SHAD IS UNPLEASANT
Peter returned from New York on Thursday night, having accomplished his
curious mission. He had first intercepted Beth on her way to the kitchen
and sworn her to secrecy, advising her to say nothing to Mrs. Bergen
about the events of the previous night. And she had agreed to respect
his wishes. On the way to New York he had sat in the rumble of the low
red runabout, Miss Peggy McGuire at the wheel, driving the fashionable
Freddy. Miss McGuire after having yielded, the night before, to the
musical predilections of Miss Delaplane, had apparently reconsidered
Peter's social status and had waved him to the seat in the rear with a
mere gesture and without apologies. And Peter, biting back a grin and
touching his hat, had obeyed. The familiarities tolerable in such a
wilderness as Black Rock could not of course be considered in the halls
of the fashionable hotel where Miss Peggy lived in New York, and where
by dint of great care and exclusiveness she had caught a hold of the
fringe of society. But Peter sat up very straight, trying not to hear
what was said in front. If he could only have worn his Colonel's uniform
and decorations, or his Grand Ducal coronet, and have folded his arms,
the irony would have been perfection.
He had gone to Sheldon, Senior, in the morning and in return for
McGuire's check had been given cash in the shape of ten virginal five
hundred dollar bills. This money had been put into an envelope and was
now folded carefully in Peter's inside pocket. Sheldon, Senior, to be
sure, had asked questions, but with a good grace Peter had evaded him.
Dick Sheldon was out of town, so Peter put in the remaining period
before his train-time in a music store where he spent all the money that
remained of his salary, on books, a few for the piano but most of them
for Beth. Peter had wasted, as he had thought, two perfectly good years
in trying to learn to sing. But those two years were not going to be
wasted now--for Beth was to be his mouthpiece. He knew the beginnings of
a training--how to give her the advantage of the instruction he had
received from one of the best teachers in Milan. He was lucky enough to
find books on the Italian method of voice production and on the way back
to McGuire's, armed with these, he stopped off at the Bergen house in
Black Rock village and returned Beth's call.
There he found Shad Wells, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe in the
portico, and looking like a thundercloud. In response to Peter's query,
he moved his right shoulder half an inch in the direction of the door,
and then spat in the geranium bed. So Peter knocked at the door, softly
at first, then loudly, when Beth emerged, her sleeves rolled to her
shoulders and her arms covered with soapsuds.
"Why, Shad," she said witheringly, after she had greeted Peter, "you
might have let me know! Come in, Mr. Nichols. Excuse my appearance.
Wash-day," she explained, as he followed her into the dark interior.
"I can't stop," said the visitor, "I just came to bring these books----"
"For _me_!" she exclaimed, hurriedly wiping her arms on her apron.
"I got them in New York----"
She pulled up the shade at the side, letting in the sunlight, an act
permissible in the parlors of Black Rock only on state occasions, for
the sunlight (as every one knew) was not kind to plush-covered
furniture.
"For _me_!" Beth repeated softly. "I didn't think you meant it."
"_Tone production--Exercises_," explained Peter, "and here's one on _The
Lives of the Great Composers_. I thought you might be interested in
reading it."
"Oh, yes. I am--I will be. Thank you ever so much----"
"Of course you can't do much by yourself just yet--not without a
piano--to get the pitch--the key--but I've brought a tuning fork
and----"
"But I've got the harmonium----," Beth broke in excitedly. "It's a
little out of tune, but----"
"The harmonium!" asked the bewildered Peter. "What's that?"
Beth proudly indicated a piece of furniture made of curly walnut which
stood in the corner of the room. There were several books on the top of
it--_Gospel Tunes_--_Moody and Sankey_, a Methodist Episcopal hymn book,
and a glass case containing wax flowers.
"We play it Sundays----," said Beth, "but it ought to help----"
"You play----!" he said in surprise.
"Aunt Tillie and I--oh, just hymns----." She sat, while Peter watched,
began pumping vigorously with her feet and presently the instrument
emitted a doleful sound. "It has notes anyhow," said Beth with a laugh.
"Splendid!" said Peter. "And when I've told you what to do you can
practice here. You'll come soon?"
She nodded. "When?"
"To-morrow--sometime?" And then, "What's the matter with Wells?" he
asked.
She frowned. "He just asked me to marry him. It's the twenty-seventh
time."
"Oh----"
"I can't be botherin' with Shad--not on wash-day--or any other day," she
added as though in an afterthought.
Peter laughed. He was quite sure that nobody would ever make her do
anything she didn't want to do.
"He knows I was at the Cabin yesterday," she said in a low voice. "He
was watchin'."
Peter was silent a moment, glancing at the books he had just brought
her.
"Of course if he has any claim on you, perhaps----," he began, when she
broke in.
"Claim! He hasn't," she gasped. "I'll do as I please. And he'd better
quit pesterin' me or I'll----"
"What?"
She laughed.
"I'll put him through the clothes-wringer."
Peter grinned. "He almost looks as though you'd done that already."
And as she followed him to the door, "I thought I ought to tell you
about Shad. When he gets ugly--he's ugly an' no mistake."
"Do you still think he'll--er--swallow me at one gobble?" he asked.
She stared at him a moment and then laughed with a full throat. "I hope
he don't--at least not 'til I've had my singin' lessons."
"I think I can promise you that," said Peter.
She followed him out to the porch, where they looked about for Shad. He
had disappeared. And in the "Lizzie," which had been panting by the side
of the road, Peter was conducted by the soiled young man at the wheel to
Black Rock House.
Nothing unusual had happened in his absence, nor had any other message
or warning been posted, for Stryker, released for this duty, had
searched all the morning and found nothing. "Hawk" was waiting, biding
his hour.
Curiously enough, an astonishing calm seemed to have fallen over the
person of Jonathan K. McGuire. When Peter arrived he found his employer
seated on the portico in a wicker chair, smoking his after-supper cigar.
True, the day guards were posted near by and Stryker hovered as was his
wont, but the change in his employer's demeanor was so apparent that
Peter wondered how such a stolid-looking creature could ever have lost
his self-control. It was difficult to understand this metamorphosis
unless it could be that, having come to a decision and aware of the
prospect of immunity, if only a temporary one, McGuire had settled down
to make the best of a bad job and await with stoicism whatever the
future was to bring. This was Peter's first impression, nothing else
suggesting itself, but when he followed the old man up to his room and
gave him the money he had brought he noted the deeply etched lines at
nostril and jaw and felt rather than saw the meaning of them--that
Jonathan McGuire was in the grip of some deep and sinister resolution.
There was a quality of desperation in his calmness, a studied
indifference to the dangers which the night before last had seemed so
appalling.
He put the money in the safe, carefully locked the combination and then
turned into the room again.
"Thanks, Nichols," he said. "You'd better have some supper and get to
bed to-night. I don't think you'll be needed." And then, as Peter's look
showed his surprise, "I know my man better than you do. To-morrow night
we shall see."
He closed his lips into a thin line, shot out his jaw and lowered his
brows unpleasantly. Courage of a sort had come back to him, the courage
of the animal at bay, which fights against the inevitable.
To Peter the time seemed propitious to state the need for the
observation towers and he explained in detail his projects. But McGuire
listened and when Peter had finished speaking merely shook his head.
"What you say is quite true. The towers must be built. I've thought so
for a long time. In a few days we will speak of that again--_after
to-morrow night_," he finished significantly.
"As you please," said Peter, "but every day lost now may----"
"We'll gain these days later," he broke in abruptly. "I want you to stay
around here now."
On Friday morning he insisted on having Peter show him the tree where
the placard had been discovered, and Peter, having taken lunch with him,
led him down to the big sugar maple, off the path to the cabin. Peter
saw that he scanned the woods narrowly and walked with a hand in his
waist-band, which Peter knew held an Army Colt revolver, but the whine
was gone from his voice, the trembling from his hands. He walked around
the maple with Peter, regarding it with a sort of morbid abstraction and
then himself led the way to the path and to the house. Why he wanted to
look at the tree was more than Peter could understand, for it was Peter,
and not he, who was to keep this costly assignation.
"You understand, Nichols," he said when they reached the portico,
"you've agreed to go--to-night--at eleven."
"I wish you'd let me meet him--without the money."
"No--no. I've made up my mind----," gasped McGuire with a touch of his
old alarm, "there can't be any change in the plan--no change at all."
"Oh, very well," said Peter, "it's not my money I'm giving away."
"It won't matter, Nichols. I--I've got a lot more----"
"But the principle----" protested Peter.
"To H---- with the principle," growled the old man.
Peter turned and went back to the Cabin, somewhat disgusted with his
whole undertaking. Already he had been here for five days and, except
for two walks through the woods for purposes of investigation, nothing
that he had come to do had been accomplished. He had not yet even
visited the sawmills which were down on the corduroy road five miles
away. So far as he could see, for the present he was merely McGuire's
handy man, a kind of upper servant and messenger, whose duties could
have been performed as capably by Stryker or Shad Wells, or even Jesse
Brown. The forest called him. It needed him. From what he had heard he
knew that down by the sawmills they were daily cutting the wrong trees.
He had already sent some instructions to the foreman there, but he could
not be sure that his orders had been obeyed. He knew that he ought to
spend the day there, making friends with the men and explaining the
reasons for the change in orders, but as long as McGuire wanted him
within telephone range, there was nothing to do but to obey.
He reached the Cabin, threw off his coat, and had hardly settled down at
the table to finish his drawing, a plan of the observation towers, when
Beth appeared. He rose and greeted her. Her face was flushed, for she
had been running.
"Has Shad been here?" she asked breathlessly.
"No."
"Oh!" she gasped. "I was afraid he'd get here before me. I took the
short cut through the woods."
"What's the matter?"
"He said he--he was going to break you to bits----"
"To bits! Me? Why?"
"Because he--he says I oughtn't to come here----"
"Oh, I see," he muttered, and then, with a grin, "and what do _you_
think about it, Beth?"
"I'll do what I please," she said. "So long as I think it's all right.
What business has he got to stop me!"
Peter laughed. "Don't let's bother then. Did you bring your books?"
She hadn't brought them. She had come in such a hurry.
"But aren't you afraid--when he comes?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Peter. "Do you think I ought to be?"
"Well, Shad's--he's what they call a Hellion around here."
"What's a--er--Hellion?"
"A--a scrapper."
"Oh, a fighting man?"
"Yes."
Peter sat down at the piano and struck loudly some strident discords in
the bass. "Like this!" he laughed. "Isn't it ugly, Beth--that's what
fighting is--I had it day and night for years. If Shad had been in the
war he wouldn't ever want to fight again."
"Were you in the war?" asked Beth in amazement.
"Of course. Where would I have been?" And before she could reply he had
swept into the rumbling bass of the "Revolutionary Etude." She sank into
a chair and sat silent, listening, at first watching the door, and then
as the soul of the artist within her awoke she forgot everything but the
music.
There was a long silence at the end when Peter paused, and then he heard
her voice, tense, suppressed.
"I could see it--you made me see it!" she gasped, almost in a whisper.
"War--revolution--the people--angry--mumbling--crowding, pushing ... a
crowd with guns and sticks howling at a gate ... and then a man trying
to speak to them--appealing----"
Peter turned quickly at the words and faced her. Her eyes were like
stars, her soul rapt in the vision his music had painted. Peter had
lived that scene again and again, but how could Beth know unless he had
made her see it? There was something strange--uncanny--in Beth's vision
of the great drama of Peter's life. And yet she had seen. Even now her
spirit was afar.
"And what happened to the man who was appealing to them?" he asked
soberly.
She closed her eyes, then opened them toward him, shaking her head.
"I--I don't know--it's all gone now."
"But you saw what I played. That is what happened."
"What do you mean?" She questioned, startled in her turn.
Peter shrugged himself into the present moment. "Nothing. It's
just--revolution. War. War is like that, Beth," he went on quietly after
a moment. "Like the motif in the bass--there is no end--the threat of it
never stops--day or night. Only hell could be like it."
Beth slowly came out of her dream.
"You fought?" she asked.
"Oh, yes."
Another silence. "I--I think I understand now why you're not afraid."
"But I _am_ afraid, Beth," he said with a smile. "I was always afraid in
the war. Because Death is always waiting just around the corner. Nobody
who has been in the war wants ever to fight again."
He turned to the piano. "They all want happiness, Beth. Peace. This!" he
finished, and his roving fingers played softly the Tschaikowsky
"Reverie."
When he had finished he turned to her, smiling.
"What vision do you see in that, Beth?"
She started as though from a dream. "Oh, happiness--and sadness, too."
"Yes," said Peter soberly. "No one knows what it is to be happy unless
one has been sad."
"That's true, isn't it?" she muttered, looking at him in wonder. "I
never knew what unhappiness was for--but I guess that's it."
He caught the minor note in her voice and smiled.
"Come now," he said, "we'll have our first lesson."
"Without the books?"
"Yes. We'll try breathing."
"Breathing?"
"Yes--from the diaphragm."
And as she looked bewildered, "From the stomach--not from the
chest--breathe deeply and say 'Ah.'"
She obeyed him and did it naturally, as though she had never breathed in
any other way.
"Fine," he cried and touched a note on the piano. "Now sing it. Throw it
forward. Softly first, then louder----"
It was while she was carrying out this instruction that a shadow
appeared on the doorsill, followed in a moment by the figure of Shad
Wells. Beth's "Ah" ceased suddenly. The visitor stood outside, his hands
on his hips, in silent rage.
Peter merely glanced at him over his shoulder.
"How are you, Wells?" he said politely. "Won't you come in? We've having
a singing lesson."
Shad did not move or speak as Peter went on, "Take the chair by the
door, old man. The cigarettes are on the table. Now, Beth----"
But Beth remained as she was, uneasily regarding the intruder, for she
knew that Shad was there for no good purpose. Peter caught her look and
turned toward the door, deliberately ignoring the man's threatening
demeanor.
"We won't be long," he began coolly, "not over half an hour----"
"No, I know ye won't," growled Shad. And then to the girl, "Beth, come
out o' there!"
If Shad's appearance had caused Beth any uncertainty, she found her
spirit now, for her eyes flashed and her mouth closed in a hard line.
"Who are you to say where I come or go?" she said evenly.
But Shad stood his ground.
"If you don't know enough to know what's what I'm here to show you."
"Oh, I say----," said Peter coolly.
"You can say what you like, Mister. And I've got somethin' to say to you
when this lady goes."
"Oh,----" and then quietly to Beth, "Perhaps you'd better go. Bring the
books to-morrow--at the same time."
But Beth hadn't moved, and only looked at Peter appealingly. So Peter
spoke.
"This man is impolite, not to say disagreeable to you. Has he any right
to speak to you like this?"
"No," said Beth uneasily, "but I don't want any trouble."
Peter walked to the door and faced Shad outside.
"There won't be any trouble unless Wells makes it." And then, as if a
new thought had come to him, he said more cheerfully, "Perhaps he
doesn't quite understand----"
"Oh, I understand, all right. Are you goin', Beth?"
She glanced at Peter, who nodded toward the path, and she came between
them.
"Go on back, Shad," she said.
"No."
"Do you mean it? If you do I'm through with you. You understand?"
Peter took the girl by the arm and led her gently away.
"Just wait a minute, Wells," he flung over his shoulder at the man,
"I'll be back in a second."
The careless tone rather bewildered the woodsman, who had expected to
find either fear or anger. The forester-piano-player showed
neither--only careless ease and a coolness which could only be because
he didn't know what was coming to him.
"D--n him! I'll fix him!" muttered Shad, quivering with rage. But Peter
having fortified himself with a cigarette was now returning. Wells
advanced into an open space where there was plenty of room to swing his
elbows and waited.
"Now, Wells," said Peter alertly, "you wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I did, ye stuck-up piano-playin', psalm-singin' ---- ---- ----
----." And suiting the action to the word leaped for Peter, both fists
flying.
The rugged and uncultured often mistake politeness for effeminacy,
sensibility for weakness. Shad was a rough and tumble artist of a high
proficiency, and he had a reputation for strength and combativeness. He
was going to make short work of this job.
But Peter had learned his boxing with his cricket. Also he had practiced
the _Savate_ and was familiar with _jiu jitsu_--but he didn't need
either of them.
Wells rushed twice but Peter was not where he rushed. The only damage he
had done was to tear out the sleeve of Peter's shirt.
"Stand up an' fight like a man," growled Shad.
"There's no hurry," said Peter, calmly studying Shad's methods.
"Oh, _ain't_ there!"
This bull-like rush Peter stopped with a neat uppercut, straightening
Shad's head which came up with a disfigured nose and before he could
throw down his guard, Peter landed hard on his midriff. Shad winced but
shot out a blow which grazed Peter's cheek. Then Peter countered on
Shad's injured nose. Shad's eyes were now regarding Peter in
astonishment. But in a moment only one of them was, for Peter closed the
other.
"We'd better stop now," gasped Peter, "and talk this over."
"No, you ---- ---- ----," roared Shad, for he suspected that somewhere
in the bushes Beth was watching.
Peter lost what remained of his shirt in the next rush and sprained a
thumb. It didn't do to fight Shad "rough and tumble." But he got away at
last and stood his man off, avoiding the blind rushes and landing almost
at will.
"Had enough?" he asked again, as politely as ever.
"No," gulped the other.
So Peter sprang in and struck with all the force of his uninjured hand
on the woodsman's jaw, and then Shad went down and lay quiet. It had
been ridiculously easy from the first and Peter felt some pity for Shad
and not a little contempt for himself. But he took the precaution of
bending over the man and extracting the revolver that he found in Shad's
hip pocket.
As he straightened and turned he saw Beth standing in the path regarding
him.
"Beth!" he exclaimed with a glance at Shad. "You saw?"
"Yes." She covered her face with her hands. "It was horrible."
"I tried to avoid it," he protested.
"Yes, I know. It was his own fault. Is he badly hurt?"
"No, I think not. But you'd better go."
"Why?"
"It will only make matters worse if he sees you."
She understood, turned and vanished obediently.
Then Peter went to the house, got a basin and, fetching some water from
the creek, played the Samaritan. In a while Shad gasped painfully and
sat up, looking at the victor.
"Sorry," said Peter, "but you _would_ have it."
Shad blinked his uninjured eye and rose, feeling at his hip.
"I took your revolver," said Peter calmly.
"Give it here."
"A chap with a bad temper has no business carrying one," said Peter
sternly.
"Oh----." The man managed to get to his feet.
"I'm sorry, Shad," said Peter again, and held out his hand. "Let's be
friends."
Shad looked at the hand sullenly for a moment. "I'll fix _you_, Mister.
I'll fix you yet," he muttered, then turned and walked away.
If Peter had made one friend he had also made an enemy.
The incident with Shad Wells was unfortunate, but Peter didn't see how
it could have been avoided. He was thankful nevertheless for his English
schooling, which had saved him from a defeat at the hands of a
"roughneck" which could have been, under the circumstances, nothing less
than ignominious. For if Shad Wells had succeeded in vanquishing him,
all Peter's authority, all his influence with the rest of the men in
McGuire's employ would have gone forever, for Shad Wells was not the
kind of man upon whom such a victory would have lightly sat. If he had
thrashed Peter, Shad and not Peter would have been the boss of Black
Rock and Peter's position would have been intolerable.
As Peter laved his broken knuckles and bruised cheek, he wondered if,
after all, the affair hadn't been for the best. True, he had made an
enemy of Shad, but then according to the girl, Shad had already been his
enemy. Peter abhorred fighting, as he had told Beth, but, whatever the
consequences, he was sure that the air had cleared amazingly. He was
aware too that the fact that he had been the champion of Beth's
independence definitely stood forth. Whatever the wisdom or the
propriety, according to the standards of Black Rock society, of Beth's
visits to the Cabin, for the purpose of a musical education or for any
other purposes, Peter was aware that he had set the seal of his approval
upon them, marked, that any who read might run, upon the visage of Mr.
Wells. Peter was still sorry for Shad, but still more sorry for Beth,
whose name might be lightly used for her share in the adventure.
He made up his mind to say nothing of what had happened, and he felt
reasonably certain that Shad Wells would reach a similar decision. He
was not at all certain that Beth wouldn't tell everybody what had
happened for he was aware by this time that Beth was the custodian of
her own destinies and that she would not need the oracles of Black Rock
village as censors of her behavior.
But when he went up to the house for supper he made his way over the
log-jam below the pool and so to the village, stopping for a moment at
the Bergen house, where Beth was sitting on the porch reading _The Lives
of the Great Composers_. She was so absorbed that she did not see him
until he stood at the little swing gate, hat in hand.
She greeted him quietly, glancing up at his bruised cheek.
"I'm so sorry," she said, "that it was on my account."
"I'm not--now that I've done the 'gobbling,'" he said with a grin. And
then, "Where's Shad?"
"I haven't seen him. I guess he's gone in his hole and pulled it in
after him."
Peter smiled. "I just stopped by to say that perhaps you'd better say
nothing. It would only humiliate him."
"I wasn't goin' to--but it served him right----"
"And if you think people will talk about your coming to the Cabin, I
thought perhaps I ought to give you your lessons here."
"Here!" she said, and he didn't miss the note of disappointment in her
tone.
"If your cousin Shad disapproves, perhaps there are others."
She was silent for a moment and then she looked up at him shyly.
"If it's just the same to you--I--I'd rather come to the Cabin," she
said quietly. "It's like--like a different world--with your playin' an'
all----" And then scornfully, "What do I care what they think!"
"Of course--I'm delighted. I thought I ought to consult you, that's all.
And you'll come to-morrow?"
"Yes--of course."
He said nothing about the meeting that was to take place that night with
the mysterious "Hawk" at the maple tree. He meant to find out, if
possible, how Beth could be concerned (if she was concerned) in the
fortunes of the mysterious gentleman of the placard, but until he
learned something definite he thought it wiser not to take Beth further
into his confidence.