Clendenin's heart beat quickly between hope and fear. He was nearing
the home of his childhood and knew not in what state he should find
the dear ones there, for he had had no later news of them than that
contained in the letter written so many weeks ago, and received the
night before he left Chillicothe.
He had pressed on as rapidly as circumstances would allow, yet the
journey had been long and tedious, made to seem doubly so by his
haste and anxiety; for faith was not always strong enough to triumph
over doubts and fears.
He had passed the previous night some ten miles west of Glen Forest,
and taking an early start entered the little valley two hours before
noon.
It was a sweet, bright summer day, trees dressed in their richest
robes of green, wild wood flowers scattered in lavish profusion on
every side, fields clothed in verdure, the air filled with the music
of birds and insects, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of kine, and
the fretting, gurgling, and babbling of the mountain stream, as it
danced and sparkled in the sun.
Each familiar scene had charms for Kenneth's eye, yet he lingered
not a moment, but urged Romeo to a brisk canter, until, as he came
in sight of the house, his eye was suddenly caught by the gleam of
something white among the trees that bordered the rivulet.
He halted, looked more closely at the object, then hastily
dismounted, and, giving the bridle into Zeb's hands, bade him go on
to the house and say that he was with Miss Marian, and they would
both come in presently.
Marian had wandered out an hour ago to the spot where she and
Lyttleton had sat together for the last time, on the day he bade her
a final good-bye.
It had been her favorite resort ever since. Thither she would carry
book or work, or go to sit with folded hands and dream away the time
that seemed so long, so very, very long till he would come again.
That was all she was doing now, seated on the grass with her arms
clasped about Caius's neck, her cheek resting on his head, and her
eyes fixed with mournful gaze upon the rippling water at her feet.
Kenneth drew near with so noiseless a step that she knew not of his
coming, and he had leisure to study her face for several minutes
while she was entirely unconscious of his scrutiny.
His breast heaved, his lip quivered, and his eyes filled as he gazed;
for a sad change had come over the fair, young face since last he
looked upon it, the bloom was all gone from cheek and lip, the temple
looked sunken, the eyes unnaturally large, and, oh, the unfathomable
depth of sadness in them! And the slight girlish figure had lost its
roundness; the small, shapely hands were very thin and white.
A bird suddenly swooped down from a tree and skimmed along just above
the stream. Caius uttered a short, sharp bark and made a spring
toward it, and with a deep sigh Marian awoke, released him, and
turning her eyes in Kenneth's direction gave a joyful cry.
In a moment she was clasped in his arms, her head pillowed on his
breast, with convulsive sobbing and floods of tears, while he held
her close and soothed her with tender words and caresses.
"O, Kenneth, how glad I am you have come at last!" she said when she
could command her voice. "It seemed so long, so very long that we had
to wait; and yet you are here sooner than mother thought you could
come."
"I made all the haste I could, dear child," he answered, "starting
early the morning after the letter reached me with the news that you
were not well. What ails you, Marian, dear?"
"I'm not sick, Kenneth," she said, a vivid blush suddenly suffusing
her cheek.
"But you have grown very thin and pale, and do not seem strong," he
said, regarding her with tender, sorrowful scrutiny. "Something is
amiss with you, and surely you will tell me what it is, that I may
try to relieve you?"
She only hid her face on his shoulder with a fresh burst of weeping.
A terrible fear oppressed him as he went on questioning her about the
symptoms of her disease, she still insisting that she had no pain and
was not sick, though she could not deny loss of appetite, weakness
and palpitation of the heart upon slight exertion.
At length her reserve gave way before his loving solicitude; for she
had been wont to confide her childish joys and sorrows to him in the
old days before he went to Ohio, and could tell him now what she
would not breathe to any other creature.
"O, Kenneth!" she cried, "can't you see that my body is not sick,
that it's my heart that is breaking?"
His very lips grew white.
"What can you mean, my poor, poor child?" he asked huskily, drawing
her closer to him with a quick protecting gesture, as if he would
shield her from the threatened danger.
"Oh," she cried in bitter despairing tones, "I thought he loved me,
he said it with his eyes and with his tongue; he said I was the
sweetest, fairest, dearest girl he ever saw, and he promised to come
again in a year at the very farthest; but more than a year has gone
by and never a word from him."
His first emotion as he listened to this burst of anguish was utter
astonishment; the next the fear that she was not in her right mind,
for he had every reason to suppose that she had never met other than
to exchange the merest civilities of life with any man.
Her mother had no suspicion of the real cause of her child's
suffering. Marian had not confided in her, had never mentioned
Lyttleton's name; and the death of the Misses Burns, followed very
shortly by the removal to a distance of their maid Kitty, had left
no one in the neighborhood who had been cognizant of even that
small part of the intercourse between Marian and Lyttleton of which
Woodland was the scene.
But the ice once broken, the pent up waters of the poor child's
anguish speedily swept away every barrier of reserve, and the whole
sad story was poured out into Kenneth's sympathizing ear.
It brought relief from the fear for her reason, but filled his heart
with grief and pity for her, mingled with burning indignation against
the author of her woe.
"And who is this wretch?" he cried in tones quivering with intense
emotion.
The answer was so low that he bent his ear almost to her lips to
catch it.
"Lyttleton!" he exclaimed, "Lysander Lyttleton? I know the man; and
Marian, my poor deceived and wronged little sister, he is utterly
unworthy of even your friendship; 'twould be the consorting of the
dove with the vulture."
She gave a sharp cry of pain.
"O, Kenneth, Kenneth, you can't mean it?"
It was hard to see her suffer, but best that she should know the
truth at once. In a few brief sentences, carefully worded to spare
her as much as possible, he told of Lyttleton's approaching marriage.
She did not cry out again, but asked, in a tone of quiet despair, to
whom.
It cost Kenneth an effort to speak Nell's name, and something in his
voice thrilled his listener with an instant consciousness of what she
was to him.
She lifted her face to his, the wet eyes full of tender pity.
"You, too, Kenneth, my poor dear Kenneth?" she said in low, tremulous
tones, "has he wronged you too? Then he is cast out of my heart
forever. I cannot love one so base, so unworthy."
But with the last words her head went down upon his shoulder again
with a passionate burst of weeping.
A storm of feeling swept over Kenneth as he held her close, not
speaking, for he could find no words, but softly smoothing her hair,
gently pressing one of the small, thin hands which he had taken in
his.
He could not forgive Lyttleton at that moment, he felt that he could
crush him under foot as he would a viper that had stung this precious
little sister, and poisoned two other lives. His own must be dark and
dreary without sweet Nell, and what better could hers be, passed in
the society of such a wretch, nay, more, in the closest union with
him.
Alas! alas! hers was the saddest fate of all, and none the less to be
pitied because she had in some measure brought it upon herself.
In some measure? Ah, was he utterly blameless, Kenneth Clendenin?
The question came to him with a sharp pang of self-reproach. He had
won her affection, his lips had never breathed a syllable of love.
Then who was he that he should be so fierce against this other
transgressor?
The tempest of emotion had spent itself, and Marian lay pale and
exhausted in his arms, trembling like a leaf.
Very gently he raised her, and bidding her cling about his neck, bore
her in those strong arms to the house, Caius running on before to
announce their coming.
Mrs. Clendenin met them in the porch, her face full of anxiety and
alarm.
"Kenneth! what is it?"
"She is wearied out now, mother, but will be better soon. Let me lay
her in her bed."
She had already fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. He placed
her comfortably on the bed, while the mother drew down the blinds and
Caius stretched himself on the floor by her side.
"Kenneth, my dear boy, oh, what a comfort to have you here again!"
whispered Mrs. Clendenin, as they clasped each other in a long,
tender embrace.
Leaving Caius to watch the slumbers of their dear one, they withdrew
to the sitting-room.
"What do you think of her?" There was another, an unspoken question
in the mother's pleading anxious eyes.
Kenneth's answer to it was, "Let your poor heart be at rest, mother,
it is not that."
A cloud of care, of deep and sore anxiety lifted from her brow, and
she wept tears of joy and thankfulness.
"Anything but that," she sighed, "any other burden seems light in
comparison with that. But, Kenneth, the child is certainly ill, have
you discovered the cause of her malady?"
"Yes," he said, "and have brought her a cure which, though it must be
painful at first, will, I doubt not, prove effectual in the end."
Then he repeated Marian's story, having won her consent that he
should do so, and added his own knowledge of Lyttleton.
The mother's surprise was not less than his had been, and her tears
fell fast over the sorrows of her sweet and gentle child.
"I take blame to myself for leaving her alone," she said, "and yet it
was what seemed best at the time."
"I would not have you do so, mother, dear," he said, gazing tenderly
into the patient yet troubled face whereon sorrow and care had left
their deep and lasting traces, "no blame rightfully belongs to you;
and let me say for your consolation, that if I read her aright, there
is one drop of sweetness in this otherwise bitter cup, she will never
love again."
She gave him one earnest look, then dropping her eyes, seemed lost in
thought for several minutes.
"Yes," she said at length, "I think you are right. And she has passed
this trying ordeal safely?"
"Yes."
Clasping her hands in her lap and lifting her eyes to heaven, "I
thank thee, oh my Father, for that," she murmured in tones so low
that the words scarcely reached Kenneth's ear.
He stood looking down upon her with loving, compassionate eyes. Ah,
if it were but in his power to remove every thorn from her path!
That might not be, but her face had resumed its wonted expression of
sweet and calm submission. She glanced up at him, her fine eyes full
of affectionate pride.
"You have told me nothing yet of yourself, Kenneth. How fares it with
you, my boy? Sit down here by my side and open all your heart to me
as you used to do. I see you have something to tell," she added,
watching the changes of his countenance as he took the offered chair,
"something of joy and something of sorrow."
"Yes, mother, I have learned that long sought secret, and it brings
me both gladness and grief," he answered with emotion.
"You have found her?" she asked in almost breathless, half credulous
astonishment.
"Yes, mother, Reumah Clark, and--"
"Wait one moment," she faltered, pressing her hand to her heart.
He knelt at her side and threw an arm about her waist. She laid her
head on his shoulder, heaving a gentle sigh.
"Now," she whispered, "tell me all. Oh, that terrible, terrible day.
I can never recall it without a shudder."
His story did not go back to the scenes of that dreadful day on
which he first saw the light. He merely gave a brief account of
his interview with Reumah Clark, confining himself chiefly to her
explanation of the mark which proved his identity, and her assertion
that she had looked for and seen it at the time of his birth.
Mrs. Clendenin raised her head, showing a face radiant with joy and
thankfulness.
"Oh, my dear boy, what glad news for you, what a burden removed!
And yet--Ah, I am not the happy mother of such a son!" and her eyes
filled with tears.
"No, that is the bitter drop in the cup, sweet mother, for I must
still call you so, unless you forbid it. And, thank God, we are of
the same blood."
"Yes, yes, my own mother's child by birth, mine own by adoption, we
are very near and dear to one another," she whispered, clinging to
him in a close and tender embrace.
For a moment there was utter silence between them, then she spoke
musingly, as if half talking to him, half thinking aloud.
"I have often wondered over that mark, but could find no clue to
it, for my mother never mentioned the occurrence to me, and I knew
nothing of the mark upon Clark's arm. Ah, had I known, how much of
anxiety and mental suffering might have been spared us both!"
"Yes," he assented with almost a groan, thinking of his lost love.
She saw the anguish in his face and with tender questioning at length
drew the whole story from him.
"Do not despair," she said when he had finished, "I think the man has
told you a falsehood. I understand woman's nature better than you
can, and such a girl as you have described would never give herself
to such a man. And now the seal is taken from your lips and you may
declare your love and sue for hers in return. Ah, my dear boy, I
trust happy days are in store for you even on this side of Jordan."
She looked into his eyes with hers so full of loving pride, tender
sympathy and joyful anticipation, that hope revived in his desponding
heart.