Itis not to be inferred from what has just been said that it had become a matter of importance to Colin how Alice Meredith looked. On the contrary, the relations between the two young people grew more distant, instead of becoming closer. It wasLauderdale with whom she talked about the domestic arrangements, which he and she managed together; and indeed it was apparent that Alice, on the whole, had come to regard Colin, in a modified degree, as she regarded her brother—as something to be taken care of, watched, fed, tended, and generally deferred to, without any great possibility of comprehension or fellowship. Lauderdale, like herself, was the nurse and guardian of his invalid. Though she lost sight of him altogether in the discussions which perpetually arose among the three (which was not so much from being unable to understand these discussions as from the conclusion made beforehand that she had nothing to do with them), it was quite a different matter when they fell into the background to consult what would be best for their two charges. There Alice was the superior, and felt her power. She talked to her tall companion with all the freedom of her age, accepting his as that of a grandfather at least, to the amusement of the philosopher, to whom her chatter was very pleasant. All the history of her family (as he imagined) came unawares to Lauderdale’s ears in this simple fashion, and more of Alice’s own mind and thoughts than she had the least idea of. He walked about with her as the lion might have done with Una, with a certain mixture of superiority and inferiority, amusement and admiration. She was only a little girl to Lauderdale, but a delightsome thing in her innocent way; and, so far from approving of Colin’s indifference, there were times when he became indignant at it, speculating impatiently on the youthful folly which did not recognise good fortune when it saw it. “Of all women in the world the wife for the callant, if he only would make use of his een,” Lauderdale said to himself; but so far from making use of his eyes, it pleased Colin, with the impertinence of youth, to turn the tables on his Mentor, and to indulge in unseasonable laughter, which sometimes had all but offended the graver and older man.
Alice, however, whose mind was bent upon other things, was none the wiser for this; and for her own part found “Mr. Lauderdale” of wonderful service to her. When they sat making up their accounts at the end of the week, Alice with her little pencil putting everything down in pauls and scudi, which Lauderdale elaborately did into English money, as a preliminary to the exact division of expenses which the two careful housekeepers made, the sight was pleasant enough. By times it occurred that Alice, dreadfully puzzled by her companion’s Scotch, but bound in chains of iron by her good breeding, whichcoming direct from the heart was of the most exquisite type, came stealing up to Colin, after a long interview with his friend, to ask the meaning of a word or two preserved by painful mnemonic exercises in her memory; and she took to reading the Waverley novels by way of assisting her in the new language; but, as the only available copies of these works were in the shape of an Italian translation, it may be imagined that her progress was limited, and that the oral teaching was the most instructive.
Meanwhile, Meredith lived on as best he could, poor fellow, basking in the sun in the middle of the day, and the rest of his time sitting close to the fire with as many pillows and cloaks in his hard, old-fashioned easy chair as might have sufficed for Siberia; and, indeed, it was a kind of Siberian refuge which they had set up in the top floor of the empty cold palace, which was used for a residence only during the hot season, and was adapted solely to the necessities of a blazing Italian summer. For the Italian winter—often so keen and penetrating, with its cutting winds that come from the mountains, and those rapid and violent transitions which form the shadow to its sunshine—there, as elsewhere, little provision had been made; and the surprise of the inexperienced travellers, who had come there for warmth and genial atmosphere, and found themselves suddenly plunged into a life of Spartan endurance—of deadly chill and iciness indescribable—has been already described. Yet neither of them would consent to go into Rome, where comfort might be had by paying for it, and leave the brother and sister alone in this chilly nest of theirs. So they remained together on their lofty perch, looking over the great Campagna, witnessing such sunsets and grandeurs of cloud and wind as few people are privy to all their lifetime; watching the gleams of snow appear and disappear over the glorious purple depths of the Sabine hills, and the sun shooting golden arrows into the sea; and gloom more wonderful still than the light, rolling on like an army in full march over that plain which has no equal. All these things they watched and witnessed, with comments of every description, and with silence better than any comment. In themselves they were a strange little varied company; one of them, still in the middle of life, but to his own consciousness done with it, and watching the present actors as he watched the sunsets; two of them full of undeveloped prospects beginning the world which was so familiar and yet so unknown; the last of all making his way steadily with few delays into a world still more unknown—a world which they all by times turned to investigate, with speculations, with questions, with enthusiastic anticipation, with profound, child-like faith. Such was their life up among the breezes, on the soft slopes of the Alban hills; and in the midst of everything more serious, of opening life and approaching death, Lauderdale and Alice sat down together weekly to reckon up their expenses in Italian and English money, and keep their accounts straight, as the little housewife termed it, with the world.
During this wintry weather, however, the occupations of the party were not altogether limited to these weekly accounts. Meredith, though a little startled by the surprise shown by his companions at the too ingenious device of the map—which, after all, was not his device, but that of some Tract Society, or other body more zealous than scrupulous—had not ceased his warnings, in season and out of season. He talked to Maria about dying in a way which inspired that simple woman to the unusual exertion of a pilgrimage to Vicovaro, where the kind Madonna had just been proved upon ample testimony to have moved her eyes, to the great comfort and edification of the faithful. “No doubt it would be much better to be walking about all day among the blessed saints in heaven, as the Signor Arturo gives himself the trouble of telling me,” Maria said, with some anxiety in her face, “butvedi, cara Signorina mia, it would be very inconvenient at the beginning of the season;” and, indeed, the same opinion was commonly expressed by Arthur’s Italian auditors, who had, for the most part, affairs on hand which did not admit of immediate attention to such a topic. Even the good-natured friars at Capo Croce declined to tackle the young Englishman after the first accost; for they were all of opinion that dying was a business to be got over in the most expeditious manner possible, not to be dwelt on either by unnecessary anxiousness before or lingering regret after; and, as for the inevitable event itself, there were the last sacraments to make all right—though, indeed, the English invalid,povero infelice, might well make a fuss about a matter which must be so hopeless to him. This was all the fruit he had of his labours, there being at that time no enterprising priest at hand to put a stop to the discussions of the heretic. But, at the same time, he had Colin and Lauderdale close by, and was using every means in his power to “do them good,” as he said; and still, in the quiet nights, when the cold and the silence had taken entire possession of the great, vacant house and the half-frozen village, poorMeredith, dragged his chair and his table closet to the fire, and drew his cloak over his shoulders, and added yet another and another chapter to his “Voice from the Grave.”
As for Colin, if he had been alittèrateurby profession, it is likely that, by this time, he would have began to compile “Letters from Italy,” like others of the trade; but, being only a Scotch scholar, the happy holder of a Glasgow bursary, he felt himself superior to such temptations; though, indeed, after a week’s residence at Frascati, Colin secretly felt himself in a condition to let loose his opinion about Italian affairs in general. In the meantime, however, he occupied himself in another fashion. Together, he and his watchful guardian made pilgrimages into Rome. They went to see everything that it was right to go to see; but, over and above that, they went into the churches—into all manner of churches out of the way, where there were no grand functions going on, but only every-day worship. Colin was not a watchful English divine spying upon the superstition of Rome, nor a rampant Protestant finding out her errors and idolatries. He was the destined priest of a nation in a state of transition and renaissance, which had come to feel itself wanting in the balance after a long period of self-complacency. With the instinct of a budding legislator and the eagerness of youth, he watched the wonderful scene before him—not the Pope, with his peacock feathers, and purple and scarlet followers, and wonderful audience of heretics—not high masses in great basilicas, nor fine processions, nor sweet music. The two Scotsmen made part of very different assemblies in those Lenten days, and even in the joyful time of Easter, when carriagefulls of English visitors, rushing to the ceremonies of the week, made the narrow Roman streets almost impassable. Perhaps it was a feeling of a different kind which drew the two strangers for the first time to the awful and solemn temple, where once the heathen gods were worshipped, and where Raphael rests; but let artists pardon Colin, whose own profession has associations still more lofty than theirs, if, on his second visit, he forgot Raphael, and even the austere nobility of the place. A humble congregation of the commonest people about—people not even picturesque—women with shawls over their heads, and a few of the dreamy poor old men who seem to spend their lives about Italian churches, were dotted over the vast floor, kneeling on those broken marbles which are as old as Christianity; some dropped at random in the middle, beneath the wonderful blue breadth of sky which looked in upon their devotions; some about the steps of the little altars round, and alittle group at the special shrine where vespers were being sung. A lover of music would not have found a voice worth listening to in the place, and perhaps neither time nor tune was much attended to; but there was not a soul there, from the faint old men to the little children, who did not, according to his capabilities, take up the response, which was to every one, apparently, matter as familiar as an every-day utterance. These worshippers had no books, and did not need any. It might be words in a dead language—it might be but partially understood, or not understood at all; but at least it was known and familiar as no religious service is in England, notwithstanding all our national vaunt of the prayer-book, and as nothing could possibly be in Scotland, where we have no guide (save “the minister”) to our devotion. When Colin, still weak and easily fatigued, withdrew a little, and sat down upon the steps of the high altar to listen, with a kind of shame in his heart at being unable to join those universal devotions, there came to his ear a wonderful chime of echoes from the great dome, which sent his poetic heart astray in spite of itself—for it sounded to the young dreamer like another unseen choir up there, who could tell of what spectators and assistants?—wistful voices of the past, coming back to echo the Name which was greater than that of Jove or Apollo. And then he returned to his legislative thoughts; to his dreams, patriotic and priestly: to his wondering, incredulous question with himself whether worship so familiar and so general, so absolutely a part of their daily existence, could ever be known to his own people. Such a thought, no doubt, had it been known, would almost have warranted the withdrawal of the scholarship, and certainly would have deferred indefinitely Colin’s chances of obtaining licence from any Scotch Presbytery. But, fortunately, Presbyterians are little interested in investigating what takes place in the Pantheon at Rome;—whether old Agrippa breathes a far-off Amen out of the dome of his dead magnificence to the worship of the Nazarene, as Colin thought in his dreams; or what vain imaginations may possess the soul of a wandering student there. He was roused abruptly out of these visions by the English party who had visited him at Frascati, and who came up to salute him now with that frank indifference to other people for which our nation is said to be pre-eminent. They shook hands with him all round, for they were acquainted with his story, and Colin was of the kind of man to make people interested in him; and then they began to talk.
“A sad exhibition this, is it not, Mr. Campbell?” said themother; “one forgets how dreadful it is, you know, when one sees it in all its grandeur—with fine music, and silver trumpets, and so forth; but it is terrible to see all these poor creatures, and to think they know no better. Such singing! There is not a charity school at home that would do so badly; and they speak of music in Italy!” said the English matron, who indeed in her last observation had some truth on her side.
“Hush,” said Colin, who was young, and not above saying a fine thing when he could; “listen to the echo. Are there some kind angels in the dome, do you think, to mend the music? or is it the poor old heathens who hang about for very wistfulness, and say as good an Amen as they can, poor souls? Listen; I have heard no music like it in Rome.”
“Oh, Mr. Campbell, what a beautiful idea!” said the young lady; and then, the service being ended, they walked about a little, and looked up from the centre of the place to the blue wintry sky, which forms the living centre of that vault of ages—an occupation which Lauderdale interrupted hurriedly enough by reminding Colin that they had still to get out to Frascati, and were already after time.
“Oh! you still live in Frascati,” said Colin’s acquaintance, “with that very strange young man? I never spoke to anybody in my life who startled me so much. Do you happen to know if he is a son of that very strange Mr. Meredith, whom there was so much talk of last year? that man, you know, who pretended to be so very good, and ran away with somebody. Dear me, I thought everybody knew that story. His son was ill, I know, and lived abroad. I wonder if it is the same.”
“I don’t think my friend has any father,” said Colin, who, stimulated by the knowledge that the last train would start in half an hour, was anxious to get away.
“Ah, well, I hope so, I am sure, for your sake; forthatMr. Meredith was a dreadful man, and pretended to besogood till he was found out,” said the lady. “Something Hall was the name of his place. Let me recollect. Dear me, does nobody know the name?”
“Good-bye; it is our time,” said Colin, and he obeyed the gesture of Lauderdale, and rushed after his already distant figure; but, before he had turned the corner of the square, one of the sons overtook him. “I beg your pardon, but my mother wishes you to know that it was Meredith of Maltby she was talking of just now,” said the young man out of breath. Colin laughed to himself as he hastened after his friend. What had he to dowith Meredith of Maltby? But, as he dashed along, he began to recollect an ugly story in the papers, and to bethink himself of a certain odd prejudice which he had been conscious of on first hearing the name of the brother and sister. When he got near enough to Lauderdale to lay hold of his arm, Colin could not help uttering, as was usual to him, what was at present on the surface of his mind.
“You know all about them,” he said; “do you think they have a father?” which simple words were said with a few gasps, as he was out of breath.
“What’s the use of coming after me like a steam-engine?” said Lauderdale; “did you think I would run away? and you’ve need of a’ your breath for that weary brae. How should I ken all about them? They’re your friends, and not mine.”
“All very well, Lauderdale; but she never makesmeher confidant,” said the young man, with his usual laugh.
“It’s no canny to speak ofshe,” said Lauderdale; “it’s awfu’ suggestive, and no a word for either you or me. She has an aunt in India, and two uncles that died in the Crimea, if you want to know exactly. That is all she has ever told to me.”
And with this they dismissed the subject from their minds, and, arm-in-arm, addressed themselves to the arduous task of getting to the station through the narrow crowded streets in time for the train.
Thefatigue of sight-seeing, wound up by a frantic rush to the railway to be in time for the train, which after all was a train quite at leisure, as most passengers are in Italy, was too much for the early budding of Colin’s strength, and laid him up for a day or two, as was only natural; an occurrence which had a curious effect upon the little household. To Lauderdale it was a temporary return into those mists of despair which, partly produced by the philosopher’s own sad experience, had made him at first come to so abrupt a conclusion touching Colin’s chances of life. When he saw him once more prostrated, Lauderdale’s patience and courage alike gave way. He became like a man in a sinking ship, who has not composure to await the end which is naturally at hand, but flings himself into thesea to meet it. He talked wildly of going home, and bitterly of the utter privation of comfort to which his invalid was exposed; and his heart was closed for the moment even to the approaches of Alice. “If it hadna been for you!” he said within his clenched teeth, turning away from her; and was not safe to speak to for the moment. But, oddly enough, the effect of Colin’s illness upon the others was of an entirely different character. Instead of distressing Meredith and his sister, it produced, by some wonderful subtle action which we do not pretend to explain, an exhilarating effect upon them. It seemed to prove somehow, to Alice especially, that illness was a general evil distributed over all the world; that it was a usual thing for young men to be reduced to weakness and obliged to be careful of themselves. “Mr. Campbell, you see, is just the same as Arthur. It is a great deal commoner than one thinks,” the poor little girl said to Sora Antonia, who had charge of the house; and though her feelings towards Colin were of the most benevolent and even affectionate description, this thought was a sensible consolation to her. Meredith regarded the matter from a different point of view. “I have always hoped that he was one of the chosen,” the invalid said when he heard of Colin’s illness; “but I feared that God was leaving him alone. We always judge His ways prematurely even when we least intend it. We ought to thank God that our dear friend is feeling His hand, and is subject to chastisements which may lead him to Christ.”
“Callant,” said Lauderdale fiercely, “speak of things ye understand; it’s not for you to interfere between a man and his Maker. A soul more like Him of whom you dare to speak never came out of the Almighty’s hands. Do you think God is like a restless woman and never can be done meddling?” said Colin’s guardian, betrayed out of his usual self-restraint; but his own heart was trembling for his charge, and he had not composure enough to watch over his words. As for the sick man, whose own malady went steadily on without any great pauses or sudden increase, he lifted his dying eyes and addressed himself eagerly, as he was wont, to his usual argument.
“If any man can understand it, I should,” said Meredith. “Cannot I trace the way by which He has ledme?—a hard way to flesh and blood. Cannot I see how He has driven me from one stronghold after another, leaving me no refuge but in Christ? And, such being the case, can you wonder that I should wish the same discipline for my friend? The onlything I should fear for myself is restoration to health; and are you surprised that I should fear it for him?”
“I am not surprised at anything but my ain idiocy in having my hand in the matter,” said Lauderdale; and he went away abruptly to Colin’s room with a horrible sense of calamity and helplessness. There was something in Meredith’s confident explanation of God’s dealings which drove him half frantic, and filled him with an unreasonable panic. Perhaps it was true; perhaps those lightnings in the clouds had been but momentary—a false hope. When, however, with his agitation so painfully compressed and kept under that it produced a morose expression upon his grave face, he went into Colin’s room, he found his patient sitting up in bed, with his great-coat over his shoulders, writing with a pencil on the fly-leaf of the book which his faithful attendant had given him to “keep him quiet.”
“Never mind,” said the disorderly invalid. “I am all right, Lauderdale. Give us pen and ink, like a kind soul. You don’t imagine I am ill, surely, because I am lazy after last night?”
“I’ve given up imagining anything on the subject,” said Colin’s grim guardian. “When a man in his senses sets up house with a parcel of lunatics it’s easy to divine what will come of it, lie down in your bed and keep quiet, and get well again; or else get up,” said Lauderdale, giving vent to a sharp acrid sound as if he had gnashed his teeth, “and let us be done with it all, and go home.”
At this Colin opened his great brown eyes, which were as far from being anxious or depressed as could well be conceived, and laughed softly in his companion’s face.
“This comes of Meredith’s talk, I suppose,” he said; “and of course it has been about me, or it would not have riled you. How often have you told me that you understood the state of mind which produced all that? He is very good at the bottom, Lauderdale,” said Colin. “There’s a good fellow, give me my little writing-case. I want to write it out.”
“You want to write what out?” asked Lauderdale. “Some of your nonsense verses? I’ll give you no writing-case. Lie down in your bed and keep yourself warm.” “You’re awfu’ fond of looking at your ain productions. I’ve no doubt its terrible rubbish if a man could read it. Let’s see the thing. Do you think a parcel of verses in that haltingIn Memoriammetre—I’m no saying anything againstIn Memoriam—but ifIset up for a poet, I would make a measure for mysel’—are worth anillness? and the cold of this wretched place is enough to kill ony rational man. Eetaly! I wouldna send a dog here, to be perished with cold and hunger. Do what I tell you, callant, and lie down. It shows an awfu’ poverty of invention, that desire to copy everything out.”
“Stuff!” said Colin; “you don’t suppose it is for myself. I want to give it to somebody,” said the young man with a conscious smile. And to look at him with his countenance all a-glow, pleasure and fun and affection brightening his eyes, and his face lighted up with the gentle commotion of thought which had ended in that writing of verses, it was hard to think of him as a man whom God for a solemn purpose had weighted with affliction—as he had appeared in Meredith’s eyes. Rather he looked, what he was, one of God’s most joyful and gifted creatures; glad without knowing why; glad because the sweet imaginations of youth had possession of him, and filled heaven and earth with brave apparitions. Love and anxiety had introduced into the heart of Lauderdale, so far as Colin was concerned, a certain feminine element—and he laughed unsteadily out of a poignant thrill of relief and consolation, as he took the book from his patient’s hands.
“He’s no a callant that can do without an audience,” said Lauderdale; “and, seeing it’s poetry that’s in question, no doubt it’s a female audience that’s contemplated. You may spare yourself the trouble, Colin. She’s bonnie, and she’s good; and I’m no free to say that I don’t like her all the better for caring for none of these things; but I see no token that she’ll ever get beyond Watts’s hymns all her days. You needna trouble your head about writing out things for her.”
Upon which Colin reddened a little, and said “Stuff!” and made a long grasp at the writing-case—which exertion cost him a fit of coughing. Lauderdale sat by his side gloomily enough all day, asking himself whether the colour was hectic that brightened Colin’s cheeks, and listening to the sound of his breathing and the ring of his voice with indescribable pangs of anxiety. When evening came the watcher had considerably more fever than the patient, and turned his eyes abroad over the Campagna, with a gaze which saw nothing glorious in the scene. At that moment, the sun going down in grandeur over the misty distance, which was Rome—the wonderful belts and zones of colour in the vault of sky which covered in that melancholy waste with its specks of ruin—were nothing in Lauderdale’s eyes in comparison with the vision that haunted him of a cosyhomely room in a Scotch farmhouse, full of warm glimmers of fire light and humble comforts. “He would mend if he were but at home,” he said to himself almost with bitterness, turning his eyes from the landscape without, to which he was indifferent, to the bare white stony walls within. He was so cold sitting there, he who was well and strong, that he had put on his great-coat. And it was for this he had brought the youth whom he loved so far away from those “who belonged to him!” Lauderdale thought with a pang of the Mistress, and what she would say if she could see the comfortless place to which she had sent her boy. Meanwhile the patient who caused so much anxiety, was, for his own part, very comfortable, and copied out his verses with a care that made it very apparent he had no intention of coming to a speedy end, either of life or its enjoyments. He had not written anything for a long time, and the exercise was pleasant to him—and when it was done he lay back on his pillows, and took the trouble to remark to Lauderdale upon the decorations of the poor bare stony chamber which the philosopher was cursing in his heart.—“We are before them in some things,” said Colin, reflectively, “but they beat us in a great many. See how simply that effect is obtained—just a line or two of colour, and yet nothing could be more perfect in its way.” To which observation Lauderdale responded only by an indescribable growl, which provoked the laughter of his unruly patient. The next remark Colin made was, however, received with greater favour, for he asked plaintively if it was not time for dinner—a question more soothing to Lauderdale’s feelings than volumes of remonstrances. He carried Colin’s portion into the room when that meal arrived from the Trattoria, scorning female assistance, and arranging everything with that exquisite uncouth tenderness which, perhaps, only a woman could do full justice to; for the fact is, that Colin, though ravenously hungry, and fully disposed to approve of the repast, had a momentary thought that it would have been ever so much pleasanter to have been served by the little housekeeper herself.
When the darkness had hushed and covered up the Campagna, and stilled all the village sounds, Lauderdale himself, a little flushed from an address he had just been delivering to Meredith, went in and looked at the sleeping face which was so precious to him, and tortured himself once more with questions whether it might be fever which gave colour to the young man’s cheek. But Colin, notwithstanding his cold, was breathing full longbreaths, with life in every inspiration, and his friend went not uncomforted to bed.
But while Colin lay thus at rest, Meredith had resumed his writing, and was working into his current chapter the conversation which had just taken place. “The worldly man asks if the afflictions of the just are signs of favouritism on God’s part,” wrote the young author, “and appeals to us whether a happy man is less beloved of his Father than I am who suffer. He virtually contradicts scripture, and tells me that the Lord doesnotscourge every son whom He receiveth. But I say, and the Holy Bible says with me, Tremble, oh ye who are happy—our troubles are God’s tokens of love and mercy to our souls.” As he wrote this, the young eyes, which were so soon to close upon life, brightened and expanded with a wonderful glow. His mind was not broad nor catholic, nor capable of perceiving the manifold diversity of those ways of God which are beyond the comprehension of men. He could not understand how, upon the last and lightest labourer, the Master of the vineyard might bestow the equal hire; and—taking that as the hardest labour which fell to his own share—was bent at least on making up for it by the most supreme compensation. And, indeed, it was hard to blame him for claiming, by way of balance to his afflictions, a warmer and closer share in the love of God. At least, that was no vulgar recompense. As for the “worldly man” of Arthur’s paragraph, he, too, sat a long while in his chamber, not writing, but pondering—gazing into the flame of the tall Roman lamp on his table as if some solution of the mysteries in his thoughts was to be found in its smoky light. To identify Lauderdale in the character of a worldly man would have been difficult enough to any one who knew him; yet, to Meredith, he had afforded a perfect example of “carnal reasoning,” and the disposition which is according to the flesh, and not according to the Spirit. This worldly-minded individual sat staring into the lamp, even after his young critic had ceased to write—revolving things that he could see were about to happen, and things which he dreaded without being able to see; and more than all wondering over that awful mystery of Providence to which the young invalid gave so easy a solution. “It wouldna be so hard to make out if a man could think he was less loved than his fellows, as they thought lang-syne,” said Lauderdale to himself, “or more loved, as, twisting certain scriptures, it’s the fashion to say now; but its awfu’ ill to understand such dealings in Him that is the Father of all, andmakes nae favourites. Poor Callant! it’s like he’ll be the first to find the secret out.” And, as he pondered, he could not restrain a groan over the impending fate which threatened Meredith, and on the complications that were soon to follow. To be sure, he had nothing particular to do with it, however it might happen; but every kind of Christian tenderness and charity lurked in the heart of the homely Scotch philosopher who stood in Arthur Meredith’s last chapter as the impersonation of the worldly man.
Next day Colin reappeared, to the astonishment of the brother and sister. Let us not say, to their disappointment—and yet poor little Alice, underneath her congratulations, said to herself with a pang, “He has got well—they all get well but Arthur;” and, when she was aware of the thought, hated herself, and wondered wistfully whether it was because of her wickedness that her prayers for Arthur were not heard. Anxiety and even grief are not the improving influences they are sometimes thought to be—and it is hard upon human nature to be really thankful for the benefits which God gives to others, passing over one’s self. Meredith, who was the sufferer in his own person, could afford to be more generous. He said, “I am glad you are better” with all his heart; and then he added—“The Lord does not mean to leave you alone, Campbell. Though He has spared you, He still continues His warnings. Do not neglect them, I beseech you, my dear friend”—before he returned to his writing. He was occupied now day and night with his “Voice from the Grave.” He was less able to walk, less able to talk, than he had been, and now, as the night came fast in which no man can work, was devoting all his time and all his feeble strength to this last message to the world.
It would have been pitiful enough to any indifferent spectator to note the contrast between the sick man’s solemn labour apart, and the glow of subdued pleasure in Colin’s face as he drew his seat in the evening towards the table which Alice had chosen for herself. The great bare room had so much space and so many tables, and there was so large a stock of lamps among the movables of the house, that each of the party had a corner for himself, to which (with his great-coat on or otherwise) he could retire when he chose. The table of Alice was the central point; and as she sat with the tall antique lamp throwing its primitive unshaded light upon her, still and graceful with her needlework, the sight of her was like that of a supremeobjet de luxein the otherwise bare apartment.Perhaps, under due protection and control, the presence of womankind, thus calm, thus silent—letting itself, as the old maxim commanded, be seen and not heard—is to men of sober mind and middle age—such as Lauderdale, for example—the most agreeable ornament with which a room could be provided. Younger individuals might prefer that the tableau should dissolve, and the impersonation of womankind melt into an ordinary woman. Such at least was the feeling of Colin. She was very sweet to look at; but, if she had descended from her pedestal, and talked a little and laughed a little, and even perhaps—but the idea of anything like flirtation on the part of Alice Meredith was too absurd an idea to be entertained for a moment. However, abstracted and preoccupied as she was; she was still a woman young and fair—and Colin’s voice softened and his eyes brightened as he drew his chair to the other side of the lamp, and looked across the table at her soft, downcast face. “I have something here I want you to look at,” said the young poet, who had been used to Matty Frankland’s sympathy and curiosity; “not that it is much worth your while; but Lauderdale told you that writing verses was a weakness of mine,” he went on, with, a youthful blush and smile. As for Alice, she took the paper he gave her, looking a little frightened, and held it for a moment in her hand.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Campbell; am I to read it?” she said, with puzzled, uncertain looks. Naturally enough she was perplexed and even frightened by such an address; for, as Lauderdale said, her knowledge of poetry was confined to hymns, over which hung an awful shadow from the “Paradise Lost.” She opened Colin’s “copy of verses” timorously as she spoke, and glanced at them, and stumbled at his handwriting, which, like most other people’s in these, scribbling days, was careless and indistinct. “I am sure it is very pretty,” faltered Alice as she got to the end of the page; and then, more timidly still, “What am I to do with it, Mr. Campbell?” asked the poor girl. When she saw the sudden flush that covered his face, Alice’s slumbering faculties were wakened up by the sharp shock of having given pain—which was a fault which she had very seldom consciously committed in the course of her innocent life.
Colin was too much a gentleman to lose his temper; but it is impossible to deny that the effort which he made to keep it was a violent one, and required all his manhood. “Keep it if you like it,” he said, with a smile which thinly covered hismortification; “or put it in the fire if you don’t.” He said this as philosophically as was possible under the circumstances. And then he tried a little conversation by way of proving his perfect composure and command of his feelings, during which poor Alice sat fluttered and uncomfortable and self-conscious as she had never been before. Her work was at an end for that night at least. She held Colin’s little poem in her hand, and kept her eyes upon it, and tried with all her might to invent something gracious and complimentary which could be said without offence; for, of course, carefully as he imagined himself to have concealed it, and utterly unconscious of the fact as Lauderdale remained, who was watching them, Alice was as entirely aware of the state of Colin’s mind and temper at the moment as he was himself. After a while he got up and went to Meredith’s table by the fire; and the two began to talk, as Alice imagined, of matters much too serious and momentous to leave either at leisure to remark her movements. When she saw them thus occupied she left the room almost stealthily, carrying with her the tall lamp with its four tongues of flame. She set down her light in her own room when she reached that sanctuary, and once more read and pored over Colin’s poem. There was nothing about love in it, and consequently nothing improper or alarming to Alice. It was all about the Pantheon and its vespers, and the echoes in the dome. But then why did he give it to her? why did he look so much disturbed when she in her surprise and unreadiness hesitated over it? Such an offering was totally new to Alice: how could she be expected to understand exactly how it ought to be received? But it is impossible to describe how vexed and mortified she was to find she had failed of what was expected of her, and inflicted pain when she might have given pleasure. She had been rude, and to be rude was criminal in her code of manners; and a flutter of other questions, other curiosities, awoke without any will of her own in the young creature’s maiden bosom; for, indeed, she was still very young, not nineteen, and so preoccupied by one class of thoughts that her mind had been absolutely barred against all others until now.
The end was that Alice put away Colin’s poem in the private pocket of her writing-case, the very innermost of her sanctuaries. “How clever he is,” she thought to herself; “how odd that such things should come into any one’s head; and to think I had not even the civility to say that it was beautiful poetry!” Then she went back very humbly into the sitting-room, andserved Colin with the last cup of tea, which was the most excellent. “For I know you like strong tea, Mr. Campbell,” she said, looking at him with appealing eyes. “It feels quite strange to think that we should know you so well—you who can write such beautiful poetry,”[1]she managed to say later in the evening. “I have always supposed a poet so different.”
“With wings, perhaps?” said Colin, who was not displeased even with this simple testimony.
“Oh no,” said Alice, “that is impossible, you know—but certainly very different; and it was so very kind to think of giving it to me.”
Thus she made her peace with the young man—but it is doubtful how far she promoted her own by so doing. It introduced a new element of wonder and curiosity, if nothing more, into her watching life.
“Itwould be a great satisfaction to me,” said Lauderdale, “to have some understanding about their relations. There’s few folk so lonely in this world but what they have some kin, be they kind or not. It’s awfu’ to look at this poor bit thing, and think how forlorn she’ll be by and by, when——”
“When?” said Colin—“what do you mean? Meredith is not worse that I can see. Isthatwhat you are thinking of?”
“It’s an awfu’ gradual descent,” said Lauderdale; “nae precipices there—and pitiful to behold; but he’s making progress onhis way. I’m no mistaken, callant; a man like me has seen such sights before. It looks as if it could go on for ever, and nae great difference perceptible from day to day; but the wheel’s aye turning and the thread spinning off, and nobody can say for certain what moment it may break, like glass, and the spinning come to an end. Ay, it’s an awfu’ mystery. You may break your heart thinking, but you’ll come to no solution. I’ve tried it as much as most men, and should ken;—but that’s no the matter under consideration. I would be glad to know something about their friends.”
“I don’t suppose they have any friends,” said Colin, who had by this time forgotten the suggestion of his English acquaintances. “He would never have brought his sister here with him if he had had anyone to leave her with—that is, if he believed, as he says he does, that he was going to die,” said the young man, with a pang of fellow-feeling and natural pity, “which are terrible words to say.”
“I’m no so sure about either of your propositions,” said Lauderdale; “I’ve very little objection to die, for my part. No to speak of hopes a man has as a Christian—though I maybe canna see them as clear as that poor callant thinks he does—it would be an awfu’ satisfaction to ken what was the meaning of it all, which is my grand difficulty in this life. And I cannot say I am satisfied, for that matter, that he brought his sister here for want of somebody to leave her with; she’s a kind of property that he wouldna like to leave behind. He was not thinking of her when they started, but of himsel’; nor can I see that his mind’s awakening to any thought of her even now, though he’s awfu’ anxious, no doubt, about her soul, and yours, and mine. Whisht! it’s temperament, callant. I’m no blaming the poor dying lad. It’s hard upon a man if he cannot be permitted to take some bit female creature that belongs to him as far as the grave’s mouth. She maun find her way back from there the best way she can. It’s human nature, Colin, for a’ you look like a glaring lion at me.”
“I prefer your ordinary manner of expounding human nature,” said Colin. “Don’t talk like this; if Miss Meredith is left so helpless and solitary, at all events, Lauderdale, she can rely on you and me.”
“Ay,” said the philosopher shortly; “and grand protectors we would be for the like of her. Two men no her equals in the eye of the world—I’m no heeding your indignant looks, my freend; I’m a better judge than you of some things—and one ofus no of an age to be over and above trusted. A lad like you can take care of a bit thing like her only in one way; and that’s out of the question under present circumstances—even if either of you were thinking of such vanities, of which I see no sign.”
“None whatever,” said Colin, with momentary heat. “She is not in my way; and, besides, she is greatly too much occupied to think of any such vanities, as you say.”
Lauderdale cast a half-amused, suspicious look at his companion, whose face was flushed a little. Colin was thinking only of Alice’s want of comprehension and sympathy on the previous night; but the touch of offence and mortification was as evident as if she had been unkind to him in more important particulars.
“Being agreed on that point, it’s easier to manage the rest,” Lauderdale resumed, with the ghost of a smile; “and I dinna pretend, for my own part, to be a fit guardian for a young leddy. It’s a’ very well for Telle-machus to wander about the world like this, but I’m no qualified to keep watch and ward over the princess. Poor thing!” said the philosopher, “it’s awfu’ early to begin her troubles; but I would be easy in my mind, comparatively, if we could find out about their friends. She’s no so very communicative in that particular; and she has her bit woman’s whiles, innocent as she looks. She’ll give me no satisfaction, though I’m awfu’ cunning in my questions. What was it yon silly woman said about some Meredith of some place? I’m no without suspicions in my own mind.”
“What sort of suspicions?” said Colin. “She said Meredith of Maltby. I wrote it down somewhere. There was a row about him in the papers—don’t you remember—a few years ago.”
“Oh ay, I remember,” said Lauderdale; “one of them that consume widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayers. The wonder to me is how this callant, if he should happen to be such a man’s son, did not take a sickening at religion altogether. That’s the consequence in a common mind. It gives me a higher notion of this poor lad. He has his faults, like most folk I ken,” said Lauderdale. “He’s awfu’ young, which is the chief of all, and it’s one that will never mend in his case in this life; but, if he’s yon man’s son, no to have abandoned a’ religion, no to have scorned the very name of preaching and prayer, is a clear token to me that the root of the matter’s in him; though he may be a wee unrighteous to his ain flesh and blood”—the philosopher went on philosophically—“that’s neither here nor there.”
“If religion does not make us righteous to our own flesh and blood, what is the good of it?” said Colin. “To care for souls, as you say, but not to care for leaving his sister so helpless and desolate, would be to me as bad as his father’s wickedness. Bah! his father!—what am I saying? He is no more his father than the Duke is mine. It is only a coincidence of name.”
“I’m making no assertions,” said Lauderdale. “It may be or it may not be; I’m no saying: but you should aye bear in mind that there’s an awfu’ difference between practice and theory. To have a good theory—or, if ye like, a grand ideal—o’ existence, is about as much as a man can attain to in this world. To put it into full practice is reserved, let us aye hope, for the life to come. However, I wouldna say,” said Colin’s guardian, changing his tone, “but that kind of practical paradox might run in the blood. Our friend Arthur, poor man! has no meaning of neglect to his sister. Do no man injustice. Maybe the other had as little intention of cheating them that turned out his victims. An awfu’ practical accident like that might be accompanied by a beautiful theory. Just as in the case of his son—”
“Stuff!” said Colin, who thought his friend prosy. “Why will you insist on saying ‘his son?’ Meredith is not an uncommon name. You might as well say Owen Meredith was his brother.”
“There’s nothing more likely,” said the philosopher, composedly; “brothers aye take different roads, especially when they come out of such a nest; but listen now to what I’ve got to say——”
What Lauderdale had to say was still upon the subject of which Colin by this time had got tired—the supposed connexion of the brother and sister with the famous, or rather notorious Meredith of Maltby, who was one of the great leaders of that fashion of swindling so prevalent a few years ago, by means of which directors of banks and joint-stock companies brought so many people to ruin. Of these practitioners Mr. Meredith of Maltby had been one of the most successful. He had passed through one or two disagreeable examinations, it is true, in Insolvent Courts and elsewhere; but he had managed to steer clear of the law, and to retain a comfortable portion of his ill-gotten gains. He was a pious man, who subscribed to all the societies, and had, of course, since these unpleasant accidents occurred, been held up to public admiration by half the newspapers of Great Britain as an instance of the natural effect produced upon the human mind by an assumption of superior piety; and morethan one clever leading article, intended to prove that lavish subscriptions to benevolent purposes, and attendance at prayer meetings, were the natural evidences of a mind disposed to prey on its fellow-creatures, had been made pointed and emphatic by his name. Lauderdale’s “case” was subtle enough, and showed that he, at least, had not forgotten the hint given in the Pantheon. He told Colin that all his cunning inquiries could elicit no information about the father of the forlorn pair. Their mother was dead, and, so far as she was concerned, Alice was sufficiently communicative; and she had an aunt in India whom Lauderdale knew by heart. “A’ that is so easy to draw out that the other is all the more remarkable,” said the inquisitor; “and it’s awfu’ instructive to see the way she doubles out when I think I’ve got her in a corner—no saying what’s no true, but fencing like a little Jesuit; that is, speaking proverbially, and no vouching for my premises, for I ken nothing about Jesuits in my ain person. I would like to be at the bottom of a woman’s notions on such subjects. The way that bit thing will lift up her innocent face, and give me to understand a lee without saying it—”
“Be civil,” interrupted Colin; “a lie is strong language, especially as you have no right whatever to question her so closely.”
“I said nothing about lies,” said Lauderdale; “I say she gives me to understand aleewithout saying a word that’s no true; which is not only an awfu’ civil form of expression on my part, but a gift of womankind that, so far as I ken, is just unparalleled. If it werna instinct it would be genius. She went so far as once to say, in her bit fine way, that they were not quite happy in a’ their connexions—‘There are some of our friends that Arthur can’t approve of,’ said she, which was enough to make a man laugh or cry—whichever he might be most disposed to. A bonnie judge Arthur is, to be believed in like that. But the end of the whole matter is that I’m convinced the hot-headed callant has carried her off from her home without anybody’s knowledge, and that it’s an angry father you and me will have to answer to when we are left her protectors, as you say.”
“I hope I am not afraid to meet anybody when I have justice on my side,” said Colin, loftily. “She is nothing more to me than any other helpless woman; but I will do my best to take care of her against any man whatsoever, if she is trusted to me.”
Lauderdale laughed with mingled exasperation and amusement. “Bravo,” he said; “the like of that’s grand talking;but I’ll have no hand, for my part, in aiding and abetting domestic treason. I’m far from easy in my mind on the subject altogether. It’s ill to vex a dying man, but it’s worse to let a spirit go out of the world with guilt on its head. I’m in an awfu’ difficulty whether to speak to him or no. If you would but come down off your high horse and give me a little assistance. It’s a braw business, take it all together. A young woman, both bonnie and good, but abject to what her brother bids her, even now when he’s living—and us two single men, with nae justification for meddling, and an indignant father, no doubt, to make an account to. It’s no a position I admire, for my part.”
“It was I that drew you into it,” said Colin, with some resentment. “After all, they were my friends to begin with. Don’t let me bring you into a responsibility which is properly mine.”
“Ay, ay,” said Lauderdale, calmly, “that’s aye the way with you callants. If a man sees a difficulty in anything concerning you, off you fling, and will have no more to do with him. I’m no one to be dismissed in that fashion—no to say that it would be more becoming to consider the difficulty, like reasonable creatures, and make up our minds how it is to be met.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Colin, repentant; “only, to be sure, the imprudence, if there was any imprudence, was mine. But it is hard to be talking in this manner, as if all was over, while Meredith lives, poor fellow. Such invalids live for ever, sometimes. There he is, for a miracle, riding! When summer comes he may be all right.”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, “I make no doubt of that; but no in your way. He’ll be better off when summer comes.” Meredith turned a corner close upon them as he spoke. He was riding, it is true, but only on a mule, jogging along at a funeral pace, with Alice walking by his side. He smiled when he met them; but the smile was accompanied by a momentary flush, as of shame or pain.
“The last step but one,” he said. “I have given up walking for ever. I did not think I should ever have come to this; but my spirit is proud, and needs to be mortified. Campbell, come here. It is long since we have had any conversation. I thought God was dealing with your soul when I last talked to you. Tell me, if you were as far gone as I am—if you were reduced tothis”—and the sick man laid his thin white hand upon the neck of the animal he was riding—“what consolation wouldyou have to keep you from sinking? It may come sooner than you think.”
“It is not easy to imagine how one would conduct oneself under such circumstances,” said Colin; “let us talk of something else. If it were coming—and it may be, for anything I can tell—I think I should prefer not to give it too much importance. Look at that low blaze of sunshine, how it catches St. Peter’s. These sunsets are like dramas—but nobody plans the grouping beforehand,” said the young man, with an involuntary allusion which he was sorry for the next moment, but could not recall.
“That is an unkind speech,” said Meredith; “but I forgive you. If I could plan the grouping, as you say, I should like to collect all the world to see me die. Heathens, papists, Mahometans, Christians of every description—I would call them to see with what confidence a Christian could traverse the dark valley, knowing Him who can sustain, and who has preceded him there.”
“Yes, that was Addison’s idea; but his was an age when people did things for effect,” said Colin: “and everything I have heard makes me believe that people generally die very composedly upon the whole. The best and wisest are scarcely superior in that respect to the ignorant and stupid—scarcely even to the wicked. Either people have an infinite confidence in themselves and their good fortune; or else absolute faith in God is a great deal more general than you think it. I should like to believe that last was the case. Pardon me for what I said. You who realize so strongly what you are going to, should certainly die, when that time comes, a glorious and joyful death.”
At these words a cloud passed over the eager, hectic countenance which Meredith had turned to his friend. “Ah, you don’t know,” he said, with a sudden depression which Colin had never seen in him before. “Sometimes God sees fit to abandon His servants even in that hour; what, if after preaching to others I should myself be a castaway?” This conversation was going on while Alice talked to Lauderdale of the housekeeping, and how the man at the Trattoria had charged a scudo too much in the last weekly bill.
“Meredith,” said Colin, laying his hand on his friend’s arm, and forgetting all the discussion with Lauderdale which had occupied the afternoon, “when you say such words as Father and Saviour you put some meaning in them, do you not? Youdon’t think it depends upon how you feel to-day or to-morrow whether God will stand by his children or not? I don’t believe in the castaway as you understand it.”
“Ah, my dear friend, I am afraid you don’t believe in any castaways; don’t fall into that deadly error and snare of the devil,” said the sick man.
“We must not discuss mysteries,” said Colin. “There are men for whom no punishment is bad enough, and whom no amount of mercy seems to benefit. I don’t know what is to become of them. For my own part I prefer not to inquire. But this Iknow, that my father, much less my mother, would not altogether abandon their son for any crime; and does not God love us better than our fathers and our mothers?” said Colin, with a moisture gathering in his brown eyes and brightening his smile. As for Meredith, he snatched his hand away, and pushed forward with a feverish impulse. A sound, half sigh, half groan, burst from him, and Colin could see that this inarticulate complaint had private references of which he knew nothing. Then Lauderdale’s suggestion returned to his mind with singular force; but it was not a time to make any inquiries, even if such had been possible. Instinctively, without knowing it, Meredith turned from that subject to the only other which could mutually interest men so unlike each other; and what he said betrayed distinctly enough what had been the tenor of his thoughts.
“Shehas no mother,” said Meredith, with a little wave of his hand towards his sister. “Poor Alice! But I have no doubt God has gracious purposes towards her,” he continued, recovering himself. “Thisis in the family, and I don’t doubt she will follow me soon.”
It was thus he disposed of the matter which for the strangers to whose care he was about to leave her, was a matter of so much anxious thought.
Afterthis Meredith’s malady made gradual but rapid progress. When Colin and his friend returned from Rome in the evenings, after their expeditions there, they thought they could see a difference in his looks even from the morning. He ceased to move about; he ceased to go out; finally he ceased to get up from his bed. All these changes were accomplished very gradually, with a heart-breaking regularity of succession. Alice, who was constantly engaged about him, doing every kind of office for him, was fortunately too much occupied to take full cognizance of that remorseless progress of decay; but the two friends, who watched it with eyes less urgent than those of love, yet almost more painfully pitiful, could trace all the little advances of the malady. Then there came the time, the last stage of all, when it was necessary to sit up with him all night—an office which Colin and Lauderdale shared between them, to let the poor little sister have a little reluctant rest.
The season had warmed into May, of all seasons the sweetest in Italy. To see the sun shine, it seemed impossible to think that he would not shine for ever; and, when the window of the sick room was opened in the early morning, such a breath of life and happiness came in—such a sweet gust of air, wild from the great breadth of the Campagna, breathing of dews and blossoms—as felt to Colin’s lips like an elixir of life. But that breathing balm imparted no refreshment to the dying man. He was not suffering much; he was only weary to the bottom of his soul—languid and yet restless, eager to be moved, yet unable to bear any motion. While Alice withdrew behind them by times to shed the tears that kept always gathering, and say a prayer in her heart for her dying brother—a prayer in which, with a child’s simplicity, she still left room for his restoration, and called it possible—the two others watched with the profoundest interest that which was not only the dying of a friend, but the waning of a life. To see him so individual and characteristic, with all the notable features and even faults of his mind as distinct and apparent as if he had been in the strongest health, and yet so near the end, was the strangest spectacle. What was it the end of? He directed them all from his deathbed, and, indeed, controlled them all, with a will stronger than ever before, securing his own way in face of all their remonstrances, and, indeed, seemed to grow more and more strong, absolute, and important, as he approached the final stage of weakness—which is a sight always wonderful to see. He kept on writing his book, propped up upon pillows, as long as he had strength enough to hold the pen; but, when that power too failed him, the unyielding soul coerced itself into accepting the pen of another, and dictated the last chapter, at which Alice laboured during the day, and which occasionally, to beguile the tedium of the long night-watches, his other attendants were permitted to carry on.
The nights grew shorter and shorter as the season advanced, and sometimes it was by the lovely light of the dawning morning, instead of the glimmer of the lamp, that these solemn sentences were written. At other moments, when the patient could not sleep, but was content to rest, wonderful scraps of conversation went on in that chamber of death. Meredith lay gaunt and wasted among his pillows—his great eyes filling the room, as the spectators sometimes thought; and by his bedside rose, sometimes the gigantic figure of Lauderdale, dimly visible by means of the faint night-light—sometimes Colin’s young softened face and air of tender compassion. It did not occur to any of the three to ask by what right they came together in relations so near and sacred. The sick man’s brothers, had he possessed them, could not have watched him with more care, or with less doubt about his claim upon all their ministrations: but they talked with him as perhaps no brother could have talked—recognising the reality of his position, and even discussing it as a matter in which they too had the profoundest interest. The room was bare enough, and contained little comfort to English eyes—uncarpeted, with bare tiles underneath the feet, and scantily furnished with an old sofa, a chair or two, and a table. There were two windows, which looked out upon the Campagna which the dying man was to see no more, nor cared to see. But that great living picture, of no benefit to him, was the only one there; for poor Meredith had himself caused to be taken down from the wall a print of the Madonna, and the little cross with its basin for holy water underneath, which had hung at the head of his bed. He had even sent away a picture of the Crucifixion—a bad, yet not unimpressive copy. “I want no outward symbols,” said the sick man; “there will be none where I am going,” and this was the beginning of one of those strange talks by night.
“It’s awfu’ difficult to ken,” said Lauderdale. “For my part it’s a great wonder to me that there has never been any revelation worthy of credit out of that darkness. That poor fellow Dives, in the parable, is the only man I mind of that takes a Christian view of the subject. He would have sent one to tell. The miracle is, that nae man was ever permitted to come.”
“Don’t say so,” said Meredith. “Oh, my dear friend! if you could but know the joy it would give me to bring you to Christ before I die—to see you accept and receive Him. Has not He come to seek and to save?”
“Callant,” said the watcher, with a long drawn breath, “I’ve longer acquaintance with Him than you can have; and if I dinna believe in Him I would hang myself, and get to an explanation of all things. If it was not for Him, wherefore should I, that have nobody dependent on me, endure the mystery? But that’s no answer to my question. He came to put a meaning in the world that has little enough signification without Him, but no to answer a’ the questions that a human spirit can put to heaven and earth. I’ve heard of bargains made between them that were to die and them that had to live—”
“You put it in a strange way, Lauderdale,” said the dying man; “most people would say, those who had to die. But what can any one want beyond what is revealed—Jerusalem the golden? How strange it is to think that a worm like me shall so soon be treading those shining streets, while you—you whom the world thinks so much better off—”
“Whisht,” said Lauderdale, with a husky voice. “Do you no think it would be an awfu’ satisfaction to us that stay behind if we could have but a glint of the shining streets you speak of? Many a long day we’ll strain our eyes and try hard to see you there, but a’ to little purpose. I’m no saying I would not take it on trust for myself, and be content with what God pleased; but it’s hard to part with them that belong to us, and ken nothing about them—where they are, or how they are—”
“They are in Heaven! If they were children of God they are with Him,” said the sick man, anxiously. “Lauderdale, I cannot bear to think that you do not believe—that perhaps I may not meet you there.”
“Maybe no,” said the philosopher; “there’s the awfu’ question. A man might go ranging about the shining streets (as you say) for ever, and never find them that belonged to him; or, if there’s no geographical limits, there may be others harder to pass. It’s awfu’ little comfort I can get for my own mind out of shining streets. How am I to picture you to myself, callant, when I take thoughts of you? I have the fancy in my mind to give you messages to friends I have away yonder; but how can I tell if you’ll ever see them? It’s no a question of believing or not believing; I put little faith in Milton, and none in the good books, from which two sources we draw a great part of our talk about Heaven. It’s no even to ken if they’re happy or no happy that troubles me. I’ve nae hesitation to speak of in leavingthatin God’s hand. It’s but to have an inkling ever so slight where ye are, and how you are,” said Lauderdale, unconsciously changing his pronouns, “and that ye keep thought of us that spend so many thoughts on you.”
After this there was a little pause, which fell into the perfect stillness of the night outside, and held the little dim-lighted chamber in the midst of all the darkness, like the picture of a shadowy “interior,” with two motionless figures, the living and the dying, painted upon the great gloom of night. Meredith, who, notwithstanding the superior intensity of his own thoughts, had been moved by Lauderdale’s—and who, used as he was to think himself dying, yet perhaps heard himself thus unconsciously reckoned among the dead with a momentary thrill—was the first to speak.
“In all this I find you too vague,” said the patient. “You speak about Heaven as if you were uncertain only of its aspect; you have no anxiety about the way to get there. My friend, you are very good to me—you are excellent, so far as this world goes; I know you are. But, oh, Lauderdale, think! Our righteousnesses are as filthy rags. Before you speculate about Heaven, ask yourself are you sure to get there?”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, vaguely, “it’s maybe a wee like the question of the Sadducees—I’m no saying; and it’s awfu’, the dead blank of wisdom and knowledge that’s put forth for a response—no any information to you; nothing but a quenching of your flippant questions and impudent pretensions. No marrying nor giving in marriage there, and the curious fools baffled, but nae light thrown upon the darkness! I’ll have to wait like other folk for my answer; but, if it’s according to your new nature and faculties—which surely it must be—you’ll not forget to give us a thought at times? If you feel a wee lonely at the first—I’m no profane, callant; you’re but a man when a’s done, or rather a laddie, and you’ll surely miss your friends—dinna forget how long and how often we’ll think of you.”
“Shall you?” said the dying man. “I have given you nothing but trouble ever since I knew you, and it is more than I deserve. But there is One who is worthy of all your thoughts. When you think of me, O love Him, my dear friend, and so there will be a bond between us still.”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale once more. It was a word he used when his voice could not be trusted, and his heart was full. “Ay,” he repeated, after a long pause, “I’ll no neglect that grand bond. It’s a bargain between you and me no to be broken. If ye were free for such an act, it would be awfu’ friendly to bring me word how things are”—he continued, in a low tone, “thoughit’s folly to ask, for if it had been possible it would have been done before now.”
“It is God who must teach and not me,” said the dying man. “He has other instruments—and you must seek Him for yourself, and let Him reveal His will to you. If you are faithful to God’s service, He will relieve you of your doubts,” said Arthur, who did not understand his friend’s mind, but even at that solemn moment looked at him with a perplexed mixture of disapproval and compassion. And thus the silence fell again like a curtain over the room, and once more it became a picture faintly painted on the darkness, faintly relieved and lighted up by touches of growing light, till at length the morning came in full and fair, finding out as with a sudden surprise the ghostly face on the pillow, with its great eyes closed in disturbed sleep, and by the bedside another face scarcely less motionless, the face of the man who was no unbeliever, but whose heart longed to know and see what others were content, in vague generalities to tell of, and say they believed.
This was one of the conversations held in the dead of night in Meredith’s room. Next evening it was Colin, reluctantly permitted by his faithful guardian to share this labour, who took the watcher’s place; and then the two young men, who were so near of an age, but whose prospects were so strangely different, talked to each other after a different fashion. Both at the beginning of their career, and with incalculable futures before them, it was natural they should discuss the objects and purposes of life, upon which Meredith, who thought himself matured by the approach of death, had, as he imagined, so much advantage over his friend, who was not going to die.
“I remember once thinking as you do,” said the dying man. “The world looked so beautiful! No man ever loved its vanities and its pomp more than I. I shudder sometimes to think what would have become of me if God had left me to myself—but He was more merciful. I see things in their true light now.”
“You will have a great advantage over us,” said Colin, trying to smile; “for you will always know the nature of our occupations, while yours will be a mystery to us. But we can be friends all the same. As for me, I shall not have many pomps and vanities to distract me; a poor man’s son, and a Scotch minister does not fall in the way of such temptations.”
“There are temptations to worldliness in every sphere,” said Meredith. “You once spoke eagerly about going to Oxford,and taking honours. My dear friend, trust a dying man. There are no honours worth thinking of but the crown and the palm, which Christ bestows on them that love Him.”
“Yes,” said Colin; “but we are not all chosen for these. If I have to live, I must qualify myself the best I can for my work. I should like to be of a little use to Scotland, if that was possible. When I hear the poor people here singing their vespers——”
“Ah, Campbell! one word—let me speak,” said his friend. “Alice showed me the poem you gave her. You don’t mean it, I know; but let me beg you not to utter such sentiments. You seem to consent to the doctrine of purgatory, one of the worst delusions of the Church of Rome. There are no spirits in prison, my dear, dear friend. When I leave you, I shall be with my Saviour. Don’t give your countenance to such inventions of the devil.”
“That was not what I intended to say,” said Colin, who had no heart for argument. “I meant that to see the habit of devotion of all these people, whom we call so ignorant, and to remember how little we have of that among our own people, whom we think enlightened, goes to my heart. I should like to do a priest’s duty——”
“Again!” said Meredith. “Dear Campbell, you will be a minister; there is but one great High Priest.”
“Yes,” said Colin, “most true, and the greatest of all consolations. But yet I believe in priests inferior—priests who need be nothing more than men. I am not so much for teaching as you are, you know; I have so little to teach any man. With you who are going to the Fount of all knowledge it will be different. I can conceive, I can imagine how magnificent may beyourwork,” the young man said, with a faltering voice, as he laid his warm young hand upon the fingers which were almost dead.
Meredith closed his hand upon that of his friend, and looked at him with his eyes so clear and awful, enlarged and lighted up with the prescience of what was to come. “If you do your work faithfully it will be the same work,” he said. “Our Master alone knows the particulars. If I might have perhaps to supplement and complete what you do on earth!—Ah, but I must not be tempted into vain speculations! Enough that I shall know His will and see Him as He is. I desire no more.”
“Amen,” said Colin; “and, when you are in your new career, think of me sometimes, worried and vexed as I know I shall be. We shall not be able to communicate then, but Iknow now beforehand what I shall have to go through. You don’t know Scotland, Meredith. A man who tries for any new reformation in the Church will have to fight for trifles of detail which are not worth fighting for, and perhaps get both himself and his work degraded in consequence. You can know no such cares. Think of me sometimes when you are doing your work ‘with thunders of acclaim.’ I wonder—but you would think it a profanity if I said what I was going to say.”