The Vagrant Duke. Gibbs George

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      So Peter made an effort to relieve the tension, commenting on the new arrivals at Black Rock House.

      At the mention of Peggy's name Beth showed fresh excitement.

      "Miss McGuire! Here? When – ?"

      "This morning. Do you know her?"

      "No. But I've seen her. I think she's just lovely."

      "Why?"

      "She wears such beautiful clothes and – and hats and veils."

      Peter laughed. "And that's your definition of loveliness."

      "Why, yes," she said in wonder. "Last year all the girls were copyin' her, puttin' little puffs of hair over their ears – I tried it, but it looked funny. Is she going to be here long? Has she got a 'beau' with her? She always had. It's a wonder she doesn't run over somebody, the way she drives."

      "She nearly got me this mornin'," growled Shad.

      "I wish she would – if you're going to look like a meat-ax, Shad Wells."

      There was no reconciling them now, and when Beth's home was reached, all three of them went different ways. What a rogue she was! And poor Shad Wells who was to have taken Peter at a gobble, seemed a very poor sort of a creature in Beth's hands.

      She amused Peter greatly, but she annoyed him a little too, ruffled up the shreds of his princely dignity, not yet entirely inured to the trials of social regeneration. And Shad's blind adoration was merely a vehicle for her amusement. It would have been very much better if she hadn't used Peter's compliment as a bait for Shad. Peter had come to the point of liking the rough foreman even if he was a new kind of human animal from anything in Peter's experience.

      And so was Beth. A new kind of animal – something between a harrier and a skylark, but wholesome and human too, a denim dryad, the spirit of health, joy and beauty, a creature good to look at, in spite of her envy of the fashionable Miss Peggy McGuire with her modish hats, cerise veils and ear puffs, her red roadsters and her beaux. Poverty sat well upon Beth and the frank blue eyes and resolute chin gave notice that whatever was to happen to her future she was honorable and unafraid.

      But if there was something very winning about her, there was something pathetic too. Her beauty was so unconscious of her ridiculous clothing, and yet Peter had come to think of it as a part of her, wondering indeed what she would look like in feminine apparel, in which he could not imagine her, for the other girls of Black Rock had not so far blessed his vision. Aunt Tillie Bergen had told him, over his late breakfast, of the difficulties that she and Beth had had to keep their little place going and how Beth, after being laid off for the summer at the factory, had insisted upon working in the Gaskill's vineyard to help out with the household. There ought to be something for Beth Cameron, better than this – something less difficult – more ennobling.

      Thinking of these things Peter made his way back to the cabin. Nothing of a disturbing nature had happened around Black Rock House, except the arrival of the remainder of McGuire's unwelcome house party, which had taken to wandering aimlessly through the woods, much to the disgust of Jesse Brown, who, lost in the choice between "dudes" and desperadoes, had given up any attempt to follow Peter's careful injunctions in regard to McGuire. It was still early and the supper hour was seven, so Peter unpacked his small trunk which had arrived in his absence and then, carefully shutting door and windows, sat at the piano and played quietly at first, a "Reverie" of Tschaikowsky, a "Berceuse" of César Cui, the "Valse Triste" of Jean Sibelius and then forgetting himself – launched forth into Chopin's C Minor Étude. His fingers were stiff for lack of practice and the piano was far from perfect, but in twenty minutes he had forgotten the present, lost in memories. He had played this for Anastasie Galitzin. He saw the glint of the shaded piano lamp upon her golden head, recalled her favorite perfume… Silver nights upon the castle terrace… Golden walks through the autumn forest…

      Suddenly a bell rang loudly at Peter's side, it seemed. Then while he wondered, it rang again. Of course – the telephone. He found the instrument in the corner and put the receiver to his ear. It was McGuire's voice.

      "That you, Nichols?" it asked in an agitated staccato.

      "Yes, sir."

      "Well, it's getting dark, what have you done about to-night?"

      "Same as last night," said Peter smiling, "only more careful."

      "Well, I want things changed," the gruff voice rose. "The whole d – n house is open. I can't shut it with these people here. Your men will have to move in closer – but keep under cover. Can you arrange it?"

      "Yes, I think so."

      "I'll want you here – with me – you understand. You were coming to supper?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Well – er – I've told my daughter and so – would you mind putting on a dress suit – ? Er – if you have one – a Tuxedo will do."

      "Yes, sir," said Peter. "That's all right."

      "Oh – er – thanks. You'll be up soon?"

      "Yes."

      "Good-by."

      With a grin, Peter hung up the receiver, recalling the soiled, perspiring, unquiet figure of his employer last night. But it seemed as though McGuire were almost as much in awe of his daughter as of the danger that threatened, for, in the McGuire household, Miss Peggy, it appeared, was paramount.

      Peter's bathroom was Cedar Creek. In his robe, he ran down the dusky path for a quick plunge. Then, refreshed and invigorated, he lighted his lamp and dressed leisurely. He had come to his cravat, to which he was wont to pay more than a casual attention, when he was aware of a feeling of discomfort – of unease. In the mirror something moved, a shadow, at the corner of the window. He waited a moment, still fingering his cravat, and then sure that his eyes had made no mistake, turned quickly and, revolver in hand, rushed outside. Just as he did so a man with a startled face disappeared around the corner of the cabin. Peter rushed after him, shouting and turned the edge just in time to see his shape leap into the bushes.

      "Who goes there?" shouted Peter crisply. "Halt, or I'll fire."

      But the only reply was a furious crashing in the undergrowth. Peter fired twice at the sound, then followed in, still calling.

      No sound. Under the conditions a chase was hopeless, so Peter paused listening. And then after a few moments a more distant crackling advised him that his visitor had gotten well away. And so after a while he returned to the cabin and with his weapon beside him finished his interrupted toilet.

      But his brows were in a tangle. The mystery surrounding him seemed suddenly to have deepened. For the face that he had seen at the window was that of the stranger who had stared at him so curiously – the man of the soft hat and dark mustache – who had seemed so startled at seeing him in the Pennsylvania Station when he was leaving New York.

      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 prominent nostrils. Perhaps it would not have been so firmly impressed on his memory except for the curious look of startled recognition that Peter had surprised on it at the station in New York. This had puzzled СКАЧАТЬ