Produced by Elizabeth Morton, Mary Mark Ockerbloom, and Ben Crowder
KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD
By L. M. MONTGOMERY
Author of “Anne’s House of Dreams,” “Rainbow Valley,” “Rilla of
Ingleside,” etc.
______________________________________________________________________
Transcriber’s Note:
This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative at
the Celebration of Women Writers through the combined work of Elizabeth
Morton and Mary Mark Ockerbloom.
http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/
Reformatted by Ben Crowder
______________________________________________________________________
TO MY COUSIN
Beatrice A. McIntyre
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
“Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face;
As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodye
That floats along the twilight sea.”
-- _The Queen’s Wake_
JAMES HOGG
CONTENTS
I. The Thoughts of Youth
II. A Letter of Destiny
III. The Master of Lindsay School
IV. A Tea Table Conversation
V. A Phantom of Delight
VI. The Story of Kilmeny
VII. A Rose of Womanhood
VIII. At the Gate of Eden
IX. The Straight Simplicity of Eve
X. A Troubling of the Waters
XI. A Lover and His Lass
XII. A Prisoner of Love
XIII. A Sweeter Woman Ne’er Drew Breath
XIV. In Her Selfless Mood
XV. An Old, Unhappy, Far-off Thing
XVI. David Baker’s Opinion
XVII. A Broken Fetter
XVIII. Neil Gordon Solves His Own Problem
XIX. Victor from Vanquished Issues
KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD
CHAPTER I. THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH
The sunshine of a day in early spring, honey pale and honey sweet, was
showering over the red brick buildings of Queenslea College and the
grounds about them, throwing through the bare, budding maples and elms,
delicate, evasive etchings of gold and brown on the paths, and coaxing
into life the daffodils that were peering greenly and perkily up under
the windows of the co-eds’ dressing-room.
A young April wind, as fresh and sweet as if it had been blowing over
the fields of memory instead of through dingy streets, was purring in
the tree-tops and whipping the loose tendrils of the ivy network which
covered the front of the main building. It was a wind that sang of many
things, but what it sang to each listener was only what was in that
listener’s heart. To the college students who had just been capped and
diplomad by “Old Charlie,” the grave president of Queenslea, in the
presence of an admiring throng of parents and sisters, sweethearts and
friends, it sang, perchance, of glad hope and shining success and high
achievement. It sang of the dreams of youth that may never be quite
fulfilled, but are well worth the dreaming for all that. God help the
man who has never known such dreams--who, as he leaves his alma mater,
is not already rich in aerial castles, the proprietor of many a spacious
estate in Spain. He has missed his birthright.
The crowd streamed out of the entrance hall and scattered over the
campus, fraying off into the many streets beyond. Eric Marshall and
David Baker walked away together. The former had graduated in Arts that
day at the head of his class; the latter had come to see the graduation,
nearly bursting with pride in Eric’s success.
Between these two was an old and tried and enduring friendship, although
David was ten years older than Eric, as the mere tale of years goes, and
a hundred years older in knowledge of the struggles and difficulties of
life which age a man far more quickly and effectually than the passing
of time.
Physically the two men bore no resemblance to one another, although
they were second cousins. Eric Marshall, tall, broad-shouldered, sinewy,
walking with a free, easy stride, which was somehow suggestive of
reserve strength and power, was one of those men regarding whom
less-favoured mortals are tempted seriously to wonder why all the gifts
of fortune should be showered on one individual. He was not only clever
and good to look upon, but he possessed that indefinable charm of
personality which is quite independent of physical beauty or mental
ability. He had steady, grayish-blue eyes, dark chestnut hair with a
glint of gold in its waves when the sunlight struck it, and a chin that
gave the world assurance of a chin. He was a rich man’s son, with a
clean young manhood behind him and splendid prospects before him. He
was considered a practical sort of fellow, utterly guiltless of romantic
dreams and visions of any sort.
“I am afraid Eric Marshall will never do one quixotic thing,” said
a Queenslea professor, who had a habit of uttering rather mysterious
epigrams, “but if he ever does it will supply the one thing lacking in
him.”
David Baker was a short, stocky fellow with an ugly, irregular, charming
face; his eyes were brown and keen and secretive; his mouth had a
comical twist which became sarcastic, or teasing, or winning, as he
willed. His voice was generally as soft and musical as a woman’s; but
some few who had seen David Baker righteously angry and heard the tones
which then issued from his lips were in no hurry to have the experience
repeated.
He was a doctor--a specialist in troubles of the throat and voice--and
he was beginning to have a national reputation. He was on the staff of
the Queenslea Medical College and it was whispered that before long he
would be called to fill an important vacancy at McGill.
He had won his way to success through difficulties and drawbacks which
would have daunted most men. In the year Eric was born David Baker
was an errand boy in the big department store of Marshall & Company.
Thirteen years later he graduated with high honors from Queenslea
Medical College. Mr. Marshall had given him all the help which David’s
sturdy pride could be induced to accept, and now he insisted on sending
the young man abroad for a post-graduate course in London and Germany.
David Baker had eventually repaid every cent Mr. Marshall had expended
on him; but he never ceased to cherish a passionate gratitude to
the kind and generous man; and he loved that man’s son with a love
surpassing that of brothers.
He had followed Eric’s college course with keen, watchful interest. It
was his wish that Eric should take up the study of law or medicine now
that he was through Arts; and he was greatly disappointed that Eric
should have finally made up his mind to go into business with his
father.
“It’s a clean waste of your talents,” he grumbled, as they walked home
from the college. “You’d win fame and distinction in law--that glib
tongue of yours was meant for a lawyer and it is sheer flying in the
face of Providence to devote it to commercial uses--a flat crossing of
the purposes of destiny. Where is your ambition, man?”
“In the right place,” answered Eric, with his ready laugh. “It is not
your kind, perhaps, but there is room and need for all kinds in this
lusty young country of ours. Yes, I am going into the business. In the
first place, it has been father’s cherished desire ever since I was
born, and it would hurt him pretty badly if I backed out now. He wished
me to take an Arts course because he believed that every man should have
as liberal an education as he can afford to get, but now that I have had
it he wants me in the firm.”
“He wouldn’t oppose you if he thought you really wanted to go in for
something else.”
“Not he. But I don’t really want to--that’s the point, David, man. You
hate a business life so much yourself that you can’t get it into your
blessed noddle that another man might like it. There are many lawyers in
the world--too many, perhaps--but there are never too many good honest
men of business, ready to do clean big things for the betterment of
humanity and the upbuilding of their country, to plan great enterprises
and carry them through with brain and courage, to manage and control, to
aim high and strike one’s aim. There, I’m waxing eloquent, so I’d better
stop. But ambition, man! Why, I’m full of it--it’s bubbling in every
pore of me. I mean to make the department store of Marshall & Company
famous from ocean to ocean. Father started in life as a poor boy from
a Nova Scotian farm. He has built up a business that has a provincial
reputation. I mean to carry it on. In five years it shall have a
maritime reputation, in ten, a Canadian. I want to make the firm of
Marshall & Company stand for something big in the commercial interests
of Canada. Isn’t that as honourable an ambition as trying to make black
seem white in a court of law, or discovering some new disease with
a harrowing name to torment poor creatures who might otherwise die
peacefully in blissful ignorance of what ailed them?”
“When you begin to make poor jokes it is time to stop arguing with you,”
said David, with a shrug of his fat shoulders. “Go your own gait and
dree your own weird. I’d as soon expect success in trying to storm the
citadel single-handed as in trying to turn you from any course about
which you had once made up your mind. Whew, this street takes it out of
a fellow! What could have possessed our ancestors to run a town up the
side of a hill? I’m not so slim and active as I was on MY graduation
day ten years ago. By the way, what a lot of co-eds were in your
class--twenty, if I counted right. When I graduated there were only
two ladies in our class and they were the pioneers of their sex at
Queenslea. They were well past their first youth, very grim and angular
and serious; and they could never have been on speaking terms with
a mirror in their best days. But mark you, they were excellent
females--oh, very excellent. Times have changed with a vengeance,
judging from the line-up of co-eds to-day. There was one girl there who
can’t be a day over eighteen--and she looked as if she were made out of
gold and roseleaves and dewdrops.”
“The oracle speaks in poetry,” laughed Eric. “That was Florence
Percival, who led the class in mathematics, as I’m a living man. By many
she is considered the beauty of her class. I can’t say that such is
my opinion. I don’t greatly care for that blonde, babyish style of
loveliness--I prefer Agnes Campion. Did you notice her--the tall, dark
girl with the ropes of hair and a sort of crimson, velvety bloom on her
face, who took honours in philosophy?”
“I DID notice her,” said David emphatically, darting a keen side glance
at his friend. “I noticed her most particularly and critically--for
someone whispered her name behind me and coupled it with the exceedingly
interesting information that Miss Campion was supposed to be the future
Mrs. Eric Marshall. Whereupon I stared at her with all my eyes.”
“There is no truth in that report,” said Eric in a tone of annoyance.
“Agnes and I are the best of friends and nothing more. I like and admire
her more than any woman I know; but if the future Mrs. Eric Marshall
exists in the flesh I haven’t met her yet. I haven’t even started out
to look for her--and don’t intend to for some years to come. I have
something else to think of,” he concluded, in a tone of contempt, for
which anyone might have known he would be punished sometime if Cupid
were not deaf as well as blind.
“You’ll meet the lady of the future some day,” said David dryly. “And in
spite of your scorn I venture to predict that if fate doesn’t bring
her before long you’ll very soon start out to look for her. A word of
advice, oh, son of your mother. When you go courting take your common
sense with you.”
“Do you think I shall be likely to leave it behind?” asked Eric
amusedly.
“Well, I mistrust you,” said David, sagely wagging his head. “The
Lowland Scotch part of you is all right, but there’s a Celtic streak in
you, from that little Highland grandmother of yours, and when a man has
that there’s never any knowing where it will break out, or what dance
it will lead him, especially when it comes to this love-making business.
You are just as likely as not to lose your head over some little fool or
shrew for the sake of her outward favour and make yourself miserable for
life. When you pick you a wife please remember that I shall reserve the
right to pass a candid opinion on her.”
“Pass all the opinions you like, but it is MY opinion, and mine only,
which will matter in the long run,” retorted Eric.
“Confound you, yes, you stubborn offshoot of a stubborn breed,” growled
David, looking at him affectionately. “I know that, and that is why I’ll
never feel at ease about you until I see you married to the right sort
of a girl. She’s not hard to find. Nine out of ten girls in this country
of ours are fit for kings’ palaces. But the tenth always has to be
reckoned with.”
“You are as bad as _Clever Alice_ in the fairy tale who worried over the
future of her unborn children,” protested Eric.
“_Clever Alice_ has been very unjustly laughed at,” said David gravely.
“We doctors know that. Perhaps she overdid the worrying business a
little, but she was perfectly right in principle. If people worried
a little more about their unborn children--at least, to the extent of
providing a proper heritage, physically, mentally, and morally, for
them--and then stopped worrying about them after they ARE born, this
world would be a very much pleasanter place to live in, and the human
race would make more progress in a generation than it has done in
recorded history.”
“Oh, if you are going to mount your dearly beloved hobby of heredity
I am not going to argue with you, David, man. But as for the matter
of urging me to hasten and marry me a wife, why don’t you”--It was on
Eric’s lips to say, “Why don’t you get married to a girl of the right
sort yourself and set me a good example?” But he checked himself. He
knew that there was an old sorrow in David Baker’s life which was not to
be unduly jarred by the jests even of privileged friendship. He changed
his question to, “Why don’t you leave this on the knees of the gods
where it properly belongs? I thought you were a firm believer in
predestination, David.”
“Well, so I am, to a certain extent,” said David cautiously. “I believe,
as an excellent old aunt of mine used to say, that what is to be will
be and what isn’t to be happens sometimes. And it is precisely such
unchancy happenings that make the scheme of things go wrong. I dare say
you think me an old fogy, Eric; but I know something more of the world
than you do, and I believe, with Tennyson’s _Arthur_, that ‘there’s no
more subtle master under heaven than is the maiden passion for a maid.’
I want to see you safely anchored to the love of some good woman as soon
as may be, that’s all. I’m rather sorry Miss Campion isn’t your lady of
the future. I liked her looks, that I did. She is good and strong and
true--and has the eyes of a woman who could love in a way that would
be worth while. Moreover, she’s well-born, well-bred, and
well-educated--three very indispensable things when it comes to choosing
a woman to fill your mother’s place, friend of mine!”
“I agree with you,” said Eric carelessly. “I could not marry any woman
who did not fulfill those conditions. But, as I have said, I am not in
love with Agnes Campion--and it wouldn’t be of any use if I were. She is
as good as engaged to Larry West. You remember West?”
“That thin, leggy fellow you chummed with so much your first two years
in Queenslea? Yes, what has become of him?”
“He had to drop out after his second year for financial reasons. He is
working his own way through college, you know. For the past two years
he has been teaching school in some out-of-the-way place over in Prince
Edward Island. He isn’t any too well, poor fellow--never was very strong
and has studied remorselessly. I haven’t heard from him since February.
He said then that he was afraid he wasn’t going to be able to stick it
out till the end of the school year. I hope Larry won’t break down. He
is a fine fellow and worthy even of Agnes Campion. Well, here we are.
Coming in, David?”
“Not this afternoon--haven’t got time. I must mosey up to the North End
to see a man who has got a lovely throat. Nobody can find out what is
the matter. He has puzzled all the doctors. He has puzzled me, but I’ll
find out what is wrong with him if he’ll only live long enough.”