Geraldine had angered Carder, but she had also frightened him, and he was mild in manner and words and did not attempt to be either affectionate or jocose. Instead he dwelt on the good promise of the crops, and mentioned having extended the time of payment to a delinquent tenant.

Geraldine forced herself to eat something, and the host addressed most of his remarks to his mother, who was again compelled to sit at table and allow the young girl to do the serving.

"What do you think of throwin' out a wing or two or say a bay window to the house, Ma, while we're refurnishin'?" he asked pleasantly.

"Just as you say, Rufus," was her docile response. "I think, though, Miss Geraldine would like a bathroom better."

"Bathroom, eh?" returned Carder, regarding the girl's stiffly immobile face and downcast eyes. "It would mean a lot of expense, but what Geraldine says goes. I can stand the damage, I guess."

No word from Geraldine. Rufus was made thoroughly uneasy by her rigid pallor. He blamed himself for not having waited longer to produce his trump card and clinch his possession of her.

His own dreams were troubled that night and long in coming. Geraldine, as soon as the dishes were dried and put away, went up to her room and locked the door. She sat down to think, and strangely accompanying the paralyzing discovery of her father's downfall was the memory of the tall stranger with the dusty clothes and gallant bearing. She shut out the memory of his delightful speech, his speaking eyes, and the way he towered above Rufus and held himself in check for her sake.

"For my sake!" she repeated to herself bitterly. "They are all alike--men. He would be just the same as the other at close quarters.

Some have no veneer like this boor, and some have the polish, but they are all the same underneath. Even Father, poor Father."

Geraldine felt hot, slow tears begin to scald her eyes. The last time she had cried she had been with Miss Upton and felt her hearty, motherly sympathy. That young man had come from her. Miss Upton was thinking of her. The tears came faster now under the memory of the kindness of her chance acquaintance on the day--it seemed months ago--that she had left the world and entered upon this living death.

Miss Upton's messenger would return to her and tell of his fruitless quest and describe Rufus Carder, and she knew how that kind heart would ache; but Mr. Barry would also tell her that her young friend had repulsed him and would discourage her from further effort. Geraldine knew that no letter from the outside would be allowed to reach her, nor would any be allowed to go out from her, until she had paid the ghastly price which her father's protection necessitated.

She did not know how long she sat on that hard chair in the ugly room that night. She only knew how valiantly she struggled to stifle the sobs that wrenched her slight body. Early in the evening she had heard a soft impact against her door, which she knew meant that the watchdog was in his place.

Her kerosene lamp was burning low, when again a slight sound against her door made her look that way apprehensively and wish that she had barricaded it as on the night before.

Something white caught her eye. It was paper being slowly pushed beneath the door and now an envelope was revealed. Geraldine started up and noiselessly crept toward it. Seizing it she carried it to the light. It was a letter addressed to herself:

_Miss Geraldine Melody_

And down in the left-hand corner were the words--_"Kindness of Mr.

Barry."_ Across the face of the envelope was scrawled in another hand these words: "Courage. Walk in meadow. Wear white."

Geraldine stared at this with her swollen eyes, the aftermath of her wild weeping causing convulsive catches in her throat which she stifled automatically. Turning the envelope over she saw that it was sealed clumsily with red wax.

Running a hairpin through the flap she opened it and took out the letter with trembling hands. This is what she read:

DEAR MISS MELODY:

I can't help worrying about you, not knowing what you found when you got to the farm, and whether Mr. Carder and his mother turned out to be the kind you like to live with. I've wished a hundred times that I'd brought you home with me instead of letting you go, because, after all the hard experiences you went through, I wanted to be sure that you found care and protection where you was going.

I'm poor and have only a small place, but I'd have found some way to take care of you.

I worried so much about it, and Mr. Carder, the little I saw of him that day at the hotel, acted so much as if he owned you, that I thought it would be just as well to hear what a lawyer would say; so I went to see Benjamin Barry. He's studying to be a lawyer and he's the young man who has consented to hunt up the Carder farm and take my letter to you. I know it ain't etiket to seal up a letter you send by hand, but I'm going to seal this with wax just so you'll know that Ben hasn't read it. After your experience with men it will be hard for you to trust any man, I'm pretty sure. So I just want to tell you that I've known Ben Barry from a baby and he's the cleanest, _finest_ boy in the world. You can't always tell whether he's in fun or in earnest, because he's a great one to joke; but his folks are the finest that you could find anywhere.

He's got good blood and he's been brought up with the greatest care and expense. If I had ten daughters I'd trust him with them all. He is the soul of honor about everything, so don't hesitate to tell him just how you're fixed. If you are happy and contented, that's all I want to know; but if you ain't I want to know that posthaste, for I shall want you to come right here to me at Keefe. Ben will tell you how to come and you can tell Mr. Carder that you have found a better position. Give him a week's notice; that's _honorable_ and _long enough_. I shan't be easy in my mind till Ben gets back, and he's so good to go for me that I should love him for it all the rest of my life if I didn't already.

Now, good-bye, dear child, and be _perfectly frank_ with Ben.

Your loving friend MEHITABLE UPTON

In her utter despair and desolation this homely expression of affectionate solicitude went to Geraldine's heart like a message from heaven. She held the senseless paper to her breast, and her pulses beat fast as she read again those words scribbled across the face of the envelope.

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 washing 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 crushing every reviving hope of the night.

"I think it would be a refreshing 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.