Chapter Twenty-six. Hills and Sea
The summerhouse lay in a valley between two hills; resting on the lawn before it Ruth Tolliver lay with her head pillowed back between her hands, and the broad brim of her straw that flopped down to shade her eyes. She could look up on either side to the sweep of grass, with the wind twinkling in it—grass that rolled smoothly up to the gentle blue sky beyond. On the one hand it was very near to her, that film of blue, but to her right the narrow, bright heads of a young poplar grove pushed up beyond the hilltop, and that made the sky fall back an immeasurable distance. Not very much variety in that landscape, but there was an infinite variety in the changes of the open-air silence. Overtones, all of them—but what a range!
If she found that what was immediately overhead and beside her was too bland, if she wearied of that lovely drift of clouds across the sky, then she had only to raise herself upon one elbow and look down to the broad, white band of the earth, and the startling blue of the ocean beyond. She was a little way up among the hills, to be sure, but, in spite of her elevation, when she looked out toward the horizon it seemed that the sea was hollowed like a great bowl—that the horizon wave was apt at any moment to roll in upon the beach and overwhelm her among the hills.
Not a very great excitement for such a girl as Ruth Tolliver, to be sure. Particularly when the faint crease between her eyes told of a perpetual worry and a strain under which she was now living. She was trying to lose herself in forgetfulness, in this open, drowsy climate.
Behind her a leisurely step came down one of the garden paths. It brought her to attention at once. A shadow passed across her face, and instantly she was sitting up, alert and excited.
John Mark sat down cross-legged beside her, a very changed John Mark, indeed. He wore white trousers and low white shoes, with a sack coat of blue—a cool-looking man even on this sultry day. The cane, which he insisted upon at all times, he had planted between his knees to help in the process of lowering himself to the ground. Now he hooked the head over his shoulder, pushed back his hat and smiled at the girl.
"Everything is finished," he said calmly. "How well you look, Ruth—that hair of yours against the green grass. Everything is finished; the license and the clergyman will arrive here within the hour." She shrugged her shoulders. As a rule she tried at least to be politely acquiescent, but now and then something in her revolted. But John Mark was an artist in choosing remarks and moments which should not be noticed. Apparently her silence made not even a ripple on the calm surface of his assurance.
He had been so perfectly diplomatic, indeed, during the whole affair, that she had come to respect and fear him more than ever. Even in that sudden midnight departure from the house in Beekman Place, in that unaccountable panic which made him decide to flee from the vicinity of Ronicky Doone—even in that critical moment he had made sure that there was a proper chaperon with them. During all her years with him he had always taken meticulous care that she should be above the slightest breath of suspicion—a strange thing when the work to which he had assigned her was considered.
"Well," he asked, "now that you've seen, how do you like it? If you wish, we'll move today after the ceremony. It's only a temporary halting place, or it can be a more or less permanent home, just as you please." It rather amused her to listen to this deprecatory manner of speech. Of course she could direct him in small matters, but in such a thing as the choice of a residence she knew that in the end he would absolutely have his own way.
"I don't know," she said. "I like silence just now. I'll stay here as long as you're contented." He pressed her hand very lightly; it was the only time he had caressed her since they left New York, and his hand left hers instantly.
"Of course," he explained, "I'm glad to be at a distance for a time—a place to which we can't be followed." "By Ronicky Doone?" Her question had sprung impulsively to her lips.
"Exactly." From the first he had been amazingly frank in confessing his fear of the Westerner. "Who else in the world would I care about for an instant? Where no other has ever crossed me once successfully, he has done so twice. That, you know, makes me begin to feel that my fate is wrapped up in the young devil." He shuddered at the thought, as if a cold wind had struck him.
"I think you need not worry about him," said the girl faintly. "I suppose by this time he is in such a condition that he will never worry another soul in the world." The other turned and looked at her for a long, grave moment.
"You think he attempted to break into the house?" "And didn't you expect the same thing? Why else did you leave New York?" "I confess that was my idea, but I think no harm has come to him. The chances are nine out of ten, at least, that he has not been badly hurt." She turned away, her hands clenched hard.
"Oh my honor," he insisted with some emotion. "I gave directions that, if he made an attack, he was not to be harmed more than necessary to disarm him." "Knowing that to disarm him would mean to kill him." "Not at all. After all he is not such a terrible fellow as that—not at all, my dear. A blow, a shot might have dropped him. But, unless it were followed by a second, he would not be killed. Single shots and single blows rarely kill, you know." She nodded more hopefully, and then her eyes turned with a wide question upon her companion.
He answered it at once with the utmost frankness.
"You wonder why I gave such orders when I dread Doone—when I so dread Doone—when I so heartily want him out of my way forever? I'll tell you. If Doone were killed there would be a shadow between us at once. Not that I believe you love him—no, that cannot be. He may have touched your heart, but he cannot have convinced your head, and you are equal parts of brain and soul, my dear. Therefore you cannot love him." She controlled the faintest of smiles at the surety of his analysis. He could never escape from an old conclusion that the girl must be in large part his own product—he could never keep from attributing to her his own motives.
"But just suppose," she said, "that Ronicky Doone broke into your house, forced one of your men to tell him where we are, and then followed us at once. He would be about due to arrive now. What if all that happened?" He smiled at her. "If all that happened, you are quite right; he would be about due to arrive. I suppose, being a Westerner, that the first thing he would do in the village would be to hire a horse to take him out here, and he would come galloping yonder, where you see that white road tossing over the hills." "And what if he does come?" she asked.
"Then," said John Mark very gravely, "he will indeed be in serious danger. It will be the third time that he has threatened me. And the third time—" "You've prepared even for his coming here?" she asked, the thought tightening the muscles of her throat.
"When you have such a man as Ronicky Doone on your hands," he confessed, "you have to be ready for anything. Yes, I have prepared. If he comes he'll come by the straightest route, certain that we don't expect him. He'll run blindly into the trap. Yonder—you see where the two hills almost close over the road—yonder is Shorty Kruger behind the rocks, waiting and watching. A very good gunman is Shorty. Know him?" "Yes," she said, shuddering. "Of course I know him." "But even suppose that the he passes Kruger—down there in the hollow, where the road bends in toward us, you can see Lefty himself. I wired him to come, and there he is." "Lefty?" asked the girl, aghast.
"Lefty himself," said John Mark. "You see how much I respect Ronicky Doone's fighting properties? Yes, Lefty himself, the great, the infallible Lefty!" She turned her back on the white road which led from the village and faced the sea.
"If we are down here long enough," he said, "I'll have a little wharf built inside that cove. You see? Then we can bring up a motor boat and anchor it in there. Do you know much about boats?" "Almost nothing." "That's true, but we'll correct it. Between you and me, if I had to choose between a boat and a horse I don't know which I should—" Two sharp detonations cut off his words. While he raised a startled hand for silence they remained staring at one another, and the long, faint echoes rolled across the hills.
"A revolver shot first, far off," he said, "and then a rifle shot. That metallic clang always means a rifle shot." He turned, and she turned with him. Covering their eyes from the white light of the sun they peered at the distant road, where, as he had pointed out, the two hills leaned together and left a narrow footing between.
"The miracle has happened," said John Mark in a perfectly sober voice. "It is Ronicky Doone!"
