If a moment ago when she was relaxed in his arms he had thought that he had won her, he had no such notion now, for with a final effort of her strong young arms, she thrust away from him and stood panting and disordered, staring at him as though at one she had never seen before.
"Oh—how I hate you!"
"Beth!"
"I mean it. You—you——," she turned away from him, staring at the torn music on the ground as at a symbol of her disillusionment. Peter saw her look, felt the meaning of it, tried to recall the words he had said to her and failed—but sure that they were a true reflection of what had been in his heart. He had wanted her—then—nothing else had mattered—not duty or his set resolve....
"You mocked at me, Beth," he muttered. "I couldn't stand that——"
"And isthisthe way you punish me? Ah, if you'd only—if you'd only——"
And then with another glance at the torn music, she leaned against the trunk of a tree, sobbing violently.
"Beth——" he whispered, gently, "don't——"
"Go away. Oh, go. Go!"
"I can't. I won't. What did you want me to say toyou? That I love you? I do, Beth—I do," he whispered. It was Peter Nichols, not Peter Nicholaevitch, who was whispering now.
"Was this what your teachin' meant?" she flashed at him bitterly. "Was this what you meant when you wanted to pay my way in New York? Oh, how you shame me! Go! Go away from me, please."
"Please don't," he whispered. "You don't understand. I never meant that. I—I love you, Beth. I can't bear to see you cry."
She made a valiant effort to control her heaving shoulders. And then,
"Oh, you—you've spoiled it all. S-spoiled it all, and it was so beautiful."
Had he? Her words sobered him. No, that couldn't be. He cursed his momentary madness, struggling for words to comfort her, but he had known that she had seen the look in his eyes, felt the roughness of his embrace. Love? The love that she had sung to him was not of these. He wanted now to touch her again—gently, to lift up her flushed face, wet like a flower with the fresh dew of her tears, and tell her what love was. But he didn't dare—he couldn't, after what he had said to her. And still she wept over her broken toys—the music—the singing—for they had mattered the most. Very childlike she seemed, very tender and pathetic.
"Beth," he said at last, touching her fingers gently. "Nothing is changed, Beth. It can't be changed, dear. We've got to go on. It means so much to—to us both."
But she paid no attention to the touch of his fingers and turned away, leaving the music at her feet, an act in itself significant.
"Let me go home. Please. Alone. I—I've got to think."
She did not look at him, but Peter obeyed her. Therewas nothing else to do. There was something in the clear depths of her eyes that had daunted him. And he had meant her harm. Had he? He didn't know. He passed his hand slowly across his eyes and then stood watching her until she had disappeared among the trees. When she had gone he picked up the torn music. It was Massenet's "Elégie."
O doux printemps d'autrefois....Tout est flétrie.
O doux printemps d'autrefois....Tout est flétrie.
The lines of the torn pieces came together. Spring withered! The joyous songs of birds—silenced! Beth's song? He smiled. No, that couldn't be. He folded the music up and strode off slowly, muttering to himself.
Peter passed a troublous evening and night—a night of self-revelations. Never that he could remember had he so deeply felt the sting of conscience. He, the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, in love with this little rustic? Impossible! It was the real Peter, tired of the sham and make-believe of self-restraint and virtue, who had merely kissed a country girl. He was no anchorite, no saint. Why had he tied himself to such a duty from a motive of silly sentimentalism?
He winced at the word. Was it that? Sentimentalism. He had shown her the best side of him—shown it persistently, rather proud of his capacity for self-control, which had ridden even with his temptations. Why should it matter so much to him what this girl thought of him? What had he said to her? Nothing much that he hadn't said to other women. It was the fact that he had said it to Beth that made the difference. The things one might say to other women meant something different to Beth—the things one might do.... He had been a fool and lost his head, handled her roughly, spoken to her wildly, words only intended for gentle moods, softer purposes. Shrewd little Beth, whose wide, blue eyes had seen right down into the depths of his heart. He had been clumsy, if nothing else, and he had always thought that clumsiness was inexcusable. He had a guilty sense that while Beth was still the little lady to her finger tips, born to a natural nobility, he, the Grand Duke Peter, had been theboor, the vulgar proletarian. The look in her eyes had shamed him as the look in his own eyes had shamed her. She had known what his wooing meant, and it hadn't been what she wanted. The mention of love on lips that kissed as his had done was blasphemy.
Yes. He cared what she thought of him—and he vainly cast about for a way in which to justify himself. To make matters worse Beth still believed that this was the payment he exacted for what he had done for her, what he had proposed to do for her, that he measured her favors in terms of value received. What else could she think but that? Every hour of his devotion to her music defamed her.
The situation was intolerable. In the morning he went seeking her at her home. The house was open. No one in Black Rock village locked doors by day or night. Beth was not there. A neighbor said that she had gone early alone into the woods and Peter understood. If she hadn't cared for him she wouldn't have needed to go to the woods to be alone. Of course she didn't appear at the Cabin the next day, and Peter searched for her—fruitlessly. She weighed on his conscience, like a sin unshrived. He had to find her to explain the unexplainable, to tell her what her confidence had meant to him, to recant his blasphemy of her idols in gentleness and repentance.
As he failed to find her, he wrote her a note, asking her forgiveness, and stuck it in the mirror of the old hat-rack in the hall. Many women in Europe and elsewhere, ladies of the great world that Beth had only dreamed about, would have given their ears (since ear puffs were in fashion) to receive such a note from Peter. It was a beautiful note besides—manly, gentle, breathing contrition and self-reproach. Beth merely ignored it.Whatever she thought of it and of Peter she wanted to deliberate a longer while.
And so another music lesson hour passed while Peter sat alone in the Cabin waiting. That night two letters were brought to him. The superscription of one was scrawled in a boyish hand. The other was scented, dainty, of pale lavender, and bore a familiar handwriting and a familiar coronet. In amazement he opened this first. It was from the Princess Galitzin, written in the polyglot of French, English and Russian which she affected.
"Chere Pierre," it ran,—in the English, somewhat as follows: "You will no doubt be surprised at hearing from me in far-off America and amazed at the phenomenon of your discovered address at the outlandish place you've chosen for your domicile. It's very simple. In America you have been watched by agents of the so-called government of our wretched country. We know this here in London, because one ofouragents is also a part of their secret organization. He came upon the report of your doings and knowing that father was interested, detailed the information to us."So far as I can learn at the present writing you are in no immediate danger of death, but we do not know here in London how soon the word may be sent forth to 'remove' persons of your importance in the cosmic scheme. It seems that your desire to remain completely in hiding is looked upon with suspicion in Russia as evidence of a possible intention on your part to come to light at the beginnings of a Bourbon movement and proclaim yourself as the leader of a Royalist party. Your uncles and cousins have chosen the line of least resistance in yielding to the inevitable, living in Switzerland, and other spots where their identities are well known."I pray, my well remembered andbel ami, that the cause of Holy Russia is still and ever present in your heart of hearts and that the thing these devils incarnate fear may one day come to pass. But I pray you to be discreet and watchful, if necessary changing your place of abode to one in which you will enjoy greater security from your enemies. There is at last one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo."Helas!London is dead sea fruit. People are very kind to us. We have everything that the law allows us, but life seems to have lost its charm. I have never quite forgiven you,mon Pierre, for your desertion of us at Constantinople, though doubtless your reasons for preserving your incognito were of the best. But it has saddened me to think that you did not deem me worthy of a closer confidence.You are doubtless very much alone and unhappy—also in danger not only from your political enemies, but also from the American natives in the far away woods in which you have been given occupation. I trust, such as it is, that you have taken adequate measures to protect yourself. I know little of America, but I have a longing to go to that splendid country, rugged in its primitive simplicity, in spite of inconveniences of travel and the mass of uncultured beings with whom one must come into contact. Do you think it would be possible for a spoiled creature like me to find a boudoir with a bath—that is, in the provinces, outside of New York?"It is terrible that you can have no music in your life! I too miss your music,Pietro mio, as I miss you. Perhaps one day soon you will see me. I am restless and bored to extinction, with these ramrods of Englishmen who squeeze my rings into my fingers. But if I come I will be discreet toward Peter Nichols. That was a clever invention of yours. It really sounds—quite—American."Garde toi bien, entendez vous? Tout de suite je viendrai. Au revoir."Anastasie."
"Chere Pierre," it ran,—in the English, somewhat as follows: "You will no doubt be surprised at hearing from me in far-off America and amazed at the phenomenon of your discovered address at the outlandish place you've chosen for your domicile. It's very simple. In America you have been watched by agents of the so-called government of our wretched country. We know this here in London, because one ofouragents is also a part of their secret organization. He came upon the report of your doings and knowing that father was interested, detailed the information to us.
"So far as I can learn at the present writing you are in no immediate danger of death, but we do not know here in London how soon the word may be sent forth to 'remove' persons of your importance in the cosmic scheme. It seems that your desire to remain completely in hiding is looked upon with suspicion in Russia as evidence of a possible intention on your part to come to light at the beginnings of a Bourbon movement and proclaim yourself as the leader of a Royalist party. Your uncles and cousins have chosen the line of least resistance in yielding to the inevitable, living in Switzerland, and other spots where their identities are well known.
"I pray, my well remembered andbel ami, that the cause of Holy Russia is still and ever present in your heart of hearts and that the thing these devils incarnate fear may one day come to pass. But I pray you to be discreet and watchful, if necessary changing your place of abode to one in which you will enjoy greater security from your enemies. There is at last one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo.
"Helas!London is dead sea fruit. People are very kind to us. We have everything that the law allows us, but life seems to have lost its charm. I have never quite forgiven you,mon Pierre, for your desertion of us at Constantinople, though doubtless your reasons for preserving your incognito were of the best. But it has saddened me to think that you did not deem me worthy of a closer confidence.You are doubtless very much alone and unhappy—also in danger not only from your political enemies, but also from the American natives in the far away woods in which you have been given occupation. I trust, such as it is, that you have taken adequate measures to protect yourself. I know little of America, but I have a longing to go to that splendid country, rugged in its primitive simplicity, in spite of inconveniences of travel and the mass of uncultured beings with whom one must come into contact. Do you think it would be possible for a spoiled creature like me to find a boudoir with a bath—that is, in the provinces, outside of New York?
"It is terrible that you can have no music in your life! I too miss your music,Pietro mio, as I miss you. Perhaps one day soon you will see me. I am restless and bored to extinction, with these ramrods of Englishmen who squeeze my rings into my fingers. But if I come I will be discreet toward Peter Nichols. That was a clever invention of yours. It really sounds—quite—American.
"Garde toi bien, entendez vous? Tout de suite je viendrai. Au revoir.
"Anastasie."
Peter read the letter through twice, amused, astounded and dismayed by turns. His surmise in regard to the stranger with the black mustache had been correct then. The man was a spy of the Russian Soviets. And so instead of having been born immaculate into a new life, as he had hoped—a man without a past, and only a future to be accounted for—he was only the Grand Duke Peter after all. And Anastasie! Why the devil did she want to come nosing about in America, reminding him of all the things that he wanted to forget? The odor of her sachet annoyed him. A bath and boudoir! He realized now that she had always annoyed him with her pretty silly little affectations and her tawdry smatterings of the things that were worth while. He owed her nothing. He had made love to her, of course, because that was what a woman of her type expected from men of his. But there had been no damage done on either side, for he had not believed that she had ever really cared. And now distance, it seemed, had made her heart grow fonder, distance and the romantic circumstances of his exile.
It was kind of her, of course, to let him know of his danger, but only human after all. She could have done no less, having the information. And now she was coming to offer him the charity of her wealth, to tempt him with ease, luxury and London. He would have none of them.
He picked up the other letter with even more curiosity until he read the postmark, and then his interest became intense, for he knew that it was from Jim Coast—Hawk Kennedy. The letter bore the heading, "Antlers Hotel, Colorado Springs."
"Dear Pete," he read, through the bad spelling, "Here I am back at the 'Springs,' at the 'Antlers,' after a nice trip down Bisbee way, and out along the 'J. and A.' to the mine. It's there all right and they're workin' it yet to beat the cards with half a mountain still to be tapped. I ain't going into particulars—not in a letter, except to tell you that I got what I went for—names, dates and amounts—also met the gents our friend sold out to—nice people. Oh, I'm 'A1' with that outfit, old dear. I'm just writing this to show you I'm on the job and that if you've got an eye to business you'd better consider my proposition. I'll make it worth your while. You can help all right. You did me a good turn that night. I'll give you yours if you'll stand in proper and make McG. do what's right. It ain't what you said it was—it's justice all around. That's all I'm asking—what's right and proper."I ain't coming back just yet, not for a month, maybe. I'm living easy and there's a lady here that suits my fancy. So just drop me a line at the above address, letting me know everything's O. K. Remember I'm no piker and I'll fix you up good."Your friend,"Jim."
"Dear Pete," he read, through the bad spelling, "Here I am back at the 'Springs,' at the 'Antlers,' after a nice trip down Bisbee way, and out along the 'J. and A.' to the mine. It's there all right and they're workin' it yet to beat the cards with half a mountain still to be tapped. I ain't going into particulars—not in a letter, except to tell you that I got what I went for—names, dates and amounts—also met the gents our friend sold out to—nice people. Oh, I'm 'A1' with that outfit, old dear. I'm just writing this to show you I'm on the job and that if you've got an eye to business you'd better consider my proposition. I'll make it worth your while. You can help all right. You did me a good turn that night. I'll give you yours if you'll stand in proper and make McG. do what's right. It ain't what you said it was—it's justice all around. That's all I'm asking—what's right and proper.
"I ain't coming back just yet, not for a month, maybe. I'm living easy and there's a lady here that suits my fancy. So just drop me a line at the above address, letting me know everything's O. K. Remember I'm no piker and I'll fix you up good.
"Your friend,"Jim."
Peter clenched the paper in his fist and threw it on the floor, frowning angrily at the thought of the man's audacity. But after a while he picked the crumpled note up and straightened it out upon the table, carefully rereading it. Its very touch seemed to soil his fingers, but he studied it for a long while, and then folded it up and put it in his pocket. It was a very careful gamethat Peter would have to play with Hawk Kennedy, a game that he had no liking for. But if he expected to succeed in protecting McGuire, he would have to outwit Jim Coast—or Hawk Kennedy, as he now thought of him—by playing a game just a little deeper than his own.
Of course he now had the advantage of knowing the whole of McGuire's side of the story, while Kennedy did not believe the old man would have dared to tell. And to hold these cards successfully it would be necessary to continue in Kennedy's mind the belief that Peter did not share McGuire's confidences. It would also be necessary for Peter to cast in his lot, apparently, with Kennedy against McGuire. It was a dirty business at best, but he meant to carry it through if he could, and get the signed agreement from the blackmailer.
Peter seemed to remember an old wallet that Jim Coast had always carried. He had seen it after Coast had taken slips of paper from it and showed them to Peter,—newspaper clippings, notes from inamorata and the like—but of course, never the paper now in question. And if he had carried it all these years, where was it now? In the vault of some bank or trust company probably, and this would make Peter's task difficult, if not impossible.
Peter got up and paced the floor, thinking deeply of all these things in their relation to Beth. And then at last he went out into the night, his footsteps impelled toward the village. After all, the thoughts uppermost in his mind were of Beth herself. Whatever the cost to his pride, he would have to make his peace with her. He knew that now. Why otherwise did his restless feet lead him out into the pasture back of the little post office toward the rear of Mrs. Bergen's house? Yet there he found himself presently, smoking his corncob pipe for comfort, and staring at the solitary light inTillie Bergen's parlor, which proclaimed its occupant. Mrs. Bergen's house stood at a little distance from its nearest neighbor, and Peter stole slowly through the orchard at the rear toward the open window. It was then that he heard the music for the first time, the "harmonium" wailing softly, while sweet and clear above the accompaniment (worked out painstakingly but lovingly by the girl herself) came Beth's voice singing the "Elégie."
Peter came closer until he was just at the edge of the shadow outside the window. He knew that her back would be turned to him and so he peered around the shutter at her unconscious back. She sang the song through until the end and then after a pause sang it again. Peter had no ear now for the phrasing, for faults in technique, or inaccuracies in enunciation. What he heard was the soul of the singer calling. All that he had taught her in the hours in the Cabin was in her voice—and something more that she had learned elsewhere.... Her voice was richer—deeper, a child's voice no longer, and he knew that she was singing of his mad moment in the woods, which had brought the end of all things that had mattered in her life. It was no girl who sang now, but a woman who had learned the meaning of the song, the plaint of birds once joyous, of woodland flowers once gay—at the memory of a spring that was no more. He had told her that she would sing that song well some day when she learned what it meant. She would never sing it again as she had sung it to-night. All the dross that Peter had worn in the world was stripped from him in that moment, all that was petty and ignoble in his heart driven forth and he stood with bowed head, in shame for what he had been, and in gentleness for this dear creature whose idols he had cast down.
At the end of the second verse, her fingers slipped fromthe keys and fell to her sides while she bowed her head and sat for a moment immovable. And then her shoulders moved slightly and a tiny smothered sound came from her throat. Suddenly her head bent and she fell forward on her arms upon the muted keys.
Noiselessly he passed over the low windowsill and before she even knew that he was there, fell to his knees beside her.
"Beth," he whispered. "Don't—child—don't!"
She straightened, startled and incredulous at the sight of him, and tried to move away, but he caught one of her hands and with bent head gently laid his lips upon it.
"Don't, Beth—please. I can't bear to see you cry——"
"I—I'mnotcrying," she stammered helplessly, while she winked back her tears, "I—I've just—just got the—the—stomachache."
She tried to laugh—failing dismally in a sob.
"Oh, Beth—don't——" he whispered.
"I—I can't help it—if I—I've got a—a pain," she evaded him.
"But I can," he murmured. "It's in your heart, Beth. I'm sorry for everything. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive."
"Please!"
"There's nothing to forgive," she repeated dully. But she had controlled her voice now and her fingers in his were struggling for release.
"I was a brute, Beth. I'd give everything to have those moments back. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. See—how changed I am——"
She released her fingers and turned slightly away.
"I—I'm changed too, Mr. Nichols," she murmured.
"No. You mustn't be, Beth. And I've got to have you back. You've got to come back to me, Beth."
"Things can't be the same now."
"Yes—just the same——"
"No. Something's gone."
"But if something else has taken its place——"
"Nothing can——"
"Something greater——"
"I don't care for the sample you showed me," she returned quietly.
"I was crazy, Beth. I lost my head. It won't happen again."
"No. I know it won't——"
"You don't understand. It couldn't. I've made a fool of myself. Isn't it enough for me to admit that?"
"I knew it all the time." She was cruel, and from her cruelty he guessed the measure of her pride.
"I've done all I can to atone. I want you to know that I love you. I do, Beth. I love you——"
There was a note in his voice different from that she had heard the other day. His head was bent and he did not hear the little gasp or see the startled look in her eyes, which she controlled before he raised his head. With great deliberateness she answered him.
"Maybe you and I—have a different idea of what love ought to be," she said. But he saw that her reproof was milder.
"I know," he insisted. "You've sung it to me——"
"No—not to you—not love," she said, startled. And then, "You had no right to be listenin'." And then, with a glance at Aunt Tillie's clock, "You have no right to be here now. It's late."
"But I can't go until you understand what I want to do for you. You say that I can't know what love is. It asks nothing and only gives. I swear I wanted to give without thought of a return—until you laughed at me.And then—I wanted to punish you because you wouldn't understand——"
"Yes. You punished me——"
"Forgive me. You shouldn't have laughed at me, Beth. If you knew everything, you'd understand that I'm doing it all without a hope of payment,—just because I've got to."
Her eyes grew larger. "What do you mean?"
"I can't tell you now—but something has happened that will make a great difference to you."
"What?"
"Forgive me. Come to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell you. We've already wasted two days."
"I'm not so sure they've been wasted," said Beth quietly.
"I don't care if you'll only come. Will you, Beth? To-morrow?"
She nodded gravely at last.
"Perhaps," she said. And then, gently, "Good-night, Mr. Nichols."
So Peter kissed her fingers as though she had been his Czarina and went out.
Of course Beth Cameron knew nothing of Russia's grand dukes. The only Duke that she had ever met was in the pages of the novel she had read in which the hero was named Algernon. That Duke was of the English variety, proud, crusty, and aged and had only made an unpleasant impression upon her because she had liked Algernon, who had fallen in love with the daughter of the Duke, and the Duke had been very horrid to him in consequence or by reason of that mishap. When she had said to Peter that he reminded her of Algernon she had meant it, and that was really very nice of her, because she thought Algernon all that a self-respecting hero should be. It was true that Peter, though mostly an Englishman, didn't play polo and ride to hounds or swagger around a club and order people about, because he was too poor and was obliged to work for his living.
But he did remind her of Algernon somehow. He had a way with him, as though if therehadbeen butlers and valets at Black Rock hecouldhave swaggered and ordered them around if he'd had a mind to. He was good looking too. She had noted that even from the very first when she had found him lugging his suitcase down on the road from Pickerel River. Then too he did say things to her, nicer things than any fellow had ever known how to say to her before, and he was much more polite than she had ever believed it possible for any one, to be without seeming queer. But when, eavesdropping at McGuire's,she had heard Peter play the piano, she felt herself conducted into a new world which had nothing at all to do with glass factories and vineyards. Even the sartorial splendor of Miss Peggy McGuire paled into insignificance beside the new visions which the music of Peter Nichols had invoked. He hadn't just lied to her. Hewasa musician. Hecouldplay. She had never heard anybody bring from a piano sounds like these. And he had said he wanted her to sing for him.
Beth had sung always—just as she had always breathed—but she had never heard any good music except on a talking machine at the boarding house at Glassboro—an old record of Madame Melba's that they played sometimes. But even that song from an opera ("Lay Boheem" they called it), mutilated as it was, had shown her that there was something more wonderful than the popular melodies that the other people liked. Beth's taste for good music, like her taste for nice people, was instinctive. And she had found that in her walk of life the one was about as difficult to find as the other. She had had her awakenings and her disillusionments, with women as well as men, but had emerged from her experiences of two winters in a factory town with her chin high and her heart pure—something of an achievement for one as pretty as Beth.
All in all, she had liked Shad Wells better than any of the men she had met. He was rough, but she had discovered that good manners didn't always mean good hearts or clean minds.
It was this discovery that had made her look askance at Peter Nichols when she had first met him on the road, for he was politer than anybody she had ever met. If her philosophy was to be consistent this new superintendent would need watching. But his music disarmed her and captured her imagination. And then came theincident of the jealous Shad and the extraordinary outcome of Mr. Nichols's championship of her rights. She had witnessed that fight from the shelter of the bushes. It had been dreadful but glorious. Peter's chivalry appealed to her—also his strength. From that moment he was superman.
Then had followed the long wonderful weeks of music at the Cabin, in which she had learned the beginnings of culture and training. Her music-master opened new and beautiful vistas for her, told her of the great musicians and singers that the world had known, described the opera houses of Europe, the brilliant audiences, the splendid ballets, the great orchestras, and promised her that if she worked hard, she might one day become a part of all this. She had learned to believe him now, for she saw that as time went on he was more exacting with her work, more sparing in his praise of her, and she had worked hard—in despair at times, but with a slowly growing confidence in her star of destiny.
And all the while she was wondering why Peter Nichols was doing this for her and what the outcome of it all was to be. He spoke little of the future except to hint vaguely at lessons elsewhere when he had taught her all that he knew. The present it seemed was sufficient for them both. His moods of soberness, of joy, of enthusiasm, were all catching and she followed him blindly, aware of this great new element in her life which was to make the old life difficult, if not impossible. He treated her always with respect, not even touching her arms or waist in passing—an accepted familiarity of men by girls of her social class. Beth understood that it was a consideration due to a delicate situation, the same consideration which had impelled her always to call him Mr. Nichols.
And yet it was this very consideration of Peter's that vexed her. It wasn't an air of superiority, for shecouldn't have stood that. It was just discretion, maybe, or something else, she couldn't decide what. But Beth didn't want to be put in a glass case like the wax flowers at home. Her voice was a mere mechanical instrument, as he had taken pains so often to tell her, but he seemed to be making the mistake of thinkinghera mechanical instrument too. She wasn't. She was very much alive, tingling with vitality, very human under her demure aspect during the singing lessons, and it had bothered her that Peter shouldn't know it. His ignorance, his indifference affronted her. Didn't he see what she looked like? Didn't he see that she might be worth making love to ... just a little, a very little ... once in a while?
The clouds had broken suddenly, almost without warning, when he had talked like a professor—about sentiment—apologized—that was what he had done—apologizedfor not making love to her! Oh!
And then things had happened swiftly—incredible, unbelievable things. The lightning had flashed and it had shown an ugly Mr. Nichols—a different Mr. Nichols from anything that she could have imagined of him. The things he had said to her ... his kisses ... shameful things! A hundred times she had brushed them off like the vision of him from her mind. And still they returned, warm and pulsing to her lips. And still the vision of him returned—remained. Hehadbeen so nice to her before....
Now Beth sat in the big chair opposite Peter in the Cabin by the log fire (for the evenings were getting cool) while he finished telling her about the death of Ben Cameron, of the murder and of Jonathan K. McGuire's share in the whole terrible affair. It was with some misgivings, even after swearing her to secrecy, that he told her what he had learned through Kennedy and McGuire. And she had listened, wide-eyed. Her father of course was onlythe shadow of a memory to her, the evil shade in a half-forgotten dream, and therefore it was not grief that she could feel, not even sorrow for one who in life had been so vile, even if his miserable death had been so tragic—only horror and dismay at the thought of the perpetrator of the infamy. And not until Peter had come to the end of the story did she realize what this revelation meant, that the very foundation of McGuire's great fortune was laid upon property which belonged to her.
"Out of all this evil must come some good, Beth," he finished soberly. "That copper mine was yours. McGuire took it and he is going to pay you what he owes."
Beth had already exhausted all the expletives of horror and amazement, and now for a moment this last information staggered her and she stared at him unbelieving.
"Pay me? I can't believe——"
"It was your property by every law of God and man, and I mean that you shall have it." He paused and smiled softly. "You see, Beth, you won't need to depend on me now for your training."
"Oh—then this was what you meant——"
"What I meant when I said that you should owe me nothing—that I——"
"But Iwillowe you—everything. I shall still owe you everything." And then, wonderingly, "And just to think of my livin' here all this time so near the man—and not knowin' about——" Her words trailed off into silent astonishment.
"Yes. And to think of his making his fortune on money that belonged to you! Millions. And he's going to pay you what he got out of the Tarantula mine—every dollar with interest to date."
"But how can you make him do that?" she cried eagerly. "What proof have you got?"
He smiled grimly into the fire as he poked a fallen log into the blaze.
"Blackmail is an ugly word, Beth. But it shouldn't be blackmail, if silence is the price of getting what really belongs to you. McGuire is using your money—and he must give it to you. It's your money—not his. If he won't give it to you of his own free will, he will give it against his will."
"But how can you make him do that?" asked Beth timidly.
"By saving him from Hawk Kennedy. That's my price—and yours."
"But how can you?"
"I don't know. I've got to fight Kennedy with his own weapons—outwit him. And I've thought out a plan——"
"But he's dangerous. You mustn't take any further risks with a man like that for me."
Peter only smiled.
"It will amuse me, Beth. And besides——" He bent forward to tend the fire, his face immediately grave again. "Besides—I think I owe you that, now."
She understood what he meant and thrilled gently. Her joy had come back to her with a rush. All through the music lesson and through the recital of the tale of mystery she had hung breathlessly on his words and watched the changing expression on his features as he talked into the fire. This washerMr. Nichols who was speaking now, her friend and mentor, who wanted her to understand that this was his way of atonement. But she ignored his last remark, to Beth the most important of the entire conversation.
"How—how much will the—the money amount to?" she asked timidly.
Peter laughed.
"Figure it out for yourself. Half a million—six per cent—fifteen years——"
"Half a million dollars——!"
"A million—or more!"
"A million! God-a-mercy!"
Peter recognized one of Aunt Tillie's expressions, Beth's vocabulary being inadequate to the situation.
"But you haven't got it yet," he said.
"And I daren't think of gettin' it. I won't think of it. I'd get my brain so full of things I wanted it would just naturallybust. Oh lordy!"
Peter laughed.
"You do want a lot of things, don't you?"
"Of course. A silk waist, a satin skirt, some silk stockings—but most of all, a real sure enough piano," she gasped. And then, as though in reproach of her selfishness, "And I could pay off the mortgage on Aunt Tillie's farm back in the clearing!"
"How much is that?"
"Three thousand dollars. I've already paid off three hundred."
"There ought to be enough for that," said Peter soberly.
"Oh, Mr. Nichols. I hope you don't think I'm an awful fool talkin' this way."
"Not unless you thinkIam."
"But itisnice to dream of things sometimes."
"Yes. I do that too. What do you dream of, Beth?"
"Oh, of bein' a great singer, mostly—standin' on a stage with people lookin' up and clappin' their hands at me."
"What else?"
"Oh," she laughed gayly, "I used to dream of marryin' a prince—all girls do. But there ain't any princes now to marry."
"No, that's true," he assented. "The old world hasn't any use for princes now." And then, "But why did you want to marry a prince?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. It's just fairy tales. Haven't you ever lived in a fairy tale and loved a princess?"
"Yes, I've lived in a fairy tale, but I've never loved a princess."
"I guess if everybody knew," said Beth with conviction, "the princes in Europe are a pretty bad lot."
"Yes," said Peter slowly, "I guess they are."
She paused a moment, looking into the fire. And then, "Were you ever acquainted with any princes in Europe, Mr. Nichols?"
Peter smiled. "Yes, Beth. I did know one prince rather intimately—rather too intimately."
"Oh. You didn't like him?"
"No, not much. He was an awful rotter. The worst of it was that he had good instincts and when he went wrong, he went wrong in spite of 'em. You see—he was temperamental."
"What's temperamental?"
"Having the devil and God in you both at the same time," muttered Peter after a moment.
"I know," she said. "Satan and God, with God just sittin' back a little to see how far Satan will go."
He smiled at her. "You don't mean that you have temptations too, Beth?"
She ignored his question, her face sober, and went back to her subject.
"I guess your prince wasn't any better or any worse than a lot of other people. Maybe he didn't give God a chance?"
"No. Maybe not," said Peter.
"It seems to me he must have been kind of human,somehow," Beth commented reflectively. "What's become of him now?" she asked, then.
"Oh, he's out of it," replied Peter.
"Dead?"
"Yes. His country has chucked all the nobility out on the dust heap."
"Russia?"
"Yes."
"Did they kill him?"
"They tried to, but couldn't."
"Where is he now?"
"A wanderer on the face of the earth."
"I'm so sorry. It must be terrible to have to eat pork and beans when your stomach's only used to chocolate sundaes."
Peter grinned.
"Some of 'em were glad enough to get off with stomachs to put beans and pork into. Oh, you needn't waste your pity, Beth."
"I don't. I read the papers. I guess they got what they deserved. The workin' people in the world ain't any too keen on buyin' any more diamond tiaras for loafers. I reckon it was about time for a new deal all around without the face cards."
"Perhaps, Beth. But there's always the ten spot to take the deuce."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Beth reflectively. "People aren't really equal—are they? Some applesarebetter than others. I guess," she sighed, "that the real trouble with the world is because there ain't enough friendship in it."
Peter was silent for a moment.
"Yes, that's true," he said, "not enough friendship—not enough love. And it's all on account of money, Beth. There wouldn't have been any European war if somepeople hadn't wanted property that belonged to somebody else."
"I hope wanting this money won't make me hate anybody or make anybody hate me. I don't want to make Mr. McGuire unhappy or Miss McGuire——"
"You needn't worry," said Peter dryly. "You see, it's your money."
Beth gave a deep sigh.
"I can't help it. Iwouldlike to have a sport coat and aceriseveil like Peggy wears."
"You shall have 'em. What else?"
"Some pretty patent leather shoes with rhinestone buckles——"
"Yes——"
"And a black velvet hat and nicelingerie——" (Beth pronounced it lingery).
"Of course. And the piano——"
"Oh, yes. A piano and books—lots of books."
"And a red automobile?"
"Oh, I wouldn't dare wish for that."
"Why not? It's just as easy to wish for an automobile as a piano."
"Yes, I suppose so." She became immediately grave again. "But I can't seem to believe it all. I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of Hawk Kennedy. I feel that he's going to make trouble for us all, Mr. Nichols. I'm afraid. I always seem to feel things before they happen. Any man who could do what he did—murder!"
"There will be some way to get around him."
"But it's dangerous. I don't feel I've got the right to let you do this for me."
"Oh, yes, you have. I'd do it anyhow. It's only justice."
"But suppose he—suppose——"
"What——?"
"He might kill you, too."
Peter laughed. "Not a chance. You see, I wasn't born to die a violent death. If I had been, I'd have been dead months ago."
"Oh—the war, you mean?" she asked soberly.
"Yes—the war. Everything is tame after that. I'm not afraid of Hawk Kennedy."
"But there's danger just the same."
"I hope not. I won't cross that bridge until I come to it."
Beth was silent for a long moment and then with a glance at the clock on the mantel slowly gathered her music, aware of his voice close at her ear.
"And if I do this, Beth,—if I get what belongs to you, will you believe that I have no motive but friendship for you, that I care for you enough to want you to forgive me for what has happened?"
He had caught her fingers in his own but she did not try to release them.
"Oh, don't speak of that—please! I want to forget you—that day."
"Can't you forget it more easily by remembering me as I am now, Beth? See. I want you as much now as I did then—just as much, but I cannot have you until you give yourself to me."
What did he mean? She wasn't sure of him. If marriage was what he meant, why didn't he say so? Marriage. It was such an easy word to say. Her fingers struggled in his.
"Please, Mr. Nichols," she gasped.
"You mean that you won't—that you don't care enough——?"
"I—I'm not sure of you——"
"I love you, Beth——"
"Yousayso——"
"I do—better than anything in the world."
"Enough to—enough to...?"
She was weakening fast. She felt her danger in the trembling of her fingers in his. Why didn't he finish her question for her? Marriage. It was such a little word. And yet he evaded it and she saw that he meant to evade it.
"Enough to have you almost in my arms and yet hardly to touch you—enough to have your lips within reach of mine and yet not to take them. Isn't that what you wanted, Beth? Gentleness, tenderness——"
She flung away from him desperately.
"No—no. I want nothing—nothing. Please! You don't want to understand." And then with an effort she found her poise. "Things must be as they are. Nothing else. It's getting late, I must go."
"Beth—Not yet. Just a minute——"
"No."
But she did not go and only stood still, trembling with irresolution. He knew what she wanted him to say. There could be no middle ground for Beth. She must be all to him or nothing. Marriage. It was the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch who had evaded this very moment while Peter Nichols had urged him to it. And it was Peter Nichols who knew that any words spoken of marriage to Beth Cameron would be irrevocable, the Grand Duke Peter (an opportunist) who urged him to utter them, careless of consequences. And there stood Beth adorable in her perplexity, conjuring both of him to speak.
It was Peter Nichols who met the challenge, oblivious of all counsels of pride, culture, vainglory and hypocrisy. This was his mate, a sweeter lady than any he had ever known.
"Beth," he whispered. "I love you. Nothing in theworld makes any difference to me but your happiness."
He came to her and caught her in his arms, while she still struggled away from him. "I want you. It doesn't matter who I am or who you are. I want you to——"
Beth suddenly sprung away from him, staring at a figure which stood in the doorway as a strident, highly pitched voice cut in sharply on Peter's confession.
"Oh, excuseme! I didn't mean to intrude."
It was Miss Peggy McGuire in herceriseveil and her sport suit, with hard eyes somewhat scandalized by what she had seen, for Peter was standing awkwardly, his arms empty of their prize, who had started back in dismay and now stood with difficulty recovering her self-possession. As neither of them spoke Miss McGuire went on cuttingly, as she glanced curiously around the Cabin.
"So this is where you live? I seem to have spoiled your party. And may I ask who——" and her eyes traveled scornfully over Beth's figure, beginning at her shoes and ending at her flushed face—"I think I've seen you before——"
"Miss McGuire," said Peter quietly, "This is Miss Cameron——"
"Oh, yes—the kitchen maid."
"Miss Beth Cameron," insisted Peter frigidly, "who has just done me the honor of promising to marry me."
"Oh! I see——"
Beth stared from one to the other, aware of the meaning of the visitor's manner and of Peter's reply.
"That is not true," she said very quietly, her deep voice vibrant with emotion. "I come here often. Mr. Nichols is teaching me music. I am very proud of his friendship. But I did not promise to marry him."
Peggy McGuire turned on her heel.
"Well, it's almost time you did," she said insultingly.
Peter, now pale and cold with fury, reached the doorbefore her and stood blocking the passageway. "Miss McGuire, I'll trouble you to be more careful in addressing my guests," he said icily.
"Let me pass——"
"In a moment."
"You'd dare——?"
"I would like you to understand that this cabin is mine—while I am in Black Rock. Any guest here comes at my invitation and honors me by accepting my hospitality. But I reserve the privilege of saying who shall come and who shall not. I hope I make myself clear——" And Peter bowed low and then moved aside, indicating the door. "Good-night," he finished.
Miss Peggy McGuire glared at him, red as a young turkey cock, her finishing school training just saving her from a tirade. "Oh, you! We'll see about this——" and dashed past him out of the door and disappeared into the darkness.
Peter followed her with his angry gaze, struggling for his self-control, and at last turned into the room toward Beth, who now stood a smiling image turned into stone.
"Why did you deny what I said, Beth?" he pleaded.
"It wasn't the truth. I never promised to marry you. You never asked me to."
"Iwouldhave asked you. I ask you now. Iwasasking you when that little fool came in——"
"Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't. Maybe I'm a little hard of hearin'. But I'm not goin' to makethatan excuse for my bein' here——"
"I don't understand——"
"It's just that I came here because I wanted to come and because you wanted me. People have been talkin'. Let them talk. Lethertalk——"
"She will. You can be pretty sure of that."
Peter was pacing up and down the room, his handsbehind him. "If she'd been a man——" he was muttering. "If she'd only been a man."
Beth watched him a moment, still smiling.
"Oh, I got what she meant—she was just tryin' to insult me."
She laughed. "Seems as if she'd kind of succeeded. I suppose I ought to have scratched her face for her. I think I would have—if she'd just stayed a minute longer. Funny too, because I always used to think she was so sweet."
Peter threw his arms wildly into the air and exploded.
"Sweet! Sweet!Thatgirl! Yes, if vinegar is. She'll tear your reputation to shreds."
Beth had stopped smiling now and leaned against the wall, her chin lowered.
"I reckon it serves me right. I hadn't any business to be comin' here—not at night, anyway."
"Oh, Beth," he pleaded, catching her hands. "Why couldn't you have let things be?"
She struggled a little. And then, "Letherthink I wasengagedto you when I wasn't?" she gasped.
"But we are, Beth, dear. Say we are, won't you?"
"Not when we're not."
"Beth——!"
"You should have spoken sooner, if you'd really meant it. Oh, I know what it is. I've always known there's a difference between us."
"No—not unless you make it."
"Yes. It was there before I was born. You were brought up in a different kind of life in a different way of thinkin' from mine——"
"What has that got to do with it?"
"Everything. It's not my fault. And maybe I'm a little too proud. But I'm straight——"
"Don't, Beth——" He put his arm around her but she disengaged herself gently.
"No, let me finish. Maybe you wanted me. I guess you did. But not that much—not enough to speak out—and you were too straight to lie to me. I'm thankful for that——"
"But Ihavespoken, Beth," he insisted, taking her by the elbows and holding her so that he could look into her eyes. "I've asked you to—to be my wife. I ask you now. Is that clear?"
Her eyes evaded him and she laughed uneasily.
"Yes, it's clear—and—and your reason for it——"
"I love you——"
"A little, maybe. But I'll marry no man just to save my face—and his."
But he caught her close to him, finding a new joy in his momentous decision. She struggled still, but he would not be denied.
"Yes, you will," he whispered. "You've got to marry me whether you want to or not. You're compromised."
"I don't care."
"Oh, yes, you do. And you love me, Beth."
"I don't love you——"
"You do. And I'm going to marry you whether you want it or not."
"Oh,areyou?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Soon."
He kissed her. She didn't resist him. Resistance was useless. He had won.
"Beth, dear," he went on. "I couldn't lie to you. I'm glad you knew that. And I couldn't hurt you. I think I've always loved you—from the first."
"I too—I too," she whispered. "I couldn't help it."
"I think I knew that too——"
"No, no. You couldn't——"
"Yes. It was meant to be. You've given a new meaning to life, torn from its very roots a whole rotten philosophy. Oh, you don't know what I mean—except that nobility is in the mind, beauty in the heart. Nothing else matters."
"No. It doesn't," she sighed. "You see, I—I do believe in you."
"Thank God! But you know nothing of me—nothing of my past——"
"I don't care what your past has been or who you are. You're good enough for me. I'm satisfied——"
He laughed joyously at the terms of her acquiescence.
"Don't you want to know what I've been—who I am——?"
"No. It wouldn't make any difference—not now."
"I'll tell you some day."
"I'll take a chance on that. I'm not afraid."
"And whatever I am—you'll marry me?"
"Yes. Whatever—you—are——"
While he smiled down at her she straightened in his arms and gently released herself, glancing guiltily at the clock.
"I—I must be going now," she whispered.
And so through the quiet forest they went to Black Rock village, hand in hand.