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.