In the company of Hickman, I had walked off to some distance from the
crowd, in order that our conversation should be unrestrained.
As the moments passed, the old hunter warmed into greater freedom of
speech, and from his manner I fancied he had still other developments to
make. I had firm faith in his devotion to our family--as well as in his
personal friendship for myself--and once or twice I was on the eve of
revealing to him the thoughts that rendered me unhappy. In experience,
he was a sage, and although a rude one, he might be the best counsellor
I could find. I knew no other who possessed half his knowledge of the
world--for Hickman had not always lived among the alligators; on the
contrary, he had passed through various phases of life. I could safely
trust to his devotedness: with equal safety I might confide in the
resources of his judgment.
Under this belief, I should have unburdened myself of the heavy secrets
weighing upon my mind--of some of them at least--had it not been that I
fancied he already knew some of them. With the re-appearance of Yellow
Jake I knew him to be acquainted: he alleged that he had never felt sure
about the mulatto's death, and had heard long ago that he was alive; but
it was not of him I was thinking, but of the designs of Arens Ringgold.
Perhaps Hickman knew something of these. I noticed that when his name
was mentioned in connection with those of Spence and Williams, he
glanced towards me a look of strange significance, as if he had
something to say of these wretches.
I was waiting for him to make a disclosure, when the footfall of a
fast-going horse fell upon my ear. On looking up, I perceived a
horseman coming down the bank of the river, and galloping as earnestly
as if riding a "quarter-race."
The horse was white, and the rider black; I recognised both at a glance;
Jake was the horseman.
I stepped out from among the trees, in order that he should see me, and
not pass on to the church that stood a little beyond. I hailed him as
he advanced.
He both saw and heard me; and abruptly turning his horse, came galloping
up to the spot where the old hunter and I were standing.
He was evidently upon an errand; but the presence of Hickman prevented
him from declaring it aloud. It would not keep, however, and throwing
himself from the saddle, he drew near me, and whispered it into my ear.
It was just what I was expecting to hear--Arens Ringgold was at the
house.
"That dam nigga am thar, Massr George."
Such was literally Jake's muttered announcement.
I received the communication with as much show of tranquillity as I
could assume; I did not desire that Hickman should have any knowledge of
its nature, nor even a suspicion that there was anything extraordinary
upon the _tapis_; so dismissing the black messenger with a word, I
turned away with the hunter; and walking back to the church enclosure,
contrived to lose him in the crowd of his comrades.
Soon after, I released my horse from his fastening; and, without saying
a word to any one--not even to Gallagher--I mounted, and moved quietly
off.
I did not take the direct road that led to our plantation, but made a
short circuit through some woods that skirted close to the church. I
did this to mislead old Hickman or any other who might have noticed the
rapid arrival of the messenger; and who, had I gone directly back with
him, might have held guesses that all was not right at home. To prevent
this, I appeared to curious eyes, to have gone in an opposite direction
to the right one.
A little rough riding through the bushes brought me out into the main
up-river road; and then, sinking the spur, I galloped as if life or
death were staked upon the issue. My object in making such haste was
simply to get to the house in time, before the clandestine visitor--
welcome guest of mother and sister--should make his adieus.
Strong reasons as I had for hating this man, I had no sanguinary
purpose; it was not my design to kill Arens Ringgold--though such might
have been the most proper mode to dispose of a reptile so vile and
dangerous as he. Knowing him as I did, freshly spurred to angry passion
by Hickman's narrative of his atrocious behaviour, I could at that
moment have taken his life without fear of remorse.
But although I felt fierce indignation, I was yet neither mad nor
reckless. Prudential motives--the ordinary instinct of self-safety--
still had their influence over me; and I had no intention to imitate the
last act in the tragedy of Samson's life.
The programme I had sketched out for myself was of a more rational
character.
My design was to approach the house--if possible, unobserved--the
drawing-room as well--where of course the visitor would be found--an
abrupt _entree_ upon the scene--both guest and hosts taken by surprise--
the demand of an explanation from all three--a complete clearing-up of
this mysterious _imbroglio_ of our family relations, that was so
painfully perplexing me. Face to face, I should confront the triad--
mother, sister, wooer--and force all three to confession.
"Yes!" soliloquised I, with the eagerness of my intention driving the
spur into the flanks of my horse--"Yes--confess they shall--they must--
one and all, or--"
With the first two I could not define the alternative; though some dark
design, based upon the slight of filial and fraternal love, was lurking
within my bosom.
For Ringgold, should he refuse to give the truth, my resolve was first
to "cowhide" him, then kick him out of doors, and finally command him
never again to enter the house--the house, of which henceforth I was
determined to be master.
As for etiquette, that was out of the question; at that hour, my soul
was ill attuned to the observance of delicate ceremony. No rudeness
could be amiss, in dealing with the man who had tried to murder me.