CHAPTER VII
A Midnight Message
Sitting down at the supper table that evening was a severe ordeal.Geraldine had angered Carder, but she had also frightened him, and hewas mild in manner and words and did not attempt to be eitheraffectionate or jocose. Instead he dwelt on the good promise of thecrops, and mentioned having extended the time of payment to a delinquenttenant.
Geraldine forced herself to eat something, and the host addressed mostof his remarks to his mother, who was again compelled to sit at tableand allow the young girl to do the serving.
"What do you think of throwin' out a wing or two or say a bay window tothe house, Ma, while we're refurnishin'?" he asked pleasantly.
"Just as you say, Rufus," was her docile response. "I think, though,Miss Geraldine would like a bathroom better."
"Bathroom, eh?" returned Carder, regarding the girl's stiffly immobileface and downcast eyes. "It would mean a lot of expense, but whatGeraldine says goes. I can stand the damage, I guess."
No word from Geraldine. Rufus was made thoroughly uneasy by her rigidpallor. He blamed himself for not having waited longer to produce histrump card and clinch his possession of her.
His own dreams were troubled that night and long in coming. Geraldine,as soon as the dishes were dried and put away, went up to her room andlocked the door. She sat down to think, and strangely accompanying theparalyzing discovery of her father's downfall was the memory of the tallstranger with the dusty clothes and gallant bearing. She shut out thememory of his delightful speech, his speaking eyes, and the way hetowered above Rufus and held himself in check for her sake.
"For my sake!" she repeated to herself bitterly. "They are allalike--men. He would be just the same as the other at close quarters.Some have no veneer like this boor, and some have the polish, but theyare all the same underneath. Even Father, poor Father."
Geraldine felt hot, slow tears begin to scald her eyes. The last timeshe had cried she had been with Miss Upton and felt her hearty, motherlysympathy. That young man had come from her. Miss Upton was thinking ofher. The tears came faster now under the memory of the kindness of herchance acquaintance on the day--it seemed months ago--that she had leftthe world and entered upon this living death.
Miss Upton's messenger would return to her and tell of his fruitlessquest and describe Rufus Carder, and she knew how that kind heart wouldache; but Mr. Barry would also tell her that her young friend hadrepulsed him and would discourage her from further effort. Geraldineknew that no letter from the outside would be allowed to reach her, norwould any be allowed to go out from her, until she had paid the ghastlyprice which her father's protection necessitated.
She did not know how long she sat on that hard chair in the ugly roomthat night. She only knew how valiantly she struggled to stifle thesobs that wrenched her slight body. Early in the evening she had heard asoft impact against her door, which she knew meant that the watchdog wasin his place.
Her kerosene lamp was burning low, when again a slight sound against herdoor made her look that way apprehensively and wish that she hadbarricaded it as on the night before.
Something white caught her eye. It was paper being slowly pushed beneaththe door and now an envelope was revealed. Geraldine started up andnoiselessly crept toward it. Seizing it she carried it to the light. Itwas a letter addressed to herself:
_Miss Geraldine Melody_
And down in the left-hand corner were the words--_"Kindness of Mr.Barry."_ Across the face of the envelope was scrawled in another handthese words: "Courage. Walk in meadow. Wear white."
Geraldine stared at this with her swollen eyes, the aftermath of herwild weeping causing convulsive catches in her throat which she stifledautomatically. Turning the envelope over she saw that it was sealedclumsily with red wax.
Running a hairpin through the flap she opened it and took out the letterwith trembling hands. This is what she read:
DEAR MISS MELODY:
I can't help worrying about you, not knowing what you found when you got to the farm, and whether Mr. Carder and his mother turned out to be the kind you like to live with. I've wished a hundred times that I'd brought you home with me instead of letting you go, because, after all the hard experiences you went through, I wanted to be sure that you found care and protection where you was going. I'm poor and have only a small place, but I'd have found some way to take care of you.
I worried so much about it, and Mr. Carder, the little I saw of him that day at the hotel, acted so much as if he owned you, that I thought it would be just as well to hear what a lawyer would say; so I went to see Benjamin Barry. He's studying to be a lawyer and he's the young man who has consented to hunt up the Carder farm and take my letter to you. I know it ain't etiket to seal up a letter you send by hand, but I'm going to seal this with wax just so you'll know that Ben hasn't read it. After your experience with men it will be hard for you to trust any man, I'm pretty sure. So I just want to tell you that I've known Ben Barry from a baby and he's the cleanest, _finest_ boy in the world. You can't always tell whether he's in fun or in earnest, because he's a great one to joke; but his folks are the finest that you could find anywhere. He's got good blood and he's been brought up with the greatest care and expense. If I had ten daughters I'd trust him with them all. He is the soul of honor about everything, so don't hesitate to tell him just how you're fixed. If you are happy and contented, that's all I want to know; but if you ain't I want to know that posthaste, for I shall want you to come right here to me at Keefe. Ben will tell you how to come and you can tell Mr. Carder that you have found a better position. Give him a week's notice; that's _honorable_ and _long enough_. I shan't be easy in my mind till Ben gets back, and he's so good to go for me that I should love him for it all the rest of my life if I didn't already.
Now, good-bye, dear child, and be _perfectly frank_ with Ben.
Your loving friend MEHITABLE UPTON
In her utter despair and desolation this homely expression ofaffectionate solicitude went to Geraldine's heart like a message fromheaven. She held the senseless paper to her breast, and her pulses beatfast as she read again those words scribbled across the face of theenvelope.
They meant an understanding that she was not a free agent. They meantthat the young knight had not given up. He could never know--kind MissUpton must never know--what it was that compelled her, and why nothingthat they might contrive could save her.
Good little Pete had risked brutal treatment to bring her this. Herheart welled with gratitude toward him. She felt that she could continueto protect him to a degree, for the infatuation of their master gave herpower to that extent.
She was no longer pale. Her cheeks were flushed, her sobs ceased. Therewere hearts that cared for her. Some miracle might intervene to saveher. The knight was a lawyer. The law was very wonderful. A suddenshudder passed over her. What it could have done to her father--stillhonored at his clubs as the prince of good fellows!
She reviewed her situation anew. It was established that she was aprisoner. Then in order to obey the message on the envelope she mustfollow the example of the more ambitious prisoners and become a trusty.Poor Geraldine, who had ceased to pray, began to feel that there mightbe a God after all; and when she was between the coarse, mended sheetsof her bed she held Miss Upton's letter to her breast and thanked theunseen Power for a friend.
When she awoke, it was with the confused sense that some happiness wasawaiting her. As her mind cleared, the mental atmosphere clouded.
Did not any hope which imagination held out mean the cruel revenge ofher jailer? Could she betray her father as he had betrayed her?
She dressed and went downstairs to help Mrs. Carder. The precious letterwas against her breast.
Pete was washing at the pump. She did not dare approach him to speak;but she soon found that as to that opportunities would be plen
tiful; forwhenever she left the house she had a respectful shadow; never close,but always in the vicinity, and remembering yesterday and the lawn-mowershe now realized that the watchdog who guarded her by night had ordersto perform the same office by day.
Rufus felt some relief at seeing his guest appear this morning. Hisdreams would have been pleasanter had he been perfectly sure that shewould not in her youthful horror and despair evade him in the one waypossible. He bade her good-morning with an inoffensive commonplace. Hehad shot his bolt; now his policy must be soothing and unexacting untilher fear of him had abated and custom had reconciled her to her newlife. She was silent at breakfast, speaking only when spoken to, andobservant of his mother's needs; waiting upon him, too, when it wasnecessary.
"I must get one o' these reclinin'-chairs for you, Geraldine," he said,"and put it out under the elm tree. Your elm tree, we'll have to callit, because you've saved its life, you know."
"It is nice that there is one bit of shade here," she replied. "Isuppose you hang a hammock there in summer for your mother."
Rufus grinned at his parent, who was vastly uncomfortable under the newregime of being waited upon by a golden-haired beauty.
"How about it, Ma?" he said. "Did you ever lie down in a hammock in yourlife? Got to do it now, you know. Bay windows and hammocks belongtogether. We got to be stylish now this little girl's goin' to boss us.
"It's a sightly day, Geraldine. How would you like to go for a drive andsee somethin' of the country around here? It's mighty pretty. You seemstuck on trees. I'll show you a wood road that's a wonder."
Geraldine cringed, but controlled herself. Renewed contact with Rufuswas inexorably crushing every reviving hope of the night.
"I think it would be a refreshing thing for your mother," she answered.
"No, no, indeed!" exclaimed the old woman, with an anxious look at herson. "I'm scared of autos. I don't want to go."
"Well, you're goin', Ma," declared Rufus, perceiving that Geraldinewould as yet refuse to go alone with him, and considering that asballast in the tonneau his mother's presence would be innocuous. "Thislittle girl's got the reins. You and me are passengers. Don't forgetthat."
So later in the fresh, lovely spring day, Mrs. Carder, wrapped in anantiquated shawl and with a bonnet that had to be rescued from an unusedshelf, was tucked into the back seat of the car.
Rufus held open the front door for Geraldine, and though she hesitatedshe decided not to anger him and stepped in to sit beside him. He didall the talking that was done, the girl replying in monosyllables andlooking straight before her.
"I thought I'd stop to the village," he said, "and wire into town tohave some help sent out. How would you word it?"
"I came as help," replied Geraldine. "I think we get along with the workpretty well. Pete is very handy for a boy. Your mother seems to dreadservants. Don't send for anybody on my account."
The girl's voice was colorless, and she did not look at Rufus whoregarded her uncertainly.
"All right," he said at last. "Perhaps it would be as well to wait tillsome day we're in town and you can talk to 'em. I'll wire for some eatsanyway."
When they reached the village the car stopped before thetelegraph-office. Carder left the car, and at the mere temporary reliefof him Geraldine's heart lightened. A wild wish swept through her thatshe knew how to drive and could put on all the power and drive away,even kidnapping the shrunken, beshawled slave in the tonneau.
But the thought of the dusty knight intervened. If she were going tobetray her father, let it be under his guidance whatever that might be.She could not do it, though. She could not!
A man loafing on the walk saw Mrs. Carder and, stopping, addressed herwith some country greeting. Geraldine instantly turned to him.
"Where is Keefe?" she asked quickly.
"What?" he returned stupidly, with a curious gaze at her lovely, eagerface.
"Keefe. The village of Keefe. Where is it?"
"Oh, that's yonder," said the man, pointing. "T'other side o' themountain."
She turned to Mrs. Carder. "I have a friend who lives there, a very goodfriend whom I would like to see."
She made the explanation lest the old woman should tell her son of hereager question.
Rufus came out, nodded curtly to the man beside his machine, jumped in,and drove off.
Geraldine spoke. "I'm surprised this country seems so flat. I thought itwould be hilly about here."
"Not so close to the sea," replied Carder. "There is what they call themountain, though, over yonder." He jerked his head vaguely. "Prettygood-sized hill. Makes a water-shed that favors my farm."
Geraldine appeared to listen in silence to the monologue that followedconcerning her companion's prowess as a self-made man and the clevernesswith which he had seized every opportunity that came his way. Her mindwas in a singular tumult. An incoming wave of thought--the reminder thatshe must be clever, too, and earn Carder's confidence in order that hemight relax his espionage--was met by the counter-consideration that ifshe disappointed his desire he would blast her father's name. Just ashappens in the meeting of the incoming and outgoing tide, her thoughtswould be broken and fly up in a confusion as to what course she reallywished to pursue. By the time she gained the privacy of her own roomthat night, she felt exhausted by the contradictions of her own beatenheart and she sat down again in the hard chair, too dulled to think.
At last she put her hand in her bosom and drew out her letter. She wouldfeel the human touch of Miss Upton's kindliness once again. Even if shegave "her body to be burned" and all life became a desert of ashes, onestar would shine upon her sacrifice, the affectionate thought of thisgood woman who had made so much effort for her.
She closed her eyes to the exhortation scribbled on the envelope.Whatever plan the tall knight had in mind, it was certain that herescape was the end in view. Did she wish to escape? Did she? Could shepay the cost? What happiness would there be for her when all her lifeshe Would be hearing in fancy the amazement at her father's crime, thegossip and condemnation that would go the rounds of his associates.
She held the letter to her sick heart and gazing into space pictured thehateful future.
There was a slight stir outside her door. Something was again beingpushed beneath it by slow degrees. Again it looked like an envelope, butthis time the paper was not white. Geraldine regarded the small duskysquare, scarcely discernible in the lamplight, and rising went towardit.
She picked up the much-soiled object by its extreme corner. It bore noaddress. She believed Pete must have written to her, and was greatlytouched by the thought that the poor boy might wish to express to herhis sympathy or his gratitude. It had been a brave soul who stoodstolidly before Rufus Carder and refused to give up Miss Upton's letter.Moving cautiously and without a sound, she took the letter to thebureau, and holding down the bent and soiled envelope with the handle ofher hairbrush, she again used the woman's universal utensil, opened theseal, and drew out a letter. Her heart suddenly leaped to her throat,for it was her father's handwriting that met her eye. Unfolding thesheet, and cold with dread, she began to read:
MY DEAR GERRIE:
If this letter ever reaches you I shall be dead. The heart attacks have been worse of late and it may be I shall go off suddenly. If I do, I want to get word to you which if I live it will not be necessary for you to read. I have not been a good father and I deserve nothing at your hands. The worst mistake of all those that I have made was marrying the woman who has shirked mothering you; and after I am gone I know you have nothing to expect from her. I am financially involved with Rufus Carder to an extent that gives me constant anxiety. He has happened to see you and taken a violent fancy to you, and this fact has made him withdraw the pressure that has made my nights miserable. He has been trying to persuade me to let you come out here. He knows that his cousin Juliet is not attached to you, and, since seeing me in one of my attacks of pain, he is constant
ly reminding me how precarious is my life and that if he had a daughter like you she should have every advantage money could buy. He is a rough specimen with a miserly reputation. I won't go into the occasions of weakness and need which have resulted in his power over me. Suffice it to say that he may bring cruel pressure to bear on you, and I want to warn you solemnly not to let any consideration of me or what people may say of me influence your actions. You are young and beautiful, and I pray that the rest of your life may have in it more happiness than your childhood has known. I have interceded with Carder for Pete several times, winning the poor fellow's devotion. He can't read writing and will not be tempted to open this. I'm sure he will hide it and manage to give it to you secretly if you come to this dreary place. My poor child! My selfishness all rises before me and the punishment is fearful. If there is a God, may He bless you and guard you, my innocent little girl.
Your unworthy FATHER
Geraldine's hungry heart drank in the tender message. Again and againshe kissed the letter while tears of grief ran down her cheeks. A tinyhope sprang in her breast. She read her father's words over and over,striving to glean from them a contradiction of the accusation that hehad planned and carried out a deliberate crime.
Rufus Carder had promised her father to treat her as a daughter. Howthat assertion soothed the wound to her filial affection, and warmed herheart with the assurance that her father had not sold her into the worstslavery!
She soon crept into bed, but not to sleep. Her father's exhortationseemed to give her permission to speculate on those words of thestranger knight:
"Courage. Walk in meadow. Wear white."
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