CHAPTER I. THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH
CHAPTER II. A LETTER OF DESTINY
CHAPTER III. THE MASTER OF LINDSAY SCHOOL
CHAPTER IV. A TEA TABLE CONVERSATION
CHAPTER V. A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT
CHAPTER VI. THE STORY OF KILMENY
CHAPTER VII. A ROSE OF WOMANHOOD
CHAPTER VIII. AT THE GATE OF EDEN
CHAPTER IX. THE STRAIGHT SIMPLICITY OF EVE
CHAPTER X. A TROUBLING OF THE WATERS
CHAPTER XI. A LOVER AND HIS LASS
CHAPTER XII. A PRISONER OF LOVE
CHAPTER XIII. A SWEETER WOMAN NE’ER DREW BREATH
CHAPTER XIV. IN HER SELFLESS MOOD
CHAPTER XV. AN OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THING
CHAPTER XVI. DAVID BAKER’S OPINION
CHAPTER XVII. A BROKEN FETTER
CHAPTER XVIII. NEIL GORDON SOLVES HIS OWN PROBLEM
“Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face;
As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . .
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . .
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodye
That floats along the twilight
sea.”
— The Queen’s
Wake
JAMES HOGG
CHAPTER I. THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH
The
sunshine of a day in early spring, honey pale and honey sweet, was
showering over the red brick buildings of Queenslea College and the
grounds about them, throwing through the bare, budding maples and
elms, delicate, evasive etchings of gold and brown on the paths,
and
coaxing into life the daffodils that were peering greenly and
perkily
up under the windows of the co-eds’ dressing-room.A
young April wind, as fresh and sweet as if it had been blowing over
the fields of memory instead of through dingy streets, was purring
in
the tree-tops and whipping the loose tendrils of the ivy network
which covered the front of the main building. It was a wind that
sang
of many things, but what it sang to each listener was only what was
in that listener’s heart. To the college students who had just been
capped and diplomad by “Old Charlie,” the grave president of
Queenslea, in the presence of an admiring throng of parents and
sisters, sweethearts and friends, it sang, perchance, of glad hope
and shining success and high achievement. It sang of the dreams of
youth that may never be quite fulfilled, but are well worth the
dreaming for all that. God help the man who has never known such
dreams—who, as he leaves his alma mater, is not already rich in
aerial castles, the proprietor of many a spacious estate in Spain.
He
has missed his birthright.The
crowd streamed out of the entrance hall and scattered over the
campus, fraying off into the many streets beyond. Eric Marshall and
David Baker walked away together. The former had graduated in Arts
that day at the head of his class; the latter had come to see the
graduation, nearly bursting with pride in Eric’s success.Between
these two was an old and tried and enduring friendship, although
David was ten years older than Eric, as the mere tale of years
goes,
and a hundred years older in knowledge of the struggles and
difficulties of life which age a man far more quickly and
effectually
than the passing of time.Physically
the two men bore no resemblance to one another, although they were
second cousins. Eric Marshall, tall, broad-shouldered, sinewy,
walking with a free, easy stride, which was somehow suggestive of
reserve strength and power, was one of those men regarding whom
less-favoured mortals are tempted seriously to wonder why all the
gifts of fortune should be showered on one individual. He was not
only clever and good to look upon, but he possessed that
indefinable
charm of personality which is quite independent of physical beauty
or
mental ability. He had steady, grayish-blue eyes, dark chestnut
hair
with a glint of gold in its waves when the sunlight struck it, and
a
chin that gave the world assurance of a chin. He was a rich man’s
son, with a clean young manhood behind him and splendid prospects
before him. He was considered a practical sort of fellow, utterly
guiltless of romantic dreams and visions of any sort.
“
I
am afraid Eric Marshall will never do one quixotic thing,” said a
Queenslea professor, who had a habit of uttering rather mysterious
epigrams, “but if he ever does it will supply the one thing lacking
in him.”David
Baker was a short, stocky fellow with an ugly, irregular, charming
face; his eyes were brown and keen and secretive; his mouth had a
comical twist which became sarcastic, or teasing, or winning, as he
willed. His voice was generally as soft and musical as a woman’s;
but some few who had seen David Baker righteously angry and heard
the
tones which then issued from his lips were in no hurry to have the
experience repeated.He
was a doctor—a specialist in troubles of the throat and voice—and
he was beginning to have a national reputation. He was on the staff
of the Queenslea Medical College and it was whispered that before
long he would be called to fill an important vacancy at
McGill.He
had won his way to success through difficulties and drawbacks which
would have daunted most men. In the year Eric was born David Baker
was an errand boy in the big department store of Marshall &
Company. Thirteen years later he graduated with high honors from
Queenslea Medical College. Mr. Marshall had given him all the help
which David’s sturdy pride could be induced to accept, and now he
insisted on sending the young man abroad for a post-graduate course
in London and Germany. David Baker had eventually repaid every cent
Mr. Marshall had expended on him; but he never ceased to cherish a
passionate gratitude to the kind and generous man; and he loved
that
man’s son with a love surpassing that of brothers.He
had followed Eric’s college course with keen, watchful interest. It
was his wish that Eric should take up the study of law or medicine
now that he was through Arts; and he was greatly disappointed that
Eric should have finally made up his mind to go into business with
his father.
“
It’s
a clean waste of your talents,” he grumbled, as they walked home
from the college. “You’d win fame and distinction in law—that
glib tongue of yours was meant for a lawyer and it is sheer flying
in
the face of Providence to devote it to commercial uses—a flat
crossing of the purposes of destiny. Where is your ambition,
man?”
“
In
the right place,” answered Eric, with his ready laugh. “It is not
your kind, perhaps, but there is room and need for all kinds in
this
lusty young country of ours. Yes, I am going into the business. In
the first place, it has been father’s cherished desire ever since I
was born, and it would hurt him pretty badly if I backed out now.
He
wished me to take an Arts course because he believed that every man
should have as liberal an education as he can afford to get, but
now
that I have had it he wants me in the firm.”
“
He
wouldn’t oppose you if he thought you really wanted to go in for
something else.”
“
Not
he. But I don’t really want to—that’s the point, David, man.
You hate a business life so much yourself that you can’t get it
into your blessed noddle that another man might like it. There are
many lawyers in the world—too many, perhaps—but there are never
too many good honest men of business, ready to do clean big things
for the betterment of humanity and the upbuilding of their country,
to plan great enterprises and carry them through with brain and
courage, to manage and control, to aim high and strike one’s aim.
There, I’m waxing eloquent, so I’d better stop. But ambition,
man! Why, I’m full of it—it’s bubbling in every pore of me. I
mean to make the department store of Marshall & Company famous
from ocean to ocean. Father started in life as a poor boy from a
Nova
Scotian farm. He has built up a business that has a provincial
reputation. I mean to carry it on. In five years it shall have a
maritime reputation, in ten, a Canadian. I want to make the firm of
Marshall & Company stand for something big in the commercial
interests of Canada. Isn’t that as honourable an ambition as trying
to make black seem white in a court of law, or discovering some new
disease with a harrowing name to torment poor creatures who might
otherwise die peacefully in blissful ignorance of what ailed
them?”
“
When
you begin to make poor jokes it is time to stop arguing with you,”
said David, with a shrug of his fat shoulders. “Go your own gait
and dree your own weird. I’d as soon expect success in trying to
storm the citadel single-handed as in trying to turn you from any
course about which you had once made up your mind. Whew, this
street
takes it out of a fellow! What could have possessed our ancestors
to
run a town up the side of a hill? I’m not so slim and active as I
was on MY graduation day ten years ago. By the way, what a lot of
co-eds were in your class—twenty, if I counted right. When I
graduated there were only two ladies in our class and they were the
pioneers of their sex at Queenslea. They were well past their first
youth, very grim and angular and serious; and they could never have
been on speaking terms with a mirror in their best days. But mark
you, they were excellent females—oh, very excellent. Times have
changed with a vengeance, judging from the line-up of co-eds
to-day.
There was one girl there who can’t be a day over eighteen—and she
looked as if she were made out of gold and roseleaves and
dewdrops.”
“
The
oracle speaks in poetry,” laughed Eric. “That was Florence
Percival, who led the class in mathematics, as I’m a living man. By
many she is considered the beauty of her class. I can’t say that
such is my opinion. I don’t greatly care for that blonde, babyish
style of loveliness—I prefer Agnes Campion. Did you notice her—the
tall, dark girl with the ropes of hair and a sort of crimson,
velvety
bloom on her face, who took honours in philosophy?”
“
I
DID notice her,” said David emphatically, darting a keen side
glance at his friend. “I noticed her most particularly and
critically—for someone whispered her name behind me and coupled it
with the exceedingly interesting information that Miss Campion was
supposed to be the future Mrs. Eric Marshall. Whereupon I stared at
her with all my eyes.”
“
There
is no truth in that report,” said Eric in a tone of annoyance.
“Agnes and I are the best of friends and nothing more. I like and
admire her more than any woman I know; but if the future Mrs. Eric
Marshall exists in the flesh I haven’t met her yet. I haven’t
even started out to look for her—and don’t intend to for some
years to come. I have something else to think of,” he concluded, in
a tone of contempt, for which anyone might have known he would be
punished sometime if Cupid were not deaf as well as blind.
“
You’ll
meet the lady of the future some day,” said David dryly. “And in
spite of your scorn I venture to predict that if fate doesn’t bring
her before long you’ll very soon start out to look for her. A word
of advice, oh, son of your mother. When you go courting take your
common sense with you.”
“
Do
you think I shall be likely to leave it behind?” asked Eric
amusedly.
“
Well,
I mistrust you,” said David, sagely wagging his head. “The
Lowland Scotch part of you is all right, but there’s a Celtic
streak in you, from that little Highland grandmother of yours, and
when a man has that there’s never any knowing where it will break
out, or what dance it will lead him, especially when it comes to
this
love-making business. You are just as likely as not to lose your
head
over some little fool or shrew for the sake of her outward favour
and
make yourself miserable for life. When you pick you a wife please
remember that I shall reserve the right to pass a candid opinion on
her.”
“
Pass
all the opinions you like, but it is MY opinion, and mine only,
which
will matter in the long run,” retorted Eric.
“
Confound
you, yes, you stubborn offshoot of a stubborn breed,” growled
David, looking at him affectionately. “I know that, and that is why
I’ll never feel at ease about you until I see you married to the
right sort of a girl. She’s not hard to find. Nine out of ten girls
in this country of ours are fit for kings’ palaces. But the tenth
always has to be reckoned with.”
“
You
are as bad as Clever
Alice in the fairy
tale who worried over the future of her unborn children,” protested
Eric.
“
Clever
Alice has been very
unjustly laughed at,” said David gravely. “We doctors know that.
Perhaps she overdid the worrying business a little, but she was
perfectly right in principle. If people worried a little more about
their unborn children—at least, to the extent of providing a proper
heritage, physically, mentally, and morally, for them—and then
stopped worrying about them after they ARE born, this world would
be
a very much pleasanter place to live in, and the human race would
make more progress in a generation than it has done in recorded
history.”
“
Oh,
if you are going to mount your dearly beloved hobby of heredity I
am
not going to argue with you, David, man. But as for the matter of
urging me to hasten and marry me a wife, why don’t you”—It was
on Eric’s lips to say, “Why don’t you get married to a girl of
the right sort yourself and set me a good example?” But he checked
himself. He knew that there was an old sorrow in David Baker’s life
which was not to be unduly jarred by the jests even of privileged
friendship. He changed his question to, “Why don’t you leave this
on the knees of the gods where it properly belongs? I thought you
were a firm believer in predestination, David.”
“
Well,
so I am, to a certain extent,” said David cautiously. “I believe,
as an excellent old aunt of mine used to say, that what is to be
will
be and what isn’t to be happens sometimes. And it is precisely such
unchancy happenings that make the scheme of things go wrong. I dare
say you think me an old fogy, Eric; but I know something more of
the
world than you do, and I believe, with Tennyson’s
Arthur, that
‘there’s no more subtle master under heaven than is the maiden
passion for a maid.’ I want to see you safely anchored to the love
of some good woman as soon as may be, that’s all. I’m rather
sorry Miss Campion isn’t your lady of the future. I liked her
looks, that I did. She is good and strong and true—and has the eyes
of a woman who could love in a way that would be worth while.
Moreover, she’s well-born, well-bred, and well-educated—three
very indispensable things when it comes to choosing a woman to fill
your mother’s place, friend of mine!”
“
I
agree with you,” said Eric carelessly. “I could not marry any
woman who did not fulfill those conditions. But, as I have said, I
am
not in love with Agnes Campion—and it wouldn’t be of any use if I
were. She is as good as engaged to Larry West. You remember
West?”
“
That
thin, leggy fellow you chummed with so much your first two years in
Queenslea? Yes, what has become of him?”
“
He
had to drop out after his second year for financial reasons. He is
working his own way through college, you know. For the past two
years
he has been teaching school in some out-of-the-way place over in
Prince Edward Island. He isn’t any too well, poor fellow—never
was very strong and has studied remorselessly. I haven’t heard from
him since February. He said then that he was afraid he wasn’t going
to be able to stick it out till the end of the school year. I hope
Larry won’t break down. He is a fine fellow and worthy even of
Agnes Campion. Well, here we are. Coming in, David?”
“
Not
this afternoon—haven’t got time. I must mosey up to the North End
to see a man who has got a lovely throat. Nobody can find out what
is
the matter. He has puzzled all the doctors. He has puzzled me, but
I’ll find out what is wrong with him if he’ll only live long
enough.”
CHAPTER II. A LETTER OF DESTINY
Eric, finding that his father had not yet returned from the
college, went into the library and sat down to read a letter he had
picked up from the hall table. It was from Larry West, and after
the first few lines Eric’s face lost the absent look it had worn
and assumed an expression of interest.
“ I am writing to ask a favour
of you, Marshall,” wrote West. “The fact is, I’ve fallen into the
hands of the Philistines—that is to say, the doctors. I’ve not been
feeling very fit all winter but I’ve held on, hoping to finish out
the year.
“ Last week my landlady—who is
a saint in spectacles and calico—looked at me one morning at the
breakfast table and said, VERY gently, ‘You must go to town
to-morrow, Master, and see a doctor about yourself.’
“ I went and did not stand upon
the order of my going. Mrs. Williamson is She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.
She has an inconvenient habit of making you realize that she is
exactly right, and that you would be all kinds of a fool if you
didn’t take her advice. You feel that what she thinks to-day you
will think to-morrow.
“ In Charlottetown I consulted
a doctor. He punched and pounded me, and poked things at me and
listened at the other end of them; and finally he said I must stop
work ‘immejutly and to onct’ and hie me straightway to a climate
not afflicted with the north-east winds of Prince Edward Island in
the spring. I am not to be allowed to do any work until the fall.
Such was his dictum and Mrs. Williamson enforces it.
“ I shall teach this week out
and then the spring vacation of three weeks begins. I want you to
come over and take my place as pedagogue in the Lindsay school for
the last week in May and the month of June. The school year ends
then and there will be plenty of teachers looking for the place,
but just now I cannot get a suitable substitute. I have a couple of
pupils who are preparing to try the Queen’s Academy entrance
examinations, and I don’t like to leave them in the lurch or hand
them over to the tender mercies of some third-class teacher who
knows little Latin and less Greek. Come over and take the school
till the end of the term, you petted son of luxury. It will do you
a world of good to learn how rich a man feels when he is earning
twenty-five dollars a month by his own unaided efforts!
“ Seriously, Marshall, I hope
you can come, for I don’t know any other fellow I can ask. The work
isn’t hard, though you’ll likely find it monotonous. Of course,
this little north-shore farming settlement isn’t a very lively
place. The rising and setting of the sun are the most exciting
events of the average day. But the people are very kind and
hospitable; and Prince Edward Island in the month of June is such a
thing as you don’t often see except in happy dreams. There are some
trout in the pond and you’ll always find an old salt at the harbour
ready and willing to take you out cod-fishing or
lobstering.
“ I’ll bequeath you my boarding
house. You’ll find it comfortable and not further from the school
than a good constitutional. Mrs. Williamson is the dearest soul
alive; and she is one of those old-fashioned cooks who feed you on
feasts of fat things and whose price is above rubies.
“ Her husband, Robert, or Bob,
as he is commonly called despite his sixty years, is quite a
character in his way. He is an amusing old gossip, with a turn for
racy comment and a finger in everybody’s pie. He knows everything
about everybody in Lindsay for three generations back.
“ They have no living children,
but Old Bob has a black cat which is his especial pride and
darling. The name of this animal is Timothy and as such he must
always be called and referred to. Never, as you value Robert’s good
opinion, let him hear you speaking of his pet as ‘the cat,’ or even
as ‘Tim.’ You will never be forgiven and he will not consider you a
fit person to have charge of the school.
“ You shall have my room, a
little place over the kitchen, with a ceiling that follows the
slant of the roof down one side, against which you will bump your
head times innumerable until you learn to remember that it is
there, and a looking glass which will make one of your eyes as
small as a pea and the other as big as an orange.
“ But to compensate for these
disadvantages the supply of towels is generous and u
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