Part 14 (2/2)

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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d after all; and when she was between the coa.r.s.e, 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 crus.h.i.+ng every reviving hope of the night.

”I think it would be a refres.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sengers. 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.

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