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, 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.
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 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 lig