The Secret of the Reef Part 20

"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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sistance, 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 grat.i.tude and some embarra.s.sment, 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."

"Bos.h.!.+" 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 grat.i.tude.

"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 a.n.a.lyze 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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...o...b..rne 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...o...b..rne 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 pa.s.sing draught stirred the curtains and brought in a faint coolness and the scent of the pines. The tired girl found it wonderfully refres.h.i.+ng 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 rea.s.suringly 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 compa.s.sion 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, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sion 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 att.i.tude 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 hoa.r.s.ely. "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."