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 he
was mild in manner and words and did not attempt to be either
affectionate or jocose. Instead he dwelt on the good promise of the
crops, and mentioned having extended the time of payment to a delinquent
tenant.
Geraldine forced herself to eat something, and the host addressed most
of his remarks to his mother, who was again compelled to sit at table
and allow the young girl to do the serving.
"What do you think of throwin' out a wing or two or say a bay window to
the 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 immobile
face and downcast eyes. "It would mean a lot of expense, but what
Geraldine says goes. I can stand the damage, I guess."
No word from Geraldine. Rufus was made thoroughly uneasy by her rigid
pallor. He blamed himself for not having waited longer to produce his
trump 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 and
locked the door. She sat down to think, and strangely accompanying the
paralyzing discovery of her father's downfall was the memory of the tall
stranger with the dusty clothes and gallant bearing. She shut out the
memory of his delightful speech, his speaking eyes, and the way he
towered above Rufus and held himself in check for her sake.
"For my sake!" she repeated to herself bitterly. "They are all
alike--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 they
are all the same underneath. Even Father, poor Father."
Geraldine felt hot, slow tears begin to scald her eyes. The last time
she had cried she had been with Miss Upton and felt her hearty, motherly
sympathy. That young man had come from her. Miss Upton was thinking of
her. The tears came faster now under the memory of the kindness of her
chance acquaintance on the day--it seemed months ago--that she had left
the world and entered upon this living death.
Miss Upton's messenger would return to her and tell of his fruitless
quest and describe Rufus Carder, and she knew how that kind heart would
ache; but Mr. Barry would also tell her that her young friend had
repulsed him and would discourage her from further effort. Geraldine
knew that no letter from the outside would be allowed to reach her, nor
would any be allowed to go out from her, until she had paid the ghastly
price which her father's protection necessitated.
She did not know how long she sat on that hard chair in the ugly room
that night. She only knew how valiantly she struggled to stifle the
sobs that wrenched her slight body. Early in the evening she had heard a
soft impact against her door, which she knew meant that the watchdog was
in his place.
Her kerosene lamp was burning low, when again a slight sound against her
door made her look that way apprehensively and wish that she had
barricaded it as on the night before.
Something white caught her eye. It was paper being slowly pushed beneath
the door and now an envelope was revealed. Geraldine started up and
noiselessly crept toward it. Seizing it she carried it to the light. It
was 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 hand
these words: "Courage. Walk in meadow. Wear white."
Geraldine stared at this with her swollen eyes, the aftermath of her
wild weeping causing convulsive catches in her throat which she stifled
automatically. Turning the envelope over she saw that it was sealed
clumsily with red wax.
Running a hairpin through the flap she opened it and took out the letter
with 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 of
affectionate solicitude went to Geraldine's heart like a message from
heaven. She held the senseless paper to her breast, and her pulses beat
fast as she read again those words scribbled across the face of the
envelope.
They meant an understanding that she was not a free agent. They meant
that the young knight had not given up. He could never know--kind Miss
Upton must never know--what it was that compelled her, and why nothing
that they might contrive could save her.
Good little Pete had risked brutal treatment to bring her this. Her
heart welled with gratitude toward him. She felt that she could continue
to protect him to a degree, for the infatuation of their master gave her
power to that extent.
She was no longer pale. Her cheeks were flushed, her sobs ceased. There
were hearts that cared for her. Some miracle might intervene to save
her. The knight was a lawyer. The law was very wonderful. A sudden
shudder passed over her. What it could have done to her father--still
honored at his clubs as the prince of good fellows!
She reviewed her situation anew. It was established that she was a
prisoner. Then in order to obey the message on the envelope she must
follow the example of the more ambitious prisoners and become a trusty.
Poor Geraldine, who had ceased to pray, began to feel that there might
be a God after all; and when she was between the coarse, mended sheets
of her bed she held Miss Upton's letter to her breast and thanked the
unseen Power for a friend.
When she awoke, it was with the confused sense that some happiness was
awaiting her. As her mind cleared, the mental atmosphere clouded.
Did not any hope which imagination held out mean the cruel revenge of
her jailer? Could she betray her father as he had betrayed her?
She dressed and went downstairs to help Mrs. Carder. The precious letter
was 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 plentiful; for
whenever she left the house she had a respectful shadow; never close,
but always in the vicinity, and remembering yesterday and the lawn-mower
she now realized that the watchdog who guarded her by night had orders
to perform the same office by day.
Rufus felt some relief at seeing his guest appear this morning. His
dreams would have been pleasanter had he been perfectly sure that she
would not in her youthful horror and despair evade him in the one way
possible. He bade her good-morning with an inoffensive commonplace. He
had shot his bolt; now his policy must be soothing and unexacting until
her fear of him had abated and custom had reconciled her to her new
life. She was silent at breakfast, speaking only when spoken to, and
observant of his mother's needs; waiting upon him, too, when it was
necessary.
"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 call
it, because you've saved its life, you know."
"It is nice that there is one bit of shade here," she replied. "I
suppose you hang a hammock there in summer for your mother."
Rufus grinned at his parent, who was vastly uncomfortable under the new
regime of being waited upon by a golden-haired beauty.
"How about it, Ma?" he said. "Did you ever lie down in a hammock in your
life? Got to do it now, you know. Bay windows and hammocks belong
together. 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 and
see somethin' of the country around here? It's mighty pretty. You seem
stuck on trees. I'll show you a wood road that's a wonder."
Geraldine cringed, but controlled herself. Renewed contact with Rufus
was 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 her
son. "I'm scared of autos. I don't want to go."
"Well, you're goin', Ma," declared Rufus, perceiving that Geraldine
would as yet refuse to go alone with him, and considering that as
ballast in the tonneau his mother's presence would be innocuous. "This
little girl's got the reins. You and me are passengers. Don't forget
that."
So later in the fresh, lovely spring day, Mrs. Carder, wrapped in an
antiquated shawl and with a bonnet that had to be rescued from an unused
shelf, was tucked into the back seat of the car.
Rufus held open the front door for Geraldine, and though she hesitated
she decided not to anger him and stepped in to sit beside him. He did
all the talking that was done, the girl replying in monosyllables and
looking straight before her.
"I thought I'd stop to the village," he said, "and wire into town to
have some help sent out. How would you word it?"
"I came as help," replied Geraldine. "I think we get along with the work
pretty well. Pete is very handy for a boy. Your mother seems to dread
servants. Don't send for anybody on my account."
The girl's voice was colorless, and she did not look at Rufus who
regarded her uncertainly.
"All right," he said at last. "Perhaps it would be as well to wait till
some day we're in town and you can talk to 'em. I'll wire for some eats
anyway."
When they reached the village the car stopped before the
telegraph-office. Carder left the car, and at the mere temporary relief
of him Geraldine's heart lightened. A wild wish swept through her that
she 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 to
betray 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 her
with 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, eager
face.
"Keefe. The village of Keefe. Where is it?"
"Oh, that's yonder," said the man, pointing. "T'other side o' the
mountain."
She turned to Mrs. Carder. "I have a friend who lives there, a very good
friend whom I would like to see."
She made the explanation lest the old woman should tell her son of her
eager 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 it
would be hilly about here."
"Not so close to the sea," replied Carder. "There is what they call the
mountain, though, over yonder." He jerked his head vaguely. "Pretty
good-sized hill. Makes a water-shed that favors my farm."
Geraldine appeared to listen in silence to the monologue that followed
concerning her companion's prowess as a self-made man and the cleverness
with which he had seized every opportunity that came his way. Her mind
was in a singular tumult. An incoming wave of thought--the reminder that
she must be clever, too, and earn Carder's confidence in order that he
might relax his espionage--was met by the counter-consideration that if
she disappointed his desire he would blast her father's name. Just as
happens in the meeting of the incoming and outgoing tide, her thoughts
would be broken and fly up in a confusion as to what course she really
wished to pursue. By the time she gained the privacy of her own room
that night, she felt exhausted by the contradictions of her own beaten
heart 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 would
feel the human touch of Miss Upton's kindliness once again. Even if she
gave "her body to be burned" and all life became a desert of ashes, one
star would shine upon her sacrifice, the affectionate thought of this
good 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 her
escape was the end in view. Did she wish to escape? Did she? Could she
pay the cost? What happiness would there be for her when all her life
she Would be hearing in fancy the amazement at her father's crime, the
gossip and condemnation that would go the rounds of his associates.
She held the letter to her sick heart and gazing into space pictured the
hateful future.
There was a slight stir outside her door. Something was again being
pushed beneath it by slow degrees. Again it looked like an envelope, but
this time the paper was not white. Geraldine regarded the small dusky
square, scarcely discernible in the lamplight, and rising went toward
it.
She picked up the much-soiled object by its extreme corner. It bore no
address. She believed Pete must have written to her, and was greatly
touched by the thought that the poor boy might wish to express to her
his sympathy or his gratitude. It had been a brave soul who stood
stolidly before Rufus Carder and refused to give up Miss Upton's letter.
Moving cautiously and without a sound, she took the letter to the
bureau, and holding down the bent and soiled envelope with the handle of
her hairbrush, she again used the woman's universal utensil, opened the
seal, and drew out a letter. Her heart suddenly leaped to her throat,
for it was her father's handwriting that met her eye. Unfolding the
sheet, 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 constantly 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 again
she kissed the letter while tears of grief ran down her cheeks. A tiny
hope sprang in her breast. She read her father's words over and over,
striving to glean from them a contradiction of the accusation that he
had planned and carried out a deliberate crime.
Rufus Carder had promised her father to treat her as a daughter. How
that assertion soothed the wound to her filial affection, and warmed her
heart with the assurance that her father had not sold her into the worst
slavery!
She soon crept into bed, but not to sleep. Her father's exhortation
seemed to give her permission to speculate on those words of the
stranger knight:
"Courage. Walk in meadow. Wear white."