by Brand, Max
"You certainly have," said Connor with much meaning. "I'd hate to turn you loose in Manhattan."
"In what?"
"Never mind. But here's another thing. You know that she'll have to leave pretty soon?"
The meaning slowly filtered into David's mind.
"Benjamin," he said slowly, "you are wise in many ways, with horses and with women, it seems. But that is a fool's talk. Let me hear no more of it. Leave me? Why should she leave me?"
Triumph warmed the heart of Connor.
"Because a girl can't ramble off into the mountains and put up in a valley where there are nothing but men. It isn't done."
"Why not?"
"Isn't good form."
"I fail to understand."
"My dear fellow, she'd be compromised for life if it were known that she had lived here with us."
David shook his head blankly.
"In one word," said Connor, striving to make his point, "she'd be pointed out by other women and by men. They'd never have anything to do with her. They'd say things that would make her ashamed, hurt her, you know."
Understanding and wrath gathered in David's face.
"To such a man--to such a dog of a man--I would talk with my hands!"
"I think you would," nodded Connor, not a little impressed. "But you might not be around to hear the talk."
"But women surely live with men. There are wives--"
"Ah! Man and wife--all very well!"
"Then it is simple. I marry her and then I keep her here forever."
"Perhaps. But will she marry you?"
"Why not?"
"Well, does she love you?"
"True." He stood up. "I'll ask her."
"For Heaven's sake, no! Sit down! You mustn't rush at a woman like this the first day you know her. Give her time. Let me tell you when!"
"Benjamin, my dear brother, you are wise and I am a fool!"
"You'll do in time. Let me coach you, that's all, and you'll come on famously. I can tell you this: that I think she likes you very well already."
"Your words are like a shower of light, a fragrant wind. Benjamin, I am hot with happiness! When may I speak to her?"
"I don't know. She may have guessed something out of what you said to-night." He swallowed a smile. "You might speak to her about this marriage to-morrow."
"It will be hard; but I shall wait."
"And then you'll have to go out of the Garden with her to get married."
"Out of the Garden? Never! Why should we?"
"Why, you'll need a minister, you know, to marry you."
"True. Then I shall send for one."
"But he might not want to make this long journey for the sake of one marriage ceremony."
"There are ways, perhaps, of persuading him to come," said David, making a grim gesture.
"No force or you ruin everything."
"I shall be ruled by you, brother. It seems I have little knowledge."
"Go easy always and you'll come out all right. Give her plenty of time.
A woman always needs a lot of time to make up her mind, and even then she's generally wrong."
"What do you mean by that?"
"No matter. She'll probably want to go back to her home for a while."
"Leave me?"
"Not necessarily. But you, when a man gets engaged, it's sometimes a couple of years between the time a woman promises to marry him and the day of the ceremony."
"Do they wait so long, and live apart?"
"A thousand miles, maybe."
"Then you men beyond the mountains are made of iron!"
"Do you have to be away from her? Why not go along with her when she goes home?"
"Surely, Benjamin, you know that a law forbids it!"
"You make your own laws in important things like this."
"It cannot be."
And so the matter rested when Connor left his host and went to bed. He had been careful not to press the point. So unbelievably much ground had been covered in the first few hours that he was dizzy with success. It seemed ages since that Ruth had come running to him in the patio in terror of her life. From that moment how much had been done!
Closing his eyes as he lay on his bed, he went back over each incident to see if a false step had been made. As far as he could see, there had not been a single unsound measure undertaken. The first stroke had been the masterpiece. Out of a danger which had threatened instant destruction of their plan she had won complete victory by her facing of David, and when she put her hand in his as a sign of weakness, Connor could see that she had made David her slave.
As the scene came back vividly before his eyes he could not resist an impulse to murmur aloud to the dark: "Brave girl!"
She had grown upon him marvelously in that single half-day. The ability to rise to a great situation was something which he admired above all things in man or woman. It was his own peculiar power--to judge a man or a horse in a glance, and dare to venture a fortune on chance. Indeed, it was hardly a wonder that David Eden or any other man should have fallen in love with her in that one half-day. She was changed beyond recognition from the pale girl who sat at the telegraph key in Lukin and listened to the babble of the world. Now she was out in that world, acting on the stage and proving herself worthy of a r(le.
He rehearsed her acts. And finally he found himself flushing hotly at the memory of her mingled pleasure and shame and embarrassment as David of Eden had poured out his amazing flow of compliments.
At this point Connor sat up suddenly and violently in his bed.
"Steady, Ben!" he cautioned himself. "Watch your step!"
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Ben Connor awoke the next morning with the sun streaming across the room and sprang out of bed at once, worried. For about dawn noises as a rule began around the house and the singing of the old men farther down the hill. The Garden of Eden awakened at sunrise, and this silence even when the sun was high alarmed the gambler. He dressed hastily, and opening his door, he saw David walking slowly up and down the patio. At the sight of Connor he raised a warning finger.
"Let us keep a guard upon our voices," he murmured, coming to Connor. "I have ordered my servants to move softly and to keep from the house if they may."
"What's happened?"
"She sleeps, Benjamin." He turned toward her door with a smile that the gambler never forgot. "Let her waken rested."
Connor looked at the sky.
"I've come too late for breakfast, even?"
A glance of mild rebuke was turned upon him.
"Surely, Benjamin, we who are strong will not eat before her who is weak?"
"Are you going to starve yourself because she's sleepy?"
"But I have not felt hunger."
He added in a voice of wonder: "Listen!"
Ruth Manning was singing in her room, and Connor turned away to hide his frown. For he was not by any means sure whether the girl sang from the joy she found in this great adventure or because of David Eden. He was still further troubled when she came out to the breakfast table in the patio. He had expected that she would be more or less confused by the presence of David after his queer talk of the night before, but sleep seemed to have wiped everything from her memory. Her first nod, to be sure, was for the gambler, but her smile was for David of Eden. Connor fell into a reverie which was hardly broken through the meal by the deep voice of David or the laughter of Ruth. Their gayety was a barrier, and he was, subtly, left on the outside. David had proposed to the girl a ride through the Garden, and when he went for the horses the gambler decided to make sure of her position. He was too much disturbed to be diplomatic. He went straight to the point.
"I'm sorry this is such a mess for you; but if you can buck up for a while it won't take long to finish the job."
She looked at him without understanding, which was what he least wanted in the world. So he went on: "As a matter of fact, the worst of the job hasn't come. You can do what you want with him right now. But
afterward--when you get him out of the valley the hard thing will be to hold him."
"You're angry with poor David. What's he done now?"
"Angry with him? Of course not! I'm a little disgusted, that's all."
"Tell me why in words of one syllable, Ben."
"You're too fine a sort to have understood. And I can't very well explain."
She allowed herself to be puzzled for a moment and then laughed.
"Please don't be mysterious. Tell me frankly."
"Very well. I think you can make David go out of the valley when we go.
But once we have him back in a town the trouble will begin. You understand why he's so--fond of you, Ruth?"
"Let's not talk about it."
"Sorry to make you blush. But you see, it isn't because you're so pretty, Ruth, but simply because you're a woman. The first he's ever seen."
All her high coloring departed at once; a pale, sick face looked at Connor.
"Don't say it," murmured the girl. "I thought last night just for a moment--but I couldn't let myself think of it for an instant."
"I understand," said Connor gently. "You took all that highfaluting poetry stuff to be the same thing. But, say, Ruth, I've heard a young buck talk to a young squaw--before he married her. Just about the same line of junk, eh? What makes me sick is that when we get him out in a town he'll lose his head entirely when he sees a room full of girls.
We'll simply have to plant a contract on him and--then let him go!"
"Do you think it's only that?" she said again, faintly.
"I leave it to you. Use your reason, and figure it out for yourself. I don't mean that you're in any danger. You know you're not as long as I'm around!"
She thanked him with a wan smile.
"But how can I let him come near me--now?"
"It's a mess. I'm sorry about it. But once the deal goes through I'll make this up to you if it takes me the rest of my life. You believe me?"
"I know you're true blue, Ben! And--I trust you."
He was a little disturbed to find that his pulse was decidedly quickened by that simple speech.
"Besides, I want to thank you for letting me know this. I understand everything about him now!"
In her heart of hearts she was hating David with all her might. For all night long, in her dreams, she had been seeing again the gestures of those strong brown hands, and the flash of his eyes, and hearing the deep tremor of his voice. The newness of this primitive man and his ways and words had been an intoxicant to her; because of his very difference she was a little afraid, and now the warning of Connor chimed in accurately with a premonition of her own. That adulation poured at the feet of Ruth Manning had been a beautiful and marvelous thing; but flung down simply in honor of her sex it became almost an insult. The memory made her shudder. The ideal lover whom she had prefigured in some of her waking dreams had always spoken with ardor--a holy ardor. From this passion of the body she recoiled.
Something of all this Connor read in her face and in her thoughtful silence, and he was profoundly contented. He had at once neutralized all of David's eloquence and fortified his own position. It was both a blow driven home and a counter. Not that he would admit a love for the girl; he had merely progressed as far as jealousy. He told himself that his only interest was in keeping her from an emotion which, once developed, might throw her entirely on the side of David and ruin their joint plans. He had refused to accompany the master of the Garden and the girl on their ride through the valley because, as he told himself, he "couldn't stand seeing another grown man make such an ass of himself" as David did when he was talking with the girl.
He contented himself now with watching her face when David came back to the patio, followed by Glani and the neat-stepping little mare, Tabari.
The forced smile with which she met the big man was a personal triumph to the gambler.
"If you can win her under that handicap, David," he said softly to himself, "you deserve her, and everything else you can get."
David helped her into the saddle on Tabari, and himself sprang onto the pad upon Glani's back. They went out side by side.
It was a cool day for that season, and the moment the north wind struck them David shouted softly and sent Glani at a rushing gallop straight into the teeth of the wind. Tabari followed at a pace which Ruth, expert horse-woman though she was, had never dreamed of. For the first time she had that impression of which Ben Connor had spoken to her of the horse pouring itself over the road without strain and without jar of smashing hoofs.
Ruth let Tabari extend herself, until the mare was racing with ears flat against her neck. She had even an impression that Glani, burdened by the great weight of David, was being left behind, but when she glanced to the side she saw that the master half a length back, was keeping a strong pull on the stallion, and Glani went smoothly, easily, with enormous strides, and fretting at the restraint.
She gained two things from that glance. The first was a sense of impatience because the stallion kept up so easily; in the second place, the same wind which drove the long hair of David straight back blew all suspicious thoughts out of her mind. She drew Tabari back to a hand gallop and then to a walk with her eyes dimmed by the wind of the ride and the blood tingling in her cheeks.
"It was like having wings," she cried happily as David let the stallion come up abreast.
"Tabari is sturdy, but she lacks speed," said the dispassionate master.
"When she was a foal of six months and was brought to me for judgment, I thought twice, because her legs were short. However, it is well that she was allowed to live and breed."
"Allowed to live?" murmured Ruth Manning.
"To keep the line of the gray horse perfect," said David, "they must be watched with a jealous eye, and those which are weak must not live. The mares are killed and the stallions gelded and sold."
"And can you judge the little colts?"
Her voice was too low for David to catch a sense of pain and anger in it.
"It must be done. It is a duty. To-day is the sixth month of Timeh, the daughter of Juri. You shall witness the judging. Elijah is the master."
His face hardened at the name of Elijah, and the girl caught her breath.
But before she could speak they broke out of a grove and came in view of a wide meadow across which four yoked cattle drew a harrow, smoothing the plow furrows to an even, black surface.
It carried the girl far back; it was like opening an ancient book of still more ancient tales; the musty smell completes the illusion. The cattle plodding slowly on, seeming to rest at every step, filled in the picture of which the primitive David Eden was the central figure.
"Yokes," she cried. "I've never seen them before!"
"For some work we use the horses, but the jerking of the harrow ruins their shoulders. Besides, we may need the cattle for a new journey."
"A journey? With those?"
"That was how the four came into the Garden. And I am enjoined to have the strong wagons always ready and the ox teams always complete in case it becomes necessary to leave this valley and go elsewhere. Of course, that may never be."
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
He brought Glani to a halt. They had left the sight of the meadow, though they could still hear the snorting of the oxen at their labor, a distant sound. Here, on one side of the road, the forest tumbled back from a swale of ground across which a tiny stream leaped and flashed with crooked speed, and the ground seemed littered with bright gold, so closely were the yellow wild flowers packed.
"Two days ago," said David, "they were only buds. See them now!"
He slipped from his horse and, stooping, rose again in a moment with his hands full of the yellow blossoms.
"They have a fragrance that makes them seem far away," he said. "See!"
He tossed the flowers at her; the wind caught them and spangled her hair and her clothes with them, and she breathed a rare perfume. David fell to clapping his hands and laughing like a
child at the picture she made.
She had never liked him so well as she did at this moment. She had never pitied him as she did now; she was not wise enough to shrink from that emotion.
"It was made for you--this place."
And before she could move to defend herself he had raised her strongly, lightly from the saddle, and placed her on the knoll in the thickest of the flowers. He stood back to view his work, nodding his satisfaction, and she, looking up at him, felt the old sense of helplessness sweep over her. Every now and then David Eden overwhelmed her like an inescapable destiny; there was something foredoomed about the valley and about him.
"I knew you would look like this," he was saying. "How do men make a jewel seem more beautiful? They set it in gold! And so with you, Ruth.
Your hair against the gold is darker and richer and more like piles and coils of shadow. Your face against the gold is the transparent white, with a bloom in it. Your hands are half lost in the softness of that gold. And to think that is a picture you can never see! But I forget."
His face grew dark.
"Here I have stumbled again, and yet I started with strong vows and resolves. My brother Benjamin warned me!"
It shocked her for a reason she could not analyze to hear the big man call Connor his brother. Connor, the gambler, the schemer! And here was David Eden with the green of the trees behind, his feet in the golden wild flowers, and the blue sky behind his head. Brother to Ben Connor?
"And how did he warn you?" she asked.
"That I must not talk to you of yourself, because, he said, it shames you. Is that true?"
"I suppose it is," she murmured. Yet she was a little indignant because Connor had presumed to interfere. She knew he could only have done it to save her from embarrassment, but she rebelled at the thought of Connor as her conversational guardian.
Put a guard over David of Eden, and what would he be? Just like a score of callow youths whom she had known, scattering foolish commonplaces, trying to make their dull eyes tell her flattering things which they had not brains enough to put into words.
"I am sorry," said David, sighing. "It is hard to stand here and see you, and not talk of what I see. When the sun rises the birds sing in the trees; when I see you words come up to my teeth."
