LITMIR.BIZ

      26. HILLS AND SEA

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      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 eron 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

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