It was mid-afternoon when Hildegarde's note came to Potter at the hangar.
He read it, reread it, and there was no more work for him that day. With
the letter in his hands he left his drawing-board and went into his tiny
office, where he sat down to consider it. Perhaps not so much to consider
the letter as to consider Hildegarde herself.
There was a note in the letter to which he responded instantly--an
arousing note, a reckless note, which called to pulsating life that
heedlessness of consequences which had always been so characteristic of
him. He could see her writing in white heat; could picture her as she sat
at her desk with the smolder of rage in her eyes. They two were in perfect
sympathy, matching daring with daring, rashness with rashness, unrest with
unrest. Both were driven by spirits that scorned repose, and a hunger for
untrammeled freedom of action. Fires burned in both of them which
threatened constantly to burst all restraints. It required no mental
effort on Potter's part to understand Hildegarde; he had but to look into
his own mental mirror and what he saw there reflected her as well.
One point required no consideration--whether or not he would obey her
summons. That he would go was natural, inevitable. Had that call come from
an utter stranger he would have responded because there was something in
him that would have carried him to the spot. But something stronger than
this natural urge of adventuresomeness called him to Hildegarde, for
regarding her he had reached an ultimate conclusion. As he sat with her
letter in his hands he knew it was a conclusion from which he would never
waver; that a thing had happened to him which was final; that something
within him had taken a stand from which there could be no recession. This
conclusion was that Hildegarde von Essen was the woman produced by the
ages for him and for him alone. There was an element of fatality in his
attitude, some fragment of primitive belief in predestination. She had
come into his life, and never could be gotten out of it. He felt, somehow,
that nothing could keep them apart.... He loved as he did other things,
recklessly, unrestrainedly, perhaps with something of primitive savagery.
Rage mixed with his other emotions. Herman von Essen had handled her
ungently; had pawed her about, perhaps, with those huge, unsightly hands
of his. The mark of his every finger was on her arm, she said.... Well, he
would never do it again. Potter wanted to go to the man and batter him to
a pleading mass of blood and bruises. Vaguely he hoped von Essen would
discover him when he came for Hildegarde. That would be his opportunity.
The thing that required thought of him was what he should do with her when
he had taken her away from her father's house. The obvious solution did
not occur to him at once--because it was so obvious; because, perhaps, it
was the thing he so burningly desired.... Suddenly he leaped to his feet,
his eyes shining, his soul uplifted with sudden joy. He would marry her;
he would take her for his own. That was a solution of all their
problems.... In it he neglected to consider her--whether she shared his
views of that matter or not. His sense that they were predestined for each
other made for that neglect.... He would marry her, and then she would be
his to guard, to protect--to love.
Potter was not one to make preparations before the event. In matters which
concerned himself he was not given to looking into the future, but to
doing the thing as it came to hand, and taking care of the consequences
that flowed from it as they should appear. In a vague way he determined
what he would do when he had helped Hildegarde to escape from her father's
house. His common-sense told him that such escapades were looked upon
askance by a staid and plodding world; his innate chivalry and decency and
sportsmanship--and a solicitude for Hildegarde born of his love for
her--impressed it upon him that he must take some steps to safeguard her
as much as would be possible from the wagging of malicious tongues.
Therefore, out of hand, he determined to take her immediately to his own
home, to hand her over to his mother, and then to scamper off for license
and parson.... It seemed perfectly adequate.
He dined at home. As he was leaving the table he said to his mother: "I'll
be home fairly early--probably before eleven. I wonder if you will wait up
for me.... There's something rather important."
"Of course, Potter," she said, no little amazed, for it was the first
request of this character she had ever listened to from her son.
He went out to the garage, put extra robes into his car, and drove out
into the street. Hours must elapse before he could enter upon his
adventure, but he could not put off the starting; he had to be about it.
It was said of Potter that he was never late for anything and usually was
a little ahead of time--and it was natural that he should be. He could not
bear inaction, especially if some event were promised. He had to be moving
toward that event, or making himself feel he was moving toward it. So he
started at eight o'clock to reach a spot not half a mile away which he
knew he must not reach before ten. It was his way.
He drove past the von Essen mansion, turned a mile beyond, and retraced
his way. He scrutinized his watch, and it seemed to him he had made no
impression whatever on the time that must elapse. For several blocks he
drove at a snail's pace, then he turned again and sped back over the icy
pavement at a dangerous speed. Again he consulted his watch.... So for two
hours he drove up and down impatient, eager, unable to quiet himself. He
must be moving; there could be no repose.
He saw Herman von Essen's limousine drive away from the house, half
determined to follow it and settle accounts with Hildegarde's father. He
was in a state of mind which would permit of wild actions. But he did not
follow; instead he applied the brakes savagely, skidded perilously, and
headed in the other direction. It was bitterly cold, but he was hardly
conscious of it; was conscious of nothing but a seething impatience, a
sort of breathless anticipation. Again he looked at his watch, for it
seemed as if he had been driving back and forth for days. It was only
nine-thirty.
As he passed the von Essen house again he peered at it eagerly. There were
few lights, and those dim. The place was quieting down for the night;
servants would be in bed, or drowsily waiting for their master's return.
Soon it would be safe to make the attempt.
After another turn or so he halted his car facing toward his own home and
at a little distance from the entrance to the von Essen grounds. Snapping
on his dimmers, he leaped out and walked across the street to the deeply
shaded area midway between street lights. Carefully he looked in either
direction; no pedestrians were visible; the street was clear save for a
distant automobile approaching from the city. He hesitated a second, then
stepped from the walk into the sheltering shrubbery. With caution he
dodged from dark spot to dark spot, taking pleasure in his subtle approach
with a certain boyishness, a certain pretense--as if he were playing
Indian. The snow reached well above his ankles, and at each step its
brittle crust crackled and crashed alarmingly, but none seemed to take the
alarm.
He rounded the big house in safety and stood under the window Hildegarde
had described as her own. There was no light. Potter crept behind a
snow-shrouded bush and scrutinized it, rising cautiously to his feet and
standing for an instant exposed to view. If Hildegarde were watching
alertly, he said to himself, she would surely see him. He waited. In a
moment he could hear the window open.
"Potter," whispered Hildegarde.
"Here," he said.
She disappeared, but came back presently, holding out something black and
bulky. "My bag," she whispered. "Catch!"
He caught it and deposited it on the snow; then, while he wondered how he
was to get her down from her room, she climbed upon the window-sill,
lowered herself until she hung by her fingers.
"Careful." he said, with incautious loudness. "Wait."
But Hildegarde was driven by the same impatience as himself. There would
be no waiting for her, no caution. She loosed her hold and dropped,
falling into a little heap in the snow. Potter raised her quickly.
"Hurt?" he asked.
"No," she said, "of course not."
He picked up her bag. "My car's just across the street," he said, and they
walked hurriedly toward it.
As they approached a black blot made by the shadow of a clump or
ornamental shrubbery, the dark figure of a man arose, almost from under
their feet, and scurried away. Potter's impulse was to give chase, but
Hildegarde clutched his arm.
"What in thunder?" Potter burst out, angrily. "Somebody spying on us."
"Not on us," said Hildegarde, bitterly.
"Of course it was on us. He probably saw me sneak into the grounds, and
sneaked after to see what I was up to.... I wonder why."
Hildegarde knew it was not a man who had followed Potter, but was
undoubtedly an individual set by sinister interests to keep watch on her
father and her father's house, but she held her peace. It was a thing
shameful to her and one she would keep locked in the secret places of her
heart. It strengthened her courage and her resolution. She was running
away from her father because his proximity was contaminating. "My
_father_," she was thinking. "He's a traitor, a plotter."
They hastened on, and both breathed in relief as Potter assisted
Hildegarde into his car. He pressed the starter button and the cold engine
started with a staccato, uneven, protesting roar.
"Where are we going?" Hildegarde asked.
Potter shifted gears before he replied; then, of a sudden, it occurred to
him that what he had to say presented some difficulties, and was, perhaps,
of a nature to startle his companion.
"Garde," he said, using for the first time the diminutive of her name,
"you and I have been through some things together."
"Yes, indeed," she said.
"I think they've made us better acquainted than--than meeting at a
thundering lot of parties and dances and that sort of thing. Don't you
feel that you know me pretty well?"
"Do you think I'd have written that note to you if I didn't?"
He felt relieved. To be sure she must feel that way. She must think well
of him, must have a certain confidence in him, to have summoned him in
this emergency.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, a bit anxiously.
"To my house," he said, and felt her start of astonishment. "I'll tell you
why." He hesitated, and then blurted out, impetuously: "It's because I
love you, Garde. I want you to marry me. I don't know if you've ever
thought about me that way, but I've been bursting with you.... Yesterday
morning when you came into the hangar I--I came pretty close to taking you
into my arms right then.... I had to hold back.... The things that have
happened to us--doesn't it seem as if it were _intended_ we should
marry?... That's why I'm taking you home. Mother will be waiting up--"
"Does she know?" Hildegarde asked, suddenly.
"No. I asked her to wait up for me.... I'll leave you there and tear out
after the license and a minister. I can get the license fixed up all
right. The clerk is a friend of mine. And I'll kidnap a minister."
"Don't I have anything to say about it?"
He stopped, somewhat aghast. He had overrun his story.
"Won't you marry me?" he said, eagerly. "I love you.... I'll make you
happy."
It was all unexpected to Hildegarde. She had not reckoned on this. Not
that she had never considered Potter as a possible husband. What girl
could have taken so important a part in the happenings of a man's life
without at least considering that outcome? She liked him, liked him
exceedingly, but she had not thought further than that. She had regarded
him more in the light of an adventure; of an exciting pal, perhaps.... Now
she regarded him from a far different point of view. He was asking her to
marry him--to turn her running away from home into an elopement. Some
girls might have been carried off their feet by the romance of it, but not
so Hildegarde. She was not easily swept from her equilibrium.... She was
not calm and cool as she considered; she was excited, vibrant with stirred
emotions, yet she could think collectedly.
She liked him, she told herself, liked him very well indeed. Perhaps that
was love. She doubted it, but then she might be mistaken. At any rate, he
would be a bully companion, and he was, she felt, trustworthy; she could
marry him with confidence that he would be good to her, gentle with her,
chivalrous toward her.... He was rich. That was but a passing thought, but
it was present. He was handsome, a husband to exhibit with pride.... And
marriage with him would solve her problem. She could depend upon him to
hold her safe from her father. He would be a sure refuge in her
emergency.... And what other refuge was there? She was penniless. She
would be alone in the world.... Unmistakably she liked Potter.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"No," she said.
"Do you mean-- Will you marry me? To-night?"
"Yes," she replied.
One arm sufficed to guide the car, while with the other he crushed her to
him, panting, protesting, and kissed her averted cheek.
"Don't!" she cried. "Don't!" It was a shock to her; it was reality, yet,
somehow, she was not affronted, was more startled than displeased.
"You love me," he insisted. "Let me hear you say it."
"I--don't know," she said. "Everything is so--so confused. Everything is
happening--"
"Of course," he said, gently. "I'll behave myself.... But you've got to
love me," he said, with determination. "We were _meant_ to love each
other."
They ran up the long driveway and stopped at the carriage-door of Potter's
house. He leaped to the step and lifted her out in his arms, and as she
felt the strength of them, the promise of protection in them, she was
conscious of a pleasant contentment, of something more, perhaps. She
looked up into Potter's face and smiled, nor did she avert her head as he
pressed his lips to hers. Yes, perhaps this was love. Certainly she was
moved, stirred by this young man. If it were not love itself, she thought,
somewhat vaguely, it gave promise of opening into love.
Mrs. Waite was sitting up for her son as she had promised. When Potter and
Hildegarde entered the room she arose, surprised, but repressing her
surprise.
"Mother," said Potter, "you know Garde, of course.... We're going to be
married to-night--here. That's why I asked you to sit up.... I'll leave
her with you while I run out to fetch a parson."
Hildegarde waited, looking at Mrs. Waite with reserve, expectancy. The
older woman stepped forward and took the girl in her arms as her own
mother might have done. "My dear," she said. Then, "Tell me about it,
son."
Potter told all there was to tell, impetuously. His mother watched him
tenderly, understandingly, as his face mirrored the emotions that moved
within him. She sympathized with her son, loved her son.... And she knew,
as she watched him, that he loved this girl, that it was no mere
fascination leading him headlong into ill-considered marriage.
"And you," she said, holding Hildegarde at arm's-length, "do you love my
son?"
Hildegarde looked back into those sympathetic eyes, and spoke honestly.
"I--don't know," she said.
Mrs. Waite nodded. "No one knows you have carried her away?" she asked
Potter.
"No," he said. "Nobody in the house, anyhow."
"That is good. Perhaps she can get back as unseen as she came. Because,
son, you must take her home again...." She held up her hand as he would
have protested with heat. "Listen, children.... I will welcome you as a
daughter, Garde," she said, simply. "You will be very dear to me--if you
really want to be my daughter when you have had time to consider.... But
you haven't. You're marrying Potter because there seems to be no other way
out of it.... That is bad, for him and for you.... I hope you can come to
love him as he loves you. But whether you love him or not, most of all if
you do love him, you must go home. It never does to start wrong; you must
start _clean_.... Let us consider. I'm sure you wouldn't marry Potter
until you know whether you love him."
"I'd do anything to get away from my father," Hildegarde said,
passionately.
"Potter," said his mother, "you've been a wild boy, but you've always been
honest with me--and tender with me.... For all that has been said about
you, I've never heard any one say that you didn't play fair. People have
always said that Potter Waite wasn't the man to cheat or to take
advantage.... You're not being a good sportsman now. You're
cheating--cheating Garde, cheating yourself, cheating Mr. von Essen.... If
you married Garde in this way it would be a story to follow her for years.
It would be twisted, falsely told, garbled. You would both know bitter
regret over it. And it isn't necessary.... Hildegarde wants to leave her
home. Well, let her leave it without the breath of scandal following. It
will mean only a little patience, only a little waiting.... Take her home,
son; then go to-morrow to Mr. von Essen, and ask his permission for your
marriage."
"He would refuse," said Potter.
"If he does," said Mrs. Waite, firmly, "you may bring Garde back to me
whenever you are ready.... He must be given the chance.... But most
important of all, son, Garde must be given time to know her mind. To-night
she doesn't love you. She has been honest enough to say so.... I know that
hurts, son.... If she doesn't love you, you must give her a fair chance
for happiness--you must win her.... You're not being a sportsman, son."
"But, mother--"
"Would you marry a girl who doesn't love you?"
He hesitated; he was unhappy, disturbed. "No," he said, "but--"
"But she doesn't know. Is it right to marry her before she knows?"
Potter looked at Hildegarde appealingly, but she dropped her eyes
evasively.... He understood. His mother was right, and Hildegarde
interpreted rightly the deep breath which he drew.
"I sha'n't go home again. You sha'n't make me."
"You must, my dear," said Mrs. Waite. "There is no other place for you to
go. You must see that you can't stay here.... It is impossible for you to
go anywhere else.... It won't be for long, Garde, if you care--not if you
love him. But you must go home to-night."
"I sha'n't. I'll never sleep under the same roof with father again.... Oh,
you don't know everything; you don't know...." She could not finish. She
stopped, too proud to beg, feeling her utter helplessness.... There _was_
no place to go if she could not stay here. She was beaten. Fiercely she
turned from Mrs. Waite to Potter. "Come," she said, furiously.
"Won't you kiss me good night, dear?" Mrs. Waite said, gently.
Garde refused to reply, but flung out of the room, followed by Potter. She
would not allow him to help her into the car, and sat in moody silence as
he started the engine.
"You don't have to mind her," she said, suddenly. "You're not tied to her
apron-strings.... If I'm willing to marry you, that's my affair.... I
sha'n't go home.... We can go and be married some place."
"No," he said, heavily. "Mother was right.... If you loved me--"
She could not say it; even to purchase her freedom from the home she
hated, she could not bring herself to declare a love she did not feel.
Indeed, at the moment, she believed she hated Potter, hated his mother for
her interference.... She was distracted.
"You refuse to marry me?" she demanded.
"I'll come for you to-morrow. I'll ask your father for you, and if he
won't give you to me I'll break in and take you ... if you love me."
"That's your final word?" Her voice was sharp, metallic.
He nodded miserably.
She did not speak again until they stood upon the piazza of her own house
and she was about to open the door. Suddenly she turned on him, blazing
with white fury. "You coward!" she said, hoarsely. "You quitter.... You
contemptible quitter.... Oh, how I _despise_ you!"
It seemed as if she could not contain herself. Suddenly she lifted her
little hand and struck him across the mouth; then, sobbing with rage, she
snatched open the door and disappeared within.
Potter stood rigid, livid.... For a minute, two minutes, he remained
without motion; then slowly, very slowly, he turned away from the door and
made his way to his motor.