Beth had sung always—just as she had always breathed—but she had never heard any good music except on a talking machine at the boarding house at Glassboro—an old record of Madame Melba's that they played sometimes. But even that song from an opera ("Lay Boheem" they called it), mutilated as it was, had shown her that there was something more wonderful than the popular melodies that the other people liked. Beth's taste for good music, like her taste for nice people, was instinctive. And she had found that in her walk of life the one was about as difficult to find as the other. She had had her awakenings and her disillusionments, with women as well as men, but had emerged from her experiences of two winters in a factory town with her chin high and her heart pure—something of an achievement for one as pretty as Beth.
All in all, she had liked Shad Wells better than any of the men she had met. He was rough, but she had discovered that good manners didn't always mean good hearts or clean minds.
It was this discovery that had made her look askance at Peter Nichols when she had first met him on the road, for he was politer than anybody she had ever met. If her philosophy was to be consistent this new superintendent would need watching. But his music disarmed her and captured her imagination. And then came the incident of the jealous Shad and the extraordinary outcome of Mr. Nichols's championship of her rights. She had witnessed that fight from the shelter of the bushes. It had been dreadful but glorious. Peter's chivalry appealed to her—also his strength. From that moment he was superman.
Then had followed the long wonderful weeks of music at the Cabin, in which she had learned the beginnings of culture and training. Her music-master opened new and beautiful vistas for her, told her of the great musicians and singers that the world had known, described the opera houses of Europe, the brilliant audiences, the splendid ballets, the great orchestras, and promised her that if she worked hard, she might one day become a part of all this. She had learned to believe him now, for she saw that as time went on he was more exacting with her work, more sparing in his praise of her, and she had worked hard—in despair at times, but with a slowly growing confidence in her star of destiny.
And all the while she was wondering why Peter Nichols was doing this for her and what the outcome of it all was to be. He spoke little of the future except to hint vaguely at lessons elsewhere when he had taught her all that he knew. The present it seemed was sufficient for them both. His moods of soberness, of joy, of enthusiasm, were all catching and she followed him blindly, aware of this great new element in her life which was to make the old life difficult, if not impossible. He treated her always with respect, not even touching her arms or waist in passing—an accepted familiarity of men by girls of her social class. Beth understood that it was a consideration due to a delicate situation, the same consideration which had impelled her always to call him Mr. Nichols.
And yet it was this very consideration of Peter's that vexed her. It wasn't an air of superiority, for she couldn't have stood that. It was just discretion, maybe, or something else, she couldn't decide what. But Beth didn't want to be put in a glass case like the wax flowers at home. Her voice was a mere mechanical instrument, as he had taken pains so often to tell her, but he seemed to be making the mistake of thinking her a mechanical instrument too. She wasn't. She was very much alive, tingling with vitality, very human under her demure aspect during the singing lessons, and it had bothered her that Peter shouldn't know it. His ignorance, his indifference affronted her. Didn't he see what she looked like? Didn't he see that she might be worth making love to ... just a little, a very little ... once in a while?
The clouds had broken suddenly, almost without warning, when he had talked like a professor—about sentiment—apologized—that was what he had done—apologized for not making love to her! Oh!
And then things had happened swiftly—incredible, unbelievable things. The lightning had flashed and it had shown an ugly Mr. Nichols—a different Mr. Nichols from anything that she could have imagined of him. The things he had said to her ... his kisses ... shameful things! A hundred times she had brushed them off like the vision of him from her mind. And still they returned, warm and pulsing to her lips. And still the vision of him returned—remained. He had been so nice to her before....
Now Beth sat in the big chair opposite Peter in the Cabin by the log fire (for the evenings were getting cool) while he finished telling her about the death of Ben Cameron, of the murder and of Jonathan K. McGuire's share in the whole terrible affair. It was with some misgivings, even after swearing her to secrecy, that he told her what he had learned through Kennedy and McGuire. And she had listened, wide-eyed. Her father of course was only the shadow of a memory to her, the evil shade in a half-forgotten dream, and therefore it was not grief that she could feel, not even sorrow for one who in life had been so vile, even if his miserable death had been so tragic—only horror and dismay at the thought of the perpetrator of the infamy. And not until Peter had come to the end of the story did she realize what this revelation meant, that the very foundation of McGuire's great fortune was laid upon property which belonged to her.