November weather is not cheerful on the Holy Loch. The dazzling snow on
the hills when there is sunshine, the sharp cold blue of the water, the
withered ferns and heather on the banks, give it, it is true, a new tone
of colour unknown to its placid summer beauty; but, when there is no
sunshine, as is more usual, when the mountains are folded in dark mists,
and the rain falls cold, and the trees rain down a still heavier and
more melancholy shower of perpetually falling leaves, there is little in
the landscape to cheer the spirits of the inhabitants, who, fortunately
for themselves, take it very calmly, like most people accustomed to such
a climate. The farmer’s wife of Ramore, however, was not of that equable
mind. When she looked out from her homely parlour-window, it oppressed
her heart to miss her mountains, and to see the heavy atmosphere closing
in over her own little stretch of hill-side. She was busy, to be sure,
and had not much time to think of it; but, when she paused for a moment
in her many occupations, and looked wistfully for signs of “clearing,”
the poetic soul in her homely bosom fell subdued into an unconscious
harmony with the heavy sky. If the baby looked pale by chance, the
mother took gloomy views of the matter on such days, and was subject to
little momentary failures of hope and courage, which amazed, and at the
same time amused, big Colin, who by this time knew all about it.
“You were blythe enough about us a’ yesterday, Jeanie,” he would say
with a smile, “and nothing’s happened to change the prospect but the
rain. It’s just as weel for the wean that the doctor’s a dozen miles
off; for it’s your e’en that want physic, and a glint o’ sunshine would
set a’ right.” He was standing by her, hovering like a great
good-humoured cloud, his eyes dwelling upon her with that tender
perception of her sacred weakness, and admiring pride in her more
delicate faculties, which are of the highest essence of love.
“I hope you dinna think me a fool altogether,” the mistress would
answer, with momentary offence; “as if I was thinking of the rain, or as
if there was onything but rain to be lookit for! but when I mind that my
Colin gangs away the morn--”
And then she took up her basket of mended stockings, and, with a little
impatience, to hide a chance drop on her eyelash, carried them away to
Colin’s room, where his chest stood open and was being packed for the
journey. It was not a very long journey, but it was the boy’s first
outset into independent life; and very independent life was that which
awaited the country lad in Glasgow, where he was going to the
University. On such a day dark shadows of many a melancholy story
floated somehow upon the darkened atmosphere into Mrs. Campbell’s mind.
“If we could but have boarded him in a decent family,” she said to
herself, as she packed her boy’s stockings. But it had been “a bad year”
at Ramore, and no decent family would have received young Colin for so
small a sum as that on which he himself and various more wise advisers
considered it possible for him to live, by the help of an occasional
hamper of home produce, in a little lodging of his own. Mrs. Campbell
had acceded to this arrangement as the best; but it occurred to her to
remember various wrecks she had encountered even in her innocent life;
and her heart failed her a little as she leaned over Colin’s big “kist.”
Colin himself said very little on the subject, though he thought of
nothing else; but he was a taciturn Scotch boy, totally unused to
disclose his feelings. He was strolling round and round the place with
his hands in his pockets, gradually getting soaked by the persistent
rain, and rather liking it than otherwise. As he strayed about--having
nothing to do that day in consideration of its being his last day at
home--Colin’s presence was by no means welcomed by the other people
about the farm. Of course, being unoccupied himself, he had the
sharpest eyes for every blunder that was going on in the stable or the
byre, and announced his little discoveries with a charming candour. But
in his heart, even at the moment when he was driving Jess to frenzy by
uncalled-for remarks touching the dinner of the pigs, Colin was all
a-blaze with anticipation of the new life that was to begin to-morrow.
He thought of it as something grand and complete, not made up of petty
details like this life he was leaving. It was a mist of learning, daily
stimulation and encounter of wits, with glorious prizes and honours
hanging in the hazy distance, which Colin saw as he went strolling about
the farm-yard in the rain, with his hands in his pockets. If he said
anything articulate to himself on the subject, it was comprised in one
succinct, but seemingly inapplicable, statement. “Eton’s no a college,”
he said once, under his breath, with a dark glow of satisfaction on his
face as he stopped opposite the door, and cast a glance upon the loch
and the boat, which latter was now drawn up high and dry out of reach of
the wintry water; and then a cloud suddenly lowered over Colin’s face,
as a sudden doubt of his own accuracy seized him--a torturing thought
which drove him indoors instantly to resolve his doubt by reference to a
wonderful old Gazetteer which was believed in at Ramore. Colin found it
recorded there, to his great mental disturbance, that Eton _was_ a
college; but, on further inquiry, derived great comfort from knowing
that it certainly was not a university, after which he felt himself
again at liberty to issue forth and superintend and aggravate all the
busy people about the farm.
That night the family supper-table was somewhat dull, notwithstanding
the excitement of the boys, for Archie was to accompany his father and
brother to Glasgow, and was in great glee over that unusual delight.
Mrs. Campbell, for her part, was full of thoughts natural enough to the
mother of so many sons. She kept looking at her boys as they sat round
the table, absorbed in their supper. “This is the beginning, but wha can
tell what may be the end?” she said half to herself; “they’ll a’ be gane
afore we ken what we’re doing.” Little Johnnie, to be sure, was but six
years old; but the mother’s imagination leapt over ten years, and saw
the house empty, and all the young lives out in the world. “Eh me!” said
the reflective woman, “that’s what we bring up our bairns for, and
rejoice over them as if they were treasure; and then by the time we’re
auld they’re a’ gane;” and, as she spoke, not the present shadow only,
but legions of vague desolations in the time to come came rolling up
like mists upon her tender soul.
“As lang as there’s you and me, we’ll fend, Jeanie,” said the farmer,
with a smile; “twa’s very good company to my way o’ thinking; but
there’s plenty of time to think about the dispersion which canna take
place yet for a year or twa. The boys came into the world to live their
ain lives and serve their Maker, and no’ just to pleasure you and me. If
you’ve a’ done, ye can cry on Jess, and bring out the big Bible, Colin.
We maunna miss our prayers to-night.”
To tell the truth, Colin of Ramore was not quite so regular in his
discharge of this duty as his next neighbour, Eben Campbell of Barnton,
thought necessary, and was disapproved of accordingly by that virtuous
critic; but the homely little service was perhaps all the more touching
on this special occasion, and marked the “night before Colin went first
to the college,” as a night to be remembered. When his brothers trooped
off to bed, Colin remained behind as a special distinction. His mother
was sitting by the fire without even her knitting, with her hands
crossed in her lap, and clouds of troubled, tender thought veiling her
soft eyes. As for the farmer, he sat looking on with a faint gleam of
humour in his face. He knew that his wife was going to speak out her
anxious heart to her boy, and big Colin’s respect for her judgment was
just touched by a man’s smile at her womanish solemnity, and the great
unlikelihood that her innocent advices would have the effect she
imagined upon her son’s career. But, notwithstanding the smile, big
Colin, too, listened with interest to all that his wife had to say.
“Come here and sit down,” said Mrs. Campbell; “you needna’ think shame
of my hand on your head, though you _are_ gaun to the college the morn.
Eh! Colin, you dinna ken a’ the temptations nor the trials. Ye’ve aye
had your ain way at hame--”
Here Colin made a little movement of irrepressible dissent. “I’ve aye
done what I was bidden,” said the honest boy. He could not accept that
gentle fiction even when his heart was touched by his mother’s farewell.
“Weel, weel,” said the farmer’s wife, with a little sigh; “you’ve had
your ain way as far as it was good for you. But its awfu’ different,
living among strangers, and living in your father’s house. Ye’ll have to
think for yoursel’ and take care of yoursel’ now. I’m no one to give
many advices,” said the mother, putting up her hand furtively to her
eyes, and looking into the fire till the tears should be re-absorbed
which had gathered there. “But I wouldna like my firstborn to leave
Ramore and think a’ was as fair in the world as appears to the common
e’e. I’ve been real weel off a’ my days,” said the mistress, slowly,
letting the tears which she had restrained before drop freely at this
reminiscence of happiness; “a guid father and mother to bring me up, and
then _him_ there, that’s the kindest man!--But you and me needna praise
your father, Colin; we can leave that to them that dinna ken,” she went
on, recovering herself; “but I’ve had ae trouble for a’ so weel as I’ve
been, and I mean to tell you what that is afore you set out in the world
for yoursel’.”
“Nothing about poor George,” said the farmer, breaking in--
“Oh, ay, Colin, just about poor George; I maun speak,” said the
mistress. “He was far the bonniest o’ our family, and the best-likit;
and he was to be a minister, laddie, like you. He used to come hame with
his prizes, and bring the very sunshine to the auld house. Eh! but my
mother was proud; and for me, I thought there was nothing in this world
he mightna’ do if he likit. Colin,” said Mrs. Campbell, with solemn
looks, “are ye listening? The last time I saw my brother was in a puir
place at Liverpool, a’ in rags and dirt, with an auld coat buttoned to
his throat, that it mightna’ be seen what was wantin’, and a’ his wild
hair hangin’ about his face, and his feet out o’ his shoon, and hunger
in his eye--”
“Jeanie, Jeanie, nae mair,” said big Colin from the other side of the
fire.
“But I maun say mair; I maun tell a’,” cried his wife, with tears.
“Hunger in his bonnie face, that was ance the blythest in the
country-side--no hunger for honest meat as nature might crave, but for
a’ thing that was unlawfu’, and evil, and killin’ to soul and body. He
had to be watched for fear he should spend the hard-won silver that we
had a’ scraped together to send him away. Him that had been our pride,
we couldna trust him, Colin, no ten minutes out o’ our sight but he was
in some new trouble. It was to Australia we sent him, where a’ the
unfortunates go. Eh, me! the like o’ that ship sailing! If there was a
kind o’ hope in our breasts it was the hope o’ despair. It wasna’ my
will, for what is there in a new place to make a man reform his ways?
And that was how your Uncle George went away.”
“And then?” cried the boy, whose interest was raised, and who had heard
mysteriously of this Uncle George before.
“We’ve heard no word from that day to this,” said Mrs. Campbell, drying
her eyes. “Listen till I tell you a’ that his pleasurings brought him
to. First, and greatest, to say what was not true, Colin--to deceive
them that trusted him. If the day should ever dawn that I couldna trust
a bairn o’ mine--if it should ever come sickening to my heart that e’e
or tongue was false that belonged to me--if I had to watch my laddies,
and to stand in doubt at every word they said--eh! Colin, God send I may
be in my grave afore such an awfu’ fate should come to me.”
Young Colin of Ramore answered not a word; he stared into the fire
instead, making horrible faces unawares. He could not have denied, had
he been taxed with it, that tears were in his eyes; but rather than shed
them he would have endured tortures; and any expression of his feelings
in words was more impossible still.
“No as if I was a better woman than my mother, or worthy o’ a better
fate,” said the thoughtful mistress of Ramore; “for she was ane o’ the
excellent of the earth, as a’body kens; and if ever a woman won to her
rest through great tribulations, she was ane; and, if the Lord sent the
cross, He would send the strength to bear it. But oh! Colin, my man, it
would be kind to drown your mother in the loch, or fell her on the hill,
sooner than bring upon her such great anguish and trouble as I have told
you of this night.”
“Now, wife,” said the farmer, interfering, “you’ve said your part. Nae
such thought is in Colin’s head. Gang you and look after his kist, and
see that a’ thing’s right; and him and me will have our crack the time
you’re away. Your mother’s an innocent woman,” said big Colin, after a
pause, when she had gone away; “she kens nae mair of the world than the
bairn on her knee. When you’re a man you’ll ken the benefit of taking
your first notions from a woman like that. No an imagination in her mind
but what’s good and true. It’s hard work fechting through this world
without marks o’ the battle,” said big Colin with a little pathos; “but
a man wi’ the like o’ _her_ by his side maun be ill indeed if he gangs
very far wrang. It mightna’ be a’ to the purpose,” continued the farmer,
with a little of his half-conscious common-sense superiority, “as
appeals to the feelings seldom are; but, Colin, if you take my advice,
you’ll mind every word of what your mother says.”
Colin said not a syllable in reply. He had got rid of the tears safely,
which was a great deal gained: they must have fallen had the mistress
remained two seconds longer looking at him with her soft beaming eyes;
but he had not quite gulped down yet that climbing sorrow which had him
by the throat. Anyhow, even if his voice had been at his own command, he
was very unlikely to have made any reply.
“Ye’ll find a’ strange when ye gang to Glasgow,” continued the farmer.
“I’m no feared for any great temptation, except idleness, besetting a
callant like you; but a man that has his ain bread and his ain way to
make in the world, has nae time for idleness. You’ve guid abilities,
Colin, and if they dinna come to something you’ll have but yoursel’ to
blame: and I wouldna’ put the reproach on my Maker of having brought a
useless soul into the world, if I were you,” said big Colin. “There’s
never ony failures that I can see among the lower creation, without some
guid reason; but it’s the privilege o’ men to fail without ony cause o’
failure except want o’ will to do weel. When ye see the like of George,
for instance, ye ask what the Lord took the trouble to make such a
ne’er-do-weel for?” said the homely philosopher; “I never could help
thinking, for my part, that it was labour lost--though nae doubt
Providence kent better; but I wouldna’ be like _that_ if I could help
it. There’s no a silly sheep on the hill, nor horse in the stable, that
isna’ a credit to Him that made it. I would take good heed no to put
mysel’ beneath the brute beasts, if I were you.”
“I’m no meaning,” cried Colin, with ungrammatical abruptness and a
little offence; for he was pricked in his pride by this address, which
was not, according to his father’s ideas, any “appeal to his feelings,”
but a calm and common-sense way of putting an argument before the boy.
“I never said you were,” said the farmer. “It’ll cost us hard work to
keep ye at your studies, and I put it to your honour no to waste your
time; and you’ll write regular, and mind what kind o’ thoughts your
mother’s thinking at home in Ramore; and I may tell you, Colin, I put
confidence in you,” said the father, laying his big hand with a heavy
momentary pressure upon the lad’s shoulder. “Now, good night, and go to
your bed, and prepare for the morn.”
Such were the parting advices with which the boy was sent out into the
world. His mother was in his room, kneeling before his chest, adding the
last particulars to its store, when Colin entered the homely little
chamber--but what they said to each other before they parted was for
nobody’s ear; and the morning was blazing with a wintry brightness, and
all the hills standing white against the sky, and the heart of the
mistress hopeful as the day, when she wiped off her tears with her
apron, and waved her farewell to her boy, as he went off in the little
steamer which twice a day thrilled the loch with communications from the
world. “He’ll come back in the spring,” she said to herself, as she went
about her homely work, and ordered her household. And so young Colin
went forth, all dauntless and courageous, into the great battlefield, to
encounter whatsoever conflicts might come to him, and to conquer the big
world and all that was therein, in the victorious dreams of his youth.