There can 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 she found 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 towns in 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 of _festa_; 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 that _that_
fact 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 red and 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 to _be_;
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 stopped there 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 by _me_.”
“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 gentle _fiancée_, 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 silence natural 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 the _salone_, 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.
“Papa has come to fetch me,” wrote Alice. “Oh, Colin, my heart is
broken! He says we are to go instantly, without a moment’s delay;
and he would not let me write even this if he knew. Oh, Colin,
after all your goodness and kindness, and love that I was not
worthy of!--oh, why did anybody ever interfere? I do not know what
I am writing, and I am sure you will never be able to read it.
Never so long as I live shall I think one thought of anybody but
you; but papa would not let me speak to you--would not wait to see
you, though I told him you were coming. Oh Colin, good-bye, and do
not think it is me--and tell Mr. Lauderdale I shall never forget
his kindness. I would rather, far rather, die than go away. Always,
always, whatever any one may say, your own poor Alice, who is not
half nor quarter good enough for you.”
Such was the hurried utterance of her disappointment and despair which
Alice had left behind her ere she was forced away; but Sora Antonia held
another document of a more formal description, which she delivered to
Lauderdale with a long preface, of which he did not understand a word.
He opened it carelessly; for, the fact being apparent, Lauderdale, who
had no hand in the business on his own account, was sufficiently
indifferent to any compliments which the father of Alice might have to
pay to himself.
“Mr. Meredith regrets to have the sentiments of gratitude with
which he was prepared to meet Mr. Lauderdale, on account of
services rendered to his son, turned into contempt and indignation
by the base attempt on the part of Mr. Lauderdale’s companion to
ensnare the affections of his daughter. Having no doubt whatever
that when removed from the personal coercion in which she has been
held, Miss Meredith will see the base character of the connexion
which it has been attempted to force upon her, Mr. Meredith will,
in consideration of the services above mentioned, take no legal
steps for the exposure of the conspiracy which he has fortunately
found out in time to defeat its nefarious object; but begs that it
may be fully understood that his leniency is only to be purchased
by an utter abstinence from any attempt to disturb Miss Meredith,
or bring forward the ridiculous pretensions of which she is too
young to see the utterly interested and mercenary character.”
A man does not generally preserve his composure unabated after reading
such an epistle, and Lauderdale was no more capable than other men of
dissembling his indignation. His face flushed with a dark glow, more
burning and violent than anything that had disturbed his blood for
years; and it was as well for the character of the grave and
sober-minded Scotsman that nobody but Sora Antonia was present to listen
to the first exclamation that rose to his lips. Sora Antonia herself was
in a state of natural excitement, pouring forth her account of all that
had happened with tears and maledictions, which were only stopped by
Colin’s shout from the foot of the staircase for his friend. The
impatient youth came rushing upstairs when he found no immediate
response, and swept the older man with him like a whirlwind. “Another
time, another time,” he cried to Sora Antonia, “I must go first and
bring the Signorina back,” and Colin picked up both the letters, and
rushed down, driving Lauderdale before him to the carriage which he had
already brought to the door; and they were driving off again, whirling
down hill towards the Campagna, before either had recovered the first
shock of this unlooked-for change in all their plans. Then it was
Lauderdale who was the first to speak.
“You are going to bring the Signorina back,” he said with a long breath.
“It’s a fool’s errand, but I’ll no say but I’ll go with you. Colin,
it’s happened as was only natural. The father has got better, as I said
he would. I’m no blaming the father”--
“Not after _this_?” said Colin, who had just read in a blaze of
indignation Mr. Meredith’s letter.
“Hout,” said the philosopher, “certainly not after that;” and he took it
out of Colin’s hand and folded it up and tore it into a dozen pieces.
“The man kens nothing of me. Callant,” said Lauderdale, warming
suddenly, “there is but one person to be considered in this business.
You and me can fend for ourselves. Pain and sorrow cannot but come on
her as things are, but nothing is to be done or said that can aggravate
them, or give her more to bear. You’re no heeding what I say. Where are
you going now, if a man might ask?”
“I am going to claim my bride,” said Colin, shortly. “Do you imagine I
am likely to abandon her now?”
“Colin,” said his friend anxiously, “you’ll no get her. I’m no
forbidding you to try, but I warn you not to hope. She’s in the hands of
her natural guardian, and at this moment there’s nae power on earth that
would induce him to give her to you. He’s to be blamed for ill speaking,
but I’m no clear that he’s to be blamed for this.”
“I wish you would not talk,” said Colin roughly, and opened Alice’s
little letter again, and read it and put it to his lips. If he had never
been impassioned before he was so now; and so they went on, dashing
across the long level Campagna roads, where there was nothing to break
the sunshine but here and there a nameless pile of ruins.
The sunshine began to fall low and level on the plain before they
reached the gates. “One thing at least is certain--he cannot take her
out of Rome to-night,” said Colin. It was almost the only word that was
spoken between them until they began their doubtful progress from one
hotel to another, through the noisy resounding streets.