An Oregon Girl Part 29

After John Thorpe had expressed his disbelief in his wife's guilt, he slowly turned on his heel, intending to leave the room, for the conversation was painful to him and the company too closely a.s.sociated with his unhappiness, for the quiet rest he so much needed. He had scarcely turned toward the door when he was halted by Mr. Harris, who had just entered from the hall, and announced a restful room in readiness for his immediate use.

To his surprise, John Thorpe turned and wearisomely said: "I thank you, Mr. Harris, but an important matter that I have neglected has just come to my mind. I beg to apologize for the needless trouble I have caused you." And he turned slowly and went toward the door.

Virginia perceived that unless immediate steps were taken, her opportunity to arrange a meeting with John would be lost. It was, therefore, with a startled cry of disappointment that she addressed him: "John! I have something"--she hesitated.

Thorpe halted on the threshold and half turned around. Aghast, Virginia arose from her seat, when Rutley drawled out in his most suave accents:

"Miss Thorpe is manifestly fatigued from over-exertion," and instantly taking her by the arm, led her reluctantly, and in timidity, to a seat on a divan, the end of which he wheeled forward, ostensibly to give her a better view of the lawn, then inundated with suns.h.i.+ne, but in reality to avert her eyes from the face of her brother.

John Thorpe gazed inquiringly for a second and then, with head bent, slowly and gravely left the house.

Mr. Harris started to accompany Thorpe, to press him to rest awhile, but on recalling his obligation to Virginia, checked himself and turned into the library.

Sam's indignation at the vile, unkind thrust made on the character of a bereaved woman, spoke eloquently in his blazing eyes, nevertheless out of regard for his aunt's wishes he closed his teeth tightly in silence, but on seeing the pseudo lord's insistent familiarity with Virginia, and noting her strange hesitant submission as he rather more than familiarly escorted her to the divan, Sam's rage burst through his discretion and his manly, straight-forwardness a.s.serted itself, in utter disregard of his aunt's warnings.

Rutley had evidently thrown out the base insinuation as a feeler, but the manner in which Sam met it--met it squarely in the "Wild West way,"

quickly disabused his mind of any idea he may have had that Constance was friendless.

"Sir!" Sam said; "I know but one little word that fitly characterizes your insinuation concerning Mrs. Thorpe," and unwilling to resist the natural gravity of his feet toward Rutley, sidled up close to him, and, with a quiver of contempt in his voice, finished: "And down in Texas they taught me to brand it 'a d.a.m.ned lie'!"

Sam was rewarded in a manner he little antic.i.p.ated, and by the woman who had heretofore despised him, for with eyes that sparkled with admiration and lips that parted in a smile of glad surprise, she involuntarily murmured: "Splendid, Sam!" His silly, boyish side had vanished, and in its place his true, strong, sterling character stood revealed. In that one moment he knew that he had won from her a tribute of esteem, but he did not at that time realize that it was a long step toward the consummation of his devout desire--to win her heart.

If an electric bolt had at that moment descended from the clear, ethereal blue, and wrecked the house, Mrs. Harris' consternation could not have been greater.

"Oh!" she faintly gasped. "Dear me! Oh, Sam, how could you!" and then she staggered almost to collapse in his arms.

For a moment Rutley was astounded, then drawing himself up in a pose of statuesque haughtiness, again most studiously adjusted his monocle to his eye and directed at alert Sam a stony stare of ineffable disdain. Then he languidly drawled, without a muscle of his white, bloodless face moving:

"Aw, it's deuced draughty, don't-che know!"

A few minutes later Mr. Harris beckoned Virginia into the library.

After delivering her the check he had promised, they together went out in search for John Thorpe, but he had disappeared.

Had they looked more closely and further up the hillside, they might have seen a haggard man sitting in the shadow of a fir, apparently weary of the world, and pondering on the vicissitudes of life.

CHAPTER XII.

In the meantime Virginia had been doing her utmost, in a quiet way, to obtain the necessary amount of Dorothy's ransom.

Conscious of an imperative demand likely to be made upon her at any moment, she had partially prepared for it by secretly borrowing some five thousand dollars upon her jewelry and income, and she had obtained five thousand more from Mr. Harris, who was eager to favor her, because of the obligations it would place her under to his family, particularly Sam.

It was useless to approach Hazel for a.s.sistance, as John Thorpe was administrator of her estate. However, she was in a fair way to get more on a trust deed for some real estate that was in her name--when the summons came, peremptory and threatening.

She pondered over the situation long and profoundly, and having at length thoroughly made up her mind on a line of procedure, she prepared for the meeting.

Of delicate mould, carefully educated, and accustomed to vivacious and accomplished companions, Virginia was little intended for the desperate enterprise she had determined to undertake, in the dead hour of the coming night. More than once she shuddered at the thought, but that vision of Constance in the shadow of the "grim sickle," nerved her on to the rescue, and it also afforded her a sense of relief from the distress her mind endured. Overwhelmed at the magnitude of the misfortune so suddenly overtaken Constance, she hesitated not for an instant to risk her life in its undoing.

Personality, social position, beauty, youth, refinement--all were cast aside, unconsidered and unthought of in the execution of the one perilous act that confronted her.

The intention to rescue Dorothy may be construed under the conditions surrounding her as commendable, but in one so young and fair, it would appear hair-brained, impracticable and, worst of all, dangerously indiscreet. Virginia had not been in any manner contributory to the disappearance of Dorothy, and yet be it remembered, only a heroine pure and simple would dare brave the act. Moreover, she had permitted Constance to accompany her, thus immensely increasing her hazard and responsibility.

That afternoon, thinking to cheer the mother, who was plunged in silent grief, Virginia had intimated a suspicion that Dorothy was a captive. Instantly an unnatural calm possessed Constance, and changed her sweet and tractable nature into a determined and obstinate resolution to accompany Virginia. It was useless for the girl to plead additional peril. No excuse, no matter how artfully conceived or ingeniously framed, could turn Constance from her purpose, to share in the danger. And what danger would not the mother brave to rescue her darling?

So insistent, yet so strangely calm, as to cause a fear that the fevered excitement that burned so fiercely beneath the forced tranquility, would in a measure break out and jeopardize all--that Virginia only at last reluctantly consented. But not before she had exacted a promise from Constance to maintain the strictest silence.

On their arrival at the foot of Ellsworth street, they made their way cautiously along to a little cove above Bundy's boathouse, where they discovered a small skiff with oars in row-locks. Virginia had been informed that a boat would be provided for her at a certain spot, and therefore did not hesitate to avail herself of its use. Whether anybody was watching her mattered little in her suppressed, excited state of mind. Quietly she slipped the line and was in the act of drawing the skiff in position for Constance to get in, when from afar, across the water, seemingly from the depth of the island woods, the cry of a crow penetrated the silent air.

They stood still and listened--listened intently--with a vague, terrified notion that it was meant as a signal of danger.

Again she heard the cry, as distinct as before. Constance gripped Virginia's arm for support.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Virginia realized that in her own calmness and self-possession lay the surest support to her companion's strength."]

"What does it portend?" Virginia asked herself. "Why should it come from the woods if it was a signal of her starting to cross the water.

It may have been an answer to a flash from some one concealed nearby."

She looked above, about, but the same darkness, the same quietness prevailed. Not a leaf stirred to disturb the deep repose of night.

Afar off, down the river, a steamer whistled for the steel bridge draw.

It startled her out of her reverie, and finally she concluded the "caw," which seemingly sounded from the opposite woods, was really at the sh.o.r.e, and resulted from the peculiar condition of the atmosphere.

Without further pause, and quietly as possible, they stepped into the boat, and at once commenced the pa.s.sage.

The water was calm and mirror-like, and Virginia, having had some experience in handling a skiff, dipped the m.u.f.fled blades with scarcely a sound. Silently, slowly, cautiously, she propelled the boat along, ever and again turning her head to peer into the deep darkness shrouding the island.

She headed the boat diagonally across the water, so as to strike near the middle of the island. She adopted that course in order that the cabin, which was quite invisible under the deeper shadow of the woods, would come in line between her and the harbor lights. Her reckoning was correct. She had pa.s.sed the object of her venture without discovering it, but as the island loomed denser and darker on drawing near, it enabled her to locate the craft with precision. She turned the boat, and keeping within the deep shadow that fringed the rim of the island, made straight for the cabin.

As they approached it, the strain on Constance became tense. Virginia watched her narrowly, fearful for the consequences of a disappointment, and she realized, too, that in her own calmness and self-possession, lay the surest support to her companion's strength.

The consciousness of that power nerved, steadied and aided her wonderfully.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Caw! Caw!" sounded with startling distinctness in the still, dark wooded depths of Ross island. For a moment the silence was intense; then it was broken again by the familiar, long-drawn out, guttural cry, "Caw! caw!" of the black scavenger bird. And silence once more settled down upon the scene, and seemed deeper, thicker and more profound than before.

It may have been a half a minute after the second cry when an answer, faint, though clearly audible, was echoed from a neighboring part of the woods.

"Come on!" quietly exclaimed Sam Harris, who, with John Thorpe, stood beside the trunk of a fir that grew midway on the island near its north end.

"An uncanny signal!" remarked Mr. Thorpe, in the same low tones.

"Yes, somehow I feel as though it betokens serious business," softly replied Sam. "Be careful. A thick vine here. Step clear," he whispered, as they moved cautiously along.

They had proceeded in silence some distance, part of the time groping their way by the aid of a match, lighted now and again, but artfully concealed, for the darkness was very deep, when through a rift in the wild growth of underbrush a man's form was seen to move.