“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 writhed5 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 guardians7 still further against him. At this point in his thoughts Neil’s pent up passion suddenly found vent6 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 shrill8 scream. He took a furious step nearer Eric as if he would attack him. Eric looked steadily9 in his eyes with a calm defiance10, before which his wild passion broke like foam11 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 motive12 in doing this has been. Was it jealousy13 of me? Or have you done it out of malice14 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 sullenly15. “What I did or why I did it is no business of yours. And you have no business to come sneaking16 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 implored17 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 thwarted18 in his heart’s desire. It overrode19 all the restraint of his training and environment. Eric, amid all his anger and annoyance20, felt a thrill of pity for him. Neil Gordon was only a boy still; and he was miserable21 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 interfering22 with me or persecuting23 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 plunged24 into the shadow of the firs.
Eric, not a little ruffled25 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 dour26 relations were very angry with her, poor child. Anxious to avert27 their wrath28 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 shingles29 stained a dark gray by long exposure to wind and weather. Faded green shutters30 hung on the windows of the lower story. Behind it grew a thick wood of spruces. The little yard in front of it was grassy31 and prim32 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 joyousness33.
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 rigid34 lines from the hem2 of her lank35, 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 comeliness36 of feature which neither age nor wrinkles had quite destroyed; and her deep-set, light gray eyes were not devoid37 of suggested kindliness38, although they now surveyed Eric with an unconcealed hostility39. 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 dourness40 to vulgar garrulity41.
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 extravagantly42 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 exclusion43 of everything else. It was the enlarged “crayon” photograph of a young girl, and, in spite of the crudity44 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 velvety45 dark eyes and vivid colouring; but it was its expression rather than its beauty which fascinated Eric. Never had he seen a countenance46 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 gilt47 and plush; yet the vitality48 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 whatsoever49 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 temperament50 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 abruptly51, 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 mere52 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 honourably53 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 standing54 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 whim55 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 beguiling56 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 jeopardize57 what he had gained by rashness or impatience58.
“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 mischief60 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 condemn61 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 eyebrows62 down and tapping the calloused63 tips of his fingers together uneasily. He was evidently puzzled by this unexpected turn of the conversation, and in grave doubt what to say.
“I have often heard my father say that a man must marry to please himself,” said Eric, with a smile. “If he felt tempted65 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 entirely66 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 Scotch67 reserve balked68 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 vehemently69. “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 rigidly71 upright on one of the old chairs under Margaret Gordon’s insistent72 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 kindly73. 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 transformation74 it wrought75. Her grim mouth softened76 and a flood of repressed tenderness glorified77 her cold gray eyes.
“Well, then.” she said almost triumphantly78, “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 defiantly79. “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.”
“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 spoke70, 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 frankly81 and fully82; 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 sleepless83 pillow—all had conspired84 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, exacting85, with sweet, innate86 pride, her dues of allegiance.
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收听单词发音
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1
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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7
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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8
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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19
overrode
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| 越控( override的过去式 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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39
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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40
dourness
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| n.性情乖僻，酸味，坏心眼 | |
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41
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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42
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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43
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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44
crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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45
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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46
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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47
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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48
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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49
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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50
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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51
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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56
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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jeopardize
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| vt.危及，损害 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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62
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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66
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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67
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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68
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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80
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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84
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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