"Wal, sar, I tell you when; when mass'r's sister—Miss Corneel—come down to 'tay on de plantashun. Dat am de troof."
More than half prepared for the communication, it did not come with such a surprise. To conceal my thoughts from him who had made it, I said, with an air of carelessness—which cost me an effort:
"Perhaps he is Miss Woodley's sweetheart?"
"May be so, sar; may be so."
Though Jake's answer was not conclusive, I forbore to question him further. I had started a subject that was causing me pain; and further disclosures could only increase it.
After all, what was Miss Woodley to me? The interest I felt in her—was it more than friendship? Why should I interfere in an affair that did not concern me? Cornelia Woodley was no child; but an accomplished lady of several seasons' experience. If she chose to throw herself away upon this worthless man, why should I care? And if I did, what could I do to prevent it? Both she and her brother were strangers to me. I had no right to give counsel; nor would they be likely to accept it.
My best way would be to avoid even the desire for interference; and to do this I must forsake the society into which chance had accidentally thrown me. It was only to take horse, and continue my travels. It would be a complete change of programme; but the circumstances required it. The prospect of seeing Miss Woodley again, so pleasant on leaving Tennessee, I could now only contemplate with pain. The promise I had made could be easily broken. She would scarce care for my keeping it.
From these gloomy reflections I was startled by the voice of the skiffman.
"Talk ob de debbil," said he, "an' dat genlum shoo to be clost by. Dis time, howeber, we wa' talkin' ob de angel."
"An angel! What do you mean, Jake?"