The Thorn in the Nest

CHAPTER XIII

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.

CHAPTER XIV

One beautiful October day two well-mounted gentlemen, each followed by a servant, came galloping into Chillicothe, and halted at Major Lamar's door.

In the one the major instantly recognized an old friend and companion in arms, Captain Bernard, now a wealthy Virginia planter; the other was introduced as an English gentleman, Mr. Lysander Lyttleton, his guest for some weeks, whom he had persuaded to accompany him on a visit to this new state, of whose beauty and fertility they had heard the most flattering accounts.

The major gave them a hearty welcome, and proffered the hospitalities of his house, a larger and more commodious dwelling than the one he had occupied at the beginning of our story. Tig was summoned to take charge of the servants and horses, and the major himself conducted his guests to the parlor and introduced them to his wife and sister.

Dinner was already on the table; two more plates were added and they sat down to partake of the meal, but while in the act of taking their places their number was augmented by a new arrival, a very plainly dressed, sober looking man, who came in with the air of one who felt quite at home, giving and receiving a cordial greeting.

"Ah, Tommy," said the major, shaking hands with him, "you are just in time. Tig, set up a chair and bring another plate for Mr. Dill."

Having been introduced in due form to the other guests, and requested to ask a blessing, the new comer bowed his head over his plate, each one present copying his example, and with outspread hands and closed eyes, poured out a long prayer of fervent thanksgiving for the food set before them, and all other blessings temporal and spiritual, mingled with much humble confession of sin, and very many petitions; winding up with this remarkable one: "O Lord, we beseech thee to go into the highways and byways and hedges of our hearts and drive out the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Hivites, and the Perizzites, and the Girgashites, and the Amorites, and the Jebusites."

The elders of the family preserved a grave and decorous silence to the end, which the guests and the children had some difficulty in doing; the latter, especially the little boys, being almost convulsed with suppressed laughter.

At length the Amen was pronounced, Mrs. Lamar hearing it with an involuntary sigh of relief, for she had been very uncomfortably conscious that her dinner was growing cold, and she particularly prided herself on always having her meats and vegetables served up hot.

She mentally resolved to enjoin it upon the major never again to call upon Tommy Dill to ask a blessing when other guests were present.

But the guests showed no lack of appreciation of the fare, partaking of it with keen appetites and praising the viands without stint.

"Such game as this would be considered a rarity in my country," remarked Lyttleton, as the major heaped his plate for the second or third time; "but I presume it is abundant here?"

"Plenty of it to be had for the shooting," was the reply; "our woods are full of wild fowl, deer, bears, rabbits, squirrels and coons; and the rivers abound in fish. And such crops of corn as are raised in this Scioto valley you never saw, I venture to say. I'm glad you've come out here, Bernard; I shall take delight in showing you the land."