_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!"