"There's a long, long trail a-windingInto the land of my dreams,Where the nightingale is singingAnd a bright moon beams——"
"There's a long, long trail a-windingInto the land of my dreams,Where the nightingale is singingAnd a bright moon beams——"
Like the good musician that he was, Peter submerged himself, playing gently, his gaze on his fingers, while he listened. He had made no mistake. The distances across which he had heard her had not flattered. Her voice wasuntrained, of course, but it seemed to Peter that it had lost nothing by the neglect, for as she gained confidence, she forgot Peter, as he intended that she should, and sang with the complete abstraction of a thrush in the deep wood. Like the thrush's note, too, Beth's was limpid, clear, and sweet, full of forest sounds—the falling brook, the sigh of night winds....
When the song ended he told her so.
"You do say nice things, don't you?" she said joyously.
"Wouldn't you—if it cost you nothing and was the truth? You must have your voice trained."
"Must! I might jump over the moon if I had a broomstick."
"It's got to be managed somehow."
"Then you're not disappointed in the way it sounds, close up?"
She stood beside him, leaning against the piano, her face flushed, her breath rapid, searching his face eagerly. Peter knew that it was only the dormant artist in her seeking the light, but he thrilled warmly at her nearness, for she was very lovely. Peter's acquaintance with women had been varied, but, curiously enough, each meeting with this girl instead of detracting had only added to her charm.
"No. I'm not disappointed in it," he said quite calmly, every impulse in him urging a stronger expression. But he owed a duty to himself.Noblesse oblige!It was one of the mottoes of his House—(not always followed—alas!). With a more experienced woman he would have said what was in his mind. He would probably have taken her in his arms and kissed her at once, for that was really what he would have liked to do. But Beth....
Perhaps something in the coolness of his tone disconcerted her, for she turned away from the piano.
"You're very kind," she said quietly.
He had a feeling that she was about to slip away from him, so he got up.
"Won't you sing again, Beth?"
But she shook her head. For some reason the current that had run between them was broken. As she moved toward the door, he caught her by the hand.
"Don't go yet. I want to talk to you."
"I don't think I ought." And then, with a whimsical smile, "And you ought to be out makin' the trees grow."
He laughed. "There's a lot of time for that."
She let him lead her to the divan again and sat, her fingers dovetailed around a slender knee.
"I—I'm sorry I made fun of you the other day," she confessed immediately.
"I didn't mind in the least."
"But youdidseem to know it all," she said. And then smiled in the direction of the piano. "Now—I'm comin' to think you do. Even Shad says you're a wonder. I—I don't think he likes you, though——" she admitted.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't you care. Shad don't like anybody but himself and Goda'mighty—with God trailin' a little."
Peter smiled. Her singing voice may have been impersonal but one could hardly think that of her conversation.
"And you, Beth—where doyoucome in?"
She glanced at him quickly.
"Oh, I——," she said with a laugh, "I just trail along after God."
Her irony meant no irreverence but a vast derogation of Shad Wells. Somehow her point of view was very illuminating.
"I'm afraid you make him very unhappy," he ventured.
"That'shislookout," she finished.
Peter was taking a great delight in watching her profile, the blue eyes shadowed under the mass of her hair, eyes rather deeply set and thoughtful in repose, the straight nose, the rather full underlip ending in a precipitous dent above her chin. He liked that chin. There was courage there and strength, softened at once by the curve of the throat, flowing to where it joined the fine deep breast. Yesterday she had seemed like a boy. To-day she was a woman grown, feminine in every graceful conformation, on tiptoe at the very verge of life.
But there was no "flapper" here. What she lacked in culture was made up in refinement. He had felt that yesterday—the day before. She belonged elsewhere. And yet to Peter it would have seemed a pity to have changed her in any particular. Her lips were now drawn in a firm line and her brows bore a curious frown.
"You don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?"
She flashed a glance at him.
"That's what everybody calls me."
"My name is Peter."
"Yes, I know." And then, "That's funny."
"Funny!"
"You look as if your name ought to be Algernon."
"Why?" he asked, laughing.
"Oh, I don't know. It's the name of a man in a book I read—an Englishman. You're English, you said."
"Half English," said Peter.
"What's the other half?"
"Russian." He knew that he ought to be lying to her, but somehow he couldn't.
"Russian! I thought Russians all had long hair and carried bombs."
"Some of 'em do. I'm not that kind. The half of me that's English is the biggest half, and the safest."
"I'm glad of that. I'd hate to think of you as bein' a Bolshevik."
"H-m. So would I."
"But Russia's where you get your music from, isn't it? The band leader at Glassboro is a Russian. He can play every instrument. Did you learn music in Russia?"
Beth was now treading dangerous ground and so it was time to turn the tables.
"Yes, a little," he said, "but music has no nationality. Or why would I find a voice like yours out here?"
"Twenty miles from nowhere," she added scornfully.
"How did you come here, Beth? Would you mind telling me? You weren't born here, were you? How did you happen to come to Black Rock?"
"Just bad luck, I guess. Nobody'd ever come to Black Rock just because they want to. We just came. That's all."
"Just you and Aunt Tillie? Is your father dead?" he asked.
She closed her eyes a moment and then clasped her knees again.
"I don't like to talk about family matters."
"Oh, I——"
And then, gently, she added,
"I never talk about them to any one."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Peter, aware of the undercurrent of sadness in her voice. "I didn't know that there was anything painful to you——"
"I didn't know it myself, until you played it to me, just now, the piece with the sad, low voices, under the melody. It was like somebody dead speakin' to me. I can't talk about the things I feel like that."
"Don't then——Forgive me for asking."
He laid his fingers softly over hers. She withdrew her hand quickly, but the look that she turned him found hisface sober, his dark eyes warm with sympathy. And then with a swift inconsequential impulse born of Peter's recantation,
"I don't s'pose there's any reason why I shouldn't tell you," she said more easily. "Everybody around here knows about me—about us. Aunt Tillie and I haven't lived here always. She brought me here when I was a child."
She paused again and Peter remained silent, watching her intently. As she glanced up at him, something in the expression of his face gave her courage to go on.
"Father's dead. His name was Ben Cameron. He came of nice people," she faltered. "But he—he was no good. We lived up near New Lisbon. He used to get drunk on 'Jersey Lightnin'' and tear loose. He was all right between whiles—farmin'—but whisky made him crazy, and then—then he would come home and beat us up."
"Horrible!"
"It was. I was too little to know much, but Aunt Tillie's husband came at last and there was a terrible fight. Uncle Will was hurt—hurt so bad—cut with a knife—that he never was the same again. And my—my father went away cursing us all. Then my mother died—Uncle Will too—and Aunt Tillie and I came down here to live. That's all. Not much to be proud of," she finished ruefully.
Peter was silent. It was a harrowing, sordid story of primitive passion. He was very sorry for her.
Beth made an abrupt graceful movement of an arm across her brows, as though to wipe out the memory.
"I don't know why I've told you," she said. "I never speak of this to any one."
"I'm so sorry."
He meant it. And Beth knew that he did.
The look that she had given him showed her sense of his sympathy. So he ventured,
"Did you hear from your father before he died?"
"Aunt Tillie did,—once. Then we got word he'd been killed in a railway accident out West. I was glad. A man like that has no right to live."
"You and Aunt Tillie have had a pretty hard time——" he mused.
"Yes. She's an angel—and I love her. Why is it that good people have nothin' but trouble? She had an uncle who went bad too—he was younger than she was—my great-uncle—Jack Bray—he forged a check—or somethin' up in Newark—and went to the penitentiary."
"And is he dead too?"
"No—not at last accounts. He's out—somewhere. When I was little he used to come to Aunt Tillie for money—a tall, lantern-jawed man. I saw him once three years ago. He was here. Aunt Tillie tried to keep me out of the kitchen. But I thought he was up to some funny business and stayed. He took a fancy to me. He said he was camera man in the movies. He wanted me to go with him—thought I could be as good as Mary Pickford. I'm glad I didn't go—from what I know now. He was a bad man. Aunt Tillie was scared of him. Poor soul! She gave him all she had—most of what was left from the old farm, I guess."
"Do you think——" began Peter, then paused. And as she glanced at him inquiringly, "Did you notice that your Aunt Tillie seemed—er—frightened last night?" he asked at last.
"I thought so for a while, but she said she was only sick. She never lies to me."
"She seemed very much disturbed."
"Her nerve's not what it used to be—especially since Mr. McGuire's taken to seein' things——"
"You don't believe then that she could have seen John Bray—that he had come back again last night?"
"Why, no," said Beth, turning in surprise. "I never thought of it—and yet," she paused, "yes,—it might have been——"
She became more thoughtful but didn't go on. Peter was on the trail of a clew to the mystery, but she had already told him so much that further questions seemed like personal intrusion. And so,
"I'd like to tell you, Beth," he said, "that I'm your friend and Mrs. Bergen's. If anything should turn up to make you unhappy or to make your aunt unhappy and I can help you, won't you let me know?"
"Why—do you think anything is goin' to happen?" she asked.
His reply was noncommittal.
"I just wanted you to know you could count on me——" he said soberly. "I think you've had trouble enough."
"But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she said with a shrug, "even if Aunt Tillie is. He can't do anything to me. He can'tmakeme go to New York if I don't want to."
She had clenched her brown fists in her excitement and Peter laughed.
"I think I'd be a little sorry for anybody who tried tomake you do anything you didn't want to do," he said.
She frowned. "Why, if I thought that bandy-legged, lantern-jawed, old buzzard was comin' around here frightenin' Aunt Tillie, I'd—I'd——"
"What would you do?"
"Never you mind what I'd do. But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she finished confidently.
The terrors that had been built up around the house of McGuire, the mystery surrounding the awe-inspiring prowler, the night vigils, the secrecy—all seemed to fade into a piece of hobbledehoy buffoonery at Beth's contemptuous description of her recreant relative. And he smiled at her amusedly.
"But what would you say," he asked seriously, "if I told you that last night Mr. McGuire saw the same person your Aunt Tillie did, and that he was terrified—almost to the verge of collapse?"
Beth had risen, her eyes wide with incredulity.
"Merciful Father! McGuire! Did he have another spell last night? You don't mean——?"
"I went up to his room. He was done for. He had seen outside the drawing-room window the face of the very man he's been guarding himself against."
"I can't believe——," she gasped. "And you think Aunt Tillie——?"
"Your Aunt Tillie talked to a man outside the door of the kitchen. You didn't hear her. I did. The same man who had been frightening Mr. McGuire."
"Aunt Tillie!" she said in astonishment.
"There's not a doubt of it. McGuire saw him. Andy saw him too,—thought he was the chauffeur."
Beth's excitement was growing with the moments.
"Why, Aunt Tillie didn't know anything about what was frightening Mr. McGuire—no more'n I did," she gasped.
"She knows now. She wasn't sick last night, Beth. She was just bewildered—frightened half out of her wits. I spoke to her after you went home. She wouldn't say a word. She was trying to conceal something. But there was a man outside and she knows who he is."
"But what could Jack Bray have to do with Mr. McGuire?" she asked in bewilderment.
Peter shrugged. "You know as much as I do. I wouldn't have told you this if you'd been afraid. But Mrs. Bergen is."
"Well, did youever?"
"No, I never did," replied Peter, smiling.
"It does beatanything."
"It does. It's most interesting, but as far as I can see, hardly alarming for you, whatever it may be to Mr. McGuire or Mrs. Bergen. If the man is only your great-uncle, there ought to be a way to deal with him——"
"I've just got to talk to Aunt Tillie," Beth broke in, moving toward the door. Peter followed her, taking up his hat.
"I'll go with you," he said.
For a few moments Beth said nothing. She had passed through the stages of surprise, anger and bewilderment, and was now still indignant but quite self-contained. When he thought of Beth's description of the Ghost of Black Rock House, Peter was almost tempted to forget the terrors of the redoubtable McGuire. A man of his type hardly lapses into hysteria at the mere thought of a "bandy-legged buzzard." And yet McGuire's terrors had been so real and were still so real that it was hardly conceivable that Bray could have been the cause of them. Indeed it was hardly conceivable that the person Beth described could be a source of terror to any one. What was the answer?
"Aunt Tillie doesn't know anything about McGuire,"Beth said suddenly. "She just couldn't know. She tells me everything."
"But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have met in New York——"
"What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully.
Peter laughed.
"It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters."
"I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe it."
They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns, stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing.
Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it.
They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side by side, and intensely interested, they read:
TO MIKE McGUIREI've come back.You know what i've got and i know what you've got. Act pronto. I'll come for my answer at eleven Friday night—at this tree. No tricks. If there's no answer—you know what i'll do.HAWK.
TO MIKE McGUIRE
I've come back.
You know what i've got and i know what you've got. Act pronto. I'll come for my answer at eleven Friday night—at this tree. No tricks. If there's no answer—you know what i'll do.
HAWK.
"Hawk!" muttered Beth, "who on earth——?"
"Another——," said Peter cryptically.
"You see!" cried Beth triumphantly, "I knew it couldn't be Jack Bray!"
"This chap seems to be rather in earnest, doesn't he?Pronto!That means haste."
"But it's only a joke. It must be," cried Beth.
Peter loosened the knife, took the placard down and turned it over, examining it critically.
"I wonder." And then, thoughtfully, "No, I don't believe it is. It's addressed to McGuire. I'm going to take it to him."
"Mike McGuire," corrected Beth. And then, "But it really does look queer."
"It does," assented Peter; "it appears to me as if this message must have come from the person McGuire saw last night."
Beth looked bewildered.
"But what has Aunt Tillie got to do with—with Hawk? She never knew anybody of that name."
"Probably not. It isn't a real name, of course."
"Then why should it frighten Mr. McGuire?" she asked logically.
Peter shook his head. All the props had fallen from under his theories.
"Whether it's real to McGuire or not is what I want to know. And I'm going to find out," he finished.
When they reached a path which cut through the trees toward the creek, Beth stopped, and held out her hand.
"I'm not goin' up to the house with you and I don't think I'll see Aunt Tillie just now," she said. "Good-by, Mr.——"
"Peter——," he put in.
"Good-by, Mr. Peter."
"Just Peter——" he insisted.
"Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come again?"
"Yes. And I'm going to get you some music——"
"Singin' music?" she gasped.
He nodded.
"And you'll let me know if I can help—Aunt Tillie or you?"
She bobbed her head and was gone.
Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute and confidence that had ever been paid him—at least by a woman. A visit of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender.
The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else.
And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished, to conceal his warm admiration for herphysical beauty. She had been very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him.... Idealism? Perhaps. The same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them—that had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child—and one is always gentle with children.
He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous voice. He would have to develop it. He really would.
All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording. Blackmail? Probably. The "pronto" was significant. This message could hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs. Bergen? And if so,how and where had she known him without Beth's being aware of it? And why should Beth be involved in the danger?
Peter was slowly coming to the belief that there had been two men outside the house last night, "Hawk" and John Bray. And yet it seemed scarcely possible that the men on guard should not have seen the second man and that both men could have gotten away without leaving a trace. And where was the man with the black mustache? Was he John Bray? Impossible. It was all very perplexing. But here in his hand he held the tangible evidence of McGuire's fears. "You know what I've got and I know what you've got." The sentence seemed to have a cabalistic significance—a pact—a threat which each man held over the other. Perhaps it wasn't money only that "Hawk" wanted. Whatever it was, he meant to have it, and soon. The answer the man expected was apparently something well understood between himself and McGuire, better understood perhaps since the day McGuire had seen him in New York and had fled in terror to Sheldon, Senior's, office. And if McGuire didn't send the desired answer to the tree by Friday night, there would be the very devil to pay—if not "Hawk."
Peter was to be the bearer of ill tidings and with them, he knew, all prospect of a business discussion would vanish. The situation interested him, as all things mysterious must, and he could not forget that he was, for the present, part policeman, part detective; but forestry was his real job here and every day that passed meant so many fewer days in which to build the fire towers. And these he considered to be a prime necessity to the security of the estate.
He rolled the placard up and went toward the house. On the lawn he passed the young people, intent upon their own pursuits. He was glad that none of them noticedhim and meeting Stryker, who was hovering around the lower hall, he sent his name up to his employer.
"I don't think Mr. McGuire expects you just yet, sir," said the man.
"Nevertheless, tell him I must see him," said Peter. "It's important."
Though it was nearly two o'clock, McGuire was not yet dressed and his looks when Peter was admitted to him bespoke a long night of anxiety and vigil. Wearing an incongruous flowered dressing gown tied at the waist with a silken cord, he turned to the visitor.
"Well," he said rather peevishly.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. McGuire, but something has happened that I thought——"
"What's happened?" the other man snapped out, eying the roll of cardboard in Peter's hand. "What——?" he gasped.
Peter smiled and shrugged coolly.
"It may be only a joke, sir—and I hardly know whether I'm even justified in calling it to your attention, but I found this placard nailed to a tree near the path to the Cabin."
"Placard!" said McGuire, his sharp glance noting the printing of the trespass sign. "Of course—that's the usual warning——"
"It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure.
McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the extraordinary document were far from steady. Thegay flowers of the dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred and turned slowly in the chair.
"You—you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly.
"Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire.
McGuire took the knife—twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A hasp-knife," he repeated dully.
"I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on account of——"
"Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on guard.
"If there's nothing else just now, I'll——"
"Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one else see this—this paper?"
"Yes—Mrs. Bergen's niece—she saw it first."
"My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?"
"I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written."
"Ah——" muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently. "Where—where is the tree on which you found it?"
"A maple—just in the wood—at the foot of the lawn."
"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author of them.
"G—— d—— you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.
"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.
McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It can't—be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He was showing his early breeding now.
"I might 'a' known——," he said aloud, staring at the paper.
"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.
"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a woman read it?"
"Yes."
"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my affairs."
"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if there's anything I can do——"
McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening intently.
"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within call."
The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely bowed his head and obeyed.
"I suppose you're—you're curious about this message, Nichols—coming in such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.
"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."
"He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've got to put a stop to it—and to him."
"He speaks of coming again Friday night——"
"Yes—yes—Friday." And then, his fingers tremblingalong the placard, "I've got to do what he wants—this time—just this time——"
McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,
"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I—I'll have to tell you more. I—I think—I'll need you—to help me."
Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the imminent revelations.
"I may say that—this—this 'Hawk' is a—an enemy of mine, Nichols—a bitter enemy—unscrupulous—a man better dead than alive. I—I wish to God you'd shot him last night."
"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.
"I—I've got to do what he wants—this time. I can't have this sort of thing goin' on—with everybody in Black Rock reading these damn things. You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?"
"I'd be pretty sure of that——"
"But she might—any time—if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further."
"I think you may trust me."
"Yes. I think I can. I'vegotto trust you now, whether I want to or no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very strange. It is strange. I knew this man—called 'Hawk,' many years ago. I—I thought he was dead, but he's come back."
McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which so clearly announced that fact.
"He speaks of something I've got—something he's got, Nichols. It's a paper—a—er—a partnership paper wedrew up years ago—out West and signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it I——," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds it as a—well—not exactly as a threat—but as a kind of menace to my happiness and Peggy's."
"I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short."
"Exactly—er—blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars—in New York. I refused him—there's no end to blackmail once you yield—and I came down here—but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him."
"If you were sure he had it with him——"
"That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere. I've got to get this money for him—from New York—I haven't got it in the house—before Friday night——"
"But blackmail——!"
"I've got to, Nichols—this time. I've got to."
"I wouldn't, sir," said Peter stoutly.
"But you don't know everything. I've only told you part," said McGuire, almost whining. "This is no ordinary case—no ordinary blackmail. I've got to be quick. I'm going to get the money—I'm going to get you to go to New York and get it."
"Me!"
"Yes. Yes. This is Wednesday. I can't take any chances of not having it here Friday. Peggy is going back this afternoon. I'll get her to drive you up. I'll 'phone Sheldon to expect you—he'll give you the money and you can come back to-morrow."
"But to-night——"
"He knows the danger of trying to reach me. That's why he wrote this. I won't be bothered to-night. I'llshut the house tight and put some of the men inside. If he comes, we'll shoot."
"But Friday——Do you mean, sir, that you'll go out to him with five thousand dollars and risk——"
"No, I won't.Youwill," said McGuire, watching Peter's face craftily.
"Oh, I see," replied Peter, aware that he was being drawn more deeply into the plot than he had wished. "You want me to meet him."
McGuire noted Peter's dubious tone and at once got up and laid his hands upon his shoulders.
"You'll do this for me, won't you, Nichols? I don't want to see this man. I can't explain. There wouldn't be any danger. He hasn't anything against you. Why should he have? I haven't any one else that I can trust—but Stryker. And Stryker—well—I'd have to tell Stryker.Youknow already. Don't say you refuse. It's—it's a proof of my confidence. You're just the man I want here. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me—well worth your while."
Peter was conscious of a feeling partly of pity, partly of contempt, for the cringing creature pawing at his shoulders. Peter had never liked to be pawed. It had always rubbed him the wrong way. But McGuire's need was great and pity won.
"Oh, I'll do it if you like," he said, turning aside and releasing himself from the clinging fingers, "provided I assume no responsibility——"
"That's it. No responsibility," said McGuire, in a tone of relief. "You'll just take that money out—then come away——"
"And get nothing in return?" asked Peter in surprise. "No paper—no receipt——?"
"No—just this once, Nichols. It will keep him quiet for a month or so. In the meanwhile——" The old manpaused, a crafty look in his eyes, "In the meanwhile we'll have time to devise a way to meet this situation."
"Meaning—precisely what?" asked Peter keenly.
McGuire scowled at him and then turned away toward the window.
"That needn't be your affair."
"It won't be," said Peter quickly. "I'd like you to remember that I came here as a forester and superintendent. I agreed also to guard your house and yourself from intrusion, but if it comes to the point of——"
"There, there, Nichols," croaked McGuire, "don't fly off the handle. We'll just cross this bridge first. I—I won't ask you to do anything a—a gentleman shouldn't."
"Oh, well, sir," said Peter finally, "that's fair enough."
McGuire came over and faced Peter, his watery eyes seeking Peter's.
"You'll swear, Nichols, to say nothing of this to any one?"
"Yes. I'll keep silent."
"Nothing to Sheldon?"
"No."
"And you'll see this—this niece of the housekeeper's?"
"Yes."
The man gave a gasp of relief and sank into his chair.
"Now go, Nichols—and shift your clothes. Peggy's going about four. Come back here and I'll give you a letter and a check."
Peter nodded and reached the door. As he opened it, Stryker straightened and bowed uncomfortably. But Peter knew that he had been listening at the keyhole.
Peter returned from New York on Thursday night, having accomplished his curious mission. He had first intercepted Beth on her way to the kitchen and sworn her to secrecy, advising her to say nothing to Mrs. Bergen about the events of the previous night. And she had agreed to respect his wishes. On the way to New York he had sat in the rumble of the low red runabout, Miss Peggy McGuire at the wheel, driving the fashionable Freddy. Miss McGuire after having yielded, the night before, to the musical predilections of Miss Delaplane, had apparently reconsidered Peter's social status and had waved him to the seat in the rear with a mere gesture and without apologies. And Peter, biting back a grin and touching his hat, had obeyed. The familiarities tolerable in such a wilderness as Black Rock could not of course be considered in the halls of the fashionable hotel where Miss Peggy lived in New York, and where by dint of great care and exclusiveness she had caught a hold of the fringe of society. But Peter sat up very straight, trying not to hear what was said in front. If he could only have worn his Colonel's uniform and decorations, or his Grand Ducal coronet, and have folded his arms, the irony would have been perfection.
He had gone to Sheldon, Senior, in the morning and in return for McGuire's check had been given cash in the shape of ten virginal five hundred dollar bills. This money had been put into an envelope and was now folded carefullyin Peter's inside pocket. Sheldon, Senior, to be sure, had asked questions, but with a good grace Peter had evaded him. Dick Sheldon was out of town, so Peter put in the remaining period before his train-time in a music store where he spent all the money that remained of his salary, on books, a few for the piano but most of them for Beth. Peter had wasted, as he had thought, two perfectly good years in trying to learn to sing. But those two years were not going to be wasted now—for Beth was to be his mouthpiece. He knew the beginnings of a training—how to give her the advantage of the instruction he had received from one of the best teachers in Milan. He was lucky enough to find books on the Italian method of voice production and on the way back to McGuire's, armed with these, he stopped off at the Bergen house in Black Rock village and returned Beth's call.
There he found Shad Wells, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe in the portico, and looking like a thundercloud. In response to Peter's query, he moved his right shoulder half an inch in the direction of the door, and then spat in the geranium bed. So Peter knocked at the door, softly at first, then loudly, when Beth emerged, her sleeves rolled to her shoulders and her arms covered with soapsuds.
"Why, Shad," she said witheringly, after she had greeted Peter, "you might have let me know! Come in, Mr. Nichols. Excuse my appearance. Wash-day," she explained, as he followed her into the dark interior.
"I can't stop," said the visitor, "I just came to bring these books——"
"Forme!" she exclaimed, hurriedly wiping her arms on her apron.
"I got them in New York——"
She pulled up the shade at the side, letting in the sunlight, an act permissible in the parlors of Black Rockonly on state occasions, for the sunlight (as every one knew) was not kind to plush-covered furniture.
"Forme!" Beth repeated softly. "I didn't think you meant it."
"Tone production—Exercises," explained Peter, "and here's one onThe Lives of the Great Composers. I thought you might be interested in reading it."
"Oh, yes. I am—I will be. Thank you ever so much——"
"Of course you can't do much by yourself just yet—not without a piano—to get the pitch—the key—but I've brought a tuning fork and——"
"But I've got the harmonium——," Beth broke in excitedly. "It's a little out of tune, but——"
"The harmonium!" asked the bewildered Peter. "What's that?"
Beth proudly indicated a piece of furniture made of curly walnut which stood in the corner of the room. There were several books on the top of it—Gospel Tunes—Moody and Sankey, a Methodist Episcopal hymn book, and a glass case containing wax flowers.
"We play it Sundays——," said Beth, "but it ought to help——"
"You play——!" he said in surprise.
"Aunt Tillie and I—oh, just hymns——." She sat, while Peter watched, began pumping vigorously with her feet and presently the instrument emitted a doleful sound. "It has notes anyhow," said Beth with a laugh.
"Splendid!" said Peter. "And when I've told you what to do you can practice here. You'll come soon?"
She nodded. "When?"
"To-morrow—sometime?" And then, "What's the matter with Wells?" he asked.
She frowned. "He just asked me to marry him. It's the twenty-seventh time."
"Oh——"
"I can't be botherin' with Shad—not on wash-day—or any other day," she added as though in an afterthought.
Peter laughed. He was quite sure that nobody would ever make her do anything she didn't want to do.
"He knows I was at the Cabin yesterday," she said in a low voice. "He was watchin'."
Peter was silent a moment, glancing at the books he had just brought her.
"Of course if he has any claim on you, perhaps——," he began, when she broke in.
"Claim! He hasn't," she gasped. "I'll do as I please. And he'd better quit pesterin' me or I'll——"
"What?"
She laughed.
"I'll put him through the clothes-wringer."
Peter grinned. "He almost looks as though you'd done that already."
And as she followed him to the door, "I thought I ought to tell you about Shad. When he gets ugly—he's ugly an' no mistake."
"Do you still think he'll—er—swallow me at one gobble?" he asked.
She stared at him a moment and then laughed with a full throat. "I hope he don't—at least not 'til I've had my singin' lessons."
"I think I can promise you that," said Peter.
She followed him out to the porch, where they looked about for Shad. He had disappeared. And in the "Lizzie," which had been panting by the side of the road, Peter was conducted by the soiled young man at the wheel to Black Rock House.
Nothing unusual had happened in his absence, nor had any other message or warning been posted, for Stryker, released for this duty, had searched all themorning and found nothing. "Hawk" was waiting, biding his hour.
Curiously enough, an astonishing calm seemed to have fallen over the person of Jonathan K. McGuire. When Peter arrived he found his employer seated on the portico in a wicker chair, smoking his after-supper cigar. True, the day guards were posted near by and Stryker hovered as was his wont, but the change in his employer's demeanor was so apparent that Peter wondered how such a stolid-looking creature could ever have lost his self-control. It was difficult to understand this metamorphosis unless it could be that, having come to a decision and aware of the prospect of immunity, if only a temporary one, McGuire had settled down to make the best of a bad job and await with stoicism whatever the future was to bring. This was Peter's first impression, nothing else suggesting itself, but when he followed the old man up to his room and gave him the money he had brought he noted the deeply etched lines at nostril and jaw and felt rather than saw the meaning of them—that Jonathan McGuire was in the grip of some deep and sinister resolution. There was a quality of desperation in his calmness, a studied indifference to the dangers which the night before last had seemed so appalling.
He put the money in the safe, carefully locked the combination and then turned into the room again.
"Thanks, Nichols," he said. "You'd better have some supper and get to bed to-night. I don't think you'll be needed." And then, as Peter's look showed his surprise, "I know my man better than you do. To-morrow night we shall see."
He closed his lips into a thin line, shot out his jaw and lowered his brows unpleasantly. Courage of a sort had come back to him, the courage of the animal at bay, which fights against the inevitable.
To Peter the time seemed propitious to state the need for the observation towers and he explained in detail his projects. But McGuire listened and when Peter had finished speaking merely shook his head.
"What you say is quite true. The towers must be built. I've thought so for a long time. In a few days we will speak of that again—after to-morrow night," he finished significantly.
"As you please," said Peter, "but every day lost now may——"
"We'll gain these days later," he broke in abruptly. "I want you to stay around here now."
On Friday morning he insisted on having Peter show him the tree where the placard had been discovered, and Peter, having taken lunch with him, led him down to the big sugar maple, off the path to the cabin. Peter saw that he scanned the woods narrowly and walked with a hand in his waist-band, which Peter knew held an Army Colt revolver, but the whine was gone from his voice, the trembling from his hands. He walked around the maple with Peter, regarding it with a sort of morbid abstraction and then himself led the way to the path and to the house. Why he wanted to look at the tree was more than Peter could understand, for it was Peter, and not he, who was to keep this costly assignation.
"You understand, Nichols," he said when they reached the portico, "you've agreed to go—to-night—at eleven."
"I wish you'd let me meet him—without the money."
"No—no. I've made up my mind——," gasped McGuire with a touch of his old alarm, "there can't be any change in the plan—no change at all."
"Oh, very well," said Peter, "it's not my money I'm giving away."
"It won't matter, Nichols. I—I've got a lot more——"
"But the principle——" protested Peter.
"To H—— with the principle," growled the old man.
Peter turned and went back to the Cabin, somewhat disgusted with his whole undertaking. Already he had been here for five days and, except for two walks through the woods for purposes of investigation, nothing that he had come to do had been accomplished. He had not yet even visited the sawmills which were down on the corduroy road five miles away. So far as he could see, for the present he was merely McGuire's handy man, a kind of upper servant and messenger, whose duties could have been performed as capably by Stryker or Shad Wells, or even Jesse Brown. The forest called him. It needed him. From what he had heard he knew that down by the sawmills they were daily cutting the wrong trees. He had already sent some instructions to the foreman there, but he could not be sure that his orders had been obeyed. He knew that he ought to spend the day there, making friends with the men and explaining the reasons for the change in orders, but as long as McGuire wanted him within telephone range, there was nothing to do but to obey.
He reached the Cabin, threw off his coat, and had hardly settled down at the table to finish his drawing, a plan of the observation towers, when Beth appeared. He rose and greeted her. Her face was flushed, for she had been running.
"Has Shad been here?" she asked breathlessly.
"No."
"Oh!" she gasped. "I was afraid he'd get here before me. I took the short cut through the woods."
"What's the matter?"
"He said he—he was going to break you to bits——"
"To bits! Me? Why?"
"Because he—he says I oughtn't to come here——"
"Oh, I see," he muttered, and then, with a grin, "and what doyouthink about it, Beth?"
"I'll do what I please," she said. "So long as I think it's all right. What business has he got to stop me!"
Peter laughed. "Don't let's bother then. Did you bring your books?"
She hadn't brought them. She had come in such a hurry.
"But aren't you afraid—when he comes?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Peter. "Do you think I ought to be?"
"Well, Shad's—he's what they call a Hellion around here."
"What's a—er—Hellion?"
"A—a scrapper."
"Oh, a fighting man?"
"Yes."
Peter sat down at the piano and struck loudly some strident discords in the bass. "Like this!" he laughed. "Isn't it ugly, Beth—that's what fighting is—I had it day and night for years. If Shad had been in the war he wouldn't ever want to fight again."
"Were you in the war?" asked Beth in amazement.
"Of course. Where would I have been?" And before she could reply he had swept into the rumbling bass of the "Revolutionary Étude." She sank into a chair and sat silent, listening, at first watching the door, and then as the soul of the artist within her awoke she forgot everything but the music.
There was a long silence at the end when Peter paused, and then he heard her voice, tense, suppressed.
"I could see it—you made me see it!" she gasped, almost in a whisper. "War—revolution—the people—angry—mumbling—crowding, pushing ... a crowd withguns and sticks howling at a gate ... and then a man trying to speak to them—appealing——"
Peter turned quickly at the words and faced her. Her eyes were like stars, her soul rapt in the vision his music had painted. Peter had lived that scene again and again, but how could Beth know unless he had made her see it? There was something strange—uncanny—in Beth's vision of the great drama of Peter's life. And yet she had seen. Even now her spirit was afar.
"And what happened to the man who was appealing to them?" he asked soberly.
She closed her eyes, then opened them toward him, shaking her head. "I—I don't know—it's all gone now."
"But you saw what I played. That is what happened."
"What do you mean?" She questioned, startled in her turn.
Peter shrugged himself into the present moment. "Nothing. It's just—revolution. War. War is like that, Beth," he went on quietly after a moment. "Like the motif in the bass—there is no end—the threat of it never stops—day or night. Only hell could be like it."
Beth slowly came out of her dream.
"You fought?" she asked.
"Oh, yes."
Another silence. "I—I think I understand now why you're not afraid."
"But Iamafraid, Beth," he said with a smile. "I was always afraid in the war. Because Death is always waiting just around the corner. Nobody who has been in the war wants ever to fight again."
He turned to the piano. "They all want happiness, Beth. Peace. This!" he finished, and his roving fingers played softly the Tschaikowsky "Reverie."
When he had finished he turned to her, smiling.
"What vision do you see in that, Beth?"
She started as though from a dream. "Oh, happiness—and sadness, too."
"Yes," said Peter soberly. "No one knows what it is to be happy unless one has been sad."
"That's true, isn't it?" she muttered, looking at him in wonder. "I never knew what unhappiness was for—but I guess that's it."
He caught the minor note in her voice and smiled.
"Come now," he said, "we'll have our first lesson."
"Without the books?"
"Yes. We'll try breathing."
"Breathing?"
"Yes—from the diaphragm."
And as she looked bewildered, "From the stomach—not from the chest—breathe deeply and say 'Ah.'"
She obeyed him and did it naturally, as though she had never breathed in any other way.
"Fine," he cried and touched a note on the piano. "Now sing it. Throw it forward. Softly first, then louder——"
It was while she was carrying out this instruction that a shadow appeared on the doorsill, followed in a moment by the figure of Shad Wells. Beth's "Ah" ceased suddenly. The visitor stood outside, his hands on his hips, in silent rage.
Peter merely glanced at him over his shoulder.
"How are you, Wells?" he said politely. "Won't you come in? We've having a singing lesson."
Shad did not move or speak as Peter went on, "Take the chair by the door, old man. The cigarettes are on the table. Now, Beth——"
But Beth remained as she was, uneasily regarding the intruder, for she knew that Shad was there for no good purpose. Peter caught her look and turned toward thedoor, deliberately ignoring the man's threatening demeanor.
"We won't be long," he began coolly, "not over half an hour——"
"No, I know ye won't," growled Shad. And then to the girl, "Beth, come out o' there!"
If Shad's appearance had caused Beth any uncertainty, she found her spirit now, for her eyes flashed and her mouth closed in a hard line.
"Who are you to say where I come or go?" she said evenly.
But Shad stood his ground.
"If you don't know enough to know what's what I'm here to show you."
"Oh, I say——," said Peter coolly.
"You can say what you like, Mister. And I've got somethin' to say to you when this lady goes."
"Oh,——" and then quietly to Beth, "Perhaps you'd better go. Bring the books to-morrow—at the same time."
But Beth hadn't moved, and only looked at Peter appealingly. So Peter spoke.
"This man is impolite, not to say disagreeable to you. Has he any right to speak to you like this?"
"No," said Beth uneasily, "but I don't want any trouble."
Peter walked to the door and faced Shad outside.
"There won't be any trouble unless Wells makes it." And then, as if a new thought had come to him, he said more cheerfully, "Perhaps he doesn't quite understand——"
"Oh, I understand, all right. Are you goin', Beth?"
She glanced at Peter, who nodded toward the path, and she came between them.
"Go on back, Shad," she said.
"No."
"Do you mean it? If you do I'm through with you. You understand?"
Peter took the girl by the arm and led her gently away.
"Just wait a minute, Wells," he flung over his shoulder at the man, "I'll be back in a second."
The careless tone rather bewildered the woodsman, who had expected to find either fear or anger. The forester-piano-player showed neither—only careless ease and a coolness which could only be because he didn't know what was coming to him.
"D—n him! I'll fix him!" muttered Shad, quivering with rage. But Peter having fortified himself with a cigarette was now returning. Wells advanced into an open space where there was plenty of room to swing his elbows and waited.
"Now, Wells," said Peter alertly, "you wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I did, ye stuck-up piano-playin', psalm-singin' —— —— —— ————." And suiting the action to the word leaped for Peter, both fists flying.
The rugged and uncultured often mistake politeness for effeminacy, sensibility for weakness. Shad was a rough and tumble artist of a high proficiency, and he had a reputation for strength and combativeness. He was going to make short work of this job.
But Peter had learned his boxing with his cricket. Also he had practiced theSavateand was familiar withjiu jitsu—but he didn't need either of them.
Wells rushed twice but Peter was not where he rushed. The only damage he had done was to tear out the sleeve of Peter's shirt.
"Stand up an' fight like a man," growled Shad.
"There's no hurry," said Peter, calmly studying Shad's methods.
"Oh,ain'tthere!"
This bull-like rush Peter stopped with a neat uppercut, straightening Shad's head which came up with a disfigured nose and before he could throw down his guard, Peter landed hard on his midriff. Shad winced but shot out a blow which grazed Peter's cheek. Then Peter countered on Shad's injured nose. Shad's eyes were now regarding Peter in astonishment. But in a moment only one of them was, for Peter closed the other.
"We'd better stop now," gasped Peter, "and talk this over."
"No, you —— —— ——," roared Shad, for he suspected that somewhere in the bushes Beth was watching.
Peter lost what remained of his shirt in the next rush and sprained a thumb. It didn't do to fight Shad "rough and tumble." But he got away at last and stood his man off, avoiding the blind rushes and landing almost at will.
"Had enough?" he asked again, as politely as ever.
"No," gulped the other.
So Peter sprang in and struck with all the force of his uninjured hand on the woodsman's jaw, and then Shad went down and lay quiet. It had been ridiculously easy from the first and Peter felt some pity for Shad and not a little contempt for himself. But he took the precaution of bending over the man and extracting the revolver that he found in Shad's hip pocket.
As he straightened and turned he saw Beth standing in the path regarding him.
"Beth!" he exclaimed with a glance at Shad. "You saw?"
"Yes." She covered her face with her hands. "It was horrible."
"I tried to avoid it," he protested.
"Yes, I know. It was his own fault. Is he badly hurt?"
"No, I think not. But you'd better go."
"Why?"
"It will only make matters worse if he sees you."
She understood, turned and vanished obediently.
Then Peter went to the house, got a basin and, fetching some water from the creek, played the Samaritan. In a while Shad gasped painfully and sat up, looking at the victor.
"Sorry," said Peter, "but youwouldhave it."
Shad blinked his uninjured eye and rose, feeling at his hip.
"I took your revolver," said Peter calmly.
"Give it here."
"A chap with a bad temper has no business carrying one," said Peter sternly.
"Oh——." The man managed to get to his feet.
"I'm sorry, Shad," said Peter again, and held out his hand. "Let's be friends."
Shad looked at the hand sullenly for a moment. "I'll fixyou, Mister. I'll fix you yet," he muttered, then turned and walked away.
If Peter had made one friend he had also made an enemy.
The incident with Shad Wells was unfortunate, but Peter didn't see how it could have been avoided. He was thankful nevertheless for his English schooling, which had saved him from a defeat at the hands of a "roughneck" which could have been, under the circumstances, nothing less than ignominious. For if Shad Wells had succeeded in vanquishing him, all Peter's authority, all his influence with the rest of the men in McGuire's employ would have gone forever, for Shad Wells was not the kind of man upon whom such a victory would have lightly sat. If he had thrashed Peter, Shad and not Peter would have beenthe boss of Black Rock and Peter's position would have been intolerable.
As Peter laved his broken knuckles and bruised cheek, he wondered if, after all, the affair hadn't been for the best. True, he had made an enemy of Shad, but then according to the girl, Shad had already been his enemy. Peter abhorred fighting, as he had told Beth, but, whatever the consequences, he was sure that the air had cleared amazingly. He was aware too that the fact that he had been the champion of Beth's independence definitely stood forth. Whatever the wisdom or the propriety, according to the standards of Black Rock society, of Beth's visits to the Cabin, for the purpose of a musical education or for any other purposes, Peter was aware that he had set the seal of his approval upon them, marked, that any who read might run, upon the visage of Mr. Wells. Peter was still sorry for Shad, but still more sorry for Beth, whose name might be lightly used for her share in the adventure.
He made up his mind to say nothing of what had happened, and he felt reasonably certain that Shad Wells would reach a similar decision. He was not at all certain that Beth wouldn't tell everybody what had happened for he was aware by this time that Beth was the custodian of her own destinies and that she would not need the oracles of Black Rock village as censors of her behavior.
But when he went up to the house for supper he made his way over the log-jam below the pool and so to the village, stopping for a moment at the Bergen house, where Beth was sitting on the porch readingThe Lives of the Great Composers. She was so absorbed that she did not see him until he stood at the little swing gate, hat in hand.
She greeted him quietly, glancing up at his bruised cheek.
"I'm so sorry," she said, "that it was on my account."
"I'm not—now that I've done the 'gobbling,'" he said with a grin. And then, "Where's Shad?"
"I haven't seen him. I guess he's gone in his hole and pulled it in after him."