Authors: The Garden of Eden
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.
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 appointing 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.
Out of that song he built a picture of their old lives, the hot
sunshine, the dust, and all the things which Matthew had told him of the
slaves and their ways before the time of the making of the Garden.
He waited, then, either for their messenger or for another song; but he
neither saw the one nor heard the other for a considerable time. An
angry pride sustained him in the meantime, in the face of a life alone
in the Garden. Far off, he heard the neigh of the grays in the meadow
near the gate, and then the clarion clear answer of Glani near the
house. He was grateful for that sound. All men, it seemed, were traitors
to him. Let them go. He would remain contented with the Eden Grays. They
would come and go with him like human companions. Better the noble head
of Glani near him than the treacherous cunning of Benjamin! He accepted
his fate, then, not with calm resignation, but with fierce anger against
Connor, who had brought this ruin on him, and against the men who were
preparing to desert him.
He could hear plainly the creaking of the great wains as the oxen were
yoked to them and they were dragged into position to receive the burdens
of the property they were to take with them into the outer world. And,
in the meantime, he paced through the patio in one of those silent
passions which eat at the heart of a man.
He was not aware of the entrance of Elijah. When he saw him, Elijah had
fallen on his knees near the entrance to the patio, and every line of
his time-dried body expressed the terror of the bearer of bad tidings.
David looked at him for a moment in silent rage.
"Do you think, Elijah," he said at last, "that I shall be so grieved to
know that you and the others will leave me and the Garden of Eden? No,
no! For I shall be happier alone. Therefore, speak and be done!"
"Timeh—" began the old man faintly.
"You have done that last duty, then, Elijah? Timeh is no longer alive?"
"The day is still new, David. Twice I went to Timeh, but each time when
I was about to lead her away, the neighing of Juri troubled me and my
heart failed."
"But the third time you remembered my order?"
"But the third time—there was no third time. When the bell sounded we
gathered. Even the watchers by the the gates—Jacob and Isaac—came and
the gate was left unguarded—Timeh was in the pasture near the gate with
Juri—and—"
"They are gone! They have passed through the gate! Call Zacharias and
Joseph. Let them mount and follow and bring Juri back with the foal!"
"Oh, David, my master—"
"What is it now, Elijah, old stammerer? Of all my servants none has cost
me so much pain; to none shall I say farewell with so little regret.
What is it now? Why do you not rise and call them as I bid you? Do you
think you are free before you pass the gates?"
"David, there are no horses to follow Juri!"
"What!"
"The God of John and Paul give me strength to tell and give you strength
to hear me in patience! When you had spoken, and the servants went back
to speak of the strange things you had said, some of them spoke of the
old days before they heard the call and followed to the Garden, and then
a song was raised beginning with Zacharias—"
"Zacharias!" echoed David, softly and fiercely. "Him whom I have favored
above the others!"
"But while the others sang, I heard a neighing near the gate and I
remembered your order and your judgment of Timeh, and I went sorrowfully
to fulfill your will. But near the gate I saw the meadow empty of the
horses, and while I stood wondering, I heard a chorus of neighing beyond
the gate. There was a great answer just behind me, and I turned and saw
Glani racing at full speed. I called to him, but he did not hear and
went on, straight through the pillars of the gate, and disappeared in
the ravine beyond. Then I ran to the gate and looked out, but the horses
were gone from sight—they have left the Garden—they are free—"
"And happy!" said David in a terrible voice. "They, too, have only been
held by fear and never by love. Let them go. Let all go which is kept
here by fear. Why should I care? I am enough by myself. When all is gone
and I am alone the Voice shall return and be my companion. It is well.
Let every living thing depart. David is enough unto himself. Go, Elijah!
And yet pause before you go!"
He went into his room and came out bearing the heavy chest of money,
which he carried to the gate.
"Go to your brothers and bid them come for the money. It will make them
rich enough in the world beyond the mountains, but to me there is need
of no money. Silence and peace is my wish. Go, and let me hear their
voices no more, let me not see one face. Ingrates, fools, and traitors!
Let them find their old places; I have no regret. Begone!"
And Elijah, as one under the shadow of a raised whip, skulked from the
patio and was gone.
The last quiet began for David. He had heard the sounds of departure. He
had heard the rumble of the oxwains begin and go slowly toward the gate
with never the sound of a human voice, and he pictured, with a grim
satisfaction, the downcast faces and the frightened, guilty glances, as
his servants fled, conscious that they were betraying their master. It
filled him with a sort of sulky content which was more painful than
sorrow. But before the sound of the wagons died out the wind blew back
from the gate of the Garden a thin, joyous chorus of singing voices.
They were leaving him with songs!
He was incredulous for a time. He felt, first, a great regret that he
had let them go. Then, in an overwhelming wave of righteousness, he
determined to dismiss them from his mind. They were gone; but worse
still, the horses were gone, and the valley around him was empty! He
remembered the dying prophecy of Abraham, now, as the stern Elijah had
repeated it. He had let the world into the Garden, and the tide of the
world's life, receding, would take all the life of the Garden away
beyond the mountains among other men.
The feeling that Connor had been right beset him: that the four first
masters had been wrong, and that they had raised David in error. Yet his
pride still upheld him.
That day he went resolutely about the routine. He was not hungry, but
when the time came he went into the big kitchen and prepared food. It
was a place of much noise. The great copper kettles chimed and murmured
whenever he touched them, and they spoke to him of the servants who were
gone. Half of his bitterness had already left him and he could remember
those days in his childhood when Abraham had told him tales, and
Zacharias had taught him how to ride at the price of many a tumble from
the lofty back of the gentle old mare. Yet he set the food on the table
in the patio and ate it with steady resolution. Then he returned to the
big kitchen and cleansed the dishes.
It was the late afternoon, now, the time when the sunlight becomes
yellow and loses its heat, and the heavy blue shadow sloped across the
patio. A quiet time. Now and again he found that he was tense with
waiting for sounds in the wind of the servants returning for the night
from the fields, and the shrill whinny of the colts coming back from the
pastures to the paddocks. But he remembered what had happened and made
himself relax.
There was a great dread before him. Finally he realized that it was the
coming of the night, and he went into the Room of Silence for the last
time to find consolation. The book of Matthew had always been a means of
bringing the consolation and counsel of the Voice, but when he opened
the book he could only think of the girl, as she must have leaned above
it. How had she read? With a smile of mockery or with tears? He closed
the book; but still she was with him. It seemed that when he turned in
the chair he must find her waiting behind him and he found himself
growing tense with expectation, his heart beating rapidly.