A Son of the Soil

by Mrs. Oliphant

“I must go away,” he said; “do not look reproachful, Alice. I do not mean to continue my holiday after this. It seems to me we have waited a great deal too long already,” Colin went on with a smile, which he felt to be forced, but which had no such effect upon Alice. “Now that the obstacles are removed I cannot consent to any longer delay; and you know I have a house to take you to now, which I had not in the old times.”

“You had always Ramore,” said Alice; and the way in which she said it proved to him still once more that, though he had put her out of his mind, Alice had forgotten nothing he had ever said to her. She spoke of the farmer’s homely house not as of a place which she heard some vague talk of so many years ago, but as a home for which she had been longing. “And your mother!” said Alice; “if you had the most beautiful house in the world, I want you to take me there first of all; I want you to take me to her.”

It will be seen from this that Alice did not think there was anything to be deprecated in Colin’s haste. She accepted it as most reasonable, and the thing that was to be looked for. She thought it natural that he should be reluctant to lose sight of her again, as she, for her part, was very reluctant to lose sight of him; and thus they went on to make all their necessary arrangements. In this close and tender interview, as he saw ever more and more how Alice depended upon him, how real the link between them had been to her even during those long years of separation, and how, in her perfect good faith and simplicity, she considered him, and all belonging to him, as hers, Colin himself came to consider it the most natural and unquestionable conclusion. The pain in his heart softened, his reluctance seemed to melt away. Alice had more beauty at this time of her life than ever she had had before. Her weakness, and the charm of that hidden love which had been so long working in her, and which had now brightened into the fullest blossom, had given an expression hitherto wanting to her eyes. She was more individual and distinct by right of having kept and hoarded that individual attachment in her heart, in defiance of everything that could be done against it; and now in Colin’s presence, believing as she did with that confidence which can be born only of love, in his entire interest in everything connected with her, her timidity disappeared, and she hourly gained interest and character. All this had its effect upon Colin so long as the two were together straying through the avenue, crossing the bars of shade and the rays of sunshine, listening to the birds singing overhead and to the rustle of the summer leaves. But it was harder work when they went indoors again, when Mr. Meredith’s anxious face appeared, and the grave countenance of Lauderdale, carefully cleared of all anxiety, and become, so far as that was possible, altogether inexpressive. Colin was of so uncertain a mood that the very absence of all question in Lauderdale’s eyes jarred upon him, though he could not have borne to be interrogated. He was high-fantastical beyond all previous precedent at that moment; and the readers of this history are aware that already, at various periods of his life, it had happened to him to be fantastical enough. The conversation and confidences of the avenue broke clean off when the party were all assembled within. Alice could not say anything before her father of her weariness and waiting, or it would have sounded like a reproach; and Colin, for his part, could not utter a word about his intentions or prospects to any ears but hers. He could speak to her, and she, who accepted everything said without any question, found nothing wanting in his words; and that was already a new link between them; but before her father and his own friend he was dumb. He could not even talk to Lauderdale as he had talked to him four years ago at Frascati; and yet he resented that Lauderdale did not ask him any questions. From which it will be seen that nothing could well be less manageable and reasonable than the state of Colin’s mind at this moment, when the most important decision of his life was being made.

That evening it was he who sought an interview with Mr. Meredith. It was very clear, in every point of view, that everything should be arranged with the least delay possible. “I have served half as long as Jacob did,” Colin said, with a smile, which, however, was far from being the radiant smile of a happy lover; and Alice’s father, who was not by any means so confident of Colin’s love as Alice was, was so much concerned that his daughter should not lose the happiness which meant not only happiness but life and strength as well, that he did not venture to make any objections. Neither did the poor man resent the insult, when Colin repeated with mildness, yet with steadiness, his determination to receive nothing from him. Alice had something of her own, which came to her from her mother, the little revenue which Arthur had once had his share of, and on which the two had lived at Frascati: but beyond that, Colin, always superlative, would have none of the rich man’s fortune, which was soiled, as he thought, with fraud and cruelty. Whether this accusation was just or unjust, poor Mr. Meredith, who was a kind father, swallowed it without saying anything, and consented to all his future son-in-law’s requirements. Colin had made up his mind to leave Holmby at once, to hasten back to Afton, and make all the preparations necessary to receive his bride; and the marriage was fixed to take place very shortly—in August, when Colin could take up again his broken thread of holiday. All this was arranged between the two as an absolute matter of business, requiring no expression of sentiment. If Mr. Meredith thought the young man a little cold and stern, and swallowed that sentiment as he had swallowed the other, after all, perhaps, it was best that in discussing what was a business matter even a bridegroom should talk in a business way. And, then, Alice was unquestionably satisfied, and had regained some colour on her cheek, and some elasticity in her step. She had never been consumptive, like Arthur. Her illness was a kind of hopelessness, a lingering languor, which was quite as capable of killing her as if it had been a legitimate disease; and this was a malady from which, to all appearance, only Colin and a happy life could deliver her. Under these circumstances, therefore, it was natural that Mr. Meredith, though a little wounded, and even a little alarmed, by the new son-in-law, who meant to have everything his own way, consented to his wishes, being anxious, above all things, to preserve his daughter. He caressed and petted Alice all the more when his consent had been made known to her, with a kind of faint idea, in his ignorance, that all the indulgences which had surrounded her would be at an end when she put herself under the power of this abrupt and imperious young man. As for Alice, she looked from her father to her betrothed with a serenity and confidence so profound that it went to Colin’s heart. “She has been used to be taken care of all her life,” her father said, as fathers generally say, but with an odd forgetfulness, for the moment, that Colin knew something about that. “I hope you will be very good to her.”

Alice opened her soft lips at this, to give vent to a little ring of laughter so soft that it did not wound even the fantastical delicacy of her Bayard. To doubt Colin seemed to her not so much wrong as absurd, out of all reason. She said, half under her breath, “He has taken care of me before now”—and, to relieve herself of that which she could not express to her father without blaming him, it was to Lauderdale she turned. “You made me feel as if I were a princess,” she said to him, and held out her hand to the friend who was looking on with an anxiety so intense that it precluded speech. As for Colin, in the high state of irritation in which he was, the very silence with which Lauderdale pressed the little hand of Alice between his own aggravated and exasperated him. Why did not he say something? Why did he not look him, the bridegroom, straight in the eyes, and ask, “Are not you happy?” Had he done so, Colin would have taken it as the direst and most unpardonable offence; but, in the disturbed state of his heart and mind, he resented the very absence of the question. A man must have some one to bear the brunt of his discontent when things go wrong with him, and in the meantime there was nobody but Lauderdale to take this necessary part.

Accordingly, when all was settled, and when it was finally arranged that Colin should leave Holmby next morning and make haste home, to commence his preparations, it was of his own accord that he invited Lauderdale to join him in the avenue for half an hour’s talk. The wind had fallen, and the night was very still, but it was almost as dark as on the previous evening, and the gloom had this advantage, that they could not see each other’s faces, which was all the better under the circumstances. They had walked almost all the length of the avenue before Colin spoke, and then it was to this effect.

“Lauderdale, look here. I am going home, and leaving you in the lurch. We are not going to Windermere together, as we meant to do. You see, I have things more important in hand. What I want to say is, that you are not to think yourself bound by me. I see no reason why you should return because a—a good fortune so unexpected has come to me.”

“Do you mean that you want me to go my ways?” said Lauderdale. “With me there is little need to speak in parables. Say plain out if you would rather be your lane. I am no a man to take offence—not from you.”

“Good heavens!” said Colin, in his impatience, “why should you or any one take offence? What I tell you is the plainest statement of the case. I have to go home, but you are not obliged to go home. And why should you break off your excursion for me?”

“If I was minding about the excursion,” said Lauderdale, “I would go on. You aye make so much account of yourselves, you callants. As for Windermere, I’m no bigoted, but if it’s mair worth seeing than our ain lochs it would be a wonder to me. I’m no for parting company. It’s aye been my way of thinking, that even a railroad, seen with four een, was better than the bonniest country in the world, seen with two only. We’ll go hame, Colin, if you have no objections, you and me.”