CHAPTER III.
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?