CHAPTER VI
THE HOUSE OF TERROR
Who--what was this stranger who seemed so interested in his whereabouts?Peter was sure that he had made no mistake. It was an unusual face,swarthy, with high cheek bones, dark eyes, a short nose with prominentnostrils. Perhaps it would not have been so firmly impressed on hismemory except for the curious look of startled recognition that Peterhad surprised on it at the station in New York. This had puzzled him forsome moments in the train but had been speedily lost in the interest ofhis journey. The man had followed him to Black Rock. But why? What didhe want of Peter and why should he skulk around the cabin and risk thedanger of Peter's bullets? It seemed obvious that he was here for somedishonest purpose, but what dishonest purpose could have any interest inPeter? If robbery, why hadn't the man chosen the time while Peter wasaway in the woods? Peter grinned to himself. If the man had any privatesources of information as to Peter's personal assets, he would haveknown that they consisted of a two-dollar watch and a small sum inmoney. If the dishonest purpose were murder or injury, why hadn't heattacked Peter while he was bathing, naked and quite defenseless, in thecreek?
There seemed to be definite answers to all of these questions, but noneto the fact of the man's presence, to the fact of his look ofrecognition, or to the fact of his wish to be unobserved. Was he a partof the same conspiracy which threatened McGuire? Or was this a littleprivate conspiracy arranged for Peter alone? And if so, why? So far asPeter knew he hadn't an enemy in America, and even if he had made one,it was hardly conceivable that any one should go to such lengths toapproach an issue and then deliberately avoid it.
But there seemed no doubt that something was up and that, later, morewould be heard from this curious incident. It seemed equally certainthat had the stranger meant to shoot Peter he could easily have done soin perfect safety to himself through the window, while Peter wasfastening his cravat. Reloading his revolver and slipping it into hispocket, Peter locked the cabin carefully, and after listening to thesounds of the woods for awhile, made his way up the path to Black RockHouse.
He had decided to say nothing about the incident which, so far as hecould see, concerned only himself, and so when the men on guardquestioned him about the shots that they had heard he told them that hehad been firing at a mark. This was quite true, even if the mark hadbeen invisible. Shad Wells was off duty until midnight so Peter went therounds, calling the men to the guardhouse and telling them of the changein the orders. They were to wait until the company upon the portico wentindoors and then, with Jesse in command, they were to take new stationsin trees and clumps of bushes which Peter designated much nearer thehouse. The men eyed his dinner jacket with some curiosity and not alittle awe, and Peter informed them that it was the old man's order andthat he, Peter, was going to keep watch from inside the house, but thata blast from a whistle would fetch him out. He also warned them that itwas McGuire's wish that none of the visitors should be aware of thewatchmen and that therefore there should be no false alarms.
Curiously enough Peter found McGuire in a state very nearly borderingon calm. He had had a drink. He had not heard the shots Peter had firednor apparently had any of the regular occupants of the house. Thevisitors had possibly disregarded them. From the pantry came a soundwith which Peter was familiar, for Stryker was shaking the cocktails.And when the ladies came downstairs the two men on the portico came inand Peter was presented to the others of the party, Miss Delaplane, Mr.Gittings and Mr. Mordaunt. The daughter of the house examined Peter'sclothing and then, having apparently revised her estimate of him, becamealmost cordial, bidding him sit next Miss Delaplane at table.
Mildred Delaplane was tall, handsome, dark and aquiline, and made a foilfor Peggy's blond prettiness. Peter thought her a step above Peggy inthe cultural sense, and only learned afterward that as she was not verywell off, Peggy was using her as a rung in the social ladder. Mordaunt,Peter didn't fancy, but Gittings, who was jovial and bald, managed toinject some life into the party, which, despite the effect of thecocktails, seemed rather weary and listless.
McGuire sat rigidly at the head of the table, forcing smiles andglancing uneasily at doors and windows. Peter was worried too, not as tohimself, but as to any possible connection that there might be betweenthe man with the dark mustache and the affairs of Jonathan McGuire.Mildred Delaplane, who had traveled in Europe in antebellum days, foundmuch that was interesting in Peter's fragmentary reminiscences. She knewmusic too, and in an unguarded moment Peter admitted that he hadstudied. It was difficult to lie to women, he had found.
And so, after dinner, that information having transpired, he wasimmediately led to the piano-stool by his hostess, who was frequentlybiased in her social judgments by Mildred Delaplane. Peter played CyrilScott's "Song from the East," and then, sure of Miss Delaplane'sinterest, an Etude of Scriabine, an old favorite of his which seemed toexpress the mood of the moment.
And all the while he was aware of Jonathan McGuire, seated squarely inthe middle of the sofa which commanded all the windows and doors, withone hand at his pocket, scowling and alert by turns, for, though thenight had fallen slowly, it was now pitch black outside. Peter knew thatMcGuire was thinking he hadn't hired his superintendent as a musician toentertain his daughter's guests, but that he was powerless to interfere.Nor did he wish to excite the reprobation of his daughter by going upand locking himself in his room. Peggy, having finished her cigarettewith Freddy on the portico, had come in again and was now leaning overthe piano, her gaze fixed, like Mildred's, upon Peter's mobile fingers.
"You're really too wonderful a superintendent to be quite true," saidPeggy when Peter had finished. "But _do_ give us a 'rag.'"
Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't do ragtime."
"Quit your kidding! I want to dance."
"I'm not--er--kidding," said Peter, laughing. "I can't play it atall--not at all."
Peggy gave him a look, shrugged and walked to the door.
"Fred-die-e!" she called.
Peter rose from the piano-stool and crossed to McGuire. The man's cigarwas unsmoked and tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
"I don't think you need worry, sir," whispered Peter. "The men are allaround the house, but if you say, I'll go out for another look around."
"No matter. I'll stick it out for a while."
"You're better off here than anywhere, I should say. No one woulddare----"
Here Freddy at the piano struck up "Mary" and further conversation wasdrowned in commotion. Mildred Delaplane was preempted by Mr. Gittingsand Peggy came whirling alone toward Peter, arms extended, the passionfor the dance outweighing other prejudices.
Peter took a turn, but four years of war had done little to improve hissteps.
"I'm afraid all my dancing is in my fingers," he muttered.
Suddenly, as Freddy Mordaunt paused, Peggy stopped and lowered her arms.
"Good Lord!" she gasped. "What's the matter with Pop?"
McGuire had risen unsteadily and was peering out into the darknessthrough the window opposite him, his face pallid, his lips drawn into athin line. Peggy ran to him and caught him by the arm.
"What is it, Pop? Are you sick?"
"N-no matter. Just a bit upset. If you don't mind, daughter, I thinkI'll be going up."
"Can I do anything?"
"No. Stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just tell Stryker, will you,Nichols, and then come up to my room."
Peggy was regarding him anxiously as he made his way to the door andintercepted Peter as he went to look for the valet.
"What is it, Mr. Nichols?" she asked. "He may be sick, but it seems tome----" she paused, and then, "Did you see his eyes as he looked out ofthe window?"
"Indigestion," said Peter coolly.
"You'll see after him, won't you? And if he wants me, just call over."
"I'm sure he won't want you. A few home remedies----"
And Peter went through the door. Stryker had appeared mysteriously fromsomewhere and had alre
ady preceded his master up the stair. When Peterreached the landing, McGuire was standing alone in the dark, leaningagainst the wall, his gaze on the lighted bedroom which, the valet wascarefully examining.
"What is it, sir?" asked Peter coolly. "You thought you saw something?"
"Yes--out there--on the side portico----"
"You must be mistaken--unless it was one of the watchmen----"
"No, no. I saw----"
"What, sir?"
"No matter. Do you think Peggy noticed?"
"Just that you didn't seem quite yourself----"
"But not that I seemed--er----"
"Alarmed? I said you weren't well."
Peter took the frightened man's arm and helped him into his room.
"I'm not, Nichols," he groaned. "I'm not myself."
"I wouldn't worry, sir. I'd say it was physically impossible for any oneto approach the house without permission. But I'll go down and haveanother look around."
"Do, Nichols. But come back up here. I'll want to talk to you."
So Peter went down. And, evading inquiries in the hallway, made his wayout through the hall and pantry. Here a surprise awaited him, for as heopened the door there was a skurry of light footsteps and in a moment hewas in the pantry face to face with Beth Cameron, who seemed muchdismayed at being discovered.
"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked in amazement.
She glanced at his white shirt front and then laughed.
"I came to help Aunt Tillie dish up."
"You!" He didn't know why he should have been so amazed at finding heroccupying a menial position in this household. She didn't seem to belongto the back stairs! And yet there she was in a plain blue gingham dresswhich made her seem much taller, and a large apron, her tawny haircasting agreeable shadows around her blue eyes, which he noticed seemedmuch darker by night than by day.
She noticed the inflection of his voice and laughed.
"Why not? I thought Aunt Tillie would need me--and besides I wanted topeek a little."
"Ah, I see. You wanted to see Miss Peggy's new frock through thekeyhole?"
"Yes--and the other one. Aren't they pretty?"
"I suppose so."
"I listened, too. I couldn't help it."
"Eavesdropping!"
She nodded. "Oh, Mr. Nichols, but you do play the piano beautifully!"
"But not like an angel in Heaven," said Peter with a smile.
"Almost--if angels play. You make me forget----" she paused.
"What----?"
"That's there's anything in the world except beauty."
In the drawing-room Freddy, having found himself, had swept into a songof the cabarets, to which there was a "close harmony" chorus.
"There's that----," he muttered, jerking a thumb in the direction fromwhich he had come.
But she shook her head. "No," she said. "That's different."
"How--different?"
"Wrong--false--un--unworthy----"
As she groped for and found the word he stared at her in astonishment.And in her eyes back of the joy that seemed to be always dancing in themhe saw the shadows of a sober thought.
"But don't you like dance music?" he asked.
"Yes, I do, but it's only for the feet. Your music is for--for _here_."And with a quick graceful gesture she clasped her hands upon her breast.
"I'm glad you think so, because that's where it comes from."
At this point Peter remembered his mission, which Beth's appearance haddriven from his mind.
"I'll play for you sometime," he said.
He went past her and out to the servants' dining-room. As he enteredwith Beth at his heels, Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, turned in from theopen door to the kitchen garden, clinging to the jamb, her lipsmumbling, as though she were continuing a conversation. But her roundface, usually the color and texture of a well ripened peach, was thecolor of putty, and seemed suddenly to have grown old and haggard. Hereyes through her metal-rimmed spectacles seemed twice their size andstared at Peter as though they saw through him and beyond. She falteredat the door-jamb and then with an effort reached a chair, into which shesank gasping.
Beth was kneeling at her side in a moment, looking up anxiously into herstartled eyes.
"Why, what is it, Aunt Tillie?" she whispered quickly. "What it is? Tellme."
The coincidence was too startling. Could the same Thing that hadfrightened McGuire have frightened the housekeeper too? Peter rushedpast her and out of the open door. It was dark outside and for a momenthe could see nothing. Then objects one by one asserted themselves, theorderly rows of vegetable plants in the garden, the wood-box by thedoor, the shrubbery at the end of the portico, the blue spruce treeopposite, the loom of the dark and noncommittal garage. He knew that oneof his men was in the trees opposite the side porch and another aroundthe corner of the kitchen, in the hedge, but he did not want to raise ahue and cry unless it was necessary. What was this Thing that createdterror at sight? He peered this way and that, aware of an intenseexcitement, in one hand his revolver and in the other his policewhistle. But he saw no object move, and the silence was absolute. In amoment--disappointed--he hurried back to the servants' dining-room.
Mrs. Bergen sat dazed in her chair, while Beth, who had brought her aglass of water, was making her drink of it.
"Tell me, what is it?" Beth was insisting.
"Nothing--nothing," murmured the woman.
"But there is----"
"No, dearie----"
"Are you sick?"
"I don't feel right. Maybe--the heat----"
"But your eyes look queer----"
"Do they----?" The housekeeper tried to smile.
"Yes. Like they had seen----"
A little startled as she remembered the mystery of the house, Beth casther glance into the darkness outside the open door.
"You _are_--frightened!" she said.
"No, no----"
"What was it you saw, Mrs. Bergen," asked Peter gently.
He was just at her side and at the sound of his voice she half arose,but recognizing Peter she sank back in her chair.
Peter repeated his question, but she shook her head.
"Won't you tell us? What was it you saw? A man----?"
Her eyes sought Beth's and a look of tenderness came into them,banishing the vision. But she lied when she answered Peter's question.
"I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--I think I'll go up----"
She took another swallow of the water and rose. And with her strengthcame a greater obduracy.
"I saw nothin'----" she repeated again, as she saw that he was stilllooking at her. "Nothin' at all."
Peter and Beth exchanged glances and Beth, putting her hand under thehousekeeper's arm, helped the woman to the back stairs.
Peter stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen floor, his gaze onthe door through which the woman had vanished. Aunt Tillie too! She hadseen some one, some Thing--the same some one or Thing that McGuire hadseen. But granting that their eyes had not deceived them, granting thateach had seen Something, what, unless it were supernatural, could havefrightened McGuire and Aunt Tillie too? Even if the old woman had beentimid about staying in the house, she had made it clear to Peter thatshe was entirely unaware of the kind of danger that threatened heremployer. Peter had believed her then. He saw no reason to disbelieveher now. She had known as little as Peter about the cause for McGuire'salarm. And here he had found her staring with the same unseeing eyesinto the darkness, with the same symptoms of nervous shock as McGuirehad shown. What enemy of McGuire's could frighten Aunt Tillie intoprostration and seal her lips to speech? Why wouldn't she have dared totell Peter what she had seen? What was this secret and how could sheshare it with McGuire when twenty-four hours ago she had been incomplete ignorance of the mystery? Why wouldn't she talk? Was thevision too intimate? Or too horrible?
Peter was imaginative, for he had been steeped from boyhood in thesuperstitions of his people. But the war had taught him that
devils hadlegs and carried weapons. He had seen more horrible sights than most menof his years, in daylight, at dawn, or silvered with moonlight. Hethought he had exhausted the possibilities for terror. But he foundhimself grudgingly admitting that he was at the least a littlenervous--at the most, on the verge of alarm. But he put his whistle inhis mouth, drew his revolver again and went forth.
First he sought out the man in the spruce tree. It was Andy. He had seenno one but the people on the porch and in the windows. It was very darkbut he took an oath that no one had approached the house from his side.
"You saw no one talking with Mrs. Bergen by the kitchen door?"
"No. I can't see th' kitchen door from here."
Peter verified. A syringa bush was just in line.
"Then you haven't moved?" asked Peter.
"No. I was afraid they'd see me."
"They've seen something----"
"You mean----?"
"I don't know. But look sharp. If anything comes out this way, take ashot at it."
"You think there's something----"
"Yes--but don't move. And keep your eyes open!"
Peter went off to the man in the hedge behind the kitchen--Jesse Brown.
"See anything?" asked Peter.
"Nope. Nobody but the chauffeur."
"The chauffeur?"
"He went up to th' house a while back."
"Oh--how long ago?"
"Twenty minutes."
"I see." And then, "You didn't see any one come away from the kitchendoor?"
"No. He's thar yet, I reckon."
Peter ran out to the garage to verify this statement. By the light of alantern the chauffeur in his rubber boots was washing the two cars.
"Have you been up to the house lately?"
"Why, no," said the man, in surprise.
"You're sure?" asked Peter excitedly.
"Sure----"
"Then come with me. There's something on."
The man dropped his sponge and followed Peter, who had run back quicklyto the house.
It was now after eleven. From the drawing-room came the distractingsounds from the tortured piano, but there was no one on the portico. SoPeter, with Jesse, Andy and the chauffeur made a careful round of thehouse, examining every bush, every tree, within a circle of a hundredyards, exhausting every possibility for concealment. When they reachedthe kitchen door again, Peter rubbed his head and gave it up. A screechowl somewhere off in the woods jeered at him. All the men, except Jesse,were plainly skeptical. But he sent them back to their posts and, stillpondering the situation, went into the house.
It was extraordinary how the visitor, whoever he was, could have gottenaway without having been observed, for though the night was black theeyes of the men outside were accustomed to it and the lights from thewindows sent a glimmer into the obscurity. Of one thing Peter was nowcertain, that the prowler was no ghost or banshee, but a man, and thathe had gone as mysteriously as he had come.
Peter knew that his employer would be anxious until he returned to him,but he hadn't quite decided to tell McGuire of the housekeeper's sharein the adventure. He had a desire to verify his belief that Mrs. Bergenwas frightened by the visitor for a reason of her own which had nothingto do with Jonathan McGuire. Any woman alarmed by a possible burglar orother miscreant would have come running and crying for help. Mrs. Bergenhad been doggedly silent, as though, rather than utter her thoughts, shewould have bitten out her tongue. It was curious. She had seemed to betalking as though to herself at the door, and then, at the sound offootsteps in the kitchen behind her, had turned and fallen limp in thenearest chair. The look in her face, as in McGuire's, was that ofterror, but there was something of bewilderment in both of them too,like that of a solitary sniper in the first shock of a shrapnel wound, alook of anguish that seemed to have no outlet, save in speech, which wasdenied.
To tell McGuire what had happened in the kitchen meant to alarm himfurther. Peter decided for the present to keep the matter from him,giving the housekeeper the opportunity of telling the truth on themorrow if she wished.
He crossed the kitchen and servants' dining-room and just at the foot ofthe back stairs met Mrs. Bergen and Beth coming down. So he retraced hissteps into the kitchen, curious as to the meaning of her reappearance.
At least she had recovered the use of her tongue.
"I couldn't go to bed, just yet, Mr. Nichols," she said in reply toPeter's question. "I just couldn't."
Peter gazed at her steadily. This woman held a clew to the mystery. Sheglanced at him uncertainly but she had recovered her self-possession,and her replies to his questions, if anything, were more obstinate thanbefore.
"I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--nothin'. I was just a bit upset. I'm allright now. An' I want Beth to go home. That's why I came down."
"But, Aunt Tillie, if you're not well, I'm going to stay----"
"No. Ye can't stay here. I want ye to go." And then, turning excitedlyto Peter, "Can't ye let somebody see her home, Mr. Nichols?"
"Of course," said Peter. "But I don't think she's in any danger."
"No, but she can't stay here. She just can't."
Beth put her arm around the old woman's shoulder.
"I'm not afraid."
Aunt Tillie was already untying Beth's apron.
"I know ye're not, dearie. But ye can't stay here. I don't want ye to. Idon't want ye to."
"But if you're afraid of something----"
"Who said I was afraid?" she asked, glaring at Peter defiantly. "I'mnot. I just had a spell--all this excitement an' extra work--an'everything."
She lied. Peter knew it, but he saw no object to be gained in keepingBeth in Black Rock House, so he went out cautiously and brought thechauffeur, to whom he entrusted the safety of the girl. He would havefelt more comfortable if he could have escorted her himself, but he knewthat his duty was at the house and that whoever the mysterious personwas it was not Beth that he wanted.
But what was Mrs. Bergen's reason for wishing to get rid of her?
As Beth went out of the door he whispered in her ear, "Say nothing ofthis--to any one."
She nodded gravely and followed the man who had preceded her.
When the door closed behind Beth and the chauffeur, Peter turned quicklyand faced the housekeeper.
"Now," he said severely, "tell me the truth."
She stared at him with a falling jaw in a moment of alarm--then closedher lips firmly. And, as she refused to reply,
"Do you want me to tell Mr. McGuire that you were talking to a strangerat the kitchen door?"
She trembled and sinking in a chair buried her face in her hands.
"I don't want to be unkind, Mrs. Bergen, but there's something here thatneeds explaining. Who was the man you talked to outside the door?"
"I--I can't tell ye," she muttered.
"You must. It's better. I'm your friend and Beth's----"
The woman raised her haggard face to his.
"Beth's friend! Are ye? Then ask me no more."
"But I've got to know. I'm here to protect Mr. McGuire, but I'd like toprotect you too. Who is this stranger?"
The woman lowered her head and then shook it violently. "No, no. I'llnot tell."
He frowned down at her head.
"Did you know that to-night McGuire saw the stranger--the man that _you_saw--and that he's even more frightened than you?"
The woman raised her head, gazed at him helplessly, then lowered itagain, but she did not speak. The kitchen was silent, but an obbligatoto this drama, like the bray of the ass in the overture to "MidsummerNight's Dream," came from the drawing-room, where Freddy Mordaunt wasnow singing a sentimental ballad.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bergen, but if Mr. McGuire is in danger to-night, I'vegot to know it."
"To-night!" she gasped, as though clutching at a straw. "Not to-night.Nothin'll happen to-night. I'm sure of that, Mr. Nichols."
"How do you know?"
She threw out her arms in a wide gesture of desperati
on. "For the loveo' God, go 'way an' leave me in peace. Don't ye see I ain't fit to talkto anybody?" She gasped with a choking throat. "_He_ ain't comin' backagain--not to-night. I'll swear it on th' Bible, if ye want me to."
Their glances met, hers weary and pleading, and he believed her.
"All right, Mrs. Bergen," he said soothingly. "I'll take your word forit, but you'll admit the whole thing is very strange--very startling."
"Yes--strange. God knows it is. But I--I can't tell ye anything."
"But what shall I say to Mr. McGuire--upstairs. I've got to go up--now."
"Say to him----?" she gasped helplessly, all her terrors renewed. "Yecan't tell him I was talkin' to anybody." And then more wildly, "Yemustn't. I wasn't. I was talkin' to myself--that's the God's truth, Iwas--when ye come in. It was so strange--an' all. Don't tell him, Mr.Nichols," she pleaded at last, with a terrible earnestness, andclutching at his hand. "For my sake, for Beth's----"
"What has Beth to do with it?"
"More'n ye think. Oh, God----" she broke off. "What am I sayin'----?Beth don't know. She mustn't. He don't know either----"
"Who? McGuire?"
"No--no. Don't ask any more questions, Mr. Nichols," she sobbed. "Ican't speak. Don't ye see I can't?"
So Peter gave up the inquisition. He had never liked to see a woman cry.
"Oh, all right," he said more cheerfully, "you'd better be getting tobed. Perhaps daylight will clear things up."
"And ye won't tell McGuire?" she pleaded.
"I can't promise anything. But I won't if I'm not compelled to."
She gazed at him uncertainly, her weary eyes wavering, but she seemed totake some courage from his attitude.
"God bless ye, sir."
"Good-night, Mrs. Bergen."
And then, avoiding the drawing-room, Peter made his way up the stairswith a great deal of mental uncertainty to the other room of terror.