This important 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 applied to 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
arrangements were 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 assured _he_ would 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 great _salone_ in 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 all unusual 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 young
_fiancé_. 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. Campbell also 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 are ready
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.