"One thing more, mother, before Marian joins us," Kenneth said,
breaking a pause in the conversation; "she surely need know nothing
of the discovery we have made. I once at her earnest request told her
of the doubt, and she was sorely distressed by it; to use her own
expression, could hardly endure the thought that I might not be her
very own brother! Shall we not let her remain in ignorance of that
which could bring her nothing but sorrow?"
"You are right, Kenneth, we will bury it in our own hearts, so far as
she is concerned, along with that other, terrible secret," sighed the
mother in low, tremulous tones.
They were silent again for a little, there was so much food for
perplexing thought in the circumstances that surrounded them; then,
"Who is this Lyttleton?" she asked. "Coming first here, taking pains
to ingratiate himself with Marian, asking many questions about you,
afterward appearing in Chillicothe, having in the meantime visited
Virginia, very possibly Tennessee also; does it not look as if he had
a design in it all, a purpose to carry out?"
"It does indeed!" cried Kenneth in surprise and perplexity; "and if
so, doubtless he will cross my path again; perhaps Marian's also; but
woe to him if he attempts further harm to that dear child!" he added
with stern and angry determination.
"O Kenneth, beware!" exclaimed the mother half frightened at such
vehemence in one usually so self-controlled, "if he have evil designs
toward our darling, we must baffle them by keeping her out of his
way."
"We must indeed," he said in quieter though not less resolute tones;
"and while I am here she shall be my special care."
A few days later light was thrown on this dark question by a letter
forwarded by Dale from Chillicothe, enclosed in one from himself
stating that he now had Reumah Clark's evidence in proper shape.
The enclosure was from England, and brought news of the death of a
brother of Kenneth's own father, the last of that family.
He had left a very considerable property, to which Kenneth was the
rightful heir, both by law and the provisions of his uncle's will,
in case he could prove his identity; failing that, Lyttleton, though
only very distantly related, would inherit for lack of a nearer heir.
He had therefore a strong motive for wishing to destroy whatever
proof of Kenneth's real parentage might exist, unless he could make
sure that such proof would be in favor of the supposition that
Kenneth was the child of his reputed parent, the younger of the two
Clendenins of the Tennessee tragedy.
Hence his efforts to bribe Reumah Clark to silence. He had visited
the neighborhood of the tragedy and learned just enough to assure
him that if any living person could supply the missing link in the
evidence, it was she and she alone.
If he could prevent her doing so, Kenneth's claims must inevitably
fall to the ground, and by its failure his own succession be secured.
In his interview with the woman he was made aware of the fact that
one of the children bore a distinguishing mark, but it was impossible
to discover whether Kenneth were that one or the other.
In these letters, written by the attorney of the deceased gentleman,
Kenneth was informed of the antagonism of his own and Lyttleton's
interests, warned that the latter might be supposed to entertain
designs against him, and informed that he had gone to America.
These letters and the answers to them were shown to Mrs. Clendenin
and quietly discussed with her when Marian was not present.
It seemed, in the light of these revelations, almost a foregone
conclusion that Lyttleton was the man who had so nearly succeeded
in preventing Kenneth from gaining the all-important evidence of
the white squaw of the Indian brave; and while the discovery of the
Englishman's perfidious character gave Clendenin increased hope that
his boast of having won Miss Lamar was false, it also augmented his
anxiety for her in case it should prove true.
The impulse to return at once to Chillicothe and seek an interview
with her was often strong upon him. Yet he put it resolutely aside
for Marian's sake; so all-important to her seemed his watchful care
just at this crisis.
And most wisely, tenderly, lovingly was the duty performed. They
were seldom apart in her waking hours, and he exerted himself to
the utmost to comfort and soothe, to amuse, to entertain, and by
interesting her in other matters, to keep her thoughts from dwelling
upon her grief and disappointment.
It was no longer unrequited love, for she had, as she said, cast
Lyttleton out of her heart the moment she had discovered his utter
unworthiness; but the heart was sore, nevertheless, and the niche
once filled by the now broken idol, an aching void.
Her newly awakened woman's pride, too, was deeply wounded, and yet it
came to her aid, helping her to bear up with resolution against the
crushing sense of loss and humiliation; deceived and wronged she had
been, but none should know how deeply; none, save the two to whom she
was so dear, suspect that any such calamity had befallen her.
Kenneth kept his patient much in the open air. The days were long,
warm and bright, and the two, or sometimes it was the three, when
household cares could be laid aside by the mother, taking an early
start, and carrying lunch, books and work with them, would seek out
one or another secluded spot, some little glen among the hills, or
some level place along their sides, or on their summits, that gave
them a fine view of the lower country, and where tree or vine or
towering rock shielded them pleasantly from the too fervid rays of
the sun, and there while away the hours, till the lengthening shadows
warned them it was time to return.
From her earliest recollection Marian had loved Kenneth with
well-nigh passionate devotion; he was to her the impersonation of all
that is good and noble.
Her father had been a perplexity and at times almost a terror to
her; silent, gloomy, his presence ever like a dark shadow in the
house, ever imposing a vague restraint upon all manifestation of
mirth and gladness. Her mother had heart and mind so intent upon
him, that, while loving her child very dearly, she had little time
or opportunity to study her disposition or win her confidence. She
was one indeed respected, honored, looked up to as counsellor and
guide, an authority never to be questioned, but it was Kenneth, her
one brother, who was her closest intimate and confident of all her
childish joys, sorrows and perplexities.
In his early childhood the father had been a different man, bright,
cheery, pleasant tempered and genial; the mother able to do all a
mother's part by him.
He understood the change and its cause; understood also Marian's
needs, and earnestly strove to supply to her whatever was lacking
by reason of the strange and sad vicissitude that had come upon the
family.
Angus, born in the same hour with Kenneth, was the eldest child,
Marian the youngest and the last of the four or five who filled the
gap between, and who had passed away from earth while she was still a
mere babe.
Thus everything conspired to make Kenneth all in all to her in the
early days before he left home to pursue his medical studies.
Since that he had been in all his absences her one correspondent; and
except in the one matter of her acquaintance with Lyttleton, she had
been wont to pour out to him, in that way, her thoughts and feelings
without reserve.
During the last year she had written but seldom, and the alteration
in the tone of her letters, the few that he had received being
short and constrained, had greatly puzzled and troubled him. Now he
comprehended the cause.
But the old unrestraint and confidence had returned, and the poor
girl found the greatest consolation and support in Kenneth's
presence, Kenneth's sympathy and love. "Her dear, dear brother," she
called him, and he did not intend she should ever learn that he was
not.
Thus cheered and comforted, she soon began to regain strength, flesh
and color; spirits too, till at times her silvery laugh rang out
quite merrily.
One morning, several weeks after Kenneth's return, he and Marian were
out among the hills at no great distance from home, where they had
left Mrs. Clendenin busied with some domestic duty.
Marian ambled along on her pony, Kenneth walking by its side, Caius
leaping and bounding, now before, and now behind, now in silence and
anon waking the echoes with joyous bark.
The sagacious creature evidently rejoiced over the improvement
visible in his young mistress.
"Here is Prospect Hill," remarked Kenneth; "do you feel equal to
climbing it? The slope is very gentle on this side, and I think your
pony will carry you full two-thirds of the way up. For the rest you
shall have the support of my arm."
"Oh, yes," she answered almost eagerly; "we have not been there
together for years, and I always enjoy the view so much."
They made the ascent slowly, stopping now and again to take in the
view from different points.
When the way grew too steep for the pony Kenneth tethered him to a
tree, and lifting Marian from the saddle, half carried her to the top
of the hill.
The prospect here was very fine; looking off from a precipice two
hundred feet high, they could take in the whole extent of their own
little valley and many miles of country lying beyond it, beautifully
diversified with hill and dale, meandering streams, forest and
cultivated fields, farm-houses and villages stretching away far as
the eye could reach, toward the west and north; while on the south
and east the lofty Alleghenies shut in the view, seemingly at no
great distance, though in reality miles away.
With a folded shawl laid over the roots of a tree Kenneth made a
comfortable seat for Marian within two or three yards of the edge of
the cliff; then threw himself down beside her, and they fell into
cheerful chat, calling each other's attention to the varied beauties
of the landscape spread out before them, and talking of other days
when they had gazed upon it together.
Neither of them had cast a look behind as they came up the hill, so
they had not seen a man who stepped out of the woods into the road
below just as they began the ascent, and stood for a moment gazing
after them, then stealthily followed, not by the path they were
pursuing, but creeping along a little to one side, under cover of the
bushes and trees that thickly clothed that part of the hill.
Reaching the top, still unnoticed, for their faces were turned from
him, he concealed himself behind a clump of evergreens whence he
could take cognizance of both their movements and their talk, without
danger of discovery.
It was Lyttleton, who had followed Kenneth into this neighborhood
and was prowling about with no very settled purpose, but with a
vague idea of finding some means of removing him from his path. It
might be that with the assistance of his valet alone he could, if
circumstances should favor the design, carry out even yet the plan
which had so signally failed under the auspices of Bill Shark and
Brannon.
He had spent many an hour in watching the brother and sister and
listening to their mutual confidences, when they little dreamed of
his vicinity.
Thus he had learned of Marian's changed feelings toward himself and
how he had sunk in her estimation.
His vanity was sorely wounded, and as blessings brighten as they take
their flight, he began to grow very desirous to win back her esteem
and affection.
Suffering had spiritualized her beauty, and watching the play of her
features and her changing color as she conversed so unreservedly with
Kenneth, he sometimes pronounced it superior to that of Miss Lamar.
Yes, he began, now that it was beyond his reach, to covet the jewel
he had won, then carelessly and heartlessly thrown aside.
She had never looked lovelier than on this particular morning, and
the impulse came strongly upon him to go to her and make an effort to
recover lost ground. Why should he not present himself as having just
come, after unavoidable detention, to fulfill his promise of return,
he queried with himself, forgetting for the moment that he had told
Kenneth he was engaged to Miss Lamar; thus proving that he was false
to Marian; and only remembering that Kenneth could know nothing of
the plots against his liberty and his inheritance to his uncle's
estate.
He would have preferred to see Marian alone, his inordinate
self-esteem assuring him that in that case he would have little
difficulty in re-establishing himself in her good graces; but
Clendenin was always with her. Therefore no time could be better than
the present; and just then, as if to favor his design, Kenneth rose
and left her; going to the very verge of the precipice, where he
stood for several minutes gazing down into the little valley at its
foot.
Lyttleton approached her with quick but noiseless tread, and
happening to raise her eyes they encountered his as he stood close at
her side intently scanning her features.
She uttered a little cry of mingled surprise and alarm, at which
Kenneth turned instantly and flew to the rescue.
"Don't be alarmed, sweet one," Lyttleton said; but the words had
scarcely left his lips when he found himself confronted by Kenneth,
who with form erect and flashing eyes, sternly demanded of him, "How
dare you, sir, venture to address my sister after the shameful manner
in which you have acted toward her?"
"She is your sister, is she, sir? That is good news for me,"
Lyttleton said, with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "I am most happy
to hear it."
"I am her natural protector and intend to prove myself such in good
earnest," returned Kenneth. "As for you, sir, I have lately become
aware of, not only your perfidious conduct toward this poor innocent
child, but also who you are and your probable errand to this country."
Lyttleton grew pale with anger and fear. He did not think at the
moment of Clendenin having received news from England, but supposed
Shark, Brannon or Hans had betrayed him; or perhaps Reumah Clark;
though she could have told nothing save that he had bribed her to
silence.
A moment he stood shamefaced and irresolute, then anger getting the
better of fear, he turned furiously upon his antagonist, heaping
the most virulent abuse upon him, calling him coward, villain,
supplanter, accusing him of robbing him of fortune and lady-love, and
vowing sleepless revenge.
He drew nearer and nearer to Kenneth, as he spoke, using violent and
threatening gesticulations; and the latter confronting him with calm,
quiet, yet sternly determined face, kept constantly stepping back
to avoid a collision, till again he stood on the very verge of the
precipice; but with his back to it, and in the forgetfulness caused
by excitement, utterly unconscious of his danger.
Whether Lyttleton was aware of it is uncertain, but he struck him
a blow that sent him toppling over, and with a wild cry, echoed by
Marian, the terrified witness of the whole scene, he disappeared from
sight.
Lyttleton shrieked, fell on his knees and crawling, shuddering and
trembling, to the edge looked over.
There down at the bottom of the steep descent of two hundred feet,
lay something, indistinctly seen because of the distance and
intervening trees, that looked like a confused and lifeless heap.
"Oh my God, have mercy! I have killed him!" he cried, springing to
his feet. "I've killed him! I've killed him!" he repeated clenching
his hands and groaning aloud in an agony of terror and remorse. "I've
killed him, but God knows I didn't intend it!"
He glanced at Marian.
She lay in a little white heap apparently as dead as the one at the
foot of the precipice.
Then with flying footsteps he fled down the hill, by the way he had
come, nor paused, nor looked back till he reached the spot, some half
mile distant, where he had left Hans and the horses.
The valet, spite of all his natural stolid indifference under
ordinary circumstances, was startled into an exclamation of wonder
and dismay at sight of his master's pallid, terror-stricken
countenance.
"Mine Gott! mynheer, vat ish happen you, to see von pig ghost?"
Lyttleton shivered with the thought that he had evoked a ghost that
would haunt him all his days.
"Nonsense," he said in a hoarse whisper and glancing fearfully
behind him; "there's been an accident; Clendenin has fallen down a
precipice and is probably killed, and I may be suspected of having
had something to do with it. I must mount and away in haste. I shall
take yonder road and travel east. Do you go and settle our bill for
board, and follow me with the luggage.
"All haste, we must be miles away from here before the thing is
discovered! Fortunately I had expressed my intention of leaving
to-day or to-morrow, so that our sudden departure need excite no
suspicion.
"Not a word of the accident to any one, remember; be discreet and
prompt, and you shall not fail of your reward."
With the last words he vaulted into the saddle, put spurs to his
horse and galloped away at the top of his speed.
What cared he for the helpless girl whom he had left lying insensible
and alone upon the hill top? Ah, he cursed her between his clenched
teeth, and wished she might never wake again to tell of his foul
deed; she, its only human witness.