The Vagrant Duke. Gibbs George

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СКАЧАТЬ envious of Peter's grammar – for he had reached an age to appreciate it – was secretly scornful of Peter's white hands and carefully tied black cravat.

      This dune was at the end of the first day's "cruise" and Shad had risen preparatory to returning toward Black Rock when they both heard a sound, – away off to their right, borne down to them clearly on the breeze – the voice of a girl singing.

      "Beth," said Shad with a kindling eye. And then carelessly spat, to conceal his emotions.

      "What on earth can she be doing in here?" asked Peter.

      "Only half a mile from the road. It's the short cut from Gaskill's."

      "I see," from Peter.

      "Do you reckon you can find your way back alone, Nichols?" said Shad, spitting again.

      Peter grinned. "I reckon I can try," he said.

      Shad pointed with his long arm in the general direction of Heaven. "That way!" he muttered and went into the scrub oak with indecent haste.

      Peter sat looking with undisguised interest at the spot where he had disappeared, tracing him for a while through the moving foliage, listening to the crackling of the underbrush, as the sounds receded.

      It was time to be turning homeward, but the hour was still inviting, the breeze balmy, the sun not too warm, so Peter lay back among the grasses in the sand smoking a fresh cigarette. Far overhead buzzards were wheeling. They recalled those other birds of prey that he had often watched, ready to swoop down along the lines of the almost defenseless Russians. Here all was so quiet. The world was a very beautiful place if men would only leave it so. The voice of the girl was silent now. Shad had probably joined her. Somehow, Peter hadn't been able to think of any relationship, other than the cousinly one, between Shad Wells and Beth. He had only known the girl for half an hour but as Aunt Tillie Bergen had said, her niece seemed different from the other natives that Peter had met. Her teeth were sound and white, suggesting habits of personal cleanliness; her conversation, though careless, showed at the very least, a grammar school training. And Shad – well, Shad was nothing but a "Piney."

      Pity – with a voice like that – she ought to have had opportunities – this scornful little Beth. Peter closed his eyes and dozed. He expected to have no difficulty in finding his way home, for he had a pocket compass and the road could not be far distant. He liked this place. He would build a tower here, a hundred-foot tower, of timbers, and here a man should be stationed all day – to watch for wisps of smoke during the hunting season. Smoke … Tower … In a moment he snored gently.

      "Halloo!" came a voice in his dream. "Halloo! Halloo!"

      Peter started rubbing his eyes, aware of the smoking cigarette in the grasses beside him.

      Stupid, that! To do the very thing he had been warning Shad Wells against. He smeared the smoking stub out in the sand and sat up yawning and stretching his arms.

      "Halloo!" said the voice in his dream, almost at his ear. "Tryin' to set the woods afire?"

      The question had the curious dropping intonation at its end. But the purport annoyed him.

      Nothing that she could have said could have provoked him more! Behind her he saw the dark face of Shad Wells break into a grin.

      "I fell asleep," said Peter, getting to his feet.

      Beth laughed. "Lucky you weren't burnt to death. Then how would the trees get along?"

      Peter's toe burrowed after the defunct cigarette.

      "I know what I'm about," he muttered, aware of further loss of dignity.

      "Oh, do you? Then which way were you thinkin' of goin' home?"

      Peter glanced around, pointed vaguely, and Beth Cameron laughed.

      "I guess you'd land in Egg Harbor, or thereabouts."

      Her laugh was infectious and Peter at last echoed it.

      "You's better be goin' along with us. Shad asked me to come and get you, didn't you, Shad?"

      Peter glanced at the woodsman's black scowl and grinned, recalling his desertion and precipitate disappearance into the bushes.

      "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you both," said Peter diplomatically. "But I think I can find my way in."

      "Not if you start for Hammonton or Absecon, you can't. I've known people to spend the night in the woods a quarter of a mile from home."

      "I shouldn't mind that."

      "But Shad would. He'd feel a great responsibility if you didn't turn up for the ghost-hunt. Wouldn't you, Shad?"

      Shad wagged his head indeterminately, and spat. "Come on," he said sullenly, and turned, leading the way out to the northward, followed by Beth with an inviting smile. She still wore her denim overalls which were much too long for her and her dusty brown boots seemed like a child's. Between moments of avoiding roots and branches, Peter watched her strong young figure as it followed their leader. Yesterday, he had thought her small; to-day she seemed to have increased in stature – so uncertain is the masculine judgment upon any aspect of a woman. But his notions in regard to her grace and loveliness were only confirmed. There was no concealing them under her absurd garments. Her flanks were long and lithe, like a boy's, but there was something feminine in the way she moved, a combination of ease and strength made manifest, which could only come of well-made limbs carefully jointed. Every little while she flashed a glance over her shoulder at him, exchanging a word, even politely holding back a branch until he caught it, or else when he was least expecting it, letting it fly into his face. From time to time Shad Wells would turn to look at them and Peter could see that he wasn't as happy as he might have been. But Beth was very much enjoying herself.

      They had emerged at last into the road and walked toward Black Rock, Beth in the center and Peter and Shad on either side.

      "I've been thinkin' about what you said yesterday," said Beth to Peter.

      "About – ?"

      "Singin' like an angel in Heaven," she said promptly aware of Shad's bridling glance.

      "Oh, well," repeated Peter, "you do – you know."

      "It was very nice of you – and you a musician."

      "Musician!" growled Shad. "He ain't a musician."

      "Oh, yes, he is, and he says I've a voice like an angel. You never said that, Shad Wells."

      "No. Nor I won't," he snapped surlily.

      Peter would have been more amused if he hadn't thought that Shad Wells was unhappy.

      He needed the man's allegiance and he had no wish to make an enemy of him.

      "Musician!" Shad growled. "Then it was you the men heard last night."

      "I found a piano in the cabin. I was trying it," said Peter. Shad said nothing in reply but he put every shade of scorn into the way in which he spat into the road.

      "A piano – !" Beth gasped. "Where? What cabin?"

      "The playhouse – where I live," said Peter politely.

      "Oh."

      There СКАЧАТЬ