The Brannons fled immediately upon being released, after the carrying
out of the sentence. No one mourned their departure: but Nell Lamar,
having heard from Dale of the look the culprit had cast upon Kenneth,
rejoiced not a little in secret that they were gone.
"Dr. Clendenin had been so kind to her on her journey," she explained
to herself, "that in common gratitude she must care for his safety."
Naturally, being both friend and physician to the major's family,
Kenneth was a frequent visitor at their house. Though noticeably
quiet and undemonstrative in manner, he soon became a great favorite
with them all, from the parents down to the youngest child; and
Nell saw no reason to appropriate his visits to herself, even when
unprofessional.
Nor had she any desire to do so; and in fact his conversation
was seldom directed to her. Yet it did not escape Clare's quick
observation that the calm gray eye saw every movement of her young
sister, and that no tone of the sweet girlish voice ever fell
unheeded upon his ear.
She was well pleased, Nell could not help loving such a man, or being
happy with him, so would soon be provided for, and the major relieved
of her support.
That last would never have been the major's thought, his darling
little sister was esteemed no burden by him. He was one of the
wealthiest men in the place, held a highly responsible office under
the general government, and had received large grants of land in
compensation for his services in the Revolutionary war.
Nell was fond of her brother, yet stood somewhat in awe of him. He
was a reserved, rather taciturn man, and military life had increased
a natural tendency to sternness of manner toward those under his
authority which belied his real kindness of heart. He had never a
harsh word or look for Nell, yet she dared not lavish upon him the
demonstrations of affection her loving young heart longed to bestow;
dared not offer him a caress; and he rarely gave them unasked to her
or to any one else except the youngest of his children.
Clare was more demonstrative and really meant to be very kind, but
was as dictatorial and domineering in her way as the major in his,
and before many days had passed she began to treat the young girl as
a child, checking, criticising, reproving, and directing with the
most exasperating persistency, and as having an undoubted right.
This was very trying to Nell's sense of womanly dignity; and though
by no means an ill-tempered little body, she sometimes found it
difficult to possess her soul in patience.
"Where now?" asked Clare one morning, addressing her.
"To the woods with the children, after wild flowers and mosses,"
returned the young girl gaily.
She was standing in the doorway swinging a broad-brimmed hat by its
strings, her beautiful uncovered hair glittering like burnished
gold in the sunbeams sifting down upon it through the leaves of the
overshadowing trees, as they stirred restlessly to and fro in the
pleasant summer breeze.
She was in a happy mood, light-hearted and free from care as the
birds warbling overhead, and had been humming snatches of song till
interrupted by Clare's question.
"You have been here nearly a week now," pursued that lady in
precisely the tone she would have used to one of her children, "don't
you think it is time to begin to make yourself useful? Life was never
meant for a perpetual holiday."
Nell's cheek crimsoned.
"What would you have me do? offer my services as assistant to Silvy
the cook, Maria the nurse-maid, or Tig the stable boy?" she asked in
a slightly sarcastic tone.
"Silvy is an excellent cook, and it might not be at all amiss for
you to take some lessons of her," said Clare. "But there are other
employments. The children need instruction, and you ought to be able
to give it. Then there are spinning and sewing."
"I don't know anything about spinning."
"I'll teach you, in return for the lessons you give the children in
spelling, reading and writing."
"Very well, we'll talk of it when I come back from my walk," Nell
answered, tying on her hat.
She was willing enough to make herself useful, but Clare's manner was
irritating.
Her annoyance was, however, soon forgotten in the prattle of the
children, and the beauty of the woods.
They wandered about till weary, then sat down on a log to rest.
"Now if I only had a book," remarked Nell.
"Why didn't you bring one?" asked Bess.
"I don't mean a Sunday book, such as those on the shelves in the
sitting-room," was the half scornful reply.
"Aunt Nell, there are some other kinds of books up in the garret."
"What kinds?"
"Oh, I don't know; stories, I believe, but not fit for me to read,
mother says."
Nell rose eagerly. "Come, let us go back," she said, "I must see
those books. But how came they there?"
Bess explained as they wended their homeward way, she walking soberly
by her aunt's side, the boys racing on before, climbing and jumping
over stumps and logs.
The major had formerly been in the mercantile business, and in the
garret were stowed away boxes of goods--a medley of many odds and
ends which had fallen to his share in the division of unsold stock
made by himself and partner in the winding up of the joint concern.
The garret was the favorite resort of the children when kept within
doors by stormy weather, and Bess had made herself well acquainted
with the contents of the boxes, turning them over and over in search
of "pretty things" with which to bedeck her dolls and herself.
The books proved to be novels--"Claremont" complete in several
volumes and an odd volume of "Peregrine Pickle."
Nell seized upon them with delight and carried them off to her
bed-room. Books were rare luxuries in those days, there were no
newspapers or magazines published in that region of country, and as
yet there was no regular mail.
Nell read and re-read "Claremont," devoting to its perusal every
spare moment when she could steal away unobserved to the solitude
of her room, and carrying a volume with her in her rambles with the
children.
Then she took up "Peregrine Pickle," but with sore disappointment
that the first volume was missing; so much so that she at length
plucked up courage to ask her brother what had become of it; though
quite fearful that he would disapprove of her reading it.
"Well," he said with a smile, "I suppose my former partner has it,
and somebody is probably as anxious for this as you are for it. I'm
sorry, for your sake, that we were so careless in dividing our stock."
"It is just as well," said Clare; "time can be more profitably
employed than in the reading of such trash."
"I consider it a very innocent amusement," replied the major,
shortly; not over-pleased with the remark, seeing that it called a
flush of wounded feeling to Nellie's fair cheek. "I remember that I
enjoyed reading it myself. If it were in my power to get it for you,
Nell, you should have it."
She thanked him with a look, then rose and left the room.
"This is but a dull place for her after Philadelphia," he said to
his wife. "I have no doubt she misses the weekly newspaper and many
another source of entertainment which she enjoyed there, but must do
without here."
"Probably; but she is no worse off in regard to those things than any
of the rest of us," said Clare coolly.
"You forget, my dear, that you have me," returned the major with
playful pleasantry. "And the children," he added, taking his youngest
on his knee. "We're worth a good deal, aren't we, Ralph?"
The major so sincerely regretted his sister's disappointment that
it was frequently in his thoughts during the next week, and he was
seriously considering the feasibility of sending to Philadelphia or
New York for a box of books such as she would find both entertaining
and instructive, when the want was supplied in an unlooked for manner.
Dr. Clendenin and his friend Dale had pushed forward their office
building as fast as possible and taken possession.
Making a call upon Kenneth one afternoon, the major found him
unpacking books and arranging them upon shelves he had had put up
along the wall.
"Books!" cried the major. "You have quite a library. All medical
works?"
"Oh, no," said Kenneth. "Will you step up and look at them? My stock
is not large, but valuable, to me at least, and I hope to add to it
from time to time."
"Valuable! yes, indeed, to a lover of literature," remarked the major
running his eye over the titles. "Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Dryden,
Gray, Goldsmith, Gibbon, Plutarch, Rollins, etc., etc. Poetry,
history, fiction are well represented, and I see you have a goodly
supply of religious works of the best class, also. Medical books,
too, in plenty, but of their quality I am no judge."
"Yes, I shall not want for good companionship here in my somewhat
rough bachelor quarters," Kenneth answered, surveying his treasures
with an air of quiet content. "But I do not mean to be selfish,
major, make yourself at home among my friends."
"Thank you," returned the major heartily, wishing that Nell had been
included in the invitation; when Kenneth, as if in answer to his
thoughts, said, "The ladies of your family, too, might find something
here to enjoy."
Then the major told of Nell's disappointment, and half an hour later
was on his way home, carrying her the "Vicar of Wakefield," and the
assurance that Dr. Clendenin's entire library was at her service.
Nell's face sparkled with delight at the news, and the sight of the
book.
"How kind in him!" she said. "I'll handle them with the greatest
care."
For many months those books and the talks with their owner which
naturally grew out of their perusal, were her greatest enjoyment; for
as yet she had very few companions near her own age.
But as the town grew there was a corresponding increase in its young
society and in the sources of amusement and entertainment open to
her. She had many admirers and Kenneth stepped quietly aside, as one
who had no desire to win the prize.
Mrs. Lamar did not understand it, no more did Dale, or Nell herself,
though Kenneth had never comported himself as a lover and she had not
consciously thought of him.
There were other things about Kenneth that puzzled Dale. He seemed
to have some secret grief; there were times when his look and manner
betokened inexpressible sadness, though he always shook it off and
assumed an air of cheerfulness on being spoken to.
Dale's curiosity was piqued, and indeed he would have rejoiced to
give all the sympathy and comfort that might be in his power; but
there was a quiet, reserved dignity about Kenneth that forbade any
intrusion into his private affairs.
He rarely spoke of himself or his own concerns; he sometimes
mentioned his mother or sister, always with the greatest respect
and affection, but his talk when they were alone together was of
literature, of the interests of the community in which they lived,
the state, the country, the acts of the government, and what was
going on in foreign lands, or of Dale's own plans and prospects, in
which Kenneth took the most generous, unselfish interest.
As a physician he was untiring in his efforts to relieve, patient and
sympathizing, in manner gentle even to tenderness with the aged and
with the little ones.
He soon came to have great influence in the community and it was
always cast on the side of right. A man of pure morals and an earnest
Christian, he was as ready and competent to pray with the sick and
dying, and to point out to the troubled soul the paths of peace, as
any minister could be.
These offices were performed as simply and easily as those others in
which the healing of the body only was concerned.
Another thing Dale noticed, with the thought that it was decidedly
odd, that Kenneth took evident pains to make acquaintance with all
the Indians in the vicinity, and of every white man who had visited
their tribes, whether near or far off, or had had much to do with
them in any way: that he asked many questions, wording each with
care to avoid arousing suspicion in regard to his motives, and that
invariably his main object seemed to be to gain information in regard
to whites living among the Indians.
Once Dale ventured to ask if he had ever had a friend or relative
carried off by them; but the answer was a quiet "No," that while it
left his curiosity entirely unsatisfied, gave no encouragement to
further questioning.
They were in Dale's office; Kenneth had come across the connecting
hall with some enquiry in regard to a piece of land for the disposal
of which Dale was the agent, and a casual mention of the Indians had
made a favorable opening for his query.
A moment's silence followed Kenneth's reply, then Zeb came rushing in.
"Somefin goin' on down to de rivah, sahs, Squire Smith goin' for to
hol' court, dey say. Sent de constable to cotch the tief an' fotch
him along double quick."
Dale sprang from his chair and caught up his hat.
"My services may be needed," he said, laughing, "though the squire
doesn't make much account of law. Come on, doc; if the sentence
should be flogging you may be needed too."
A man named Adam McMurdy, who cultivated some land on the station
prairie below the town, had come in to Squire Smith with a complaint
that during his absence the previous night, some one had stolen his
horse collar; that he had examined the collars on the horses of the
ploughmen at work this morning, recognized one of them as his, and
claimed it of the horse's owner, Bill Slack.
That Slack had not only refused to restore it, insisting that it was
his own, but used very abusive language toward him (McMurdy), and
threatened to whip him for accusing him of the theft.
On hearing the story the squire immediately despatched his constable
in search of Slack, with strict orders to bring him and the collar at
once into court.
The court had already convened under the trees by the river side, and
the constable was hurrying toward it with the collar in one hand,
the accused tightly grasped in the other, as Dr. Clendenin and Dale
stepped into the street.
They followed quickly on the heels of the constable. Life had so
little of the spice of variety then and there that even so trivial an
affair created some stir and excitement.
Also the squire had an amusing method of dealing out justice that
made a trial conducted by him somewhat entertaining to those who were
spectators.
Nearly all the men of the town were there.
The prisoner being arraigned at the bar of justice, the squire turned
to McMurdy and asked, "How can you prove this collar to be yours?"
"If the collar is mine," he replied, "Mr. Spear, who is present, can
testify."
Mr. Spear, the Presbyterian minister, stepped forward.
"If the collar is McMurdy's," he said, "I wrote his name on it, on
the inner side of the ear."
"Hand it to me," said the squire. Taking it from the constable and
turning up the ear, "Yes, here's the name. No better proof could be
given, and my sentence is----"
"If the court will excuse the interruption," began Dale, a
mischievous twinkle in his eye; "let me say that according to law,
as----"
"No, the court won't be interrupted," returned the squire, frowning
him down. "All laws were intended for the purpose of enforcing
justice. I know what's right and what's wrong as well as the man
that made the laws; therefore stand in no need of laws to govern my
actions.
"My sentence is that the prisoner be tied up forthwith to your
buckeye and receive five lashes well laid on."
It was done and the crowd dispersed. The trial had occupied scarcely
five minutes and every one was satisfied except the culprit.