 CHAPTER X. A TROUBLING OF THE WATERS. February 2008. One evening in late June Mrs. Williamson was sitting by her kitchen window. Her knitting lay unheated in her lap, and Timothy, though he nestled ingratiatingly against her foot as he lay on the rug and purred his loudest, was unregarded. She rested her face on her hand and looked out of the window, across the distant harbour, with troubled eyes. I guess I must speak, she thought wistfully. I hate to do it. I always did hate meddling. My mother always used to say that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the last state of a meddler and them she meddled with, was worse than the first. But I guess it's my duty. I was Margaret's friend, and it is my duty to protect a child any way I can. If the master does go back across there to meet her, I must tell him what I think about it. Overhead in his room, Eric was walking about whistling. Presently he came downstairs, thinking of the orchard and the girl who would be waiting for him there. As he crossed the little front entry, he heard Mrs. Williamson's voice calling to him. Mr. Marshal, will you please come here a moment? Mrs. Williamson looked at him deprecatingly. There was a flush on her faded cheek and her voice trembled. Mr. Marshal, I want to ask you a question. Perhaps you will think it isn't any of my business. But it isn't because I want to meddle. No, no. It is only because I think I ought to speak. I have thought it over for a long time, and it seems to me that I ought to speak. I hope you won't be angry, but even if you are, I must say what I have to say. Are you going back to the old connoisseur to meet Kilmoney Gordon? For a moment an angry flush burned in Eric's face. It was more Mrs. Williamson's tone than her words which startled and annoyed him. Yes, I am Mrs. Williamson, he said coldly. What of it? Then, sir, said Mrs. Williamson with more firmness. I have got to tell you that I don't think you are doing right. I have been suspecting all along that that was where you went every evening, but I haven't said a word to anyone about it. Even my husband doesn't know. But tell me this, master, does Kilmoney's uncle and aunt know that you are meeting her there? Why, said Eric in some confusion, I—I do not know whether they do or not. But Mrs. Williamson, surely you do not suspect me of meaning any harm or wrong to Kilmoney Gordon. No, I don't, master. I might think it of some men, but never of you. I don't think for a minute that you would do her or any other woman any willful wrong. But you may do her great harm for all that. I want you to stop and think about it. I guess you haven't thought. Kilmoney can't know anything about the world or about men, and she may get to thinking too much of you. That might break her heart, because you couldn't ever marry a dumb girl like her. So I don't think you ought to be meeting her so often in this fashion. It isn't right, master. Don't go to the orchard again. Without a word Eric turned away and went upstairs to his room. Mrs. Williamson picked up her knitting with a sigh. That's done, Timothy, and I'm real thankful, she said. I guess there'll be no need of saying anything more. Mr. Marshall is a fine young man, only a little thoughtless. Now that he's got his eyes open I'm sure he'll do it his right. I don't want Margaret's child made unhappy. Her husband came to the kitchen door and sat down on the steps to enjoy his evening smoke, talking between whiffs to his wife of elder Tracy's church row, and Mary Alice Martin's bow, the price Jake Crosby was giving for eggs, the quantity of hay yielded by the hill-meadow, the trouble he was having with old Molly's calf, and the respective merits of Plymouth Rock and Brahma Roosters. Mrs. Williamson answered at random and heard not one word in ten. What got the master, mother? inquired old Robert presently. I heard him striding up and down in his room, stiff he was caged. Sure you didn't lock him in by mistake? Maybe he's worried about the way Seth Tracy's acting in school, suggested Mrs. Williamson, who did not choose that her gossipy husband should suspect the truth about Eric and Kilmoney Gordon. He needn't worry a morsel over that. Seth will quiet down as soon as he finds he can't run the master. He's a rare good teacher, better than Mr. West was even, and that's saying in something. The trust he's hoping he'll stay for another term. They're going to ask him at the school meeting tomorrow and offer him a raise of supplement. Upstairs in his little room under the eaves, Eric Marshall was in the grip of the most intense and overwhelming emotion he had ever experienced. Up and down, to and fro he walked, with set lips and clenched hands. When he was wearied out he flung himself on a chair by the window and wrestled with the flood of feeling. Mrs. Williamson's words had torn away the delusive veil with which he had bound his eyes. He was face to face with the knowledge that he loved Kilmoney Gordon with the love that comes but once and is for all time. He wondered how he could have been so long blind to it. He knew that he must have loved her ever since their first meeting that May evening in the old orchard. And he knew that he must choose between two alternatives. Either he must never go to the orchard again, or he must go on as an avowed lover to woo him a wife. Worldly prudence, his inheritance from a long line of thrifty, cool-headed ancestors was strong in Eric, and he did not yield easily or speedily to the dictates of his passion. All night he struggled against the new emotions that threatened to sweep away the common sense which David Baker had bade him take with him when he went to wooing. Would not a marriage with Kilmoney Gordon be an unwise thing from any standpoint? Then something stronger and greater and more vital than wisdom or unwisdom rose up in him and mastered him. Kilmoney, beautiful, dumb Kilmoney was, as he had once involuntarily thought, the one made for him. Nothing should part them. The mere idea of never seeing her again was so unbearable that he laughed at himself for having counted it a possible alternative. If I can win Kilmoney's love, I shall ask her to be my wife, he said, looking out of the window to the dark, southwestern hill beyond which lay his orchard. The velvet sky over it was still starry, but the water of the harbour was beginning to grow silvery in the reflection of the dawn that was breaking in the east. Her misfortune will only make her dearer to me. I cannot realize that a month ago I did not know her. It seems to me that she has been a part of my life forever. I wonder if she was grieved that I did not go to the orchard last night, if she waited for me. I wonder if she cares for me. If she does, she does not know it herself yet. It will be my sweet task to teach her what love means, and no man has ever had a lovelier, purer pupil. At the annual school meeting the next afternoon the trustees asked Eric to take the Lindsay School for the following year. He consented unhesitatingly. That evening he went to Mrs. Williamson as she washed her tea-dishes in the kitchen. Mrs. Williamson, I'm going back to the old Connor's orchard to see Kilmoney again tonight. She looked at him reproachfully. Well, Master, I have no more to say. I suppose it wouldn't be of any use if I had, but you know what I think of it. I intend to marry Kilmoney Gordon if I can win her. An expression of amazement came into the good woman's face. She looked scrutinizingly at the firm mouth and steady gray eyes for a moment. Then she said in a troubled voice, Do you think that is wise, Master? I suppose Kilmoney is pretty. The egg-peddler told me she was, and no doubt she is a good, nice girl. But she wouldn't be a suitable wife for you, a girl that can't speak. That doesn't make any difference to me. But what will your people say? I have no people except my father. When he sees Kilmoney he will understand. She is all the world to me, Mrs. Williamson. As long as you believe that there is nothing more to be said, was the quiet answer. I'd be a little bit afraid if I was you, though, but young people never think of those things. My only fear is that she won't care for me, said Eric soberly. Mrs. Williamson surveyed the handsome, broad-shouldered young man shrewdly. I don't think there are many women who would say you know, Master. I wish you well in your wooing, though I can't help thinking you're doing a daft-like thing. I hope you won't have any trouble with Thomas and Janet. They are so different from other folks there is no knowing. But take my advice, Master, and go and see them about it right off. Don't go amending Kilmoney unbeknownst to them. I shall certainly take your advice, said Eric gravely. I should have gone to them before. It was merely thoughtlessness on my part. Possibly they do know already. Kilmoney may have told them. Mrs. Williamson shook her head decidedly. No, no, Master, she hasn't. They'd never have let her go on meeting you there if they had known. I know them too well to think of that for a moment. Go use straight to them, and say to them just what you've said to me. That is your best plan, Master. And take care of Neil. People say he has a notion of Kilmoney himself. He'll do you a bad turn if he can, I've no doubt. Then foreigners can't be trusted, and he's just as much a foreigner as his parents before him, though he has been brought up on oatmeal and the shorter catechism, as the old saying has it. I feel that somehow. I always feel it when I look at him singing in the choir. Oh, I'm not afraid of Neil, said Eric carelessly. He couldn't help loving Kilmoney. Nobody could. I suppose every young man thinks that about his girl, if he's the right sort of young man, said Mrs. Williamson with a little sigh. She watched Eric out of sight anxiously. I hope it'll all come out all right, she thought. I hope he ain't making an awful mistake, but I'm afraid. Kilmoney must be very pretty to have bewitched him so. Well, I suppose there is no use in my worrying over it. But I do wish he'd never gone back to that old orchard in Siena. End of Chapter 10 of Kilmoney of the Orchard by L. M. Montgomery Read by Chloe Winters February 2008 Chapter 11 of Kilmoney of the Orchard Kilmoney was in the orchard when Eric reached it, and he lingered for a moment in the shadow of the spruce wood to dream over her beauty. The orchard had lately overflowed in waves of old-fashioned caraway, and she was standing in the midst of its sea of bloom, with the lace-like blossoms swaying around her in the wind. She wore the simple dress of pale blue print in which he had first seen her. Silke attire could not better have become her loveliness. She had woven herself a chaplet of half-open, white rose buds and placed it on her dark hair, where the delicate blossoms seemed less wonderful than her face. When Eric stepped through the gap, she ran to meet him without stretched hands, smiling. He took her hands and looked into her eyes with an expression before which hers, for the first time, faltered. She looked down, and a warm blush stained the ivory curves of her cheek and throat. His heart bounded, for in that blush he recognized the banner of love's vanguard. Are you glad to see me, Kilmoney? He asked, in a low significant tone. She nodded, and wrote in a somewhat embarrassed fashion. Yes, why do you ask? You know I am always glad to see you. I was afraid you would not come. You did not come last night, and I was so sorry. Nothing in the orchard seemed nice any longer. I couldn't even play. I tried to, and my violin only cried. I waited until it was dark, and then I went home. I'm sorry you were disappointed, Kilmoney. I couldn't come last night. Someday I shall tell you why. I stayed home to learn a new lesson. I am sorry you missed me. No, I'm glad. Can you understand how a person may be glad and sorry for the same thing? She nodded again with a return of her usual sweet composure. Yes, I could not have understood once, but I can now. Did you learn your new lesson? Yes, very thoroughly. It was a delightful lesson when I once understood it. I must try to teach it to you some day. Come over to the old bench, Kilmoney. There is something I want to say to you. But first, will you give me a rose? She ran to the bush, and after careful deliberation, selected a perfect half-open bud and brought it to him. A white bud with a faint sunrise flesh about its golden heart. Thank you. It is as beautiful as— As a woman, I know, Eric said. A wistful look came into her face at his words, and she walked with a drooping head across the orchard to the bench. Kilmoney, he said seriously, I'm going to ask you to do something for me. I want you to take me home with you and introduce me to your uncle and aunt. She lifted her head and stared at him incredulously, as if he had asked her to do something wildly impossible—understanding from his grave face that he meant what he said, a look of dismay dawned in her eyes. She shook her head almost violently and seemed to be making a passionate, instinctive effort to speak. Then she caught a propensal and wrote with feverish haste. I cannot do that. Do not ask me to. You do not understand. They would be very angry. They do not want to see anyone coming to the house, and they would never let me come here again. Oh, you do not mean it! He pitied her for the pain and bewilderment in her eyes, but he took her slender hands in his and said firmly, Yes, Kilmoney, I do mean it. It is not quite right for us to be meeting each other here as we have been doing, without the knowledge and consent of your friends. You cannot now understand this, but believe me, it is so. She looked questioningly, pittingly into his eyes. What she read there seemed to convince her, for she turned very pale and an expression of hopelessness came into her face. Releasing her hands, she wrote slowly, If you say it is wrong, I must believe it. I did not know anything so pleasant could be wrong. But if it is wrong, we must not meet here any more. Mother told me I must never do anything that was wrong, but I did not know this was wrong. It was not wrong for you, Kilmoney, but it was a little wrong for me, because I knew better, or rather should have known better. I didn't stop to think, as the children say. Someday you will understand fully. Now, you will take me to your uncle and aunt, and after I have said to them what I want to say, it will be all right for us to meet here or anywhere. She shook her head. No, she wrote, Uncle Thomas and Aunt Janet will tell you to go away and never come back, and they will never let me come here any more. Since it is not right to meet you, I will not come. But it is no use to think of going to them. I did not tell them about you because I knew that they would forbid me to see you, but I am sorry, since it is so wrong. You must take me to them, said Eric, firmly. I am quite sure that things will not be as you fear when they hear what I have to say. Uncomforted, she wrote for Lornley. I must do it since you insist. But I am sure it will be no use. I cannot take you to-night because they are away. They went to the store at Radnor. But I will take you to-morrow night, and after that I shall not see you any more. Two great tears brimmed over in her big blue eyes and splashed down on her slate. Her lips quivered like a hurt child's. Eric put his arm impulsively about her and drew her head down upon his shoulder. As she cried there, softly, miserably, he pressed his lips to the silky black hair with its coronal of rose buds. He did not see two burning eyes which were looking at him over the old fence, behind him, with hatred and mad passion blazing in their depths. Neil Gordon was crouched there, with clenched hands and heaving breast, watching them. Kilmoney, dear, don't cry, said Eric tenderly. You shall see me again, I promise you that, whatever happens. I do not think your uncle and aunt will be as unreasonable as you fear, but even if they are, they shall not prevent me from meeting you somehow. Kilmoney lifted her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. You do not know what they are like, she wrote. They will lock me into my room. That is the way they always punished me when I was a little girl, and once, not so very long ago when I was a big girl, they did it. If they do, I'll get you out somehow, said Eric, laughing a little. She allowed herself to smile, but it was a rather forlorn little effort. She did not cry any more, but her spirits did not come back to her. Eric talked gaily, but she only listened in a pensive, absent way as if she scarcely heard him. When he asked her to play, she shook her head. I cannot think any music to-night, she wrote. I must go home, from my headaches, and I feel very stupid. Very well, Kilmoney. Now don't worry, little girl, it will all come out all right. Evidently she did not share his confidence, for her head drooped again as they walked together across the orchard. At the entrance of the wild cherry lane she paused and looked at him half reproachfully, her eyes filling again. She seemed to be bidding him a mute farewell. With an impulse of tenderness which he could not control, Eric put his arm around her and kissed her red, trembling mouth. She started back with a little cry. A burning colour swept over her face and the next moment she fled swiftly up the darkening lane. The sweetness of that involuntary kiss clung to Eric's lips as he went homeward, half intoxicating him. He knew that it had opened the gates of womanhood to Kilmoney. Never again he felt what her eyes meet his with their old unclouded frankness. When next he looked into them he knew that he should see there the consciousness of his kiss. Behind her, in the orchard that night, Kilmoney had left her childhood. CHAPTER XII. A prisoner of love. When Eric betook himself to the orchard the next evening he had to admit that he felt rather nervous. He did not know how the Gordons would receive him, and certainly the reports he had heard of them were not encouraging to say the least of it. Even Mrs. Williamson, when he had told her where he was going, seemed to look upon him as one bent on bearding a lion in his den. I do hope they won't be very uncivil to you, master, was the best she could say. He expected Kilmoney to be in the orchard before him, for he had been delayed by a call from one of the trustees. But she was nowhere to be seen. He walked across it to the wild cherry-lane, but at its entrance he stopped short in sudden dismay. Neil Gordon had stepped from behind the trees and stood confronting him with blazing eyes and lips which writhed in emotion so great that at first it prevented him from speaking. With a thrill of dismay Eric instantly understood what must have taken place. Neil had discovered that he and Kilmoney had been meeting in the orchard, and beyond doubt had carried that tale to Janet and Thomas Gordon. He realized how unfortunate it was that this should have happened before he had had time to make his own explanation. It would probably prejudice Kilmoney's guardians still further against him. At this point in his thoughts Neil's pent-up passion suddenly found vent in a burst of wild words. So you've come to meet her again. But she isn't here. You'll never see her again. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you! His voice rose to a shrill scream. He took a furious step nearer Eric as if he would attack him. Eric looked steadily in his eyes with a calm defiance before which his wild passion broke like foam on a rock. So you have been making trouble for Kilmoney, Neil, have you? said Eric contemptuously. I suppose you have been playing the spy, and I suppose that you have told her uncle and aunt that she has been meeting me here. Well, you have saved me the trouble of doing it. That is all. I was going to tell them myself tonight. I don't know what your motive in doing this has been. Was it jealousy of me? Or have you done it out of malice to Kilmoney? His contempt cowed Neil more effectually than any display of anger could have done. Never you mind why I did it, he muttered sullenly. What I did or why I did it is no business of yours. And you have no business to come sneaking around here either. Kilmoney won't meet you here again. She will meet me in her own home then, said Eric sternly. Neil, in behaving as you have done, you have shown yourself to be a very foolish, undisciplined boy. I am going straight way to kill many's uncle and aunt to explain everything. Neil sprang forward in his path. No, no, go away, he implored wildly. Oh, sir. Oh, Mr. Marshall, please go away. I'll do anything for you if you will. I love Kilmoney. I've loved her all my life. I'd give my life for her. I can't have you coming here to steal her from me. If you do, I'll kill you. I wanted to kill you last night when I saw you kiss her. Oh, yes, I saw you. I was watching. Spying, if you like. I don't care what you call it. I had followed her. I suspected something. She was so different, so changed. She never would wear the flowers I picked for her any more. She seemed to forget I was there. I knew something had come between us. And it was you, Kershaw. Oh, I'll make you sorry for it. He was working himself up into a fury again. The untamed fury of the Italian peasant thwarted in his heart's desire. It overwrote all the restraint of his training and environment. Eric, amid all his anger and annoyance, felt a thrill of pity for him. Neil Gordon was only a boy still, and he was miserable and beside himself. Neil, listen to me, he said quietly. You are talking very foolishly. It is not for you to say who shall or shall not be Kilmany's friend. Now, you may just as well control yourself and go home like a decent fellow. I am not at all frightened by your threats, and I shall know how to deal with you if you persist in interfering with me or persecuting Kilmany. I'm not the sort of person to put up with that, my lad. The restrained power in his tone and look, cowed, Neil. The latter turned sullenly away with another muttered curse and plunged into the shadow of the furs. Eric, not a little ruffled under all his external composure by this most unexpected and unpleasant encounter, pursued his way along the lane which round on by the belt of woodland in twist and curve to the Gordon homestead. His heart beat as he thought of Kilmany. What might she not be suffering? Doubtless Neil had given a very exaggerated and distorted account of what he had seen, and probably her dour relations were very angry with her, poor child. Anxious to avert their wrath as soon as might be, he hurried on, almost forgetting his meeting with Neil. The threats of the latter did not trouble him at all. He thought the angry outburst of a jealous boy mattered but little. What did matter was that Kilmany was in trouble which his heedlessness had brought upon her. Presently he found himself before the Gordon House. It was an old building with sharp eaves and dormer windows. Its shingles stained a dark gray by long exposure to wind and weather. Faded green shutters hung on the windows of the lower story. Behind it grew a thick wood of spruces. The little guard in front of it was grassy and prim and flowerless. But over the low front door a luxuriant, early flowering rosevine clamored in a riot of blood-red blossom which contrasted strangely with the general bareness of its surroundings. It seemed to fling itself over the grim old house as if intent on bombarding it with an alien life and joyousness. Eric knocked at the door wondering if it might be possible that Kilmany should come to it. But a moment later it was opened by an elderly woman. A woman of rigid lines from the hem of her length dark print dress to the crown of her head. Covered with black hair which, despite its few gray threads, was still thick and luxuriant. She had a long pale face somewhat worn and wrinkled but possessing a certain harsh comeliness of feature which neither age nor wrinkles had quite destroyed. And her deep set, light gray eyes were not devoid of suggested kindness, although they now surveyed Eric with an unconcealed hostility. Her figure in its merciless dress was very angular, yet there was about her a dignity of carriage and manner which Eric liked. In any case he preferred her unsmiling dourness to vulgar garrulity. He lifted his hat. Have I the honour of speaking to Miss Gordon, he asked? I am Janet Gordon, said the woman stiffly. Then I wish to talk with you and your brother. Come in. She stepped aside and motioned him to a low brown door opening on the right. Go in and sit down. I'll call Thomas, she said coldly as she walked out through the hall. Eric walked into the parlor and sat down as bidden. He found himself in the most old fashioned room he had ever seen. The solidly made chairs and tables of some wood grown dark and polished with age made even Mrs. Williamson's parlor set of horse hair seem extravagantly modern by contrast. The painted floor was covered with round braided rugs. On the center table was a lamp, a Bible, and some theological volumes contemporary with the square runged furniture. The walls, wanescoed at half way up in wood and covered for the rest with a dark diamond patterned paper, were hung with faded engravings, mostly of clerical looking bewigged parsonages in gowns and bands. But over the high, undecorated black mantelpiece, in a ruddy glow of sunset light striking through the window, hung one which caught and held Eric's attention to the exclusion of everything else. It was the enlarged crayon photograph of a young girl, and in spite of the crudity of execution it was easily the center of interest in the room. Eric at once guessed that this must be the picture of Margaret Gordon, for although quite unlike Kilmany's sensitive spirited face in general, there was a subtle, unmistakable resemblance about brow and chin. The pictured face was a very handsome one, suggestive of velvety dark eyes and vivid coloring. But it was its expression rather than its beauty which fascinated Eric. Never had he seen a countenance indicative of a more intense and stubborn will-power. Margaret Gordon was dead and buried. The picture was a cheap and inartistic production in an impossible frame of guilt and plush. Yet the vitality in that face dominated its surroundings still. What then must have been the power of such a personality in life? Eric realized that this woman could and would have done whatsoever she willed, unflinchingly and unrelentingly. She could stamp her desire on everything and everybody about her. Molding them to her wish and will, in their own despite and in defiance of all the resistance they might make, many things in Kilmany's upbringing and temperament became clear to him. If that woman had told me I was ugly, I should have believed her, he thought. I, even though I had a mirror to contradict her, I should never have dreamed of disputing or questioning anything she might have said. The strange power in her face is almost uncanny, peering out as it does from a mask of beauty and youthful curves. Pride and stubbornness are its salient characteristics. Well, Kilmany does not at all resemble her mother in expression and only very slightly in feature. His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Thomas and Janet Gordon. The latter had evidently been called from his work. He nodded without speaking and the two sat gravely down before Eric. I have come to see you with regard to your niece, Mr. Gordon. He said abruptly, realizing that there would be small use in beating about the bush with this grim pair. I met your—I met Neil Gordon in the Connors Orchard, and I found that he has told you that I have been meeting Kilmany there. He paused. Thomas Gordon nodded again, but he did not speak, and he did not remove his steady, piercing eyes from the young man's flushed countenance. Janet still sat in a sort of expectant immovability. I fear that you have formed an unfavorable opinion of me on this account, Mr. Gordon. Eric went on. But I hardly think I deserve it. I can explain the matter if you will allow me. I met your niece accidentally in the Orchard three weeks ago and heard her play. I thought her music very wonderful, and I fell into the habit of coming to the Orchard in the evenings to hear it. I had no thought of harming her in any way, Mr. Gordon. I thought of her as a mere child, and a child who was doubly sacred because of her affliction. But recently I—I—it occurred to me that I was not behaving quite honorably in encouraging her to meet me thus. Yesterday evening I asked her to bring me here and introduce me to you and her aunt. We would have come then if you had been at home. As you were not, we arranged to come to-night. I hope you will not refuse me the privilege of seeing your niece, Mr. Gordon, said Eric eagerly. I ask you to allow me to visit her here. But I do not ask you to receive me as a friend on my own recommendations only. I will give you references, men of standing in Charlottetown and Queensley. If you refer to them, I do not need to do that, said Thomas Gordon quietly. I know more of you than you think, master. I know your father well by reputation, but I have seen him. I know you are a rich man's son, whatever your whim in teaching a country school may be. Since you have kept your own counsel about your affairs, I supposed you didn't want your true position generally known, and so I have held my tongue about you. I know no ill of you, master, and I think none, now that I believe you were not beguiling Kilmeney to meet you unknown to her friends of set purpose. But all this doesn't make you a suitable friend for her, sir. It makes you all the more unsuitable. The less she sees of you, the better. Eric almost started to his feet in an indignant protest, but he swiftly remembered that his only hope of winning Kilmeney lay in bringing Thomas Gordon to another way of thinking. He had got on better than he had expected so far. He must not now jeopardize what he had gained by rashness or impatience. Why do you think so, Mr. Gordon? he asked, regaining his self-control with an effort. Well, plain speaking is best, master. If you were to come here and seek Kilmeney often, she'd most likely come to think too much of you. I mistrust there's some mischief done in that direction already. Then, when you went away, she might break her heart, for she is one of those who feel things deeply. She has been happy enough. I know folks condemn us for the way she has been brought up, but they don't know everything. It was the best way for her, all things considered. And we don't want her made unhappy, master. But I love your niece, and I want to marry her if I can win her love, said Eric Steadily. He surprised them out of their self-possession at last, both started and looked at him as if they could not believe the evidence of their ears. Marry her? Marry Kilmeney! exclaimed Thomas Gordon incredulously. You can't mean it, sir. Well, she is dumb. Kilmeney is dumb! That makes no difference in my love for her, although I deeply regret it for her own sake, answered Eric. I can only repeat what I have already said, Mr. Gordon. I want Kilmeney for my wife. The older man leaned forward and looked at the floor in a troubled fashion, drawing his bushy eyebrows down, and tapping the callous tips of his fingers together uneasily. He was evidently puzzled by this unexpected turn of the conversation, and in grave doubt what to say. What would your father say to all this, master? he queried at last. I have often heard my father say that a man must marry to please himself, said Eric with a smile. If he felt tempted to go back on that opinion I think the sight of Kilmeney would convert him. But after all, it is what I say that matters in this case, isn't it, Mr. Gordon? I am well educated and not afraid of work. I can make a home for Kilmeney in a few years, even if I have to depend entirely on my own resources. Only give me the chance to win her, that is all I ask. I don't think it would do, master, said Thomas Gordon, shaking his head. Of course, I dare say you—you—he tried to say love, but scotch reserve balked stubbornly at the terrible word. You think you like Kilmeney now, but you are only a lad. And lads fancies change. Mine will not, Eric broken vehemently. It is not a fancy, Mr. Gordon. It is the love that comes once in a lifetime and once only. I may be but a lad, but I know that Kilmeney is the one woman in the world for me. There can never be any other. Oh, I'm not speaking rashly or inconsiderately. I have weighed the matter well and looked at it from every aspect. And it all comes to this. I love Kilmeney, and I want what any decent man who loves a woman truly has the right to have—the chance to win her love in return. Wow! Thomas Gordon drew a long breath that was almost a sigh. Maybe if you feel like that, master, I don't know. There are some things that isn't right to cross. Perhaps we oughtn't. Janet, woman, what shall we say to him? Margaret Gordon had hitherto spoken no word. She had sat rigidly upright on one of the old chairs under Margaret Gordon's insistent picture, with her knotted, toil-worn hands grasping the carved arms tightly, and her eyes fastened on Eric's face. At first their expression had been guarded in hostile, but as the conversation proceeded they lost this gradually and became almost kindly. Now when her brother appealed to her, she leaned forward and said eagerly, Do you know that there is a stain on Kilmeney's birth, master? I know that her mother was the innocent victim of a very sad mistake, Miss Gordon. I admit no real stain where there was no conscious wrong doing. Though for that matter, even if there were, it would be no fault of Kilmeney's, and would make no difference to me as far as she is concerned. A sudden change swept over Janet Gordon's face, quite marvelous in the transformation it wrought. Her grim mouth softened, and a flood of repressed tenderness glorified her cold gray eyes. Well, then, she said almost triumphantly. Since neither that nor her dumbness seems to be any drawback in your eyes, I don't see why you should not have the chance you want. Perhaps your world will say she is not good enough for you, but she is. She is. This half defiantly. She is a sweet and innocent and true-hearted lassie. She is bright and clever, and she is not ill-looking. Thomas, I say let the young man have his will. Thomas Gordon stood up as if he considered the responsibility off his shoulders and the interview at an end. Very well, Janet, woman, since you think it is wise. And may God deal with him as he deals with her. Good evening, Master, I'll see you again, and you are free to come and go as Suthu. But I must go to my work now. I left my horses standing in the field. I will go up and send Kilmeney down, said Janet quietly. She lighted the lamp on the table and left the room. A few minutes later Kilmeney came down. Eric rose and went to meet her eagerly, but she only put out her right hand with a pretty dignity, and while she looked into his face she did not look into his eyes. You see, I was right after all Kilmeney, he said, smiling. Your uncle and aunt haven't driven me away. On the contrary, they have been very kind to me, and they say I may see you whenever and wherever I like. She smiled and went over to the table to write on her slate. But they were very angry last night, and said dreadful things to me. I felt very frightened and unhappy. They seemed to think I had done something terribly wrong. Uncle Thomas said he would never trust me out of his sight again. I could hardly believe it when Aunt Janet came up and told me you were here and that I might come down. She looked at me very strangely as she spoke, but I could see that all the anger had gone out of her face. She seemed pleased and yet sad. But I am glad they have forgiven us. She did not tell him how glad she was, and how unhappy she had been over the thought that she was never to see him again. Yesterday she would have told him all frankly and fully, but for her yesterday was a lifetime away, a lifetime in which she had come into her heritage of womanly dignity and reserve. The kiss which Eric had left on her lips. The words her uncle and aunt had said to her. The tears she had shed for the first time on a sleepless pillow. All had conspired to reveal her to herself. She did not yet dream that she loved Eric Marshall, or that he loved her. But she was no longer the child to be made a dear comrade of. She was, though quite unconsciously, the woman to be wooed and won, exacting with sweet innate pride her dues of allegiance. Eric Marshall was a constant visitor at the Gordon Homestead. He soon became a favorite with Thomas and Janet, especially the latter. He liked them both, discovering under all their outward peculiarities sterling worth and fitness of character. Thomas Gordon was surprisingly well-read and could floor Eric any time in argument, once he became sufficiently warmed up to attain fluency of words. Eric hardly recognized him the first time he saw him thus animated. His bent form straightened, his sunken eyes flashed, his face flushed, his voice reigned like a trumpet, and he poured out a flood of eloquence which swept Eric's smart, up-to-date arguments away like straws in the rush of a mountain torrent. Eric enjoyed his own defeat enormously, but Thomas Gordon was ashamed of being thus drawn out of himself, and for a week afterwards confined his remarks to yes and no, or at the outside, to a brief statement that a change in the weather was brewing. Janet never talked on matters of church and state. Such she plainly considered to be far beyond a woman's province. But she listened with lurking interest in her eyes while Thomas and Eric pelted on each other with facts and statistics and opinions, and on the rare occasions when Eric scored a point she permitted herself a sly little smile at her brother's expense. Of Neil Eric saw but little. The Italian boy avoided him, or if they chanced to meet passed him by with sullen, downcast eyes. Eric did not trouble himself greatly about Neil. But Thomas Gordon, understanding the motive which had led Neil to betray his discovery of the orchard-trists, bluntly told Kilmeney that she must not make such an equal of Neil as she had done. You have been too kind to the lad, Lassie, and he's got presumptuous. He must be taught his place. I mistrust we have all made more of him than we should. But most of the idyllic hours of Eric's wooing were spent in the old orchard. The garden end of it was now a wilderness of roses. Roses red as the heart of a sunset. Roses pink as the early flush of dawn. Roses white as the snows on mountain peaks. Roses full-blown and roses in buds that were sweeter than anything on earth except Kilmeney's face. Their petals fell in silken heaps along the old paths, or clung to the lush grasses among which Eric lay and dreamed, while Kilmeney played to him on her violin. Eric promised himself that when she was his wife her wonderful gift for music should be cultivated to the gut most. Her powers of expression seemed to deepen and develop every day, growing as her soul grew, taking on new color and richness from her ripening heart. To Eric the days were all pages in an inspired idol. He had never dreamed that love could be so mighty or the world so beautiful. He wondered if the universe were big enough to hold his joy or eternity long enough to live it out. His whole existence was, for the time being, bounded by that orchard where he wooed his sweetheart. All other ambitions and plans and hopes were set aside in the pursuit of this one aim, the attainment of which would enhance all others a thousandfold, the loss of which would rob all others of their reason for existence. His own world seemed very far away and the things of that world forgotten. His father, unhearing that he had taken the Lindsay School for a year, had written him a testy, amazed letter, asking him if he were demented. Or is there a girl in the case, he wrote? There must be, to tie you down to a place like Lindsay for a year. Take care, Master Eric, you've been too sensible all your life. A man is bound to make a fool of himself at least once, and when you didn't get through with that in your teens it may be attacking you now. It also wrote, expostulating more gravely, but he did not express the suspicions Eric knew he must entertain. Good old David, he is quaking with fear that I am up to something he can't approve of, but he won't say a word by way of attempting to force my confidence. It could not long remain a secret in Lindsay that the Master was going to the Gordon Place on courting thoughts intent. Mrs. Williamson kept her own in Eric's Council. The Gordon said nothing. But the secret leaked out, and great was the surprise and gossip and wonder. One or two incautious people ventured to express their opinion of the Master's wisdom to the Master himself. But they never repeated the experiment. Curiosity was rife. A hundred stories were circulated about Kilmeney, all greatly exaggerated in the circulation. Wise heads were shaken, and the majority opined that it was a great pity. The Master was a likely young fellow. He could have his pick of almost anybody, you might think. It was too bad that he should go and take up with that queer dumb niece of the Gordon's, who had been brought up in such a heathenish way. But then you never could guess what way a man's fancy would jump when he set out to pick him a wife. They guessed Neil Gordon didn't like it much. He seemed to have got dreadful moody and sulky of late, and wouldn't sing in the choir any more. Thus the buzz of comment and gossip ran. To those two in the old orchard it mattered not of wit. Kilmeney knew nothing of gossip. To her Lindsay was as much of an unknown world as the city of Eric's home. Her thoughts strayed far and wide in the realm of her fancy, but they never wandered out to the little realities that hedged her strange life around. In that life she had blossomed out a fair, unique thing. There were times when Eric almost regretted that one day he must take her out of her white solitude to a world that, in the last analysis, was only Lindsay on a larger scale, with just the same pettiness of thought and feeling and opinion at the bottom of it. He wished he might keep her to himself for ever in that old spruce-hidden orchard where the roses fell. One day he indulged himself in the fulfilment of the whim he had formed when Kilmeney had told him she thought herself ugly. He went to Janet and asked her permission to bring a mirror to the house, that he might have the privilege of being the first to reveal Kilmeney to herself, exteriorly. Eric was somewhat dubious at first. There hasn't been such a thing in the house for sixteen years, Master. There never was but three, one in the spare room and a little one in the kitchen and Margaret's own. She broke them all the day at first struck her that Kilmeney was going to be Bonnie. I might have got one after she died, maybe, but I didn't think of it, and there's no need of lasses to be always prinking at their looking-glasses. But Eric pleaded and argued skillfully, and finally Janet said, Well, well, have your own way. You'd have it any way, I think, lad. You are one of those men who always get their own way. But that is different from the men who take their own way. And that's a mercy, she added under her breath. Eric went to town the next Saturday and picked out a mirror that pleased him. He had it shipped to Radner, and Thomas Gordon brought it home, not knowing what it was, for Janet had thought it just as well he should not know. It's a present the Master is making Kilmeney, she told him. She sent Kilmeney off to the orchard after tea, and Eric slipped around the house by way of the main road and lane. He and Janet together unpacked the mirror and hung it on the parlor wall. I never saw such a big one, Master, said Janet, rather doubtfully, as if, after all, she distrusted its gleaming, pearly depth and richly ornamented frame. I hope it won't make her vain. She is very bony, but it may not do her any good to know it. It won't harm her, said Eric confidently, when a belief in her ugliness hasn't spoiled a girl, a belief in her beauty won't. But Janet did not trust epigrams. She carefully removed a little dust from the polished surface, and frowned meditatively at the by no means beautiful reflection she saw therein. I cannot think what made Kilmeney suppose she was ugly, Master. Her mother told her she was, said Eric rather bitterly. Ah! Janet shot a quick glance at the picture of her sister. Was that it? Margaret was a strange woman, Master. I suppose she thought her own beauty had been a snare to her. She was, Bonnie. That picture doesn't do her justice. I never liked it. It was taken before she was—before she met Ronald Fraser. We none of us thought it very like her at the time. But, Master, three years later it was like her. Oh! it was like her then. That very look came in her face. Kilmeney doesn't resemble her mother, remarked Eric glancing at the picture with the same feeling of mingled fascination and distaste with which he always regarded it. Does she look like her father? No, not a great deal, though some of her ways are very like his. She looks like a grandmother. Margaret's mother, Master. Her name was Kilmeney, too, and she was a handsome, sweet woman. I was very fond of my step-mother, Master. When she died she gave her baby to me, and asked me to be a mother to it. Oh well, I tried. But I couldn't fence the sorrow out of Margaret's life, and it sometimes comes to my mind that maybe I'll not be able to fence it out of Kilmeney's, either. That will be my task, said Eric. You'll do your best, I do not doubt. But maybe it will be through you that sorrow will come to her after all. Not through any fault of mine, Aunt Janet. Oh no, no, I'm not saying it will be your fault. But my heart misgives me at times. Oh, I dare say I am only a foolish old woman, Master. Go your ways and bring your last here to look at your plaything when you like. I'll not make or meddle with it. Janet betook herself to the kitchen, and Eric went to look for Kilmeney. She was not in the orchard. And it was not until he had searched for some time that he found her. She was standing under a beech tree in a field beyond the orchard, leaning on the longer fence, with her hands clasped against her cheek. In them she held a white Mary Lily from the orchard. She did not run to meet him while he was crossing the pasture as she would once have done. She waited motionless until he was close to her. Eric began, half laughingly, half tenderly, to quote some lines from her namesake ballad. Kilmeney, Kilmeney, where have you been? Long have we sought Beth Hult and Den. By Lynn, by Ford, and Greenwood Tree. Yet you are hailsome and fair to see. Where got you that jup of the Lily Sheen? That Bonnie Snood, or the Berk, see Green. And those roses, the fairest that ever was seen, Kilmeney, Kilmeney, where have you been? Only it's a Lily and not a rose you are carrying. I might go on and quote the next couplet, too. Kilmeney looked up with a lovely grace, but there was nay smile on Kilmeney's face. Why are you looking so sober? Kilmeney did not have her slate with her, and could not answer. But Eric guessed from something in her eyes that she was bitterly contrasting the beauty of the ballad's heroine with her own supposed ugliness. Come down to the house, Kilmeney. I have something there to show you, something lovelier than you have ever seen before, he said, with boyish pleasure shining in his eyes. I want you to go and put on that muslin dress you wore last Sunday evening, and pin up your hair the same way you did then. Run along. Don't wait for me. But you are not to go into the parlour until I come. I want to pick some of those merry lilies up in the orchard. When Eric returned to the house with an armful of the long stemmed white Madonna lilies that blossomed in the orchard, Kilmeney was just coming down the steep, narrow staircase with its striped carpeting of homespun druget. Her marvellous loveliness was brought out into brilliant relief by the dark woodwork and shadows of the dim old hall. She wore a trailing, clinging dress of some creamy tinted fabric that had been her mother's. It had not been altered in any respect, for fashion held no sway at the Gordon Holmstead, and Kilmeney thought that the dress left nothing to be desired. Its quaint style suited her admirably. The neck was slightly cut away to show the round white throat, and the sleeves were long, full bishops, out of which her beautiful slender hands slipped like flowers from their sheaths. She had crossed her long braids at the back and pinned them about her head like a coronet. A late white rose was fastened low down on the left side. A man had given all other bliss and all his worldly wealth for this, to waste his whole heart in one kiss upon her perfect lips. Quoted Eric in a whisper as he watched her descend. Allowed, he said, take these lilies on your arm, letting their bloom fall against your shoulder. So. Now, give me your hand and shut your eyes. Don't open them until I say you may. He led her into the parlor and up to the mirror. Look! he cried gaily. Kilmeney opened her eyes and looked straight into the mirror where, like a lovely picture in a golden frame, she saw herself reflected. For a moment she was bewildered. Then she realized what it meant. The lilies fell from her arm to the floor and she turned pale. With a little low involuntary cry she put her hands over her face. Eric pulled them boyishly away. Kilmeney, do you think you are ugly now? This is a truer mirror than Aunt Janet's silver sugar bowl. Look! Look! Look! Did you ever imagine anything fairer than yourself, Dainty Kilmeney? She was blushing now and, stealing shy, radiant glances at the mirror. With a smile she took her slate and wrote naively. I think I am pleasant to look upon. I cannot tell you how glad I am. It is so dreadful to believe one is ugly. You can get used to everything else but you never get used to that. It hurts just the same every time you remember it. But why did Mother tell me I was ugly? Could she really have thought so? Perhaps I have become better looking since I grew up. I think perhaps your Mother had found that beauty is not always a blessing, Kilmeney, and thought it wiser not to let you know you possessed it. Come! Let us go back into the orchard now. We mustn't waste this rare evening in the house. There is going to be a sunset that we shall remember all our lives. The mirror will hang here. It is yours. Don't look into it too often, though, or Aunt Janet will disapprove. She is afraid it will make you vain. Kilmeney gave one of her rare musical laughs, which Eric never heard without a recurrence of the old wonder, that she could laugh so when she could not speak. She blew an airy little kiss at her mirrored face and turned from it, smiling happily. On their way to the orchard they met Neil. He went by them with an averted face, but Kilmeney shivered and involuntarily drew nearer to Eric. I don't understand Neil at all now, she wrote nervously. He is not nice, as he used to be, and sometimes he will not answer me when I speak to him. And he looks so strangely at me, too. At night he is surly and impertinent to Uncle and Aunt. Don't mind Neil, said Eric lightly. He is probably sulky because of some things I said to him when I found he had spied on us. That night, before she went upstairs, Kilmeney stole into the parlor for another glimpse of herself in that wonderful mirror by the light of a dim little candle she carried. She was still lingering there dreamily when Aunt Janet's grim face appeared in the shadows of the doorway. Are you thinking about your own good looks, Lassie? I, but remember that handsome is, as handsome does, she said, with grudging admiration. For the girl with her flushed cheeks and shining eyes was something that even dour Aunt Janet Gordon could not look upon unmoved. Kilmeney smiled softly. I'll try to remember, she wrote, but, oh Aunt Janet, I am so glad I am not ugly. It is not wrong to be glad of that, is it? The older woman's face softened. No, I don't suppose it is, Lassie, she conceded. A comely face is something to be thankful for, as none know better than those who have never possessed it. I remember well when I was a girl, but that is neither here nor there. The master thinks you are wonderful Bonnie, Kilmeney, she added, looking keenly at the girl. Kilmeney started, and a scarlet blush gorched her face. That, and the expression that flashed into her eyes, told Janet Gordon all she wished to know. With a stifled sigh she bade her niece good night, and went away. Kilmeney ran fleetily up the stairs to her dim little room that looked out into the spruces, and flung herself on her bed, burying her burning face in the pillow. Her aunt's words had revealed to her the hidden secret of her heart. She knew that she loved Eric Marshall. And the knowledge brought with it a strange anguish. For was she not dumb? All night she lay staring wide-eyed through the darkness till the dawn. CHAPTER XIV of Kilmeney of the Orchard This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katie Gibbony, Arkansas, March 2008. Kilmeney of the Orchard by Lucy Maud Montgomery. CHAPTER XIV. In Her Selfless Mood. Eric noticed a change in Kilmeney at their next meeting. A change that troubled him. She seemed aloof, abstracted, almost ill at ease. When he proposed an excursion to the Orchard he thought she was reluctant to go. The days that followed convinced him of the change. Something had come between them. Kilmeney seemed as far away from him as if she had in truth, like her namesake of the ballad, sojourned for seven years in the land where the rain never fell and the wind never blew, and had come back washed clean from all the affections of earth. Eric had a bad week of it, but he determined to put an end to it by plain speaking. One evening in the Orchard he told her of his love. It was an evening in August, with wheat fields ripening to their harvestry, a soft vial at night made for love, with the distant murmur of an unquiet sea, on a rocky shore sounding through it. Kilmeney was sitting on the old bench where he had first seen her. She had been playing for him, but her music did not please her, and she laid aside the violin with a little frown. It might be that she was afraid to play, afraid that her new emotions might escape her, and reveal themselves in music. It was difficult to prevent this, so long had she been accustomed to pour out all her feelings in harmony. The necessity for restraint irked her, and made of her bow a clumsy thing which no longer obeyed her wishes. More than ever at that instant did she long for speech, speech that would conceal and protect where dangerous silence might betray. In a low voice that trembled with earnestness, Eric told her that he loved her, that he had loved her from the first time he had seen her in that old orchard. He spoke humbly, but not fearfully, for he believed that she loved him, and he had little expectation of any rebuff. Kilmeney, will you be my wife? He asked finally, taking her hands in his. Kilmeney had listened with averted face. At first she had blushed painfully, but now she had grown very pale. When he had finished speaking and was waiting for her answer, she suddenly pulled her hands away, and, putting them over her face, burst into tears and noiseless sobs. Kilmeney, dearest, have I alarmed you? Surely you knew before that I loved you. Don't you care for me? Eric said, putting his arm about her and trying to draw her to him. But she shook her head sorrowfully, and wrote with compressed lips. Yes, I do love you, but I will never marry you because I cannot speak. Oh Kilmeney, said Eric smiling, for he believed his victory won. That doesn't make any difference to me. You know it doesn't, sweetest, if you love me that is enough. But Kilmeney only shook her head again. There was a very determined look on her pale face, she wrote, No, it is not enough. It would be doing you a great wrong to marry you when I cannot speak, and I will not do it because I love you too much to do anything that would harm you. Your world would think you had done a very foolish thing, and it would be right. I have thought it all over many times, since something at Janet's said made me understand, and I know I am doing right. I am sorry I did not understand sooner, before you had learned to care so much. Kilmeney, darling, you have taken a very absurd fancy into that dear black head of yours. Don't you know that you will make me miserably unhappy all my life, if you will not be my wife? No, you think so now, and I know you will feel very badly for a time. Then you will go away, and after a while you will forget me, and then you will see that I was right. I shall be very unhappy too, but that is better than spoiling your life. Do not plead her coax, because I shall not change my mind. Eric did plead in coax, however, at first patiently and smilingly, as one might argue with a dear foolish child. Then with vehement and distracted earnestness, as he began to realize that Kilmeney meant what she said. It was all in vain. Kilmeney grew paler and paler, and her eyes revealed how keenly she was suffering. She did not even try to argue with him, but only listened patiently and sadly, and shook her head. Say what he would, and treat and implore as he might, he could not move her resolution a hair's breadth. Yet he did not despair. He could not believe that she would adhere to such a resolution. He felt sure that her love for him would eventually conquer, and he went home not unhappily after all. He did not understand that it was the very intensity of her love which gave her the strength to resist his pleading, where a more shallow affection might have yielded. It held her back unflinchingly from doing him what she believed to be a wrong. CHAPTER XV. An old, unhappy, far-off thing. The next day Eric sought Kilmeney again, and renewed his pleadings, yet again in vain. Nothing he could say, no argument which he could advance, was of any avail against her sad determination. When he was finally compelled to realize that her resolution was not to be shaken, he went in his despair to Janet Gordon. Janet listened to his story with concern and disappointment, plainly visible on her face. When he had finished, she shook her head. I'm sorry, Master. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I had hoped for something very different. Hoped. I have prayed for it. Thomas and I are getting old, and it has weighed on my mind for years what was to become of Kilmeney when we would be gone. Since you came I had hoped that she would have a protector in you, but if Kilmeney says she will not marry you, I'm afraid she'll stick to it. But she loves me, cried the young man, and if you and her uncle speak to her, urge her, perhaps you can influence her. No, Master. It wouldn't be any use. Oh, we will, of course, but it will not be any use. Kilmeney is as determined as her mother when once she makes up her mind. She has always been good and obedient for the most part, but once or twice we have found out that there is no moving her if she does resolve upon anything. When her mother died, Thomas and I wanted to take her to church. We could not prevail on her to go. We did not know why then, but now I suppose it was because she believed she was so very ugly. It is because she thinks so much of you that she will not marry you. She is afraid you would come to repent having married a dumb girl. Maybe she is right. Maybe she is right. I cannot give her up," said Eric stubbornly. Something must be done. Perhaps her defect can be remedied even yet. Have you ever had her examined by a doctor qualified to pronounce on her case? Have you? No, Master. We never took her to anyone. When we first began to fear that she was never going to talk, Thomas wanted to take her to Charlottetown and have her looked to. He thought so much of the child that he felt terrible about it, but her mother wouldn't hear of it being done. There was no use trying to argue with her. She said that it would be no use, that it was her sin that was visited on the child, and it could never be taken away. And did you give in meekly to a morbid whim like that? asked Eric impatiently. Master, you didn't know my sister. We had to give in. Nobody could hold out against her. She was a strange woman, and a terrible woman in many ways, after her trouble. We were afraid to cross her for fear she would go out of her mind. But could you not have taken Kilmenny to a doctor unknown to her mother? No, that was not possible. Margaret never led her out of her sight, not even when she was grown up. Besides, to tell you that whole truth, Master, we didn't think ourselves that it would be much use to try to cure Kilmenny. It was a sin that made her as she is. Eh, Janet, how can you talk such nonsense? Where was there any sin? Your sister thought herself a lawful wife, if Ronald Fraser thought otherwise, and there is no proof that he did, he committed a sin. But you surely do not believe that it was visited in this fashion on his innocent child. No, I am not meaning that, Master. That wasn't where Margaret did wrong. And though I never did like Ronald Fraser over much, I must say this in his defense. I believe he thought himself a free man when he married Margaret. No, it's something else, something far worse. It gives me a shiver whenever I think of it. Oh, Master, the good book is right when it says the sins of the parents are visited on the children. There isn't a truer word in it than that from cover to cover. What in Heaven's name is the meaning of all this? exclaimed Eric. Tell me what it is. I must know the whole truth about Kilmenny. Do not torment me. I am going to tell you the story, Master, though it will be like opening an old wound. No living person knows it but Thomas and me. When you hear it you will understand why Kilmenny can't speak, and why it isn't likely that there can ever be anything done for her. She doesn't know the truth, and you must never tell her. It isn't a fit story for her ears, especially when it is about her mother. Promise me that you will never tell her, no matter what may happen. I promise, go on, go on, said the young man feverishly. Janet Gordon locked her hands together in her lap, like a woman who nerves herself up to some hateful task. She looked very old. The lines on her face seemed doubly deep and harsh. My sister Margaret was a very proud, high-spirited girl, Master. But I would not have you think she was unlovable. No, no. That would be doing a great injustice to her memory. She had her faults as we all have, but she was bright and merry and warm-hearted. We all loved her. She was the light and life of this house. Yes, Master, before the trouble that came on her, Margaret was a winsome lass, singing like a lark from morning till night. Maybe we spoiled her a little. Maybe we gave her too much of her own way. Well, Master, you have heard the story of her marriage to Ronald Fraser and what came after, so I need not go into that. I know, or used to know, Elizabeth Williamson well, and I know that whatever she told you would be the truth and nothing more or less than the truth. Our father was a very proud man. Oh, Master, if Margaret was too proud, she got it from no stranger, and her misfortune cut him to the heart. He never spoke a word to us here from more than three days after he heard of it. He sat in the corner there with bowed head and would not touch bite or sup. He had not been very willing for her to marry Ronald Fraser, and when she came home in disgrace she had not set foot over the threshold before he broke out railing at her. Oh, I can see her there at the door this very minute, Master, pale and trembling, clinging to Thomas's arm, her great eyes changing from sorrow and shame to wrath. It was just at sunset, and a red ray came in at the window and fell right across her breast like a stain of blood. Father called her a hard name, Master. Oh, he was too hard, even though he was my father, I must say he was too hard on her, broken hearted as she was, and guilty of nothing more after all than a little willfulness in the matter of her marriage. And Father was sorry for it. Oh, Master, the word wasn't out of his mouth before he was sorry for it. But the mischief was done. Oh, I'll never forget Margaret's face, Master. It haunts me yet in the black of the night. It was full of anger and rebellion and defiance. But she never answered him back. She clenched her hands and went up to her old room without saying a word, all those mad feelings surging in her soul and being held back from speech by her sheer stubborn will. And, Master, never a word did Margaret say from that day until after Kilmeney was born, not one word, Master. Nothing we could do for her softened her. And we were kind to her, Master, and gentle with her, and never reproached her by so much as a look. But she would not speak to any one. She just sat in her room most of the time and stared at the wall with such awful eyes. Father implored her to speak and forgive him, but she never gave any sign that she heard him. I haven't come to the worst yet, Master. Father sickened and took to his bed. Margaret would not go in and see him. Then one night, Thomas and I were watching by him. It was about eleven o'clock. All at once he said, Janet, go up until the last—he always called Margaret that. It was a kind of pet name he had for her. That I am Deon, and ask her to come down and speak to me before I am gone. Master I went. Margaret was sitting in her room all alone in the cold and dark, staring at the wall. I told her what our father had said. She never let on she heard me. I pleaded and wept, Master. I did what I had never done to any human creature. I kneeled to her and begged her as she hoped for mercy herself to come down and see our dying father. Master, she wouldn't. She never moved or looked at me. I had to get up and go downstairs and tell that old man she would not come. Janet Gordon lifted her hands and struck them together in her agony of remembrance. When I told father he only said, Oh, so gently. Poor lass. I was too hard on her. She isn't to blame. But I cannot go to meet her mother till our little lass has forgiven me for the name I called her. Thomas, help me up. Since she will not come to me I must in go to her. There was no crossing him, we saw that. He got up from his death bed and Thomas helped him out into the hall and up the stair. I walked behind with the candle. Oh, Master, I'll never forget it. The awful shadows and the storm wind wailing outside and father's gasping breath. But we got him to Margaret's room and he stood before her trembling, with his white hairs falling about his sunken face. And he prayed Margaret to forgive him, to forgive him and speak just one word to him before he went to meet her mother. Master, Janet's voice rose almost to a shriek. She would not. She would not. And yet she wanted to speak. After which she confessed to me that she wanted to speak. But her stubbornness wouldn't let her. It was like some evil power that had gripped hold of her and wouldn't let go. Father might as well have pleaded with a graven image. Oh, it was hard and dreadful. She saw her father die and she never spoke the word he prayed for to him. That was her sin, Master, and for that sin the curse fell on her unborn child. When Father understood that she would not speak, he closed his eyes and was like to have fallen if Thomas had not caught him. Oh, last year a hard woman was all he said. And they were his last words. Thomas and I carried him back to his room, but the breath was gone from him before we ever got him there. Well, Master, Kilmanny was born a month afterwards. And when Margaret felt her baby at her breast, the evil thing that had held her soul in its bondage lost its power. She spoke and wept and was herself again. Oh, how she wept! She implored us to forgive her and we did freely and fully. But the one against whom she had sinned most grievously was gone, and no word of forgiveness could come to her from the grave. My poor sister never knew peace of conscience again, Master. But she was gentle and kind and humble until—until she began to fear that Kilmanny was never going to speak. We thought then that she would go out of her mind. Indeed, Master, she was never quite right again. But that is the story, and it's a thankful woman I am that the telling of it is done. Kilmanny can't speak because her mother wouldn't. Eric had listened with a gray horror on his face to the gruesome tale. The black tragedy of it appalled him. The tragedy of that merciless slough, the most cruel and mysterious thing in God's universe, which ordains that the sin of the guilty shall be visited on the innocent. Fight against it as he would, the miserable conviction stolen to his heart that Kilmanny's case was indeed beyond the reach of any human skill. It is a dreadful tale, he said, moodily, getting up and walking restlessly to and fro in the dim, spruce-shadowed old kitchen where they were. And if it is true that her mother's willful silence caused Kilmanny's dumbness, I fear, as you say, that we cannot help her. But you may be mistaken. It may have been nothing more than a strange coincidence. Possibly something may be done for her. At all events we must try. I have a friend in Queensley who is a physician. His name is David Baker, and he has a very skillful specialist in regard to the throat and voice. I shall have him come here and see Kilmanny. Have your way, assented Janet, in the hopeless tone which he might have used in giving him permission to attend any impossible thing. It will be necessary to tell Dr. Baker why Kilmanny cannot speak, or why you think she cannot. Janet's face twitched. Must that be, master? Oh, it's a bitter tale to tell a stranger. Don't be afraid. I shall tell him nothing that is not strictly necessary to his proper understanding of the case. It will be quite enough to say that Kilmanny may be dumb because for several months before her birth her mother's mind was in a very morbid condition, and she preserved a stubborn and unbroken silence because of a certain bitter personal resentment. Well, do as you think best, master. Janet plainly had no faith in the possibility of anything being done for Kilmanny. But a rosy glow of hope flashed over Kilmanny's face when Eric told her what he meant to do. Oh, do you think he can make me speak? She wrote eagerly. I don't know Kilmanny. I hope that he can. And I know he will do all that mortal skill can do. If he can remove your defect, will you promise to marry me, dearest? She nodded. The grave little motion had the solemnity of a sacred promise. Yes, she wrote. When I can speak like other women, I will marry you. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Kilmanny of the Orchard. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Katie Gibbany, Arkansas, March 2008. Kilmanny of the Orchard by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter 16 David Baker's Opinion The next week David Baker came to Lindsay. He arrived in the afternoon when Eric was in school. When the latter came home, he found that David had, in the space of an hour, captured Mrs. Williamson's heart, wormed himself into the good graces of Timothy, and become Hellfellow well-met with old Robert. But he looked curiously at Eric when the two young men found themselves alone in the upstairs room. Now, Eric, I want to know what all this is about. What scrape have you got into? You write me a letter in treating me in the name of friendship to come to you at once. Accordingly I come post-haste. You seem to be an excellent health yourself. Explain why you have inveigled me hither. I want you to do me a service, which only you can do, David, said Eric quietly. I didn't care to go into the details by letter. I have met in Lindsay a young girl whom I have learned to love. I have asked her to marry me. But, although she cares for me, she refuses to do so because she is dumb. I wish you to examine her and find out the cause of her defect, and if it can be cured. She can hear perfectly, and all her other faculties are entirely normal. In order that you may better understand the case, I must tell you the main facts of her history. Then Eric proceeded to do so. David Baker listened with grave attention, his eyes fastened on his friend's face. He did not betray the surprise and dismay he felt at learning that Eric had fallen in love with a dumb girl of doubtful antecedents, and the strange case enlisted his professional interest. When he had heard the whole story, he thrust his hands into his pockets and strode up and down the room several times in silence. Finally he halted before Eric. So you have done what I foreboded all along you would do, left your common sense behind you when you went courting. If I did, said Eric quietly, I took with me something better and nobler than common sense. David shrugged his shoulders. You'll have hard work to convince me of that, Eric. No, it will not be difficult at all. I have one argument that will convince you speedily. And that is kill many Gordon herself. But we will not discuss the matter of my wisdom or lack of it just now. What I want to know is this. What do you think of the case as I have stated it to you? David frowned thoughtfully. I hardly know what to think. It is very curious and unusual, but it is not totally unprecedented. There have been cases on record where prenatal influences have produced a like result. I cannot just now remember whether any were ever cured. Well, I'll see if anything can be done for this girl. I cannot express any further opinion until I have examined her. The next morning Eric took David up to the Gordon homestead. As they approached the old orchard a strain of music came floating through the resinous morning arcades of the spruce wood, a wild, sorrowful, appealing cry, full of indescribable pathos, yet marvelously sweet. What does that exclaim David starting? That is kill many playing on her violin, answered Eric. She has great talent in that respect and improvises wonderful melodies. When they reached the orchard kill many rose from the old bench to meet them, her lovely luminous eyes distended, her face flushed with the excitement of mingled hope and fear. O ye gods, muttered David helplessly. He could not hide his amazement and Eric smiled to see it. The latter had not failed to perceive that his friend had until now considered him as little better than a lunatic. Kill many? This is my friend Dr. Baker, he said. Kill many held out her hand with a smile. Her beauty, as she stood there in the fresh morning sunshine beside a clump of her sister Lily's, was something to take away a man's breath. David, who was by no means lacking in confidence and generally had a ready tongue where women were concerned, found himself as mute and awkward as a schoolboy as he bowed over her hand. But kill many was charmingly at ease. There was not a trace of embarrassment in her manner, though there was a pretty shyness. Eric smiled as he recalled his first meeting with her. He suddenly realized how far kill many had come since then and how much she had developed. With a little gesture of invitation kill many led the way through the orchard to the wild cherry lane and the two men followed. Eric, she is simply unutterable, said David in an undertone. Last night, to tell you the truth, I had a rather poor opinion of your sanity, but now I am consumed with a fierce envy. She is the loveliest creature I ever saw. Eric introduced David to the Gordon's and then hurried away to his school. On his way down the Gordon lane he met Neil and was half startled by the glare of hatred in the Italian boy's eyes. Pity succeeded the momentary alarm. Neil's face had grown thin and haggard, his eyes were sunken and feverishly bright. He looked years older than on the day when Eric had first seen him in the brook hollow. Prompted by sudden compassionate impulse, Eric stopped and held out his hand. Neil, can't we be friends? he said. I am sorry if I have been the cause of inflicting pain on you. Friends, never, said Neil passionately. You have taken kill many from me, I shall hate you always, and I'll be even with you yet. He strode fiercely up the lane, and Eric, with a shrug of his shoulders, went on his way, dismissing the meeting from his mind. The day seemed interminably long to him. David had not returned when he went home to dinner, but when he went to his room in the evening he found his friend there, staring out of the window. Well, he said impatiently, as David wheeled around but still kept silence. What of you to say to me? Don't keep me in suspense any longer, David. I have endured all I can. Today has seemed like a thousand years. Have you discovered what is the matter with kill many? There is nothing the matter with her, answered David slowly, flinging himself into a chair by the window. What do you mean? Just exactly what I say. Her vocal organs are all perfect. As far as they are concerned there is absolutely no reason why she should not speak. Then why can't she speak? Do you think—do you think? I think that I cannot express my conclusion in any better words than Janet Gordon used when she said that kill many cannot speak because her mother wouldn't. That is all there is to it. The trouble is psychological, not physical. Medical skill is helpless before it. There are greater men than I in my profession, but it is my honest belief, Eric, that if you were to consult them they would tell you just what I have told you, neither more nor less. Then there is no hope, said Eric, in a tone of despair. You can do nothing for her? David took from the back of his chair a crochet antimacassar with a lion rampant in the center and spread it over his knee. I can do nothing for her, he said, scowling at that work of art. I do not believe any living man can do anything for her. But I do not say, exactly, that there is no hope. Come, David, I am in no mood for guessing riddles. Speak plainly, man, and don't torment me. David frowned dubiously and poked his finger through the hole, which represented the eye of the king of beasts. I don't know that I can make it plain to you. It isn't very plain to myself. And it is only a vague theory of mine, of course. I cannot substantiate it by any fact. In short, Eric, I think it is possible that Kilmeney may speak some time if she ever wants it badly enough. Wants to? Why, man, she wants to as badly as it is possible for any one to want anything. She loves me with all her heart and she won't marry me because she can't speak. Don't you suppose that a girl under such circumstances would want to speak as much as anyone could? Yes, but I do not mean that sort of wanting, no matter how strong the wish may be. What I do mean is a sudden, vehement, passionate inrush of desire, physical, psychical, mental, all in one, mighty enough to rend asunder the invisible fetters that hold her speech in bondage. If any occasion should arise to evoke such a desire, I believe that Kilmeney would speak, and having once spoken would thenceforth be normal in that respect. I, if she spoke but the one word. All this sounds like great nonsense to me, said Eric restlessly. I suppose you have an idea what you are talking about, but I haven't. And in any case, it practically means that there is no hope for her or me. Even if your theory is correct, it is not likely such an occasion as you speak of will ever arise, and Kilmeney will never marry me. Don't give up so easily, old fellow. There have been cases on record where women have changed their minds. Not women like Kilmeney, said Eric miserably. I tell you she has all her mother's unfaltering will and tenacity of purpose, although she is free from any taint of pride or selfishness. I thank you for your sympathy and interest, David. You have done all you could, but heavens, what it would have meant to me if you could have helped her. With a groan Eric flung himself on a chair and buried his face in his hands. It was a moment which held for him all the bitterness of death. He had thought that he was prepared for disappointment. He had not known how strong his hope had really been until that hope was utterly taken from him. David, with a sigh, returned the crochet unto Macassar carefully to its place on the chair back. Eric, last night, to be honest, I thought that, if I found I could not help this girl, it would be the best thing that could happen, as far as you were concerned. But since I have seen her, well, I would give my right hand if I could do anything for her. She is the wife for you, if we could make her speak, yes, and by the memory of your mother. David brought his fist down on the window sill, with a force that shook the casement. She is the wife for you, speech or no speech, if we could only convince her of it. She cannot be convinced of that. No, David, I have lost her. Did you tell her what you have told me? I told her I could not help her. I did not say anything to her of my theory. That would have done no good. How did she take it? Very bravely and quietly, like a winsome lady. But the look in her eyes, Eric, I felt as if I had murdered something. She bade me good-bye with a pitiful smile and went upstairs. I did not see her again, although I stayed to dinner as her uncle's request. Those old Gordon's are a queer pair. I like them, though. They are strong and staunch, good friends, bitter enemies. They were sorry that I could not help kill many, but I saw plainly that old Thomas Gordon thought that I had been meddling with predestination in attempting it. Eric smiled mechanically. I must go up and seek how many. You'll excuse me, won't you, David? My books are there. Help yourself. But when Eric reached the Gordon house he saw only old Janet, who told him that Kilmenny was in her room and refused to see him. She thought you would come up, and she left this with me to give you, Master. Janet handed him a little note. It was very brief and blotted with tears. Do not come any more, Eric, it ran. I must not see you, because it would only make it harder for us both. You must go away and forget me. You will be thankful for this some day. I shall always love and pray for you. Kill many. I must see her, said Eric desperately. Aunt Janet, be my friend. Tell her she must see me for a little while at least. Janet shook her head but went upstairs. She soon returned. She says she cannot come down. You know she means it, Master, and it is of no use to coax her. And I must say, I think she is right. Since she will not marry you, it is better for her not to see you. Eric was compelled to go home with no better comfort than this. In the morning, as it was Sunday, he drove David Baker to the station. He had not slept and he looked so miserable and reckless that David felt anxious about him. David would have stayed in Lindsay for a few days, but a certain critical case in Queensley demanded his speedy return. He shakans with Eric on the station platform. Eric, give up that school and come home at once. You can do no good in Lindsay now, and you'll only eat your heart out here. I must see Kilmenny once more before I leave, was all Eric's answer. That afternoon he went again to the Gordon homestead, but the result was the same. Kilmenny refused to see him, and Thomas Gordon said gravely. Master, you know I like you and I am sorry Kilmenny thinks as she does, though maybe she is right. I would be glad to see you often for your own sake, and I'll miss you much. But as things are, I tell you plainly you'd better not come here any more. It will do no good, and the sooner you and she get over thinking about each other, the better for you both. Go now, lad, and God bless you. Do you know what it is you are asking of me, said Eric Horsley? I know I am asking a hard thing for your own good, Master. It is not as if Kilmenny would ever change her mind. We have had some experience with a woman's will ere this. Tush, Janet woman, don't be weeping. You women are foolish creatures. Do you think tears can wash such things away? No, they cannot blot out sin or the consequences of sin. It's awful how one sin can spread out and broaden, till it eats into innocent lives, sometimes long after the sinner has gone to his own accounting. Master, if you take my advice, you'll give up the Lindsey School and go back to your own world as soon as may be. CHAPTER XVII. A broken fetter. Eric went home with a white, haggard face. He had never thought it was possible for a man to suffer as he suffered then. What was he to do? It seemed impossible to go on with life. There was no life apart from Kilmenny. Anguish wrung his soul until his strength went from him, and youth and hope turned to gall and bitterness in his heart. He never afterwards could tell how he lived through the following Sunday, or how he taught school as usual on Monday. He found out how much a man may suffer, and yet go on living and working. His body seemed to him an automaton that moved and spoke mechanically while his tortured spirit penned up within endured pain that left its impress on him for ever. Out of that fiery furnace of agony Eric Marshall was to go forth a man who had put boyhood behind him for ever and looked out on life with eyes that saw into it and beyond. On Tuesday afternoon there was a funeral in the district, and according to custom the school was closed. Eric went again to the old orchard. He had no expectation of seeing Kilmenny there, for he thought she would avoid the spot, lest she might meet him. But he could not keep away from it. Although the thought of it was an added torment, and he vibrated between a wild wish that he might never see it again, and a sick wonder how he could possibly go away and leave it, that strange old orchard where he had met and wooed his sweetheart, watching her develop and blossom under his eyes like some rare flower. Until in the space of three short months she had passed from exquisite childhood into still more exquisite womanhood. As he crossed the pasture field before the spruce wood he came upon Neil Gordon, building a longer fence. Neil did not look up as Eric passed, but sullenly went on driving poles. Before this Eric had pitied Neil. Now he was conscious of feeling sympathy with him. Had Neil suffered as he was suffering? Eric had entered into a new fellowship where of the passport was pain. The orchard was very silent and dreamy in the thick, deep-tinted sunshine of the September afternoon, a sunshine which seemed to possess the power of extracting the very essence of all the odours which summer has stored up in wood and field. There were few flowers now. Most of the lilies which had queened it so bravely along the central path a few days before were withered. The grass had become ragged and sear and unkempt. But in the corners the torches of the golden rod were kindling and a few misty purple asters knotted here and there. The orchard kept its own strange attractiveness as some women with youth long past still preserve an atmosphere remembered beauty and innate indestructible charm. Eric walked drearily and carelessly about it and finally sat down on a half-fallen fence panel in the shadow of the overhanging spruce boughs. There he gave himself up to a reverie, poignant and bittersweet, in which he lived over again everything that had passed in the orchard since his first meeting there with Kilmeney. So deep was his abstraction that he was conscious of nothing around him. He did not hear stealthy footsteps behind him in the dim spruce wood. He did not even see Kilmeney as she came slowly around the curve of the wild cherry lane. Kilmeney had sought the old orchard for the healing of her heart break, if healing were possible for her. She had no fear of encountering Eric there at that time of day, for she did not know that it was the district custom to close the school for a funeral. She would never have gone to it in the evening, but she longed for it continually. It and her memories were all that was left her now. Years seemed to have passed over the girl in those few days. She had drunk of pain and broken bread with sorrow. Her face was pale and strained, with bluish, transparent shadows under her large, wistful eyes, out of which the dream and laughter of girlhood had gone, but into which had come the potent charm of grief and patience. Thomas Gordon had shaken his head boatingly when he looked at her that morning at the breakfast-table. She won't stand it, he thought. She isn't long for this world. Maybe it is all for the best, poor lass. But I wish that young Master had never set foot in the Connors orchard or in this house. Margaret! Margaret! It's hard that your child should have to be paying the reckoning of a sin that was sinned before her birth. Annie walked through the lane slowly and absently like a woman in a dream. When she came to the gap in the fence where the lane ran into the orchard, she lifted her wand-drooping face and saw Eric sitting in the shadow of the wood at the other side of the orchard with his bowed head in his hands. She stopped quickly, and the blood rushed wildly over her face. The next moment it ebbed, leaving her white as marble, horror filled her eyes, blank, deadly horror as the livid shadow of a cloud might fill two blue pools. Behind Eric, Neil Gordon was standing, tense, crouched, murderous. Even at that distance, Kilmene saw the look on his face, saw what he held in his hand, and realized in one agonized flash of comprehension what it meant. All this photographed itself in her brain in an instant. She knew that by the time she could run across the orchard to warn Eric by a touch it would be too late. Yet she must warn him, she must, she must! A mighty surge of desire seemed to rise up within her and overwhelm her like a wave of the sea, a surge that swept everything before it in an irresistible flood. As Neil Gordon swiftly and vindictively, with the face of a demon, lifted the axe he held in his hand, Kilmene sprang forward through the gap. Eric! Eric, look behind you! Look behind you! Eric started up confused, bewildered as a voice came streaking across the orchard. He did not in the least realize that it was Kilmene who had called to him, but he instinctively obeyed the command. He wheeled around and saw Neil Gordon, who was looking not at him, but past him at Kilmene. The Italian boy's face was ashen, and his eyes were filled with terror and incredulity as if he had been checked in his murderous purpose by some supernatural interposition. The axe lying at his feet where he had dropped it in his unutterable consternation on hearing Kilmene's cry, told the whole tale. But before Eric could utter a word, Neil turned with a cry more like that of an animal than a human being, and fled like a hunted creature into the shadow of the spruce wood. A moment later Kilmene, her lovely face dued with tears and sunned over with smiles, flung herself on Eric's breast. Oh, Eric, I can speak! I can speak! Oh, it is so wonderful! Eric, I love you! I love you! End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Kilmene of the Orchard This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Betsy Bush in Marquette, Michigan, February 2008. Kilmene of the Orchard by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter 18 Neil Gordon solves his own problem. It's a miracle, said Thomas Gordon in an odd tone. It was the first time he had spoken since Eric and Kilmene had rushed in, hand in hand, like two children intoxicated with joy and wonder, and gasped out their story together to him and Janet. Oh, no! It is very wonderful, but it is not a miracle, said Eric. David told me it might happen. I had no hope that it would. He could explain it all to you if he were here. Thomas Gordon shook his head. I doubt if he could, master, he or anyone else. It is near enough to a miracle for me. Let us thank God reverently and humbly that he has seen fit to remove his curse from the innocent. Your doctors may explain it as they like lad, but I'm thinking they won't get much nearer to it than that. It is awesome. That is what it is. Janet woman, I feel as if I were in a dream. Can Kilmene really speak? Indeed I can, uncle, said Kilmene with a rapturous glance at Eric. Oh, I don't know how it came to me. I felt that I must speak, and I did. And it is so easy now. It comes to me as if I could always have done it. She spoke naturally and easily. The only difficulty, which she seemed to experience, was in the proper modulation of her voice. Occasionally she pitched it too high, again too low, but it was evident that she would soon acquire perfect control of it. It was a beautiful voice, very clear and soft and musical. Oh, I am so glad that the first word I said was your name, dearest. She murmured to Eric. What about Neil? asked Thomas Gordon gravely, rousing himself with an effort from his abstraction of wonder. What are we to do with him when he returns? In one way this is a sad business. Eric had almost forgotten about Neil in his overwhelming amazement and joy. The realization of his escape from sudden and violent death had not yet had any opportunity to take possession of his thoughts. We must forgive him, Mr. Gordon. I know how I should feel towards a man who took Gilmini from me. It was an evil impulse to which he gave way in his suffering, and think of the good which has resulted from it. This is true, Master, but it does not alter the terrible fact that the boy had murder in his heart, that he would have killed you. An overruling providence has saved him from the actual commission of the crime and brought good out of evil. But he is guilty in thought and purpose, and we have cared for him and instructed him as our own, with all his faults we have loved him. It is a hard thing, and I do not see what we are to do. We cannot act as if nothing had happened. We can never trust him again. But Neil Gordon solved the problem himself. When Eric returned that night he found old Robert Williamson in the pantry regaling himself with a lunch of bread and cheese after a trip to the station. Timothy sat on the dresser in a black velvet state and gravely addressed himself to the disposal of various tidbits that came his way. Good night, Master, glad to see you're looking more like yourself. I told the wife it was only a lover's quarrel most alike. She's been worrying about you, but she didn't like to ask you what was the trouble. She ain't one of them unfortunate folks who can't be happy without their everlasting poking their noses into other people's business. But what kind of a fellow rumpus was kicked up at the Gordon place tonight, Master? Eric looked amazed. What could Robert Williamson have heard so soon? What do you mean, he asked? Why, us folks at the station knew there must have been a to-do of some kind when Neil Gordon went off on the harvest excursion the way he did. Neil gone on the harvest excursion, exclaimed Eric. Yes, sir, you know this was the night the excursion train left. They crossed on the boat to-night, special trip. There was a dozen or so fellows from hereabouts went. We was all standing around, chatting when Lincoln Frame drove up full speed and Neil jumped out of his rig, just bolted into the office, got his ticket in out again, and on to the train without a word to anyone, and as black looking as the old scratch himself. She was all too surprised to speak till he was gone. Lincoln couldn't give us much information. He said Neil had rushed up to their place about dark, looking as if the constable was after him, and offered to sell that black filly of his to Lincoln for sixty dollars if Lincoln would drive him to the station in time to catch the excursion train. The filly was Neil's own, and Lincoln had been wanting to buy her, but Neil would never hear to it afore. Lincoln jumped at the chance. Neil had brought the filly with him, and Lincoln hitched right up and took him to the station. Neil hadn't no luggage of any kind and wouldn't open his mouth the whole way up, Lincoln says. We concluded him and old Thomas must have had a row. Do you know anything about it, or was you so wrapped up in sweethearten that you didn't hear or see nothing else? That reflected rapidly. He was greatly relieved to find that Neil had gone. He would never return, and this was best for all concerned. Old Robert must be told a part of the truth, at least, since it would soon become known that Kilmoney could speak. There was some trouble at the Gordon place tonight, Mr. Williamson, he said quietly. Neil Gordon behaved rather badly and frightened Kilmoney terribly, so terribly that a very surprising thing has happened. She has found herself able to speak, and can speak perfectly. Old Robert laid down the piece of cheese he was conveying to his mouth, on the point of a knife, and stared at Eric in blank amazement. God bless my soul, Master! What an extraordinary thing! he ejaculated. Are you in earnest? Or are you trying to see how much of a fool you can make of the old man? No, Mr. Williamson, I assure you it is no more than the simple truth. Dr. Baker told me that a shock might cure her, and it has. As for Neil, he has gone. No doubt for good, and I think it well that he has. Not caring to discuss the matter further, Eric left the kitchen. But as he mounted the stairs to his room, he heard old Robert muttering, like a man in hopeless bewilderment. Well, I never heard anything like this in all my born days, never, never. Timothy, did you ever hear the like? Them Gordons are an unaccountable lot and no mistake. They couldn't act like other people if they tried. I must wake Mother up and tell her about this, or I'll never be able to sleep. CHAPTER XIX Victor from vanquished issues. Now that everything was settled, Eric wished to give up teaching and go back to his own place. True, he had signed papers to teach the school for a year, but he knew that the trustees would let him off if he procured a suitable substitute. He resolved to teach until the fall vacation, which came in October, and then go. Kilmeney had promised that their marriage should take place in the following spring. Eric had pleaded for an earlier date, but Kilmeney was sweetly resolute, and Thomas and Janet agreed with her. There are so many things that I must learn yet before I shall be ready to be married, Kilmeney had said, and I want to get accustomed to seeing people. I feel a little frightened yet whenever I see anyone I don't know, although I don't think I show it. I'm going to church with Uncle and Aunt after this, and to the Missionary Society meetings, and Uncle Thomas said that he will send me to a boarding school in town this winter if you think it advisable. Eric vetoed this promptly. The idea of Kilmeney in a boarding school was something that could not be thought about without laughter. I can't see why she can't learn all she needs to learn after she is married to me just as well as before, he grumbled to our Uncle and Aunt. But we want to keep her with us for another winter yet, explained Thomas Gordon patiently. We are going to miss her terrible when she does go, Master. She has never been away from us for a day. She is all the brightness there is in our lives. It is very kind of you to say that she can come home whenever she likes, but there will be a great difference. She will belong to your world and not to ours. That is for the best, and we wouldn't have it otherwise. But let us keep her as our own for this one winter yet. Eric yielded with the best grace he could muster. After all, he reflected. Lindsay was not so far from Queensley, and there were such things as boats and trains. Have you told your father about all this yet? asked Janet anxiously. No, he had not. But he went home and wrote a full account of his summer to old Mr. Marshall that night. Mr. Marshall's senior answered the letter in person. A few days later Eric, coming home from school, found his father sitting in Mrs. Williamson's prim, fleckless parlor. Nothing was said about Eric's letter, however, until after tea. When they found themselves alone, Mr. Marshall said abruptly, Eric, what about this girl? I hope you haven't gone and made a fool of yourself. It sounds remarkably like it. A girl that has been dumb all her life, a girl with no right to her father's name, a country girl brought up in a place like Lindsay, your wife will have to fill your mother's place, and your mother was a pearl among women. Do you think this girl is worthy of it? It isn't possible. You've been led away by a pretty face and dairy-made freshness. I expected some trouble out of this freak of yours coming over here to teach school. Wait until you see Kilmanny, father, said Eric, smiling. That's just exactly what David Baker said. I went straight to him when I got your letter, for I knew that there was some connection between it and that mysterious visit of his over here concerning which I never could drag a word out of him by hook or crook. And all he said was, wait until you see Kilmanny, Gordon, sir. While I will wait till I see her, but I shall look at her with the eyes of sixty-five, mind you, not the eyes of twenty-four, and if she isn't what your wife ought to be, sir, you give her up or paddle your own canoe. I shall not aid or abet you in making a fool of yourself and spoiling your life. Eric bit his lip, but only said quietly, Come with me, father. We will go to see her now. They went round by way of the main road in the Gordon Lane. Kilmanny was not in when they reached the house. She is up in the old orchard, master, said Janet. She loves that place so much she spends all her spare time there. She likes to go there to study. They sat down and talked awhile with Thomas and Janet. When they left, Mr. Marshall said, I like those people. If Thomas Gordon had been a man like Robert Williamson, I shouldn't have waited to see your Kilmanny. But they are all right—rugged and grim, but of good stock and piff, native refinement and strong character. But I must say candidly that I hope your young lady hasn't got her aunt's mouth. Kilmanny's mouth is like a love-song-mating, carnate and sweet-flesh, said Eric enthusiastically. Heh! said Mr. Marshall. Well, he added more tolerantly a moment later. I was a poet, too, for six months in my life when I was courting your mother. Kilmanny was reading on the bench under the lilac trees when they reached the orchard. She stood up and came shyly forward to meet them, guessing who the tall, white-haired old gentleman with Eric must be. As she approached, Eric saw with a thrill of exaltation that she had never looked lovelier. She wore a dress of her favorite blue, simply and quaintly made, as all her gowns were, revealing the perfect lines of her life, slender figure. Her glossy black hair was wound about her head in a braided coronet, against which a spray of wild aster shone like pale purple stars. Her face was flush delicately with excitement. She looked like a young princess, crowned with a ruddy splash of sunlight that fell through the old trees. Father, this is Kilmanny, said Eric proudly. Kilmanny held out her hand with a shyly murmured greeting. Mr. Marshall took it and held it in his, looking so steadily and piercingly into her face that even her frank gaze wavered before the intensity of his keen old eyes. Then he drew her to him and kissed her gravely and gently on her white forehead. My dear, he said, I am glad and proud that you have consented to be my son's wife, and my very dear and honoured daughter. Eric turned abruptly away to hide his emotion, and on his face was a light as of one who sees a great glory widening and deepening down the vista of his future. End of Kilmanny of the Orchard