The Thorn in the Nest

"Yes, yes, sweet words, sweet words!" she murmured. "Lord, increase my faith! But, Kenneth," opening her eyes and looking up earnestly, entreatingly, as it seemed, into his face, "you are sure, quite sure that this is the best, wisest, kindest course? not risking a greater danger than the one avoided?"

He answered her question with another.

"If we take the other course shall we not be running into a certain danger in the effort to avoid one that may never threaten us?"

"Perhaps. But ah, what a hard choice we must sometimes make! Yet He knows and will never send one unneeded pang; will cause all things to work together for good to them that love Him. May He in His tender mercy forgive my unbelieving fears!"

Oh, how Kenneth's heart yearned over her, as he gazed into the dear, patient, sorrowful face, how he felt that he would willingly give the best years of his life to remove every thorn from her path! And yet – and yet, was not the Love which permitted them to remain, infinitely greater than his?

Silence again fell between them for a short space. Then looking tenderly upon him she asked:

"But what of your quest, Kenneth?"

He shook his head sorrowfully. "Nothing yet, absolutely nothing. Hopes raised now and again but to be utterly disappointed."

"My poor boy," she sighed, "yours is a heavy cross! but if borne with steadfast patience your crown of righteousness will be all the brighter; for our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

He looked at her with glistening eyes. "Yes," he said, with a slight huskiness in his voice, "and even in this life it may be lightened."

"I fear not," she answered in gentle, pitying tones. "So many years have now passed there seems little hope that she yet lives, and even if she does, if she should be found, there may be nothing gained."

"I know, I know," he returned with emotion, and rising to pace the room, "and yet there are times when hope is still strong within me."

At that instant a slight, graceful, girlish figure came swiftly into the room, and with a glad cry, "Kenneth, Kenneth, you have come at last!" Marian threw herself into the manly arms joyfully opened to receive her.

She clung about his neck weeping from very excess of happiness. "Oh, I have wanted you so much, so much!" she cried. "I thought you would never come! I wish you would never go away again."

He folded her close to his heart with tenderest caresses, then held her off that he might gaze into her blooming face, drinking in its loveliness with feelings of mingled joy and anguish.

It was and yet was not the little pet sister he had left when he went away; she stood on the verge of womanhood now, innocent and fair, with a sweet blending of childish and womanly graces.

Ah, must that deadly curse fall on her? He shuddered at the thought, and almost groaned aloud.

She saw the pain in his face, and redoubling her caresses, "What is it, Kenneth?" she asked; "my poor Kenneth, you are not happy. Has some one been unkind to you? Ah, I know," she added quickly, in a lower tone, "it is for poor, dear father you are grieving; but you know he is so, so happy now, while here he was always sad and suffering."

He sat down and drew her to the old seat upon his knee. The mother had left the room and they were quite alone for the moment.

"How long since you sat here last!" he said, "and how glad I am to have you in the old place again."

And truly he was, yet peradventure not entirely for her own sake. To hold this sweet young creature close, to pet and caress her to his heart's content, was it not some slight relief to the longing desire to embrace that other one who was dearer still?

Had his thoughts some magnetic influence upon Marian's that led her, the next instant, to look up in his face and ask for news of "that pretty Miss Lamar"?

"What do you know of her, little one?" he asked gently smoothing the shining hair, conscious of the tell-tale blood mounting to his forehead, but avoiding the curious gaze of the soft, bright eyes.

"I saw her in church the Sunday before you left, and thought her very sweet and pretty. And do you know, Kenneth," giving him a hug and an arch, bewitching smile, "it's all my own notion and I never told anybody before, but I've had a sort of presentiment that some day you would make her my sister. Ah, I've always wanted a sister so much! But oh, Kenneth, I didn't mean to pain you!" she cried, noting the expression of his face. "Please forgive me and I'll never mention it again."

"Don't, darling!" he said hoarsely. "Marriage is not for me. I can not tell you why," as he read the question in her eyes; "but," with a strange, forced smile, "I want my little sister always to lay her plans to devote herself to the dear mother while she lives, and if it should please God to take her away first, then to come to be the light and joy of her bachelor brother's home."

She half withdrew herself from his arms, her features working with contending emotions.

"What is it, little sister? Do you not love me? do you not want to share my home?" he asked soothingly.

"Yes, yes, you know I love you; you know I'll be glad to be always near you," she cried, flinging her arms about his neck; then hiding her face on his breast in a burst of passionate weeping, "But why do you and mother have secrets from me, family secrets, as if I were not worthy to be trusted?"

"Ah, my little sister, be content with your ignorance!" he said in moved tones, drawing her closer to him. "Can you doubt that we love you well enough to tell you all if it would add to your happiness?"

"But I want to know," she sobbed. "If there is trouble or sorrow I ought to bear my share. Do you think I could be so selfish as not to prefer to do it?"

"No, dear sister, I believe you bear a very unselfish love to your mother and brother, and, therefore, I am sure you will not distress them by refusing to trust to their judgment of what is best in regard to those things. Believe me, the knowledge you crave could bring you nothing but grief and anguish. It is all it has brought me. The day may come when you must be told, but do not try to hasten it. I can be here but a short time to arrange matters for mother and you, and while I stay let us try to be happy."

"Oh yes, yes!" she cried, clinging to him and weeping afresh. "Kenneth, Kenneth, why can't we have you always? I'll try to be content not to know anything; but just tell me one thing: Why do you search for a white woman among the Indians? I've learned from some of your letters about your long journeys in the wilderness, why are you so anxious to find her, so grieved when you fail? Surely I may know that, may I not?"

He considered a moment. "Yes," he sighed, "if you insist upon it I will tell you, though I know you will regret having asked, for the knowledge can bring you only sorrow. Shall I tell you?"

She gave an eager assent; but at that moment the mother returned to the room, and he whispered in Marian's ear that they would defer it until another time.

Some days later, a fitting opportunity presenting itself, she hastened to claim the fulfilment of his promise; but when he answered the question she burst into bitter weeping, crying as she clung about his neck, "Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, why did you tell me, why did I ask? I wish I had not!" and he had much ado to comfort her.

CHAPTER XII

The episode of the mad cat had given a severer shock to Nell's nerves than she was at all aware of at the time. The joy and the new-born hope that sprang to life within her in meeting that look of ineffable tenderness in Kenneth's eyes buoyed her up at first, but the news of his sudden departure, leaving neither note nor message for her, was a heavy blow, and brought on the natural reaction from the excitement of her struggle with the rabid animal.

For days her prostration was so great that she could do little but lie on her bed, and when alone often bemoaned herself with bitter sighing and weeping, although in Clare's presence she constantly assumed a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, yet that deceived even that keen-eyed individual.

At length her woman's pride helped her to rally her failing energies. She rose from her bed and went about her accustomed duties and pleasures with a determined will to seem her old self; hiding her well-nigh breaking heart behind a smiling countenance.

She learned from Dale that Kenneth's summons had been to the dying bed of his father, and that though he could not hope to traverse the intervening distance in season to witness the closing scene, he yet felt it imperative upon him to make all haste to give his widowed mother the comfort and support of his presence at the earliest possible moment.

"Ah, he had no time to write before leaving!" thought Nell; and hope whispered that he would perhaps do so from some station on the way, or from Glen Forest immediately on his arrival there.

She waited and watched, now hopefully, now with feverish longing, and anon in almost utter despair, as weeks dragged on their weary round, bringing no word from him, no evidence that she was not completely forgotten.

She grew absent-minded, and would catch herself sitting in listless attitude, silent and abstracted, while others chatted and laughed gaily at her side; or moving about with a languor that attracted Clare's attention, and brought upon her vexatious questions and remarks.

"What was the matter? She was certainly not well, for it was not like her to be so dull. She was losing her appetite too. She should take more out-door exercise. Why did she stay in the house so constantly of late? Where would she like to go? What was there that she could eat? Really she must try to keep up, if only till Dr. Clendenin returned, for he was the only physician in the place in whom the major felt any confidence."

Nell answered, not always in the most amiable of tones, that she was perfectly well and did not know why people should persist in believing otherwise. She was in no haste for Dr. Clendenin's return, and hoped he would stay six months or a year if he felt inclined to do so.

Still, spite of her protestations, she continued to grow pale and thin, ate less and less, and at last was forced to take to her bed with a low, nervous fever.

It was now far on in October, but Kenneth had not returned, and Dr. Buell was called in by the major, much against the patient's will.

"I don't want him or his medicines," she said. "I'm not sick."

"Why, what nonsense!" said Clare; "why do you lie here if you are not ill?"

"Because I'm tired, tired!" sighed the girl, turning away her head. "I only need rest, and all I want is to be let alone."