The Bird of Prey
Not until another sunny day had passed uneventfully did Geraldine
realize how much hope she was hanging upon the knight of the
motor-cycle. Despite his youth, his manner and voice had been those of
one accustomed to exercising authority. He certainly had had something
definite in mind when he wrote that message to her. She knew so well
Pete's stupid demeanor, that, as she roamed in the meadow that second
day, she meditated on the probability that the visitor had despaired of
her receiving the message, and had concluded to abandon his idea,
whatever it might have been.
It was at least a relief from odious pressure to be out in the field
alone. The soft-eyed cows, an occasional bird flying overhead, and the
intermittent clicking of Pete's lawn-mower as he kept his respectful
distance were all peaceful. There was not a tree for a bird to light
upon. Even birds fled from the Carder farm. The great elm could have
sheltered many, but the feathered creatures seemed not to trust it.
Perhaps a reason lay in the fact that numbers of cats lived under the
barn and outhouses. Nearly always one might be seen crouching and
crawling along the ground looking cautiously to the right and left. None
was ever kept for a pet or allowed in the house or fed. They lived on
rats, mice, birds, and the field mice, and were practically wild
animals. In their frightened, suspicious actions at sight of a human
being, Geraldine recognized a reflection of her own mental attitude; and
she pitied the poor things even while they excited her repugnance.
Spring and no birds, she thought sadly, gathering her few wild flowers
when the cows had gone home that second afternoon. She strained her eyes
down the driveway, Blankness. Blankness everywhere. At the house,
misery.
The old fairy tales came to her mind. Tales where the captive princess
pines and hopes alternately.
"'On the second day all happened as before,'" she murmured in quotation.
It was always on the third day that something really came to pass, she
remembered, and she scanned the sky for threatening clouds. Ah, if it
should rain to-morrow and the leaden hours should drag by in that odious
house! After having indulged a ray of hope, such a prospect seemed
unbearable.
In her role of trusty she had constrained herself to civility. She had
taken Mrs. Carder the flowers last night, and Rufus had put some tiny
blooms in his buttonhole and caressed them at supper-time with
significant glances at her.
When she awoke on the following day her first move was to the window
with an anxious look at the sky. As soon as she was satisfied that it
was not threatening, a reaction set in to her thought. She always
hastened to dress in the morning, for her compassion for Mrs. Carder
made her hurry to her assistance. Pete's eyes in this few days had taken
on a seeing look and he worked with energy to follow every direction of
his golden-haired goddess. In the kitchen he did not avoid her eyes, and
the smiles he received from her were the only sunbeams that had ever
come into his life.
She was in many minds that morning about going again to the meadow. It
seemed so absurd, so humiliating to costume herself as for private
theatricals, and to go repeatedly to keep a tryst which the other party,
and that a man, had forgotten.
Would the princess in the fairy tale do so? she wondered; but then if
she had not persisted the story could never have been written.
"Ain't you sick o' that meadow and the cows?" asked Rufus at the
dinner-table. "Hadn't you better go drivin' to-day? I've got an errand
to the village and just as lieve do it myself as send one o' the men if
you'll go."
Geraldine, the two braids of her hair brought up around her head in a
golden wreath that rested on fluffy waves, was looking more than usually
appealing, he thought, and he congratulated himself on the restraint
with which he was allowing her mind to work on the proposition he had
made to her. She was evidently becoming more normal, finding herself as
it were. Those flashes of red and white that had passed across her face
in her intensity of feeling had ceased. Her voice was steady and civil.
"The meadow seems to agree with me," she answered. "Why should my not
going with you prevent you from doing your errand at the village?"
Why, indeed? thought Carder, regarding her. She had no money, she was in
a part of the world strange to her. If she again strolled forth arrayed
in the white costume in which her girlish vanity seemed to revel, how
could she do anything unsafe during the short time of his absence,
especially with Pete to guard her? The dwarf had had it made perfectly
clear to him that his life depended on Geraldine's presence.
However, it was Carder's policy never to take a very small chance of a
very big misfortune. 'Safe bind, safe find,' was a favorite saying of
his.
"As soon as you feel thoroughly rested, we must take a trip to town," he
said, and he advanced a bony, ill-kept hand toward hers as if he would
seize it. "I think Ma works too hard," he added diplomatically as
Geraldine slid her hand off the table. "We must go and see if we can get
the right kind of help. You'll know how to pick it out. Then what do
you say to havin' an architect come out and look over the old shack here
and see what he thinks he can do with it, regardless of expense?"
Geraldine felt that unnerving nausea again steal around her heart.
"It isn't too late for us to take a little flyer in to-day," he added
eagerly, and the suggestion made the meadow and its cows look like a
glimpse of paradise. Supposing _he_ should come and she be gone! This
was the great third day. "I--really--I"--stammered Geraldine--"I feel a
little shaky yet."
"Oh, all right," Rufus laughed leniently. "Be it ever so humble and all
that you know. _Home_ for you, eh, Gerrie?"
She longed to rise and strike his ugly smile at the sound of her
father's pet name, and she trembled from head to foot. "A trusty," she
said to herself commandingly. "A trusty."
She did not hear another word that was said during dinner, and when she
was free she flew up to her room and put on the poor little
grass-stained dress and the rich crepe of her mother's heirloom.
"O God, send him!" she prayed, as her fingers worked on the fastenings.
"O God, let him come"--then with tardy, desperate recollection, she
added--"and O God, save his life!"
It seemed difficult for Rufus Carder to separate himself from her that
day. When she emerged from the house, she found him watching for her and
she reminded herself again that if she angered him he might prevent her
from doing as she pleased. It seemed to her now so intensely vital that
she should get to the meadow that she felt panic lest something happen
to prevent it.
"You don't want to go down there again to-day," said Rufus coaxingly.
"Let's take a walk up to the pond."
"Is there a pond?" asked Geraldine quickly. She had often wondered if
there were any body of water about the place deep enough for a girl to
be covered in it if she lay face down.
"Oh, yes, I have a cranberry bog with a dam. Makes a pretty decent pond
part o' the year. How would you like it if I got you a canoe, Gerrie?
Say! would you like that?" The interest that had come into the girl's
face at mention of the pond encouraged him. "Come on, let's go. You've
had enough o' the cows."
He grasped her arm and she set her teeth not to pull away.
"Would you mind waiting?" She put the question gently and even gave him
a little smile, the first he had ever seen on her face. The
exquisiteness of it, her pearly teeth, the Cupid's bow of her lips
flushed him from head to foot. "I seem to be getting attached to that
meadow," she added. "You'd better have one more buttonhole bouquet,
don't you think?"
The delight of it rushed to Carder's head. He, too, had to put a strong
restraint upon himself to let well enough alone. All was going so
nicely. He must not make a false move.
"Well," he responded with a sort of gasping sigh, the blood in his face,
"as I've always said, suit yourself and you'll suit me. Wind me right
around your finger as you always have done and always will do."
He walked completely down the incline with her to-day.
She wondered if he had any sense of humor when she heard the clicking of
Pete's lawn-mower behind them and knew that he was following. Carder did
not seem to notice it; but he said: "I've a great mind to stay down here
with you to-day and find out what the charm is."
"I suppose it is just peace," she answered, and she was so frightened
lest he carry out this threat that she felt herself grow pale to the
lips. "I've passed through a great deal of excitement," she added
unsteadily. "The silence seems healing to me."
"Oh, well, little one," he replied good-humoredly, "if it's doing you
good, that's the main thing. You have had it pretty hard, I know that.
I'm goin' to make it up to you, Gerrie, I'm goin' to make it up to you.
Don't you be afraid. You're safe to be the most envied girl in this
county. You'll make some splash, let me tell you, when my plans are
carried out." He patted her cringing shoulder, and with one more longing
look turned and left her.
Her knees were still trembling and she sank down on her rock and watched
Carder's round shoulders and ill-fitting clothes as he ascended the
incline to the office.
Pete was using a sickle on the stubbly grass, too stiff and
interspersed with stones for the mower.
The cows' big soft eyes were regarding Geraldine, as they always did for
a time after her arrival.
She turned her tired, listless look back to them and wondered what they
did here for comfort in the heat of summer. There was no shade, and no
creek to walk into.
When Rufus Carder arrived at his office he found the telephone ringing.
The message he received necessitated sending some word to a man out in
the field.
He went to the window and looked down at the white spot which was
Geraldine. He saw her rise and walk about. Perhaps she was picking
flowers. The distance was too great for him to be certain.
"I shall be right here," he muttered. Then he went to the corner of the
office and picked up a megaphone. Going outside the door he called to
Pete. "Come up here!" he shouted. The boy dropped his sickle and began
to amble up the hill as fast as his bow-legs would permit.
Geraldine heard the shout, and turning saw the dwarf obeying the
summons.
"Nobody but you to guard me now," she said to the prettiest of the cows
with whom she had made friends.
She watched Pete reach the summit of the incline and vanish into the
yellow office.
Presently he came out again and started off in the direction of the
fields.
"I think there is some one beside you to guard me now," went on
Geraldine to the cow, who gave her an undivided attention mindful of the
bunches of grass which the girl had often gathered for her. "I think the
ogre has come out to the edge of his cave and is scarcely winking as he
watches us down here. Oh, Bossy, I'm the most miserable girl in the
whole world." Her breath caught in her throat, and winking back
despairing tears she stooped to gather the expected thick handful of
grass when a humming sound came faintly across the stillness of the
field. She paused with listless curiosity and listened. The buzzing
seemed suddenly to fill all the air. It increased, and her upturned face
beheld an approaching aeroplane. Before she had time to connect its
presence with herself it began diving toward the earth. On and on it
came. It skimmed the ground, it ran along the meadow, the cows
stampeded. She clasped her hands, and with dilated eyes saw the aviator
jump out, pull something out of the cockpit and run toward her. She ran
toward him. It was--it couldn't be--it was--he pushed back his
helmet--it was her knight! Her excited eyes met his. "I've come for
you," he called gayly, and her face glorified with amazed joy.
"He'll kill you!" she gasped in sudden terror. "Hurry!"
Ben was already taking off the crepe shawl and putting her arms into the
sleeves of a leather coat. A shout came from the top of the hill. Rufus
Carder appeared, yelling and running. His gun was in his hand. The men
from the fields, who had heard and seen the aeroplane, and Pete, who had
not yet had time to reach them, all came running in excitement to see
the great bird which had alighted in such an unlikely spot.
"He'll kill you!" gasped Geraldine again. A shot rang out on the air.
Ben laughed as he pushed a helmet down over her head.
"It can't be done," he cried, as excited as she. He threw the shawl into
the cockpit, lifted the girl in after it, buckled the safety belt across
her, jumped in himself, and the great bird began to flit along the
ground and quickly to rise.
Another wild shot rang out, and frightful oaths. Geraldine heard the
former, though the latter were inaudible, and she became tense from her
head to the little feet which pushed against the foot-board as if to
hasten their flight. She clutched the side of the veering plane. With
every rod they gained her relief grew. Ben, looking into her face for
signs of fear, received a smile which made even his enviable life better
worth living than ever before. No exultant conqueror ever experienced
greater thrills. Up, up, up, they flew out of reach of bullets and all
the sordidness of earth; and when the meadow became a blur Geraldine
felt like a disembodied spirit, so great was her exaltation. Not a
vestige of fear assailed the heart which had so recently wondered if the
cranberry pond was deep enough to still its misery. She rejoiced to be
near the low-lying, fleecy clouds which a little while ago had aroused
her apprehensions for the morrow. Let come what would, she was safe from
Rufus Carder and she was free. Her sentiment for her leather-coated
deliverer was little short of adoration. Gratitude seemed too poor a
term. He had taken her from hell, and it seemed to her as they went up,
up, up, they must be nearing heaven. At last he began flying in a direct
line.
Below was her former jailer, foaming at the mouth, and Pete, poor Pete,
lying on the ground rolling in an agony of loss. "She's gone, she's
gone," he moaned and sobbed, over and over; and even Carder saw that if
there had been any plot afoot the dwarf had not been in it. So long as
the plane was in sight, all the farm-workers stared open-mouthed. None
of them loved the master, but none dared comment on his fury now or ask
a question. His gun was in his hand and his eyes were bloodshot. His
open mouth worked. They had all seen the beautiful girl who had now been
snatched away so amazingly, and there was plenty to talk about and
wonder about for months to come on the Carder farm. Rufus Carder, when
the swift scout plane had become a speck, tore at his collar. The veins
stood out in his neck and his forehead. He felt the curious gaze of his
helpers and in impotent fury he turned and walked up to the house. His
mother, still in the kitchen, saw him come in and started back with a
cry. His collar and shirt flying open, his face crimson and distorted,
his scowl, and his gun, terrified her almost to fainting. She sank into
a chair. Her lips moved, but she could not make a sound.
"What did the girl tell you!" cried her son.
She clutched her breast, her lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Rufus saw that she was too frightened to speak.
"Don't be scared," he said roughly. "All you've got to do is to tell me
the truth." He made a mighty effort to control his rasping voice. "Did
you know Geraldine was goin' away?"
Mrs. Carder shook her head speechlessly.
"Sit up, Ma. Talk if you've got any sense. What did the girl tell you?
Why was she dressin' up every day?"
"I--I thought"--stammered Mrs. Carder, "I thought she wanted to look
pretty. I--I thought you were goin' to marry her. She never told me
anything. Gone away?" Some curiosity struggled through the old woman's
paralyzing fear. "How could she go away? She hadn't any hat on." She
spoke tremulously.
"Come up to her room," said Rufus sternly.
He flung his gun into a corner and strode toward the stairs, the shaky
old woman following him.
Up in Geraldine's chamber he stood still for a moment scowling and
viewing its neatness, then strode to the closet and opened the door. Her
shabby suit was hanging there, and the pale-green challie gown she had
worn in his office. He grasped its soft folds in crushing fingers. The
gingham dress in which she worked every morning was also hanging on its
hook. Her hat was on the shelf. That was all. Her few toilet articles
were neatly arranged on the shabby old bureau. He opened its drawers and
tossed their meager contents ruthlessly, searching for some letter or
scrap of paper to throw light on her exit. He went to the trunk which
contained some sheets of music and a few books. These he scattered
about searching, searching between their leaves.
His mother, trembling before him, spoke tremulously. "Did she have any
money to go away?"
"No," he growled.
"You can see she didn't expect to go, Rufus," said the old woman
timidly. "All her things are here. Why--why don't you take the car
and--and go after her?"
"Because she went up in the air, that's why; and I'll kill him!" He
shook his fists in impotent rage. "He'll find he didn't get away with it
as neat as he thought."
He stormed out of the room, and lucky it was for Pete that that
threshold could tell no tales.
The old woman stared after him in a new terror. Her son, the most
important man in the county, had lost his mind, and all for the sake of
that girl who had managed in some mysterious way to give him the slip.
"Gone up in the air!" Poor Rufus. He had gone mad. She managed that
night to get an interview in the woodshed with the grief-stricken Pete,
and in spite of his incoherence and renewed sobs she learned what had
happened. The dwarf believed that his goddess had been kidnapped. It
never occurred to his dull brain to connect her disappearance with the
letters he had conveyed to her.
The next day Carder was amazed to have the boy seek him. Never before
had Pete ventured to volunteer a word to him. He was sitting in his den
gnawing his nails and revolving in his mind some scheme for Geraldine's
recovery when the dwarf appeared at the door. His shock of hair stood up
as usual and his eyes were swollen.
"Can't we--can't we--look for her, master?" he asked beseechingly. "They
may hurt her--the man that stole her. Can't you--find him, master?"
Carder's scowl bent upon the humble suppliant.
"I ought to have shot him the first time he came," he said savagely.
"Did the--the areoplane ever come before?" asked Pete, amazed, his
heart's desire to see again and save his goddess supplying him with
courage to speak. His dull eyes opened as wide as their puffiness would
permit.
"No," snarled Carder; "but it was that damned fool on the motor-cycle
without a doubt. I don't see how he got at her. No letter ever came."
The speaker went back to gnawing his nails in bitter meditation and
forgot the mourner at his door whose slow wits began to
remember--remember; and who, as he remembered, began to shake in his
poor broken shoes and feel nailed to the ground. At last he ambled away,
thankful that his master did not recur to the questioning of that other
day. His dull wits received a novel sharpening.
Carder's few words had transformed the situation. His goddess had not
been stolen. He recalled that first night when he had forced her back
into her room to save his own life, unmoved by her pleading. Her
sweetness had given him courage to risk concealing the tall visitor's
letter and conveying it to her.
If Carder should suddenly revert to that day and cross-question him, he
must have his denials ready. He must show no fear.
He fell now on the ground and rested his head on his long arms to think.
It was so hard for him to think, and dry sobs kept choking him; but the
wonderful fact slowly possessed him that he had served her. Pete, the
stupid dwarf, butt of rough jokes and ridicule, had saved the bright
being he adored. He understood now her fervent efforts to convey thanks
to him. He felt dimly that the angel whose kindness had brightened his
life for those few days had gone back to the skies she had left. The man
of the motor-cycle had looked stern as he slipped the letter into his
ragged blouse and said the few low words that imposed secrecy and the
importance of the message.
"I'm sure you love her," the man had said. "I'm sure you want to help
her."
The words had contained magic that worked; and Pete had helped her, and
outwitted the man with the whip who owned him body and soul.
Henceforth the dwarf had a wonderful secret, a secret that warmed his
heart with divine fire.
Remembering how his goddess had wanted to go out into the night alone to
escape, he realized that she must have been as unhappy as himself. When
he prevented her from departing, she had not hated him. Compassion was
still in her eyes and voice when she spoke to him that next morning.
Now he had helped her. An angel had fallen into that smoky kitchen and
toiled with her white hands. He had helped her back to heaven. Pete, the
dwarf had done it: Pete.
He rolled over on his back and looked up at the sky. Clouds were
gathering, but she had gone into the blue. She was there now, and it was
through him. Perhaps she was looking at him at this moment. He knew how
her face would glow. He knew how her voice would sound and her eyes
would smile.
"Thank you, Pete. Thank you, good little Pete."
He gazed up at the scudding clouds and his troubled soul grew quiet.