A Son of the Soil

by Mrs. Oliphant

And poor Colin, who did not know what to say, whose heart was bursting with the profound pity and instinctive tenderness of old, and with that sense that all his own imaginations were ended for ever, and his future decided for him without any action of his own—Colin could find no answer to make. He bent down again on the pale, soft hand which he held in his own, and kissed it once more with that tender affection which was everything in the world but love. “Yes,” he said, but it was more to himself than to her, “I think it was Providence.” Alice had not an ear that could hear the despair that was in the words—for indeed it was a despair so mingled with softer emotions, with sympathy and anxiety, and a kind of fondness that nobody could have found it out who did not know Colin to the bottom of his heart. This was how the meeting was accomplished after all those years; for by this time Lauderdale had looked at the view without seeing it, and was returning to see how his friend had gone through the encounter, and to claim Alice’s recognition for himself. The two spectators who approached from the window, where they had been pretending to look at the view, were, to tell the truth, as much agitated as the young people themselves. Perhaps even, on the whole, a stranger, not knowing anything about the matter, would have concluded that it was Lauderdale and Mr. Meredith who were moved the most; for perhaps there is nothing which can happen to one’s self which moves one so profoundly as to watch a crisis of fate passing over another human creature whom one loves, yet whom one cannot die for or suffer for, and whose burden has to be borne, not by us, but by himself. Alice’s father, for his part, looked upon this meeting somehow as his child’s last chance for life—or rather, it would be better to say, as his own last chance to save her life and preserve her to himself; and Lauderdale saw Colin’s happiness, which was almost of more importance than his life, hanging upon the doubtful expression in the sick girl’s eyes. When the two turned back, it was impossible to mistake the sweet joy and serenity of Alice’s looks. Excitement was unnatural to her in all circumstances. She had been agitated profoundly for a moment; but now all that was over, and the content of old had returned to her face. The same look that Lauderdale remembered at Frascati—the look which always greeted Colin’s arrival—not any tumult of delight, but a supreme satisfaction and completeness, as if there remained nothing more in the world to be looked for or desired! She half rose up to meet her old friend as he came back to her, himself greatly moved, and not venturing to look at Colin—and held out both her hands to him. “Oh Mr. Lauderdale, I have not told you how glad I am, nor how I have been wearying”—said Alice. She repeated that word—a word she had once laughed at—as if with a soft appeal to his recollection. She had said it so often to herself in those long years—half because it was Scotch, and pleased her yearning fancy; and half because there was a lingering depth of expression in it, like her long watch and vigil. And then she smiled in his face, and then cried a little. For, notwithstanding her tranquillity, all this had tried her weakness, and proved a little more than she could bear.

“You must not agitate yourself, Alice,” said Mr. Meredith, taking, as most men do, the result of her past agitation for the thing itself. “She is still a little weakly, but I hope now we shall soon see her strong again.” This he said again with a covert glance at Colin, who was still sitting close to the sofa with his face shaded by his hand. Notwithstanding that shade the young man knew by instinct the look that was being directed upon him, and turned to meet it; and on his face there were greater marks of agitation than on that of Alice, which had been relieved by her tears. He was pale, and to Lauderdale’s anxious eyes seemed to have fallen back from his vigour of manhood for the moment into that unassured youth which he had left behind him for years. And then the voice of Mr. Meredith had an effect upon Colin’s mind altogether different from that produced by the soft familiar tones of Alice. When the father spoke, Colin’s heart shut fast its doors, and rose up against the impending fate.

“If Miss Meredith was ill,” he said, with a little bitterness, taking at least advantage of the rights thus pressed back upon him to repulse this man, whom he could not help disliking in his heart, “I am surprised that you did not let me know.”

This speech was so unexpected and sudden, and there was in it such an amount of suppressed exasperation, that Lauderdale made a step forward without knowing it, and Alice put out her hand vaguely to arrest the vehemence of her betrothed. As for Mr. Meredith, he was as much relieved by the assumption of right in Colin’s words, as he was disturbed by his unfriendly tone.

“My dear sir,” said the father, “I hope you will let bygones be bygones. I have learned many severe lessons, and Providence has dealt with me in a way to make me see my errors; but I can safely say that, since I understood the true state of the case, I have always reproached myself for not having shown the gratitude I felt to you.”

Colin, for his part, did not make any answer. His temper was disturbed by the struggle he had been going through. He could not cry and get over it, like Alice; being a man it was only in this way that he could give a little vent to his feelings. And then he could relieve himself by putting out some of his pain upon Mr. Meredith, without injury to her who had thus thrown herself undoubtingly upon his love, as she supposed. Perhaps Bayard himself, under the same circumstances, would have done as much.

“I may say, my gratitude to both,” said Mr. Meredith, whose anxiety that he might not lose this chance for Alice was so great that it made him almost servile, and who could not help recollecting at that inopportune moment the letter he had written to Lauderdale; “I know that Mr. Lauderdale also was very kind to my poor boy. I hope you will both excuse the error of the moment,” he said, faltering a little. It was hard to own himself altogether in the wrong, and yet in his anxiety he would have done even that for Alice’s sake.

“Speak no more of it,” said Lauderdale. “Our friend Arthur spoke of his father with his last breath, and we’re no like to forget any of his words. It’s an awfu’ consolation to my mind to see her again, and to feel that we’re a’ friends. As for Colin, he’s a wee out of himself, as is natural. I would have been real vexed,” said the philosopher, with the smile that was half tears, and that Alice remembered so well—“being sure of Arthur for a fast friend whenever we may meet again—to have lost all sight and knowledge of you.”

He looked at Alice, but it was to Arthur’s father that he held out his hand; and, as for Colin, it was impossible for him not to follow the example, though he did it with a certain reluctance which did not escape any of the spectators. And then they all made believe to be composed, and at their ease, and began to talk, forming a little circle round Alice’s sofa, outside of which the little sister, with her eyes open to the widest extent, still stood, drinking in everything, and wondering much what it could mean.

“And, now that we have you,” said Mr. Meredith, “we cannot let you go again. You can go to Windermere, and any other place worth seeing, from Holmby. You must tell me where to send for your things, and we will try to make you comfortable here.”