Kilmeny of the Orchard | Page 6

revolving light on the tip of the headland beyond the harbour has just been lighted and is winking and flashing like a beacon,
"'O'er the foam Of perilous seas in faerie lands forlorn.'"
"Wire me if you can come; and if you can, report for duty on the twenty-third of May."
Mr. Marshall, Senior, came in, just as Eric was thoughtfully folding up his letter. The former looked more like a benevolent old clergyman or philanthropist than the keen, shrewd, somewhat hard, although just and honest, man of business that he really was. He had a round, rosy face, fringed with white whiskers, a fine head of long white hair, and a pursed-up mouth. Only in his blue eyes was a twinkle that would have made any man who designed getting the better of him in a bargain think twice before he made the attempt.
It was easily seen that Eric must have inherited his personal beauty and distinction of form from his mother, whose picture hung on the dark wall between the windows. She had died while still young, when Eric was a boy of ten. During her lifetime she had been the object of the passionate devotion of both her husband and son; and the fine, strong, sweet face of the picture was a testimony that she had been worthy of their love and reverence. The same face, cast in a masculine mold, was repeated in Eric; the chestnut hair grew off his forehead in the same way; his eyes were like hers, and in his grave moods they held a similar expression, half brooding, half tender, in their depths.
Mr. Marshall was very proud of his son's success in college, but he had no intention of letting him see it. He loved this boy of his, with the dead mother's eyes, better than anything on earth, and all his hopes and ambitions were bound up in him.
"Well, that fuss is over, thank goodness," he said testily, as he dropped into his favourite chair.
"Didn't you find the programme interesting?" asked Eric absently.
"Most of it was tommyrot," said his father. "The only things I liked were Charlie's Latin prayer and those pretty little girls trotting up to get their diplomas. Latin IS the language for praying in, I do believe,--at least, when a man has a voice like Old Charlie's. There was such a sonorous roll to the words that the mere sound of them made me feel like getting down on my marrow bones. And then those girls were as pretty as pinks, now weren't they? Agnes was the finest-looking of the lot in my opinion. I hope it's true that you're courting her, Eric?"
"Confound it, father," said Eric, half irritably, half laughingly, "have you and David Baker entered into a conspiracy to hound me into matrimony whether I will or no?"
"I've never said a word to David Baker on such a subject," protested Mr. Marshall.
"Well, you are just as bad as he is. He hectored me all the way home from the college on the subject. But why are you in such a hurry to have me married, dad?"
"Because I want a homemaker in this house as soon as may be. There has never been one since your mother died. I am tired of housekeepers. And I want to see your children at my knees before I die, Eric, and I'm an old man now."
"Well, your wish is natural, father," said Eric gently, with a glance at his mother's picture. "But I can't rush out and marry somebody off-hand, can I? And I fear it wouldn't exactly do to advertise for a wife, even in these days of commercial enterprise."
"Isn't there ANYBODY you're fond of?" queried Mr. Marshall, with the patient air of a man who overlooks the frivolous jests of youth.
"No. I never yet saw the woman who could make my heart beat any faster."
"I don't know what you young men are made of nowadays," growled his father. "I was in love half a dozen times before I was your age."
"You might have been 'in love.' But you never LOVED any woman until you met my mother. I know that, father. And it didn't happen till you were pretty well on in life either."
"You're too hard to please. That's what's the matter, that's what's the matter!"
"Perhaps I am. When a man has had a mother like mine his standard of womanly sweetness is apt to be pitched pretty high. Let's drop the subject, father. Here, I want you to read this letter--it's from Larry."
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Marshall, when he had finished with it. "So Larry's knocked out at last--always thought he would be--always expected it. Sorry, too. He was a decent fellow. Well, are you going?"
"Yes, I think so, if you don't object."
"You'll have a pretty monotonous time of it, judging