At about the same time that Nell Lamar met with her adventure with
Wolf, important events were transpiring at Glen Forest.
Mrs. Clendenin was summoned away to a distance from home by the
serious illness of a sister of her late husband. Ignorant of the
precise nature of the disease, she was unwilling to expose Marian to
it, and though almost equally reluctant to leave her behind, decided
upon that as the safer course.
So with much tender, motherly counsel bestowed upon this child of her
love, and many an injunction to Vashti to watch over her darling, she
took her departure.
The young girl felt inexpressibly lonely without the mother who had
been to her friend, teacher and almost sole companion, everything
in one, for they had led a very secluded life, paying and receiving
few visits; indeed, seldom going anywhere but to church, except that
Marian took many a ramble and many a ride on her pony through the
adjacent woods and over the nearer hills, usually unaccompanied save
by Caius, a huge mastiff who had hitherto proved a most efficient
protector.
Mrs. Clendenin had indeed never been neglectful of the Christian duty
of ministering to the sick and suffering so far as lay in her power,
and Marian was in this regard following in her mother's footsteps.
A mile away over the eastern hills lived two elderly maiden ladies,
Esther and Janet Burns, the one a paralytic, the other feeble and
nearly blind from cataract.
They had a farm, the rent of which yielded them a support, but their
lives were lonely, and Marian's visits were a great boon.
She had fallen into the habit of going over almost daily to Woodland,
as their place was called, and spending an hour in reading to them
from the works of one or another of her favorite authors.
The Clendenins had been for generations great lovers of books, and
the library at Glen Forest, though what would be considered small and
of little value in these days, was large and select compared with
those of their neighbors.
Marian continued her visits to Woodland after her mother had gone,
and, because she found it so much less lonely there than at home,
sometimes lingered half the day, to the great content of the Misses
Burns.
They would gladly have induced her to take up her abode with them
during her mother's absence, but to that she would by no means
consent; home was home after all, and though it might be pleasant to
spend a part of the day elsewhere, when night came she wanted to be
in her own familiar room, with old Vashti within call.
On Sunday Marian always attended service in the little country church
spoken of in a former chapter.
The neighborhood was a very quiet one, few coming or going, the same
faces showing themselves in the sanctuary Sunday after Sunday, and
the sight of a new one was always a source of no little interest; it
may therefore be supposed that the advent among them, a week after
Mrs. Clendenin set out on her journey, of a fine looking young man,
a total stranger, well dressed, and of serious and gentlemanly
deportment, created some little stir and excitement; especially among
the younger portion of the congregation.
He sat in the pew of Mr. George Grimes, who kept the nearest inn, the
sign of the Stag and Hounds, and the services had not been over many
minutes before every one knew that he had engaged board there for
a month, and that he was an Englishman, apparently wealthy, having
brought a valet with him.
The congregation had passed out into the churchyard, and a subdued
hum of voices exchanging neighborly greetings and inquiries after
each other's health, mingled pleasantly with the twittering of birds,
the sighing of the wind through the forest, and the low murmur of the
stream on the farther side of the road.
The stranger stood aside, looking on and listening with a well bred
air of kindly interest.
"Who is that, Grimes?" he asked, his eye following admiringly a
graceful girlish figure as it tripped past them down the path that
led out to the road where the horses were tied, and, with the
assistance of one of the young men, who stepped eagerly forward to
give it, sprang lightly into the saddle.
"Miss Marian Clendenin, of Glen Forest, Mr. Lyttleton: one of the
prettiest young ladies in the county, if I'm a judge o' beauty,"
replied Grimes, lifting his hat to the fair girl.
"She sits her horse well," remarked the stranger, still following
her with his eyes as she cantered away in the direction of her home,
Caius bounding nimbly on by the pony's side. "But she seems quite
alone, is there no more of the family?"
"Most of 'em lie yonder," replied Grimes, pointing to a row of
graves not far from the spot where they stood. "Children all died
young but this girl and an older brother who went West years ago.
Father died within the last year, and the mother's away nursing a
sick sister, I hear."
Lyttleton seemed interested, asked several more questions, walked
over to the graves and carefully read the inscriptions on the
tombstones; Grimes standing by his side and going on with much
garrulity to tell all he knew or had ever heard of the family, and
that was not a little, for he was a great gatherer and retailer of
news, for which few had better opportunities.
He spoke of the late Mr. Clendenin as a man of singularly secluded
habits, upright and honest in all his dealings, but strangely averse
to the society of his kind.
"And I suppose," he added, "that's what has kept his wife and
daughter pretty much shut up at home: at any rate the girl's never
seen at a cornhusking or quilting, or any sort o' merry making, and
the young fellows never get a chance to wait on her. About the only
place she does go to is Woodland, to read to those poor sickly old
ladies; but she's there every day I'm told."
"She is then of a literary turn, this young heroine of yours?"
sneered the stranger interrogatively.
"That's just what she is, sir, so I've heard on good authority,
they're a bookish family." And as they rode homeward Grimes went on
to expatiate at length upon Marian's reputed literary tastes and
acquirements.
"You are a good trumpeter," remarked Lyttleton. "Pray tell me, are
the Clendenins wealthy?"
"Glen Forest's a valuable place, and there's only the two of them, as
I told you, after the mother dies."
"And the son doesn't get it all, as is usually the way with us?"
"No: and I dare say there's money laid by, too."
The next afternoon Marian, reading to her friends in the wide, cool
porch that ran along the front of the house at Woodland, saw a
horseman coming leisurely along the road, as, looking up from her
book, she sent a casual glance in that direction.
"It is the English gentleman," she said in a low tone, as he drew
rein at the gate.
It was long since either Esther or Janet Burns had been able to go
to church, and Monday's visit from Marian was anticipated with even
more than ordinary eagerness because of the detailed account she
would bring of all she had seen and heard the previous day. Of course
she had not, on this occasion, omitted to mention the stranger in
Grimes's pew.
"Where, my dear?" asked purblind Janet, straining her eyes in a vain
effort to see him. "Is he riding? I surely heard horse's hoofs."
"Yes, and he is alighting at the gate," said her sister. "What can he
want here? Marian, child, will you call Kitty to see what he wishes?"
"I'se here, missus," the girl answered for herself, coming round the
corner of the house. "What do you want, sah?" hurrying down the path
to meet the approaching stranger.
"I am very thirsty and would be thankful for a glass of milk or cold
water, my good woman," he answered, lifting his hat to the ladies.
At that Miss Janet stepped forward and hospitably invited him to come
in and rest himself for a little, remarking that the day was very
sultry and he must have found the heat of the sun very oppressive.
"I have indeed, madame," he said, accepting the offered kindness with
alacrity, and stealing a glance of mingled curiosity and admiration
at the fresh, blooming face of the young girl guest. "I think the
sun shines with a fiercer heat here than in Europe, and if I do
not intrude shall be very glad to rest in this shady nook until he
approaches somewhat nearer his setting."
Both the sisters assured him he was welcome, and Kitty was directed
to bring a glass of morning's milk and some home-made cake for his
refreshment.
The Misses Burns were good, simple-minded, unsuspicious women,
Lyttleton an accomplished man of the world, thoroughly unscrupulous
and selfish, but able, when it suited his purpose, as it did on this
occasion, to conceal his true character by polished manners and a
most pleasing and insinuating address.
He was a fluent talker and knew how to adapt his conversation to
those with whom he was thrown, in whatever station in life.
He addressed the older ladies almost exclusively, but his eyes
continually sought Marian's face, which glowed with interest and
intelligence.
He stayed for more than an hour, and made himself so entertaining
that they were sorry to see him go, and gave him a pressing
invitation to come again, which he readily promised to do.
With thanks for their hospitality and a courteous adieu, he at last
took his departure.
"A very fine-looking, intelligent and well-bred gentleman," remarked
Miss Esther, as man and horse disappeared down the road.
"He has evidently been accustomed to good society," added her sister,
"has travelled a great deal and knows how to describe what he has
seen; but while he talked to us, his eyes sought Marian's face for
the most part."
"Surely that was but natural, seeing how much younger and fairer
than ours it is," Miss Esther said, with a pleased smile and an
affectionate, admiring glance at the now blushing maiden. "I am sure
she makes a pretty picture sitting there under the drooping vines,
with Caius crouching at her feet."
"How did you like him Marian, dear?" asked Miss Janet; "my dim eyes
cannot judge whether he is as comely as Esther says."
"I do not think him quite so handsome as Kenneth," Marian answered
with some hesitation, "he doesn't look so good and noble and true.
But," she added quickly, the color deepening on her cheek, "I do not
know him well enough yet to judge of his character, and he talks very
well. Now shall we go on with our reading? I can only stay to finish
the chapter, for you see the sun is getting low."
Lyttleton, as he rode briskly on toward his temporary home, was
saying to himself, with an evil smile, "A pretty girl, very young,
hardly sixteen I should say, and as innocent as a child; I flatter
myself 'twill be no difficult task to win her confidence and learn
all she knows. How much that may be I have yet to discover."
Determined to make diligent use of his opportunities, he became from
that time a daily visitor at Woodland, and so conducted himself as to
win the entire confidence of all three ladies, and cause them to look
upon his visits as a great treat.
He had travelled much and had many adventures to relate, and stores
of information to impart in regard to the strange lands he had
seen. He had spent some weeks in Paris during the late Revolution,
had witnessed the execution of Marie Antoinette and of many of the
nobility, and had had some narrow escapes of his own; all of which he
described to his little audience with thrilling effect.
Often, too, he brought a book in his pocket, usually Shakespeare's
works, Milton's Paradise Lost, or some other poem, from which he
would read passages in a rich, mellow voice so exquisitely modulated
that it seemed to double the beauty of the author's words.
Marian's soul was full of poetry, and she would listen like one
enchanted, her eyes shining, her lips slightly apart, her breathing
almost suspended lest she should lose a single word or tone.
Lyttleton, without seeming to do so, noted it all with secret delight.
After a little he fell into the habit of accompanying her on her
homeward ride or walk, whichever it might be, and of meeting her in
her rambles, thus gradually placing himself on a footing of intimacy.
And Marian had forgotten her first intuitive perception of his
character; his charms of person and manner had come to exert a
strange fascination over her; she thought of neither the past nor
the future when he was by her side, but lived only in the blissful
present, while he saw and exulted in his power.
He made no open declaration of love, but when they were alone in the
silent woods it breathed in every look and tone, filling the innocent
girlish heart with a strange, exquisite, tremulous happiness.
Caius, always by her side, or crouching at her feet, was the
sole witness of these interviews, and Marian could not bring
herself to speak of them even to her two old friends, who, in
their guilelessness, had no thought of harm to her from the daily
intercourse of which they were cognizant.
Sometimes Lyttleton drew her on to talk of herself, her home, her
absent brother, and asked many questions in regard to him, which
Marian answered readily because it was a pleasure to speak of Kenneth.
She was eager in his praise, she would have delighted to show him to
her new friend.
"You and he were both born at Glen Forest?" Lyttleton one day
remarked, inquiringly.
"No; only I," Marian said, a slightly troubled look coming into her
eyes; "I and the brothers and sisters who died very young. Kenneth is
many years older, and it was when he was a babe that my parents came
here to live."
"Ah? and where did they live before that? where was Kenneth born?"
"Somewhere in eastern Tennessee; I cannot tell you exactly, for
there was no town, no settlement, just my father's cabin in a little
clearing he had made in the forest, and another, a neighbor's, half a
mile away."
Marian spoke hastily, with half-averted face and a perceptible
shudder.
"Why that shudder, my sweet girl?" he asked, gently pressing her
hand, which he had taken in his.
"I was thinking of the terrible occurrence that led my father and
mother to abandon the spot," she said in low, tremulous tones;
"an attack by the Indians in which several were killed. It is
scarcely ever alluded to in the family and I never heard the full
particulars."
"Then we will speak no more of it," he said, and began to talk of
other things.
Some days later they were again alone together; they had been
climbing the hills till quite weary, and were now resting, seated
side by side upon a fallen tree, within sight of Glen Forest, the
pretty mountain stream that flowed past it singing and dancing almost
at their very feet.
Marian had her lap full of wild flowers which she was arranging in
a bouquet, Lyttleton watching her with a curious smile on his lips,
glancing now at the deft-fingers, now at the glowing cheeks.
She looked very pretty, very sweet and innocent; she had thrown off
her hat and the dark brown curls fell in rich masses over neck and
shoulders.
Caius, upon her other side, seemed to be keeping jealous watch over
her, regarding Lyttleton with something of a distrust she did not
share; she had perhaps never been so happy before in all her short
life.
Neither had spoken for several minutes, when Lyttleton, leaning over,
said softly, "Do you know, pretty one, that I leave you to-day?"
Marian dropped her flowers and looked up with a start, her cheek
paling, and her eyes filling with tears.
"Shall you be sorry to see me go?" he asked tenderly, taking her hand
and pressing it to his lips.
Her eyes fell, her lip quivered, one bright drop rolled quickly down
her cheek. It was a rude awaking from her blissful dream.
"Oh, why did you come at all," she sobbed, "if you must go away
again? and so soon!"
She did not see his exultant smile.
"Why you know I must go," he said, "since my home is not here; but
I am very glad I came, as otherwise I should never have known you,
my pretty darling, the very sweetest, the dearest little girl I ever
saw;" he bent fondly over her and touched his lips to her forehead.
But she shrank from the caress, her cheek crimsoning.
"No, no; you must not do that. I--I cannot allow it."
"But why not? Why should we not be kind and affectionate to each
other? Ah, don't move away from me, don't avert your sweet face, or I
shall think you quite hate me, and I am going away to-day."
She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that would
come, and struggled with the sobs that were half choking her.
All the brightness seemed to have suddenly gone out of her life. "Why
had she let herself care for him when he was going away and would
never, never come again?"
"Don't weep, sweet girl, dear Marian; it breaks my heart to see your
tears, my own darling," he murmured low and tenderly, moving nearer
and venturing to steal an arm about her waist; "and yet there is a
strange pleasure in the pain, because they show that you are not
wholly indifferent to me, that you have yielded to me at least one
small corner of your precious little heart. Is it not so, dearest?"
Surely this was the language of love, and her heart leaped up with
joy in the midst of her pain. She did not repulse him now, but let
him draw her head to a resting place on his shoulder and kiss away
her tears.
"Don't shed any more, vein of my heart!" he whispered, "for I will
return to you, perhaps in a few months, certainly within a year."
"Oh, will you?" she cried, smiling through the tears, lifting her
eyes for an instant to his to meet a gaze so ardent that she dropped
them again, while a crimson tide swept over face and neck.
The sun had touched the western hilltops, and the trees cast long
shadows at their feet, when at last they rose and moved slowly on in
the direction of Glen Forest.
He would not go in, and they parted at the gate with a long tender
embrace.
"Do not forget me, sweet Marian; I will come again," he repeated.
"No, no, never! I shall never forget!" she sobbed, "but, you, you
will forget me when you are far away and meet other and prettier
girls."
"I have seen thousands, but never one half so lovely or half so
sweet," he whispered, as for the last time he snatched a kiss from
the rich red lips.
He was gone, hidden from her by the windings of the road, and Marian
hurried up the path to the house, sat down on the porch step, and
with her arms round the neck of her faithful dog, her cheek resting
on his head, wept as if her heart would break.
Old Vashti found her thus.
"What de mattah, chile?" she asked, "you didn't hear no bad news?"
Marian shook her head. "I'm so lonely!" she sobbed.
"Well dat's bad nuff, chile, but don't fret yo' heart out dat way;
de missus come back soon, please de Lawd; so cheer up, honey, and
come and eat yo' suppah. I'se cooked a chicken and made some o' dose
muffins you's so fond of."
But Marian was destined to be more lonely still. Sad news reached
Glen Forest the next morning just as she was preparing to pay her
usual visit to Woodland. Miss Janet, in her blindness, had missed her
footing at the top of the stairs and fallen down the whole flight,
striking her head with such force that she was taken up insensible,
and in a few minutes had ceased to breathe.
The shock of the terrible accident brought a second stroke of
paralysis upon the bereaved sister, and in a few days they were lying
side by side in the little churchyard. They had been lovely and
pleasant in their lives, and in death were not divided.