CHAPTER XIV
TWO LETTERS
Peter passed a troublous evening and night--a night of self-revelations.Never that he could remember had he so deeply felt the sting ofconscience. He, the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, in love with thislittle rustic? Impossible! It was the real Peter, tired of the sham andmake-believe of self-restraint and virtue, who had merely kissed acountry girl. He was no anchorite, no saint. Why had he tied himself tosuch a duty from a motive of silly sentimentalism?
He winced at the word. Was it that? Sentimentalism. He had shown her thebest side of him--shown it persistently, rather proud of his capacityfor self-control, which had ridden even with his temptations. Why shouldit matter so much to him what this girl thought of him? What had he saidto her? Nothing much that he hadn't said to other women. It was the factthat he had said it to Beth that made the difference. The things onemight say to other women meant something different to Beth--the thingsone might do.... He had been a fool and lost his head, handled herroughly, spoken to her wildly, words only intended for gentle moods,softer purposes. Shrewd little Beth, whose wide, blue eyes had seenright down into the depths of his heart. He had been clumsy, if nothingelse, and he had always thought that clumsiness was inexcusable. He hada guilty sense that while Beth was still the little lady to her fingertips, born to a natural nobility, he, the Grand Duke Peter, had been theboor, the vulgar proletarian. The look in her eyes had shamed him asthe look in his own eyes had shamed her. She had known what his wooingmeant, and it hadn't been what she wanted. The mention of love on lipsthat kissed as his had done was blasphemy.
Yes. He cared what she thought of him--and he vainly cast about for away in which to justify himself. To make matters worse Beth stillbelieved that this was the payment he exacted for what he had done forher, what he had proposed to do for her, that he measured her favors interms of value received. What else could she think but that? Every hourof his devotion to her music defamed her.
The situation was intolerable. In the morning he went seeking her at herhome. The house was open. No one in Black Rock village locked doors byday or night. Beth was not there. A neighbor said that she had goneearly alone into the woods and Peter understood. If she hadn't cared forhim she wouldn't have needed to go to the woods to be alone. Of courseshe didn't appear at the Cabin the next day, and Peter searched forher--fruitlessly. She weighed on his conscience, like a sin unshrived.He had to find her to explain the unexplainable, to tell her what herconfidence had meant to him, to recant his blasphemy of her idols ingentleness and repentance.
As he failed to find her, he wrote her a note, asking her forgiveness,and stuck it in the mirror of the old hat-rack in the hall. Many womenin Europe and elsewhere, ladies of the great world that Beth had onlydreamed about, would have given their ears (since ear puffs were infashion) to receive such a note from Peter. It was a beautiful notebesides--manly, gentle, breathing contrition and self-reproach. Bethmerely ignored it. Whatever she thought of it and of Peter she wantedto deliberate a longer while.
And so another music lesson hour passed while Peter sat alone in theCabin waiting. That night two letters were brought to him. Thesuperscription of one was scrawled in a boyish hand. The other wasscented, dainty, of pale lavender, and bore a familiar handwriting and afamiliar coronet. In amazement he opened this first. It was from thePrincess Galitzin, written in the polyglot of French, English andRussian which she affected.
"CHERE PIERRE," it ran,--in the English, somewhat as follows: "You will no doubt be surprised at hearing from me in far-off America and amazed at the phenomenon of your discovered address at the outlandish place you've chosen for your domicile. It's very simple. In America you have been watched by agents of the so-called government of our wretched country. We know this here in London, because one of _our_ agents is also a part of their secret organization. He came upon the report of your doings and knowing that father was interested, detailed the information to us.
"So far as I can learn at the present writing you are in no immediate danger of death, but we do not know here in London how soon the word may be sent forth to 'remove' persons of your importance in the cosmic scheme. It seems that your desire to remain completely in hiding is looked upon with suspicion in Russia as evidence of a possible intention on your part to come to light at the beginnings of a Bourbon movement and proclaim yourself as the leader of a Royalist party. Your uncles and cousins have chosen the line of least resistance in yielding to the inevitable, living in Switzerland, and other spots where their identities are well known.
"I pray, my well remembered and _bel ami_, that the cause of Holy Russia is still and ever present in your heart of hearts and that the thing these devils incarnate fear may one day come to pass. But I pray you to be discreet and watchful, if necessary changing your place of abode to one in which you will enjoy greater security from your enemies. There is at last one heart in London that ever beats fondly in memory of the dear dead days at Galitzin and Zukovo.
"_Helas!_ London is dead sea fruit. People are very kind to us. We have everything that the law allows us, but life seems to have lost its charm. I have never quite forgiven you, _mon Pierre_, for your desertion of us at Constantinople, though doubtless your reasons for preserving your incognito were of the best. But it has saddened me to think that you did not deem me worthy of a closer confidence. You are doubtless very much alone and unhappy--also in danger not only from your political enemies, but also from the American natives in the far away woods in which you have been given occupation. I trust, such as it is, that you have taken adequate measures to protect yourself. I know little of America, but I have a longing to go to that splendid country, rugged in its primitive simplicity, in spite of inconveniences of travel and the mass of uncultured beings with whom one must come into contact. Do you think it would be possible for a spoiled creature like me to find a boudoir with a bath--that is, in the provinces, outside of New York?
"It is terrible that you can have no music in your life! I too miss your music, _Pietro mio_, as I miss you. Perhaps one day soon you will see me. I am restless and bored to extinction, with these ramrods of Englishmen who squeeze my rings into my fingers. But if I come I will be discreet toward Peter Nichols. That was a clever invention of yours. It really sounds--quite--American.
"_Garde toi bien, entendez vous? Tout de suite je viendrai. Au revoir._
"ANASTASIE."
Peter read the letter through twice, amused, astounded and dismayed byturns. His surmise in regard to the stranger with the black mustache hadbeen correct then. The man was a spy of the Russian Soviets. And soinstead of having been born immaculate into a new life, as he hadhoped--a man without a past, and only a future to be accounted for--hewas only the Grand Duke Peter after all. And Anastasie! Why the devildid she want to come nosing about in America, reminding him of all thethings that he wanted to forget? The odor of her sachet annoyed him. Abath and boudoir! He realized now that she had always annoyed him withher pretty silly little affectations and her tawdry smatterings of thethings that were worth while. He owed her nothing. He had made love toher, of course, because that was what a woman of her type expected frommen of his. But there had been no damage done on either side, for he hadnot believed that she had ever really cared. And now distance, itseemed, had made her heart grow fonder, distance and the romanticcircumstances of his exile.
It was kind of her, of course, to let him know of his danger, but onlyhuman after all. She could have done no less, having the information.And now she was coming to offer him the charity of her wealth, to tempthim with ease, luxury and London. He would have none of them.
He picked up the other letter with even more curiosity until he read thepostmark, and then his interest became
intense, for he knew that it wasfrom Jim Coast--Hawk Kennedy. The letter bore the heading, "AntlersHotel, Colorado Springs."
"DEAR PETE," he read, through the bad spelling, "Here I am back at the 'Springs,' at the 'Antlers,' after a nice trip down Bisbee way, and out along the 'J. and A.' to the mine. It's there all right and they're workin' it yet to beat the cards with half a mountain still to be tapped. I ain't going into particulars--not in a letter, except to tell you that I got what I went for--names, dates and amounts--also met the gents our friend sold out to--nice people. Oh, I'm 'A1' with that outfit, old dear. I'm just writing this to show you I'm on the job and that if you've got an eye to business you'd better consider my proposition. I'll make it worth your while. You can help all right. You did me a good turn that night. I'll give you yours if you'll stand in proper and make McG. do what's right. It ain't what you said it was--it's justice all around. That's all I'm asking--what's right and proper.
"I ain't coming back just yet, not for a month, maybe. I'm living easy and there's a lady here that suits my fancy. So just drop me a line at the above address, letting me know everything's O. K. Remember I'm no piker and I'll fix you up good.
"Your friend,
"JIM."
Peter clenched the paper in his fist and threw it on the floor, frowningangrily at the thought of the man's audacity. But after a while hepicked the crumpled note up and straightened it out upon the table,carefully rereading it. Its very touch seemed to soil his fingers, buthe studied it for a long while, and then folded it up and put it in hispocket. It was a very careful game that Peter would have to play withHawk Kennedy, a game that he had no liking for. But if he expected tosucceed in protecting McGuire, he would have to outwit Jim Coast--orHawk Kennedy, as he now thought of him--by playing a game just a littledeeper than his own.
Of course he now had the advantage of knowing the whole of McGuire'sside of the story, while Kennedy did not believe the old man would havedared to tell. And to hold these cards successfully it would benecessary to continue in Kennedy's mind the belief that Peter did notshare McGuire's confidences. It would also be necessary for Peter tocast in his lot, apparently, with Kennedy against McGuire. It was adirty business at best, but he meant to carry it through if he could,and get the signed agreement from the blackmailer.
Peter seemed to remember an old wallet that Jim Coast had alwayscarried. He had seen it after Coast had taken slips of paper from it andshowed them to Peter,--newspaper clippings, notes from inamorata and thelike--but of course, never the paper now in question. And if he hadcarried it all these years, where was it now? In the vault of some bankor trust company probably, and this would make Peter's task difficult,if not impossible.
Peter got up and paced the floor, thinking deeply of all these things intheir relation to Beth. And then at last he went out into the night, hisfootsteps impelled toward the village. After all, the thoughts uppermostin his mind were of Beth herself. Whatever the cost to his pride, hewould have to make his peace with her. He knew that now. Why otherwisedid his restless feet lead him out into the pasture back of the littlepost office toward the rear of Mrs. Bergen's house? Yet there he foundhimself presently, smoking his corncob pipe for comfort, and staring atthe solitary light in Tillie Bergen's parlor, which proclaimed itsoccupant. Mrs. Bergen's house stood at a little distance from itsnearest neighbor, and Peter stole slowly through the orchard at the reartoward the open window. It was then that he heard the music for thefirst time, the "harmonium" wailing softly, while sweet and clear abovethe accompaniment (worked out painstakingly but lovingly by the girlherself) came Beth's voice singing the "Elegie."
Peter came closer until he was just at the edge of the shadow outsidethe window. He knew that her back would be turned to him and so hepeered around the shutter at her unconscious back. She sang the songthrough until the end and then after a pause sang it again. Peter had noear now for the phrasing, for faults in technique, or inaccuracies inenunciation. What he heard was the soul of the singer calling. All thathe had taught her in the hours in the Cabin was in her voice--andsomething more that she had learned elsewhere.... Her voice wasricher--deeper, a child's voice no longer, and he knew that she wassinging of his mad moment in the woods, which had brought the end of allthings that had mattered in her life. It was no girl who sang now, but awoman who had learned the meaning of the song, the plaint of birds oncejoyous, of woodland flowers once gay--at the memory of a spring that wasno more. He had told her that she would sing that song well some daywhen she learned what it meant. She would never sing it again as she hadsung it to-night. All the dross that Peter had worn in the world wasstripped from him in that moment, all that was petty and ignoble in hisheart driven forth and he stood with bowed head, in shame for what hehad been, and in gentleness for this dear creature whose idols he hadcast down.
At the end of the second verse, her fingers slipped from the keys andfell to her sides while she bowed her head and sat for a momentimmovable. And then her shoulders moved slightly and a tiny smotheredsound came from her throat. Suddenly her head bent and she fell forwardon her arms upon the muted keys.
Noiselessly he passed over the low windowsill and before she even knewthat he was there, fell to his knees beside her.
"Beth," he whispered. "Don't--child--don't!"
She straightened, startled and incredulous at the sight of him, andtried to move away, but he caught one of her hands and with bent headgently laid his lips upon it.
"Don't, Beth--please. I can't bear to see you cry----"
"I--I'm _not_ crying," she stammered helplessly, while she winked backher tears, "I--I've just--just got the--the--stomachache."
She tried to laugh--failing dismally in a sob.
"Oh, Beth--don't----" he whispered.
"I--I can't help it--if I--I've got a--a pain," she evaded him.
"But I can," he murmured. "It's in your heart, Beth. I'm sorry foreverything. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive."
"Please!"
"There's nothing to forgive," she repeated dully. But she had controlledher voice now and her fingers in his were struggling for release.
"I was a brute, Beth. I'd give everything to have those moments back. Iwouldn't hurt you for the world. See--how changed I am----"
She released her fingers and turned slightly away.
"I--I'm changed too, Mr. Nichols," she murmured.
"No. You mustn't be, Beth. And I've got to have you back. You've got tocome back to me, Beth."
"Things can't be the same now."
"Yes--just the same----"
"No. Something's gone."
"But if something else has taken its place----"
"Nothing can----"
"Something greater----"
"I don't care for the sample you showed me," she returned quietly.
"I was crazy, Beth. I lost my head. It won't happen again."
"No. I know it won't----"
"You don't understand. It couldn't. I've made a fool of myself. Isn't itenough for me to admit that?"
"I knew it all the time." She was cruel, and from her cruelty he guessedthe measure of her pride.
"I've done all I can to atone. I want you to know that I love you. I do,Beth. I love you----"
There was a note in his voice different from that she had heard theother day. His head was bent and he did not hear the little gasp or seethe startled look in her eyes, which she controlled before he raised hishead. With great deliberateness she answered him.
"Maybe you and I--have a different idea of what love ought to be," shesaid. But he saw that her reproof was milder.
"I know," he insisted. "You've sung it to me----"
"No--not to you--not love," she said, startled. And then, "You had noright to be listenin'." And then, with a glance at Aunt Tillie's clock,"You have no right to be here now. It's late."
"But I can't go until you
understand what I want to do for you. You saythat I can't know what love is. It asks nothing and only gives. I swearI wanted to give without thought of a return--until you laughed at me.And then--I wanted to punish you because you wouldn't understand----"
"Yes. You punished me----"
"Forgive me. You shouldn't have laughed at me, Beth. If you kneweverything, you'd understand that I'm doing it all without a hope ofpayment,--just because I've got to."
Her eyes grew larger. "What do you mean?"
"I can't tell you now--but something has happened that will make a greatdifference to you."
"What?"
"Forgive me. Come to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell you. We've alreadywasted two days."
"I'm not so sure they've been wasted," said Beth quietly.
"I don't care if you'll only come. Will you, Beth? To-morrow?"
She nodded gravely at last.
"Perhaps," she said. And then, gently, "Good-night, Mr. Nichols."
So Peter kissed her fingers as though she had been his Czarina and wentout.