The next day was Sunday and Eric went to church twice.
The Williamson pew was one of the side ones at the
top of the church and its occupants practically faced
the congregation. Eric looked at every girl
and woman in the audience, but he saw nothing of the
face which, setting will power and common sense flatly
at defiance, haunted his memory like a star.
Thomas Gordon was there, sitting alone in his long,
empty pew near the top of the building; and Neil Gordon
sang in the choir which occupied the front pew of
the gallery. He had a powerful and melodious,
though untrained voice, which dominated the singing
and took the colour out of the weaker, more commonplace
tones of the other singers. He was well-dressed
in a suit of dark blue serge, with a white collar
and tie. But Eric idly thought it did not become
him so well as the working clothes in which he had
first seen him. He was too obviously dressed
up, and he looked coarser and more out of harmony
with his surroundings.
For two days Eric refused to let himself think of
the orchard. Monday evening he went cod-fishing,
and Tuesday evening he went up to play checkers with
Alexander Tracy. Alexander won all the games
so easily that he never had any respect for Eric Marshall
again.
“Played like a feller whose thoughts were wool
gathering,” he complained to his wife.
“He’ll never make a checker player—
never in this world.”
Wednesday evening Eric went to the orchard again;
and again he was disappointed. He went home,
determined to solve the mystery by open inquiry.
Fortune favoured him, for he found Mrs. Williamson
alone, sitting by the west window of her kitchen and
knitting at a long gray sock. She hummed softly
to herself as she knitted, and Timothy slept blackly
at her feet. She looked at Eric with quiet affection
in her large, candid eyes. She had liked Mr.
West. But Eric had found his way into the inner
chamber of her heart, by reason that his eyes were
so like those of the little son she had buried in
the Lindsay churchyard many years before.
“Mrs. Williamson,” said Eric, with an
affectation of carelessness, “I chanced on an
old deserted orchard back behind the woods over there
last week, a charming bit of wilderness. Do
you know whose it is?”
“I suppose it must be the old Connors orchard,”
answered Mrs. Williamson after a moment’s reflection.
“I had forgotten all about it. It must
be all of thirty years since Mr. and Mrs. Connors
moved away. Their house and barns were burned
down and they sold the land to Thomas Gordon and went
to live in town. They’re both dead now.
Mr. Connors used to be very proud of his orchard.
There weren’t many orchards in Lindsay then,
though almost everybody has one now.”
“There was a young girl in it, playing on a
violin,” said Eric, annoyed to find that it
cost him an effort to speak of her, and that the blood
mounted to his face as he did so. “She
ran away in great alarm as soon as she saw me, although
I do not think I did or said anything to frighten
or vex her. I have no idea who she was.
Do you know?”
