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.
“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 shore, 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 passage.