“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 bonny, 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 understand 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 Kilmeny 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 bonny. 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.”
“Kilmeny 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 her grandmother — Margaret’s mother, Master. Her name was Kilmeny too, and she was a handsome, sweet woman. I was very fond of my stepmother, Master. When she died she gave her baby to me, and asked me to be a mother to it. Ah 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 Kilmeny’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.”
“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 lass 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 Kilmeny. 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:
”’Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Long hae we sought baith holt and den, —
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree!
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where got you that joup o’ the lily sheen?
That bonny snood o’ the birk sae green,
And those roses, the fairest that ever was seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, 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 —
”’Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,
But there was nae smile on Kilmeny’s face.’
“Why are you looking so sober?”
Kilmeny 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, Kilmeny. 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 Mary-lilies up in the orchard.”
When Eric returned to the house with an armful of the long stemmed, white Madonna lilies that bloomed in the orchard Kilmeny was just coming down the steep, narrow staircase with its striped carpeting of homespun drugget. Her marvelous loveliness was brought out into brilliant relief by the dark wood work 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 homestead, and Kilmeny 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. Aloud 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 parlour and up to the mirror.
“Look,” he cried, gaily.
Kilmeny 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.
“Kilmeny, 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 Kilmeny?”
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, Kilmeny, and thought it wiser not to let you know you possessed it. Come, let us go back to 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.”
Kilmeny 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 Kilmeny 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 when I speak to him. And he looks so strangely at me, too. Besides, 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 up stairs Kilmeny stole into the parlour 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? Ay, 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 Janet Gordon could not look upon unmoved.
Kilmeny 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 bonny, Kilmeny,” she added, looking keenly at the girl.
Kilmeny started and a scarlet blush scorched 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.
Kilmeny ran fleetly 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.
IN HER SELFLESS MOOD
Eric noticed a change in Kilmeny 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. Kilmeny 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 violet night made for love, with the distant murmur of an unquiet sea on a rocky shore sounding through it. Kilmeny 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.
“Kilmeny, will you be my wife?” he asked finally, taking her hands in his.
Kilmeny 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.
“Kilmeny, 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, Kilmeny,” 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 Kilmeny 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 Aunt Janet 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.”
“Kilmeny, 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 awhile 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 or coax because I shall not change my mind.”
Eric did plead and 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 Kilmeny meant what she said. It was all in vain. Kilmeny 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, entreat and implore as he might, he could not move her resolution a hairs-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 Kilmeny again and renewed his pleadings, but 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 Kilmeny when we would be gone. Since you came I had hoped she would have a protector in you. But if Kilmeny says she will not marry you I am 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. Kilmeny 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 thought of that? You have never 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 and 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 her 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 Kilmeny to a doctor unknown to her mother?”
“No, that was not possible. Margaret never let her out of her sight, not even when she was grown up. Besides, to tell you the whole truth, Master, we didn’t think ourselves that it would be much use to try to cure Kilmeny. It WAS a sin that made her as she is.”
“Aunt 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 liked Ronald Fraser over much, I must say this in his defence — 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
Kilmeny. 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 Kilmeny 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.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 427