The Highflyers

by Clarence Budington Kelland

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.