CHAPTER XXXVIII.

“Sir,—Your letter has had such a bad effect upon the health of my dear husband, that I beg you won’t trouble him with any more such communications. If it’s meant to get money, that’s vain—for neither him nor me knows anything about the friends Arthur may have picked up. If he had stayed at home he would have received every attention. As for his ungratefulsister, I won’t have anything to say to her. Mr. Meredith is very ill, and, for anything I know, may never rise from a bed of sickness, where he has been thrown by hearing this news so sudden; but I take upon me to let her know as he will have nothing to say to one that could behave so badly as she has done. I am always for making friends, but she knows she cannot expect much kindness from me after all that has happened. She has money enough to live on, and she can do as she pleases. Considering what her ingratitude has brought her dear father to, and that I may be left alone to manage everything before many days are past, you will please to consider that here is an end of it, and not write any more begging letters to me.“Julia Meredith.”

“Sir,—Your letter has had such a bad effect upon the health of my dear husband, that I beg you won’t trouble him with any more such communications. If it’s meant to get money, that’s vain—for neither him nor me knows anything about the friends Arthur may have picked up. If he had stayed at home he would have received every attention. As for his ungratefulsister, I won’t have anything to say to her. Mr. Meredith is very ill, and, for anything I know, may never rise from a bed of sickness, where he has been thrown by hearing this news so sudden; but I take upon me to let her know as he will have nothing to say to one that could behave so badly as she has done. I am always for making friends, but she knows she cannot expect much kindness from me after all that has happened. She has money enough to live on, and she can do as she pleases. Considering what her ingratitude has brought her dear father to, and that I may be left alone to manage everything before many days are past, you will please to consider that here is an end of it, and not write any more begging letters to me.

“Julia Meredith.”

This communication Colin read with a beating heart. It was so different from what he expected, and left him so free to carry out the dawning resolution which he had imagined himself executing in the face of tyrannical resistance, that he felt at first like a man who has been straining hard at a rope and is suddenly thrown down by the instantaneous stoppage of the pressure on the other side. When he had picked himself up, the facts of the case rushed on him distinct and unmistakeable. The time had now come when the lost and friendless maiden stood in the path of the true knight. Was he to leave her there to fight her way in the hard world by herself, without defence or protection, because, sweet and fair and pure as she was, she was not the lady of his dreams? He made up his mind at once with a thrill of generous warmth; but at the same time felt himself saying for ever and ever farewell to that ideal lady who henceforward, in earth or heaven, could never be his. All this passed through his mind while he was looking at the letter which already his rapid eye had read and his mind comprehended. “So there is an end of your hopes,” said Colin. “Now we are the only friends she has in the world—as I have always thought.”

“Softly,” said Lauderdale. “Callants like you aye run away with the half of an idea. This is an ignorant woman’s letter, that is glad to get rid of her. The father will mend, and then he’ll take her out of our hands.”

“He shall do nothing of the kind,” said Colin, hotly. “You speak as if she was a piece of furniture; I look upon her as a sacred charge. We are responsible to Meredith for his sister’s comfort and—happiness,” said the young man, who during this conversation preferred not to meet his companion’s eye.

“Ay!” said Lauderdale drily, “that’s an awfu’ charge for the like of you and me. It’s more that I ever calculated on, Colin. To see her safe home, and in the hands of her friends——”

“Lauderdale, do not be so heartless; cannot you see that she has no friends?” cried Colin; “not a protector in the world except——”

“Callant, dinna deceive yourself,” said Lauderdale; “it’s no a matter for hasty judgment; we have nae right to pass sentence on a man’s character. He’s her father, and it’s her duty to obey him. I’m no heeding about that silly woman’s letter. Mr. Meredith will mend. I’m here to take care of you,” said Colin’s guardian. “Colin, hold your peace. You’re no to do for a moment’s excitement, for pity and ruth and your own tender heart, what you may regret all your life. Sit down and keep still. You are only a callant, too young to take burdens on yourself; there is but one way that the like of you can protect the like of her—and that is no to be thought of, as you consented with your own mouth.”

“I am aware of that,” said Colin, who had risen up in his excitement. “There is but one way. Matters have changed since we spoke of it first.”

“I would like to know how far they have changed,” said Lauderdale. “Colin, take heed to what I say; if it’s love I’ll no speak a word; I may disapprove a’ the circumstances, and find fault with every step ye take; but if it’s love——”

“Hush!” said Colin, standing upright, and meeting his friend’s eye; “if it should happen to be my future wife we are speaking of, my feelings towards her are not to be discussed with any man in the world.”

They looked at each other thus for a moment, the one anxious and scrutinizing, the other facing him with blank brightness, and a smile which afforded no information. Perhaps Lauderdale understood all that was implied in that blank; at all events, his own delicate sense of honour could not refuse to admit Colin’s plea. He turned away, shaking his head, and groaning privately under his breath; while Colin, struck with compunction, having shut himself up for an instant, unfolded again, that crisis being over, with all the happy grace of apology natural to his disposition. “You are not ‘any man in the world,’”he said with a short laugh, which implied emotion. “Forgive me, Lauderdale; and now you know very well what I am going to do.”

“Oh ay, I ken what you are going to do; I kent three months ago, for that matter,” said the philosopher. “A man acts no from circumstances, as is generally supposed, but from his ain nature.” When he had given forth this oracular utterance, Lauderdale went straight off to his room without exchanging another word with Colin. He was satisfied to a certain extent with such a mate for his friend, and belonged to too lowly a level of society to give profound importance to the inexpediency of early marriages—and he was fond of Alice, and admired her sweet looks and sweet ways, and respected her self-command and patience; nevertheless, he too sighed, and recognised the departure of the ideal woman, who to him as little as to Colin resembled Alice;—and thus it was understood between them how it was to be.

All this, it may be imagined, was little compatible with that reverential regard for womankind in general which both the friends entertained, and evidenced a security in respect to Alice’s inclinations which was not altogether complimentary to her. And yet it was highly complimentary in a sense; for their security arose from their appreciation of the spotless unawakened heart with which they had to do. If Colin entertained little doubt of being accepted when he made his proposal, it was not because he had an overweening idea of himself, or imagined Alice “in love” with him according to the vulgar expression. A certain chivalrous, primitive sense of righteous and natural necessity was in his confidence. The forlorn maiden, knowing the knight to be honest and true, would accept his protection loyally and simply, without bewildering herself with dreams of choice where no choice was; and having accepted would love and cleave as was her nature. To be sure there were types of woman less acquiescent; and we have already said that Alice did not bear the features of that ideal of which Colin had dreamed; but such was the explanation of his confidence. Alice showed little distress when she saw her stepmother’s letter except on account of her father’s illness; though even that seemed rather consolatory to her than otherwise, as a proof of his love for Arthur. As for Mrs. Meredith’s refusal to interfere on her behalf, she was clearly relieved by the intimation; and things went on as before for another week or two, until Sora Antonia, who had now other tenants arriving and many occupations in hand, began to murmur a little over the watch which she would not relinquish. “Is it thus young ladies are left in England?” she asked, with a little indignation, “without any one to take care of themexcept the Signori, who, though amiable and excellent, are only men? or when may the lady be expected from England who is to take charge of the Signorina?” It was after this question, had been put to him with some force one evening, that Colin proposed to Alice, who was beginning to lift her head again like a flower after a storm, and to show symptoms of awaking from the first heaviness of grief, to go out with him and visit those ilex avenues, which had now so many associations for the strangers. She went with a faint sense of pleasure in her heart through the slanting sunshine, looking wistfully through her black veil at the many cheerful groups on the way, and clinging to Colin’s arm when a kind neighbour spoke to her in pity and condolence. She put up her veil when they came to the favourite avenue, where Lauderdale and Colin walked so often. Nothing could be more silent, more cool and secluded than this verdant cloister, where, with the sunshine still blazing everywhere around, the shade and quiet were profound and unbroken. They walked once or twice up and down, remarking now and then upon the curious network of branches, which, out of reach of the sun, were all bare and stripped of their foliage—and upon the blue blaze of daylight at either opening, where the low arch of dark verdure framed in a span of brilliant Italian sky. Then they both became silent, and grew conscious of it; and it was at that moment, just as Alice for the first time began to remember the privileges and penalties of her womanhood, that Colin spoke,—

“I brought you here to speak to you,” he said. “I have a great deal to say. That letter that Lauderdale showed you did not grieve you, did it? You must tell me frankly. Arthur made me one of your guardians, and, whatever you may decide upon, that is a sacred bond.”

“Yes, oh yes,” said Alice, with tears, “I know how kind you both are. No, it did not grieve me, except about papa. I was rather glad, if I may say so, that she did not send for me home. It is not—a—home—like what it used to be,” said Alice; and then, perhaps because something in Colin’s looks had advertised her of what was coming; perhaps because of the awakening sense of her position sprang up in a moment, after long torpor—a sudden change came upon her face. “I have given you a great deal of trouble,” she said; “I am like somebody who has had a terrible fall—as soon as I come to myself I will go away. It is very wrong of me to detain you here.”

“You are not detaining us,” said Colin, who, notwithstanding, was a little startled and alarmed; “and you must not talk ofgoing away. Where would you go? Are not we your friends—the friends you know best in Italy? You must notthinkof going away.”

But even these very words thus repeated acted like an awakening spell upon Alice. “I cannot tell what I have been thinking of,” she said. “I suppose it is staying indoors and forgetting everything. I do not seem to know even how long it is. Oh yes, you are my kindest friends. Nobody ever was so good to me; but, then, you are only—gentlemen!” said Alice, suddenly withdrawing her hand from Colin’s arm, and blushing over all her pallid face. “Ah! I see now how stupid I have been to put off so long. And I am sure I must have detained you here.”

“No,” said Colin, “do not say so; but I have something more to say to you. You are too young and too delicate to face the world alone, and your people at home are not going to claim you. I am a poor man now, and I never can be rich, but I would protect you and support you if you would have me. Will you trust me to take care of you, Alice, not for this moment, but always? I think it would be the best thing for us both.”

“Mr. Campbell, I don’t understand you,” said Alice, trembling and casting a glance up at him of wistful surprise and uncertainty. There was an eager, timid inquiry in her eyes beside the bewilderment. She seemed to say, “What is it you mean? Isthatwhat you mean?” and Colin answered by taking her hand again and drawing it through his arm.

“Whether you will have me or not,” he said, “there is always the bond between us which Arthur has made sacred, and you must lean on me all the same. I think you will see what I mean if you consider it. There is only one way that I can be your true protector and guardian, and that is if you will consent to marry me, Alice. Will you? You know I have nothing to offer you; but I can work for you, and take care of you, and with me you would not be alone.”

It was a strange way of putting it, certainly—very different from what Colin had intended to say, strangely different from the love-tale that had glided through his imagination by times since he became a man; but he was very earnest and sincere in what he said, and the innocent girl beside him was no critic in such matters. She trembled more and more, but she leaned upon him and heard him out with anxious attention. When he had ended, there was a pause, during which Colin, who had not hitherto been doubtful, began himself to feel anxious; and then Alice once more gave a wistful, inquiring look at his face.

“Don’t be angry with me,” she said; “it is so hard to know what to answer. If you would tell me one thing quite truly and frankly—Would it not do you a great deal of harm if this was to happen as you say?——”

“No,” said Colin. When he said the word he could not help remembering, in spite of himself, the change it would make in his young prospects, but the result was only that he repeated his negative with more warmth. “It can do me only good,” said Colin, yielding to the natural temptations of the moment, “and I think I might do something for your happiness too. It is for you to decide—do not decide against me, Alice,” said the young man; “I cannot part with you now.”

“Ah!—” said Alice with a long breath. “If it only would not do you any harm,” she added a moment after, once more with that inquiring look. The inquiry was one which could be answered but in one way, and Colin was not a man to remain unmoved by the wistful, sweet eyes thus raised to him, and by the tender dependence of the clinging arm. He set her doubts at rest almost as eloquently, and quite as warmly, as if she had indeed been that woman who had disappeared among the clouds for ever; and led her home to Sora Antonia with a fond care, which was very sweet to the forlorn little maiden, and not irksome by any means to the magnanimous knight. Thus the decisive step was taken in obedience to the necessities of the position, and the arrangements (as Colin had decided upon them) of Providence. When he met Lauderdale and informed him of the new event, the young man looked flushed and happy, as was natural in the circumstances, and disposed of all the objections of prudence with great facility and satisfaction to himself. It was a moonlight night, and Colin and his friend went out to theloggiaon the roof of the house, and plunged into a sea of discussion, through which the young lover steered triumphantly the frailest bark of argument that ever held water. But, when the talk was over, and Colin, before he followed Lauderdale downstairs, turned round to take a parting look at the Campagna, which lay under them like a great map in the moonlight, the old apparition looked out once more from the clouds, pale and distant, and again seemed to wave to him a shadowy farewell. “Farewell! farewell! not in heaven nor in earth shall you ever find me,” sighed the woman of Colin’s imagination, dispersing into thin white mists and specks of clouds; and the young man went to rest with a vague sense of loss in his heart. The sleep of Alice was sweeter than that of Colin on this first night oftheir betrothal; but at that one period of existence, it often happens that the woman, for once in her life, has the advantage. And thus it was that the event, foreseen by Lauderdale on board the steamer at the beginning of their acquaintance, actually came to pass.

Thisimportant decision, when at last finally settled, necessitated other steps more embarrassing and difficult than anything that could be discussed in the ilex avenue. Even Sora Antonia’s protection ceased to be altogether satisfactory to the suddenly-awakened mind of Alice, who at the same time was so unaccustomed to think or act for herself that she knew not what to do in the emergency. If Colin had been the kind of man who would have decided for her at once, and indicated what he thought she ought to do, Alice was the kind of woman to act steadily and bravely upon the indication. But, unfortunately, Colin did not understand how to dictate to a woman, having known most intimately of all womankind his mother, who was treated after an altogether different fashion; and Lauderdale, though sufficiently aware of the embarrassing nature of their position, belonged, notwithstanding his natural refinement, to a class which sets no great store by punctilio. Now that everything was settled between the “young folk,” Alice’s unprotected state did not distress him so much as formerly. The marriage, which must take place immediately, was already in his eyes a sufficient shelter for the solitary girl; and the indecorum of the whole business no longer occurred to him. As for Colin, he, as was natural, regarded with a certain excitement the strange step he was about to take, not knowing what anybody would think of it, nor how he was to live with his bride, nor what influence an act so unsuitable to his circumstances would have upon his prospects and position. It was of a piece with the rashness and visionary character of the whole transaction, that Alice’s money, which she had herself recurred to as “enough to live upon,” never entered into the calculations of the young man who was going to marry on his scholarship, without being at all convinced in his own mind that his scholarship could be held by a married man. A married man!—the title had an absurd sound as appliedto himself, even in his own ears. He was just over one-and-twenty, and had not a penny in the world. But these considerations, after all, had not half so much effect upon him as the thought of his mother’s grave countenance when she should read his next letter, and the displeasure of his father, who perhaps already regarded with a not altogether satisfied eye the spectacle of a son of his gone abroad for his health. If Colin could but have made sure of the nature of the reception he was likely to meet with at Ramore, prudential considerations of any other character would have had but a momentary weight; but at present, amid his other perplexities, the young man felt a certain boyish confusion at the thought of asking his mother to receive and recognise his wife. However, the important letter had been written, and was on its way, and he could only hope that his previous letters had prepared the household for that startling intimation. Apart from Ramore, the matter had a less serious aspect; for Colin, who had been poor all his life, no more believed in poverty than if he had been a prince, and had a certain instinctive certainty of getting what he needed, which belonged to his youth. Besides, he was not a poor gentleman, hampered, and helpless, but knew, at the worst, that he could always work for his wife.

At the same time, in the midst of all the seriousness of the position—with all his tender affection for Alice, and reverence for her helplessness, and even notwithstanding that inexpressible blank and sense of disappointment in his heart which even his affection could not quite neutralize,—a curious sense of humour, and feeling that the whole matter was a kind of practical joke on a grand scale, intruded into Colin’s ideas from time to time, and made him laugh, and then made him furious with himself; for Alice, to be sure, saw no joke in the matter. She was, indeed, altogether wanting in a sense of humour, if even her grief would have permitted her to exercise it, and was sufficiently occupied by the real difficulties of her position, secluding herself in Sora Antonia’s apartments, and wavering in an agony of timidity and uncertainty over the idea of leaving that kind protector and going somewhere else, even though among strangers, in order to obey the necessary proprieties. She had not a soul to consult about what she should do except Sora Antonia herself and Lauderdale, neither of whom now thought it necessary to suggest a removal on the part of either of the young people; and though thoughts of going into Rome, and finding somebody who would give her shelter for a week or two till Colin’s arrangementswere complete, hovered in the mind of Alice, she had no courage to carry out such an idea, being still in her first grief, poor child, although this new excitement had entered into her life.

As for Colin, affairs went much less easily with him when he betook himself to the English clergyman to ask his services. The inquiries instituted by this new judge were of a kind altogether unforeseen by the thoughtless young man. To be sure, a mourning sister is not usually married a few weeks after her brother’s death, and the questioner was justified in thinking the circumstance strange. Nor was it at all difficult to elicit from Colin a story which, viewed by suspicious and ignorant eyes, threw quite a different colour on the business. The young lady was the daughter of Mr. Meredith of Maltby, as the clergyman, who had laid Arthur in his grave, was already aware. She was young, under age, and her father had not been consulted about her proposed marriage; and she was at present entirely in the hands and under the influence of this young Scotchman, who, though his manners were considered irreproachable by Miss Matty Frankland, who was a critic in manners, still lacked certain particulars in his general demeanour by which the higher class of Englishmen are distinguished. He took more interest in things in general, and was more transparent, more expressive than he would probably have been had he been entirely Alice’s equal; and he was slightly wanting in calmness and that soft haze of impertinence which sets off good breeding—in short, he had not the full ring of the genuine metal; and a man who lived in Rome, and was used to stories of adventurers and interested marriages, not unnaturally jumped at the conclusion that Colin (being a Scotchman beside, and consequently the impersonation, save the mark! of money-getting) was bent upon securing to himself the poor little girl’s fortune. Before the cross-examination was done Colin began somehow to feel himself a suspicious character; for it is astonishing what an effect there is in that bland look of superior penetration and air of seeing through a subject, however well aware the person under examination may be that his judge knows nothing about it. Then the investigator turned the discussion upon pecuniary matters, which after all was the branch of examination for which Colin was least prepared.

“Miss Meredith has some fortune, I presume?” he said. “Is it at her own disposal? for on this, as well as on other matters, it appears to me absolutely necessary that her father should be consulted.”

“I have already told you that her father has been consulted,” said Colin, with a little vexation, “and you have seen the answer to my friend’s letter. I have not the least idea what her fortune is, or if she has any. Yes, I recollect she said she had enough to live upon; but it did not occur to me to make any inquiries on the subject,” said the young man; which more than ever confirmed his questioner that this was not a member of the higher class with whom he had to deal.

“And you?” he said. “Your friends are aware, I presume—and your means are sufficient to maintain—”

“I?” said Colin, who with difficulty restrained a smile, “I have not very much; but I am quite able to work for my wife. It seems to me, however, that this examination is more than I bargained for. If Miss Meredith is satisfied on these points, that is surely enough—seeing, unfortunately, that she has no one to stand by her—”

“I beg your pardon,” said the clergyman, “it is the duty of my office to stand by her. I do not see that I can carry out your wishes—certainly not without having a conversation with the young lady. I cannot say that I feel satisfied;—not that I blame you, of course,—but you are a very young man, and your feelings, you know, being involved—however, my wife and myself will see Miss Meredith, and you can call on me again.”

“Very well,” said Colin, getting up; and then, after making a step or two to the door, he returned. “I am anxious to have everything concluded the earliest possible moment,” he said. “Pray do not lose any time. She is very solitary, and has no proper protector,” Colin continued, with an ingenuous flush on his face. He looked so young, so honest and earnest, that even experience was shaken for the moment by the sight of Truth. But then it is the business of experience to fence off Truth, and defy the impressions of Nature,—and so the representative of authority, though shaken for a moment, did not give in.

“By the bye, I fear I did not understand you,” he said. “You are not living in the same house? Considering all the circumstances, I cannot think that proper. Either she should find another home, or you should leave the house,—any gentleman would have thought of that,” said the priest severely, perhaps by way of indemnifying himself for the passing sentiment of kindness which had moved him. Colon’s face grew crimson at these words. The idea flashed upon himself for the first time, and filled him with shame and confusion; but the young man had so far attained that perfection of good breeding which is only developed by contact with men, that the reproof,which was just, did not irritate him,—a fact which once more made the clergyman waver in his opinion.

“It is very true,” said Colin, confused, yet impulsive; “though I am ashamed to say I never thought of it before. We have all been so much occupied with poor Arthur. But what you say is perfectly just, and I am obliged to you for the suggestion. I shall take rooms in Rome to-night.”

Upon which the two parted with more amity than could have been expected; for Colin’s clerical judge was pleased to have his advice taken so readily, as was natural, and began to incline towards the opinion that a young man who did not resent the imputation of having failed in a point which “any gentleman would have thought of,” but confessed without hesitation that it had not occurred to him, could be nothing less than a gentleman. Notwithstanding, the first step taken by this sensible and experienced man was to write a letter by that day’s post to Mr. Meredith of Maltby, informing him of the application Colin had just made. He knew nothing against the young man, the reverend gentleman was good enough to say,—he was very young and well-looking, and had a good expression, and might be unexceptionable; but still, without her father’s consent, Mr. Meredith might rest assuredhewould take no steps in the business. When he had written this letter, the clergyman summoned his wife and took the trouble of going out to Frascati to see Alice, which he would not have done had he not been a just and kind man; while at the same time his heart was relenting to Colin, whom the clerical couple met in the street, and who took off his hat when he encountered them, without the least shadow of resentment. It is so long since all this happened that the name of the clergyman thus temporarily occupying the place of the chaplain at Rome has escaped recollection, and Colin’s historian has no desire to coin names or confuse identities. The gentleman in question was, it is supposed, an English rector taking his holiday. He went out to Frascati, like an honourable and just person as he was, to see what the solitary girl was about, thus left to the chances of the world, and found Alice in the greatsalonein her black dress, under charge of Sora Antonia, who sat with her white handkerchief on her ample shoulders, twirling her spindle, and spinning, along with her thread, many a tale of chequered human existence, for the amusement of her charge; who, however, for the first time in her life, had begun to be unconscious of what was said to her, and to spend her days in strains of reverie allunusual to Alice—mingled dreams and intentions, dim pictures of the life that was to be, and purposes which were to be carried out therein. Sora Antonia’s stories, which required no answer, were very congenial to Alice’s state of mind; and now and then, a word from the narrative fell into and gave a new direction to her thoughts.

From all this she woke up with a little start when the English visitors entered, and it was with difficulty she restrained the tears which came in a choking flood when she recognised the clergyman. He had seen Arthur repeatedly during his illness, and had given him the sacrament, and laid him in his grave, and all the associations connected with him were too much for her, although after Arthur’s death the good man had forgotten the poor little mourning sister. When she recovered, however, Alice was much more able to cope with her reverend questioner than Colin had been—perhaps because she was a woman; perhaps because she had more of the ease of society; perhaps because in this matter at least her own feelings were more profound and unmixed than those of her youngfiancé. She composed herself with an effort when he told her the object of his visit, recognising the necessity of explanation, and ready to give all that was in her power.

“No; papa does not know,” said Alice, “but it is because he has taken no charge of me—he has left me to myself. I should not have minded so much if you had been of our county, for then you would have understood; but you are a clergyman, and Mrs. ——”

“I am a clergyman’s wife,” the lady said, kindly; “anything you say will be sacred to me.”

“Ah,” said Alice, with a little impatient sigh; and she could not help looking at the door, and longing for Colin, who was coming no more, though she did not know that; for the girl, though she was not clever, had a perception within her, such as never would have come to Colin, that, notwithstanding this solemn assurance, the fact that her visitor was a clergyman’s wife would not prevent her story from oozing out into the common current of English talk in Rome;—but, notwithstanding, Alice, whose ideas of her duty to the world were very clear, knew that the story must be told. She went on accordingly very steadily, though with thrills and flushes of colour coming and going—and the chances are that Colin’s ideal woman, could she have been placed in the same position, would not have acquitted herself half so well.

“It will be necessary to tell you everything from the beginning, or you will not understand it,” said Alice. “Papa did not do exactly as Arthur thought right in some things; and though I did not think myself a judge, I—I took Arthur’s side; and then Mrs. Meredith came to Maltby suddenly with the children. It was a great surprise to us, for we did not know till that moment that papa had married again. I would rather not say anything about Mrs. Meredith,” said Alice, showing a little agitation, “but Arthur did not think she was a person whom I could stay with; and, when he had to leave himself he brought me with him. Indeed, I wanted very much to come. I could not bear that he should go away by himself; and I should have died had I been left there with papa, and everything so changed. I wrote after we left, but papa would not answer my letter, nor take any notice of us. I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. That is all. I suppose you heard of Mrs. Meredith’s letter to Mr. Lauderdale. My aunt is in India—so I could not go to her; and all the rest are dead; that is why I have stayed here.”

“It is very sad to think you should be so lonely,” said the clergyman, “and it is a very trying position for one so young. Still there are families in Rome that would have received you; and I think, my dear Miss Meredith—you must not suppose me harsh—it is only your good I am thinking of; I think you should yourself have communicated with your father.”

“I wrote to Aunt Mary,” said Alice. “I told her everything. I thought she would be sure to advise me for the best. But papa would not answer the letter I wrote him after we left home, and he refuses to have anything to do with me in Mr. Lauderdale’s letter. I do not understand what I can do more.”

“But you have not waited to be advised,” said the English priest, whose wife had taken the poor little culprit’s hand, and was whispering to her, “Compose yourself, my dear,” and “We are your friends,” and “Mr. —— only means it for your good,” with other such scraps of consolation. Alice scarcely needed the first exhortation, having, in a large degree, that steady power of self-control which is one of the most valuable endowments in the world. “You have not waited for your Aunt’s advice,” continued the clergyman. “Indeed, I confess it is very hard to blame you; but still it is a very serious step to take, and one that a young creature like you should not venture upon without the advice of her friends. Mr. Campbellalso is very young, and you cannot have known each other very long.”

“All the winter,” said Alice, with a faint colour, for affairs were too serious for ordinary blushing; “at least all the spring, ever since we left England. And it has not been common knowing,” she added, with a deepening flush. “He and Mr. Lauderdale were like brothers to Arthur—they nursed him night and day; they nursed him better than I did,” said the poor sister, bursting forth into natural tears. “The people we have known all our lives were never so good to us. He said at the very last that they were to take care of me; and they have taken care of me,” said Alice, among her sobs, raised for a moment beyond herself by her sense of the chivalrous guardianship which had surrounded her, “as if I had been a queen.”

“My dear child, lean upon me,” said the lady sitting by; “don’t be afraid of us; don’t mind crying, it will be a relief to you. Mr. —— only means it for your good; he does not intend to vex you, dear.”

“Certainly not, certainly not,” said the clergyman, taking a little walk to the window, as men do in perplexity; and then he came back and drew his seat closer, as Alice regained the mastery over herself. “My dear young lady, have confidence in me. Am I to understand that it is from gratitude you have made up your mind to accept Mr. Campbell? Don’t hesitate. I beg of you to let me know the truth.”

The downcast face of Alice grew crimson suddenly to the hair; and then she lifted her eyes, not to the man who was questioning her, but to the woman who sat beside her. Those eyes were full of indignant complaint and appeal. “Can you, a woman, stand by and see the heart of another woman searched for its secret?” That was the utterance of Alice’s look; and she made no further answer, but turned her head partly away, with an offended pride which sat strangely and yet not unbecomingly upon her. The change was so marked that the reverend questioner got up from his chair again almost as confused as Alice, and his wife, instinctively replying to the appeal made to her, took the matter into her own hands.

“If you will wait for me below, George, I will join you by-and-by,” said this good woman. “Men must not spy into women’s secrets.” And “I have daughters of my own,” she added softly in Alice’s ear. Let us thank heaven, that, though the number of those be few who are able or disposed to do great things for their fellows, the number is many who areready to respond to an actual call for sympathy when it is made to them, and to own the universal kindred. It was not an everlasting friendship that these two English women, left alone in the bare Italian chamber, formed for each other. The one who was a mother did not receive the orphan permanently into her breast, neither did the girl find a parent in her new friend. Yet for the moment nature found relief for itself; they were mother and child, though strangers to each other. The elder woman heard with tears, and sympathy, and comprehension, the other’s interrupted tale, and gave her the kiss which in its way was more precious than a lover’s. “You have done nothing wrong, my poor child,” the pitying woman said, affording an absolution more valuable than any priest’s to the girl’s female soul; and as she spoke there passed momentarily through the mind of the visitor a rapid, troubled enumeration of the rooms in her “apartment,” which involved the possibility of carrying this friendless creature home with her. But that idea was found impracticable almost as soon as conceived. “I wish I could take you home with me, my dear,” the good woman said, with a sigh; “but our rooms are so small; but I will talk it all over with Mr. ——, and see what can be done; and I should like to know more of Mr. Campbell after all you tell me; he must be a very superior young man. You may be sure we shall be your friends,both your friends, whatever happens. I should just like to say a word to the woman of the house, and tell her to take good care of you, my dear, before I go.”

“Sora Antonia is very kind,” said Alice.

“Yes, my dear, I am sure of it; still she will be all the more attentive when she sees you have friends to take care of you,” said the experienced woman; which was all the more kind on her part as her Italian was very limited, and a personal encounter of this description was one which she would have shrunk from in ordinary circumstances. But when she joined her husband it was with a glow of warmth and kindness about her heart, and a consciousness of having comforted the friendless. “If it ever could be right to do such a thing, I almost think it would be in such a case as this,” she said with a woman’s natural leaning to the romantic side; but the clergyman only shook his head. “We must wait, at all events, for an answer from Mr. Meredith,” he said; and the fortnight which ensued was not a cheerful one for Alice.

Therecan be no doubt that the clergyman was right in suggesting that Colin should leave Frascati, and that the strange little household which had kept together since Arthur’s death, under the supervision of Sora Antonia, was in its innocence in utter contradiction of all decorum and the usages of society. It was true besides that Alice had begun to be uneasy upon this very point, and to feel herself in a false position; nevertheless, when Lauderdale returned alone with a note from Colin, and informed her that they had found rooms in Rome, and were to leave her with Sora Antonia until the arrangements were made for the marriage, it is inconceivable how blank and flat the evening felt to Alice without her two knights. As she sat over her needlework her sorrow came more frequently home to her than it had ever done before—her sorrow, her friendlessness, and a vague dread that this great happiness, which had come in tears, and which even now could scarcely be separated from the grief which accompanied it, might again fly away from her like a passing angel. Sora Antonia was indifferent company under these circumstances; she was very kind, but it was not in nature that an elderly peasant woman could watch the changing expressions of a girl’s face, and forestall her tears, and beguile her weariness like the two chivalrous men who had devoted themselves to her amusement and occupation. Now that this rare morsel of time, during which she had been tended “like a queen,” was over, it seemed impossible to Alice that it ever could be again. She who was not clever, who was nothing but Arthur’s sister, how could she ever expect again to be watched over and served like an enchanted princess? Though, indeed, if she were Colin’s wife—! but since Colin’s departure and the visit of the clergyman, that possibility seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer—she could not tell why. She believed in it when her lover came to see her, which was often enough; but, when he was absent, doubt returned, and the bright prospect glided away, growing more and more dim and distant. She had never indulged in imagination, to speak of, before, and the few dreams that had possessed her heart had been dreams of Arthur’s recovery—fantastic hopeless visions of those wondrous doctors and impossible medicines sometimes to be met with in books. But now, when her own position began to occupy her, and shefound herself standing between hopes and fears, with such a sweet world of tenderness and consolation on one side, and so unlovely a prospect on the other, the dormant imagination woke up, and made wild work with Alice. Even in the face of her stepmother’s refusal to have anything to do with her, the spectre of Mrs. Meredith coming to take her home was the nightmare of the poor girl’s existence. This was what she gained by the clergyman’s attention to the proprieties of the situation; but there was at least the comfort of thinking that in respect to decorum all was now perfectly right.

As for Colin, he, it must be confessed, bore the separation better; for he was not at all afraid of Mrs. Meredith, and he had a great many things to learn and do, and, when he paid his betrothed a visit, it was sweet to see the flush of unmistakeable joy in her face, and to feel that so fair a creature sat thinking of him in the silence, referring everything to him, ready to crown him with all the hopes and blossoms of her youth. And then, but for her sake, Colin, to tell the truth, was in no such hurry to be married as his clerical censor supposed. The weeks that might have to elapse before that event could be concluded were not nearly so irksome to him as they ought to have been; and, even though he began to be irritated by the ambiguous responses of the clergyman, he was not impatient of the delay itself, but found the days very interesting, and, on the whole, enjoyed himself; which, to be sure, may give some people an unfavourable impression of Colin’s heart, and want of sympathy with the emotions of her he looked upon as his bride. At the same time, it is but just to say that he was not aware of these emotions—for Alice said nothing about her fears; and his love for her, which was genuine enough in its way, was not of the nature of that love which divines everything, and reads the eye and the heart with infallible perception. He did not suffer, like Alice, from fears that his dawning happiness was too great, and could never come true; for, though he had fully accepted his position, and even with the facility of youth had found pleasure in it, and found himself growing fonder every day of the sweet and tranquil creature to whom he became day by day more completely all in all, this kind of calm domestic love was unimpassioned, and not subject to the hopes and fears, the despairs and exultations of more spontaneous and enthusiastic devotion. So, to tell the truth, he endured the separation with philosophy, and roamed about all day long with many a thought in his mind, through that town which is of all townsin the world most full of memories, most exciting and most sorrowful. Colin, being Scotch, was not classical to speak of, and the Cæsars had but a limited interest for him; but, if the ancient tutelary deities were worn out and faded, the shrine to which pilgrims had come for so many ages was musical with all the echoes of history, and affecting beyond description or comparison. And in Papal Rome the young priest had an interest altogether different from that of a polemical Protestant or a reverential High-Churchman. Colin was a man of his age, tolerant and indulgent to other people’s opinions, and apt to follow out his own special study without pausing to consider whether the people among whom he pursued it were without spot or blemish in matters of doctrine. The two friends spent a great deal of time in the churches; not at the high mass, or sweet-voiced vespers, where irreverent crowds assembled, as in a concert-room, to hear Mustafa sing, but in out-of-the-way chapels, where there were no signs offesta; in the Pantheon, in churches where there were no great pictures nor celebrated images, but where the common people went and came unconscious of any spectators; and many and strange were the discussions held by the two Scotchmen over the devotions they witnessed—devotions ignorant enough, no doubt, but real, and full of personal meaning. It was Rome without her glorious apparel, without her grandeur and melodies,—Rome in very poor vestments, not always clean, singing out of tune, and regarding with eyes of intensest supplication such poor daubs of saints and weak-eyed Madonnas as would have found no place in the meanest exhibition anywhere in the world. Strangely enough, this was the aspect in which she had most interest for the two friends.

“It would be awfu’ curious to hear the real thoughts these honest folk have in their minds,” said Lauderdale. “I’m no much of the idolatry way of thinking mysel’. It may come a wee that way in respect to Mary. The rest of them are little more than friends at court so far as I can see, and it’s no unnatural feeling. If you take the view that a’ natural feelings are like to be wrong to start with, that settles the question; but if, on the other hand—”

“I don’t believe in idolatry under any circumstances,” said Colin, hotly; “nobody worships a bad picture. It is the something represented by it, never to be fully expressed, and of which, indeed, a bad picture is almost more touching than a good one—”

“Keep quiet, callant, and let other folk have a chance to speak,” said Lauderdale; “I’m saying there’s an awfu’ deal of reasonableness in nature if you take her in the right way. I’m far from being above that feeling mysel’. No that I have ony acquaintance with St. Cosmo and St. Damian and the rest; but I wouldna say if there was ony rational way of getting at the ear of one of them that’s gone—even if it was Arthur, poor callant—that I wouldna be awfu’ tempted to bid him mind upon me when he was near the Presence Cha’amer. I’m no saying he had much wisdom to speak of, or was more enlightened than myself; and there’s no distinct evidence that at this moment he’s nearer God than I am; but I tell you, callant, nature’s strong—and, if I kent ony way of communication, there’s nae philosophy in the world would keep me from asking, if he was nigh the palace gates and could see Him that sits upon the throne, that he should mind upon me.”

“You may be sure he does it without asking,” said Colin—and then, after a moment’s pause, “Your illustration comes too close for criticism. I know what you mean; but then the saints as they flourish in Rome have nothing to do with Scotland,” said the young man. “It would be something to get the people to have a little respect for the saints; but, as to saying their prayers to them, there is little danger of that.”

“The callant’s crazy about Scotland,” said Lauderdale; “a man that heard you and kent no better might think ye were the king of Scotland in disguise, with a scheme of Church reform in your hand. If you’re ever a minister you’ll be in hot water before you’re well placed. But, Colin, it’s an awfu’ descent from all your grand thoughts. You’ll have to fight with the presbytery about organs and such like rubbish—and when you’re to stand, and when you’re to sit; that’s what ambitious callants come to in our kirk. You were like enough for such a fate at any time, but you’re certain of it now with your English wife.”

“Well,” said Colin, “it is no worse than the fight about candles and surplices in England; better, indeed, for it means something; and, if I fight on that point, at least I’ll fight at the same time for better things.”

“It’s aye best no to fight at all,” said the philosopher, “though that’s no a doctrine palatable to human nature so far as I have ever seen. But it’s aye awfu’ easy talking; you’re no ready for your profession yet; and how you are ever to be ready, and you a married man——”

“Stuff!” said Colin; “most men are married; but I don’t see thatthatfact hinders the business of the world. I don’t mean to spend all my time with my wife.”

“No,” said Lauderdale with a momentary touch of deeper seriousness—and he paused and cast a side glance at his companion as if longing to say something; but it happened at that moment, either by chance or intention, that Colin turned the full glow of his brown eyes upon his friend’s face, looking at him with that bright but blank smile which he had seen before, and which imposed silence more absolutely than any prohibition. “No,” said Lauderdale, slowly changing his tone; “I’ll no say it was that I was thinking of. The generality of callants studying for the kirk in our country are no in your position. I’m no clear in my own mind how it’s come to pass—for a young man that’s the head of a family has a different class of subjects to occupy his mind; and as for the Balliol scholarship”—said the philosopher regretfully; “but that’s no what I’m meaning. You’ll have to provide for your own house, callant, before you think of the kirk.”

“Yes, I have thought of all that,” said Colin. “I think Alice will get on with my mother. She must stay there, you know, and I will go down as often as I can during the winter. What do you mean by making no answer? Do you think she will not like Ramore? My mother is fit company for a queen,” said the young man with momentary irritation; for, indeed, he was a little doubtful in his own mind how this plan would work.

“I’ve little acquaintance with queens,” said Lauderdale; “but I’m thinking history would tell different tales if the half of them were fit to be let within the door where the Mistress was. That’s no the question. It’s clear to me that your wife will rather have your company than your mother’s—which is according to nature, though you and me may be of a different opinion. If you listen to me, Colin, you’ll think a’ that over again. It’s an awfu’ serious question. I’m no saying a word against the kirk; whatever fools may say, it’s a grand profession; there’s nae profession so grand that I ken of; but a man shouldna begin a race with burdens on his back and chains on his limbs. You’ll have to make your choice between love and it, Colin; and since in the first place you’ve made choice of love——”

“Stuff!” said Colin; but it was not said with his usual lightness of tone, and he turned upon his friend with a subdued exasperation which meant more than it expressed. “Why do you speak to me of love and—— nonsense,” cried Colin, “what choice is there?” and then he recollected himself, and grew redand angry. “My love has Providence itself for a second,” he said; “if it were mere fancy you might speak; but, as for giving up my profession, nothing shall induce me to do that. Alice is not like a fanciful fool to hamper and constrain me. She will stay with my mother. Two years more will complete my studies, and then——” here Colin paused of himself, and did not well know what to add; for, indeed, it was then chiefly that the uttermost uncertainty commenced.

“And then—” said Lauderdale, meditatively. “It’s an awfu’ serious question. It’s ill to say what may happen then. What I’m saying is no pleasure to me. I’ve put mair hope on your head than any man’s justified in putting on another man. Ye were the ransom of my soul, callant,” said the philosopher, with momentary emotion. “It was you that was tobe; nothing but talk will ever come out of a man like me—and it’s an awfu’ consolation to contemplate a soul that means to live. But there’s more ways of living—ay, and of serving God and Scotland—than in the kirk. No man in the world can fight altogether in the face of circumstance. I would think it a’ well over again, if I were you.”

“No more,” said Colin, with all the more impatience that he felt the truth of what his friend was saying. “No more; I am not to be moved on that subject. No, no, it is too much; I cannot give up my profession,” he said, half under his breath, to himself; and, perhaps, at the bottom of his soul, a momentary grudge, a momentary pang, arose within him at thought of the woman who could accept such a sacrifice without even knowing it, or feeling how great it was. Such, alas, was not the woman of Colin’s dreams; yet so inconsistent was the young man in his youth, that ten minutes after, when the two walked past the Colosseum on their way to the railway, being bound to Frascati (for this was before the days when the vulgar highway of commerce had entered within the walls of Rome), a certain wavering smile on his lip, a certain colour on his cheeks, betrayed as plainly that he was bound on a lover’s errand, as if it had been said in words. Lauderdale, whose youthful days were past, and who was at all times more a man of one idea, more absolute and fixed in his affections, than Colin, could understand him less on this point than on any other; but he saw how it was, though he did not attempt to explain how it could be, and the two friends grew silent, one of them delivered by sheer force of youthfulness and natural vigour from the anxieties that clouded the other. As they approached the gate, a carriage, which had been stoppedthere by the watchful ministers of the Dogana, made a sudden start, and dashed past them. It was gone in a moment, flashing on in the sunshine at the utmost speed which a reckless Italian coachman could get out of horses which did not belong to him; but in that instant, both the bystanders started, and came to a sudden pause in their walk. “Did you hear anything?” said Colin. “What was it?” and the young man turned round, and made a few rapid strides after the carriage; but then Colin stopped short, with an uneasy laugh at himself. “Absurd,” he said; “all English voices sound something alike,” which was an unlover-like remark. And then he turned to his friend, who looked almost as much excited as himself.

“I suppose that’s it,” said Lauderdale, but he was less easily satisfied than Colin. “I cannot see how it could be her,” he said, slowly; “but——. Yon’s an awfu’ speed if there’s no reason for it. I’m terrible tempted to jump into that machine there, and follow,” the philosopher added, with a stride towards a crazy little one-horse carriage which was waiting empty at the gate.

“It is I who should do that,” said Colin; and then he laughed, shaking off his fears. “It is altogether impossible and absurd,” the young man said. “Nonsense! there are scores of English girls who have voices sufficiently like her’s to startle one. I have thought it was she half-a-dozen times since I came to Rome. Come along, or we shall lose the train. Nothing could possibly bring her into Rome without our knowledge; and nothing, I hope,” said the young lover, who was in little doubt on that branch of the subject, “could make her pass byme.”

“Except her father,” said Lauderdale, to which Colin only replied by an impatient exclamation as they went on to the train. But, though it was only a momentary sound, the tone of a voice, that had startled them, it was with extreme impatience and an uneasiness which they had tried to hide from each other that they made their way to Frascati. To be sure Colin amused himself for a little by the thought of a pretty speech with which he could flatter and flutter his gentlefiancée, telling her her voice was in the air, and he heard it everywhere; and then he burst forth into “Airy tongues that syllable men’s names,” to the consternation of Lauderdale. “But then she did not syllable any name,” he added, laughing; “which is a proof positive that it can have been nothing.” His laugh and voice were, however, full of excitement and uneasiness, and betrayed to Lauderdale that the suggestion he had made began to work. The two mounted the hill to Frascati from the station with a swiftness and silencenatural to two Scotchmen at such a moment, leaving everything in the shape of carriage behind them. When they reached the Palazzo Savvelli, Colin cleared the long staircase at a bound for anything his companion saw who followed him more slowly, more and more certainly prescient of something having happened. When Lauderdale reached thesalone, he found nobody there save Sora Antonia, with her apron at her eyes, and Colin, sunk into Arthur’s chair, reading a letter which he held in both his hands. Colin’s face was crimson, his hands trembling with excitement and passion. The next moment he had started to his feet and was ready for action. “Read it, Lauderdale,” he said, with a choking voice; “you may read it; it has all come true; and in the meantime I’m off to get a vettura,” said the young man, rushing to the door. Before his friend could say a word, Colin was gone, tearing frantically down the stairs which he had come up like lightning; and in this bewildering moment, after the thunderbolt had fallen, with Sora Antonia’s voice ringing in his ear as loudly and scarce more intelligibly than the rain which accompanies a storm, Lauderdale picked up poor Alice’s letter, which was blotted with tears.

Back to IndexNext