"SHE IS TRUE--STILL TRUE!"
The men who thus mutually pronounce each other's names are they who bear
them. For it is, in truth, Charles Clancy who stands by the grave, and
Simeon Woodley who has saluted him.
The surprise is all upon the side of Sime, and something more. He
beholds a man all supposed to be dead, apparently returned from the
tomb! Sees him in a place appropriate to resurrection, in the centre of
a burying-ground, by the side of a recently made grave!
The backwoodsman is not above believing in spiritual existences, and for
an instant he is under a spell of the supernatural.
It passes off on his perceiving that real flesh and blood is before
him--Charles Clancy himself, and not his wraith.
He reaches this conclusion the sooner from having all along entertained
a doubt about Clancy being dead. Despite the many circumstances
pointing to, almost proving, his death, Woodley was never quite
convinced of it. No one has taken so much trouble, or made so many
efforts, to clear up the mystery. He has been foremost in the attempt
to get punishment for the guilty man, as in the search for the body of
his victim; both of which failed, to his great humiliation; his grief
too, for he sincerely lamented his lost friend. Friends they were of no
common kind. Not only had they oft hunted in company, but been together
in Texas during Clancy's visit to the Lone Star State; together at
Nacogdoches, where Borlasse received chastisement for stealing the
horse; together saw the thief tied to the stake, Woodley being one of
the stern jury who sentenced him to be whipped, and saw to the sentence
being carried into execution.
The hunter had been to Natchez for the disposal of some pelts and
deer-meat, a week's produce of his gun. Returning at a late hour, he
must needs pass the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicile
lying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb passed
through his heart, as he recalled the sad fate of those who once
occupied it.
Making an effort to forget the gloomy record, he was riding on, when a
figure flitting across the road arrested his attention. The clear
moonlight showed the figure to be that of a man, and one whose movements
betrayed absence of mind, if not actual aberration.
With the instinct habitual to the hunter Woodley at once tightened rein,
coming to a stop under the shadow of the roadside trees. Sitting in his
saddle he watched the midnight wanderer, whose eccentric movements
continued to cause him surprise. He saw the latter walk on to the
little woodland cemetery, take stand by the side of a grave, bending
forward as if to read the epitaph on its painted slab. Soon after
kneeling down as in prayer, then throwing himself prostrate along the
earth. Woodley well knew the grave thus venerated. For he had himself
assisted in digging and smoothing down the turf that covered it. He had
also been instrumental in erecting the frail tablet that stood over.
Who was this man, in the chill, silent hour of midnight, flinging
himself upon it in sorrow or adoration?
With a feeling far different from curiosity, the hunter slipped out of
his saddle, and leaving his horse behind, cautiously approached the
spot. As the man upon the grave was too much absorbed with his own
thoughts, he got close up without being observed; so close as to hear
that strange adjuration, and see a face he never expected to look upon
again. Despite the features, pale and marked with emaciation, the
hollow cheeks, and sunken but glaring eyeballs, he recognised the
countenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically calling
out his name.
Hearing his own pronounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, "Charley
Clancy!" adding the interrogatory, "Is it yurself or yur shader?"
Then, becoming assured, he throws open his arms, and closes them around
his old hunting associate.
Joy, at seeing the latter still alive, expels every trace of
supernatural thought, and he gives way--to exuberant congratulation.
On Clancy's side the only return is a faint smile, with a few confused
words, that seem to speak more of sadness than satisfaction. The
expression upon his face is rather or chagrin, as if sorry at the
encounter having occurred. His words are proof of it.
"Simeon Woodley," he says, "I should have been happy to meet you at any
other time, but not now."
"Why, Clancy!" returns the hunter, supremely astonished at the coldness
with which his warm advances have been received. "Surely you know I'm
yur friend?"
"Right well I know it."
"Wal, then, believin' you to be dead--tho' I for one never felt sure
o't--still thinking it might be--didn't I do all my possible to git
justice done for ye?"
"You did. I've heard all--everything that has happened. Too much I've
heard. O God! look there! Her grave--my murdered mother!"
"That's true. It killed the poor lady, sure enough."
"Yes; _he_ killed her."
"I needn't axe who you refar to. I heerd you mention the name as I got
up. We all know that Dick Darke has done whatever hez been done. We
hed him put in prison, but the skunk got away from us, by the bribin' o'
another skunk like hisself. The two went off thegither, an' no word's
ever been since heerd 'bout eyther. I guess they've put for Texas, whar
every scoundrel goes nowadays. Wal, Lordy! I'm so glad to see ye still
alive. Won't ye tell me how it's all kim about?"
"In time I shall--not now."
"But why are ye displeezed at meetin' me--me that mayent be the
grandest, but saitinly one o' the truest an' fastest o' yur friends?"
"I believe you are, Woodley--am sure of it. And, now that I think more
of the matter, I'm not sorry at having met you. Rather am I glad of it;
for I feel that I can depend upon you. Sime, will you go with me to
Texas?"
"To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An' I reck'n we'll hev a
good chance o' meetin' Dick Darke thar, an' then--"
"Meet him!" exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman to
finish his speech, "I'm sure of meeting him. I know the spot where.
Ah, Simeon Woodley! 'tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man is, or
supposed to be, there's a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him--
receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. O
God!"
"What woman air ye talkin' o', Clancy?"
"Her who has been the cause of all--Helen Armstrong."
"Wal; ye speak the truth partwise--but only partwise. Thar' can be no
doubt o' Miss Armstrong's being the innercent cause of most o' what's
been did. But as to her hevin' a likin' for Dick Darke, or puttin' them
soft white arms o' hern willingly or lovingly aroun' his neck, thar
you're clar off the trail--a million miles off o' it. That ere gurl
hates the very sight o' the man, as Sime Woodley hev' good reason to
know. An' I know, too, that she's nuts on another man--leastwise has
been afore all this happened, and I reck'n still continue to be.
Weemen--that air, weemen o' her kidney--ain't so changeable as people
supposes. 'Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin' once been inclined to'ardst
this other man, an' ready to freeze to him, I hev' the proof in my
pocket."
"The proof! What are you speaking of?"
"A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein'
that it's got your name on it. Thar's both a letter and a pictur'. To
examine 'em, we must have a clarer light than what's unner this tree, or
kin be got out o' that 'ere moon. S'pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar
we kin set the logs a-bleezin'. When they throw thar glint on the bit
o' paper I've spoke about, I'll take long odds you won't be so down in
the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye've had a durned dodrotted
deal both o' sufferin' an' sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley's got
somethin' thet's likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It's
only a bit o' pasteboard an' a sheet o' paper--both inside what in
Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi' me to the ole cabin, an' thar
you kin take a squint at 'em."
Clancy's heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have
inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly
restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he
follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour
and elasticity.
When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he
reads Helen Armstrong's letter, and looks upon her photograph--on that
sweet inscript intended for himself--he cries out in ecstasy,--
"Thank heaven! she is true--still true!"
No longer looks he the sad despairing invalid, but the lover--strong,
proud, triumphant.