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
Kilmeny. 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,
pent-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 Kilmeny 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 whereof 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 sere and
unkempt. But in the corners the torches of the goldenrod were kindling
and a few misty purple asters nodded here and there. The orchard kept
its own strange attractiveness, as some women with youth long
passed still preserve an atmosphere of 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 bitter sweet, in
which he lived over again everything that had passed in the orchard
since his first meeting there with Kilmeny.
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 Kilmeny as she came slowly around the curve of the wild
cherry lane.
Kilmeny had sought the old orchard for the healing of her heartbreak,
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 bodingly when he had 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.”
Kilmeny 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 wan, 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 Kilmeny 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, Kilmeny sprang
forward through the gap.
“ERIC, ERIC, LOOK BEHIND YOU--LOOK BEHIND YOU!”
Eric started up, confused, bewildered, as the voice came shrieking
across the orchard. He did not in the least realize that it was Kilmeny
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 Kilmeny. 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 Kilmeny’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 Kilmeny, her lovely face dewed 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!”