LOVE AFTER DEATH.
As we have already stated, the grave of Doctor Trafford’s supposed
murderer was in a pretty little glade just outside of the settlement.
Those who had known and liked the young man were only too glad to perform
any office of respect to his corpse, and the grave had been dug so deep
that there was no possibility of the body being reached by wild animals.
To this lonely spot the intimate friends of Russell Trafford would repair
at times to lament, in solitude, the loss of one so good, noble, yet
unfortunate.
That night, after his interview with Isabel Moreland, and the provoking
stranger, Jonathan Boggs, Jim McCabe was seized with a strong inclination
to pay a visit to the tomb of his ill-fated rival in love. Of course
this inclination was not born of any such feeling as grief or regret for
the lost one, but, rather, of a desire to exult over his fallen foe, and
glut his greedy eyes on the last resting-place of the man who would never
more stand in his way. He had not seen it as yet—in fact, he had not been
outside of the palisades since the day of the execution—and he now felt
as if he must see the place where the man was buried, before he could
fully realize that his most dangerous rival was indeed out of his way.
The thought struck McCabe while he was sauntering through the settlement.
It was night, but not a dark one by any means. The moon was shining in
all her glory, and not a cloud obscured the star-studded sky; and, as
Jim McCabe seldom turned a deaf ear to the voice of his inclination, he
was not long in determining to follow it on this occasion. The hour was
late, and none of the inhabitants were out, save a few who sat in their
doors, and they would suppose he was merely going out for a stroll in the
moonlight. But, pshaw! even if they should see where he went, would they
not think he had gone there to drop a silent tear on the sod that covered
the remains of a noble man?
He went. He told the man at the gate, as he passed out, that he would
return in a few minutes, and then he walked slowly away into the shadows
of the forest. He was musing on the events of the day as he wandered on;
of the freezing coldness with which Isabel Moreland had met him; of the
eccentric character, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine; and not a little of his
cousin, the Irish boy, who had demanded money of him.
Thus meditating, Jim McCabe arrived at his destination. Emerging from the
darkness of the woods, he paused on the edge of the glade to contemplate
the scene before him.
Yes, there was the grave of the man he hated, in the very center of the
open place—the small, grassy mound he had come to gloat over. He saw it
now, and was satisfied; but why did the villain start back and stare, as
his gleaming eyes alighted on the object he had come here to see? Why
did he seem so surprised, and even alarmed? Well he might, for he saw at
a glance that he was not the only person in that lonely spot. A man was
there—a tall, finely-formed man, standing by the grave, with his head
bowed upon his breast! He was motionless as a statue of stone. Who was
this man—this mourner—this night visitor at the tomb of Russell Trafford?
Jim McCabe asked himself this question over and over, gazing keenly
at the stately figure before him for an answer. Had he not seen that
tall, graceful form before? He thought at first that he had, but, as
he called to mind every person of his acquaintance, and compared them
with this one, he was compelled to admit that this one was a stranger to
him. Just as he arrived at this conclusion the unknown moved. He turned
half around, which gave the silent watcher a full view of his face. The
moonlight fell on his bare head, revealing a noble forehead, a pair of
brilliant eyes, and features of the handsomest mold.
Good Heaven! _the man was Russell Trafford himself_!
Jim McCabe staggered backward, and grasped a tree for support. His face
changed to a deathly pallor, the perspiration poured from his brow, and
for a moment his breath came in spasmodic gasps. Russell Trafford! he
who had been hung—he who was dead and buried—now standing before him in
all his living health and manly beauty! Great God could he believe his
eyes? Had not he himself seen the man hung? Was he dreaming, or was this
some frightful delusion of a disordered brain? That face, with the mellow
light of the moon falling gently upon it, was not to be mistaken.
While the terrified ruffian was staring at the apparition, still another
figure appeared in the glade. This, more to his surprise, he observed
was not a male, but a _female_ figure. It wore a white dress, and it was
gliding toward the grave in the center of the natural clearing. Another
keen glance, and McCabe had recognized this new appearance. It was Isabel
Moreland!
Dumb with amazement, the lurker could do nothing but stand and stare. He
saw the woman go up to the man; he saw the man catch her in his arms,
and press his lips to her fair brow; and then he heard the low hum of
their voices as they began an earnest but guarded conversation. In an
instant his astonishment and consternation were transformed into fierce,
ungovernable rage. He forgot, for the moment, that the appearance of this
man, alive and well, was the most miraculous thing he had ever heard of.
He forgot that he must be dreaming or insane, or that the familiar form
before him was but a spirit from the dead. He forgot every thing, except
that Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland were standing there within a
few feet of him, locked in each other’s arms! His blood boiled in his
veins, and his hot head swam with the demoniac fury that took possession
of him.
“A thousand curses!” he roared, in a voice hoarse with passion, as he
snatched a pistol from his breast. “I swear I’ll kill the scoundrel if he
has a hundred lives!”
Like a wild beast bursting from its covert, Jim McCabe sprung from the
shadow of the tree, pistol in hand, and bounded across the open space
toward the lovers. But he had taken scarcely half a dozen strides, when
a rough hand grasped his collar from behind, and he was jerked backward
with a violence that well-nigh precipitated him to the ground. As soon
as he had regained his equilibrium, he wheeled around to see who it was
that had so abruptly put an end to his fierce attack. In the moonlight he
saw the faces of three men, all scowling upon him as though he were the
worst person in existence! He knew them all at a glance. One of them, he
who had seized him by the collar, was Kirby Kidd, the stalwart ranger who
had acted the part of hangman in the execution of young Trafford. Another
was the friendly Wyandott Indian, Wapawah, the constant companion of the
white hunter. The third and last member of the group was Nick Robbins,
the man of the bandaged eye and expressionless face.
“What do you want of me?” demanded McCabe; “and what do you mean by
jerking a fellow about in that manner?”
“See hyur, youngster,” drawled Kirby Kidd, peering into the face of his
captive, “who in creation are you, anyhow?”
“None of your business,” was the curt reply.
“Yas, I thort so,” continued the ranger, coolly. “But, never mind; I know
who you be, now. Ye’re Jim McCabe, the chap as are known to be the black
sheep of the fort, an’ the sneakin’est hang-dog that ever set fire to a
shanty! What in all natur’ are ye—an eediot or a sleep-walker? ’cause
it’s plain to this coon ’ut ye’re one or t’other. What wur ye caperin’
round hyur fur? Hav yer treed sunkthin’?”
“Can’t you see what it is?” exclaimed McCabe, wildly. “Where are your
eyes? Don’t you see Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing there,
locked in a close embrace?”
“What! When? Where?” ejaculated Kirby Kidd and Nick Robbins, in a breath.
“Why, _there_!” roared the ruffian, in the wildest excitement, pointing
toward the grave as he spoke.
“This coon sees nothin’,” asserted Kidd.
“Neither do this ’un,” echoed Robbins.
Nor did Jim McCabe himself see the apparitions now. During the brief
space of time that his eyes were averted from the spot, the two figures
had disappeared! Had he, after all, been laboring under a freak of
imagination? He stared blankly at the three men, and the three men stared
blankly at him.
“Poor cuss!” said the ranger; “he’s gone crazy, to a sartainty.”
“I haven’t—I deny it,” panted the terrified wretch. “By the Great
Jehovah, I saw them as plainly as I now see you!”
“Yer see’d who?”
“Why, Miss Moreland and that young scamp of a Trafford.”
“Poor cuss!” repeated the ranger, slowly. “He _is_ crazy, mold me into
buckshot ef he ain’t.”
“I tell you I am not,” cried the villain, with an oath.
“Look hyur, kumrid,” argued Nick Robbins, “the man ye speak of are dead,
and thar’s his grave, right behind ye. Kidd, thar, wur the coon as hung
him, an’ ’most ev’rybody at the fort wur out hyur when the buryin’ tuck
place.”
“I know all that, and yet I have not taken leave of my senses. If I did
not see the real Russell Trafford, I saw his ghost, although I was never
thought to believe in such things. He was standing yonder by the grave,
and he was joined there by a female, whom I at once recognized as the
daughter of Mr. Moreland.”
“I reckon ’twur a couple o’ spooks,” said Kidd, solemnly. “Whar wur ye
goin’ when we saw fit to detain yer?”
“I was approaching the ‘spooks,’ as you call them.”
“Approachin’ ’em? Yas, I guess ye wur, but ye may mold me into buckshot
ef I don’t think ye’re a sleep-walker. Ye started off as if yer futur’
redemption depended upon yer speed, an’ I must say ’ut ye seemed jest the
least little bit angry, or frightened, or excited, or sunkthin’ else,
’cause why? yer face was redder’n I ever see’d it, an’ ye cussed like a
trooper, an’ yer eyes shined like hot fat. What ye got that pistol in yer
hand fur?”
The ranger looked straight in the eye of McCabe as he made this last
inquiry. McCabe started nervously, and quickly thrust the pistol into his
pocket.
“I hardly know why I drew the weapon,” he answered, turning very red,
“but surely with no intention of using it. But, my friends, how came you
here at this hour of the night?” he added, not caring particularly to
continue the subject.
“How kum us hyur? Wal, ye see, Nick, thar, is a great coon-hunter, an’
me an’ the red-skin volunteered to ’kump’ny him to-night on one of his
nocturnal tramps. But that reminds me, kumrids, that it’s time we wur
movin’ on.”
“And I must return home,” said McCabe. “So good night.”
They parted, and while the three hunters went their way Jim McCabe walked
slowly homeward.
He was sorely troubled. He could not banish his strange adventure from
his mind. That he had seen either the ghost or exact counterpart of
Russell Trafford, he was morally certain, and that the female who joined
him was the beautiful Isabel, he was ready to swear. A train of horrible
thoughts passed through his mind as he walked through the dark woods, and
then he began to glance suspiciously around on every side, and tremble
unconsciously at every rustle of a leaf. Once he stopped short and caught
his breath, at sight of his own shadow on the trunk of a tree, and then
he hurried on, chiding himself for his weakness. Nor did he feel safe
until he had dashed through the gate, and found himself once more within
the stockade.
“Strange,” he whispered to himself, as he hastened home; “’tis very
strange indeed, but I know that I was not walking in my sleep. I believe
that I am haunted. It never occurred to me before to-night that I am a
double murderer!”