The Meadow
The knight was doubly dusty when, returning from his quest in the late
twilight, he halted his noisy steed before Upton's Fancy Goods and
Notions. He was confronted by a sign: "Closed. Taking account of stock."
The young man tried the door which resisted vigorous turns of its
handle. Nothing daunted, he knocked peremptorily, then waited a space.
Getting no response, he renewed his assaults with such force that at
last the lock turned, the door opened, and an irate face with a
one-sided slit of a mouth was projected at him threateningly.
"Can't you read, hey?" was the exasperated question, followed by an
energetic effort to close the door which was foiled by the interposition
of a masculine foot.
"Yes, Mrs. Whipp, I learned last year. I'm awfully sorry, but I have to
come in." As he spoke the visitor opened the door in spite of the
indignant resistance of Charlotte's whole body, and walked into the
empty shop where kerosene lamps were already burning. "I have to see
Miss Upton. Awfully sorry to disturb you like this," he added, smiling
down at the angry, weazened face which gradually grew bewildered. "Why,
it's Mr. Barry," she soliloquized aloud. "Just the same," she added, the
sense of outrage holding over, "we'd ruther you'd 'a' come to-morrer."
Ben strode through the shop and out to the living-room, Mrs. Whipp
following impotently, talking in a high, angry voice.
"'T ain't my fault, Miss Upton. He would come in. Some folk'll do jest
what they please, whatever breaks."
"Law, Ben Barry!" exclaimed Miss Mehitable with a start. "You've surely
caught me in my regimentals!"
Miss Upton's regimentals consisted of ample and billowy apron effects
over a short petticoat. Her hair was brushed straight off her round face
and twisted in a knot as tight as Charlotte's own; and she wore large
list slippers.
"Don't you care, Mehit. I look like a blackamoor myself. I had to see
you"--the young fellow grasped his friend's hands, his eyes sparkling.
"I'd kiss you if I was wearing a pint less dust. She's an angel, a star,
a wonder!" he finished vehemently.
Miss Upton forgot her own appearance, her lips worked, and her eyes were
eager. "Ain't she, ain't she?" she responded in excitement equal to his
own. "Is she comin'? When?"
"Heaven knows. She's a prisoner, with that brute for a jailer."
Miss Upton, who had been standing by the late supper-table in the act of
assisting Charlotte to carry off the wreck, fell into a chair, her mouth
open.
"And you left her there!" she cried at last. "You didn't knock him down
and carry her off!"
"Great Scott, how I wanted to!" replied Ben between his teeth, his fists
clenched; "but she wouldn't let me. There's something there we've got to
find out. She shook her head and signaled me to do nothing. He told her
to bid me go away and she obeyed him. Oh, Miss Upton, how she looked!
The most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life, but the most haunted,
mournful, despairing face--"
"Ben, you're makin' me sick!" responded Miss Mehitable, her voice
breaking. "Did you give the poor lamb my letter?"
"He wouldn't let me get near enough to do that; but I gave it to a
stupid-looking dwarf who was mowing the grass near by. I'm not even sure
he understood me. Perhaps he was deaf and dumb. I don't know; but it was
the best I could do. She showed me so plainly that I was only making it
harder for her by insisting on anything, there was nothing for me to do
but to come away, boiling." Ben began striding up and down the
living-room, his hands in his pockets, his restlessness causing Pearl to
leap up, barely escaping his heavy shoe. Her arched back and her
mistress's face both betokened an outraged bewilderment.
Mrs. Whipp's eyes and ears were stretched to the utmost. This autocratic
young upstart had broken into the house and nearly stepped on her pet.
All the same, if he hadn't done so, Miss Upton would still be keeping
secrets from her. She had felt sure ever since Miss Mehitable's last
trip to the city that there was something unusual in the air and that
she was being defrauded of her rights in being shut out from
participation therein. Had this young masculine hurricane not stormed in
to-night, no telling how long she would have been kept in the dark; so
she stopped, looked, and listened, with all her might.
"Well, what are you goin' to _do_, Ben?" asked Miss Upton, beseechingly.
"You're not goin' to leave it so, are you?"
"I should say not. Carder is going to have me on his trail till that
exquisite creature is out of his clutches. Never was there a sleuth with
his heart in his business as mine will be. Oh!"--Ben, pausing not in the
march which sent Pearl to the top of a bookcase, raised his gaze
heavenward--"what eyes, Miss Upton! Those beautiful despairing eyes in
that dreary, sordid den, cut off from the world!"
"Ben, you stop!" whimpered Miss Mehitable, using her handkerchief.
"You're breakin' my heart. And to think how you scoffed at me on
Sunday!"
"Wasting time like a fool!" ejaculated Ben. He suddenly stopped before
the weeping Mehitable, nearly tripping over her roomy slippers. "Now,
Miss Upton, this is what you are to do. I'm going to town the first
thing in the morning and take steps to get on the trail of that sly fox.
You go right up to see Mother and tell her all about Miss Melody." Again
his gaze sought the ceiling. "Melody! What a perfect name for the most
charming, graceful, exquisite human flower that ever bloomed!" Turning
suddenly, the rapt speaker encountered Mrs. Whipp's twisted, acid,
hungrily listening countenance. He emitted a burst of laughter and
looked back at Miss Mehitable, who was wiping her eyes. "Tell Mother the
whole story," he went on, "just as you did to me; and here's hoping my
skepticism isn't inherited. And now, Mrs. Whipp"--addressing the faded
listener who gave a surprised sniff--"I'll go home and wash my face. I
know you'll approve of that. Good-night, Miss Upton; don't you cry. I'm
going to put up a good fight and perhaps Geraldine--oh, what a lovely
name!--perhaps she has the comfort of your letter by this time." Ben
scowled with sudden introspection. "What hold has that rascal over her?
That's what puzzles me. What hold _can_ he have?"
Miss Mehitable blew her nose grievously. "Why, he's cousin to her rascal
stepmother, you know. No tellin' what they cooked up between 'em."
Of course, after her emissary had departed Miss Upton had to face Mrs.
Whipp and her injured sniffs and silent implications of maltreatment;
but she sketched the story to her, eliciting the only question she
dreaded.
"What did you say to the girl in your letter? Did you write her to come
here?" Mrs. Whipp's manner was stony.
"Yes, I did," replied Miss Mehitable bravely.
"Then I s'pose I'd better be makin' other plans," said Charlotte, going
to Pearl and picking her up as if preparing for instant departure.
Miss Upton's eyes shone with exasperation. "I wish you wouldn't drive me
crazy, Charlotte Whipp. If you haven't any sympathy for a poor orphan in
jail on a desolate farm, then I wouldn't own it, if I was you. You can
see what chance she has o' comin' here. If the _law_ has to settle it,
she's likely to be toothless before she can make a move."
Mrs. Whipp was startled by the wrathful voice and manner of one usually
so pacific.
"I didn't mean to make you mad, Miss Upton," she said with a meek change
of manner; and there the matter dropped.
Now was a crucial time for Geraldine Melody. Her father's exhortation to
her not to consider him and the doubt which his letter had raised as to
his legal guilt, coupled with the memory of the vigorous young knight in
knickerbockers, gave her the feeling that she might at least obey the
latter's mysterious hint.
Rufus Carder was still in fear that he had pushed matters too fast, and
the next morning, when his captive came downstairs to help get the
breakfast, he contented himself with devouring her with his eyes. She
felt that she must guard her every look lest he observe a vestige of her
reviving hope and courage. She must return to the thought of becoming a
"trusty." It would be difficult to steer a course between the docility
that would encourage odious advances on the one hand, and on the other
a too obvious repugnance which would put her jailer on his guard. Of
course there were moments when the lines of her father's letter seemed
to her to admit criminality, but at others the natural hopefulness of
youth asserted itself, and she interpreted his words to indicate only
his humiliation and disgraceful debts.
There was an innate loftiness, an ethereal quality, about the girl's
personality which Carder always felt, in spite of himself, even at the
very moments when he was obtruding his familiarities upon her. She was
like a fine jewel which he had stolen, but which baffled his efforts to
set it among his own possessions.
Already in the short time which had elapsed since bringing her to the
farm, she had fallen away to an alarming delicacy of appearance. Her
mental conflict and the blows she had received showed so plainly in her
looks that Carder's whole mind became absorbed in the desire to build
her up. She might slip away from him yet without any recourse to
violence on her own part.
That morning, her father's letter in the same envelope with Miss Upton's
and both treasures against her heart, she came downstairs and saw Pete
washing at the pump. Rufus Carder was not in sight, and she moved
swiftly toward the dwarf, who looked frightened at her approach.
"How can I thank you, Pete!" she exclaimed softly, and her smile
transformed her pale face into something heavenly to look upon. Her eyes
poured gratitude into his dull ones and his face crimsoned.
"Keep away," was all he said.
Carder appeared, as it seemed, up through the ground, and the dwarf
rubbed his face and neck with a rough, grimy towel.
"Good-mornin'," said Rufus in his harsh voice.
Geraldine turned a lightless face toward him. "Good-morning," she said.
"Is this well a spring?"
"Yes. Have you noticed how good the water is?"
"I was just coming for a drink when you startled me. I didn't see you."
"Allow me," said Rufus, picking up the half cocoanut shell which was
chained to the wood. "Let's make a loving-cup of it. I'm thirsty, too."
He held the cup while Pete pumped the water over it, and finally shaking
off the clinging drops offered it to the guest.
Geraldine made good her words. An inward fever of excitement was burning
in her veins. The proximity of this man caused her always the same
panic. Oh, what was meant by those written words of the sunny-eyed,
upstanding young knight who had obeyed her so reluctantly? Now it was
her turn to obey him, and she must see to it that no suspicion of
Carder's should prevent her.
When she had drunk every drop, Rufus took a few sips--he had not much
use for water--and they returned to the house together.
When Mrs. Carder and Pete had sent the hired men afield, the three sat
down to breakfast as usual, and Rufus, moved by the guest's transparent
appearance and downcast eyes, played unconsciously into her hands.
"This is great weather, Geraldine," he said. "You don't want to mope in
the house. You want to spend a lot o' time outdoors. I'll take you out
driving whenever you want to go."
Geraldine lifted her eyes to his--the eyes with the drooping, pensive
corners deepened by dark lashes which Miss Upton had tried to describe.
"I think I'm not feeling very strong, Mr. Carder," she said listlessly.
"Long drives tire me."
"Long walks will tire you more," he answered, instantly suspicious.
"Yes, I don't feel equal to them now," she answered, her grave glance
dropping again to her plate.
He regarded her with a troubled frown.
"That hammock chair and a hammock will be out to-day," he said. "I'll
put 'em under the elm you're so stuck on, and I guess we can scare up
some books for you to read."
Geraldine's heart began to quicken and she put a guard upon her manner
lest eagerness should crop out in spite of her.
"It is early for shade," she replied. "The sun is pleasant. Everything
is so bare about here," she added wearily. "I wish I could find some
flowers."
Then it was that Mrs. Carder, poor dumb automaton, volunteered a remark;
and the most silver-tongued orator could not have better pleased
Geraldine with eloquence.
"Used to be quite a lot grow down in the medder," she said.
Geraldine's heart beat like a little triphammer, but she did not look up
from her plate, nor change her listless expression.
"I'd like to go and see if there are any," she said. "I love them. Where
is the meadow?"
"Oh, it's just that swale to the right of the driveway," said Rufus.
"It's low ground, and I s'pose the wild flowers do like it. I hope the
cows haven't taken them all. You needn't be afraid o' the cows."
"No, I'm not," replied Geraldine. "Perhaps I'll go some time."
"Go to-day, go while the goin's good," urged Rufus. "Never can tell when
the rain will keep you in. You shall have a flower garden, Geraldine.
You tell me where you'd like it and I'll have the ground got ready right
off."
"Thank you," she answered, "but I like the wild flowers best."
As soon as the dishes were dried, Geraldine went up to her room and
delved into her little trunk. She brought out a white cotton dress. It
had not been worn since the summer before, and though clean it was badly
wrinkled. She took it down to the kitchen and ironed it.
"Goin' to put on a white dress?" asked Mrs. Carder. "Kind o' cool for
that, ain't it?"
"I don't think so. I have very few dresses, and I get tired of wearing
the same one."
Mrs. Carder sighed. "Rufus will buy you all the dresses you want if
you'll only get strong. I can see he's dreadful worried because you look
pale."
"Well, I am going to try to become sunburned to-day. I'm so glad you
thought of the meadow, Mrs. Carder. Perhaps you like flowers, too."
The old woman sighed. "I used to. I've 'most forgot what they look
like."
"I'll bring you some if there are any."
Geraldine's eyes held an excited light as she ironed away. After the
eleven o'clock dinner she went up to her room to dress. Color came into
her cheeks as she saw her reflection in the bit of mirror. What a
strange thing she was doing. Supposing Miss Upton's paragon had already
become absorbed in his own interests. How absurd she should feel
wandering afield in the costume he had ordered, if he never came and she
never heard from him again.
"Wear white."
What could it mean? What possible difference could the color of her gown
make in any plan he might have concocted for her assistance? However, in
the dearth of all hope, in her helplessness and poverty, and aching from
the heart-wound Rufus Carder had given her, why should she not obey?
The color receded from her face, and again delving into her trunk she
brought forth an old, white, embroidered crepe shawl with deep fringe
which had belonged to her mother. This she wrapped about her and started
downstairs. She feared that Carder would accompany her in her ramble.
She could hear his rough voice speaking to some workmen in front of the
house, and she moved noiselessly out to the kitchen.
Mrs. Carder looked up from the bread she was moulding and started,
staring over her spectacles at the girl.
"You look like a bride," she said.
"I'll bring you some flowers," replied Geraldine, hastening out of the
kitchen-door down the incline toward the yellow office.
"Hello, there," called the voice she loathed, and Carder came striding
after her. She stood still and faced him. The long lines and deep,
clinging fringe of the creamy white shawl draped her in statuesque
folds. Carder gasped in admiration.
"You look perfectly beautiful!" he exclaimed.
The young girl reminded herself that she was working to become a trusty.
"What's the idea," he went on, "of makin' such a toilet for the benefit
of the cows?" At the same time, the wish being father to the thought,
the glorious suspicion assailed him that Geraldine was perhaps not
unwilling to show him her beauty in a new light. It stood to reason that
she must possess a normal girlish vanity.
She forced a faint smile. "It's just my mother's old shawl," she
replied.
"Want me to help you find your flowers?" he asked.
"If you wish to," she answered, "but it isn't discourteous to like to be
alone sometimes, is it, Mr. Carder? You were saying at dinner that I
looked tired. I really don't feel very well. I thought I would like to
roam about alone a while in the sunshine."
Her gentle humility brought forth a loud: "Oh, of course, of course,
that's all right. Suit yourself and you'll suit me. Just find some roses
for your own cheeks while you're about it, that's all I ask."
"I'll try," she answered, and walked on. Carder accompanied her as far
as his office, where he paused.
"Good-bye, bless your little sweet heart," he said, low and ardently, in
the tone that always seemed to make the girl's very soul turn over.
"Good-bye," she answered, without meeting the hunger of his oblique
gaze; and crossing the driveway she forced herself to move slowly down
the grassy incline that led to the meadow where a number of cows were
grazing.
Carder watched longingly her graceful, white figure crowned with gold.
She was safe enough in the meadow. Even if she desired to go out of
bounds, she would not invade any public way, hatless, and in clinging
white crepe. The cows were excellent chaperones. Nevertheless--he
snapped his fingers and Pete came out from behind the office.
Carder did not speak, but pointed after the white figure, and Pete,
again dragging the mower, ambled across the driveway and followed on
down the slope.
Geraldine heard the clicking and glanced around, sure of what she should
see. She smiled a little and shook her head as she walked on.
"Poor little Pete. Good little Pete," she murmured. "I owe him every
moment of comfort I've known in this place."
When she considered that she had gone far enough to be free from
observation, she turned to let him catch up with her; but when she
paused he did likewise and waited immovable.
"I want to talk to you, Pete. I'm so glad of the chance. I'm so thankful
to you," she called softly.
The dwarf drank in the delicate radiance of her face with adoring eyes.
"Go on," he replied. "He is watching. He is always watching. You look
like an angel, but the devil is at the window. Go on."
She turned back obediently and continued down the slope. When she
reached the soft, spongy green of the meadow, the cows regarded her
wonderingly. Pete began mowing the long grass on the edge, working so
slowly that the sound did not mar the hush of the place; and sometimes
he sank down at ease and pulled apart a jointed stem, his eyes feasting
on his charge.
The cows had scorned certain blooms which grew lavishly and which
Geraldine waited to gather until it should be time to return. Near a
large clump of hazel-bushes she found a low rock, and she stretched out
there in the sunshine and quiet, and tried to think.
There had been a little warm spot in her heart ever since that hour when
she read Miss Upton's letter. She was no longer utterly friendless. If
some miracle should give her back her freedom, this good woman would
help her to find independence. She longed to see that village of Keefe.
She wished never again to see a city. Did Benjamin Barry live in Keefe?
Geraldine summoned his image only too easily. Despite Miss Upton's
recommendation she did not wish to know him, or to trust him; but think
about him she must since she was dressed to his order and in the spot of
his selection. How absurd it all was! What dream could he have been
indulging when he wrote those words?
The girl could not keep her eyes from the driveway nor banish the
pulsing hope that she should see a motor-cycle again speeding up the
road. She even rose from her reclining posture lest she should not be
sufficiently conspicuous in the field; but the hours passed and nothing
occurred beyond the cows' occasional cessation from browsing to regard
her when she moved, and the occasional arising of Pete from the ground
to push his mower idly along the turf.
The flat landscape, the broad sky, everything was laid bare to the
windows of the yellow office. She felt certain that should the dusty
knight reappear, he would be recognized from afar, and that Rufus Carder
would circumvent any plan he might have. He would stop at nothing, that
she knew. She wondered if the law would excuse a man for murdering an
intruder who had once been warned off his premises. She did not doubt
that Carder would be as ready with the shot-gun she had noticed in his
office as he was with the cruel whip. She covered her face with her
hands as she recalled the sunny-eyed knight and shuddered at the thought
of another meeting between the two. It had been plain that the visitor's
youth, strength, and good looks had thrown Carder into a panic. He would
stop at nothing. Nothing.
A lanky youth with trousers tucked in his boots at last appeared,
slouching down toward the meadow to get the cows.
Geraldine came out of her apprehensive mental pictures with a sigh, and
rose. She gathered her flowers, and moved slowly back toward the house.
She must appear to have enjoyed her outing, else it would not seem
consistent for her to wish to come again to-morrow; and she must, she
must come again! Her poor contradictory little heart found itself
clinging to the one vague, absurd hope, despite its fears.