The Thorn in the Nest

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.