escape? Or, was Beatrice secretly delighted at being able to extricate
herself from a situation extremely distasteful to her sober sense,
without being forced to the mortification of having to confess
her folly? Or, was it simply the natural and incurable frivolity
of womankind? Richmond hoped and half believed that the last two
guesses contained the truth; but he did not on that account relax
his vigilance. It was his fixed policy to leave no point in his line
uncovered, and to cover with the greatest care those points where
danger seemed least likely. Thenceforth Beatrice should make no move
without his knowledge. She was never alone except when shut up in her
own apartment--and he had the telephone there disconnected. He was
careful not to make his espionage irritating; it would not definitely
disclose itself to her unless she tried to do something out of the
ordinary. So far as he could judge, she did not realize that it existed.
A few days and Peter came down, to be received by her with a
friendliness that delighted him, and Richmond no less.
Perhaps had Peter been born to make his own way in the world he would
have developed a good mind and enough character to have enabled him to
acquit himself creditably. As it was, however, his thinking had always
been hired out and his character had remained almost rudimentary,
except that he had been taught to resist any and all attempts to get
money out of him--had been taught in much the same way that Nature
teaches the oyster to close its shell when anything disagreeable tries
to enter, teaches the worm to squirm out of the way when it feels a
touch.
Unlike his mind and most of the rest of his character, Peter’s vanity
was far from rudimentary. Those born to wealth or position get a
quaintly false notion of their own intrinsic importance--just as a
prize milcher probably mistakes the reason for the assiduous attention
of which she is the subject--the care with which she is washed and
curried and fed, humored and petted, ever spoken to caressingly
and considerately. Peter’s vanity was as highly sensitized as the
sole of the foot. He was constantly alternating between ecstasy
and torment, according as he interpreted the actions of those about
him--for he assumed that everyone was thinking of him all the time,
that whatever was said was a compliment for him or an envious fling
at him. Otherwise, one might travel far and search diligently without
finding so amiable, so kindly a fellow as he. His extreme caution
with money--except in self-indulgence, of course--did not produce any
disagreeable effect upon his associates; they either were rich, young
men, trained like himself to suspect everyone of trying to “trim” them,
or were parasites upon the rich, accustomed to the penurious ways of
the rich and rather admiring stinginess as evidence of strength of
character. And it certainly was evidence of admirable prudence; for the
merely rich man shorn of his riches is in much the same plight as a dog
with its tail cut off close behind its ears.
When Peter and Beatrice went for a walk, Peter after a while noted
the retainer of Richmond’s personal staff lingering with unobtrusive
persistence in the offing. “Why’s that fellow skulking after us?”
inquired he.
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, father’s nerves.”
“About cranks and anarchists and socialists--eh? Well, I don’t wonder.
The lower classes are getting damned impertinent in this country. I’m
strongly tempted to go to England to live. There’s the only place on
earth where a gentleman can count on being treated like one all the
time.”
“Yes, it is comfortable,” said the girl. “Except the climate!”
“That is rotten--isn’t it?... I wish the fellow would drop us.” Peter
halted, frowning at the distant figure. “I think I’ll call out to him.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” said Beatrice. “He’s doing no harm.”
“But I feel as if we were being spied on.”
“What of it?” cried she with a radiant smile. “We’re not going to do
anything that anybody mightn’t see.”
“But I’ve got some things to say to you--came down especially to say
’em.”
“Are they things that have to be shouted?”
“No--but--he makes me uneasy--and there’s you. You’ve got a way of
looking and talking--as if you weren’t taking anything seriously.”
She was smiling as he spoke. But if he had been a close observer he
might have seen an expression of a quite different character veiled by
the laughter of lips and eyes.
“I came down to say some pretty sharp things to you,” he went on.
“But, now that I’m with you, I don’t seem able to get them out. But
they’re there all the same, Beatrice, and I’ll act on ’em when I get
away. I’m sure I will.”
“Well?” said she. An expert in woman’s ways would have gathered from
the accent she put into the word and from her accompanying manner that
this young woman had decided the time had come to make it easy for
Hanky to unburden himself.
“You’re not treating me right,” he burst out. “You don’t give me
the--the respect that everybody else does; the--the consideration that
I’ve been used to.”
“For instance?”
Peter walked in silence beside her for some distance; these matters
of which his sense of personal dignity was compelling him to complain
were difficult to put into words that would not sound priggish and
conceited. Finally, he made a beginning: “Of course, you’re a splendid
girl--the best I know--and that’s the reason I want you. There isn’t
anybody else who combines all the advantages as you do. But--honestly,
Beatrice, isn’t the same thing true of me?”
He looked at her, with his mind and his face ready to resent evidences
of her familiar mockery. But she was gazing ahead, eyes serious and
sweet mouth free from any hint of a smile. “Go on, Hanky,” said she
encouragingly.
Peter felt that at last he was coming into his own. With a great deal
more confidence he proceeded: “You make me feel as if--as if I were
cheapening myself--hanging after you this way, taking things off you I
wouldn’t take off anybody else on earth.”
“For instance?”
“Why, this engagement. There’s hardly a girl in New York--in our
set--who wouldn’t jump at the chance. That isn’t conceit. It’s fact.”
“It’s both, Hanky,” conceded the girl, without reserve. She looked at
him, asked gravely: “Do you really want to marry me?”
“Haven’t I told you?”
“When I don’t love you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Peter, with a notable air
of experienced man of the world. “And it seems to me you’re only
showing what a fine girl you are. I’d be inclined to shy off from a
girl who loved me before we were married. I like delicacy--and--and
reserve--and purity--in a--a _lady_. By Jove, it seems to me there’s
something kind of--of brazen and forward in a girl’s giving way to her
feelings--when--when--she’s not supposed to know about that kind of
thing. It’s--it’s--well, it smacks of the lower classes. They go in
for that sort of thing--they and the sort of women one doesn’t talk
about.”
A long silence followed this outburst of upper-class philosophy. Peter
was revolving what he had said, with increasing admiration for his own
acumen. As for Beatrice, after a fleeting smile of derision which he
did not see, she resumed her own distinct line of thought. She looked
at him several times--a scrutinizing look--a look of appeal--a look of
doubt. Finally she said with some effort: “Peter--suppose I told you I
loved another man?”
He shook his head incredulously. “You wouldn’t love any man till you
had the right to. Besides, where is there another man who’s so exactly
what you want in every way? You know we’re exactly suited to each
other, Beatrice. It’s--it’s like predestination. You’d hate to give me
up as much as I’d hate to give you up.”
Centered though her mind was on whether she could venture to make a
confidant of him, she began to wonder at him. True, she had permitted
him to speak frankly. True, their intimate acquaintance from childhood
made him feel free to exhibit his innermost self without any especial
nervousness or reserve. But there still remained something unaccounted
for. Where had he got the courage to face her thus aggressively? How
came he to be infatuated with himself so far beyond the loftiest
soarings of his most self-satisfied mood theretofore? It was not
long before her feminine shrewdness pointed her to the cause. “Some
woman’s been at him--been trying to get him away from me.” In ordinary
circumstances this would have pleased her no better than it would
please the next woman. But just then she sincerely hoped her underminer
had been successful.
“Peter,” said she thoughtfully, “have you been considering giving me
up?”
Peter looked flustered. But he did not hem and haw; he came straight
back at her. “I haven’t liked the way you’ve kept me on the string,”
confessed he.
“Is there some other girl?” inquired she eagerly.
“I’ve seen quite a lot of Allie lately,” admitted Peter, and his manner
let her know that he had been giving a large amount of thought to the
advantages of making her jealous. “And I’m sure if I’d been to Allie
what I’ve been to you she’d not treat me as you have.”
Allie! Then it was all right. “_Dear_ Allie” had been working in the
interests of her friend. Beatrice sent a loving thought to her.
“And you must admit Allie has a lot of good points,” pursued Peter,
calculating that his judicial manner would set the jealous flame to
spreading and mounting.
“She’s much nearer your ideal of what a girl should be than I am,” said
Beatrice with discouraging enthusiasm. “She’s fond of the same kind of
life that you are. Peter--why don’t you love her?”
Peter stared gloomily at the ground, then fell to switching off leaves
with his stick. Was Beatrice jealous and taking this method of hiding
it? Or was she really indifferent to the danger of losing one of the
few first-class catches in America? The fear that the latter might be
the case made him so miserable that he could not keep up the pretense
about Allie.
Beatrice, desperate, hesitated no longer. “But first, Hanky, I want you
to do me a favor. I want you to pretend that we are to be married and
that it’s to be in--say--in three months. Allie will understand. I’ll
explain it all to her.”
Peter began to bristle. “Pretend to whom?” said he sourly.
“To father. And you must say you simply can’t marry for three months. I
must have time to-- No matter. I hope--in fact I’m sure that I’ll be
able to let you off in a month.”
“And have everybody say you chucked me? I like that--I do!”
“You know, Hanky, no one would believe for a minute that any girl would
chuck _you_.”
“But--but you’d be doing it, just the same,” he exploded. “And--I
_want_ to marry you.”
“Now, Peter, you know perfectly well you like Allie better.”
“Yes, I do _like_ her better. Sometimes I don’t like _you_ at all. But
I always _love_ you.”
“Habit--simply habit,” Beatrice assured him airily. “You’ll do it,
won’t you?”
“No!” cried Peter, stopping short. “No, I’ll not do it. I’ve made up my
mind to marry you. And I will.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Hanky Vanderkief?” cried Beatrice.
“Why, I always thought you were a gentleman.”
“Oh, when we’re married you’ll be all right--mighty glad you did. A
girl doesn’t know her own mind.”
“Shame on you! Trying to take advantage of the fact that my father’s
got me in his power.”
This admission delighted Peter. “He’s set on your marrying me?” he
inquired.
“That’s why I want you to help me.”
“Then that settles it!” exclaimed Peter triumphantly. “We’ll be
married.”
“You--side with him--against _me_!” Beatrice’s scorn was superb. “Oh, I
wish I could marry you--just to punish you for that!”
Peter looked uncomfortable but dogged. “I’d not dare offend your
father, anyhow. It’d cost me a pot of money. He’s got me up to my eyes
in a lot of his deals. And if he turned against me--gad, I’d look like
a sheep just after shearing. Beatrice, don’t you see it? There’s no
escape for us. We ought to marry. We want to marry. We’ve _got_ to
marry.”
Beatrice’s answer was a glance of contempt. “I understand now,” said
she bitterly. “You’d marry Allie Kinnear, if you dared. But you don’t
dare because you’re afraid it’d cost you a little money.”
“A little!” cried Peter. “About a third of all I’ve got.”
“And you’ve got about five times as much as you could possibly spend.
Oh, I had no idea you were so contemptible. You’d marry me against my
will--against your own heart--for fear and for money.”
“I say, now!” protested Vanderkief. “That ain’t fair, Beatrice.”
“_Will_ you help me?” demanded she.
“I can’t--and I won’t,” replied he unhesitatingly. “And, furthermore,
I’m going to put it up to you and your father that if you don’t marry
me next month I’ll not marry you at all.” And Peter drew himself to his
full height and swelled himself to his excellent full figure and looked
fiercely resolved.
Beatrice stood motionless, her gaze fixed upon a worn place in the
grass just across the lake and not far from the cascade.
“What do you say, Beatrice?” he asked rather uneasily.
“You meant that?”
He nodded emphatically. “I did. I do.”
“You’d speak to father?”
His eyes shifted. “If you compelled me to.”
“Look at me, Peter.”
With considerable difficulty he forced his eyes to meet hers. All
the latent selfishness and pettiness in his nature seemed to her to
be flaunting from them. “I’m doing what’s best for _you_,” said he
sullenly.
She gave that short, nasty Dan Richmond laugh of hers--and his own face
certainly did not suggest the sunny and generous side of his character.
“Very well, dear Peter,” said she. “We’re engaged.”
“And the marriage is next month, remember,” he insisted. “We want to
get to London before the end of the season.”
“The thirty-first of next month.” She was still looking at him with
eyes full of sardonic--one might say, satanic--mirth. “Poor Peter!” she
said.
“I can take care of myself,” retorted he jauntily. “And of you, too.
Your father understands you. He’ll see to it that you don’t have the
chance to make a fool of yourself and spoil your life after you’re
married.”
Beatrice burst into a laugh full of pure mirth. “You _are_ a joke!” she
cried. “Poor Peter!”
“Let’s go back to the house,” said he angrily.
“Yes--to tell the glad news.”
“Now, don’t put on with me, Beatrice. Do you think I haven’t got good
sense? I know that in reality you are delighted. You seem to have a
prejudice against doing anything in the ordinary way. You want to make
me feel in the wrong--to get an advantage over me from the start. But
I’m on to you. So--come along!”
Beatrice laughed again. And again she said, “Poor Peter!”
XII
UNDER COVER OF NIGHT
Back at the house Beatrice and Peter went into the east drawing-room,
where Mrs. Richmond was giving tea to her half dozen guests. As they
entered from the hall Richmond appeared in the opposite doorway of the
billiard room. He swept Peter’s face with one of his keen glances. As
soon as the agitations and readjustments incident to new arrivals were
over, he took his daughter aside.
“Been quarreling with Peter?” said he.
She turned her head, called out: “Hanky--just a minute. You’ll excuse
him, Mrs. Martini?” And when Peter, red and ill at ease, was with them
in the deep window, she said: “Tell him.”
“Your daughter has--has consented,” said Peter.
Richmond beamed and wrung his hand.
“And as we want to get to London for the end of the season,” continued
Peter, “we’d like to be married the last of next month.”
“No objection--none whatever,” said Richmond.
“I’m not sure,” said Beatrice, all this time inscrutably calm. “I’ll
have to talk with mother first. It’s not easy to get together the
clothes in such a little time.”
“Nonsense,” cried Richmond. “There’s the cable.”
“And you’ll want most of the things sent to you in London,” suggested
Peter.
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. “Just as mamma says.” And she strolled
over to the tea table and cut herself a slice of layer cake, which she
proceeded to eat with much deliberation and enjoyment.
The two men stood together observing her. Up came Mrs. Martini, slim
and willowy and dressed in the extreme of the skin-tight fashions of
that year. “What are you two looking so gloomy about?” inquired she.
Richmond scowled. “Gloomy?” said he, with a disagreeable laugh. “We
feel anything but gloomy. That is--er--of course my feelings are
somewhat confused. I’ve just learned that Peter’s going to take
Beatrice away from me the end of next month.”
Peter’s smile in response to Mrs. Martini’s effusive congratulations
was sickly, was with difficulty kept alive long enough to meet the
requirements of conventionality.
Beatrice had not shown the faintest sign that she was conscious of
imprisonment. So far as Richmond observed, not once had she made any
attempt to break through or even to explore the limits assigned her.
Had it not been for the discontent plain to see upon Peter’s florid,
vigorously healthy countenance throughout the four days he lingered at
Red Hill, Richmond would have assumed that his daughter had regained
her reason as he had felt confident she would. Beatrice did make an
effort in public to treat Peter as her fiancé; but she had to give it
up. Her nerves refused to assist her in her game of hypocrisy beyond a
certain point--and Peter had become physically repulsive to her. She
did not regard this defect in her otherwise perfect pose as serious.
She knew that her father was not one to relax vigilance because he
had won. So, what advantage would there be in striving, and probably
failing, to remove his last suspicion?
Without betraying herself she had thoroughly examined all the metes and
bounds of her prison. She found it everywhere worthy of her father’s
minute ingenuity. By means of his pretext of alarm about cranks and
kidnapers she was being thoroughly spied upon without the spies
suspecting what they were really about. By day there were the personal
guards, to inform him if she tried to communicate with Roger either
personally or by message. By night there were the watchman within and
the three patrolmen without, and a system of burglar alarms that made
it impossible for anyone either to leave or to enter without flooding
the whole house with light and starting up a clamor of bells from
attics to cellars.
Apparently she was as free as air--free to roam anywhere in the vast
wilderness surrounding the gardens and terraces and lawns from the
midst of which the big chateau rose. Really, she could not move a step
in secret--and to give Roger the warning she must see him face to face
without her father’s knowledge. For, if her father purposed to keep
faith with her, it would be folly to give him reason to feel he would
do well to ruin Roger anyhow; and, if he did not purpose to keep the
agreement under which she had returned and had accepted Peter, it would
be madness to provoke him to attack Roger immediately. She must see
Roger secretly.
But how?
If chance there was, that chance must be under cover of night--night,
when she was at least free from the espionage of human eyes. How could
she get out of the house undetected and get back into it unsuspected?
And if she could accomplish this well-nigh impossible feat, how arrange
to meet Roger--when she could not communicate with him, when she did
not even know where he lived?
Every system of human devising has its weak point. By observing and
thinking Beatrice discovered the weak point in this system of her
father’s. As soon as she formed her plan she got ready this note:
_Chang_:
It is absolutely necessary that I see you for a few minutes. My only
chance is at night. So, come down to the cascade at one o’clock the
morning after you get this. Don’t fail me. Don’t think me hysterical
or sentimental. I might almost say this is a matter of life and death.
RIX.
The burglar alarms were switched on every night by Conrad Pinney, the
superintendent, just after the house was closed. They were switched off
at five in the morning by Tom, the indoors watchman, when the lowest
rank of menials in the service of the establishment descended from
their little rooms under the eaves of the west wing to make ready the
first-floor rooms for the day. The house was closed as soon as the
last member of the family went up to his or her rooms. To escape, she
must choose the moment or so between the ascending of the last member
of the family and the switching on of the alarms--and it must be on a
night when some one member of the family stayed down long enough after
the going of the rest to make it certain there would be no accidental
glancing into her rooms to see that all was well. To get back into the
house she must wait until it was opened at five o’clock and slip in
unseen by the menial sweepers and cleaners and polishers.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays her father brought from town a bundle of
papers which he usually sat up with until midnight or even one o’clock.
Then he and Pinney often walked up and down the terrace before the
main entrance and smoked for twenty minutes. Peter went away on a
Monday. On Tuesday night there were no guests. At dinner were only the
family--her mother, her father and herself, her mother’s secretary,
Miss Cleets, Mrs. Lambert, the housekeeper, and Pinney. As they sat at
table Beatrice revolved her project, decided she would risk a slight
change in it that would spare her a night outdoors and the danger of
being seen as she entered in the early morning. After dinner she and
her mother and the housekeeper and Pinney played bridge until half
past ten. By eleven o’clock everyone was gone from downstairs but
her father, Pinney, and two servants. In her room in the dark she
waited until half past eleven, then changed to outing dress, descended
and slipped into the gray salon. Its windows had been locked for
the night. She unlocked one, opened it, went out upon the broad,
stone veranda, closed the window behind her. The sky was fortunately
overcast, or she would have been in full view, as the moon was on that
side of the house.
She crept along in the shadow of wall and shrubbery until she was in
the woods. There she struck into a path and fled down the hill toward
the boathouse. When she was about half way she remembered the outside
watchmen--remembered that the boathouse was one of their stations. It
would be folly to risk running into them; she must make the trip to
the studio on foot by rounding the end of the lake--full five miles
instead of less than three. At the shortest she would be gone, not
about two hours, but more than three. So, it was useless to think of
getting in before her father went to bed and the alarms were switched
on. Instead of hurry there was time to waste--all the time before five
in the morning. She strolled along, taking the longest way and keeping
entirely clear of the watchmen’s routes among the several groups of
widely separated outbuildings--the stables and garage, the water,
lighting and laundry plants, the kennels, the hothouses, the farm and
dairy buildings.
A fine, soft rain fell, but it did not trouble her as the foliage was
now--early May--so thick that it was almost a roof. When she came out
of the woods near the studio the rain had ceased and the moon, never
so thickly veiled that it did not give her light, sailed in a clear
path among the separating clouds. She looked at the watch on her wrist;
it was nearly one o’clock. “I came too quickly,” she said. “I must do
better going back.”
She found the studio door open, as she expected; there were no tramps
in that region, and Red Hill was guarded only because New York thieves
might plan an expedition expressly to plunder it. She dropped the hasp
from the staple, pushed the big door open.
The room within was in the full pour of the moon now straight above the
huge skylight. She looked round, her heart beating wildly--not with
fear, not with expectation, but with memory. From that bench there she
had first seen him. There she had watched him making chocolate. There
they had sat drinking it, she admiring the swift, vivid play of emotion
upon his handsome face--and what interesting emotion!--so free--so
simple--so strong--so genuine! She went to the bench, seated herself,
stretched herself at full length--and sobbed. “Oh, if you only knew!”
she cried. “I’m so different now! I’ve learned so much--and I love
you--love you, Chang!” It thrilled and comforted her to speak out her
heart without reserve in that place.
She searched the room for some memento of him. In one of the wide
chinks in the masonry of the chimney she found a pipe--an old,
evil-smelling thing, its mouthpiece almost bitten through. She laughed
and cried over it, touching it caressingly, making a face at its
really fearful odor, but loving it none the less. She tore up an old
newspaper, wrapped the pipe carefully to shut in that odor if possible.