“Ay, I heard of the accident. No that I thought anything particular of
that. You’re no the kind of callant, nor come of the kind of race, to
give in to an accident. I came for my own pleasure. I hope I’m old
enough to ken what pleases myself. Take your dinner, callant, and leave
me to mind my business. I could do that much before you were born.”
It was Lauderdale who made this answer to Colin’s half-pleased,
half-impatient questioning. The new comer sat, gaunt and strange,
throwing a long shadow over the sick-bed, and looking, with a suppressed
emotion, more pathetic than tears, upon the tray which was placed on a
little table by Colin’s side. It was a sad sight enough. The young man,
in the flush and beauty of his youth, with his noble physical
development, and the eager soul that shone in his eyes, laid helpless,
with an invalid’s repast before him, for which he put out his hand with
a languid movement like a sick child. Lauderdale himself looked haggard
and careworn. He had travelled by night, and was unshaven and untrimmed,
with a wild gleam, of exhaustion and hungry anxiety in his eyes.
“Whatever the reason may be, we’re real glad to see you,” said Mrs.
Campbell. “If I could have wished for anything to do Colin good more
than he’s getting, it would have been you. But he’s a great deal
better--a wonderful deal better; you would not know him for the same
creature that he was when I came here; and I’m in great hopes he’ll no
need to be sent away for the rest of the winter, as the doctor said,”
said the sanguine mother, who had reasoned herself into hope. She looked
with wistful inquiry as she spoke into Lauderdale’s eyes, trying hard to
read there what was the opinion of the new comer. “It would be an awfu’
hard thing for me to send him away by himsel’, and him no strong,” said
the Mistress, with a hope that his friend would say that Colin’s looks
did not demand such a proceeding, but that health would come back to him
with the sweet air of the Holy Loch.
“I heard of that,” said Lauderdale, “and, to tell the truth, I’m tired
of staying in one place all my life mysel’. If a man is to have no more
good of his ain legs than if he were a vegetable, I see no good in being
a man; it would save an awfu’ deal of trouble to turn a cabbage at once.
So I’m thinking of taking a turn about the world as long as I’m able;
and, if Colin likes to go with me--”
“Which means, mother, that he has come to be my nurse,” said Colin,
whose heart was climbing into his throat; “and here I lie like a log,
and will never be able to do more than say thanks. Lauderdale--”
“Whisht, callant,” said the tender giant, who stood looking down upon
Colin with eyes which would not trust themselves to answer the mother’s
appealing glances; “I’m terrible fatigued with my life, and no able to
take the trouble of arguing the question. Not that I consent to your
proposition, which has a fallacy on the face of it; for it would be a
bonnie-like thing to hear you say thanks either to your mother or me.
Since I’ve been in my situation--which, maybe, I’ll tell you more about
by-and-bye, now that my mouth’s opened--I’ve saved a little siller, a
hundred pounds--or maybe mair,” said the philosopher, with a momentary
smile, “and I see no reason why I shouldna have my bit holiday as well
as other folk. I’ve worked long for it.” He turned away just then,
attracted by a gleam of sunshine at the window, his companion thought,
and stood looking out disposing as he best could of a little bitter
moisture that had gathered in the deep corners of his eyes. “It’ll no be
very joyful when it comes,” he said to himself, with a pang of which
nobody was aware, and stood forming his lips into an inaudible whistle
to conceal how they quivered. He, too, had built high hopes upon this
young head which was now lying low. He had said to himself, with the
involuntary bitterness of a mind disappointed and forlorn, that here at
least was a life free from all shadows--free from the fate that seemed
to follow all who belonged to himself--through which he might again
reconcile himself to Providence, and re-connect himself with existence.
As he stood now, with his back to Colin, Lauderdale was again going over
the burning ploughshares, enduring the fiery ordeal. Once more his
unselfish hope was going out in darkness. When he turned round again his
lips had steadied into the doleful turn of a familiar air, which was
connected in Colin’s mind with many an amusing and many a tender
recollection. Between the two people who were regarding him with love
and anguish so intense, the sick youth burst into pleasant
laughter--laughter which had almost surprised the bystanders into
helpless tears--and repeated, with firmer breath than Lauderdale’s, the
fragment of his favourite air.
“He never gets beyond that bar,” said Colin. “It carries me back to
Glasgow and all the old days. We used to call it Lauderdale’s pibroch.
Give me my dinner, mother. I don’t see what I should grumble about as
long as you and he are by me. Help me to get up, old fellow,” the young
man said, holding out his hands; and he ate his invalid meal cheerfully,
with eager questions about all his old companions, and bursts of passing
laughter, which to the ears of his friend were more terrible than so
many groans. As for the Mistress, she had got used by this time to
connect together those two ideas of Colin and a sick-bed, the
conjunction of which was as yet misery to Lauderdale; and she was glad
in her boy’s pleasure, and took trembling hope from every new evidence
of his unbroken spirit. Before long the old current of talk had flowed
into its usual channel; and, but for the strange, novel circumstances
which surrounded them, one at least of the party might have forgotten
for the moment that they were not in the pleasant parlour of Ramore; but
that one did not see his own countenance, its eloquent brightness, its
flashes of sudden colour, and the shining of its too brilliant eyes. But
there could not be any doubt that Colin improved from that moment.
Lauderdale had secured a little lodging in the village, from which he
came every morning to the “callant,” in whom his disappointed spirit,
too careless of personal good, too meditative and speculative for any
further ambition on his own account, had fixed its last hopes. He even
came, in time, after he had accustomed himself to the young man’s
illness, to share, by moments, in the Mistress’s hopes. When Colin at
last got up from his bed, it was Lauderdale’s arm he leant on. That was
an eventful day to the little anxious group in the sick chamber, whose
hopes sometimes leapt to certainty, but whose fears, with an intuition
deeper still, sometimes fell to the other extreme, and were hushed in
the silence of an anguish too deep to be fathomed, from which thought
itself drew back. It was a bright winter day, with symptoms of spring in
the air, when the young patient got up from his weary bed. Colin made
very light of his weakness in the rising tide of his spirits. He
faultered across the room upon Lauderdale’s arm, to look out again, as
he said, upon the world. It was an unfortunate moment for his first
renewal of acquaintance with the bright outside sphere of ordinary life,
which had passed on long ago, and forgotten Colin. The room in which
they had placed him when his illness began was one of the best rooms in
the house, and looked out upon the terrace and the big holly-trees which
Colin knew so well. It was the morning of the day on which Lady
Frankland’s ball was to take place, and symptoms of excitement and
preparation were apparent. Immediately in front of the window, when
Colin looked out, Miss Matty was standing in animated talk with her
cousin. They had been loitering about, as people do in the morning about
a country house, with no particular occupation--for the sun was warm,
though it was still only the end of January--and Matty was at the moment
engaged in indicating some special designs of her own which were
involved in Lady Frankland’s alterations in the flower-garden, for
Harry’s approval. She had, indeed, just led him by the sleeve into the
midst of the half-completed design, and was describing circles round him
with the walking-stick which she had taken out of his hand for the
purpose, as Colin stood tremulous and uncertain by the window, looking
out. Nobody could look brighter than Miss Matty; nobody more happy than
the heir of Wodensbourne. If the sick man had entertained any hope that
his misfortune threw a sympathetic shadow over them, he must now have
been undeceived very summarily. Colin, however, bore the trial without
flinching. He looked at them as if they were miles or ages away, with a
strange smile, which did not seem to the anxious spectators to have any
bitterness in it. But he made no remark until he had left the window,
and taken his place on the sofa which had been arranged for him by the
fire. Then he smiled again, without looking at any one, with abstract
eyes, which went to the hearts of his attendants. “How far off the world
seems,” said Colin. “I feel as if I ought to be vexed by that pretty
scene on the terrace. Don’t you think so, mother? But I am not vexed, no
more than if it was a picture. I wonder what it means?”
“Eh, Colin, my man, it means you’re getting strong and no heeding about
them and their vanities,” cried the Mistress, whose indignant eyes were
full of tears; but Colin only shook his head and smiled, and made no
reply. _He_ was not indignant. He did not seem to care or be interested
one way or other; but, as a spectator might have done, mused on the
wonderful contrast, and asked himself what God could mean by it?--a
question which there was no one to answer. Later the curate came to
visit him, as indeed he had done several times before, praying out of
his well-worn prayer-book by Colin’s bedside in a way which at first
scandalized the Mistress, who had, however, become used to him by this
time. “It’s better to speak out of a book than to speak nonsense,” Mrs.
Campbell had said; “but eh, Colin, it’s awfu’ to think that a man like
that hasna a word out of his ain heart to make intercession for his
fellow-creatures when they’re in trouble.” However, the curate was kind,
and the mother was speedily mollified. As for that excellent clergyman
himself, he did not at all understand the odd company in which he found
himself when he looked from Colin, of whom he knew most, to the mother
with her thoughtful eyes, and to the gaunt gigantic friend who looked
upon everything in a speculative way, of which the curate had an
instinctive suspicion. To-day Colin’s visitor was more instructive and
hortatory than was at all usual for him. He spoke of the mercy of God,
which had so far brought the patient towards recovery, and of the
motives for thankfulness; to which Mrs. Campbell assented with silent
tears.
“Yes,” said Colin; and there was a little pause that surprised the
curate. “It is comfortable to be better,” said the patient; “but it
would be more than comfortable if one could but know, if one could but
guess, what meaning God has in it all. There is Frankland downstairs
with his cousin, quite well,” said Colin. “I wonder does he ever ask
himself why? When one is on the wrong side of the contrast, one feels it
more, I suppose.” The curate had passed Harry Frankland before he came
upstairs, and had, perhaps, been conscious in his own mind of a
momentary personal comparison and passing wonder, even at the difference
between his own lot and that of the heir of Wodensbourne. But he had
thought the idea a bad one, and crushed it at once; and Colin’s fancy,
though more justifiable, was of the same description, and demanded
instant extinction.
“You don’t grudge him his good fortune, I am sure; and then we know
there must be inequalities in this life,” said the curate. “It is very
mysterious, but nothing goes without compensation; and then we must
always remember that ‘whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,’” said the
good clergyman. “You are young to have so much suffering; but you can
always take comfort in that.”
“Then you mean me to think that God does not love Harry Frankland,” said
Colin, “and makes a favourite of me in this gloomy way? Do you really
think so?--for I cannot be of that opinion, for my part.”
“My dear Mr. Campbell,” said the curate, “I am very much grieved to hear
you speaking like this. Did not God give up His own Son to sufferings of
which we have no conception? Did not He endure----”
“It was for a cause,” said Colin. The young man’s voice fell, and the
former bitterness came back upon him. “He suffered for the best reason,
and knew why; but we are in the dark, and know nothing; why is it? One
with all the blessings of life--another stripped, impoverished, brought
to the depths, and no reason in it, no cause, no good,” said Colin, in
the momentary outcry of his wonder and passion. He was interrupted, but
not by words of sacred consolation. Lauderdale was sitting behind, out
of the way, humming to himself, in a kind of rude chant, out of a book
he held in his hand. Nobody had been taking any notice of him, for it
was his way. Now his voice rose and broke in, in an uncouth swell of
sound, not unharmonious with the rude verse--
“Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs but to do and die,”
said Lauderdale, with a break of strong emotion in his voice; and he got
up and threw down the book, and came forward into the little circle. It
was the first time that he had intimated by so much as a look his
knowledge of anything perilous in Colin’s illness. Now he came and stood
opposite him, leaning his back against the wall. “Callant,” he said,
with a voice that sounded as if it were blown about and interrupted by a
strong wind, “if I were on a campaign, the man I would envy would be him
that was chosen by his general for the forlorn hope--him that went
first, and met the wildest of the battle. Do you mean to tell me you’re
no ready to follow when He puts the colours in your hand?”