The Ogre
It proved that Miss Upton's new acquaintance had an appointment later at
a hotel near by, so thither they repaired when the ice-cream was
finished.
"Now tell me all about it," said Miss Mehitable encouragingly, when they
had found the vacant corner of a reception-room and sat down side by
side.
"I feel like holding on to you and not letting you go," said the girl,
looking about apprehensively.
"Are you afraid of the folks you're goin' to meet here? Is it another
job you're lookin' for? I can tell you right now," added Miss Mehitable
firmly, "that I'm goin' to stay and see what they look like if I lose
every train out to Keefe."
"You are so good," said the girl wistfully. "Are you always so kind to
strangers?"
"When they're a hundred times too pretty and as young as you are I am,"
returned Miss Upton promptly; "but this is my first experience. What
sort of position are you tryin' for now?"
"I don't know what to call it," replied Geraldine, with another
apprehensive look toward the door. "General utility, I hope." She looked
back at her companion. "When my father died, it left me alone in the
world; for my stepmother is the sort that lives in the fairy tales; not
the loving kind who are in real life. I know a girl who has the dearest
stepmother. I was fourteen years old when my father married again. My
mother had been dead for three years. I was an only child and had always
lived at home, but my stepmother didn't want me. She persuaded my father
to send me away to school. I think Daddy never had any happiness after
he married her. He had always been very extravagant and easy-going.
While my precious mother lived she helped him and guided him, and
although I was only a little girl I always believed he married again
because he was greatly embarrassed for money. This woman appeared to
have plenty and she was so in love with him! If you had seen _him_, I
think you would have said he was a hundred times too handsome. Well,
from what I could see at vacation time she was never sufficiently in
love with him to let him have her money; and I am sure the last years of
his life were wretched and full of hard places because of his financial
ill-success. Poor father." The girl's voice failed and she waited,
looking down at the gloved hands in her lap. "I had been at home from
school only a few months when he died," she went on. "My stepmother
endured me and that was all. She is a quite young woman, very fond of
gayety, and she made me feel that I was very much in her way no matter
how hard I tried to keep out of it."
"I'll bet you were," put in Miss Upton _sotto voce_.
"As soon as my dear father was gone she threw off all disguise to her
impatience. She put on very becoming mourning and said she wanted to
travel. She said my father had left nothing, but that I was young and
could easily get a position. She broke up the home, found a cheap room
for me to lodge, gave me a little money and went away." Again
Geraldine's voice broke and she stopped.
"You poor child," said Miss Upton; "to try as you have and find all your
efforts failures!"
"My stepmother has some relatives who live on a farm," went on the girl.
"Before my father died we three had one talk which it always sickens me
to remember. My stepmother was saying that it was high time I went out
into the world and did something for my own support. My father perhaps
knew that he was very ill; but we did not. His death came suddenly. That
day while my stepmother talked he walked the floor casting troubled
looks at me and I knew she was hurting him. 'Everybody should be where
she can be of some use,' said my stepmother. 'I think the Carder farm
would be a fine place for Geraldine, and after all Rufus Carder has done
for you I should think you'd be glad to send her out there.'
"I shall never forget the light that came into Daddy's eyes as he
stopped and turned on her. 'What Rufus Carder has done for me is what
the icy sidewalk does for the man who trips,' he answered. My stepmother
shrugged her shoulders. 'That was your own weakness, then,' she said. 'I
think a more appropriate simile for Rufus would be the bridge that
carried you over!' Her voice was so cold and contemptuous! Daddy came to
me and there was despair in his face. He put his hand on my shoulder
while she went on talking: 'Many times since the day that Rufus saw
Geraldine in the park,' she said, 'he has told me they would be glad to
have her come out to the farm and live with them. I think you ought to
send her. She isn't needed here and they really do need somebody.' The
desperate look in my father's face wrung my heart. He did not look at my
stepmother nor answer her; but just gazed into my eyes and said over and
over softly, 'Forgive me, Gerrie. Forgive me.' I took his hands in mine
and told him I had nothing to forgive." The young girl choked.
When she could go on she spoke again: "A couple of days after that he
died. My stepmother was angry because he left no life insurance, and she
talked to me again about going to work, and again brought up the subject
of the Carder farm. She tried to flatter me by talking of her cousin's
admiration of me the day he saw me in the park. I told her I could not
bear to go to people who had not been kind to my father, and she replied
that what Daddy had said that day must have been caused by his illness,
for Rufus Carder had befriended him times without number."
The girl lifted her appealing eyes to Miss Upton's face as she
continued: "Of course I knew that my dear father had been weak and I
couldn't contradict her; so after trying and failing, trying and failing
many times, as I've told you, I came to feel that the farm might be the
right place for me after all. Work is the only thing I'm not afraid of
now. It must be a forlorn place if they need help and can't get it. I
think they said he and his mother live alone, but I shan't care how
forlorn it is if only Mrs. Carder is like--like--you, for instance!" The
girl laid her hand impulsively on her companion's knee.
At that moment a man appeared in the wide doorway to the reception-room
and looked about uncertainly. Instantly Miss Upton recognized the long,
weather-beaten face, the straggling hair, the half-open mouth, and the
revealing collar of her restaurant rival.
She gave her companion a mirthful nudge.
"He's right on my trail, you see," she whispered. "Adam's apple and
all."
Geraldine glanced up and the stranger's roving gaze fell straight upon
hers. He came toward her.
"Miss Melody?" he said in a rasping voice.
She rose as if impelled by some inner spring, her light disdain
swallowed in dread.
"This is Mr. Carder, then," she returned.
"You've guessed right the very first time," responded the man with an
air of relief. "I recognize you now, but you look some different from
the only other time I ever saw you."
"This is Miss Upton, Mr. Carder, a lady who has befriended me very
kindly while I have been waiting for you."
"Yes, and who prevented me from havin' lunch with you," responded the
stranger, eying Miss Upton jocosely; but as if he could not spare time
from the near survey of Geraldine his eyes again swept over her hair and
crimsoning cheeks. "I thought I felt some strong drawin' toward that
particular table," he added. "Well, we'll make up for it in the future
you can bet. That your bag here? We'd better be runnin' along. Time,
tide, and business don't wait for any man. Good-bye, Miss Upton, I'll
forgive you for takin' my place, considerin' you've been good to this
little girl."
Miss Mehitable's face was as solemn as lies in the power of round faces
to be. At close quarters one observed a cast in Mr. Carder's right eye.
She disapproved his assured proprietary air and she disapproved him the
more that she could see repulsion in the young girl's suddenly pale
countenance. She had time for only one strong pressure of a little hand
before Geraldine was whisked away and she was left standing there
stunned by the suddenness of it all.
"I never asked where it was!" she ejaculated suddenly. "I've lost the
child!" People began to look at her and she continued mentally: "The
critter looked as if he wanted to eat her up, the poor little lamb.
Unless the mother's something different from the son she'll be driven to
desperation. No knowin' what she'll do." Miss Upton clasped her plump
hands together in great trouble of spirit. "I believe I said Keefe
more'n once. Perhaps she'll have sense enough to write to me. Why didn't
I just tell that old rawbones that her plans was changed and she was
goin' with me. Oh, I am a fool! I don't know what I'd have done with
her; but some way would have opened. Let's see. Where am I!" Miss Upton
delved distractedly into the large bag that hung on her arm. "Where's my
list? Am I through or not?" She seemed to herself to have lived long
since her wearied entrance into that restaurant.
In her uneventful life this brief experience took deep hold on her
imagination. As she rode out to Keefe on the train that afternoon she
constructed the scenes of the story in her mind.
The weak, handsome, despairing father begging his child's forgiveness.
The dismantling of the home. The placing of Geraldine in a cheap lodging
while her father's widow shed all responsibility of her and set forth in
new raiment for green fields and pastures new.
The shabby and carelessly put on suit in which Geraldine had appeared
this morning told a tale. The girl had said she despised her looks. Her
appearance had borne out the declaration. The lovely hair had been
brushed tightly back; the old hat would have been unbecoming if it
could: all seemed to testify that if the girl could have had her way not
an element of attractiveness would have been observable in her. Miss
Upton waxed indignant as she went on to picture the probable scenes
which had frightened and disgusted the child into such an abnormal frame
of mind. The memory of Rufus Carder's gaze, as his oblique eye had
feasted upon his guest, brought the blood to Miss Mehitable's face.
"I'll find out where she is if I have to employ a detective," she
thought, setting her lips. "Now there's no use in bein' a fool," she
muttered after a little more apprehensive thought. "I shall get daffy if
I go on thinkin' about it. I'll do my accounts and see if I can take my
mind off it."
* * * * *
Meanwhile Geraldine with her escort was also on a moving train. A
creeping train it seemed to her. Rufus Carder was trying to make himself
agreeable. She strove with herself to give him credit for that. She had
not lived to be a nineteen-year-old school girl without meeting
attractive young men. Her stepmother had always kept her in the
background at times when it was impossible to eliminate her altogether,
quite, as Geraldine had said, like the stepmother of a fairy tale; but
there had been holidays with school friends and an occasional admirer;
although these cases had been rare because Geraldine, always kept on
short allowance as to money and clothes, avoided as much as possible
social affairs outside the school.
She tried now to find amusement instead of mental paralysis in the
proximity of her present escort, contrasting him with some men she had
known; but recent bitter experiences made his probably well-intentioned
familiarities sorely trying. There was a lump in his cheek. Geraldine
hoped it arose from an afflicted tooth, but she strongly suspected
tobacco. Oh, if he would but sit a little farther away from her!
"So you've renounced the city, the world, the flesh, and the devil,"
said Rufus when the conductor had left them, and he settled down in an
attitude that brought his shoulder in contact with Geraldine's.
She drew closer to the window and kept her eyes ahead. "He is as old as
Father," she thought. "He means to be kind."
"There is not much chance for those at school," she replied. "School is
about all I know."
"Well, you don't need to know anything else," returned Rufus
protectingly. "I'll bet Juliet kept you out of sight." He laughed, and
his companion turning saw that he had been bereft of a front tooth.
"I didn't see very much of my stepmother," she answered in the same
stiff manner.
"I'll bet you didn't," declared Rufus, "not when she saw you first."
Again he laughed, convinced that his companion must enjoy the
implication.
"I mean that I have been away from home at school for several years,"
said the girl coldly.
"Oh, I know where you have been, and why, and when, and just how long,
and all about it." The tone of this was quiet, but there was something
disquieting to Geraldine in his manner. "Perhaps you didn't know," he
added after a pause filled by the crescendos and diminuendos of the
speeding train, "that your father and I were pretty thick." At this the
girl's head turned and her eyes raised to his questioningly. "Yes," he
added, receiving the look, appreciative of the curves of the long lashes
and lovely lips, "I don't believe anybody knew Dick Melody better than I
did."
"Do you mean," asked the girl, "that you were fond of my father?"
Charming as her self-forgetful, earnest look was, her companion seemed
unable to sustain it. He gave a short laugh and turned his head away.
"My wife attended to that part of it," he replied.
A flash of relief passed over Geraldine's face. "Your wife," she
repeated. "I--I hadn't heard--I didn't know--I thought the Mrs. Carder
they mentioned was your mother."
"She is. My wife died nearly a year ago, but she had the nerve to think
your father was handsomer than me." The speaker looked back at his
companion with a cheerful grin. "She said Dick Melody'd ought to be set
up on a pedestal somewheres to be admired. I don't know as bein'
good-lookin' gets a man anywhere. What good did those eyes ever do him!"
Geraldine sank closer to her window. The despair in those eyes, as her
father begged for her forgiveness, rose before her. Never had she felt
so utterly alone; so utterly friendless.
"Yes, I say leave the looks to the womenfolks," pursued Rufus Carder,
feasting his gaze on the girl's profile. "When Juliet set out to get
Dick, I warned her, but it wasn't any use. She had to have him, and she
knew pretty well how to look out for herself. I guess she never lost
anything by the deal."
"Would you mind not talking about them?" said Geraldine stiffly.
"Please yourself and you'll please me as to what we talk about,"
returned Rufus cheerfully. "Shouldn't wonder if you were pretty sore at
Juliet. Look out for number one was her motto all right." A glance at
the shrinking girl showed the host that her eyes were closed. "Tired,
ain't you?" he added.
"Dead tired," she answered. And as she continued to keep her eyes closed
he contented himself by watching the lashes resting on her pale cheeks.
"Ketch a little nap if you can, that's right," he said. She kept
silence.
She did not know how long the blessed relief from his voice had lasted
when he announced their arrival.
"Be it ever so humble," he remarked, "There's no place like home."
To have him get out of the seat and leave her free of the touch of his
garments was a blessing, and she rose to follow mechanically. The
eternal hope that dies so hard in the human breast was suggesting that
his mother might be not impossible; and at any rate a farm was wide. She
would never be imprisoned in a car seat with him again.
"There now, my lady," he said triumphantly when they were on the
platform. "I suppose you thought you were comin' to Rubeville. That
don't look so hay-seedy? Eh?"
He pointed to a dusty automobile whose driver, a boy of eighteen or
twenty, with a torn hat, eyed her with dull curiosity.
"I suppose you expected a one-hoss shay. No, indeedy. You've come to all
the comforts of home, little girl." His airy geniality of tone changed.
"What you starin' at, you coot? Come along here, Pete."
The boy moved the car toward the spot where they waited with their bags.
Rufus put these in at the front and himself entered the tonneau with his
guest. His conversation as they sped along the country road consisted
mainly of pointing out to her the cottages or fields owned by himself.
The information fell on deaf ears. The roughness of her host's tone to
the boy added one more item against him and lessened her hope that the
woman responsible for his existence could be a better specimen.
"I'm free," thought Geraldine over and over. "I don't need to stay
here." Of course the proprietary implication in every word the man said
arose simply from the conceit of a boor. She would be patient and
self-controlled. It might be possible still that she should find this a
haven where she could live her own life in her leisure hours, few though
they might be.
It was with a weary curiosity that she viewed the weather-beaten house
toward which they finally advanced. In front of it stood an elm-tree
whose lower branches swept the roof of the porch.
"That's got to come down, that tree," said Rufus meditatively.
His companion turned on him. "You would cut down that splendid tree?"
He regarded her suddenly vital expression admiringly.
"Why not, little one?" he asked. "It's makin' the house damp and
injurin' property. Property, you understand. Property. If I'd indulged
in sentiment do you s'pose I'd be owner of all the land I've been
showin' you?" He smiled, the semi-toothless smile, and met her horrified
upturned eyes with an affectionate gaze. "However, what you say goes,
little girl. You look as if you were goin' to recite--'Woodman, spare
that tree.' Consider the tree spared for the present."
The automobile drew up at the house and in high good-humor the master
jumped out and removed Geraldine's bag to the steps of the narrow
piazza. A woman's face could be seen appearing and disappearing at the
window, and Pete, the driver, looked with furtive curiosity at the guest
as she stepped to the porch without touching the host's outstretched
hand.
Rufus threw open the door. "Where are you, Ma?" he shouted, and a thin,
wrinkled old woman came into the corridor nervously wiping her hands on
her apron.
Geraldine looked at her eagerly.
"Well, you have to take us as you find us, little girl," remarked Rufus,
scowling at his parent. "Ma hasn't even taken off her apron to welcome
you."
At this Mrs. Carder fumbled at her apron strings, but Geraldine advanced
to her and put out her hand.
"I like aprons," she said; and the old woman took the hand for a loose,
brief shake.
"I'm very glad to see you, Miss Melody," she said timidly. "I'm glad it
has been a pretty day."
"Show her her room, Ma, and then perhaps she'd like some tea. City
folks, you know, must have their tea."
Geraldine followed her hostess with alacrity as she went up the narrow
stairway; glad there was an upstairs; and a room of her own, and a woman
to speak to.
She was ushered into a barely furnished chamber; a bowl and pitcher on
the small wash-stand seemed to indicate that modern improvements had not
penetrated to the Carder farm.
"I s'pose you'll find country livin' a great change for you," said Mrs.
Carder, pulling up the window shade. Geraldine wondered how in this
beautiful state could have been found such a treeless tract of land. She
remembered the threatened fate of the elm. Perhaps there had been other
destruction. "My son never seemed to take any interest in puttin' in
water here."
The girl met the wrinkled face. The apprehension in the old eyes under
Carder's scowl had given place to curiosity.
"I have come to help you," said Geraldine, "I must get used to fewer
conveniences."
"It's nice of you to say that," said the old woman, "Rufus don't want
you to work much, though."
"But of course I shall," returned the girl quickly. "I'm much better
able to work than you are."
"Oh, I've got a wet sink this year," said Mrs. Carder. "I told Rufus I
just had to have it. I was gettin' too old to haul water."
"I should think so!" exclaimed Geraldine indignantly. "Mr. Carder is
well off. He shouldn't allow you to work any more the rest of your
life."
Mrs. Carder smiled and shook her head, revealing her own need of
dentistry. "I'm stronger than I look. I s'pose if I was taken out of
harness I might be like one o' these horses that drops down when the
shafts don't hold him up any longer."
Geraldine regarded her compassionately. "I've heard--my stepmother told
me it was very hard for you to get help out here. I suppose it is lonely
for maids."
The old woman regarded her strangely, and her withered lips compressed.
"I don't mind loneliness," went on Geraldine eagerly. She had thrown her
hat on the bed and the gold of her hair shone in the mean little room.
"I love to be alone. I long to be."
"That ain't natural," observed Mrs. Carder, regarding her earnest,
self-forgetful loveliness. "Rufus told me you was a beauty," she went on
reflectively. "Your father was the handsomest man I ever saw."
"You knew him, then," said Geraldine eagerly.
"He was out here a number o' times. Rufus seemed to be his favorite man
o' business, as you might say."
"Oh, Mrs. Carder, tell me all you can about his visits here." The girl's
heart began to beat faster and she drew the clean, dried-up old woman
down upon the edge of the bed beside her. Why should her father choose
this dreadful place, this impossible man as a refuge? It could only have
been as a last resort for him, just as it now was for her.
"I was always away at school after his marriage," she went on. "I saw so
little of him."
Mrs. Carder looked uneasy.
"I saw nothin' of him except at a meal sometimes. He and my son was
always shut up in Rufus's office."
"Did he seem--seem unhappy, Mrs. Carder?"
"Well--yes. He was a sort of an absent-minded man. Perhaps that was his
way. Really, I don't know a thing about their business, Miss Melody."
The addition was made in sudden panic because the girl had grasped both
the wrinkled hands and was gazing searchingly into the old woman's face
as if she would wring information out of her.
"You wouldn't tell me if you did," said Geraldine in a low voice. "You
are afraid of your son. I saw it in your eyes downstairs. Had my father
reason to be afraid of him? Tell me that. That is what I want to know."
"Your father is dead. What difference does it make?" asked the old
woman, looking from side to side as if for a means of escape from the
strong young hands and eyes.
"Yes, poor Daddy. Well, I have come to help you, Mrs. Carder." The
speaker released the wrinkled hands and the old woman rose in relief. "I
have come to work for you, not for your son, and I am not going to be
afraid of him."
The mother shook her head.
"We all work for him, my dear. He holds the purse-strings."
Geraldine seemed to see him holding the actual bag and leering at her
over it with his odious, oblique eye and smile.
"And let me give you a word of advice," continued the old woman,
lowering her voice and looking toward the door. "Don't make him mad.
It's terrible when he's angry." She winked and lowered her voice to a
whisper. "He's crazy about you and he's the biggest man in the county."
The old woman nodded and snapped her eyes knowingly. "You've got a home
here for life if you don't make him mad. For life. I'll go down and make
the tea. You come down pretty soon."
She disappeared, leaving Geraldine standing in the middle of the room.
She looked about her at the cheap, meager furniture, the small mirror
that distorted her face, the bare outlook from the window.
"For life!" she repeated to herself. "For life!"