If this had been anything but a true history, it would have been now the
time for Alice Meredith to overhear a chance conversation, or find a
dropped letter, which would betray to her Colin’s secret; but this is
not an accident with which the present historian can give interest to
his closing chapter, because, in the first place, it did not happen;
and, in the second, if a second should be thought necessary, because
Colin had never confided his secret either to writing or to any mortal
ear--which is of all ways of securing a private matter the most
certain. He thought to himself, with a certain inexpressible content, as
he put his manse in order to receive her, that never to any living
creature, never even to the air that might have repeated the matter, had
he so much as whispered what was the real foundation of the old
betrothals, which were now about to be carried out. He had never been so
near telling it as on the night before Alice reappeared in his
life--that moment when the words were half formed on his lips, and
nothing but a chivalrous, visionary sense of the respect he owed to a
woman had prevented him putting an end to Lauderdale’s recollections by
a confession which would have closed his friend’s lips for ever.
Fortunately he had been saved from that danger; and now no one, even in
the depths of his heart, could say or feel that Alice had been ever
regarded by her husband otherwise than as the chosen of a man’s heart,
the companion of his existence, should be regarded. He had by times a
hard enough struggle during these intervening weeks, when he took refuge
in his study at Afton, in the midst of the disorganized house, where
things were being prepared for the arrival of his wife; and in her
garden, where Lauderdale had done more than a day’s work, and had,
indeed, taken the charge of re-arrangement into his hands. But the
garden, in those lingering, never-ending summer twilights, full of
northern sweetness, was too much for Colin; when the early stars came
out on the skirts of the slow departing day, they seemed to cast
reproachful glances at him, as if he had abandoned that woman in the
clouds. He used to go in with a sigh, and shut himself up in his study,
and light his candles; and then, after all, it was a great good fortune
that she had never come down out of the wistful distance, and walked
upon the common soil, and looked him in the face. As for Alice, if
anybody had betrayed to her the exact state of affairs, if she had been
made aware of this mysterious and invisible rival, towards whom, in the
depths of his heart, Colin sighed, the chances are that she would only
have laughed, in the supreme security of her ignorance. She could no
more have understood the rivalry there was in that dream than she could
have comprehended any other or better description of love than that
which her betrothed gave her. For the fact is, that nobody need in the
least bemoan Alice, or think that her position was one to call for
sympathy. She was perfectly content, knowing so little of Colin’s heart
as she did, and she would still have been perfectly content had she
known it much more profoundly. If he had regarded her as he could have
regarded his ideal woman, Alice would not have understood, and probably
even would have been embarrassed and made uneasy by, such devotion. She
had all that she had ever dreamed of in the way of love. Her ideal, such
as it was, was fully realized. Colin’s tenderness, which had so much
remorse in it, was to Alice the most perfect of all manifestations of
attachment. When his heart was full of compunctions for not giving her
enough, hers was swelling with the sweetest pride and satisfaction in
receiving so much. It even seemed to her odd by times how a man so
superior should be so fond of her, as she said to herself, in her
innocence: for, to be sure, Arthur, though he was not equal to Colin,
had given but a very limited consideration to his little sister. And her
sense of the difference between Arthur’s estimation of her and the rank
she held with her betrothed was like the sweetest flattery to her mind.
And Alice had reason in these conclusions of hers. She described Colin’s
affection perfectly well in her simple words. It was as true to say he
was fond of her, as it was that he did not love her according to his
estimate of love. But then his estimate of love was not hers, and she
was entirely content.
Thus it came about that these two were married after all the long delay
and separation. Alice recovered her health by magic as soon as she began
to be happy. And Mr. Meredith, notwithstanding that he smarted a little
under the affront put upon him by his new son-in-law, in that singular
and quite original development of disinterestedness, which Alice’s
father, being Low Church, could not but think most unlike a
clergyman--was yet so exhilarated by the unrivalled success of his
expedient to save his daughter, that all the lesser annoyances were
swallowed up. And then he had always the little one remaining, whom he
could make an heiress of. It was a quiet wedding--for the Merediths were
comparatively strangers in Westmoreland--but, at the same time, it was
not in the least a sad one, for Mr. Meredith did not think of weeping,
and there was nobody else to take that part of the business. Alice had
only her little sister to leave, who was too much excited and delighted
with all the proceedings, and with her own future position as Miss
Meredith, to be much overcome by the parting. It was, indeed, a
beginning of life almost entirely without drawbacks to the bride. She
had nothing much to regret in the past, no links of tender affection to
break, and no sense of a great blank left behind, as some young women
have. On the contrary, all that was dark and discouraging was left
behind. The most exquisite moments of her life, the winter she had
spent in Frascati under the tender and chivalrous guardianship of the
companions who had devoted all their powers to console and amuse
Arthur’s sister, seemed but an imperfect rehearsal, clouded with pain
and sorrow, for the perfect days that were to come. “I wish for nothing
but Sora Antonia to bid God bless us,” she said with the tears of her
espousals in her eyes. And it was the best thing Alice could have said.
The idyll for which Colin felt himself so poor a hero now, had existed,
in a way, among the pale olive-groves, on the dear Alban hills. “_Dio te
Benedica!_” he said, as he took away his bride from her father’s door.
It meant more than a blessing, when he said it as Sora Antonia might
have said it, in that language which was consecrated to them both by
love and death.
The scene and the circumstances were all very different when a few weeks
later Colin took his bride to the Holy Loch. It was evening, but perhaps
Colin had not time for the same vivid perceptions of that twilight and
peaceful atmosphere which a few months before had made him smile,
contrasting it with the movement and life in his own mind. But perhaps
this was only because he was more occupied by external matters; by Alice
at his side, to whom he had to point out everything; and by the
greetings and salutations of everybody who met him. As for Alice
herself, in her wistfulness and happiness, with only one anxiety
remaining in her heart--just enough to give the appealing look which
suited them best to her soft eyes--she was as near beautiful as a woman
of her unimposing stature and features could be. She was one of those
brides who appeal to everybody, in the shy radiance of their gladness,
to share and sympathize with them. There are some people whose joy is a
kind of affront and insult to the sorrowful; but Alice was not one of
these. Perhaps at this supreme hour of her life she was thinking more of
the sad people under the sun--the mourners and sufferers--than she had
done when she used to lie on her sofa at Holmby, and think to herself
that she never would rise from it, and that he never would come. The joy
was to Alice like a sacrament, which it was hard to think the whole
world could not share; and, as her beauty was chiefly beauty of
expression, this tender sentiment shed a certain loveliness over her
face as she stood by Colin’s side, with her white veil thrown back, and
the tender countenance, which was veiled in simplicity, and required no
other covering, turned towards Ramore. Her one remaining anxiety was,
that perhaps Colin’s mother might not respond to the longing affection
that was in her heart--might not take to her, as she said; and this was
why her eyes looked so appealing, and besought all the world to love
her. When it came to the moment, however--when Colin lifted her out upon
the glistening beach, and put her hand into that of his father, who was
waiting there to receive them, Alice, as was her nature, recovered her
composure. She held up her soft cheek to Big Colin of Ramore, who was
half abashed by the action, and yet wholly delighted, although in Scotch
reserve he had contemplated nothing more familiar than a hearty clasp of
her hand. She was so fair a woman to his homely eyes, and looked so like
a little princess, that the farmer had scarcely courage to take her into
his arms, or, as he himself would have said, “use so much freedom” with
such a dainty little lady. But Alice had something more important in her
mind than to remark Big Colin’s hesitation. “Where is she?” she cried,
appealing to him first, and then to her husband; “where is she, Colin?”
And then they led her up the brae to where the Mistress, trembling and
excited, propped herself up against the porch. Alice sprang forward
before her escort, when she saw this figure at the door. She left
Colin’s arm as she had never left it before, and threw herself upon his
mother. She took this meeting into her own hands, and accomplished it
her own way, nobody interfering. “Mamma,” said Alice, “I should have
come to you four years ago, and they have never let me come till now. I
have been longing for you all this time. Mamma, kiss me, and say you are
glad, for I love you dearly!” cried Alice. As for the Mistress, she
could not make any reply. She said “my darling!” faintly, and took the
clinging creature to her bosom. And this was how the meeting took place,
for which Alice had been longing, as she said, for four long years.
When they took the bride into the homely parlour of Ramore, and placed
her on the old-fashioned sofa, beside the Mistress, it was not without a
little anxiety that Colin regarded his wife, to see the effect made upon
her by this humble interior. But, to look at Alice, nobody could have
found out that she had not been accustomed to Ramore all her life, or
that the Mistress was not her own individual property. It even struck
Colin with a curious sense of pleasure, that she did not say “mother,”
as making a claim on _his_ mother for his sake, but claimed her
instantly as her own, as though somehow her claim had been nearest.
“Sometimes I thought of running away and coming to you,” said Alice, as
she sat by the Mistress’s side, in radiant content and satisfaction; and
it would be vain to attempt to describe the admiration and delight of
the entire household with Colin’s little tender bride.
As for the Mistress, when the first excitement was over, she was glad to
find her boy by himself for a moment, to bid God bless him, and say what
was in her heart--“If it wasna that she’s wiled the heart out of my
breast,” said Mrs. Campbell, putting up her hand to her shining eyes.
“Eh, Colin, my man, thank the Lord; it’s like as if it was an angel He
had sent you out of heaven.”
“She will be a daughter to you, mother,” said Colin, in the fulness of
his heart.
But at this two great tears dropped out of Mrs. Campbell’s eyes. “She’s
sweet and bonnie; eh, Colin, she’s bonnie and sweet! but I’m an awfu’
hardhearted woman,” said the Mistress. “I cannot think ony woman will
ever take _that_ place; I’m aye so bigoted for my ain; God forgive me;
but her that is my Colin’s wife has nae occasion for ony other name,”
she said with a tender artifice, stooping over her boy and putting back
those great waves of his hair which were the pride of her heart. “And I
have none of my ain to go out of my house a bride,” the Mistress added,
under her breath, with one great sob. Colin could not tell why his
mother should say such words at such a moment. But perhaps Alice, though
she was not so clever as Colin, had she been there, might have divined
their meaning after the divination of the heart.
It is hard to see what can be said about a man after he is married,
unless he quarrels with his wife and makes her wretched and gets into
trouble, or she does as much for him. This is not a thing which has
happened, or has the least chance of happening, in Colin’s case. Not
only did Alice receive a very flattering welcome in Afton, and, what was
still more gratifying, in St. Rule’s, where, as most people are aware,
very good society is to be found; but she did more than that, and grew
very popular in the parish, where, to be sure, no curate could have been
more serviceable. She bad undoubted Low Church tendencies, which helped
her on with many of the people; and in conjunction with these she had
little High Church habits, which were very quaint and captivating in
their way; and, all unconscious as she was of Colin’s views in respect
to Church reformation, Alice was “the means,” as she herself would have
said, of introducing some edifying customs among the young people of the
parish, which she and they were equally unaware were capable of having
been interpreted to savour of papistry, had the power and inclinations
of the Presbytery been in good exercise as of old. As for Colin, he was
tamed down in his revolutionary intentions without knowing how. A man
who has given hostages to society, who has married a wife--and
especially a wife who does not know anything about his crotchets, and
never can clearly understand why the bishop (seeing that there certainly
is a bishop in the kingdom of Fife, though few people pay any attention
to him) does not come to Afton and confirm the catechumens--is scarcely
in a position to throw himself headlong upon the established order of
things and prove its futility. No. I. of the “Tracts for the Times” got
printed certainly, but it was in an accidental sort of way; and, though
it cannot be said to have been without its use, still the effect was
transitory, in consequence of the want of continuous effort. No doubt it
made a good deal of sensation in the Scotch papers, where, as such of
the readers of this history as live North of the Tweed may recollect,
there appeared at one time a flood of letters signed by parish ministers
on the subject. But then, to be sure, it came into the minds of sundry
persons that the Church of Scotland had thoughts of going back to the
ante-Laudian times in robes of penitence, to beg a prayer-book from her
richer sister--which was not in the least Colin’s intention, and roused
his national spirit. For we have already found it necessary to say that
the young man, notwithstanding that he had many gleams of insight, did
not always know what he would be at, or what it was precisely that he
wanted. What he wanted, perhaps, was to be catholic and belong to
Christendom, and not to shut himself up in a corner, and preach himself
and his people to death, as he once said. He wanted to keep the
Christian feasts, and say the universal prayers, and link the sacred old
observances with the daily life of his dogmatical congregation, which
preferred logic. All this, however, he pursued in a milder way after
that famous journey to Windermere, upon which he had set out like a
lion, and from which he returned home like a lamb. For it would be
painful to think that this faithful but humble history should have
awakened any terrors in the heart of the Church of Scotland in respect
to the revolutionary in her bosom; and it is pleasant to be able to
restore the confidence, to a certain extent, of the people and
presbyters of that venerable corporation. Colin is there, and no doubt
he has his work to do in the world; but he is married and subdued, and
goes about it quietly like a man who understands what interests are
involved; and up to the present moment he has resisted the urgent
appeals of a younger brotherhood, who have arisen since these events, to
continue the publication of the “Tracts for the Times.”
It is at this point that we leave Colin, who has entered on a period of
his life which is as yet unfinished, and accordingly is not yet matter
for history. Some people, no doubt, may be disposed to ask, being aware
of the circumstances of his marriage, whether he was happy in his new
position. He was as happy as most people are; and, if he was not
perfectly blessed, no unbiassed judge can refuse to acknowledge that it
was his own fault. He was young, full of genius, full of health, with
the sweetest little woman in the kingdom of Fife, as many people
thought, for his wife, and not even the troublesome interpellations of
that fantastic woman in the clouds to disturb his repose. She had waved
her hand to him for the last time from among the rosy clouds on the
night before his marriage day; for if a man’s marriage is good for
anything, it is surely good against the visitings of a visionary
creature who had refused to reveal herself when she had full time and
opportunity to do so. And let nobody suppose that Colin kept a cupboard
with a skeleton in it to retire to for his private delectation when
Alice was sleeping, as it is said some people have a habit of doing.
There was no key of that description under his pillow; and yet, if you
will know the truth, there was a key, but not of Bluebeard’s kind. It
was a key that opened the innermost chamber, the watch-tower and citadel
of his heart. So far from shutting it up from Alice, he had done all
that tender affection could do to coax her in, to watch the stars with
him and ponder their secrets; but Alice had no vocation for that sort of
recreation. And the fact was, that from time to time Colin went in and
shut the door behind him, and was utterly alone underneath the distant
wistful skies. When he came out, perhaps his countenance now and then
was a little sad; and perhaps he did not see so clear as he might have
done under other circumstances. For Colin, like Lauderdale, believed in
the _quattr’ occhi_--the four eyes that see a landscape at its broadest
and heaven at its nearest. But then a man can live without that last
climax of existence when everything else is going on so well in his
life.
THE END.
LONDON: B. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
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A SON OF THE SOIL.
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FOOTNOTES:
[1] Miss Matty had been so good an audience that Colin at this time
of his life was a little spoiled in respect to his poetry, which,
however, after all, he did not consider poetry, but only verses, to
amuse himself with. The little poem in question, which he had entitled
“Vespers in the Pantheon,” is, for the satisfaction of his friends,
given underneath:--
“What voice is in the mighty dome,
Where the blue eye of heaven looks through,
And where the rain falls, and the dew,
In the old heart of Rome?
On the vast area below
Are priests in robes of sullied white
And humble servitors that light
The altars with a feeble glow--
Pale tapers in the twilight dim:
Poor humble folks that come to say
Their farewell to departing day,
Their darkling faith in _Him_,
Who rules imperial Rome the last:
The song is shrill and sad below,
With discords harsh of want and woe
Into the music cast.
But from the mighty vault that bares
Its open heart unto the sky,
Vague peals of anthem sounding high
Echo the human prayers.
Oh solemn shrine, wherein lie dead
The gods of old, the dreams of men!
What voice is this that wakes again
The echoes overhead,
Pealing aloft the holiest name--
The lowliest name, Rome’s ancient scorn--
Now to earth’s furthest boundaries borne,
With fame above all fame?
Is it some soul whose mortal days
Had known no better God than Jove,
Though dimly prescient of a love
Was worthy higher praise?--
Some soul that late hath seen the Lord:
Some wistful soul, eager to share
The tender trust of Christian prayer,
Though not by wish or word:--
By homage inarticulate:
Murmurs and thunders of sweet sound:
And great Amens that circle round
Heaven’s liberal open gate?
Great singer, wert thou one of those
Spirits in prison, whom He sought,
Soon as his wondrous work was wrought,
Ending all doubts and woes?
Alone? or comes there here a throng?
Agrippa--he who built this shrine--
And men who groped for the divine
Through lifetimes hard and long
Dead Romans to this vault austere,
’Tis meet ye should return to tell,
Of that which was inscrutable,
That God hath made it clear.
So we, still bound in mortal pain,
Take courage ’neath the echoing dome,
In the dear heart of this sad Rome,
To give you back--Amen!”
[
F] “Levo l’incomodo,” a homely expression of Italian politeness on
leaving a room.
[3] Underneath we give the last copy of nonsense-verses which Colin
was seduced into writing, though the chief interest they possess is
chronological, as marking the end of the period of life in which a man
can express himself in this medium. As for Miss Matty, to tell the
truth, she received them with less of her usual good grace than might
have been desired; for, though in her own person she was perfectly
reconciled to the loss of his devotion, and quite safe in entertaining
the mildest sentiments of friendship for him, still she was naturally
vexed a little to see how he had got over it--which was a thing not
to be expected, nor perhaps desired. This however, was the calm and
self-controlled tone of Colin’s farewell:--
“Be it softly, slowly said,
With a smile and with a sigh,
While life’s noiseless hands untie
Links that youth has made--
Not with sorrow or with tears:
With a sigh for those sweet years,
Drawing slow apart the while;
For those sweetest years a smile.
Thus farewell! The sound is sweet
Parting leaves no sting behind:
One bright chamber of the mind
Closing gracious and complete.
Softly shut the silent door;
Never shade can enter more--
Safe, for what is o’er can last;
Somewhat sad, for it is past.
So farewell! The accents blend
With sweet sounds of life to be;
Never could there dawn for me
Hope of any dearer end.
Dear it is afar to greet
The bright path before thy feet,
Thoughts that do thy joy no wrong
Chiming soft the even-song,
Till morn wakes the bridal bell
Fair and sweet, farewell! farewell!”
[4] Numbers I. and II. of the Scotch _Tracts for the Times_, together
with fragments of subsequent numbers uncompleted, will be given, if
desired by Colin’s friends, in the appendix to the second edition of
this biography.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Son of the Soil, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant