No, Marian was not quite alone; her four-footed friend and protector
would not forsake her, though for a time he seemed divided between
the duty of watching over her and succoring Kenneth. When the latter
fell, Caius sprang forward with a loud bark, as with the double
purpose to save him and to avenge him upon his cowardly assailant;
but Marian's cry recalled him instantly to her side.
He stood over her, gazing into her white, rigid face with a low
whine, then he gently tried to rouse her, pulling at her dress, then
licking her hands, and then her face.
At last she opened her eyes, sat up and looked about her.
Where was she? What had happened? Where was Kenneth? It all came back
to her, and with an anguished cry she staggered to her feet, drew
tremblingly, shudderingly near to the edge of the cliff and looked
down.
Nothing to be seen but rocks and trees and the little stream quietly
wending its way through the valley below.
"Kenneth!" she shrieked wildly, "Kenneth! Kenneth!"
But there was no answer, and now her eye caught that little confused
heap. Was it he? She seemed to recognize the clothing he had worn.
Oh, he was dead, how could it be otherwise after that fearful fall!
She swooned again and Caius dragged her away from the perilous spot
and renewed his efforts to revive her.
How long it was before he succeeded she could never tell, or how,
when at last consciousness returned, she made her way to her pony,
untethered him and got upon his back.
She left him to his own guidance, and he took the right road for home.
She seemed to see nothing but Kenneth lying cold and dead at the
foot of the precipice, to know nothing but that he was gone from her
forever, and that Lyttleton, the man she had once loved, was his
murderer.
The pony stopped at the gate; Marian lifted her head.
What, who was that coming slowly and with limping, halting gait to
meet her from the other direction?
She looked again, and a cry of joy, so intense that it was near akin
to pain, burst from her pallid lips.
Torn, bruised, scratched, disheveled, clothing hanging in tatters,
the difficult, awkward, evidently painful and toilsome movement, as
different as possible from his accustomed free, manly, energetic
carriage, it was yet, without doubt, Kenneth himself.
Caius bounded toward him with a joyous bark of recognition, and
Marian sprang to the ground and rushed with outstretched arms to
meet him, crying, "O, Kenneth, Kenneth, is it, can it be you? Oh, I
thought--I thought--"
The rest was lost in a burst of weeping, as she clasped him close,
then, holding him off, gazed shudderingly into his face, so bruised,
wan and bloody that she might well have doubted if it were indeed he.
"Yes," he gasped, staggering and catching at the fence for support,
"I have had a wonderful deliverance. And you, darling? Oh, the Lord
be praised that you are here safe and sound!"
Their approach had been seen from the house, and mother and servants
now came running to ask what had befallen, every face full of
agitation and alarm at sight of Kenneth's condition.
But seeing that he was half-fainting, the mother stopped all
questioning till he could be got into the house, laid upon a bed and
his wounds dressed.
There were no bones broken, he presently assured her of that, but the
jar to the whole system, the bruises and cuts, would confine him to
his couch for some days.
Great was her astonishment when told whence he had fallen.
"How is it possible you can have escaped alive?" she exclaimed, her
usually calm face full of emotion; "it seems nothing short of a
miracle!"
"Yes," he said, with deep gravity, and a far away look in his eyes;
"my thought, as I felt myself falling, was that I was going to
certain, instant death; but there was a joyful consciousness that all
would be well."
"But what saved you?" she asked, in almost breathless excitement.
"The trees and the sand, joined to my light weight, were my heavenly
Father's instruments to that end," he answered with his grave, tender
smile. "The bank of the stream just there is a deep bed of soft
sand; that is overhung by waterwillows with very thick, very pliant
branches; and towering above them, from fifty to seventy feet high,
are oaks and other varieties of trees. I must have fallen first into
those, and without striking any large branch, from them into the
willows, and from them on to the bed of sand.
"I was there when I came to myself; how long I had lain there
insensible I cannot tell, but it must have been a good while. I had
a good deal of difficulty in dragging myself home; could not get to
Marian by any shorter route, and thought to send Zeb for her.
"Poor child! I was very anxious about you," he added, with an
affectionate glance at her, "for I did not know but the Englishman
might have carried you off."
"He's bad enough, no doubt, if he had wanted me," she cried
indignantly; "but it seems he did not, fortunately."
She alone, of the three, showed any feeling of bitterness toward
Lyttleton; with the others resentment was swallowed up in
thankfulness.
They made no effort for the apprehension of the criminal, and indeed
let it be supposed by their friends and acquaintances, and even their
own servants, that Kenneth's fall was accidental.
They heard casually, in a day or two, that Lyttleton had been a
boarder for several weeks past at a solitary farm-house some miles
distant, but had left on the day of Dr. Clendenin's accident,
travelling in an easterly direction.
The sudden turn affairs had taken proved a decided benefit to
Marian. Her thoughts were turned from herself and her sorrows to
her suffering brother. She was his nurse; quite as devoted and
affectionate as he had been to her, and, in her detestation of
Lyttleton's crime, she lost the last vestige of regard for him, of
regret of his desertion.
She could never again be quite the careless child she was of yore,
but grief and disappointment had lost their keen edge, and she would
one day emulate the calm, placid resignation of her mother.
The change that came over her greatly lightened the hearts of the two
who loved her so dearly.
For Kenneth, too, clouds and darkness were breaking away, and the
star of hope shone brightly.
He at first thought Lyttleton's accusation against him, that he had
robbed him of his lady-love, referred to Marian; but on reflection he
felt convinced that it was Miss Lamar the man meant; the admission
being unguardedly made while half maddened by anger and resentment.
It seemed very unlikely that he would have left Chillicothe just
then, so suddenly and for such a length of time, and without bidding
adieu to Nell, if they were really engaged.
Beside, Dale in his last letter had expressed in strong terms his
conviction that Lyttleton's boast was utterly false.
As Kenneth thought on these things and remembered that he was now
free to win the long coveted prize, if he could; as he talked it all
over with her whom he still called mother, his impatience to get back
to Chillicothe grew apace.
A visit to England would be necessary for the settlement of his
affairs there, but the business which called him to Chillicothe was
of far more importance in his esteem, and must be attended to first.
He took Marian into his confidence as far as might be without causing
her sorrow and distress, and with the promise of a visit to Glen
Forest both on his way to the sea-board when about to set sail for
England, and on his return, reconciled her to his departure for Ohio
as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from his fall to be able to
travel.