by Max Brand
“Still lies?” said David. “Still lies to me? Beautiful Ruth — never more beautiful than now, even when you lied to me with your eyes and your smiles and your promises! The man is nothing. He came like a snake to me, and his life is worth no more than the life of a snake. Let him live, let him die; it is no matter. But you, Ruth! I am not even angered. I see you already from a great distance, a beautiful, evil thing that has been so close to me. For you have been closer to me than you are now that my arm is around you, touching you for the last time, holding your warmth and your tender body, keeping both your hands, which are smaller and softer than the hands of a child. But mighty hands, nevertheless.
“They have held the heart of David, and they have almost thrown his soul into eternal hellfire. Yet you have been closer to me than you are now. You have been in my heart of hearts. And I take you from it sadly — with regret, for the sin of loving you has been sweet.”
She had been sobbing softly all this time, but now she mastered herself long enough to draw back a little, taking his hands with a desperate eagerness, as though they gave her a hold upon his mind.
“Give me one minute to speak out what I have to say. Will you give me one half minute, David?”
His glance rose past her, higher, until it was fixed on the east, and as he stood there with his head far back Connor guessed for the first time at the struggle which was going on within him. The girl pressed closer to him, drawing his hands down as though she would make him stoop to her.
“Look at me, David!”
“I see your face clearly.”
“Still, look at me for the one last time.”
“I dare not, Ruth!”
“But will you believe me?”
“I shall try. But I am glad to hear your voice, for the last time.”
“I’ve come to you like a cheat, David, and I’ve tried to win you in order to steal the horses away, but I’ve stayed long enough to see the truth.
“If everything in the valley were offered me — the horses and the men — and everything outside of the valley, without you, I’d throw them away. I don’t want them. Oh, if prayers could make you believe, you’d believe me now; because I’m praying to you, David.
“You love me, David. I can feel you trembling, and I love you more than I ever dreamed it was possible to love. Let me come back to you. I don’t want the world or anything that’s in it. I only want you. David — I only want you! Will you believe me?”
And Connor saw David of Eden sway with the violence of his struggle.
But he murmured at length, as one in wonder:
“How you are rooted in me, Ruth! How you are wound into my life, so that it is like tearing out my heart to part from you. But the God of the Garden and John and Matthew has given me strength.” He stepped back from her.
“You are free to go, but if you return the doom against you is death like that of any wild beast that steals down the cliffs to kill in my fields. Begone, and let me see your face no more. Joseph, take them to the gate.”
And he turned his back with a slowness which made his resolution the more unmistakable.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IT WAS, UNQUESTIONABLY, a tempting of Providence, but Connor was almost past caring. Far off he heard the neighing of an Eden Gray; Ruth, with her bowed head and face covered in her hands, was before him, sobbing; and all that he had come so near to winning and yet had lost rushed upon the mind of the gambler. He hardly cared now whether he lived or died. He called to the master of the Garden, and David whirled on him with a livid face. Connor walked into the reach of the lion.
“I’ve made my play,” he said through his teeth, “and I don’t holler because I’ve lost the big stakes. Now I’m going to give you something to show that I’m not a piker — some free advice, Dave!”
“O man of many lies,” said David. “Peace! For when I hear you there is a great will come on me to take you by the throat and hear your life go out with a rattle.”
“A minute ago,” said Connor coolly enough, “I was scared, and I admit it, but I’m past that stage. I’ve lost too much to care, and now you’re going to hear me out to the last damned word!”
“God of Paul and Matthew,” said David, his voice broken with rage, “let temptation be far from me!”
“You can take it standing or sitting,” said Connor, “and be damned to you!”
The blind fury sent David a long step nearer, but he checked himself even as one hand rose toward Connor.
“It is the will of God that you live to be punished hereafter.”
“No matter about the future. I’m chattering in the present. I’m going to come clean, not because I’m afraid of you, but because I’m going to clear up the girl. Abraham had the cold dope, well enough. I came to crook you out of a horse, Dave, my boy, and I did it. But after I’d got away with the goods I tried to play hog, and I came back for the rest of the horses.”
He paused; but David showed no emotion.
“You take the punishment very well,” admitted Connor. “There’s a touch of sporting blood in you, but the trouble is that the good in you has never had a fair chance to come to the top. I came back, and I brought Ruth with me.
“I’ll tell you about her. She’s meant to be an honest-to-God woman — the kind that keeps men clean — she’s meant for the big-time stuff. And where did I find her? In a jay town punching a telegraph key. It was all wrong.
“She was made to spend a hundred thousand a year. Everything that money buys means a lot to her. I saw that right away. I like her. I did more than like her. I loved her. That makes you flinch under the whip, does it? I don’t say I’m worthy of her, but I’m as near to her as you are.
“I admit I played a rotten part. I went to this girl, all starved the way she was for the velvet touch. I laid my proposition before her. She was to come up here and bamboozle you. She was to knock your eye out and get you clear of the valley with the horses. Then I was going to run those horses on the tracks and make a barrel of coin for all of us.
“You’d think she’d take on a scheme like that right away; but she didn’t. She fought to keep from going crooked until I showed her it was as much to your advantage as it was to ours. Then she decided to come, and she came. I worked my stall and she worked hers, and she got into the valley.
“But this voice of yours in the Room of Silence — why didn’t it put you wise to my game? Well, David, I’ll tell you why. The voice is the bunk. It’s your own thoughts. It’s your own hunches. The god you’ve been worshiping up here is yourself, and in the end you’re going to pay hell for doing it.
“Well, here’s the girl in the Garden, and everything going smooth. We have you, and she’s about to take you out and show you how to be happy in the world. But then she has to go into your secret room. That’s the woman of it. You blame her? Why, you infernal blockhead, you’ve been making love to her like God Almighty speaking out of a cloud of fire! How could she hear your line of chatter without wanting to find out the secrets that made you the nut you are?
“Well, we went in, and we found out. We found out what? Enough to make the girl see that you’re ‘noble,’ as she calls it. Enough to make me see that you’re a simp. You’ve been chasing bubbles all your life. You’re all wrong from the first.
“Those first four birds who started the Garden, who were they? There was John, a rich fellow who’d hit the high spots, had his life messed up, and was ready to quit. He’d lived enough. Then there was Luke, a gent who’d been double-crossed and was sore at the world on general principles.
“Paul would have been a full-sized saint in the old days. He was never meant to live the way other men have to live. And finally there’s a guy who lies in the grass and whistles to a bird — Matthew. A poet — and all poets are nuts.
“Well, all those fellows were tired of the world — fed up with it. Boil them down, and they come to this: they thought more about the welfare of their souls than they did about the world. Was that squa
re? It wasn’t! They left the mothers and fathers, the brothers and sisters, the friends, everything that had brought them into the world and raised ’em. They go off to take care of themselves.
“That wasn’t bad enough for ’em — they had to go out and pluck you and bring you up with the same rotten hunches. Davie, my boy, d’you think a man is made to live by himself?
“You haven’t got fed up with the world; you’re no retired high liver; you haven’t had a chance to get double-crossed more than once; you’re not a crazy poet; and you’re a hell of a long ways from being a martyr.
“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a certain number of pounds of husky muscle and bone going to waste up here in the mountains. You’ve been alone so much that you’ve got to thinking that your own hunches come from God, and that’d spoil any man.
“Live alone? Bah! You’ve had more happiness since Ruth came into this valley than you’ve ever had before or you’ll ever have again.
“Right now you’re breaking your heart to take her in your arms and tell her to stop crying, but your pride won’t let you.
“You tried to make yourself a mystery with your room of silence and all that bunk. But no woman can stand a mystery. They all got to read their husband’s letters. You try to bluff her with a lot of fancy words and partly scare her. It’s fear that sent the four men up here in the first place — fear of the world.
“And they’ve lived by fear. They scared a lot of poor unfortunate men into coming with them for the sake of their souls, they said. And they kept them here the same way. And they’ve kept you here by telling you that you’d be damned if you went over the mountains.
“And you still keep them here the same way. Do you think they stay because they love you? Give them a chance and see if they won’t pack up and beat it for their old homes.
“Now, show me that you’re a man and not a fatheaded bluff. Be a man and admit that what you call the Voice is just your pride. Be a man and take that girl in your arms and tell her you love her. I’ve made a mess of things; I’ve ruined her life, and I want to see you give her a chance to be happy.
“Because she’s not the kind to love more than one man if she lives to be a thousand. Now, David Eden, step out and give yourself a chance!”
It had been a gallant last stand on the part of Connor. But he was beaten before he finished, and he knew it.
“Are you done?” said David.
“I’m through, fast enough. It’s up to you!”
“Joseph, take the man and his woman out of the Garden of Eden.”
The last thing that Connor ever saw of David Eden was his back as he closed the door of the Room of Silence upon himself. The gambler went to Ruth. She was dry-eyed by this time, and there was a peculiar blankness in her expression that went to his heart.
Secretly he had hoped that his harangue to David would also be a harangue to the girl and make her see through the master of the Garden; but that hope disappeared at once.
He stayed a little behind her when they were conducted out of the patio by the grinning Joseph. He helped her gently to her horse, the old gray gelding, and when he was in place on his own horse, with the mule pack behind him, they started for the gate.
She had not spoken since they started. At the gate she moved as if to turn and look back, but controlled the impulse and bowed her head once more. Joseph came beside the gambler and stretched out his great palm. In the center of it was the little ivory ape’s head which had brought Connor his entrance into the valley and had won the hatred of the big Negro, and had, eventually, ruined all his plans.
“It was given freely,” grinned Joseph, “and it is freely returned.”
“Very well.”
Connor took it and hurled it out of sight along the boulders beyond the gate. The last thing that he saw of the Garden of Eden and its men was that broad grin of Joseph, and then he hurried his horse to overtake Ruth, whose gelding had been plodding steadily along the ravine.
He attempted for the first time to speak to her.
“Only a quitter tries to make up for the harm he’s done by apologizing. But I’ve got to tell you the one thing in my life I most regret. It isn’t tricking David of Eden, but it’s doing what I’ve done to you. Will you believe me when I say that I’d give a lot to undo what I’ve done?”
She only raised her hand to check him and ventured a faint smile of reassurance. It was the smile that hurt Connor to the quick.
They left the ravine. They toiled slowly up the difficult trail, and even when they had reached such an altitude that the floor of the valley of the Garden was unrolling behind them the girl never once moved to look back.
“So,” thought Connor, “she’ll go through the rest of her life with her head down, watching the ground in front of her. And this is my work.”
He was not a sentimentalist, but a lump was forming in his throat when, at the very crest of the mountain, the girl turned suddenly in her saddle and stopped the gray.
“Only makes it worse to stay here,” muttered Connor. “Come on, Ruth.”
But she seemed not to hear him, and there was something in her smile that kept him from speaking again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE ROOM OF Silence had become to David Eden a chamber of horror. The four chairs around him, which had hitherto seemed filled with the ghosts of the four first masters of the Garden, were now empty to his imagination. In this place where he had so often found unfailing consolation, unfailing counsel, he was now burdened by the squat, heavy walls, and the low ceiling. It was like a prison to him.
For all his certainty was gone. “You’ve made yourself your God,” the gambler had said. “Fear made the Garden of Eden, fear keeps the men in it. Do you think the others stay for love of you?”
Benjamin had proved a sinner, no doubt, but there had been a ring of conviction in his words that remained in the mind of David. How could he tell that the man was not right? Certainly, now that he had once doubted the wisdom of that silent Voice, the mystery was gone. The room was empty; the holiness had departed from the Garden of Eden with the departing of Ruth.
He found himself avoiding the thought of her, for whenever her image rose before him it was torture.
He dared not even inquire into the depression which weighed down his spirits, for he knew that the loss of the girl was the secret of it all.
One thing at least was certain: the strong, calming voice which he had so often heard in the Room of Silence, no longer dwelt there, and with that in mind he rose and went into the patio.
In a corner, screened by a climbing vine, hung a large bell which had only been rung four times in the history of the Garden of Eden, and each time it was for the death of the master. David tore the green away and struck the bell. The brazen voice crowded the patio and pealed far away, and presently the men came. They came in wild-eyed haste, and when they saw David alive before them they stared at him as if at a ghost.
“As it was in the beginning,” said David when the circle had been formed and hushed, “death follows sin. Sin has come into the Garden of Eden and the voice of God has died out of it. Therefore the thing for which you have lived here so long is gone. If for love of David, you wish to stay, remain; but if your hearts go back to your old homes, return to them. The wagons and the oxen are yours. All the furnishing of the houses are yours. There is also a large store of money in my chest which Elijah shall divide justly among you. And on your journey Elijah shall lead you, if you go forth, for he is a just man and fit to lead others. Do not answer now, but return to your house and speak to one another. Afterward, send one man. If you stay in the Garden he shall tell me. If you depart I shall bid you farewell through him. Begone!”
They went out soft-footed, as though the master of the Garden had turned into an animal liable to spring on them from behind.
He began to pace up and down the patio, after a time, rather impatiently. No doubt the foolish old men were holding forth at great length. They were ap
pointing the spokesman, and they were framing the speech which he would make to David telling of their devotion to him, whether the spirit was gone or remained. They would remain; and Benjamin’s prophecy had been that of a spiteful fool. Yet even if they stayed, how empty the valley would be — how hollow of all pleasure!
It was at this point in his thoughts that he heard a sound of singing down the hillside from the house of the servants — first a single, thin, trembling voice to which others were added until the song was heartened and grew full and strong. It was a song which David had never heard before. It rang and swung with a peculiarly happy rhythm, growing shriller as the old men seemed to gather their enthusiasm. The words, sung in a thick dialect, were stranger to David than the tune, but as nearly as he could make out the song ran as follows:
“Oh, Jo, come back from the cold and the stars For the cows they has come to the pasture bars, And the little game chicken’s beginning to crow: Come back to us, Jo; come back to us, Jo!
“He was walkin’ in the gyarden in the cool o’ the day When He seen my baby Jo in the clover blossoms play.
“He was walkin’ in the gyarden an’ the dew was on His feet When He seen my baby Jo so little an’ sweet.
“They was flowers in the gyarden, roses, an’ such, But the roses an’ the pansies, they didn’t count for much.
“An’ He left the clover blossoms fo’ the bees the next day An’ the roses an’ the pansies, but He took Jo away.
“Oh, Jo, come back from the cold and the stars For the cows they has come to the pasture bars, And the little game chicken has started to crow: Come back to us, Jo; come back to us Jo!”
He knew their voices and he knew their songs, but never had David heard his servants sing as they sang this song. Their hymns were strong and pleasant to the ear, but in this old tune there was a melody and a lilt that brought a lump in his throat. And there was a heart to their singing, so that he almost saw them swaying their shoulders to the melody.
It was the writing on the wall for David.