FACE TO FACE
We are told, alas, that at the highest moment of our expectations the
gods conspire to our undoing, and therefore that it is wise to take our
joys a little sadly, that we may not fall too far. But Beth, being
wholesome of mind and body and an optimist by choice, was not disposed
to question the completeness of her contentment or look for any dangers
which might threaten its continuance. And so when Peter went home
through the forest, she took her kerosene lamp to her room, there to
smile at her joyous countenance in the mirror and to assure herself that
never since the beginning of the world had there been a girl more glad
that she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her since
that evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knew
again as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in all
the world for her.
Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she lay
in bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in a
dark mass against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines,
through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled jovially
with assurance that the night could not be long and that beyond the
night were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And praying
gently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not even
to dream.
Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansing
and polishing, finishing to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter's
impatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's blue
china set was carefully restored to its shelves, the napery folded away,
the shiny pots hung upon their hooks and the kitchen carefully mopped.
Then, with a towel wrapped about her head (for such was the custom of
the country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom and
dust-cloth, singing _arpeggios_ to remind herself that everything was
right with the world.
It was upon the plush-covered sofa where she and Peter had sat the night
before that Beth's orderly eye espied a square of paper just upon the
point of disappearing in the crease between the seat and back of Aunt
Tillie's most cherished article of furniture and of course she pounced
upon it with the intention of destroying it at the cookstove. But when
she drew it forth, she found that it was an envelope, heliotrope in
color, that it bore Peter's name in a feminine handwriting, and that it
had a strange delicate odor with which Beth was unfamiliar. She held it
in her hand and looked at the writing, then turned it over and over, now
holding it more gingerly by the tip ends of her fingers. Then she
sniffed at it again. It was a queer perfume--strange--like violet mixed
with some kind of spice.
She put her broom aside and walked to the window, her brow puckered, and
scrutinized the postmark. "London!" Of course--London was in England
where Peter had once lived. And Peter had drawn the letter from his
pocket last night with some other papers when he had shown her the
communication from "Hawk" Kennedy. It was lucky that she had found it,
for it might have slipped down behind the plush covering, and so have
been definitely lost. Of course Peter had friends in London and of
course they should wish to write to him, but for the first time it
seemed curious to Beth that in all their conversations Peter had never
volunteered any information as to the life that he had lived before he
had come to Black Rock. She remembered now that she had told him that
whatever his past had been and whoever he was, he was good enough for
her. But the heliotrope envelope with the feminine handwriting and the
strange odor immediately suggested queries along lines of investigation
which had never before entered her thoughts. Who was the lady of the
delicate script and the strange perfume? What was her relationship to
Peter? And upon what topic was she writing to him?
Beth slipped the note about a quarter of an inch out of its envelope
until she could just see a line of the writing and then quickly thrust
it in again, put the envelope on the mantel above the "parlor heater"
and resolutely went on with her sweeping. From time to time she stopped
her work and looked at it just to be sure that it was still there and at
last took it up in her fingers again, a prey to a more lively curiosity
than any she had ever known. She put the envelope down again and turning
her back to it went into the kitchen. Of course Peter would tell her who
this lady was if she asked him. And there was no doubt at all that it
_was_ a lady who had written the letter, some one familiar with a
delicate mode of existence and given to refinements which had been
denied to Beth. It was this delicacy and refinement, this flowing
inscription written with such careless ease and grace which challenged
Beth's rusticity. She would have liked to ask Peter about the lady at
once. But Peter would not be at the Cabin at this early hour of the
morning, nor would Beth be able to see him until late this
afternoon--perhaps not until to-night. Meanwhile, the note upon the
mantel was burning its way into her consciousness. It was endued with a
personality feminine, insidious and persuasive. No ladies of London
affecting heliotrope envelopes had any business writing scented notes to
Peter now. He was Beth's particular property....
When she went up to the second floor of the cottage a few minutes later
she took the heliotrope letter with her and put it on her bureau,
propped against the pincushion, while she went on with her work. And
then, all her duties for the morning finished, she sat down in her
rocking chair by the window, the envelope in her idle fingers, a victim
of temptation. She looked out at the pine woods, her gaze afar, her
guilty fingers slipping the letter out of its covering an inch, two
inches. And then Beth opened Peter's heliotrope note and read it. At
least, she read as much of it as she could understand,--the parts that
were written in English--with growing amazement and incertitude. A good
deal of the English part even was Greek to her, but she could understand
enough to know that a mystery of some sort hung about the letter and
about Peter, that he was apparently a person of some importance to the
heliotrope lady who addressed him in affectionate terms and with the
utmost freedom. Beth had learned in the French ballads which Peter had
taught her that _ami_ meant friend and that _bel_ meant beautiful. And
as the whole of the paragraph containing those words was written in
English, Beth had little difficulty in understanding it. What had Peter
to do with the cause of Holy Russia? And what was this danger to him
from hidden enemies, which could make necessary this discretion and
watchfulness in Black Rock? And the last sentence of all danced before
Beth's eyes as though it had been written in letters of fire. "There is
at least one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the
dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo."
What right had the heliotrope lady's heart to beat fondly in memory of
dear dead days with Peter Nichols at Galitzin or Zukovo or anywhere
else? Who was she? Was she young? Was she beautiful? And what right had
Peter given her to address him in terms of such affection? Anastasie!
And now for the first time in her life, though to all outward appearance
calm, Beth felt the pangs of jealousy. This letter, most of it in the
queer-looking script (probably Russian) that she could not even read, in
its strange references in English to things beyond her knowledge, seemed
suddenly to erect a barrier between her and Peter that could never be
passed, or even to indicate a barrier between them that had always
existed without her knowledge. And if all of the parts of the letter
that she could not understand contained sentiments like the English part
that she _could_ understand, it was a very terrible letter indeed and
indicated that this heliotrope woman (she was no longer "lady" now) had
claims upon Peter's heart which came long before Beth's. And if this
Anastasie--other women too....
Beth read the letter again and then slipped it back into its envelope,
while she gazed out of the window at the pines, a frown at her brows and
two tiny lines curving downward at the corners of her lips. She was very
unhappy. But she was angry too--angry at the heliotrope woman, angry at
Peter and angrier still at herself. In that moment she forgot that she
had taken Peter Nichols without reference to what he was or had been.
She had told him that only the future mattered and now she knew that the
past was beginning to matter very much indeed.
After a while she got up, and took the heliotrope letter to the bureau
where she wrote upon the envelope rather viciously with a soft lead
pencil, "You left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie."
Then she slipped the letter into her waist and with an air of decision
went down the stairs (the ominous parentheses still around her mouth),
and made her way with rapid footsteps toward the path through the forest
which led toward Peter's cabin.
Beth was primitive, highly honorable by instinct if not by precept, but
a creature of impulse, very much in love, who read by intuition the
intrusion of what seemed a very real danger to her happiness. If her
conscience warned her that she was transgressing the rules of polite
procedure, something stronger than a sense of propriety urged her on to
read, something stronger than mere curiosity--the impulse of
self-preservation, the impulse to preserve that which was stronger even
than self--the love of Peter Nichols.
The scrawl that she had written upon the envelope was eloquent of her
point of view, at once a taunt, a renunciation and a confession. "You
left _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie!"
It was the intention of carrying the letter to Peter's cabin and there
leaving it in a conspicuous position that now led her rapidly down the
path through the woods. Gone were the tender memories of the night
before. If this woman had had claims upon Peter Nichols's heart at the
two places with the Russian names, she had the same claims upon them
now. Beth's love and her pride waged a battle within her as she
approached the Cabin. She remembered that Peter had told her last night
that he would have a long day at the lumber camp, but as she crossed the
log-jam she found herself hoping that by some chance she would find
Peter still at home, where, with a fine dignity (which she mentally
rehearsed) she would demand explanation, and listening, grant
forgiveness. Or else ... she didn't like to think of the alternative.
But instead of Peter, at the Cabin door in the early morning sunlight
she found a strange man, sitting in a chair in the portico, smoking one
of Peter's cigarettes, and apparently much at home. The appearance of
the stranger was for a moment disconcerting, but Beth approached the
familiar doorway, her head high, the heliotrope letter burning her
fingers. She had intended to walk in at the door of the Cabin, place the
letter in a conspicuous position where Peter could not fail to see it,
and then return to her home and haughtily await Peter's arrival. But the
presence of this man, a stranger in Black Rock, making free of Peter's
habitation, evidently with Peter's knowledge and consent, made her pause
in a moment of uncertainty.
At her approach the man in the chair had risen and she saw that he was
tall--almost as tall as Peter, that he had a hooked nose and displayed a
set of irregular teeth when he smiled--which he did, not unpleasantly.
There was something about him which repelled her yet fascinated at the
same time.
"Mr. Nichols has gone out?" Beth asked, for something to say.
"Yes, Miss," said the stranger, blinking at her with his bleary eyes.
"Mr. Nichols is down at the lumber camp--won't be back until night, I
reckon. Anythin' I can do for ye?"
"No, I----?" Beth hesitated. "I just wanted to see him--to leave
somethin' for him."
"I guess he'll be right sorry to miss you. Who shall I say called?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Beth, turning away. But she was now aware
of a strange curiosity as to this person who sat with such an air of
well-being in Peter's chair and spoke with such an air of
proprietorship. The insistence of her own personal affair with Peter had
driven from her mind all thoughts of the other matters suggested in the
letter, of the possible dangers to Peter even here in Black Rock and
the mysterious references to Holy Russia. This man who stood in Peter's
portico, whoever he was, was not a Russian, she could see that at a
glance and read it in his accents, but she was equally certain from his
general character that he could be no friend of Peter's and that his
business here was not of Peter's choosing.
"If ye'd like to wait a while----"
He offered her the chair, but Beth did not accept it.
"Ye don't happen to be Miss Peggy McGuire, do ye?" asked the stranger
curiously.
"No," replied the girl. "My name is Beth Cameron."
"Beth----?"
"Cameron," she finished firmly.
"Oh----"
The stranger seemed to be examining her with a glowing interest, but his
look was clouded.
Beth had decided that until Peter came explaining she had no further
possible interest either in him or his affairs, but in spite of this she
found her lips suddenly asking,
"Are you a friend of Mr. Nichols's?"
The man in the portico grinned somberly.
"Yes. I guess I am--an old friend--before he came to America."
"Oh!" said Beth quietly. "You've known him a long time then?"
"Ye might say so. We were buddies together."
"Then you knew him in--in London?"
The man grinned. "Can't say I did. Not in London. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I just wanted to know."
The gaze of the stranger upon her was disquieting. His eyes seemed to be
smoldering like embers just ready to blaze. She knew that she ought to
be returning and yet she didn't want to go leaving her object
unaccomplished, the dignity of her plan having already been greatly
disturbed. And so she hesitated, curiosity at war with discretion.
"Would you mind telling me your name?" she asked timidly.
The man shrugged a shoulder and glanced away from her. "I reckon my name
wouldn't mean much to you."
"Oh--I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked?"
The stranger put his hands into his coat pockets and stared down at Beth
with a strange intrusive kind of smile.
"You and Pete seem kind of thick, don't ye?" he muttered.
"Pete!"
"Pete Nichols. That's his name, ain't it? Kind of thick, I'd say. I
can't blame him though----"
"You're mistaken," said Beth with dignity, "there's nothin' between
Peter Nichols and me." And turning heel, Beth took a step away.
"There! Put my foot in it, didn't I? I'm sorry. Don't go yet. I want to
ask ye something."
Beth paused and found that the stranger had come out from the portico
and still stood beside her. And as her look inquired fearlessly,
"It's about your name, Miss," he muttered, and then with an effort spoke
the word savagely, as though it had been wrenched from him by an effort
of will, "Cameron----? Your name's Cameron?"
"Yes," said Beth, in some inquietude.
"Common name in some parts--Cameron--not so common in others--not in
Jersey anyway----"
"I didn't know----"
"Is yer father livin'?" he snapped.
"No--dead. Many years ago. Out West."
"Tsch!" he breathed, the air whistling between his teeth, "Out West, ye
say--out West?"
He stood in front of Beth now, his arms akimbo, his head bent forward
under the stress of some excitement. Beth drew away from him, but he
came forward after her, his gaze still seeking hers.
"Yes--out West," said Beth haltingly.
"Where?" he gasped.
"I don't know----"
"Was his name--was his name--Ben Cameron?" He shot the question at her
with a strange fury, catching meanwhile at her arm.
"Let me go----," she commanded. "You're hurtin' me."
"Was it----?"
"Yes. Let me go."
The stranger's grip on her arm suddenly relaxed and while she watched
his face in curiosity the glow in his eyes suddenly flickered out, his
gaze shifting from side to side as he seemed to shrink away from her.
From timidity at his roughness she found new courage in her curiosity at
his strange behavior. What had this stranger to do with Ben Cameron?
"What did you want to know for?" she asked him.
But his bent brows were frowning at the path at his feet. He tried to
laugh--and the sound of the dry cackle had little mirth in it.
"No matter. I--I thought it might be. I guess ye'd better go--I guess
ye'd better." And with that he sank heavily in Peter's chair again.
But Beth still stood and stared at him, aware of the sudden change in
his attitude toward her. What did it all mean? What were Peter's
relations with this creature who behaved so strangely at the mention of
her name? Why did he speak of Ben Cameron? Who was he? Who----?
The feeling of which she had at first been conscious, at the man's evil
leering smile which repelled her suddenly culminated in a pang of
intuition. This man ... It must be ... Hawk Kennedy--the man who ... She
stared at him with a new horror in the growing pallor of her face and
Hawk Kennedy saw the look. It was as though some devilish psychological
contrivance had suddenly hooked their two consciousnesses to the same
thought. Both saw the same picture--the sand, the rocks, the blazing sun
and a dead man lying with a knife in his back.... And Beth continued
staring as though in a kind of horrible fascination. And when her lips
moved she spoke as though impelled by a force beyond her own volition.
"You--you're Hawk Kennedy," she said tensely, "the man who killed my
father."
"It's a lie," he gasped, springing to his feet. "Who told you that?"
"I--I guessed it----"
"Who told ye about Hawk Kennedy? Who told ye about him?"
"No one----"
"Ye didn't dream it. Ye can't dream a name," he said tensely. "Pete told
ye--he lied to ye."
"He didn't."
But he had caught her by the wrist again and dragged her into the Cabin.
She was thoroughly frightened now--too frightened even to cry out--too
terrified at the sudden revelation of this man who for some days had
been a kind of evil spirit in the background of her happiness. He was
not like what she had thought he was, but he embodied an idea that was
sinister and terrible. And while she wondered what he was going to do
next, he pushed her into the armchair, locked the door and put the key
into his pocket.
"Now we can talk," he muttered grimly. "No chance of bein'
disturbed--Pete ain't due for hours yet. So he's been tellin' _you_ lies
about me. Has he? Sayin' _I_ done it. By G--, I'm beginnin' to see...."
He leered at her horribly, and Beth seemed frozen into her chair. The
courage that had been hers a moment ago when he had shrunk away from her
had fled before the fury of his questions and the violence of his touch.
She was intimidated for the first time in her life and yet she tried to
meet his eyes, which burned wildly, shifting from side to side like
those of a caged beast. In her terror she could not tell what dauntless
instinct had urged her unless it was Ben Cameron's soul in agony that
had cried out through her lips. And now she had not only betrayed
Peter--but herself....
"I'm beginnin' to see. You and Pete--playin' both ends against the
middle, with McGuire comin' down somethin' very handsome for a weddin'
present and leavin' me out in the cold. Very pretty! But it ain't goin'
to work out just that way--not that way at all."
All of this he muttered in a wildly casual kind of a way, at no one in
particular, as his gaze flitted from one object in the room to another,
always passing over Beth almost impersonally. But in a moment she saw
his gaze concentrate upon her with sudden eagerness.
"He told ye I done it, did he? Well, I didn't," he cried in a strident
voice. "I didn't do it. It was McGuire and I'll prove it, all right.
McGuire. Pete can't fix _that_ on me--even if he wanted to. But he told
_you_ or ye wouldn't of spoke like ye did. I guess maybe ye wouldn't of
said so much if Pete had been here. But ye let the cat slip out of the
bag all right. You and Pete--and maybe McGuire's with ye too--all
against me. Is that so?... Can't yer speak, girl? Must ye sit there
just starin' at me with yer big eyes? What are ye lookin' at? Are ye
dumb?"
"No, I'm not dumb," gasped Beth, struggling for her courage, aware all
the while of the physical threat in the man's very presence.
"Speak then. Tell me the truth. Pete said it was your money McGuire
took--your money McGuire's got to make good to ye? Ain't that the
truth?"
"I won't answer."
"Oh, yes, ye will. You'll answer all right. I'm not goin' to trifle.
What did ye come here to see Pete about? What's that letter ye came to
give him? Give it to me!"
Beth clutched the heliotrope note to her bosom but Hawk Kennedy caught
at her hands and tried to tear it away from her. It needed only this new
act of physical violence to give Beth the courage of despair. She sprang
to her feet eluding him but he caught her before she reached the window.
She struck at him with her fists but he tore the letter away from her
and hurled her toward the bed over which she fell breathless. There was
no use trying to fight this man.... There was a cruelty in his touch
which spoke of nameless things.... And so she lay motionless, nursing
her injured wrists, trying desperately to think what she must do.
Meanwhile, watching her keenly from the tail of his eye, Hawk Kennedy
was reading the heliotrope letter, spelling out the English word by
word. Fascinated, Beth saw the frown of curiosity deepen to interest and
then to puzzled absorption.
"Interestin'--very," she heard him mutter at last, as he glanced toward
the bed. "Holy Russia. H----! What's this mean, girl? Who _is_ Peter
Nichols? Answer me."
"I--I don't know," she said.
"Yes, ye do. Where did ye get this letter?"
"He left it at--at my house last night."
"Oh! _Your_ house! Where?"
"In the village."
"I see. An' this scrawl on the envelope--you wrote it----"
Beth couldn't reply. He was dragging her through the very depths of
humiliation.
At her silence his lips curved in ugly amusement.
"Anastasie!" he muttered. "Some queen that--with her purple paper an'
all. And ye don't know who she is? Or who Pete is? Answer me!"
"I--I don't know," she whispered. "I--I don't, really."
"H-m! Well, he ain't what he's seemed to be, that's sure. He ain't what
he's seemed to be to you and he ain't what he's seemed to be to me. But
whoever he is he can't put anything over on _me_. We'll see about this."
Beth straightened and sat up, watching him pace the floor in deep
thought. There might be a chance that she could escape by the window.
But when she started up he ordered her back roughly and she soon saw
that this was impossible.
At last he stopped walking up and down and stared at her, his eyes
narrowed to mere slits, his brows drawn ominously together. It seemed
that he had reached a decision.
"You behave yourself an' do what I tell ye an' ye won't be hurt," he
growled.
"Wh-what are you goin' to do?" she gasped.
"Nothin' much. Ye're just goin' with me--that's all."
"W-where?"
"That's my business. Oh, ye needn't be scared of any love makin'. I'm
not on that lay this trip."
He went to the drawer of Peter's bureau and took out some
handkerchiefs.
"But ye'd better be scared if ye don't do what I tell ye. Here. Stand
up!"
Beth shrank away from, him, but he caught her by the wrists and held
her.
"Ye're not to make a noise, d'ye hear? I can't take the chance."
And while she still struggled desperately, he fastened her wrists
together behind her. Then he thrust one of Peter's handkerchiefs in her
mouth and securely gagged her. He wasn't any too gentle with her but
even in her terror she found herself thanking God that it was only
abduction that he planned.
Hawk Kennedy went to the window and peered out up the path, then he
opened the door and looked around. After a moment he came in quickly.
"Come," he muttered, "it's time we were off."
He caught her by the arm and helped her to her feet, pushing her out of
the door and into the underbrush at the corner of the cabin. Her feet
lagged, her knees were weak, but the grasp on her shoulder warned her of
cruelties she had not dreamed of and so she stumbled on--on into the
depths of the forest, Hawk Kennedy's hard hand urging her on to greater
speed.