Part 7 (1/2)
The girl listened to Ford's narrative with some degree of interest, though it contained nothing new to her. She could not have lived at Greenport during the period of his trial without being familiar with it all. But when he came to explanations in his own defence she followed listlessly.
Though she leaned back in her chair, and courteously stopped painting, while he talked so earnestly, the light in her eyes faded to a l.u.s.treless gleam, like that of the black pearl. His perception that her thoughts were wandering gave him a queer sensation of speaking into a medium in which his voice could not carry, cutting short his arguments, and bringing him to his conclusion more hurriedly than he had intended.
”I wanted you to know I didn't do it,” he finished, in a tone which begged for some expression of her belief, ”because you've done so much to help me.”
”Oh, but I should have helped you just the same, whether you had done it or not.”
”But I suppose it makes some difference to you,” he cried, impatiently, ”to know that I didn't.”
”I suppose it would,” she admitted, slowly, ”if I thought much about it.”
”Well, won't you think?” he pleaded---”just to oblige me.”
”Perhaps I will, when you're gone; but at present I have to give my mind to getting you away. It was to talk about that that I came this morning.”
Had she wanted to slip out of giving an opinion on the subject of his guilt, she could not have found a better exit. The means of his ultimate escape engrossed him even more than the theme of his innocence. When she spoke again all his faculties were concentrated into one keen point of attention.
”I think the time has come for you to--go.”
If her voice trembled on the last word, he did not notice it. The pose of his body, the lines of his face, the glint of his gray eyes, were alive with interrogation.
”Go?” he asked, just audibly. ”When?”
”To-morrow.”
”How?”
”I'll tell you that then.”
”Why can't you tell me now?”
”I could if I was sure you wouldn't raise objections, but I know you will.”
”Then there are objections to be raised?”
”There are objections to everything. There's no plan of escape that won't expose you to a good many risks. I'd rather you didn't see them in advance.”
”But isn't it well to be prepared beforehand?”
”You'll have plenty of time for preparation--after you've started. If that seems mysterious to you now, you'll know what I mean by it when I come to-morrow. I shall be here in the afternoon at six.”
With this information Ford was obliged to be content, spending a sleepless night and an impatient day, waiting for the time appointed.
She came punctually. For the first time she was not followed by her dog.
The only change in her appearance he could see was a short skirt of rough material instead of her usual linen or muslin.
”Are we going through the woods?” he asked.
”Not far. I shall take you by the trail that led to this spot before I built the cabin and made the path.” As she spoke she surveyed him. ”You'll do,” she smiled at last. ”In those flannels, and with your beard, no one would know you for the Norrie Ford of three weeks ago.”
It was easy for him to ascribe the glow in her eyes and the quiver in her voice to the excitement of the moment; for he could see that she had the spirit of adventure. Perhaps it was to conceal some embarra.s.sment under his regard that she spoke again, hurriedly.
”We've no time to lose. You needn't take anything from here. We'd better start.”