SUPERMAN
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 there _had_ been butlers and valets at Black Rock he _could_
have 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. He _was_ a musician. He _could_ play. 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 the incident 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 she couldn'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 thinking
_her_ a 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--_apologized_ for 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. He _had_ been 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 only the 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 I _will_ owe 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 was _her_ Mr. 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 naturally _bust_. 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 think _I_ am."
"But it _is_ nice 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 apples _are_ better 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 some people 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. I _would_ like to have a sport coat and a _cerise_
veil like Peggy wears."
"You shall have 'em. What else?"
"Some pretty patent leather shoes with rhinestone buckles----"
"Yes----"
"And a black velvet hat and nice _lingerie_----" (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----"
"You _say_ so----"
"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 the world 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, excuse _me_! I didn't mean to intrude."
It was Miss Peggy McGuire in her _cerise_ veil 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 door before 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."
"I _would_ have asked you. I ask you now. I _was_ asking 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 make _that_ an 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. Let _her_ talk----"
"She will. You can be pretty sure of that."
Peter was pacing up and down the room, his hands behind 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! _That_ girl! 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, "Let _her_ think I was _engaged_ to
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 I _have_ spoken, 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, _are_ you?"
"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.