I knew no more what I intended to do than the babe unborn. What I did
know was that Jane Ryder was in that house, in all probability; and
that fact stung me. She had aided me to escape, even though she had had
a hand in my capture, and I felt that the least I could do would be to
take her away from there, willingly if she could come, forcibly if she
hesitated.
On the way to the camp I met Whistling Jim, and he stopped me. He was
astride his horse and leading mine. "Dey er gwine on a ride now
terreckly, Marse Cally, an' I lowed maybe you'd want ter go 'long wid
um."
For answer I swung myself on my horse and, bidding the negro to follow
if he desired, put spurs to the sorrel and went flying in the direction
of the tavern. I did not turn my head to see whether Whistling Jim was
following, but rode straight ahead. It strikes me as curious, even yet,
that the darkness should have fallen so suddenly on that particular
day. When Goodrum spoke to me I supposed that the sun was still
shining; when I turned into the road that led to the house it was dark.
I reached the place in the course of a quarter of an hour, and as I
leaped from my horse I heard the negro coming close behind me. I waited
for him to come up and dismount, and then I bade him knock at the door,
and when it was opened I told him to stand by the horses.
The door was opened by the woman who had spoken so kindly with me. "You
here again?" she cried with an air of surprise. "You would make it very
hard for her if she were here, but I think she is gone. You'll not see
her again, my dear, and I, for one, am glad of it. There's no one here
but myself and my son."
"Your son is the one I want," I replied. "Tell him to come at once. I
have news for him." The woman had no need to call him, however, for the
inner door opened as I spoke, and out came Jane Ryder in the garb of a
man--cloak, boots, and all.
I had an idea that she would shrink from me or show some perturbation;
but I was never more mistaken in my life. In a perfectly easy and
natural manner--the manner of a young man--she came up and held out her
hand. "I think this is Mr. Shannon; Miss Ryder told me your name. I
have to thank you for some recent kindness to her."
I shook her hand very cordially, saying that nothing I could do for
Miss Ryder would be amiss. "As it happens," I went on, "I can do
something for you now. Will you come with me?"
For one fleeting moment her woman's hesitation held her, and then her
woman's curiosity prevailed. "With pleasure," she said.
As we started for the door the woman interfered. "I wouldn't go with
him," she declared with some bluntness. "You don't have to go and you
sha'n't. You don't know what he's up to."
This failed to have the effect I feared it would. "Don't you suppose I
can take care of myself, mother?"
"I know what I know," replied the woman, sullenly, "and it wouldn't
take much to make me tell it."
"Then, for heaven's sake, say what you have to say and be done with
it," I exclaimed. "Only a very few minutes lie between this person and
safety. If you have anything to tell out with it."
"Your blue eyes and baby face fooled me once, but they'll not fool me
again. You know more than you pretend to know," said the woman.
"I know this: if this person remains here ten minutes longer he will
regret it all the days of his life. Now, trust me or not, just as you
please. If he is afraid to come with me let him say so, and I will bid
him farewell forever and all who are connected with him. Do you trust
me?" I turned to Jane Ryder and held out my hand.
"I do," she replied. She came nearer, but did not take my hand.
"Then, in God's name, come with me!" I cried. She obeyed my gesture and
started for the door.
"Where are you going?" wailed the mother. "Tell me--tell me!"