The Thorn in the Nest

The citizens gathered together on the river bank, chose one of their number, a Mr. Samuel Smith, as judge, and proceeded to try Brannon in due form; a jury was empanelled, the judge appointed Godfrey Dale as attorney for the prosecution, and another young lawyer, Maurice Gerard by name, for the defence.

Witnesses were called and examined. The goods had been found in possession of the accused, but he stoutly affirmed that they were his own.

Barbour, however, was able to prove property, and Dr. Clendenin's evidence was strong against the prisoner, whom he identified without hesitation as the man he had seen carrying away a bundle from Barbour's cabin the previous evening.

There was other testimony, but Kenneth's was the most conclusive.

The judge summed up the evidence, the jury retired to a short distance, and in a few moments returned with the verdict of guilty, and that the culprit be sentenced according to the discretion of the judge.

The latter presently announced his decision: – ten lashes upon the naked back of the prisoner, or that he should sit upon a bare pack-saddle on his pony, while his wife taking it by the bridle should lead it through every street of the village, pausing before the door of each house with the announcement, "This is Brannon who stole the great-coat, handkerchief, and shirt."

Brannon chose the latter horn of the dilemma, and a responsible person was appointed by the judge to see the sentence immediately and faithfully executed.

The crowd waited to see the man mounted upon the pony, then scattered to their homes or other positions favorable for watching his progress through the town.

He submitted to his punishment in dogged silence: glancing about him with an air of sullen defiance as he took his seat. Then his eye caught that of Kenneth fixed upon him in grave pity, and the look was returned with one of bitter hatred and revenge.

"Curse you!" he muttered under his breath, "the day will come when you'll repent of this."

CHAPTER V

The Brannons fled immediately upon being released, after the carrying out of the sentence. No one mourned their departure: but Nell Lamar, having heard from Dale of the look the culprit had cast upon Kenneth, rejoiced not a little in secret that they were gone.

"Dr. Clendenin had been so kind to her on her journey," she explained to herself, "that in common gratitude she must care for his safety."

Naturally, being both friend and physician to the major's family, Kenneth was a frequent visitor at their house. Though noticeably quiet and undemonstrative in manner, he soon became a great favorite with them all, from the parents down to the youngest child; and Nell saw no reason to appropriate his visits to herself, even when unprofessional.

Nor had she any desire to do so; and in fact his conversation was seldom directed to her. Yet it did not escape Clare's quick observation that the calm gray eye saw every movement of her young sister, and that no tone of the sweet girlish voice ever fell unheeded upon his ear.

She was well pleased, Nell could not help loving such a man, or being happy with him, so would soon be provided for, and the major relieved of her support.

That last would never have been the major's thought, his darling little sister was esteemed no burden by him. He was one of the wealthiest men in the place, held a highly responsible office under the general government, and had received large grants of land in compensation for his services in the Revolutionary war.

Nell was fond of her brother, yet stood somewhat in awe of him. He was a reserved, rather taciturn man, and military life had increased a natural tendency to sternness of manner toward those under his authority which belied his real kindness of heart. He had never a harsh word or look for Nell, yet she dared not lavish upon him the demonstrations of affection her loving young heart longed to bestow; dared not offer him a caress; and he rarely gave them unasked to her or to any one else except the youngest of his children.

Clare was more demonstrative and really meant to be very kind, but was as dictatorial and domineering in her way as the major in his, and before many days had passed she began to treat the young girl as a child, checking, criticising, reproving, and directing with the most exasperating persistency, and as having an undoubted right.

This was very trying to Nell's sense of womanly dignity; and though by no means an ill-tempered little body, she sometimes found it difficult to possess her soul in patience.

"Where now?" asked Clare one morning, addressing her.

"To the woods with the children, after wild flowers and mosses," returned the young girl gaily.

She was standing in the doorway swinging a broad-brimmed hat by its strings, her beautiful uncovered hair glittering like burnished gold in the sunbeams sifting down upon it through the leaves of the overshadowing trees, as they stirred restlessly to and fro in the pleasant summer breeze.

She was in a happy mood, light-hearted and free from care as the birds warbling overhead, and had been humming snatches of song till interrupted by Clare's question.

"You have been here nearly a week now," pursued that lady in precisely the tone she would have used to one of her children, "don't you think it is time to begin to make yourself useful? Life was never meant for a perpetual holiday."

Nell's cheek crimsoned.

"What would you have me do? offer my services as assistant to Silvy the cook, Maria the nurse-maid, or Tig the stable boy?" she asked in a slightly sarcastic tone.

"Silvy is an excellent cook, and it might not be at all amiss for you to take some lessons of her," said Clare. "But there are other employments. The children need instruction, and you ought to be able to give it. Then there are spinning and sewing."

"I don't know anything about spinning."

"I'll teach you, in return for the lessons you give the children in spelling, reading and writing."

"Very well, we'll talk of it when I come back from my walk," Nell answered, tying on her hat.

She was willing enough to make herself useful, but Clare's manner was irritating.

Her annoyance was, however, soon forgotten in the prattle of the children, and the beauty of the woods.

They wandered about till weary, then sat down on a log to rest.

"Now if I only had a book," remarked Nell.

"Why didn't you bring one?" asked Bess.

"I don't mean a Sunday book, such as those on the shelves in the sitting-room," was the half scornful reply.

"Aunt Nell, there are some other kinds of books up in the garret."

"What kinds?"

"Oh, I don't know; stories, I believe, but not fit for me to read, mother says."

Nell rose eagerly. "Come, let us go back," she said, "I must see those books. But how came they there?"

Bess explained as they wended their homeward way, she walking soberly by her aunt's side, the boys racing on before, climbing and jumping over stumps and logs.

The major had formerly been in the mercantile business, and in the garret were stowed away boxes of goods – a medley of many odds and ends which had fallen to his share in the division of unsold stock made by himself and partner in the winding up of the joint concern.

The garret was the favorite resort of the children when kept within doors by stormy weather, and Bess had made herself well acquainted with the contents of the boxes, turning them over and over in search of "pretty things" with which to bedeck her dolls and herself.

The books proved to be novels – "Claremont" complete in several volumes and an odd volume of "Peregrine Pickle."

Nell seized upon them with delight and carried them off to her bed-room. Books were rare luxuries in those days, there were no newspapers or magazines published in that region of country, and as yet there was no regular mail.

Nell read and re-read "Claremont," devoting to its perusal every spare moment when she could steal away unobserved to the solitude of her room, and carrying a volume with her in her rambles with the children.

Then she took up "Peregrine Pickle," but with sore disappointment that the first volume was missing; so much so that she at length plucked up courage to ask her brother what had become of it; though quite fearful that he would disapprove of her reading it.

"Well," he said with a smile, "I suppose my former partner has it, and somebody is probably as anxious for this as you are for it. I'm sorry, for your sake, that we were so careless in dividing our stock."

"It is just as well," said Clare; "time can be more profitably employed than in the reading of such trash."