MUSIC
Stryker, who kept guard at the door of McGuire's room, opened it
cautiously in response to Peter's knock. He found McGuire sitting
rigidly in a rocking-chair at the side of the room, facing the windows,
a whisky bottle and glass on the table beside him. His face had lost its
pallor, but in his eyes was the same look of glassy bewilderment.
"Why the H---- couldn't you come sooner?" He whined the question, not
angrily, but querulously, like a child.
"I was having a look around," replied Peter coolly.
"Oh! And did you find anybody?"
"No."
"H-m! I thought you wouldn't."
Peter hesitated. He meant to conceal the housekeeper's share in the
night's encounters, but he knew that both Andy and the chauffeur would
talk, and so,
"There _was_ somebody outside, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You were not
mistaken, a man prowling in the dark near the kitchen. Andy thought it
was the chauffeur, who was in the garage washing the cars."
"Ah!"
McGuire started up, battling for his manhood. It seemed to Peter that
his gasp was almost one of relief at discovering that his eyes had not
deceived him, that the face he had seen was that of a real person,
instead of the figment of a disordered mind.
"Ah! Why didn't they shoot him?"
"I've just said, sir, Andy thought it was the chauffeur."
McGuire was pacing the floor furiously.
"He has no business to think. I pay him to act. And you--what did you
do?"
"Three of us searched the whole place--every tree, every bush--every
shadow----. The man has gone."
"Gone," sneered the other. "A H---- of a mess you're making of this
job!"
Peter straightened angrily, but managed to control himself.
"Very well, Mr. McGuire," he said. "Then you'd better get somebody else
at once."
He had never given notice before but the hackneyed phrase fell crisply
from his lips. For many reasons, Peter didn't want to go, but he bowed
and walked quickly across the room. "Good-night," he said.
Before he had reached the door the frightened man came stumbling after
him and caught him by the arm.
"No, no, Nichols. Come back. D'ye hear? You mustn't be so d---- touchy.
Come back. You can't go. I didn't mean anything. Come now!"
Peter paused, his hand on the knob, and looked down into the man's
flabby, empurpled countenance.
"I thought you meant it," he said.
"No. I--I didn't. I--I like you, Nichols--liked you from the very
first--yesterday. Of course you can't be responsible for all the
boneheads here."
Peter had "called the bluff." Perhaps the lesson might have a salutary
effect. And so, as his good humor came back to him, he smiled
pleasantly.
"You see, Mr. McGuire, you could hardly expect Andy to shoot the
chauffeur. They're on excellent terms."
McGuire had settled down into a chair near the table, and motioned Peter
to another one near him.
"Sit down, Nichols. Another glass, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky
with an assumption of ease and they drank.
"You see, Nichols," he went on as he set his empty glass down, "I know
what I'm about. There _is_ somebody trying to get at me. It's no
dream--no hallucination. You know that too, now. I saw him--I would have
shot him through the window--if it hadn't been for Peggy--and the
others--but I--I didn't dare--for reasons. She mustn't know----" And
then eagerly, "She doesn't suspect anything yet, does she, Nichols?"
Peter gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds which
still came from below.
"No. They're having a good time."
"That's all right. To-morrow they'll be leaving for New York, I hope.
And then we'll meet this issue squarely. You say the man has gone. Why
do you think so?"
"Isn't it reasonable to think so? His visit was merely a reconnoissance.
I think he had probably been lying out in the underbrush all day,
getting the lay of the land, watching what we were doing--seeing where
the men were placed. But he must know now that he'll have to try
something else--that he hasn't a chance of getting to you past these
guards, if you don't want him to."
"But he nearly succeeded to-night," mumbled McGuire dubiously.
Peter was silent a moment.
"I'm not supposed to question and I won't. But it seems to me, Mr.
McGuire, that if this visitor's plan were to murder you, to get rid of
you, he would have shot you down to-night, through the window. From his
failure to do so, there is one definite conclusion to draw--and that is
that he wants to see you--to talk with you----"
McGuire fairly threw himself from his chair as he roared,
"I can't see him. I won't. I won't see anybody. I've got the law on my
side. A man's house is his castle. A fellow prowls around here in the
dark. He's been seen--if he's shot it's his own lookout. And he _will_
be shot before he reaches me. You hear me? Your men must shoot--shoot to
kill. If they fail I'll----"
He shrugged as if at the futility of his own words, which came stumbling
forth, born half of fear, half of braggadocio.
Peter regarded him soberly. It was difficult to conceive of this man,
who talked like a madman and a spoiled child, as the silent, stubborn,
friendless millionaire, as the power in finance that Sheldon, Senior,
had described him to be. The love of making money had succumbed to a
more primitive passion which for the time being had mastered him. From
what had been revealed, it seemed probable that it was not death or
bodily injury that he feared, for Peter had seen him stand up at the
window, a fair target for any good marksman, but an interview with this
nocturnal visitor who seemed bent upon bringing it about. Indeed, the
childish bravado of his last speech had voiced a wish, but beneath the
wish Peter had guessed a protest against the inevitable.
Peter acknowledged McGuire's right to seclusion in his own house, but he
found himself wondering whether death for the intruder as proposed by
his employer were a justifiable means of preserving it, especially if
the strange visitor did not himself use violence to gain his ends. And
so, when McGuire presently poured himself another glass of whisky, and
drank it, Peter took the liberty of asking the question.
"I am ignorant of your laws in this country, Mr. McGuire, but doesn't it
seem that short of forcible entry of this house we would hardly be
justified in shooting the man?"
"I take the responsibility for that."
"I understand. But what I was going to propose was a hunt through the
woods to-morrow. A description of this man would be helpful. For
instance, whether he was smoothly shaven or whether he had a
beard--or--or a mustache?"
McGuire scowled.
"The man has a slight growth of beard--of mustache. But what difference
does that make? No one has a right here--without my permission."
Peter sipped at his glass. As he had suspected, there were two of them.
"That's true. But even with this, we can move with more intelligence.
This forest is your property. If we find any person who can't give an
account of himself, we could take him into custody and turn him over to
the proper authorities."
"No. No," cried McGuire. "And have him set loose after a trivial
examination? Little good that would do. This man who is trying to reach
me----"
McGuire stopped suddenly, glaring at his superintendent with bloodshot
eyes, and Peter very politely waited for him to go on. But he brought
his empty glass down on the table with a crash which shattered it.
"He mustn't reach me," he roared. "I won't see him. That's understood.
He's a man I'd have no more compunction about shooting than----"
McGuire, with a curious suddenness, stopped again. Then rose and resumed
his habit of pacing the floor. For a moment it had almost seemed as if
he were on the point of a revelation. But the mood passed. Instead of
speaking further he threw out his arms in a wide gesture.
"I've said enough," he growled, "more than enough. You know your duty."
And he gestured toward the door. "Do it!" he finished brusquely.
Peter had already risen, and Stryker unemotionally opened the door for
him.
"I'll stay on duty all night, Mr. McGuire," he said quietly. "I'd advise
you to turn in and get some sleep. You need it."
"Yes. Yes, I will. Thanks, Nichols," said McGuire, following him to the
door and offering a flabby hand. "Don't mind what I've said to-night. I
think we understand each other. Stryker will see that the house is
locked when the young people come up. Keep your men to the mark and take
no chances."
"Good-night."
The remainder of the night, as Mrs. Bergen had predicted, proved
uneventful, and at daylight Peter went to his cabin and tumbled into
bed, too tired to think further of McGuire's visitors--or even of the
man with the black mustache.
The next day he lay abed luxuriously for a while after he had awakened,
but no amount of quiet thinking availed to clarify the mystery. There
were two men, one bearded, interested in watching McGuire, another with
a black mustache, interested in Peter. And so, after wondering again for
some puzzling moments as to how Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, had come
to be involved in McGuire's fortunes, he gave the problem up.
Foreseeing difficulties over breakfast at the house, he had arranged to
make his own coffee on a small oil stove which happened to be available,
and so Peter set the pot on to boil and while he dressed turned over in
his mind the possibilities of the future. It seemed quite certain that
the antagonism, whatever its nature, between his employer and the
prowling stranger must come to an issue of some sort almost at once. The
intruder, if he were the sort of man who could inspire terror, would
not remain content merely to prowl fruitlessly about with every danger
of being shot for his pains, and McGuire could hardly remain long in his
present situation without a physical or mental collapse.
Why hadn't McGuire taken flight? Why indeed had he come to Black Rock
House when it seemed that he would have been much safer amongst the
crowds of the city, where he could fall back upon the protection of the
police and their courts for immunity from this kind of persecution?
Pieced together, the phrases his employer had let slip suggested the
thought that he had come to Black Rock to escape publicity in anything
that might happen. And McGuire's insistence upon the orders that the
guards should shoot to kill also suggested, rather unpleasantly, the
thought that McGuire knew who the visitor was and earnestly desired his
death.
But Mrs. Bergen could have no such wish, for, unlike McGuire, she had
shown a reticence in her fears, as though her silence had been intended
to protect rather than to accuse. Beth Cameron, too, was in some way
unconsciously involved in the adventure. But how? He drank his coffee
and ate his roll, a prey to a very lively curiosity. Beth interested
him. And if Aunt Tillie Bergen, her only near relative, showed signs of
inquietude on the girl's account, the mysterious visitor surely had it
in his power to make her unhappy. As he washed up the dishes and made
his bed, Peter decided that he would find Beth to-night when she came
back from work and ask her some questions about her Aunt Tillie.
Beth Cameron saved him that trouble. He was sitting at the piano,
awaiting a telephone call to Black Rock House, where he was to have a
conference with his employer on the forestry situation. He was so deeply
absorbed in his music that he was unaware of the figure that had stolen
through the underbrush and was now hidden just outside the door. It was
Beth. She stood with the fingers of one hand lightly touching the edge
of the door-jamb, the other hand at her breast, while she listened,
poised lightly as though for flight. But a playful breeze twitched at
the hem of her skirt, flicking it out into the patch of sunlight by the
doorsill, and Peter caught the glint of white from the tail of his eye.
The music ceased suddenly and before Beth could flee into the bushes
Peter had caught her by the hand.
Now that she was discovered she made no effort to escape him.
"I--I was listening," she gasped.
"Why, Beth," he exclaimed, voicing the name in his thoughts. "How long
have you been here?"
"I--I don't know. Not long."
"I'm so glad."
She was coloring very prettily.
"You--you told me you--you'd play for me sometime," she said demurely.
"Of course. Won't you come in? It's rather a mess here, but----"
He led her in, glancing at her gingham dress, a little puzzled.
"I thought you'd be farmeretting," he said.
But she shook her head.
"I quit--yesterday."
He didn't ask the reason. He was really enjoying the sight of her. Few
women are comely in the morning hours, which have a merciless way of
exaggerating minute imperfections. Beth hadn't any minute imperfections
except her freckles, which were merely Nature's colorings upon a
woodland flower. She seemed to fill the cabin with morning fragrance,
like a bud just brought in from the garden.
"I'm very glad you've come," he said gallantly, leading her over to the
double window where there was a chintz-covered seat. "I've wanted very
much to talk to you."
She followed him protestingly.
"But I didn't come to be talked to. I came to listen to you play."
"You always arrive in the midst of music," he laughed. "I played you in,
without knowing it. That was an Elfentanz----"
"What's that?"
"A dance of the Elves--the fairies." And then, with a laugh, "And the
little devils."
"The little devils? You mean _me_!"
"Elf--fairy and devil too--but mostly elf."
"I'm not sure I like that--but I _do_ like the music. Please play it
again."
She was so lovely in her eagerness that he couldn't refuse, his fingers
straying from the dance by slow transitions into something more quiet,
the "Romance" of Sibelius, and then after that into a gay little
_scherzo_, at the end of which he turned suddenly to find her flushed
and breathless, regarding him in a kind of awe.
"How lovely!" she whispered. "There were no devils in that."
"No, only fairies."
"Angels too--but somethin' else--that quiet piece--like the--the memory
of a--a--sorrow."
"'Romance,' it's called," he explained gently.
"Oh!"
"The things we dream. The things that ought to be, but aren't."
She took a deep breath. "Yes, that's it. That's what it meant. I felt
it." And then, as though with a sudden shyness at her self-revelation,
she glanced about. "What a pretty place! I've never been here before."
"How did you find your way?"
"Oh, I knew where the cabin was. I came through the woods and across the
log-jam below the pool. Then I heard the music. I didn't think you'd
mind."
"Mind! Oh, I say. I don't know when I've been so pleased."
"Are you really? You _say_ a lot."
"Didn't I play it?"
That confused her a little.
"Oh!" she said demurely.
"And now, will you talk to me?"
"Yes, of course. But----"
"But what----?"
"I--I'm not sure that I ought to be here."
"Why not?"
"It's kind of--unusual."
He laughed. "You wouldn't be you, if you weren't unusual."
She glanced at him uneasily.
"You see, I don't know you very well."
"You're very exclusive in Black Rock!" he laughed.
"I guess we _have_ to be exclusive whether we want to or not," she
replied.
"Don't you think I'll do?"
"Maybe. I oughtn't to have come, but I just couldn't keep away."
"I'm glad you did. I wanted to see you."
"It wasn't that," she put in hastily. "I had to hear you play again.
That's what I mean."
"I'll play for you whenever you like."
"Will you? Then play again, now. It makes me feel all queer inside."
Peter laughed. "Do you feel that way when you sing?"
"No. It all comes out of me then."
"Would you mind singing for me, Beth?" he asked after a moment.
"I--I don't think I dare."
He got up and went to the piano.
"What do you sing?"
But she hadn't moved and she didn't reply. So he urged her.
"In the woods when you're coming home----?"
"Oh, I don't know----It just comes out--things I've heard--things I make
up----"
"What have you heard? I don't know that I can accompany you, but I'll
try."
She was flushing painfully. He could see that she wanted to sing for
him--to be a part of this wonderful dream-world in which he belonged,
and yet she did not dare.
"What have you heard?" he repeated softly, encouraging her by running
his fingers slowly over the simple chords of a major key.
Suddenly she started up and joined him by the piano.
"That's it--'The long, long trail a-windin'----" and in a moment was
singing softly. He had heard the air and fell in with her almost at
once.
"There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And 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 was untrained, 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 you _did_ seem 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 do _you_ come 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's _his_ lookout," 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 his face 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.