It is nearly a month since the day of Clancy's death; still the
excitement caused by it, though to some extent subsided, has not died
out. Curiosity and speculation are kept alive by the fact of the body
not having been found. For it has not. Search has been made everywhere
for miles around. Field and forest, creeks, ponds, swamp, and river,
have all been traversed and interrogated, in vain. All have refused to
surrender up the dead.
That Clancy is dead no one has a doubt. To say nothing of the blood
spilt beside his abandoned hat and gun, with the other circumstances
attendant, there is testimony of a moral nature, to many quite as
convincing.
Alive he would long since have returned home, at thought of what his
mother must be suffering. He was just the man to do that, as all who
knew him are aware. Even wounded and crippled, if able to crawl, it
would be to the side of the only woman at such a crisis he should care
for.
Though it is now known that he cared for another, no one entertains a
thought of his having gone off after _her_. It would not be in keeping
with his character, any more than with the incidents and events that
have conspired to make the mystery. Days pass, and it still remains
one.
The sun rises and sets, without throwing any light upon it. Conjecture
can do nothing to clear it up; and search, over and over unsuccessful,
is at length abandoned.
If people still speculate upon how the body of the murdered man has been
disposed of, there is no speculation as to who was his murderer, or how
the latter made escape.
The treason of the jail-keeper explains this--itself accounted for by
Ephraim Darke having on the previous day paid a visit to his son in the
cell, and left with him a key that ere now has opened many a prison
door. Joe Harkness, a weak-witted fellow, long suspected of
faithlessness, was not the man to resist the temptation with which his
palm had been touched.
Since that day some changes have taken place in the settlement. The
plantation late Armstrong's has passed into the hands of a new
proprietor--Darke having disposed of it--while the cottage of the
Clancys, now ownerless, stays untenanted. Unfurnished too: for the
bailiff has been there, and a bill of sale, which covered its scant
plenishing, farm-stock, implements and utensils, has swept all away.
For a single day there was a stir about the place, with noise
corresponding, when the chattels were being disposed of by public
auction. Then the household gods of the decayed Irish gentleman were
knocked down to the highest bidder, and scattered throughout the
district. Rare books, pictures, and other articles, telling of refined
taste, with some slight remnants of _bijouterie_, were carried off to
log-cabins, there to be esteemed in proportion to the prices paid for
them. In fine, the Clancy cottage, stripped of everything, has been
left untenanted. Lone as to the situation in which it stands, it is yet
lonelier in its desolation. Even the dog, that did such service in
pointing out the criminality of him who caused all the ruin, no longer
guards its enclosures, or cheers them with his familiar bark. The
faithful animal, adopted by Simeon Woodley, has found a home in the
cabin of the hunter.
It is midnight; an hour still and voiceless in Northern climes, but not
so in the Southern. Far from it in the State of Mississippi. There the
sun's excessive heat keeps Nature alert and alive, even at night, and in
days of December.
Though night, it is not December, but a date nearer Spring. February is
written on the heading of letters, and this, a Spring month on the Lower
Mississippi, has commenced making its imprint on the forest trees.
Their buds have already burst, some showing leaves fully expanded,
others of still earlier habit bedecked with blossoms. Birds, too,
awaking from a short winter's silence, pour forth their amorous lays,
filling glade and grove with music, that does not end with the day; for
the mock-bird, taking up the strain, carries it on through the hours of
night; so well counterfeiting the notes of his fellow-songsters, one
might fancy them awake--still singing.
Not so melodious are other voices disturbing the stillness of the
Southern night. Quite the opposite are the croaking of frogs, the
screeching of owls, the jerking call of tree-crickets, and the bellowing
of the alligator. Still, the ear accustomed to such sounds is not
jarred by them. They are but the bass notes, needed to complete the
symphony of Nature's concert.
In the midst of this melange,--the hour, as already stated, midnight--a
man, or something bearing man's semblance, is seen gliding along the
edge of the cypress swamp, not far from the place where Charles Clancy
fell.
After skirting the mud-flat for a time, the figure--whether ghost or
human--turns face toward the tract of lighter woodland, extending
between the thick timber and cleared ground of the plantations.
Having traversed this, the nocturnal wayfarer comes within sight of the
deserted cottage, late occupied by the Clancys.
The moonlight, falling upon his face, shows it to be white. Also, that
his cheeks are pallid, with eyes hollow and sunken, as from sickness--
some malady long-endured, and not yet cured. As he strides over fallen
logs, or climbs fences stretching athwart his course, his tottering step
tells of a frame enfeebled.
When at length clear of the woods, and within sight of the untenanted
dwelling, he stops, and for a time remains contemplating it. That he is
aware of its being unoccupied is evident, from the glance with which he
regards it.
His familiarity with the place is equally evident. On entering the
cottage grounds, which he soon after does, through, some shrubbery at
the back, he takes the path leading up to the house, without appearing
to have any doubt about its being the right one.
For all this he makes approach with caution, looking suspiciously
around--either actually afraid, or not desiring to be observed.
There is little likelihood of his being so. At that hour all in the
settlement should be asleep. The house stands remote, more than a mile
from its nearest neighbour. It is empty; has been stripped of its
furniture, of everything. What should any one be doing there?
What is _he_ doing there? A question which would suggest itself to one
seeing him; with interest added on making note of his movements.
There is no one to do either; and he continues on to the house, making
for its back door, where there is a porch, as also a covered way,
leading to a log-cabin--the kitchen.
Even as within the porch, he tries the handle of the door which at a
touch goes open. There is no lock, or if there was, it has not been
thought worth while to turn the key in it. There are no burglars in the
backwoods. If there were, nothing in that house need tempt them.
Its nocturnal visitor enters under its roof. The ring of his footsteps,
though he still treads cautiously, gives out a sad, solemn sound. It is
in unison with the sighs that come, deep-drawn, from his breast; at
times so sonorous as to be audible all over the house.
He passes from room to room. There are not many--only five of them. In
each he remains a few moments, gazing dismally around. But in one--that
which was the widow's sleeping chamber--he tarries a longer time;
regarding a particular spot--the place formerly occupied by a bed. Then
a sigh, louder than any that has preceded it, succeeded by the words,
low-muttered:--
"There she must have breathed her last!"
After this speech, more sighing, accompanied by still surer signs of
sorrow--sobs and weeping. As the moonbeams, pouring in through the open
window, fall upon his face, their pale silvery light sparkles upon
tears, streaming from hollow eyes, chasing one another down emaciated
cheeks.
After surrendering himself some minutes to what appears a very agony of
grief, he turns out of the sleeping chamber; passes through the narrow
hall-way; and on into the porch. Not now the back one, but that facing
front to the road.
On the other side of this is an open tract of ground, half cleared, half
woodland; the former sterile, the latter scraggy. It seems to belong to
no one, as if not worth claiming, or cultivating. It has been, in fact,
an appanage of Colonel Armstrong's estate, who had granted it to the
public as the site for a schoolhouse, and a common burying-ground--free
to all desiring to be instructed, or needing to be interred. The
schoolhouse has disappeared, but the cemetery is still there--only
distinguishable from the surrounding _terrain_ by some oblong
elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in
all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board--a piece of
painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of
him or her resting underneath.
Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates
decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the
paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a
meteor.
He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes
directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from
the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes
straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither.
When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has
not yet grown.
The night is a cold one--chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon
the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar
frost, adding to its ghostly aspect.
The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the
opposite side.
But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is
enabled to decipher the inscription.
It is the simplest form of memento--only a name, with the date of
death--
"Caroline Clancy,
Died January 18--"
After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start
from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding
the dew, thinking nought of the night's dullness, he stretches his arms
over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one
beloved!
For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising
erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips,
poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches:--
"Mother! dear mother! I am still living! I am here! And you, dead!
No more to know--no more hear me! O God!"
They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he
says.
Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumes
speech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everything
so changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe it
the same man.
Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines have
become rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tells
of determination--of vengeance.
Once more he glances down at the grave; then up to the sky, till the
moon, coursing across high heaven, falls full upon his face. With his
body slightly leaning backward, the arms along his sides, stiffly
extended, the hands closed in convulsive clutch, he cries out:--
"By the heavens above--by the shade of my murdered mother, who lies
beneath--I swear not to know rest, never more seek contentment, till
I've punished her murderer! Night and day--through summer and winter--
shall I search for him. Yes; search till I've found and chastised this
man, this monster, who has brought blight on me, death to my mother, and
desolation to our house! Ah! think not you can escape me! Texas,
whither I know you have gone, will not be large enough to hold, nor its
wilderness wide enough to screen you from my vengeance. If not found
there, I shall follow you to the end of the earth--to the end of the
earth, Richard Darke!"
"Charley Clancy!"
He turns as if a shot had struck him. He sees a man standing within six
paces of the spot.
"Sime Woodsy!"