CLOUDED HEARTS.
The day soon came that was to witness the departure of the Morelands, and
there was much ado in preparing for the down-river journey. They were not
to start until nightfall, as they had been repeatedly advised to travel
wholly by night, and lie in concealment during the day. The woods at that
time were swarming with hostile Indians, who, indignant at the increasing
tide of white humanity that was flowing westward and spreading over their
broad domains, were watching continually for flatboats and overland
emigrants. Many and horrible were the massacres perpetrated on those
daring souls who turned their backs on civilization to brave the dangers
of the great western wilderness and clear the way for those to come
thereafter. At such a time as this, then, it was well understood that
the voyage of the Morelands would be beset with innumerable dangers,
but to undertake it in the broad light of day, would seem almost like
throwing their lives away. But even under cover of darkness they were not
permitted to go alone. The commandant at the block-house selected a dozen
good men to accompany them down the river as an escort.
Isabel was not apprised of the project in view, until the afternoon
preceding the evening of their departure. When informed that they were
going to take up their abode at another fort, miles away, she took
no pains to conceal her astonishment, but prudently refrained from
asking questions. It was plain that she suspicioned the true cause of
this strange decision on the part of her father, but the troubled look
she wore, as she saw herself an object of distrust in the eyes of her
parents, was interpreted by them as deep regret at being compelled to
leave her new lover.
Isabel was standing in the door, looking very beautiful and very sad,
when Jim McCabe, who always seemed lying in wait for this sort of an
opportunity to gain an interview, stepped up to her, and doffed his hat
with an attempt at politeness. She would have retreated had she seen him
approaching, but he had spoken to her before she knew he was nigh.
“Miss Moreland,” he said, leaning against the house, and looking up at
her with a bland smile, “I hear you are about to leave us?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, briefly.
“I—I—am really sorry, Miss Moreland,” he continued, feigning
embarrassment, “that we are doomed to be deprived of the brightest star
that lights the little world within these palisades. I presume, though,
that you have friends here with whom you are equally as sorry to part. Am
I not right?”
“It is never a pleasure to part with one’s friends.”
“Very true; and you will leave a great many friends behind you,” said
McCabe, feeling his way cautiously.
“I trust you are right,” replied Isabel, coldly. “It is not pleasant to
reflect that our pathway of life is surrounded by enemies alone.”
“And yet such may be the case,” hinted the man.
Observing nothing serious behind these words, Isabel was silent.
“Miss Moreland,” he resumed, “I suppose you know nothing of the
slanderous reports that have been circulated at your expense?”
“I do not understand.”
“Then listen. We were speaking of friends; it is my opinion that you have
comparatively few at present.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I will. But, first—begging your pardon—let me be so presumptuous as to
ask you a question. Have you recently been meeting a man, at a certain
hour of the night, out yonder by the grave of Russell Trafford?”
He looked keenly at her, but was disappointed in what he saw. Her face
expressed nothing but astonishment and offended pride.
“Sir, you are impertinent,” she exclaimed.
“I ask a simple question.”
“I say you speak in riddles.”
“Then I will be more explicit. For a week your supposed unwomanly conduct
has been the talk of the whole village. They say that you have been led
astray by an entire stranger, who has won your affections, and whom you
have been meeting at an unbecoming hour and place. I need hardly tell you
that I have met this wicked rumor with the contempt it deserves, but, I
am sorry to say, that in which I have no faith is believed by every one
else.”
Isabel Moreland bit her lip hard to stop its quivering, and the rich
color came and went beneath the transparent surface of her cheeks. It was
all plain to her now. At last she had explanation of the great change
that had taken place in her former friends, and she knew why they treated
her so coldly. She was silent for some time, and then, flashing her big,
black eyes upon McCabe, she gave him a look that seemed to burn into his
very soul.
“I know who started that report,” she said.
“What—you know who—well?”
“_You_ did it, sir!”
“Eh?”
“I say, sir, that _you_ were the originator of the malicious report of
which you take delight in telling me.”
“I beg your pardon, madam, if I see fit to dispute your word, but I must
say, in defense of myself, that you are speaking under a sad mistake. Why
do you think me guilty of this wicked thing? Ah, I know. You are thinking
of the night when I saw you in the glade, clasped in the embrace of that
stranger.”
The girl dropped her eyes in confusion. Her heart heaved tumultuously
with conflicting emotions, and a sinister smile curled his thin lips as
he observed it.
“Still,” continued the brute, “you wrong me in attributing the origin of
that report to me. I was not certain that the woman I saw that evening
was you, though it is true I noted the resemblance. On my word of honor,
Miss Moreland, I have not opened my mouth until this moment concerning
that of which I chanced to be a witness. There are several others who
have seen the same thing that I saw, and have been gossiping about it at
a fearful rate. The story has been related to me fifty times, perhaps,
and, although I have cursed the gabbling idiots, and formed numberless
excuses in your defense, they only laugh at my skepticism and declare
that I am in love. Believe me, I have tried to be your friend through
this ordeal, and I feel that I am only doing the duty of a friend in
letting you know to what a humiliating extent you are being imposed upon.”
Having relieved himself of this speech, McCabe fancied he had said the
right thing in the right place, and looked vastly important as he awaited
an answer. Isabel composed herself with difficulty, but when she spoke
again it was quite calmly.
“Does my father know of this?” she asked.
“He does. Both your father and mother have been repeatedly told of it, if
I am rightly informed.”
The girl was silent again.
“Miss Moreland,” pursued the profligate, taking a step nearer, “I have
told you how firmly I have espoused your cause, and proved myself your
devoted friend through all. I am certain that you have the best of
reasons for meeting this so-called stranger—a reason which, although it
is sufficient to excuse you from censure, you are not yet at liberty to
divulge. Darling, I am the only one who has faith in your innocence. I
know you are too good, too pure—”
“Cease your mockery, villain!” cried Isabel, her whole manner changing
in an instant. “Leave me at once, and see that you never open your foul
mouth to address me again! I have been blind heretofore, but I now see
your object in lionizing yourself in my presence! Be off! I hate you! I
loathe you!”
Jim McCabe was somewhat taken aback by this outburst. Passion getting the
best of him, his face became livid; he clenched his hands involuntarily,
and gnashed his teeth like a maddened brute.
“Go, execrable wretch!” commanded Isabel. “I see my father coming; take
yourself off immediately, or I shall ask him to assist you.”
“Your father, indeed,” laughed McCabe, in a sort of ecstasy of rage.
“Little does he now care for his deceitful, perfidious daughter. He
won’t think it possible for anybody to insult her after all that has
been revealed to him. Listen, Isabel Moreland; I leave you now at your
command, but, mark my word, two days shall not pass away before we meet
again; and you will be in my power!”
The next moment he was gone.
Isabel entered the house, and at once sought her little chamber, there
to be alone with her thoughts and tears. She understood now why she was
about to be taken away from her present home, and it grieved her to think
her parents had lost confidence in her. But, she could not undeceive them
now, and, since hearing what she had heard, she was glad that she was
going away, knowing it was better thus than to remain there an object of
scorn. There was no help for her unhappiness at present; none knew that
better than she; but she felt assured that all would be well in good
time, and so tried hard to be contented with her lot.
When night came she went with her parents to the river which flowed
by within three hundred yards of the settlement. On reaching the bank
they found the escort waiting—stalwart, sturdy-looking rangers, all
armed to the teeth. There were two large boats lying close up under the
river-bank, one of them being occupied by eight of the men, and the other
by the remaining four, which latter was also to carry the family.
Mr. and Mrs. Moreland at once took their places in the boat, but Isabel
hesitated.
“Come, child,” said her mother; “step in, and sit down here by me. I
suspect the men are impatient to be off.”
The men were taking up their oars, preparatory to starting.
“Mamma,” said Isabel, “I have forgotten something.”
“Forgotten something?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? Nothing of importance, I hope, for we can not tarry until
you return for it.”
“But it _is_ of importance, mamma. It is that pretty case of trinkets
that father gave me, and among its contents is that golden locket which I
prize so highly, containing the pictures of yourself and papa. I placed
it on the mantle-piece in the front room just before starting, intending
to get it as I came out. I must go back now, for I can not lose it.”
“There is no necessity for either the one or the other,” put in her
father, a little sharply. “We can not wait here until you obtain it, so
get in here with your mother and let us be gone.”
“I will not be absent long,” persisted the maiden.
“Too long to keep us waiting. Please take your place in the boat, and say
no more about it. Your case of trinkets will not be lost, depend upon
it. We can speak to old Kirby Kidd, and have him bring it to you, as you
know he frequently makes a trip between the two forts. The men have been
waiting here long enough already to try their patience, and I’m sure they
don’t relish the idea of a longer delay.”
“Yer father’s right, miss,” said one of the rangers, respectfully. “I
don’t want to oppose ye, but hyur’s as calculates yer father’s right;
’cause why? we got to go a consid’rable ways afore mornin’.”
“Not so very fur,” said another. “We’ve only to make two-thirds o’ the
distance to-night, an’ that ain’t more’n ten mile, ye know. We’ve got to
stop at that island, Jack, that Kidd was tellin’ us about, and lay thar
till to-morrer night ’fore completin’ the journey. The gal’s got plenty
o’ time to git her valu’bles.”
“There, father; what do you say to that?” cried Isabel.
“I say, my child, that I myself will go back after your treasure,” said
Mr. Moreland, preparing to step out of the boat.
“No, papa; no, no, no!” contested the daughter, earnestly. “I will go
myself. I can go more quickly, you know.”
And, before he could expostulate, she had turned and tripped lightly up
the bank, and in another moment had disappeared in the darkness.
As Isabel hurried through the woods toward the settlement, she murmured
to herself:
“Poor papa and mamma! It goes to my heart to look upon them in their
deep sorrow, conscious that I could relieve them of their trouble by a
word. It is hard to deceive them, who love me so dearly, but I am sure
they will forgive me when they know all. My case of trinkets I left for
an excuse to return. God forgive me! I believe it is all for the best. I
must hurry and get the case, and then keep my appointment with _him_.”