The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “I promise. Go on — go on,” said the young man feverishly.

  Janet Gordon locked her hands together in her lap, like a woman who nerves herself to some hateful task. She looked very old; the lines on her face seemed doubly deep and harsh.

  “My sister Margaret was a very proud, high-spirited girl, Master. But I would not have you think she was unlovable. No, no, that would be doing a great injustice to her memory. She had her faults as we all have; but she was bright and merry and warm-hearted. We all loved her. She was the light and life of this house. Yes, Master, before the trouble that came on her Margaret was a winsome lass, singing like a lark from morning till night. Maybe we spoiled her a little — maybe we gave her too much of her own way.

  “Well, Master, you have heard the story of her marriage to Ronald Fraser and what came after, so I need not go into that. I know, or used to know Elizabeth Williamson well, and I know that whatever she told you would be the truth and nothing more or less than the truth.

  “Our father was a very proud man. Oh, Master, if Margaret was too proud she got it from no stranger. And her misfortune cut him to the heart. He never spoke a word to us here for more than three days after he heard of it. He sat in the corner there with bowed head and would not touch bite or sup. He had not been very willing for her to marry Ronald Fraser; and when she came home in disgrace she had not set foot over the threshold before he broke out railing at her. Oh, I can see her there at the door this very minute, Master, pale and trembling, clinging to Thomas’s arm, her great eyes changing from sorrow and shame to wrath. It was just at sunset and a red ray came in at the window and fell right across her breast like a stain of blood.

  “Father called her a hard name, Master. Oh, he was too hard — even though he was my father I must say he was too hard on her, broken-hearted as she was, and guilty of nothing more after all than a little willfulness in the matter of her marriage.

  “And father was sorry for it — Oh, Master, the word wasn’t out of his mouth before he was sorry for it. But the mischief was done. Oh, I’ll never forget Margaret’s face, Master! It haunts me yet in the black of the night. It was full of anger and rebellion and defiance. But she never answered him back. She clenched her hands and went up to her old room without saying a word, all those mad feelings surging in her soul, and being held back from speech by her sheer, stubborn will. And, Master, never a word did Margaret say from that day until after Kilmeny was born — not one word, Master. Nothing we could do for her softened her. And we were kind to her, Master, and gentle with her, and never reproached her by so much as a look. But she would not speak to anyone. She just sat in her room most of the time and stared at the wall with such awful eyes. Father implored her to speak and forgive him, but she never gave any sign that she heard him.

  “I haven’t come to the worst yet, Master. Father sickened and took to his bed. Margaret would not go in to see him. Then one night Thomas and I were watching by him; it was about eleven o’clock. All at once he said,

  “‘Janet, go up and tell the lass’ — he always called Margaret that — it was a kind of pet name he had for her—’that I’m deein’ and ask her to come down and speak to me afore I’m gone.’

  “Master, I went. Margaret was sitting in her room all alone in the cold and dark, staring at the wall. I told her what our father had said. She never let on she heard me. I pleaded and wept, Master. I did what I had never done to any human creature — I kneeled to her and begged her, as she hoped for mercy herself, to come down and see our dying father. Master, she wouldn’t! She never moved or looked at me. I had to get up and go downstairs and tell that old man she would not come.”

  Janet Gordon lifted her hands and struck them together in her agony of remembrance.

  “When I told father he only said, oh, so gently,

  “‘Poor lass, I was too hard on her. She isna to blame. But I canna go to meet her mother till our little lass has forgie’n me for the name I called her. Thomas, help me up. Since she winna come to me I must e’en go to her.’

  “There was no crossing him — we saw that. He got up from his deathbed and Thomas helped him out into the hall and up the stair. I walked behind with the candle. Oh, Master, I’ll never forget it — the awful shadows and the storm wind wailing outside, and father’s gasping breath. But we got him to Margaret’s room and he stood before her, trembling, with his white hairs falling about his sunken face. And he prayed Margaret to forgive him — to forgive him and speak just one word to him before he went to meet her mother. Master” — Janet’s voice rose almost to a shriek—”she would not — she would not! And yet she WANTED to speak — afterwards she confessed to me that she wanted to speak. But her stubbornness wouldn’t let her. It was like some evil power that had gripped hold of her and wouldn’t let go. Father might as well have pleaded with a graven image. Oh, it was hard and dreadful! She saw her father die and she never spoke the word he prayed for to him. THAT was her sin, Master, — and for that sin the curse fell on her unborn child. When father understood that she would not speak he closed his eyes and was like to have fallen if Thomas had not caught him.

  “‘Oh, lass, you’re a hard woman,’ was all he said. And they were his last words. Thomas and I carried him back to his room, but the breath was gone from him before we ever got him there.

  “Well, Master, Kilmeny was born a month afterwards, and when Margaret felt her baby at her breast the evil thing that had held her soul in its bondage lost its power. She spoke and wept and was herself again. Oh, how she wept! She implored us to forgive her and we did freely and fully. But the one against whom she had sinned most grievously was gone, and no word of forgiveness could come to her from the grave. My poor sister never knew peace of conscience again, Master. But she was gentle and kind and humble until — until she began to fear that Kilmeny was never going to speak. We thought then that she would go out of her mind. Indeed, Master, she never was quite right again.

  “But that is the story and it’s a thankful woman I am that the telling of it is done. Kilmeny can’t speak because her mother wouldn’t.”

  Eric had listened with a gray horror on his face to the gruesome tale. The black tragedy of it appalled him — the tragedy of that merciless law, the most cruel and mysterious thing in God’s universe, which ordains that the sin of the guilty shall be visited on the innocent. Fight against it as he would, the miserable conviction stole into his heart that Kilmeny’s case was indeed beyond the reach of any human skill.

  “It is a dreadful tale,” he said moodily, getting up and walking restlessly to and fro in the dim spruce-shadowed old kitchen where they were. “And if it is true that her mother’s willful silence caused Kilmeny’s dumbness, I fear, as you say, that we cannot help her. But you may be mistaken. It may have been nothing more than a strange coincidence. Possibly something may be done for her. At all events, we must try. I have a friend in Queenslea who is a physician. His name is David Baker, and he is a very skilful specialist in regard to the throat and voice. I shall have him come here and see Kilmeny.”

  “Have your way,” assented Janet in the hopeless tone which she might have used in giving him permission to attempt any impossible thing.

  “It will be necessary to tell Dr. Baker why Kilmeny cannot speak — or why you think she cannot.”

  Janet’s face twitched.

  “Must that be, Master? Oh, it’s a bitter tale to tell a stranger.”

  “Don’t be afraid. I shall tell him nothing that is not strictly necessary to his proper understanding of the case. It will be quite enough to say that Kilmeny may be dumb because for several months before her birth her mother’s mind was in a very morbid condition, and she preserved a stubborn and unbroken silence because of a certain bitter personal resentment.”

  “Well, do as you think best, Master.”

  Janet plainly had no faith in the possibility of anything being done for Kilmeny. But a rosy glow of hope flashed over Kilmeny’s face when Eric told her what he meant t
o do.

  “Oh, do you think he can make me speak?” she wrote eagerly.

  “I don’t know, Kilmeny. I hope that he can, and I know he will do all that mortal skill can do. If he can remove your defect will you promise to marry me, dearest?”

  She nodded. The grave little motion had the solemnity of a sacred promise.

  “Yes,” she wrote, “when I can speak like other women I will marry you.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  DAVID BAKER’S OPINION

  The next week David Baker came to Lindsay. He arrived in the afternoon when Eric was in school. When the latter came home he found that David had, in the space of an hour, captured Mrs. Williamson’s heart, wormed himself into the good graces of Timothy, and become hail-fellow-well-met with old Robert. But he looked curiously at Eric when the two young men found themselves alone in the upstairs room.

  “Now, Eric, I want to know what all this is about. What scrape have you got into? You write me a letter, entreating me in the name of friendship to come to you at once. Accordingly I come post haste. You seem to be in excellent health yourself. Explain why you have inveigled me hither.”

  “I want you to do me a service which only you can do, David,” said Eric quietly. “I didn’t care to go into the details by letter. I have met in Lindsay a young girl whom I have learned to love. I have asked her to marry me, but, although she cares for me, she refuses to do so because she is dumb. I wish you to examine her and find out the cause of her defect, and if it can be cured. She can hear perfectly and all her other faculties are entirely normal. In order that you may better understand the case I must tell you the main facts of her history.”

  This Eric proceeded to do. David Baker listened with grave attention, his eyes fastened on his friend’s face. He did not betray the surprise and dismay he felt at learning that Eric had fallen in love with a dumb girl of doubtful antecedents; and the strange case enlisted his professional interest. When he had heard the whole story he thrust his hands into his pockets and strode up and down the room several times in silence. Finally he halted before Eric.

  “So you have done what I foreboded all along you would do — left your common sense behind you when you went courting.”

  “If I did,” said Eric quietly, “I took with me something better and nobler than common sense.”

  David shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’ll have hard work to convince me of that, Eric.”

  “No, it will not be difficult at all. I have one argument that will convince you speedily — and that is Kilmeny Gordon herself. But we will not discuss the matter of my wisdom or lack of it just now. What I want to know is this — what do you think of the case as I have stated it to you?”

  David frowned thoughtfully.

  “I hardly know what to think. It is very curious and unusual, but it is not totally unprecedented. There have been cases on record where pre-natal influences have produced a like result. I cannot just now remember whether any were ever cured. Well, I’ll see if anything can be done for this girl. I cannot express any further opinion until I have examined her.”

  The next morning Eric took David up to the Gordon homestead. As they approached the old orchard a strain of music came floating through the resinous morning arcades of the spruce wood — a wild, sorrowful, appealing cry, full of indescribable pathos, yet marvelously sweet.

  “What is that?” exclaimed David, starting.

  “That is Kilmeny playing on her violin,” answered Eric. “She has great talent in that respect and improvises wonderful melodies.”

  When they reached the orchard Kilmeny rose from the old bench to meet them, her lovely luminous eyes distended, her face flushed with the excitement of mingled hope and fear.

  “Oh, ye gods!” muttered David helplessly.

  He could not hide his amazement and Eric smiled to see it. The latter had not failed to perceive that his friend had until now considered him as little better than a lunatic.

  “Kilmeny, this is my friend, Dr. Baker,” he said.

  Kilmeny held out her hand with a smile. Her beauty, as she stood there in the fresh morning sunshine beside a clump of her sister lilies, was something to take away a man’s breath. David, who was by no means lacking in confidence and generally had a ready tongue where women were concerned, found himself as mute and awkward as a school boy, as he bowed over her hand.

  But Kilmeny was charmingly at ease. There was not a trace of embarrassment in her manner, though there was a pretty shyness. Eric smiled as he recalled HIS first meeting with her. He suddenly realized how far Kilmeny had come since then and how much she had developed.

  With a little gesture of invitation Kilmeny led the way through the orchard to the wild cherry lane, and the two men followed.

  “Eric, she is simply unutterable!” said David in an undertone. “Last night, to tell you the truth, I had a rather poor opinion of your sanity. But now I am consumed with a fierce envy. She is the loveliest creature I ever saw.”

  Eric introduced David to the Gordons and then hurried away to his school. On his way down the Gordon lane he met Neil and was half startled by the glare of hatred in the Italian boy’s eyes. Pity succeeded the momentary alarm. Neil’s face had grown thin and haggard; his eyes were sunken and feverishly bright; he looked years older than on the day when Eric had first seen him in the brook hollow.

  Prompted by sudden compassionate impulse Eric stopped and held out his hand.

  “Neil, can’t we be friends?” he said. “I am sorry if I have been the cause of inflicting pain on you.”

  “Friends! Never!” said Neil passionately. “You have taken Kilmeny from me. I shall hate you always. And I’ll be even with you yet.”

  He strode fiercely up the lane, and Eric, with a shrug of his shoulders, went on his way, dismissing the meeting from his mind.

  The day seemed interminably long to him. David had not returned when he went home to dinner; but when he went to his room in the evening he found his friend there, staring out of the window.

  “Well,” he said, impatiently, as David wheeled around but still kept silence, “What have you to say to me? Don’t keep me in suspense any longer, David. I have endured all I can. To-day has seemed like a thousand years. Have you discovered what is the matter with Kilmeny?”

  “There is nothing the matter with her,” answered David slowly, flinging himself into a chair by the window.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just exactly what I say. Her vocal organs are all perfect. As far as they are concerned, there is absolutely no reason why she should not speak.”

  “Then why can’t she speak? Do you think — do you think—”

  “I think that I cannot express my conclusion in any better words than Janet Gordon used when she said that Kilmeny cannot speak because her mother wouldn’t. That is all there is to it. The trouble is psychological, not physical. Medical skill is helpless before it. There are greater men than I in my profession; but it is my honest belief, Eric, that if you were to consult them they would tell you just what I have told you, neither more nor less.”

  “Then there is no hope,” said Eric in a tone of despair. “You can do nothing for her?”

  David took from the back of his chair a crochet antimacassar with a lion rampant in the center and spread it over his knee.

  “I can do nothing for her,” he said, scowling at that work of art. “I do not believe any living man can do anything for her. But I do not say — exactly — that there is no hope.”

  “Come, David, I am in no mood for guessing riddles. Speak plainly, man, and don’t torment me.”

  David frowned dubiously and poked his finger through the hole which represented the eye of the king of beasts.

  “I don’t know that I can make it plain to you. It isn’t very plain to myself. And it is only a vague theory of mine, of course. I cannot substantiate it by any facts. In short, Eric, I think it is possible that Kilmeny may speak sometime — if she ever wants it badly en
ough.”

  “Wants to! Why, man, she wants to as badly as it is possible for any one to want anything. She loves me with all her heart and she won’t marry me because she can’t speak. Don’t you suppose that a girl under such circumstances would ‘want’ to speak as much as any one could?”

  “Yes, but I do not mean that sort of wanting, no matter how strong the wish may be. What I do mean is — a sudden, vehement, passionate inrush of desire, physical, psychical, mental, all in one, mighty enough to rend asunder the invisible fetters that hold her speech in bondage. If any occasion should arise to evoke such a desire I believe that Kilmeny would speak — and having once spoken would thenceforth be normal in that respect — ay, if she spoke but the one word.”

  “All this sounds like great nonsense to me,” said Eric restlessly. “I suppose you have an idea what you are talking about, but I haven’t. And, in any case, it practically means that there is no hope for her — or me. Even if your theory is correct it is not likely such an occasion as you speak of will ever arise. And Kilmeny will never marry me.”

  “Don’t give up so easily, old fellow. There HAVE been cases on record where women have changed their minds.”

  “Not women like Kilmeny,” said Eric miserably. “I tell you she has all her mother’s unfaltering will and tenacity of purpose, although she is free from any taint of pride or selfishness. I thank you for your sympathy and interest, David. You have done all you could — but, heavens, what it would have meant to me if you could have helped her!”

  With a groan Eric flung himself on a chair and buried his face in his hands. It was a moment which held for him all the bitterness of death. He had thought that he was prepared for disappointment; he had not known how strong his hope had really been until that hope was utterly taken from him.