The Thorn in the Nest

"She is wearied out now, mother, but will be better soon. Let me lay her in her bed."

She had already fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. He placed her comfortably on the bed, while the mother drew down the blinds and Caius stretched himself on the floor by her side.

"Kenneth, my dear boy, oh, what a comfort to have you here again!" whispered Mrs. Clendenin, as they clasped each other in a long, tender embrace.

Leaving Caius to watch the slumbers of their dear one, they withdrew to the sitting-room.

"What do you think of her?" There was another, an unspoken question in the mother's pleading anxious eyes.

Kenneth's answer to it was, "Let your poor heart be at rest, mother, it is not that."

A cloud of care, of deep and sore anxiety lifted from her brow, and she wept tears of joy and thankfulness.

"Anything but that," she sighed, "any other burden seems light in comparison with that. But, Kenneth, the child is certainly ill, have you discovered the cause of her malady?"

"Yes," he said, "and have brought her a cure which, though it must be painful at first, will, I doubt not, prove effectual in the end."

Then he repeated Marian's story, having won her consent that he should do so, and added his own knowledge of Lyttleton.

The mother's surprise was not less than his had been, and her tears fell fast over the sorrows of her sweet and gentle child.

"I take blame to myself for leaving her alone," she said, "and yet it was what seemed best at the time."

"I would not have you do so, mother, dear," he said, gazing tenderly into the patient yet troubled face whereon sorrow and care had left their deep and lasting traces, "no blame rightfully belongs to you; and let me say for your consolation, that if I read her aright, there is one drop of sweetness in this otherwise bitter cup, she will never love again."

She gave him one earnest look, then dropping her eyes, seemed lost in thought for several minutes.

"Yes," she said at length, "I think you are right. And she has passed this trying ordeal safely?"

"Yes."

Clasping her hands in her lap and lifting her eyes to heaven, "I thank thee, oh my Father, for that," she murmured in tones so low that the words scarcely reached Kenneth's ear.

He stood looking down upon her with loving, compassionate eyes. Ah, if it were but in his power to remove every thorn from her path!

That might not be, but her face had resumed its wonted expression of sweet and calm submission. She glanced up at him, her fine eyes full of affectionate pride.

"You have told me nothing yet of yourself, Kenneth. How fares it with you, my boy? Sit down here by my side and open all your heart to me as you used to do. I see you have something to tell," she added, watching the changes of his countenance as he took the offered chair, "something of joy and something of sorrow."

"Yes, mother, I have learned that long sought secret, and it brings me both gladness and grief," he answered with emotion.

"You have found her?" she asked in almost breathless, half credulous astonishment.

"Yes, mother, Reumah Clark, and – "

"Wait one moment," she faltered, pressing her hand to her heart.

He knelt at her side and threw an arm about her waist. She laid her head on his shoulder, heaving a gentle sigh.

"Now," she whispered, "tell me all. Oh, that terrible, terrible day. I can never recall it without a shudder."

His story did not go back to the scenes of that dreadful day on which he first saw the light. He merely gave a brief account of his interview with Reumah Clark, confining himself chiefly to her explanation of the mark which proved his identity, and her assertion that she had looked for and seen it at the time of his birth.

Mrs. Clendenin raised her head, showing a face radiant with joy and thankfulness.

"Oh, my dear boy, what glad news for you, what a burden removed! And yet – Ah, I am not the happy mother of such a son!" and her eyes filled with tears.

"No, that is the bitter drop in the cup, sweet mother, for I must still call you so, unless you forbid it. And, thank God, we are of the same blood."

"Yes, yes, my own mother's child by birth, mine own by adoption, we are very near and dear to one another," she whispered, clinging to him in a close and tender embrace.

For a moment there was utter silence between them, then she spoke musingly, as if half talking to him, half thinking aloud.

"I have often wondered over that mark, but could find no clue to it, for my mother never mentioned the occurrence to me, and I knew nothing of the mark upon Clark's arm. Ah, had I known, how much of anxiety and mental suffering might have been spared us both!"

"Yes," he assented with almost a groan, thinking of his lost love.

She saw the anguish in his face and with tender questioning at length drew the whole story from him.

"Do not despair," she said when he had finished, "I think the man has told you a falsehood. I understand woman's nature better than you can, and such a girl as you have described would never give herself to such a man. And now the seal is taken from your lips and you may declare your love and sue for hers in return. Ah, my dear boy, I trust happy days are in store for you even on this side of Jordan."

She looked into his eyes with hers so full of loving pride, tender sympathy and joyful anticipation, that hope revived in his desponding heart.

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.