The Essential Max Brand - 29 Westerns in One Edition. Max Brand

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The Essential Max Brand - 29 Westerns in One Edition - Max Brand

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gazed at her for a moment with a singular expression. There were conjoined cynicism, admiration, doubt, and fear in his glance. But, instead of speaking again, he bowed and slipped away into the open hall.

      She heard him call, and she heard Fernand’s oily voice make answer. And at that she shivered.

      What had Simonds guessed? How, under heaven, did he know where she had gone when she left the gaming house? Or did he know? Had he not merely guessed? Perhaps he had been set on by Fernand or Mark to entangle and confuse her?

      There remained, out of all this confusion of guesswork, a grim feeling that Simonds did indeed know, and that, for the first time in his life, perhaps, he was doing an unbought, a purely generous thing.

      She remembered, now, how often Simonds had followed her with his eyes, how often his face had lighted when she spoke even casually to him. Yes, there might be a reason for Simonds’ generosity. But that implied that he knew fairly well what John Mark himself half guessed. The thought that she was under the suspicion of Mark himself was terrible to her.

      She drew a long breath and advanced courageously into the gaming rooms.

      The first thing she saw was Fernand hurrying a late comer toward the tables, laughing and chatting as he went. She shuddered at the sight of him. It was strange that he, who had, a moment before, in the very cellar of that house, been working to bring about the death of two men, should now be immaculate, self-possessed.

      A step farther and she saw John Mark sitting at a console table, with his back to the room and a cup of tea before him. That was, in fact, his favorite drink at all hours of the day or night. To see Fernand was bad enough, but to see the master mind of all the evil that passed around her was too much. The girl inwardly thanked Heaven that his back was turned and started to pass him as softly as possible.

      “Just a minute, Ruth,” he called, as she was almost at the door of the room.

      For a moment there was a frantic impulse in her to bolt like a foolish child afraid of the dark. In the next apartment were light and warmth and eager faces and smiles and laughter, and here, behind her, was the very spirit of darkness calling her back. After an imperceptible hesitation she turned.

      Mark had not turned in his chair, but it was easy to discover how he had known of her passing. A small oval mirror, fixed against the wall before him, had shown her image. How much had it betrayed, she wondered, of her guiltily stealthy pace? She went to him and found that he was leisurely and openly examining her in the glass, as she approached, his chin resting on one hand, his thin face perfectly calm, his eyes hazy with content. It was a habit of his to regard her like a picture, but she had never become used to it; she was always disconcerted by it, as she was at this moment.

      He rose, of course, when she was beside him, and asked her to sit down.

      “But I’ve hardly touched a card,” she said. “This isn’t very professional, you know, wasting a whole evening.”

      She was astonished to see him flush to the roots of his hair. His voice shook. “Sit down, please.”

      She obeyed, positively inert with surprise.

      “Do you think I keep you at this detestable business because I want the money?” he asked. “Dear Heaven! Ruth, is that what you think of me?” Fortunately, before she could answer, he went on: “No, no, no! I have wanted to make you a free and independent being, my dear, and that is why I have put you through the most dangerous and exacting school in the world. You understand?”

      “I think I do,” she replied falteringly.

      “But not entirely. Let me pour you some tea? No?”

      He sighed, as he blew forth the smoke of a cigarette. “But you don’t understand entirely,” he continued, “and you must. Go back to the old days, when you knew nothing of the world but me. Can you remember?”

      “Yes, yes!”

      “Then you certainly recall a time when, if I had simply given directions, you would have been mine, Ruth. I could have married you the moment you became a woman. Is that true?” “Yes,” she whispered, “that is perfectly true.” The coldness that passed over her taught her for the first time how truly she dreaded that marriage which had been postponed, but which inevitably hung over her head.

      “But I didn’t want such a wife,” continued John Mark. “You would have been an undeveloped child, really; you would never have grown up. No matter what they say, something about a woman is cut off at the root when she marries. Certainly, if she had not been free before, she is a slave if she marries a man with a strong will. And I have a strong will, Ruth—very strong!”

      “Very strong, John,” she whispered again. He smiled faintly, as if there were less of what he wanted in that second use of the name. He went on: “So you see, I faced a problem. I must and would marry you. There was never any other woman born who was meant for me. So much so good. But, if I married you before you were wise enough to know me, you would have become a slave, shrinking from me, yielding to me, incapable of loving me. No, I wanted a free and independent creature as my wife; I wanted a partnership, you see. Put you into the world, then, and let you see men and women? No, I could not do that in the ordinary way. I have had to show you the hard and bad side of life, because I am, in many ways, a hard and bad man myself!”

      He said it, almost literally, through his teeth. His face was fierce, defying her—his eyes were wistful, entreating her not to agree with him. Such a sudden rush of pity for the man swept over her that she put out her hand and pressed his. He looked down at her hand for a moment, and she felt his fingers trembling under that gentle pressure.

      “I understand more now,” she said slowly, “than I have ever understood before. But I’ll never understand entirely.”

      “A thing that’s understood entirely is despised,” he said, with a careless sweep of his hand. “A thing that is understood is not feared. I wish to be feared, not to make people cower, but to make them know when I come, and when I go. Even love is nothing without a seasoning of fear. For instance” —he flushed as the torrent of his speech swept him into a committal of himself—“I am afraid of you, dear girl. Do you know what I have done with the money you’ve won?”

      “Tell me,” she said curiously, and, at the same time, she glanced in wonder, as a servant passed softly across the little room. Was it not stranger than words could tell that such a man as John Mark should be sitting in this almost public place and pouring his soul out into the ear of a girl?

      “I shall tell you,” said Mark, his voice softening. “I have contributed half of it to charity.”

      Her lips, compressed with doubt, parted in wonder. “Charity!” she exclaimed.

      “And the other half,” he went on, “I deposited in a bank to the credit of a fictitious personality. That fictitious personality is, in flesh and blood, Ruth Tolliver with a new name. You understand? I have only to hand you the bank book with the list of deposits, and you can step out of this Tolliver personality and appear in a new part of the world as another being. Do you see what it means? If, at the last, you find you cannot marry me, my dear, you are provided for. Not out of my charity, which would be bitter to you, but out of your own earnings. And, lest you should be horrified at the thought of living on your earnings at the gaming table, I have thrown bread on the waters, dear Ruth. For every dollar you have in the bank you have given another to charity, and both, I hope, have borne interest for you!”

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