“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 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 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 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 to a 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 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 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.”
“I promise. Go on—go on,” said the young man .
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 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 lass, singing like a 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 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 . 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 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
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