When Eric went to the old Connors orchard the next evening he found
Kilmeny waiting for him on the bench under the white lilac tree, with
the violin in her lap. As soon as she saw him she caught it up and began
to play an airy delicate little melody that sounded like the laughter of
daisies.
When it was finished she dropped her bow, and looked up at him with
flushed cheeks and questioning eyes.
“What did that say to you?” she wrote.
“It said something like this,” answered Eric, falling into her humour
smilingly. “Welcome, my friend. It is a very beautiful evening. The sky
is so blue and the apple blossoms so sweet. The wind and I have been
here alone together and the wind is a good companion, but still I am
glad to see you. It is an evening on which it is good to be alive and to
wander in an orchard that is fine and white. Welcome, my friend.”
She clapped her hands, looking like a pleased child.
“You are very quick to understand,” she wrote. “That was just what I
meant. Of course I did not think it in just those words, but that was
the FEELING of it. I felt that I was so glad I was alive, and that the
apple blossoms and the white lilacs and the trees and I were all pleased
together to see you come. You are quicker than Neil. He is almost always
puzzled to understand my music, and I am puzzled to understand his.
Sometimes it frightens me. It seems as if there were something in it
trying to take hold of me--something I do not like and want to run away
from.”
Somehow Eric did not like her references to Neil. The idea of that
handsome, low-born boy seeing Kilmeny every day, talking to her, sitting
at the same table with her, dwelling under the same roof, meeting her in
the hundred intimacies of daily life, was distasteful to him. He put the
thought away from him, and flung himself down on the long grass at her
feet.
“Now play for me, please,” he said. “I want to lie here and listen to
you.”
“And look at you,” he might have added. He could not tell which was
the greater pleasure. Her beauty, more wonderful than any pictured
loveliness he had ever seen, delighted him. Every tint and curve and
outline of her face was flawless. Her music enthralled him. This child,
he told himself as he listened, had genius. But it was being wholly
wasted. He found himself thinking resentfully of the people who were her
guardians, and who were responsible for her strange life. They had done
her a great and irremediable wrong. How dared they doom her to such an
existence? If her defect of utterance had been attended to in time, who
knew but that it might have been cured? Now it was probably too late.
Nature had given her a royal birthright of beauty and talent, but their
selfish and unpardonable neglect had made it of no account.
What divine music she lured out of the old violin--merry and sad, gay
and sorrowful by turns, music such as the stars of morning might have
made singing together, music that the fairies might have danced to in
their revels among the green hills or on yellow sands, music that might
have mourned over the grave of a dead hope. Then she drifted into a
still sweeter strain. As he listened to it he realized that the whole
soul and nature of the girl were revealing themselves to him through her
music--the beauty and purity of her thoughts, her childhood dreams and
her maiden reveries. There was no thought of concealment about her; she
could not help the revelation she was unconscious of making.
At last she laid her violin aside and wrote,
“I have done my best to give you pleasure. It is your turn now. Do you
remember a promise you made me last night? Have you kept it?”
He gave her the two books he had brought for her--a modern novel and
a volume of poetry unknown to her. He had hesitated a little over the
former; but the book was so fine and full of beauty that he thought it
could not bruise the bloom of her innocence ever so slightly. He had
no doubts about the poetry. It was the utterance of one of those great
inspired souls whose passing tread has made the kingdom of their birth
and labour a veritable Holy Land.
He read her some of the poems. Then he talked to her of his college days
and friends. The minutes passed very swiftly. There was just then no
world for him outside of that old orchard with its falling blossoms and
its shadows and its crooning winds.
Once, when he told her the story of some college pranks wherein the
endless feuds of freshmen and sophomores figured, she clapped her hands
together according to her habit, and laughed aloud--a clear, musical,
silvery peal. It fell on Eric’s ear with a shock of surprise. He thought
it strange that she could laugh like that when she could not speak.
Wherein lay the defect that closed for her the gates of speech? Was it
possible that it could be removed?
“Kilmeny,” he said gravely after a moment’s reflection, during which
he had looked up as she sat with the ruddy sunlight falling through the
lilac branches on her bare, silky head like a shower of red jewels, “do
you mind if I ask you something about your inability to speak? Will it
hurt you to talk of the matter with me?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, no,” she wrote, “I do not mind at all. Of course I am sorry I
cannot speak, but I am quite used to the thought and it never hurts me
at all.”
“Then, Kilmeny, tell me this. Do you know why it is that you are unable
to speak, when all your other faculties are so perfect?”
“No, I do not know at all why I cannot speak. I asked mother once and
she told me it was a judgment on her for a great sin she had committed,
and she looked so strangely that I was frightened, and I never spoke of
it to her or anyone else again.”
“Were you ever taken to a doctor to have your tongue and organs of
speech examined?”
“No. I remember when I was a very little girl that Uncle Thomas wanted
to take me to a doctor in Charlottetown and see if anything could be
done for me, but mother would not let him. She said it would be no use.
And I do not think Uncle Thomas thought it would be, either.”
“You can laugh very naturally. Can you make any other sound?”
“Yes, sometimes. When I am pleased or frightened I have made little
cries. But it is only when I am not thinking of it at all that I can do
that. If I TRY to make a sound I cannot do it at all.”
This seemed to Eric more mysterious than ever.
“Do you ever try to speak--to utter words?” he persisted.
“Oh yes, very often. All the time I am saying the words in my head, just
as I hear other people saying them, but I never can make my tongue say
them. Do not look so sorry, my friend. I am very happy and I do not mind
so very much not being able to speak--only sometimes when I have so many
thoughts and it seems so slow to write them out, some of them get away
from me. I must play to you again. You look too sober.”
She laughed again, picked up her violin, and played a tinkling, roguish
little melody as if she were trying to tease him, looking at Eric over
her violin with luminous eyes that dared him to be merry.
Eric smiled; but the puzzled look returned to his face many times that
evening. He walked home in a brown study. Kilmeny’s case certainly
seemed a strange one, and the more he thought of it the stranger it
seemed.
“It strikes me as something very peculiar that she should be able to
make sounds only when she is not thinking about it,” he reflected. “I
wish David Baker could examine her. But I suppose that is out of the
question. That grim pair who have charge of her would never consent.”