No more to know--no more hear me! O G.o.d!"

They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he says.

Presently, sober reason seems to a.s.sert itself, and he again resumes speech; but now with voice, expression of features, att.i.tude, 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!"

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

"SHE IS TRUE--STILL TRUE!"

The men who thus mutually p.r.o.nounce 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 pa.s.ses 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 circ.u.mstances 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 Borla.s.se received chastis.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.s the cottage of the Clancys, his own humble domicile lying beyond. At sight of the deserted dwelling a painful throb pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sisted 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s, he recognised the countenance of Charles Clancy; soon as he did so, mechanically calling out his name.

Hearing his own p.r.o.nounced, in response, Sime again exclaims, "Charley Clancy!" adding the interrogatory, "Is it yurself or yur shader?"

Then, becoming a.s.sured, he throws open his arms, and closes them around his old hunting a.s.sociate.

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 G.o.d! 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 d.i.c.k 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' d.i.c.k 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 G.o.d!"

"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 d.i.c.k 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.