The Balliol Scholarship was, however, too important a reality to leave
the young candidate much time to consider his position--and Colin’s
history would be too long, even for the patience of his friends, if we
were to enter into this part of his life in detail. Everybody knows he
won the scholarship; and, indeed, neither that, nor his subsequent
career at Balliol, are matters to be recorded, since the chronicle has
been already made in those popular University records which give their
heroes a reputation, no doubt temporary, but while it lasts of the
highest possible flavour. He had so warm a greeting from Sir Thomas
Frankland that it would have been churlish on Colin’s part had he
declined the invitations he received to the Castle, where, indeed, Miss
Matty did not want him just at that moment. Though she was not the least
in the world in love with him, it is certain that between the intervals
of her other amusements in that _genre_, the thought of Colin had often
occurred to her mind. She thought of him with a wonderful gratitude and
tenderness sometimes, as of a man who had actually loved her with the
impossible love--and sometimes with a ring of pleasant laughter, not far
removed from tears. Anything “between them” was utterly impossible, of
course--but, perhaps, all the more for that, Miss Matty’s heart, so much
as there was remaining of it, went back to Colin in its vacant moments,
as to a green spot upon which she could repose herself, and set down her
burden of vanities for the time. This very sentiment, however, made her
little inclined to have him at the Castle, where there was at present a
party staying, including, at least, one man of qualifications worthy a
lady’s regard. Harry and his cousin had quarrelled so often that their
quarrel at last was serious, and the new man was cleverer than Harry,
and not so hard to amuse; but it was difficult to go over the well-known
ground with which Miss Frankland was so familiar in presence of one whom
she had put through the process in a still more captivating fashion, and
who was still sufficiently interested to note what she was doing, and to
betray that he noted it. Colin, himself, was not so conscious of
observing his old love in her new love-making as she was conscious of
his observation; and, though it was only a glance now and then, a turn
of the head, or raising of the eyes, it was enough to make her awkward
by moments, an evidence of feeling for which Miss Matty could not
forgive herself.
Thus it happened that Colin was not thrown into temptation in the way
his mother dreaded. The temptation he was thrown into was one of a much
more subtle character. He rushed at his work, and the preparations for
his work, with all the energy of his character; he felt himself free to
follow out the highest visions of life that had formed themselves among
his youthful dreams. He thought of the new study on which he was about
to enter, and the honours upon which he already calculated in his
imagination, as but stepping stones to what lay after, and offered
himself up with a certain youthful effusion and super-abundance to his
Church and his country, for which he had assuredly something to do more
than other men. And then, when Colin had got so far as this, and was
tossing his young head proudly in the glory of his intentions, there
came a little start and shiver, and that sense of the curb, which had
struck him first after his confidence with his mother, returned to his
mind. But the bondage seemed to grow more and more visionary as he went
on. Alice had given him up, so to speak; she was debarred by her father
from any correspondence with him, and might, for anything Colin knew,
gentle and yielding as she was, be made to marry some one else by the
same authority; and, though he did not discuss the question with himself
in words, it became more and more hard to Colin to contemplate the
possibility of having to abridge his studies and sacrifice his higher
aims to the necessity of getting “settled in life.” If he were “settled
in life” to-morrow, it could only be as an undistinguished Scotch
minister, poor, so far as money was concerned, and with no higher
channel either to use or fame; and, at his age, to be only like his
neighbours was of all things the most irksome to him.
Those neighbours, or at least the greater part of them, were good
fellows enough in their way. So far as a vague general conception of
life and its meaning went, they were superior as a class in Colin’s
opinion to that other clerical class represented by the gentle curate of
Wodensbourne, whose soul was absorbed in the restoration of his Church,
and the fit states of mind for the Sundays after Trinity; but there were
also particulars in which, as a class, they were wonderfully inferior to
that mild and gentlemanly Anglican. As for Colin, he had not formed his
ideal on any curate, or even bishop, of the wealthier Church. Like other
fervent young men, an eager discontent with everything he saw lay at the
bottom of his imaginations; and it was the development of
Christianity--“more chivalrous, more magnanimous, than that of modern
times”--that he thought of. A dangerous condition of mind, no doubt; and
the people round him would have sneered much at Colin and his ambition
had he put it into words; but, after all, it was an ideal worth
contemplating which he presented to himself.
In the midst of such thoughts, and of all the future possibilities of
life, it was a little hard to be suddenly stopped short, and reminded of
Mariana in her moated grange, sighing, “He does not come.” If he did
come, making all the unspeakable sacrifices necessary to that end, as
his mother seemed to think he should, the probabilities were that the
door of the grange would be closed upon him; and who could tell but that
Alice, always so docile, might be diverted even from the thought of him
by some other suitor presented to her by her father? Were Colin’s hopes
to be sacrificed to her possible faith, and the possible relenting of
Mr. Meredith? And, alas! amid all the new impulses that were rising
within him, there came again the vision of that woman in the clouds,
whom as yet, though he had been in love with Matty Frankland, and had
all but married Alice Meredith, Colin had never seen. She kissed her
shadowy hand to him by times out of those rosy vapours that floated
among the hills when the sun had gone down, and twilight lay sweet over
the Holy Loch--and beckoned him on, on, to the future and the distance
where she was. When the apparition had glanced out upon him after this
old fashion, Colin felt all at once the jerk of the invisible bridle on
his neck, and chafed at it; and then he shut his eyes wilfully, and
rushed on faster than before, and did his best to ignore the curb. After
all, it was no curb if it were rightly regarded. Alice had released, and
her father had rejected him, and he had been accused of fortune-hunting,
and treated like a man unworthy of consideration. So far as external
circumstances went, no one could blame him for inconstancy, no one could
imagine that the engagement thus broken was, according to any code of
honour, binding upon Colin; but yet--
This was the uncomfortable state of mind in which he was when he finally
committed himself to the Balliol Scholarship, and thus put off that
“settling in life” which the Mistress thought due to Alice. When the
matter was concluded, however, the young man became more comfortable. At
all events, until the termination of his studies, no decision, one way
or other, could be expected from him; and it would still be two years
before Alice was of the age to decide for herself. He discussed the
matter--so far as he ever permitted himself to discuss it with any
one--with Lauderdale, who managed to spend the last Sunday with him at
Ramore. It was still only October but winter had begun betimes, and a
sprinkling of snow lay on the hills at the head of the loch. The water
itself, all crisped and brightened by a slight breeze and a frosty sun,
lay dazzling between its banks, reflecting every shade of colour upon
them--the russet lines of wood with which their little glens were
outlined, and the yellow patches of stubble, or late corn, still
unreaped, that made lights of the landscape, and relieved the hazy green
of the pastures, and the brown waste of withered bracken and heather
above. The wintry day, the clearness of the frosty air, and the touch of
snow on the hills, gave to the Holy Loch that touch of colour which is
the only thing ever wanting to its loveliness; a colour cold, it is
true, but in accordance with the scene. The waves came up with a lively
cadence on the beach, and the wind blew showers of yellow leaves in the
faces of the two friends as they walked home together from church. Sir
Thomas had detained them in the first place, and after him the minister,
who had emerged from his little vestry in time for half an hour’s
conversation with his young parishioner, who was something of a hero on
the Holy Loch--a hero, and yet subject to the inevitable touch of
familiar depreciation which belongs to a prophet in his own country. The
crowd of church-goers had dispersed from the roads when the two turned
their faces towards Ramore. Perhaps by reason of the yew-trees under
which they had to pass, perhaps because this Sunday, too, marked a
crisis, it occurred to both of them to think of their walk through the
long ilex avenues of the Frascati villa, the Sunday after Meredith’s
death. It was Lauderdale, as was natural, who returned to that subject
the first.
“It’s a wee hard to believe that it’s the same world,” he said, “and
that you and me are making our way to Ramore, and not to yon painted
cha’amer, and our friend, with her distaff in her hand. I’m whiles no
clear in my mind that we were ever there.”
At which Colin was a little impatient, as was natural. “Don’t be
fantastic,” he said. “It does not matter about Sora Antonia; but there
are other things not so easily dropped;” and here the young man paused
and uttered a sigh, which arose half from a certain momentary longing
for the gentle creature to whom his faith was plighted, and half from an
irksome sense of the disadvantages of having plighted his faith.
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, “I’m no fond myself of dropping threads like
that. There’s nae telling when they may be joined again, or how; but if
it’s ony comfort to you, Colin, I’m a great believer in sequences. I
never put ony faith in things breaking off clean in an arbitrary way.
Thae two didna enter your life to be put out again by the will of an old
fool of a father. I’ll no say that I saw the requirements of Providence
just as clear as you thought you did, but I canna put faith in an ending
like what’s happened. You and her are awfu’ young. You have time to
wait.”
“Time to wait,” repeated Colin in his impatience; “there is something
more needed than time. Mr. Meredith has returned me my last letter with
a request that I should not trouble his daughter again. You do not
think a man can go on in the face of that?”
“He’s naething but a jailor,” said Lauderdale; “you may be sure that
_she_ is neither art nor part in that. When the time comes we’ll a’ ken
better; and here, in the meantime, you are making another beginning of
your life.”
“It appears to me I am always making beginnings,” said Colin. “It was
much such a day as this when Harry Frankland fell into the loch--that
was a kind of beginning in its way. Wodensbourne was a beginning, and so
was Italy--and now--It appears life is made up of such.”
“You’re no so far wrong there,” said Lauderdale; “but it’s grand to make
the new start like you, with a’ heaven and earth on your side. I’ve kent
them that had to set their face to the brae with baith earth and heaven
against them--or so it seemed. It’s ill getting new images,” said the
philosopher meditatively. “I wonder who it was first found out that life
was a journey. It’s no an original idea nowadays, but its aye awfu’
true. A man sets out with a hantle mair things than he needs,
_impedimenta_ of a’ kinds; but he leaves the maist of them behind afore
he’s reached the middle of the road. You’ve an awfu’ body of opinions,
callant, besides other things to dispose of. I’m thinking Oxford will do
you good for that. You’re no likely to take up with their superfluities,
and you’ll get rid of some of your ain.”
“I don’t know what you call superfluities,” said Colin. “I don’t think I
am a man of many opinions. A few things are vital and cannot be
dispensed with--and these you are quite as distinct upon as I can be.
However, I don’t go to Oxford to learn that.”
“I’m awfu’ curious to ken in a general way,” said Lauderdale, “what you
are going to Oxford to learn. You’re no a bad hand at the classics,
callant. I would like to ken what it was that you were meaning to pay
three good years of life to learn.”
Upon which Colin laughed, and felt without knowing why, a flush come to
his cheek. “If I should prefer to win my spurs somewhere else than at
home,” said the young man lightly, “should you wonder at that? Beside,
the English universities have a greater reputation than ours--and in
short----”
“For idle learning,” said Lauderdale with a little heat; “not for the
science of guiding men, which, so far as I can see, is what you’re
aiming at. No that I’m the man to speak ony blasphemy against the dead
languages, if the like of that was to be your trade; but for a Scotch
parish, or maybe a Scotch presbytery--or in the course of time, if a’
goes well, an Assembly of the Kirk----”
“Stuff!” cried Colin; “What has that to do with it? Besides,” the young
man said with a laugh, half of pride, half of shame, “I want to show
these fellows that a man may win their honours and carry them back to
the old Church, which they talk about in a benevolent way, as if it was
in the South Sea Islands. Well, that is my weakness. I want to bring
their prizes back here, and wear them at home.”
“The callant’s crazy,” said Lauderdale, but the idea was sufficiently in
accord with his national sentiments to be treated with indulgence; “it
might maybe be spoiling the Egyptians,” he added grimly, “but, as for
ony good to us--You’re like a’ young creatures, callant; you’re awfu’
fond of the _impedimenta_. But you may change your mind two or three
times over between this and that.”
“You have very little respect for my constancy, Lauderdale,” said Colin;
and then he felt irritated with himself for the word he had used. “In
what respect do you suppose I can change my mind?” he asked with a
little impatience; and Colin lifted his eyes full upon his friend’s
face, as he had learned to do when there was question of Alice--though
certainly it could not be supposed that there was any question of Alice
in the present case.
“Whisht, callant,” said Lauderdale; “I’ve an awfu’ trust in your
constancy. It’s one o’ the words I like best in the English language, or
in the Scotch either for that matter. It’s a kind of word that canna be
slipped over among a crowd, but craves full saying and a’ its letters
sounded. As I was saying,” he continued, changing his tone, “I’m a great
believer in sequences; there’s mony new beginnings, but there’s nae
absolute end short of dying, which is aye an end for this world, so far
as a man can see. And, next to God and Christ, which are the grand
primitive necessities, without which no man can take his journey, I’m
aye for counting true love and good faith. I wouldna say but what a’ the
rest were more or less _impedimenta_,” said Lauderdale; “but that’s no
the question under discussion. You might change your mind upon a’ the
minor matters, and no be inconstant. For example, you might be drawn to
the English kirk after three years; or you might come to think you were
destined for nae kirk at all, but for other occupations in this world;
and, as for me, I wouldna blame you. As long as you’re true to your
Master--and next to yoursel’--and next to them that trust you,” said
Colin’s faithful counsellor; “and of that I’ve no fear.”
“I did not think of setting the question on such a solemn basis,” said
Colin with an amount of irritation which annoyed himself, and which he
could not subdue; “however, time will show; and here we are at Ramore.”
Indeed he was rather glad to be so near Ramore. This talk of constancy
exasperated him, he could not tell how; for, to be sure, he meant no
inconstancy. Yet, when the sunset came again, detaching rosy cloudlets
from the great masses of vapour, and shedding a mist of gold and purple
over the hills--and when those wistful stretches of “daffodil sky”
opened out over the western ramparts of the Holy Loch--Colin turned his
eyes from the wonderful heavens as if from a visible enemy. Was not she
there as always, that impossible woman, wooing him on into the future,
into the unimaginable distance where somewhere she might be found any
day waiting him? He turned his back upon the west, and went down of his
own will to the dark shade of the yew-trees, which were somehow like the
ilex alleys of the sweet Alban hills; but even there he carried his
impatience with him, and found it best on the whole to go home and give
himself up to the home talk of Ramore, in which many matters were
discussed unconnected with the beasts, but where this one fundamental
question was for the present named no more.