No wonder, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Moreland were deeply troubled, and began to look on their daughter with distrust. Was it possible that Isabel, always so good and dutiful, was clandestinely meeting a stranger every night in the woods? They would fain have turned a deaf ear to every word touching the character of their idolized child, but all of those who had witnessed the secret meetings—we may except McCabe—were persons whom they positively could not disbelieve. They were at a loss what course to pursue. They decided to say nothing on the subject to their daughter, but to devise a plan instead, of putting an end to the nocturnal meetings without seeming to have such an object in view. The whole settlement was soon talking about the mysterious stranger, wondering who in the world he was, whence he came, and where he kept himself during the day. And the men looked puzzled, and the women held up their hands with horrified looks, as they speculated on the immodest conduct of Miss Moreland, but not a word of the gossip reached the ear of the wronged girl herself. All knew that the death of Russell Trafford had wrought a marked change in her appearance, but already the roses were returning to her cheeks, the luster to her eyes, and she was fast becoming the same light-hearted, joyous girl that had once been the light and life of the whole settlement. Was not this, in itself, proof that she had forgotten her old love?
Poor Isabel! She knew nothing of the calumnious gossip that was being indulged in at her expense. She little dreamed even that her friends had begun to regard her with feelings of distrust, much less her own kind parents, who had always had confidence in her self-esteem, womanly modesty, and true dignity of soul. But, when Sunday came round, and she went with her parents to the little log meeting-house, where the settlers were wont to repair for worship on this day of each week, she was surprised and pained by the strange looks and cold salutations she there received. She spoke of this to her mother on returning home, but only an evasive reply was offered in return, leaving her as much in the dark as before.
Thus matters went on with the Morelands. Almost every evening, Isabel was observed to throw a light shawl over her shoulders and leave the house, and, on inquiry of the guards at the gate, it was ascertained that she really did leave the fort entirely in her nocturnal strolls. Still, neither the father nor mother was willing to broach the subject to the misguided daughter. They tried to think her innocent of any impropriety—to believe that she went out in the silent hours of night to weep unseen over the grave of her dead lover. But to no purpose. They could not discard the statement of those whom they knew too thoroughly to suspect of fabrication. So the talk was kept up, and the cause of it all was ignorant of the sensation she had raised.
Once Mr. Morton thought of forbidding the guard to let her out through the gate, but, before he had decided as to the feasibility of this plan, another one came to his mind which he liked much better. The forming of this last plan was followed by a firm resolution, and Mr. Moreland was not the man to break a resolution when once it was made.
“My dear,” he said, when he and his wife were alone in the house, “I am no longer at a loss what course to take to prevent a continuance of this imprudent conduct on the part of our child. I have thought of several plans which I did not think proper, on careful consideration, to put into execution, but I have devised one now which I shall certainly act upon. About fifteen miles down the river there is a fort, as you doubtless remember, and to this fort I propose to remove. Some fine morning we will pack our worldly effects, and take our poor daughter to a new home. She shall know nothing of the project until the time of starting, and then this strange lover of hers will not know what has become of her.”
Mrs. Moreland listened calmly to this. The idea of breaking off old associations, and turning their backs on their present home, was by no means a pleasant one to her. But she thought of all that was in the scales, and did not demur. Whatever her husband said was right, that she was willing to do, she said, and then bowed her head low over her knitting, to hide the tears that would come at the remembrance of her child’s conduct of late. So it was decided to take Isabel far away from the unknown scoundrel who had lured her from the path of duty, but they studiously avoided uttering a word of their intentions in her presence.
Among the foremost of the girl’s vilifiers was Jim McCabe, who told all of his acquaintances how he had seen her meet a strange-looking man at an unseemly hour, in an unseemly place, and how she had permitted him to embrace and kiss her. Of all this he had ample proof, but he began to exaggerate the story as he repeated it, and at the end would go on to say that Miss Moreland was no longer fit to associate with the other young women of the fort. As may well be supposed, the scheming rascal had an object in this. His hope was to deprive her entirely of her good name, and then go to her with words of deep compassion and urge her to fly with him away from those bad people!
One day, while McCabe was strolling through the settlement, he encountered the Irish boy, Mike Terry. Somewhat to his surprise, Mike had seemed to purposely shun him of late, and on this occasion he determined to have an interview. So he took a gold-piece from his pocket, and accosted the lad.
“Mike, here is some money for you,” he said, with a bland smile. “I have not given you any for some time, and I must say that your long silence has pleased me very much.”