CHAPTER XXX.
"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, asshe 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, andhe 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 cultivatedfields, 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 brotherand 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.
CHAPTER XXXI.
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 fromthe 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. Andyou, 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.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Evening was closing in upon the Scioto valley after a day of incessant rain often accompanied by sharp flashes of lightning and heavy peals of thunder; the streets were flooded, the trees, shrubbery, all things not under shelter, were dripping with moisture; and still the rain fell in torrents and at intervals the thunder crashed overhead, waking the echoes of the hills and frightening the timid and nervous with its prolonged and angry roar.
It was just as it had grown too dark for those within doors to distinguish passers by, who, indeed were very few and far between, and during one of the heaviest showers, and the most terrific discharge of thunder and lightning, that Dr. Clendenin and his attendant, Zeb, came dashing into the town and hastily alighted at the door of the doctor's office.
Hearing, between the thunder peals, the sound of horses' hoofs, and Clendenin's voice giving directions to Zeb, Dale rushed to the door to greet his friend; in his great delight more than half inclined to embrace him after the fashion of womankind.
"Hello, doc! are you actually herein propria persona? Well I must say this is a most agreeable ending of an intensely disagreeable day. I am glad to see you; think I was never gladder in my life!" he went on, shaking Kenneth's hand again and again; "but I wonder how you had the courage to push on in spite ofsuch a storm. Must have had trouble in crossing some of the streams, hadn't you?"
"Yes, we had to swim our horses several times," Kenneth answered, beginning to divest himself of his wet outer garments.
"I'd have taken refuge in some hospitable farm-house till the storm was over," said Dale, helping him off with his overcoat.
"We stopped and had supper at Shirley's, and I was strongly urged to stay till morning; but really felt it impossible to sleep within five miles of Chillicothe," Clendenin said with a gayety of look and tone that struck Dale as something new in him.
"Hello! old fellow, you seem in rare good spirits," he remarked in a tone of mingled surprise and pleasure.
"I believe I am; and yet a little anxious too," Kenneth answered, his face growing grave. "How are all our friends here?"
"All flourishing at the major's," laughed Dale, with a quizzical look. "Ah ha! I believe I have an inkling of the reason why you couldn't stop short of Chillicothe. But you'll not think of making friendly calls in such weather. They'd think you crazy, man."
Clendenin's only reply was a quiet smile.
Truly he meant to be knocking at the major's door within the next half hour. What, live in suspense till another day, while within three minutes walk of her who held his fate in her hands? Impossible! 'twould take a severer tempest than the one now raging to keep him from her side.
Dale, watching him with curious scrutiny, read all this in his speaking countenance, yet was morally certain he would not enter the major's doors that night—dutywould erect a more impassable barrier than the fiercest war of the elements.
"Doc," he said with rueful look, as he perceived that his friend was nearly ready to sally forth upon his eagerly desired errand, "I hate most confoundedly to have you disappointed, but the truth is—"
"What! Godfrey, you surely said they were all well? Has—has anything—"
"No, no, you needn't turn pale, or be in the least alarmed. It's only that you're called another way. Fact is Flora Barbour's lying at death's door; Buell's given her up, and Barbour's been round here several times to-day, knowing that I'd got a letter and you were expected, and made me promise over and over again to get you there as soon as possible in case you came. You see they have the greatest confidence in your skill, and can't give up the hope that you can save her yet."
Without a word, but scarcely able to suppress a heavy sigh, Kenneth at once began preparations to obey the unexpected call.
"I declare it's a shame!" cried Dale, "I wouldn't be a doctor, to come and go at everybody's beck and call, for a mint of money."
"It's a noble profession, Godfrey, spite of some serious drawbacks," returned Clendenin, constrained to smile at his friend's vehemence, albeit his disappointment was really very great.
Protecting himself as well as might be from the deluge of rain that as yet knew no abatement, he hurried on his way.
The Barbours had, like most of their neighbors, exchanged their log cabin for a comfortable two storydwelling, and from an upper window the light of a candle gleamed out upon the darkness of the street.
Kenneth glanced up at it with the thought that there the sick girl was lying.
Mr. Barbour met him at the door.
"Thank God you have come; though I'm afraid it's too late," he said in a hoarse whisper, wringing Kenneth's hand.
"Don't despair, while there's life, there's hope," Kenneth answered feelingly. "Shall I go to her at once?"
"Yes; but maybe you'd like to see Buell first. He's in here," opening an inner door.
Dr. Buell, who was seated at a table measuring out medicines, rose and came forward to meet Dr. Clendenin.
The two shook hands cordially, Buell saying, "I am very glad to see you, sir! You are the family physician, and I trust will now take charge of the case."
"I should like to consult with you, doctor," Kenneth said. "What is the disease?"
In answer Dr. Buell gave a full report of the symptoms and the treatment thus far; the two consulted for a few moments, then went together to the sick room.
They entered noiselessly. The room was silent as the grave. The patient lay in a deathlike sleep; and beside her, motionless as a statue, watching intently for the slightest movement, sat, not the mother, she was too nervous, too full of real or imaginary ailments of her own, to be a fit nurse for her child, but Nell Lamar, sweeter, fairer, lovelier in her lover's eyes than ever before.
His heart thrilled with ecstatic joy at the sight, but her eyes remained fixed upon the deathlike face on thepillow, and a slight deepening of the rose on her cheek alone gave token of a consciousness of their entrance.
They lingered but a moment, withdrew as noiselessly as they had entered, and held a second consultation.
Both pronounced it the crisis of the disease and thought that the next few hours would decide the question of life or death.
"Miss Lamar has proved herself an excellent nurse," said Dr. Buell, "and has promised to stay with her through the night. I meant to share her vigil, if you had not come, Clendenin, but I have lost a good deal of rest lately and have a very sick patient of my own."
"It is my turn," was Kenneth's prompt reply, "and I shall not leave her till the crisis is past."
Dr. Buell now took his departure and Dr. Clendenin found himself compelled to spend some time in attendance upon Mrs. Barbour, and in comforting and encouraging the distressed husband and father.
At length he was free to return to the sick room, and in another moment was standing close beside her who had for years held dominion over his noble, manly heart, and into whose ear he longed with inexpressible longing to pour out the story of his love.
Yet must he remain mute, for no word might be spoken to break the silence of the room where life and death were trembling in the balance.
But he stood gazing down upon the loved face till some magnetic spell forced the beautiful violet eyes to lift themselves to his.
Ah, words were not needed! His eyes now spoke joy and entreaty too, as well as love, and she knew that the barrier which had so long separated them, whatever it might have been, was swept away.
Her eyes dropped beneath his ardent gaze, a vivid charming blush suddenly suffusing her cheek, then again yielding to that magic spell were timidly raised to his.
He held out his hand, she laid hers in it and found it held fast in a warm tender clasp that would not let it go, that seemed to speak proprietorship; and strangely enough, considering how highly she had always valued her liberty—she did not care to resist the claim, nor did she repulse him even when, presently, he bowed his head and pressed a passionate kiss upon the white fingers.
The patient slept on; the family retired to rest and utter stillness reigned through all the house; outside there was the incessant drip, drip of the rain, but not a solitary footstep passed; it seemed as though they two were alone in the world save for that motionless form on the bed.
There came another terrific peal of thunder, yet the sleeper did not stir, but Nell instinctively drew nearer her companion, while he with the impulse to protect her, threw an arm about her waist and drew her close to his side. Neither intended it, but the next instant their lips met and they knew they were betrothed.
Blushing deeply, though her eyes shone and her heart thrilled with an exquisite joy, Nell would have withdrawn herself from his embrace, but he gently detained her; she was his and he could not let her go yet; and again she yielded to his stronger will.
She wondered at her own submissiveness as she realized to-night that it was a positive pleasure to be ruled.
The hours flew by on viewless wings; it was no hard task to keep that vigil, yet the physician was not forgotten in the lover.
Toward morning the patient awoke and recognized her watchers with a pleased smile. The crisis was safely passed. Nell knew it instantly by the glad look in the doctor's face.
He held a cup to Flora's lips, saying in a low quiet tone, "Swallow this, my child, and go to sleep again."
She obeyed. He drew a long sigh of relief. He had been bending over her in intense anxiety for the last half hour.
"Saved! The Lord be praised!" he whispered, turning to Nell with shining eyes. Then, taking her hand, "My darling, my own, is it not so?"
She astonished herself and him by bursting into a passion of tears.
It was simply overwrought nerves. She had been exceedingly anxious about Flora and had watched beside her day and night for nearly a week. After months of mental disquietude because of apparently unrequited love, the revulsion of feeling was too sudden and too great for the worn out physical frame, and this was the result.
He understood it in a moment.
"Let the tears have their way," he said tenderly; "it will do you good. I will leave you for a little, while I carry this good news to the anxious parents."
By the time he came back Nell had recovered her composure, but was too shamefaced to look at him.
"Well, fair lady, will you vouchsafe an answer to my question now?" he asked, kneeling before her and taking both hands in his, while he looked into her eyes with his own brimful of tenderness, love and joy.
"I'm not worth having," she answered with unwonted humility, speaking in the whispered tone that he had used.
"That is for me to judge," he returned, with laughing eyes. "But do be kind enough to answer my question. Or let me put it in another form. Will you have me, have me for protector and provider, lover, husband and friend?"
"Yes, if you will take me in exchange, and not think it a bad bargain," she said with a sudden impulse, and hid her blushing face on his breast as he folded her close with a glad solemn "God bless you, my darling! I shall be the gainer a thousand fold!"
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The storm was over and the rain drops on tree, shrub and flower, glittered like untold wealth of diamonds in the bright rays of the newly risen sun, as Clendenin and Nell walked down the street together.
There was nothing in the looks or manner of either to excite curiosity or suspicion in those who saw them pass.
He left her at her brother's door with a half playful order, not from the lover but the physician, to take some breakfast and go directly to bed and to sleep.
"I shall not promise," she answered saucily, lifting a a pair of bright, roguishly smiling eyes to his face, "I have not resigned my liberty yet, you know."
"Ah well, I think I may count on obedience," he said with the grave, tender smile that had first won her heart.
"I want you to rest all day and let me come to you this evening," he whispered, bending down to speak close to her ear, "I have much to tell you, my darling. You have a right to know what so long prevented my lips from repeating the story you must have read a thousand times in my eyes, if they spoke the true language of my heart."
"Never mind, I am quite content without the knowledge if, as your face seems to say, it is something painful," she said with generous confidence, and sudden gravity of looks and tone.
"Nay, dearest, you shall hear it. I will have no secrets from her who is to be 'bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,' the nearest and dearest of all created beings," he said, lifting her hands to his lips.
Her eyes filled with happy, grateful tears, as from the vine covered porch where they had had their chat, she watched him hurrying away down the street, then turned and went into the house.
"Was that Dr. Clendenin?" asked Clare, meeting her in the hall.
"Yes."
"Why didn't he come in and take breakfast with us?"
"I didn't ask him."
"You didn't? Nell Lamar, I'm ashamed of your rude behavior to that man! If he treats you henceforward with the coldest politeness, I am sure it will be no more than you deserve."
A curious smile trembled about the corners of Nell's lips for an instant, then was gone.
"Flora has passed the crisis," she remarked, "and the doctor says will get well if she has proper care."
"Oh, I am glad!"
"Can you take my place for to-day? He wouldn't let me stay, and her mother would kill her with the fretting and worrying."
"No wonder he wouldn't let you stay. You look wretchedly tired. Yes; I'll go over presently. You'd better eat your breakfast at once and go directly to bed."
"I will," Nell answered with unaccustomed meekness, and proceeded to redeem her promise without delay.
Kenneth, too, needed rest after his wearisome journeyand long night vigil, but did not seek it till a letter telling of his great happiness had been written to the dear ones at Glen Forest, and sent to the mail by Zeb.
Nell came down at tea-time to find the major alone in the parlor. He looked up on her entrance, with a smile that brought swift blushes to her cheek, then rose and came to meet her.
"I know all about it, Nell," he said, giving her a brotherly kiss. "You have made me very happy by the wisdom of your choice; I shall be proud of my new brother. Ah, here he is just coming in at the gate! You must let me share the pleasure of his society now, and after tea I will take care that you have the parlor to yourselves."
Kenneth's eyes shone at sight of his betrothed. Sleep had refreshed her and restored her bloom, and her simple white dress with no ornaments save a few delicate, sweet-scented blossoms at her throat and in her hair was very becoming.
The major kept his word, and early in the evening they found themselves sole occupants of the parlor.
Then, seated by her side, with her hand in his, Kenneth told the story of his birth and the accompanying tragedy; then went on to tell of the removal of his supposed parents to Glen Forest, and of the life there.
He described his childhood as bright and happy. Angus and he believed themselves, and were believed by others to be twins. They were devotedly attached and almost inseparable. The parents made no difference between them, and indeed, had no reason for so doing, as they were entirely unable to decide which of the two was their own child.
The boys knew nothing about the circumstances attendingtheir birth except that at or near that time there had been an attack by the Indians in which their mother's stepfather had been slain, and that the shock had killed his wife; she being just then very ill and weak.
They could perceive that their mother was at times oppressed with sad memories of that fearful past, but for the most part she was very cheerful, and they found her ever ready to sympathize with them in joy as well as grief.
The father was inclined to be somewhat strict in his discipline, but kind and genial, a parent whom they sincerely loved and respected.
Nell listened with intense interest; wondering within herself too, why the doubt as to which of the two couples were his true parents should have been, as she began to perceive that it had, a reason why Dr. Clendenin should feel that marriage was not for him; in either case his birth was not ignoble.
He paused, seeming for a moment lost in painful thought, then casting it off with a slight sigh, went on.
"Yes, ours was a very happy childhood till we, Angus and I, were about twelve years old. Then sickness and death came into the family, two little sisters being taken away within a few weeks of each other.
"The heart of the tender mother seemed well-nigh broken; but alas! the time came when she was unutterably thankful for their early removal to a better land.
"There were still two little ones, a brother and sister, left, and within the next two years Marian was born.
"Troubles came thick and fast during the first year of her life. There was a great and sudden change in our father. He had received a package of letters and papers from England, and from the hour of their perusal was a strangely altered man; silent, morose, disinclined to mixwith his fellows, or even with his own family, and at times looking haggard and wretched in the extreme.
"It was a sad mystery to us boys, but mother, who seemed to have a sorrowful understanding of it, hushed every enquiry into its cause, and would suffer no allusion to it in her presence.
"A few months later came one of the sorest trials of my life," continued Kenneth, his voice trembling with excess of feeling. "Angus, my twin brother, my second self, was accidentally drowned. I cannot dwell upon the particulars, but shall never forget my mother's look of woe, her white despairing face, as the dripping corpse was borne and laid down before her, nor the strange unnatural laugh, the expression of mingled agony and triumphant pleasure, with which the father bent over his dead son, saying, 'It's better so! Wife, why do you grieve? I've no tear to shed for him.'
"I was inexpressibly shocked and very angry at what I deemed his heartlessness.
"This mother saw, with deep sorrow; she loved her husband devotedly, and could not bear to have him unjustly blamed. She felt, too, that it would be necessary at some time for me to know the fatal secret. So one day, after the grave had closed over all that remained of our loved one, she sought me in my room and told me all.
"Her husband was an only child, had lost his father by death shortly before coming to this country. Of his mother he had no recollection, but had always understood that she had died soon after his birth.
"That, however, was not the case, and those letters from England had revealed to him the fact that she had only just died, at the time when they were written; died in a mad house, a furious, raving maniac, having been inthat condition for many years; also that such had been her mother's fate, and that of several others of the family; in short, insanity was undoubtedly hereditary.
"From the moment of learning all this he had felt that his doom was sealed, and that of each of his children also.
"I cannot describe to you the horror and fear that came over me as I listened to the tale. Then mother told me, oh, so gently and tenderly, of the mystery that hung over my birth; leaving, while it almost orphaned me, a faint hope that that fearful curse was not mine.
"And now you know, sweet one, why, when I would fain have poured into your ear the story of my love, my lips were sealed. I could not ask you to link your life with that of one for whom so sad a fate might be in store. I dared not risk the transmission to future generations of a curse so fearful.
"But God, in His great mercy, has sent me the knowledge that it is not mine," he added, with a look of deepest gratitude and joy.
"And I was at times shamefully angry with you," murmured Nell, penitent tears shining in her eyes.
"I cannot blame you under the circumstances," he said, smiling tenderly upon her.
"And this was the explanation of the rumors that reached us of some white woman, living among the Indians, giving testimony before the squire in regard to some matter of importance to you?"
"Yes, it was Reumah Clark." And he went on to give a narrative of his interview with her, then to finish his story of the life at Glen Forest.
The two remaining little ones older than Marian, had followed Angus to the better land in the course of a fewmonths, leaving her sole inheritor—after her father—of that terrible curse.
He described, in moving words, his own and the mother's anxiety for her, and for the wretched husband and father; the wife's life of devotion to him, the long years of fear and care, of untiring sympathy and love, of faith and submission; rewarded at last by seeing him pass peacefully away to another and happier existence, for he had gone trusting in a crucified and risen Saviour.
Marian, still spared to them, was now their one great anxiety, but he was hopeful for her. She had stood some severe tests of late, and it might be, he trusted it was the case, that her mental powers and peculiarities were inherited from her mother's side of the house, or her father's paternal ancestors; all of whom were free from that dreaded taint.
"We have endeavored, and thus far with success, to keep the fatal secret from her," he said, "deeming that her danger would be greatly enhanced by the knowledge.
"She has long known there was a grievous thorn in the Clendenin nest, but what it is she does not know, and I trust never will. Her mother and I have also another innocent concealment from her. She still believes that I am her brother by right of birth; and we do not intend that she shall ever be undeceived."
"No; it would be very cruel to rob her of the blessedness of believing that," Nell said, with the sweetest look in her beautiful eyes, "to be your sister would be the greatest happiness, except to—"
But she stopped short, blushing and confused.
"Except to be something far nearer and dearer? Ah, tell me that was what you were thinking," he whispered,his eyes shining, as he bent his head for a closer look into the sweet, blushing face.
"Now, don't be too inquisitive, Dr. Clendenin," she said, in pretended vexation and pretty confusion.
"Never mind the doctor," he returned gayly. "Kenneth is three syllables shorter and easier."
"But not so respectful."
"Quite sufficiently so, however. It is Marian's and my mother's name for me, and I hope will be my wife's also," he whispered. "Oh, dearest, how soon may I claim the right to call you by that sweetest of names?"
"Ah, don't speak of that yet!" she said, hastily, her cheeks crimsoning, her eyes drooping.
"Forgive me, I am very selfish," he replied, "but it must be very soon or not for long weary months, while an ocean will roll between us; to say nothing of the hundreds of miles of land that will separate us besides."
"What can you mean?" she asked, with a start and look of surprise and dismay.
Then he told her of his inheritance in England and the unfortunate necessity it entailed of a speedy visit there. It could not well be deferred till the ensuing spring, and must therefore be undertaken soon if he would avoid the dangerous storms likely to be encountered in the fall.
"And you must go?" she said, struggling to keep back her tears.
"Yes," he sighed. "I cannot tell you how hard it is to think of leaving you just now, or how sweet it would be to call you mine before I go; and to know that, if anything should befall me, you would—"
"Oh, don't, don't!" she cried, the tears coming now in good earnest, "I can't bear it! I—I think you might ask me to go with you."
"Would you, oh, would you?" he exclaimed joyously. "My dear girl, how very sweet and kind in you to propose it."
"Did I?" she asked, smiling through her tears, as she gently released herself from his enraptured embrace. "I thought I only suggested the propriety of your asking me."
"I feel very selfish in so doing, dearest Nell," he said, "but will you go?"
"Yes, if you really want me and will take me."
"Only too gladly, ah, you cannot doubt that, but have you thought of the long, tedious journey overland, and the dangers of the voyage?"
"Yes; and how can I let you meet them alone?"
"Ah, my darling, you are the most unselfish of women," he exclaimed, regarding her with tender, loving admiration, "and I the happiest of men."
"But," said Nell presently, "you will have a poorly attired bride. I shall have no time to get new dresses made."
"Very much wiser to wait for that till we reach New York, London or Paris," he answered, with his grave, tender smile. "'Tis the bird I would secure, sweet one, and I care not for the color or quality of the feathers she may wear."
So it was all settled, after a little more talk, and in a week they would be setting off for Europe on their wedding tour.
Great were Clare's astonishment and delight when she heard the news.
"Just the match I've always wanted for you, Nell, even when I'd no idea he was going to be so rich."
"He didn't say it would be riches," returned the young lady, supremely indifferent to such trifles.
"But I dare say it will. At all events you are going to Europe for your wedding trip. Won't the other girls envy you? Yet I don't know, Nell, I should be afraid of the sea. What if you should be drowned?"
"I hope we shall not," Nell answered gravely, "but even if we should, I'd rather die with Kenneth than live without him. And as to the envy the other girls may feel, I should think it would be because of him rather than anything else," she added, her cheeks glowing and her eyes shining.
"Oh, I suppose so!" laughed Clare. "It's a great shame, though, that we can't have a grand wedding and elaborate trousseau. Still the means can be provided for that last, all the same; and it will be lovely to have it bought in Paris."
THE END