by George Gibbs
CHAPTER XVIII
FACE TO FACE
We are told, alas, that at the highest moment of our expectations thegods conspire to our undoing, and therefore that it is wise to take ourjoys a little sadly, that we may not fall too far. But Beth, beingwholesome of mind and body and an optimist by choice, was not disposedto question the completeness of her contentment or look for any dangerswhich might threaten its continuance. And so when Peter went homethrough the forest, she took her kerosene lamp to her room, there tosmile at her joyous countenance in the mirror and to assure herself thatnever since the beginning of the world had there been a girl more gladthat she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her sincethat evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knewagain as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in allthe world for her.
Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she layin bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in adark mass against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines,through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled joviallywith assurance that the night could not be long and that beyond thenight were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And prayinggently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not evento dream.
Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansingand polishing, finishing to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter'simpatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's bluechina 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 ofthe country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom anddust-cloth, singing _arpeggios_ to remind herself that everything wasright with the world.
It was upon the plush-covered sofa where she and Peter had sat the nightbefore that Beth's orderly eye espied a square of paper just upon thepoint of disappearing in the crease between the seat and back of AuntTillie's most cherished article of furniture and of course she pouncedupon it with the intention of destroying it at the cookstove. But whenshe drew it forth, she found that it was an envelope, heliotrope incolor, that it bore Peter's name in a feminine handwriting, and that ithad a strange delicate odor with which Beth was unfamiliar. She held itin her hand and looked at the writing, then turned it over and over, nowholding it more gingerly by the tip ends of her fingers. Then shesniffed at it again. It was a queer perfume--strange--like violet mixedwith some kind of spice.
She put her broom aside and walked to the window, her brow puckered, andscrutinized the postmark. "London!" Of course--London was in Englandwhere Peter had once lived. And Peter had drawn the letter from hispocket last night with some other papers when he had shown her thecommunication from "Hawk" Kennedy. It was lucky that she had found it,for it might have slipped down behind the plush covering, and so havebeen definitely lost. Of course Peter had friends in London and ofcourse they should wish to write to him, but for the first time itseemed curious to Beth that in all their conversations Peter had nevervolunteered any information as to the life that he had lived before hehad come to Black Rock. She remembered now that she had told him thatwhatever his past had been and whoever he was, he was good enough forher. But the heliotrope envelope with the feminine handwriting and thestrange odor immediately suggested queries along lines of investigationwhich had never before entered her thoughts. Who was the lady of thedelicate script and the strange perfume? What was her relationship toPeter? And upon what topic was she writing to him?
Beth slipped the note about a quarter of an inch out of its envelopeuntil she could just see a line of the writing and then quickly thrustit in again, put the envelope on the mantel above the "parlor heater"and resolutely went on with her sweeping. From time to time she stoppedher work and looked at it just to be sure that it was still there and atlast took it up in her fingers again, a prey to a more lively curiositythan any she had ever known. She put the envelope down again and turningher back to it went into the kitchen. Of course Peter would tell her whothis 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 adelicate mode of existence and given to refinements which had beendenied to Beth. It was this delicacy and refinement, this flowinginscription written with such careless ease and grace which challengedBeth's rusticity. She would have liked to ask Peter about the lady atonce. But Peter would not be at the Cabin at this early hour of themorning, nor would Beth be able to see him until late thisafternoon--perhaps not until to-night. Meanwhile, the note upon themantel was burning its way into her consciousness. It was endued with apersonality feminine, insidious and persuasive. No ladies of Londonaffecting heliotrope envelopes had any business writing scented notes toPeter now. He was Beth's particular property....
When she went up to the second floor of the cottage a few minutes latershe took the heliotrope letter with her and put it on her bureau,propped against the pincushion, while she went on with her work. Andthen, all her duties for the morning finished, she sat down in herrocking chair by the window, the envelope in her idle fingers, a victimof temptation. She looked out at the pine woods, her gaze afar, herguilty fingers slipping the letter out of its covering an inch, twoinches. And then Beth opened Peter's heliotrope note and read it. Atleast, she read as much of it as she could understand,--the parts thatwere written in English--with growing amazement and incertitude. A gooddeal of the English part even was Greek to her, but she could understandenough to know that a mystery of some sort hung about the letter andabout Peter, that he was apparently a person of some importance to theheliotrope lady who addressed him in affectionate terms and with theutmost freedom. Beth had learned in the French ballads which Peter hadtaught her that _ami_ meant friend and that _bel_ meant beautiful. Andas the whole of the paragraph containing those words was written inEnglish, Beth had little difficulty in understanding it. What had Peterto do with the cause of Holy Russia? And what was this danger to himfrom hidden enemies, which could make necessary this discretion andwatchfulness in Black Rock? And the last sentence of all danced beforeBeth's eyes as though it had been written in letters of fire. "There isat least one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of thedear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo."
What right had the heliotrope lady's heart to beat fondly in memory ofdear dead days with Peter Nichols at Galitzin or Zukovo or anywhereelse? Who was she? Was she young? Was she beautiful? And what right hadPeter given her to address him in terms of such affection? Anastasie!
And now for the first time in her life, though to all outward appearancecalm, Beth felt the pangs of jealousy. This letter, most of it in thequeer-looking script (probably Russian) that she could not even read, inits strange references in English to things beyond her knowledge, seemedsuddenly to erect a barrier between her and Peter that could never bepassed, or even to indicate a barrier between them that had alwaysexisted without her knowledge. And if all of the parts of the letterthat she could not understand contained sentiments like the English partthat she _could_ understand, it was a very terrible letter indeed andindicated that this heliotrope woman (she was no longer "lady" now) hadclaims upon Peter's heart which came long before Beth's. And if thisAnastasie--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 andtwo tiny lines curving downward at the corners of her lips. She was veryunhappy. But she was angry too--angry at the heliotrope woman, angry atPeter and angrier still at herself. In that moment she forgot that shehad 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 thepast was beginning to matter very much indeed.
After a while she got up, and took the heliotrope letter to the bureauwhere she wrote upon the envelope rather viciously with a soft leadpencil, "You left _this_ last night. You'd better go bac
k to Anastasie."Then she slipped the letter into her waist and with an air of decisionwent down the stairs (the ominous parentheses still around her mouth),and made her way with rapid footsteps toward the path through the forestwhich led toward Peter's cabin.
Beth was primitive, highly honorable by instinct if not by precept, buta creature of impulse, very much in love, who read by intuition theintrusion of what seemed a very real danger to her happiness. If herconscience warned her that she was transgressing the rules of politeprocedure, something stronger than a sense of propriety urged her on toread, something stronger than mere curiosity--the impulse ofself-preservation, the impulse to preserve that which was stronger eventhan self--the love of Peter Nichols.
The scrawl that she had written upon the envelope was eloquent of herpoint of view, at once a taunt, a renunciation and a confession. "Youleft _this_ last night. You'd better go back to Anastasie!"
It was the intention of carrying the letter to Peter's cabin and thereleaving it in a conspicuous position that now led her rapidly down thepath through the woods. Gone were the tender memories of the nightbefore. If this woman had had claims upon Peter Nichols's heart at thetwo places with the Russian names, she had the same claims upon themnow. Beth's love and her pride waged a battle within her as sheapproached the Cabin. She remembered that Peter had told her last nightthat he would have a long day at the lumber camp, but as she crossed thelog-jam she found herself hoping that by some chance she would findPeter still at home, where, with a fine dignity (which she mentallyrehearsed) she would demand explanation, and listening, grantforgiveness. Or else ... she didn't like to think of the alternative.
But instead of Peter, at the Cabin door in the early morning sunlightshe found a strange man, sitting in a chair in the portico, smoking oneof Peter's cigarettes, and apparently much at home. The appearance ofthe stranger was for a moment disconcerting, but Beth approached thefamiliar doorway, her head high, the heliotrope letter burning herfingers. She had intended to walk in at the door of the Cabin, place theletter 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 thepresence of this man, a stranger in Black Rock, making free of Peter'shabitation, evidently with Peter's knowledge and consent, made her pausein a moment of uncertainty.
At her approach the man in the chair had risen and she saw that he wastall--almost as tall as Peter, that he had a hooked nose and displayed aset of irregular teeth when he smiled--which he did, not unpleasantly.There was something about him which repelled her yet fascinated at thesame 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, Ireckon. Anythin' I can do for ye?"
"No, I----?" Beth hesitated. "I just wanted to see him--to leavesomethin' 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 awareof a strange curiosity as to this person who sat with such an air ofwell-being in Peter's chair and spoke with such an air ofproprietorship. The insistence of her own personal affair with Peter haddriven from her mind all thoughts of the other matters suggested in theletter, of the possible dangers to Peter even here in Black Rock andthe mysterious references to Holy Russia. This man who stood in Peter'sportico, whoever he was, was not a Russian, she could see that at aglance and read it in his accents, but she was equally certain from hisgeneral character that he could be no friend of Peter's and that hisbusiness 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 strangercuriously.
"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 hislook was clouded.
Beth had decided that until Peter came explaining she had no furtherpossible interest either in him or his affairs, but in spite of this shefound 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 besmoldering like embers just ready to blaze. She knew that she ought tobe returning and yet she didn't want to go leaving her objectunaccomplished, the dignity of her plan having already been greatlydisturbed. 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 namewouldn'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 Bethwith 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. Ican't blame him though----"
"You're mistaken," said Beth with dignity, "there's nothin' betweenPeter 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 toask ye something."
Beth paused and found that the stranger had come out from the porticoand still stood beside her. And as her look inquired fearlessly,
"It's about your name, Miss," he muttered, and then with an effort spokethe word savagely, as though it had been wrenched from him by an effortof will, "Cameron----? Your name's Cameron?"
"Yes," said Beth, in some inquietude.
"Common name in some parts--Cameron--not so common in others--not inJersey 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, yesay--out West?"
He stood in front of Beth now, his arms akimbo, his head bent forwardunder the stress of some excitement. Beth drew away from him, but hecame 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 herwith 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 watchedhis face in curiosity the glow in his eyes suddenly flickered out, hisgaze 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 athis 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 tolaugh--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 guessye'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 inhis attitude toward her. What did it all mean? What were Peter'srelations with this creature who behaved so strangely at the mention ofher 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 evilleering smile which repelled her suddenly culminated in a pang ofintuition. This man ... It must be ... Hawk Kennedy--the man who ... Shestared at him with a new horror in the growing pallor of her face andHawk Kennedy saw the look. It was as though some devilish psychologicalcontrivance had suddenly hooked their two consciousnesses to the samethought. Both saw the same picture--the sand, the rocks, the blazing sunand a dead man lying with a knife in his back.... And Beth continuedstaring as though in a kind of horrible fascination. And when her lipsmoved she spoke as though impelled by a force beyond her own volition.
"You--you're Hawk Kennedy," she said tensely, "the man who killed myfather."
"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 toldye--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--tooterrified at the sudden revelation of this man who for some days hadbeen a kind of evil spirit in the background of her happiness. He wasnot like what she had thought he was, but he embodied an idea that wassinister and terrible. And while she wondered what he was going to donext, he pushed her into the armchair, locked the door and put the keyinto 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_ liesabout 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. Thecourage that had been hers a moment ago when he had shrunk away from herhad 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 tomeet his eyes, which burned wildly, shifting from side to side likethose of a caged beast. In her terror she could not tell what dauntlessinstinct had urged her unless it was Ben Cameron's soul in agony thathad cried out through her lips. And now she had not only betrayedPeter--but herself....
"I'm beginnin' to see. You and Pete--playin' both ends against themiddle, 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 inparticular, as his gaze flitted from one object in the room to another,always passing over Beth almost impersonally. But in a moment she sawhis gaze concentrate upon her with sudden eagerness.
"He told ye I done it, did he? Well, I didn't," he cried in a stridentvoice. "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 ofsaid so much if Pete had been here. But ye let the cat slip out of thebag all right. You and Pete--and maybe McGuire's with ye too--allagainst me. Is that so?... Can't yer speak, girl? Must ye sit therejust starin' at me with yer big eyes? What are ye lookin' at? Are yedumb?"
"No, I'm not dumb," gasped Beth, struggling for her courage, aware allthe while of the physical threat in the man's very presence.
"Speak then. Tell me the truth. Pete said it was your money McGuiretook--your money McGuire's got to make good to ye? Ain't that thetruth?"
"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 togive him? Give it to me!"
Beth clutched the heliotrope note to her bosom but Hawk Kennedy caughtat her hands and tried to tear it away from her. It needed only this newact of physical violence to give Beth the courage of despair. She sprangto 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 herand hurled her toward the bed over which she fell breathless. There wasno use trying to fight this man.... There was a cruelty in his touchwhich spoke of nameless things.... And so she lay motionless, nursingher injured wrists, trying desperately to think what she must do.
Meanwhile, watching her keenly from the tail of his eye, Hawk Kennedywas reading the heliotrope letter, spelling out the English word byword. Fascinated, Beth saw the frown of curiosity deepen to interest andthen to puzzled absorption.
"Interestin'--very," she heard him mutter at last, as he glanced towardthe bed. "Holy Russia. H----! What's this mean, girl? Who _is_ PeterNichols? 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 ofhumiliation.
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 whathe's seemed to be to you and he ain't what he's seemed to be to me. Butwhoever 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 deepthought. 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 sawthat this was impossible.
At last he stopped walking up and down and stared at her, his eyesnarrowed to mere slits, his brows drawn ominously together. It seemedthat he had reached a decision.
"You behave yourself an' do what I tell ye an' ye won't be hurt," hegrowled.
"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'mnot on that lay this trip."
He went to the drawer of Peter's bureau and took out somehandkerchiefs.
"But ye'd better be scared if ye don't do what I tell ye. Here. Standup!"
Beth shrank away from, him, but he caught her by the wrists and heldher.
"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 wriststogether behind her. Then he thrust one of Peter's handkerchiefs in hermouth and securely gagged her. He wasn't any too gentle with her buteven in her terror she found herself thanking God that it was onlyabduction that he planned.
Hawk Kennedy went to the window and peered out up the path, then heopened 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 ofthe door and into the underbrush at the corner of the cabin. Her feetlagged, her knees were weak, but the grasp on her shoulder warned her ofcruelties she had not dreamed of and so she stumbled on--on into thedepths of the forest, Hawk Kennedy's hard hand urging her on to greaterspeed.
