“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.”