In Apple-Blossom Time Part 16

"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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 a.s.serted 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 grat.i.tude 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 sh.e.l.l 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.