The Vagrant Duke

"When I've suffered?" she asked quickly.

He glanced up from the music in his hand, surprised at her intuition.

"I don't like to tell you so – "

"But I think I understand. Nobody can sing what she doesn't feel – what she hasn't felt. Oh, I know," she broke off suddenly. "I can sing songs of the woods – the water – the pretty things like you've been givin' me. But the deep things – sorrow, pain, regret – like this – I'm not 'up' to them."

Peter sat beside her, puffing contentedly.

"Don't worry," he muttered. "Your voice will ripen."

"And will I ripen too?"

He laughed. "I don't want you ever to be any different from what you are."

She was thoughtful a moment, for Peter had always taken pains to be sparing in personalities which had nothing to do with her voice.

"But I don't want always to be what I am," she protested, "just growin' close to the ground like a pumpkin or a squash."

He laughed. "You might do worse."

"But not much. Oh, I know. You're teachin' me to think – and to feel – so that I can make other people do the same – the way you've done to me. But it don't make me any too happy to think of bein' a – a squash again."

"Perhaps you won't have to be," said Peter quietly.

"And the factory – I've got to make some money next winter. I can't use any of Aunt Tillie's savin's. But when I know what I might be doin', it's not any too easy to think of goin' back there!"

"Perhaps you won't have to go," said Peter again.

Her eyes glanced at him quickly, looked away, then returned to his face curiously.

"I don't just understand what you mean."

"I mean," said Peter, "that we'll try to find the means to keep you out of the glass factory – to keep on with the music."

"But how – ? I can't be dependent on – " She paused with a glance at him. And then quickly, with her characteristic frankness that always probed straight to her point, "You mean that you will pay my way?"

"Merely that I'm going to find the money – somehow."

But she shook her head violently. "Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that, Mr. Nichols. I couldn't think of it."

"But you've got to go on, Beth. I've made up my mind to that. You'll go pretty fast. It won't be long before you'll know all that I can teach you. And then I'm going to put you under the best teacher of this method in New York. In a year or so you'll be earning your own way – "

"But I can't let you do this for me. You're doin' too much as it is – too much that I can't pay back."

"We won't talk of money. You've given me a lot of enjoyment. That's my pay."

"But this other – this studyin' in New York. No, I couldn't let you do that. I couldn't – I can't take a cent from you or from any man – woman either, for that matter. I'll find some way – workin' nights. But I'm not goin' back," she added almost fiercely between her teeth, "not to the way I was before. I won't. I can't."

"Good. That's the way great careers are made. I don't intend that you shall. I'm going to make a great singer of you, Beth."

She colored with joy.

"Are you, Mr. Nichols? Are you? Oh, I want to make good – indeed I do – to learn French and Italian – " And then, with a sharp sigh, "O Lord, if wishes were horses – !" She was silent again, regarding him wistfully. "Don't think I'm not grateful. I'm afraid you might. I am grateful. But – sometimes I wonder what you're doin' it all for, Mr. Nichols. And whether – "

As she paused again Peter finished for her.

"Whether it wouldn't have been better if I hadn't let you just remain – er," he grinned, "a peach, let's say? Well, I'll tell you, Beth," he went on, laying his pipe aside, "I came here, without a friend, to a strange job in a strange country. I found you. Or rather you found me– lost like a babe in the woods. You made fun of me. Nobody had ever done that before in my life, but I rather liked it. I liked your voice too. You were worth helping, you see. And then along came Shad. I couldn't have him ordering you about, you know – not the way he did it – if he hadn't any claim on you. So you see, I had a sense of responsibility for you after that – About you, too – ," he added, as though thinking aloud.

His words trailed off into silence while Beth waited for him to explain about his sense of responsibility. She wasn't altogether accustomed to have anybody responsible for her. But as he didn't go on, she spoke.

"You mean that you – that I – that Shad forced me on you?"

"Bless your heart, child – no."

"Then what did you mean?" she insisted.

Peter thought he had a definite idea in his mind about what he felt as to their relationship. It was altruistic he knew, gentle he was sure, educational he was positive. But half sleepily he spoke, unaware that what he said might sound differently to one of Beth's independent mind.

"I mean," he said, "that I wanted to look after you – that I wanted our friendship to be what it has proved to be – without the flaw of sentiment. I wouldn't spoil a single hour by any thought of yours or mine that led us away from the music."

And then, while her brain worked rapidly over this calm negation of his, "But you can't be unaware, Beth, that you're very lovely."

Now "sentiment" is a word over which woman has a monopoly. It is her property. She understands its many uses as no mere man can ever hope to do. The man who tosses it carelessly into the midst of a delicate situation is courting trouble. Beth perked up her head like a startled fawn. What did he mean? All that was feminine in her was up in arms, nor did she lay them down in surrender at his last phrase, spoken with such an unflattering air of commonplace.

Suddenly she startled Peter with a rippling laugh which made him sit up blinking at her. "Are you apologizin' for not makin' love to me?" she questioned impertinently. "Say – that's funny." And she went off into another disconcerting peal of laughter.

But it wasn't funny for Peter, who was now made aware that she had turned his mind inside out upon the table between them, so to speak, that she might throw dust in the wheels. And so he only gasped and stared at her – startlingly convinced that in matters of sentiment the cleverest man is no match for even the dullest woman and Beth could hardly be considered in this category. At the challenge of his half expressed thought the demureness and sobriety of the lesson hour had fallen from her like a doffed cloak.

Peter protested blandly.

"You don't understand what – "

But she broke in swiftly. "Maybe you were afraid I might be fallin' in love with you," she twitted him, and burst into laughter again.

"I – I had no such expectation," said Peter, stiffening, sure that his dignity was a poor thing.

"Or maybe – ," she went on joyfully, "maybe you were afraid you might be fallin' in love with me." And then as she rose and gathered up her music, tantalizingly, "What did you mean, Mr. Nichols?"

He saw that he was losing ground with every word she uttered, but his sense of humor conquered.

"You little pixie!" he cried, dashing for her, with a laugh. "Where have you hidden this streak of impudence all these weeks?" But she eluded him nimbly, running around the table and out of the door before he could catch up with her.

He halted at the doorsill and called to her. She emerged cautiously from behind a bush and made a face at him.

"Beth! Come back!" he entreated. "I've got something to say to you."

"What?" she asked, temporizing.

"I want to talk to you – seriously."

"Good Lord – seriously! You're not goin' to – to take the risk of – of havin' me 'vamp' you, are you?"

"Yes. I'll risk that," he grinned.

But she only broke off a leaf and nibbled at it contemplatively. "Maybe I won't risk it. 'I don't want to spoil a single hour,'" she repeated, mocking his dignity, 'by any thought of yours or mine that would lead us away from the music.' Maybe I'm in danger." And then, "You know you're not so bad lookin' yourself, Mr. Nichols!"

"Stop teasing, Beth."

"I won't."

"I'll make you." He moved a step toward her.

"Maybe I hadn't better come any more," she said quizzically.

"Beth!"

"Suppose I was learnin' to love you a little," she went on ironically, "with you scared I might be – and not knowin' how to get out of it. Wouldn't that be terrible! For me, I mean. 'She loved and lost, in seven reels.'"

She was treading on precarious ground, and she must have seen her danger in Peter's face, for as he came toward her she turned and ran down the path, laughing at him. Peter followed in full stride but she ran like a deer and by the time he had reached the creek she was already halfway over the log-jam below the pool. Her laugh still derided him and now, eager to punish her, he leaped after her. But so intent he was on keeping her in sight upon the farther bank that his foot slipped on a tree trunk and he went into the water. A gay peal of laughter echoed in his ears. And he caught a last glimpse of her light frock as it vanished into the underbrush. But he scrambled up the bank after her and darted along the path – lost her in the dusk, and then deep in the woods at one side saw her flitting from tree to tree away from him. But Peter's blood was now warm with the chase – and it was the blood of Peter Nicholaevitch too. Forgotten were the studious hours of patience and toil. Here was a girl who challenged his asceticism – a beautiful young female animal who dared to mock at his self-restraint. She thought that she could get away. But he gained on her. She had stopped laughing at him now.

"Beth! You little devil!" he cried breathlessly, as he caught her. "You little devil, I'll teach you to laugh at me."

"Let me go – "

"No – "

He held her in his arms while she struggled vainly to release herself. Her flushed face was now a little frightened and her large blue eyes stared in dismay at what she saw in his face.

"Let me go?" she whispered. "I didn't mean it – "

But he only held her closer while she struggled, as he kissed her – on the brows, the chin, the cheeks, and as she relaxed in sheer weakness – full on the lips – again – again.

"Do you think I haven't been trying to keep my hands off you all these weeks?" he whispered. "Do you think I haven't wanted you – to teach you what women were meant for? It's for this, Beth – and this. Do you think I haven't seen how lovely you are? Do you think I'm a saint – an anchorite? Well, I'm not. I'll make you love me – love me – "

Something in the reckless tones of his voice – in his very words aroused her to new struggles. "Oh, let me go," she gasped. "I don't love you. I won't. Let me go."

"You shall!"

"No. Let me loose or I – I'll despise you – "

"Beth!"

"I mean it. Let me go."

If a moment ago when she was relaxed in his arms he had thought that he had won her, he had no such notion now, for with a final effort of her strong young arms, she thrust away from him and stood panting and disordered, staring at him as though at one she had never seen before.

"Oh – how I hate you!"

"Beth!"

"I mean it. You – you – ," she turned away from him, staring at the torn music on the ground as at a symbol of her disillusionment. Peter saw her look, felt the meaning of it, tried to recall the words he had said to her and failed – but sure that they were a true reflection of what had been in his heart. He had wanted her – then – nothing else had mattered – not duty or his set resolve…

"You mocked at me, Beth," he muttered. "I couldn't stand that – "

"And is this the way you punish me? Ah, if you'd only – if you'd only – "

And then with another glance at the torn music, she leaned against the trunk of a tree, sobbing violently.

"Beth – " he whispered, gently, "don't – "

"Go away. Oh, go. Go!"

"I can't. I won't. What did you want me to say to you? That I love you? I do, Beth – I do," he whispered. It was Peter Nichols, not Peter Nicholaevitch, who was whispering now.

"Was this what your teachin' meant?" she flashed at him bitterly. "Was this what you meant when you wanted to pay my way in New York? Oh, how you shame me! Go! Go away from me, please."

"Please don't," he whispered. "You don't understand. I never meant that. I – I love you, Beth. I can't bear to see you cry."

She made a valiant effort to control her heaving shoulders. And then,

"Oh, you – you've spoiled it all. S-spoiled it all, and it was so beautiful."

Had he? Her words sobered him. No, that couldn't be. He cursed his momentary madness, struggling for words to comfort her, but he had known that she had seen the look in his eyes, felt the roughness of his embrace. Love? The love that she had sung to him was not of these. He wanted now to touch her again – gently, to lift up her flushed face, wet like a flower with the fresh dew of her tears, and tell her what love was. But he didn't dare – he couldn't, after what he had said to her. And still she wept over her broken toys – the music – the singing – for they had mattered the most. Very childlike she seemed, very tender and pathetic.

"Beth," he said at last, touching her fingers gently. "Nothing is changed, Beth. It can't be changed, dear. We've got to go on. It means so much to – to us both."

But she paid no attention to the touch of his fingers and turned away, leaving the music at her feet, an act in itself significant.

"Let me go home. Please. Alone. I – I've got to think."

She did not look at him, but Peter obeyed her. There was nothing else to do. There was something in the clear depths of her eyes that had daunted him. And he had meant her harm. Had he? He didn't know. He passed his hand slowly across his eyes and then stood watching her until she had disappeared among the trees. When she had gone he picked up the torn music. It was Massenet's "Elégie."

O doux printemps d'autrefois…Tout est flétrie.

The lines of the torn pieces came together. Spring withered! The joyous songs of birds – silenced! Beth's song? He smiled. No, that couldn't be. He folded the music up and strode off slowly, muttering to himself.

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 of conscience. He, the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, in love with this little rustic? Impossible! It was the real Peter, tired of the sham and make-believe of self-restraint and virtue, who had merely kissed a country girl. He was no anchorite, no saint. Why had he tied himself to such a duty from a motive of silly sentimentalism?

He winced at the word. Was it that? Sentimentalism. He had shown her the best side of him – shown it persistently, rather proud of his capacity for self-control, which had ridden even with his temptations. Why should it matter so much to him what this girl thought of him? What had he said to her? Nothing much that he hadn't said to other women. It was the fact that he had said it to Beth that made the difference. The things one might say to other women meant something different to Beth – the things one might do… He had been a fool and lost his head, handled her roughly, spoken to her wildly, words only intended for gentle moods, softer purposes. Shrewd little Beth, whose wide, blue eyes had seen right down into the depths of his heart. He had been clumsy, if nothing else, and he had always thought that clumsiness was inexcusable. He had a guilty sense that while Beth was still the little lady to her finger tips, born to a natural nobility, he, the Grand Duke Peter, had been the boor, the vulgar proletarian. The look in her eyes had shamed him as the look in his own eyes had shamed her. She had known what his wooing meant, and it hadn't been what she wanted. The mention of love on lips that kissed as his had done was blasphemy.

Yes. He cared what she thought of him – and he vainly cast about for a way in which to justify himself. To make matters worse Beth still believed that this was the payment he exacted for what he had done for her, what he had proposed to do for her, that he measured her favors in terms of value received. What else could she think but that? Every hour of his devotion to her music defamed her.

The situation was intolerable. In the morning he went seeking her at her home. The house was open. No one in Black Rock village locked doors by day or night. Beth was not there. A neighbor said that she had gone early alone into the woods and Peter understood. If she hadn't cared for him she wouldn't have needed to go to the woods to be alone. Of course she didn't appear at the Cabin the next day, and Peter searched for her – fruitlessly. She weighed on his conscience, like a sin unshrived. He had to find her to explain the unexplainable, to tell her what her confidence had meant to him, to recant his blasphemy of her idols in gentleness 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 women in Europe and elsewhere, ladies of the great world that Beth had only dreamed about, would have given their ears (since ear puffs were in fashion) to receive such a note from Peter. It was a beautiful note besides – manly, gentle, breathing contrition and self-reproach. Beth merely ignored it. Whatever she thought of it and of Peter she wanted to deliberate a longer while.

And so another music lesson hour passed while Peter sat alone in the Cabin waiting. That night two letters were brought to him. The superscription of one was scrawled in a boyish hand. The other was scented, dainty, of pale lavender, and bore a familiar handwriting and a familiar coronet. In amazement he opened this first. It was from the Princess Galitzin, written in the polyglot of French, English and Russian 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 by turns. His surmise in regard to the stranger with the black mustache had been correct then. The man was a spy of the Russian Soviets. And so instead of having been born immaculate into a new life, as he had hoped – a man without a past, and only a future to be accounted for – he was only the Grand Duke Peter after all. And Anastasie! Why the devil did she want to come nosing about in America, reminding him of all the things that he wanted to forget? The odor of her sachet annoyed him. A bath and boudoir! He realized now that she had always annoyed him with her pretty silly little affectations and her tawdry smatterings of the things that were worth while. He owed her nothing. He had made love to her, of course, because that was what a woman of her type expected from men of his. But there had been no damage done on either side, for he had not believed that she had ever really cared. And now distance, it seemed, had made her heart grow fonder, distance and the romantic circumstances of his exile.

It was kind of her, of course, to let him know of his danger, but only human 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 tempt him with ease, luxury and London. He would have none of them.

He picked up the other letter with even more curiosity until he read the postmark, and then his interest became intense, for he knew that it was from Jim Coast – Hawk Kennedy. The letter bore the heading, "Antlers Hotel, 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, frowning angrily at the thought of the man's audacity. But after a while he picked the crumpled note up and straightened it out upon the table, carefully rereading it. Its very touch seemed to soil his fingers, but he studied it for a long while, and then folded it up and put it in his pocket. It was a very careful game that Peter would have to play with Hawk Kennedy, a game that he had no liking for. But if he expected to succeed in protecting McGuire, he would have to outwit Jim Coast – or Hawk Kennedy, as he now thought of him – by playing a game just a little deeper than his own.