IDENTIFICATION
The sudden and unexpected arrival of Miss Peggy McGuire upon the scene
had been annoying. That young person was, as Peter knew, a soulless
little snob and materialist with a mind which would not be slow to put
the worst possible construction upon the situation. Of course as matters
stood at the close of that extraordinary evening of self-revelations, it
did not matter a great deal what Peggy McGuire thought or said or did,
for nothing could hurt Beth now. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch had
capitulated and Peter Nichols gloried in his victory over inherited
tradition. He had no regrets and he had made his choice, for Beth was
what he wanted. She completed him. She was effulgent,--even in homespun.
A little tinsel more or less could make no difference in Beth. Those of
his own class who would not accept her might go hang for all he cared.
Still Peter had rather that almost any one but Peggy should have come
upon the scene, and Beth's frankness had given her a handle for a
scandal, if she chose to make one. Beth cared nothing, he knew, for her
soul was greater than his, but Peter's anger still smoldered at the
words that had been used to Beth.
He did not fear complications with McGuire, nor did he court them, but
he knew how this daughter had been brought up, spoiled and pampered to
the very limits of McGuire's indulgence and fortune, and he couldn't
help holding her up in comparison with Beth, much to Peggy's detriment.
For Beth was a lady to her finger tips, born to a natural gentility that
put to confusion the mannerisms of the "smart" finishing school which
had not succeeded in concealing the strain of a plebeian origin, and
Beth's dropped g's and her quaint inversions and locutions were
infinitely more pleasing to Peter than Miss Peggy's slang and
self-assurance, which reflected the modernity of the fashionable hotel
tea-room.
Fortunately, Jonathan K. McGuire, who had returned from the seashore the
night before, was not disposed to take his daughter's animadversions too
seriously and when Peter announced his engagement to the niece of his
housekeeper he made no comment further than to offer his
congratulations. He did not even know her name and when McGuire was told
that it was Beth Cameron, Peter did not miss his slight start of
inquiry. But of course, having only owned his acres of woodland for half
a dozen years, he knew little as to the origins of the inhabitants of
Black Rock and as Peter said nothing at that moment he asked no
questions and only listened to the forester's account of the progress of
the work and of the difficulties experienced in attempting to complete
the timber-contract. There was no way of improving the labor situation
and a visit to the camp proved to him that Peter had done all that could
be expected with the poor material at hand. On the way back they stopped
at the Cabin and Peter showed him the letter from Hawk Kennedy. And
there for a while they sat discussing plans to outwit the enemy and draw
his sting.
It was going to be no easy task and could only be accomplished by
Peter's apparent compliance with Kennedy's wishes in throwing in his lot
with Hawk and simulating an enmity for his employer. McGuire nodded his
head and listened soberly. The rest at the seashore had done him good
and he was disposed to meet the situation with courage, reflecting
Peter's own attitude of confidence and optimism, admitting that his
confession to Peter had lifted a weight from his shoulders and given him
the spirit to meet the issue, whatever it might be.
"You see," he said at last, "if the worst comes I'm in a pretty bad
hole. But it was the shock of meeting Hawk after all these years that
took the courage out of me at first. I wasn't quite right in my head for
a while. I'd have killed him gladly and gotten away with it perhaps--but
I'm glad now that things turned out the way they did. I've got no blood
on my hands--that's one thing--whatever I signed. I've been thinking a
good deal since I've been away. If I signed that fake confession Hawk
Kennedy signed it too. He won't dare to produce it except as a last
resort in desperation, to drag me down with him if he fails. We can
string him along for a while before he does that and if he falls for
your game we may be able to get the paper away from him. You've thought
of something, Nichols?" he asked.
"Yes, of several things," said Peter slowly. "I'm going to try diplomacy
first. If that doesn't work, then something else more drastic."
McGuire rose at last and took up his hat.
"I don't know how to thank you for what you've done, Nichols," he said
awkwardly. "Of course if--if money will repay you for this sort of
service, you can count on my doing what you think is right."
Peter rose and walked to the window, looking out.
"I was coming to that, Mr. McGuire," he said gravely.
McGuire paused and laid his hat down again.
"Before you went away," Peter went on, turning slowly toward his
employer, "you told me that you had never made any effort to discover
the whereabouts of any of the relatives of Ben Cameron. But I inferred
from what you said that if you _did_ find them, you'd be willing to do
your duty. That's true, isn't it?"
McGuire examined him soberly but agreed.
"Yes, that's true. But why do you bring this question up now?"
"I'll explain in a moment. Mr. McGuire, you are said to be a very rich
man, how rich I don't know, but I think you'll be willing to admit to
me, knowing what I do of your history, that without the 'Tarantula' mine
and the large sum it brought you you would never have succeeded in
getting to your present position in the world of finance."
"I'll admit that. But I don't see----"
"You will in a minute, sir----"
"Go on."
"If I have been correctly informed, you sold out your copper holdings in
Madre Gulch for something like half a million dollars----" Peter paused
for McGuire's comment. He made none. But he had sunk into his chair
again and was listening intently.
"The interest on half a million dollars, even at six per cent, if
compounded, would in fifteen years amount with the principal to a
considerable sum."
"Ah, I see what you're getting at----"
"You will admit that what I say is true?"
"Yes----"
"You'll admit also, if you're reasonable, that the money which founded
your great fortune was as a matter of fact not yours but Ben
Cameron's----?"
"But why speak of him now?" muttered the old man.
"Do you admit this?"
McGuire frowned and then growled, "How can I help admitting it, since
you know the facts? But I don't see----"
"Well then, admitting that the 'Tarantula' mine was Ben Cameron's and
not yours or Hawk Kennedy's, it seems clear that if any of Ben Cameron's
heirs should turn up unexpectedly, they might claim at least a share of
what should have been their own."
McGuire had started forward in his chair, his gaze on Peter's face, as
the truth was suddenly borne in upon him.
"You mean, Nichols, that----." He paused and gasped as Peter nodded.
"I mean that Ben Cameron's only child, a daughter, lives here at Black
Rock--the niece of your housekeeper--Mrs. Bergen----"
"Miss Cameron--My God!" McGuire fell back in his chair, staring at
Peter, incapable of further speech.
"Beth Cameron," said Peter gently, "the lady who has done me the honor
of promising to become my wife----"
"But how do you know?" gasped McGuire. "There must be some mistake. Are
you sure you----" He broke off and then a sly smile curled at the
corners of his lips. "You know, Nichols, Cameron is not an unusual name.
It's quite possible that you're--er--mistaken."
"No. I'm quite sure there's no mistake. I think the facts can be
proved--that is, of course, if you're willing to help to establish this
claim and to admit it when established. Otherwise I intend to establish
it without your assistance--as an act of justice and of--er--retribution."
McGuire watched his superintendent's face for a while before replying.
And then, briefly, "What are the facts on which you base this
extraordinary statement?" he asked.
"I'll present those facts when the time comes, Mr. McGuire," said Peter
at a venture. "I don't think it will be a difficult matter to identify
the murdered man. He wrote home once or twice. He can be traced
successfully. But what I would like to know first is what your
disposition toward his daughter will be when the proper proofs are
presented."
"_If_ they're presented," said McGuire.
"Will you answer me?"
"It would seem time enough to answer then. I'll do the right thing."
"Meaning what?"
"Money enough to satisfy her."
"That won't do. She must have what is hers by right. Her price is one
million dollars," said Peter quietly.
McGuire started up. "You're dreaming," he gasped.
"It's her money."
"But I developed that mine."
"It was her mine that you developed."
McGuire stopped by the window and turned.
"And if I refuse----?"
"I don't think you will----"
The two men stared at each other, but Peter had the whip hand--or
McGuire thought he had, which was quite sufficient.
"Will you help me to perform this act of justice?" Peter went on calmly.
"It's the only thing to do, Mr. McGuire. Can't you see that?"
McGuire paced the floor heavily a few times before replying. And then,
"I've got to think this thing over, Nichols. It's all so very sudden--a
million dollars. My God! man, you talk of a million as if it grew on the
trees." He stopped abruptly before the fireplace and turned to Peter.
"And where does Hawk Kennedy come in on this?"
"Beth Cameron's claim comes before his--or yours," said Peter quietly.
"Whatever happens to either of you--it's not her fault."
Peter hadn't intended a threat. He was simply stating the principal
thought of his mind. But it broke McGuire's front. He leaned upon the
armchair and then fell heavily into it, his head buried in his hands.
"I'll do--whatever you say," he groaned at last, "but you've got to get
me out of this, Nichols. I've got to have that paper."
Peter poured out a drink of the whisky and silently handed it to his
employer.
"Come, Mr. McGuire," he said cheerfully, "we'll do what we can. There'll
be a way to outwit Hawk Kennedy."
"I hope to God there is," muttered McGuire helplessly.
"I'll make a bargain with you."
"What?" asked McGuire helplessly.
"If I get the confession from Kennedy, you give Beth Cameron the money I
ask for."
"No publicity?"
"None. I give you my word on it."
"Well," muttered the old man, "I guess it's coming to her. I'll see." He
paused helplessly. "A million dollars! That's a big sum to get together.
A big price--but not too big to clear this load off my conscience."
"Good. I'm glad you see it in this way."
The old man turned shrewdly. "But I've got to have the proofs----"
"Very well. If you're honest in your intentions you'll help me confirm
the evidence."
"Yes," said the other slowly. "I'll do what I can."
"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Ben Cameron looked
like----"
"I've told you as near as I can remember," muttered McGuire.
"Had the murdered man, for instance, lost the little finger of his left
hand?" asked Peter, coolly concealing the anxiety which lay behind his
question.
But he had his reward, for McGuire shot a quick glance at him, his
heavy jowl sagging. And as he didn't reply, Peter urged him
triumphantly.
"You promised to help. Will you answer me truthfully? It will save
asking a lot of questions."
At last McGuire threw up his hands.
"Yes," he muttered, "that was Ben Cameron. One of his little fingers was
missing all right enough."
"Thanks," said Peter, with an air of closing the interview. "If you want
this proof that the murdered man was Beth's father, ask Mrs. Bergen."
There was a silence. Peter had won. McGuire gathered up his hat with the
mien of a broken man and moved toward the door.
"All right, Nichols. I guess there's no doubt of it. I'll admit the
proof's strong enough. It can be further verified, I suppose, but I'd
rather no questions were asked. You do your part and I--I'll do mine."
"Very good, sir. You can count on me. If that fake agreement is still in
existence, I'll get it for you. If it has been destroyed----"
"I'll have to have proof of that----"
"Won't you leave that in my hands?"
McGuire nodded, shook Peter's hand and wandered out up the path in the
direction of Black Rock House.
From the first, Peter had had no doubt that the murdered man was Beth's
father, but he had to admit under McGuire's questioning that there might
still be a difficulty in tracing the vagrant from the meager history of
his peregrinations that Mrs. Bergen had been able to provide. McGuire's
attitude in regard to the absent little finger had been really
admirable. Peter was thankful for that little finger, and for McGuire's
honesty. There was no doubt in his mind now--if any had existed--who Ben
Cameron's murderer was. The affair was simplified amazingly. With Beth's
claim recognized, Peter could now enter heart and soul into the
interesting business of beating Hawk Kennedy at his own game. He would
win--he must win, for the pitiful millionaire and for Beth.
And so, jubilantly, he made his way to Black Rock village to fill a very
agreeable engagement that he had, to take supper (cooked and served by
her own hands) with Miss Beth Cameron. He found that Beth had tried to
prevail upon Aunt Tillie to be present but that the arrival of the
McGuire family at Black Rock House had definitely prevented the
appearance of their chaperon. Peter's appetite, however, suffered little
diminution upon that account and he learned that singing was not Beth's
only accomplishment. The rolls, as light as feathers and steaming hot,
were eloquent of her skill, the chicken was broiled to a turn, the
creamed potatoes delicious, and the apple pie of puff-paste provoked
memories of the Paris Ritz. Aunt Tillie's best tablecloth and family
silver--old, by the looks of it--had been brought into requisition and a
bunch of goldenrod and purple asters graced the centerpiece. And above
it all presided Beth, her face aflame from the cookstove, gracious and
more than lovable in her pride and self-consciousness.
When the supper was finished, Peter helped her to clear away the things
and insisted on being allowed to help wash the dishes. But to this Beth
demurred for they were of Aunt Tillie's blue colonial china set and not
to be trusted to impious hands. But she let Peter sit in the kitchen and
watch her (which was quite satisfactory) and even spared him a kiss or
two at propitious intervals.
Then when all things had been set to rights they went into the little
parlor and sat on the worn Victorian plush-covered sofa. There was much
to talk about, matters of grave importance that concerned themselves
alone, explanations to be made, hopes to be expressed, and Beth's affair
with McGuire to be discussed in all its phases. Peter told her nothing
of his rank or station in life, saving that revelation for a later
moment. Was not the present all-sufficient? And hadn't Beth told him and
didn't she tell him again now that she believed in him and that "no
matter what" she loved him and was his, for ever after, Amen. She didn't
care who he was, you see.
And when the important business of affirming those vows was concluded
again and again, the scarcely less important business of Beth's future
was talked over with a calmness which did much credit to Beth's control
of the situation. Peter brought out Hawk Kennedy's letter and they read
it together, and talked about it, Peter explaining his intention to
acquiesce in Hawk's plan. Then Peter told of his conversation with
McGuire and of the proof of Ben Cameron's identity which the old man had
honestly admitted.
"It looks very much, Beth," said Peter at last, with a smile, "as though
you were going to be a very wealthy young woman."
"Oh, Peter," she sighed (the elimination of formal appellations had been
accomplished during the earlier stages of the repast), "Oh, Peter, I
hope it isn't going to bring us unhappiness."
"Unhappiness! Why, Beth!"
"Oh, I don't know. It seems to me that people with a lot of money always
look unhappy wantin' _to want_ somethin'."
He laughed.
"The secret of successful wanting is only to want the things you can
get."
"That's just the trouble. With a million dollars I'll get so much more
than I want. And what then----?"
"You'll have to start all over again."
"No," she said quietly. "I won't. If wantin' things she can't buy makes
a girl _hard_, like Peggy McGuire, I think I'd rather be poor."
Peter grew grave again.
"Nothing could ever make you like Peggy McGuire," he said.
"I might be--if I ever get into the habit of thinkin' I was somethin'
that I wasn't."
"You'll never be a snob, Beth, no matter how much money you have."
"I hope not," she said with a laugh. "My nose turns up enough already."
And then, wistfully, "But I always _did_ want a _cerise_ veil."
"I've no doubt you'll get it, a _cerise_ veil--mauve, green and blue
ones too. I'll be having to keep an eye on you when you go to the city."
She eyed him gravely and then, "I don't like to hear you talk like
that."
But he kept to his topic for the mere delight of hearing her replies.
"But then you might see somebody you liked better than me."
She smiled at him gently. "If I'd 'a' thought that I wouldn't 'a' picked
you out in the first place."
"Then you did pick me out. When?"
"H-m. Wouldn't you like to know!"
"Yes. At the Cabin?"
"No----"
"At McGuire's----?"
"No-o. Before that----"
"When----"
She blushed very prettily and laughed.
"Down Pickerel River road."
"Did you, Beth?"
"Yes. I liked your looks. You _do_ smile like you meant it, Peter. I
said to myself that anybody that could bow from the middle like you was
good enough for me."
"Now you're making fun of me."
"Oh, no. I'm not. You see, dear, you've really lived up to that bow!"
"I hope," said Peter gently, "I hope I always will."
"I'm not worryin'. And I'm glad I knew you loved me before you knew
about the money."
"You did know, then----"
"Yes. What bothered me was your findin' it so hard to tell me so."
Peter was more awkward and self-conscious at that moment than he could
ever remember having been in his life. Her frankness shamed him--made it
seem difficult for him ever to tell her the real reasons for his
hesitation. What chance would the exercise of inherited tradition have
in the judgment of this girl who dealt instinctively and intimately with
the qualities of the mind and heart, and only with them?
"I--I was not good enough for you," he muttered.
She put her fingers over his lips. And when he kissed them--took them
away and gave him her lips.
"I'll hear no more of _that_, Peter Nichols," she whispered. "You're
good enough for me----"
Altogether, it may be said that the evening was a success at every angle
from which Peter chose to view it. And he made his way back to the Cabin
through the deep forest along the path that Beth had worn, the path to
his heart past all the fictitious barriers that custom had built about
him. The meddlesome world was not. Here was the _novaya jezn_ that his
people had craved and shouted for. He had found it. New
life--happiness--with a mate ... his woman--soon to be his wife--whether
Beth Nichols or the Grand Duchess Elizabeth...? There was no title of
nobility that could make Beth's heart more noble, no pride of lineage
that could give her a higher place than that which she already held in
his heart.
His blood surging, he ran along the log at the crossing and up the path
to the Cabin, where a surprise awaited him. For he found the lamp
lighted, and, seated complacently in Peter's easy chair, stockinged feet
toward the blaze of a fresh log, a bottle at his elbow, was Hawk
Kennedy.