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 Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny’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 Kilmeny, 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 Kilmeny?”
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. Kilmeny 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 straightway to Kilmeny’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 Kilmeny.
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, curse you! 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 overrode 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 Kilmeny’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
Kilmeny. I am 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 firs.
Eric, not a little ruffled under all his external composure by this
most unexpected and unpleasant encounter, pursued his way along the lane
which wound on by the belt of woodland in twist and curve to the Gordon
homestead. His heart beat as he thought of Kilmeny. 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
Kilmeny 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 yard in front of it was grassy and prim and
flowerless; but over the low front door a luxuriant early-flowering
rose vine clambered, 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 Kilmeny
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 lank, 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 kindliness,
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 parlour 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 “parlour set” of horsehair seem extravagantly modern
by contrast. The painted floor was covered with round braided rugs.
On the centre table was a lamp, a Bible and some theological volumes
contemporary with the square-runged furniture. The walls,
wainscoted 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 personages in gowns and bands.
But over the high, undecorated black mantel-piece, 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 Kilmeny’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 colouring; but it was its expression rather than its
beauty which fascinated Eric. Never had he seen a countenance indicative
of 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 gilt 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, moulding them to her wish and will,
in their own despite and in defiance of all the resistance they might
make. Many things in Kilmeny’s upbringing and temperament became clear
to him.
“If that woman had told me I was ugly I should have believed her,” he
thought. “Ay, 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, Kilmeny 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 former 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
Kilmeny 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 unfavourable 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 honourably 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 tonight.”
“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
Queenslea. If you refer to them--”
“I don’t need to do that,” said Thomas Gordon, quietly. “I know more of
you than you think, Master. I know your father well by reputation and
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 Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny 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
see Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny!” exclaimed Thomas Gordon incredulously. “You
can’t mean it, sir. Why, she is dumb--Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny 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 calloused
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 Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny
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 Kilmeny now, but you are only a lad--and lads’ fancies change.”
“Mine will not,” Eric broke in 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 Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny 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.”
“Well!” 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 it isn’t right to cross. Perhaps we oughtn’t--Janet, woman, what
shall we say to him?”
Janet 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
and 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 Kilmeny’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 Kilmeny’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 suits you. But I must go to my work
now. I left my horses standing in the field.”
“I will go up and send Kilmeny down,” said Janet quietly.
She lighted the lamp on the table and left the room. A few minutes later
Kilmeny 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, Kilmeny,” 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.