The tops of the Alleghanies loomed up darkly against the eastern sky
as it flushed with the rosy hues of a new day; the delicate shades
of rose pink and pale blue changed to crimson and gold, and anon the
increasing light aroused old Vashti from the heavy slumber into which
she had fallen some hours before.
She started up, rubbed her eyes, and glancing from the window,
muttered, "'Bout time dis chile was wakin' up and lookin' after
tings. Sun's jus' gwine to peep 'bove dose mountings. Wonder how ole
marster is 'bout dis time?"
She had thrown herself down upon her bed without undressing.
Finishing her remarks with something between a sigh and a groan, she
slowly gathered herself up and went stumbling from the room, hardly
more than half awake yet, having lost much sleep in the last two or
three weeks.
But reaching the upper chamber where her mistress had kept solitary
vigil through the night, she entered very quietly, extinguished the
candle, drew aside the window curtains, letting in the morning light
and air, then stepping to the foot of the bed, stood silently gazing
upon its occupant, the big tears stealing down her sable cheeks.
The form lying there was attenuated, the face thin, haggard, deathly;
the sunken eyes were closed, and the breath came fitfully from the
ghastly, parted lips.
Mrs. Clendenin seemed unconscious of Vashti's entrance; her eyes
were riveted upon that pallid face, the cold hand was clasped in
hers, and her heart was sending up agonizing petitions.
They were granted; he stirred slightly, opened his eyes, looking full
into hers with a clear, steady, loving gaze, while the cold fingers
feebly responded to her tender clasp.
"My wife, my darling!" he whispered, and she bent eagerly to catch
the low breathed words. "God bless you for your faithful love! I'm
going--going home to be with Christ; and it's all peace--peace and
light."
The eyelids drooped, the fingers fell away from her grasp, the breast
heaved with one long-drawn sigh, and all was still.
She fell upon her knees at his side, still with his hand in hers, her
face radiant with unutterable joy.
"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "My darling, my darling! at
rest, at rest, and safe at last!"
"Dat he is, dat he is, bress de Lord!" ejaculated the old negress.
For many minutes the new-made widow knelt there gazing fixedly into
the calm face of the dead; then rising she gently closed the eyes and
composed the limbs of him who had been to her nearer and dearer than
aught else on earth, not a tear dimming her eyes, but a light shining
in them as in those of one on whom had been suddenly bestowed an
intensely longed for and almost despaired of boon.
"No strange hands shall busy themselves about thee, my beloved,"
she murmured, "mine, only mine shall make you ready for your quiet,
peaceful sleep, 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary
are at rest.'"
Vashti looked on in wonder and surprise, silently giving such
assistance as she might, without waiting for orders, bringing needed
articles and making the room neat.
At length, the task completed, Vashti went down to her kitchen, but
Mrs. Clendenin lingered still by the side of the beloved clay, gazing
with hungry eyes upon the face that must soon be hidden from the
sight beneath the clods of the valley.
A light step crossed the threshold and a slight girlish figure stood
beside her. In an instant Marian's arms were round her mother's neck,
her kisses and tears warm upon her cheek.
"Precious, precious mother! Oh, don't let your heart break!"
"No, darling!" she whispered, clasping the weeping girl in her arms;
"it is full of joy and thankfulness for him, for he has laid down his
heavy, heavy cross and received his crown, the crown of righteousness
bought for him with the precious blood of Christ.
"Ah, my Angus, how blest, how blest art thou!" she cried, bending
over the still form and pressing her lips to the cold brow.
They lingered over him for some minutes, the girl weeping and
sobbing, the mother calm and placid; then together they went
down-stairs and out into the shrubbery.
There were no curious eyes to watch them as they paced slowly up and
down the walks, for the nearest neighbor was a full half mile away,
on the farther side of the western hills.
The mother talked low and soothingly to her weeping child, speaking
of the glories and bliss of heaven, and of the loving care of the
Lord for His saints on earth.
"Mother, mother!" cried the girl, "I feared your heart would break;
but instead you seem full of joy!"
"Ah, dear one, life has been a terror to him for many years; and
shall I mourn that he has at last gotten the victory? That he is gone
home to his Father's house, where there is perfect safety and fulness
of joy forever more?"
"Mother," whispered the girl with a shudder, "what did he fear? Why
have I never been told?"
"Dear child, do not ask! Oh, never ask that!" cried the mother in a
startled tone, and turning a look of anguish upon her questioner.
The girl's face reflected it.
"Oh, why is it that I am not to be trusted?" she sobbed, almost
wringing her hands in her bitter grief and distress; "why should I be
deemed unworthy of confidence, even by my own mother? Would I--". But
sobs choked her utterance.
"My darling, my precious child, it is not that, not that," faltered
the mother, clasping her in her arms with tender caresses. "But let
us speak of this no more, let us forget his sufferings, as he has
forgotten them now. It is what he would have wished. Shall we not
try, daughter?"
"Yes, yes, my poor, dear mother, I will for your sake," sobbed the
girl. "Ah, if Kenneth were only here! When will he come?"
"I do not know," said Mrs. Clendenin, sighing slightly. "It is now
several weeks since my letter went, but there are often delays, and
it may not have reached him yet. I think he would start at once on
receiving it, but the journey is long and tedious at the best, and
there may be unlooked-for detentions consuming much time, so that we
can hardly expect him for many days to come."
The letter she spoke of was the same that had caused Kenneth's sudden
departure from Chillicothe only the previous day. A month later he
reached Glen Forest.
Mrs. Clendenin, seated at the open window, saw him alight at the
gate, and hastened out to meet him. There was a silent embrace, then
an earnest scanning by each of the other's face, noting the changes
wrought by time and the wear and tear of life.
Kenneth's eyes grew misty, for the dear face before him had aged very
much since last he had looked upon it, and the dark hair had turned
to silvery white.
She was regarding him with wistful tenderness. "Yes," she said,
answering his unspoken thought in a half playful tone, yet smiling
through gathering tears, "I am growing old, and you, my dear boy, are
not quite so young as you were. Come in. Ah, it is good to have you
here, at home again! You have heard, of course--"
"Yes, since arriving in the neighborhood, but I knew from your letter
that all would be over long before I could reach you. It was a sore
trial to think that even the small comfort and support of your boy's
presence must be denied you."
"It was all right," she answered in low, sweet tones. "He was with me
who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in Him."
"I knew He would be, and that was my consolation," Kenneth returned
in moved tones.
Then glancing about as they entered the house, "Where is Marian?" he
asked.
The mother explained that she had gone on an errand to a neighbor's
half a mile away, and would not probably be back for an hour or more.
Vashti was summoned, bade her young master welcome with tears of joy,
and hastened to set refreshments before him.
But he did them scant justice. His heart was too full of contending
emotions to allow of much appetite, though he had not tasted food for
some hours.
Gazing upon the loved face he had not seen for years, listening to
the well remembered tones of the dear voice that had been wont to
soothe his childish griefs, to give the well earned meed of praise
which was the highly prized reward of his boyish efforts to be and do
all that was good, noble, and manly, he forgot to eat.
She had much to tell of all that had occurred in the family during
his absence, but her principal theme was the sickness and death of
her husband.
Kenneth listened with intense, sorrowful interest to her description
of that last scene, and seemed to feel no surprise when she told of
the joy and thankfulness with which she had parted from her heart's
best treasure.
He had risen from the table and drawn a chair to her side. "Dear
mother," he said in faltering accents, taking her hand in his, "what
a life yours has been! What but the grace of God could have sustained
you through it all!"
"Blessed be His holy name, it has always been sufficient for me!" she
answered. "'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' and I am persuaded
that He will help me to the end."
A moment's silence, which Kenneth was the first to break.
"Tell me of Marian, mother," he said. "She has grown? I shall
doubtless find her greatly changed."
"More perhaps than you think; the dear child has shot up into a tall,
graceful, blooming girl, very sweet and lovable, in her mother's
eyes at least, with a beauty that oftentimes makes me tremble for
her future. Kenneth, Kenneth, the child will surely be sought in
marriage, and what shall we do?"
With the last words her voice took on a tone of keen distress and the
eyes she lifted to his were full of anguish.
"It must not, must not be!" he answered hurriedly, his brow
contracting in a spasm of pain. "Mother, keep her secluded here with
you; let her have no communication with the other sex, old or young."
"Alas, I fear the utmost vigilance will not prevent it!" she cried,
heaving a deep drawn sigh. "Oh, my darling, my darling, your mother's
heart bleeds for you!"
"Dear mother," he said, again taking her hand and speaking low and
tremulously, "can you not cast this burden also upon the Lord?"
"Sometimes," she said; "ah, I should die if I could not! But,
Kenneth, what shall we do? Would it not be better to tell her all--to
warn her in time?"
"Never!" he cried with energy, "it were too fearful a risk; it might
cause the very calamity we so dread."
"Too true! too true!" she sighed, clasping her hands in her lap and
closing her eyes, while her very lips grew white.
He bent over her, taking her cold hands in his, repeating low and
tenderly the precious promise, "'When thou passest through the
waters, I will be with thee: and through the rivers, they shall not
overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be
burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.'"
"Yes, yes, sweet words, sweet words!" she murmured. "Lord, increase
my faith! But, Kenneth," opening her eyes and looking up earnestly,
entreatingly, as it seemed, into his face, "you are sure, quite sure
that this is the best, wisest, kindest course? not risking a greater
danger than the one avoided?"
He answered her question with another.
"If we take the other course shall we not be running into a certain
danger in the effort to avoid one that may never threaten us?"
"Perhaps. But ah, what a hard choice we must sometimes make! Yet He
knows and will never send one unneeded pang; will cause all things to
work together for good to them that love Him. May He in His tender
mercy forgive my unbelieving fears!"
Oh, how Kenneth's heart yearned over her, as he gazed into the dear,
patient, sorrowful face, how he felt that he would willingly give
the best years of his life to remove every thorn from her path!
And yet--and yet, was not the Love which permitted them to remain,
infinitely greater than his?
Silence again fell between them for a short space. Then looking
tenderly upon him she asked:
"But what of your quest, Kenneth?"
He shook his head sorrowfully. "Nothing yet, absolutely nothing.
Hopes raised now and again but to be utterly disappointed."
"My poor boy," she sighed, "yours is a heavy cross! but if borne
with steadfast patience your crown of righteousness will be all the
brighter; for our light affliction, which is but for a moment,
worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."
He looked at her with glistening eyes. "Yes," he said, with a slight
huskiness in his voice, "and even in this life it may be lightened."
"I fear not," she answered in gentle, pitying tones. "So many years
have now passed there seems little hope that she yet lives, and even
if she does, if she should be found, there may be nothing gained."
"I know, I know," he returned with emotion, and rising to pace the
room, "and yet there are times when hope is still strong within me."
At that instant a slight, graceful, girlish figure came swiftly into
the room, and with a glad cry, "Kenneth, Kenneth, you have come at
last!" Marian threw herself into the manly arms joyfully opened to
receive her.
She clung about his neck weeping from very excess of happiness. "Oh,
I have wanted you so much, so much!" she cried. "I thought you would
never come! I wish you would never go away again."
He folded her close to his heart with tenderest caresses, then held
her off that he might gaze into her blooming face, drinking in its
loveliness with feelings of mingled joy and anguish.
It was and yet was not the little pet sister he had left when he went
away; she stood on the verge of womanhood now, innocent and fair,
with a sweet blending of childish and womanly graces.
Ah, must that deadly curse fall on her? He shuddered at the thought,
and almost groaned aloud.
She saw the pain in his face, and redoubling her caresses, "What is
it, Kenneth?" she asked; "my poor Kenneth, you are not happy. Has
some one been unkind to you? Ah, I know," she added quickly, in
a lower tone, "it is for poor, dear father you are grieving; but
you know he is so, so happy now, while here he was always sad and
suffering."
He sat down and drew her to the old seat upon his knee. The mother
had left the room and they were quite alone for the moment.
"How long since you sat here last!" he said, "and how glad I am to
have you in the old place again."
And truly he was, yet peradventure not entirely for her own sake. To
hold this sweet young creature close, to pet and caress her to his
heart's content, was it not some slight relief to the longing desire
to embrace that other one who was dearer still?
Had his thoughts some magnetic influence upon Marian's that led her,
the next instant, to look up in his face and ask for news of "that
pretty Miss Lamar"?
"What do you know of her, little one?" he asked gently smoothing
the shining hair, conscious of the tell-tale blood mounting to his
forehead, but avoiding the curious gaze of the soft, bright eyes.
"I saw her in church the Sunday before you left, and thought her very
sweet and pretty. And do you know, Kenneth," giving him a hug and
an arch, bewitching smile, "it's all my own notion and I never told
anybody before, but I've had a sort of presentiment that some day you
would make her my sister. Ah, I've always wanted a sister so much!
But oh, Kenneth, I didn't mean to pain you!" she cried, noting the
expression of his face. "Please forgive me and I'll never mention it
again."
"Don't, darling!" he said hoarsely. "Marriage is not for me. I can
not tell you why," as he read the question in her eyes; "but," with
a strange, forced smile, "I want my little sister always to lay her
plans to devote herself to the dear mother while she lives, and if
it should please God to take her away first, then to come to be the
light and joy of her bachelor brother's home."
She half withdrew herself from his arms, her features working with
contending emotions.
"What is it, little sister? Do you not love me? do you not want to
share my home?" he asked soothingly.
"Yes, yes, you know I love you; you know I'll be glad to be always
near you," she cried, flinging her arms about his neck; then hiding
her face on his breast in a burst of passionate weeping, "But why do
you and mother have secrets from me, family secrets, as if I were not
worthy to be trusted?"
"Ah, my little sister, be content with your ignorance!" he said in
moved tones, drawing her closer to him. "Can you doubt that we love
you well enough to tell you all if it would add to your happiness?"
"But I want to know," she sobbed. "If there is trouble or sorrow I
ought to bear my share. Do you think I could be so selfish as not to
prefer to do it?"
"No, dear sister, I believe you bear a very unselfish love to your
mother and brother, and, therefore, I am sure you will not distress
them by refusing to trust to their judgment of what is best in regard
to those things. Believe me, the knowledge you crave could bring you
nothing but grief and anguish. It is all it has brought me. The day
may come when you must be told, but do not try to hasten it. I can
be here but a short time to arrange matters for mother and you, and
while I stay let us try to be happy."
"Oh yes, yes!" she cried, clinging to him and weeping afresh.
"Kenneth, Kenneth, why can't we have you always? I'll try to be
content not to know anything; but just tell me one thing: Why do you
search for a white woman among the Indians? I've learned from some of
your letters about your long journeys in the wilderness, why are you
so anxious to find her, so grieved when you fail? Surely I may know
that, may I not?"
He considered a moment. "Yes," he sighed, "if you insist upon it I
will tell you, though I know you will regret having asked, for the
knowledge can bring you only sorrow. Shall I tell you?"
She gave an eager assent; but at that moment the mother returned to
the room, and he whispered in Marian's ear that they would defer it
until another time.
Some days later, a fitting opportunity presenting itself, she
hastened to claim the fulfilment of his promise; but when he answered
the question she burst into bitter weeping, crying as she clung about
his neck, "Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, why did you tell me, why did I ask?
I wish I had not!" and he had much ado to comfort her.