many things for which I’m grateful, and now that you have bought me the sawmill, I’ll do the best I can with it. I’ve allowed you to choose my career; but I think I’m justified in choosing my wife myself.”
“You’re young,” laughed Clay, “or you’d have learned that it’s very seldom a man with red blood chooses his wife; in fact, it much oftener happens the other way about. He meets her and that settles him. If you’d been capable of going round with a list of qualifications looking for a girl who could satisfy them, you’d be no son of mine. However, I’m not dictating what you call your choice. I don’t object to it; that’s all.”
“It’s enough. How would you get Miss Osborne if I gave you permission?”
Though the question was awkward, Clay smiled. The boy was shrewder than he thought.
“Oh,” he said, “I have some influence with Osborne. He owes me several favors.”
“A man wouldn’t give up his daughter in return for a favor. What is your hold on him?”
“I don’t see much reason why you should know.”
“You may be right.” Aynsley’s tone was determined as he continued: “Let’s try to understand each other. If Miss Osborne marries me because that’s her wish, I’ll be a very fortunate man; but it’s unthinkable that she should be forced to do so. I can’t have any pressure put upon her father.”
“When I want a thing, I get after it the best way I can.”
“I believe that’s true,” Aynsley answered with a smile. “In this case, however, the way’s important. I must ask you to leave it alone.”
“Very well,” acquiesced Clay. “As usual, though, I’ll be around if you should want me. I guess I haven’t failed you yet.”
“You have not, Dad,” Aynsley replied in an affectionate tone. “Sit tight; I’m going to stir up the machine.”
CHAPTER XII – READY FOR THE FRAY
The train was held up on its way to the Canadian frontier by a wash-out farther along the track. Devereux Clay stood in the noon sunshine talking to Osborne at a small wayside station while groups of impatient passengers strolled about the line, stopping now and then to glance at a gap in the somber firs where the rails gleamed in the strong sunshine; the engineer, leaning out from his cab, had his eyes turned in the same direction. There was, however, nothing to be seen but climbing trees, whose ragged spires rose one behind the other far up the steep hillside, and the fragrance the hot noon sun drew out from them mingled with the sharp smell of creosote from the ties. Except for the murmur of voices and the panting of the locomotive pump, it was very quiet in the narrow clearing, and the sound of falling water came up faintly from a deep hollow where a lake glittered among the firs.
Clay leaned against the agent’s wooden shack, with his watch in his hand, for time was of value to him just then.