A Son of the Soil

by Mrs. Oliphant

And then there was a silence, and the two friends went on together side by side in the darkness, without a word to each other. Between them the ordinary words of congratulation would have sounded like mockery, and the one divined too clearly the condition of the other to know what to say. Lauderdale, however, knew Colin so well that he knew silence to be as dangerous as speech.

“I have an awfu’ desire in my mind,” he said at length; “no doubt it’s daftlike, but that is no extraordinary. I would like to do something with my hands to please her, now we’ve found her. I’m no rich, and, what’s an awful deal worse, I’m no much for anything but talk—and maybe she has an inkling of that. What was that yon lad Browning says about Raphael’s sonnets and Dante’s picture? I’m of that opinion mysel’. I would like to do something with my hands that was nae fit work for the like of me, just to please her; if it was naething better than the things they whittle with their knives away yonder among the Alps,” said Lauderdale; and even in the darkness Colin could see the little flourish of his arm with which he had the habit of indicating the never-to-be-forgotten region “away yonder.” “Have patience a moment till I’ve done speaking,” he went on; “I’ve been thinking I would like to take a good day’s work at the Manse garden. It’s as innocent a thing in its way to plant flowers as to write verses. So I’m saying I’ll go home with you, if you’ve nae objections,” said Lauderdale. He came to a conclusion so suddenly, that Colin, who had gradually yielded to the influence of the familiar tranquillising voice, came to a sudden pause when he stopped short. Lauderdale paused too in his walk when his friend did so, though without knowing why. It was indifferent to him whether he kept walking or stood still; his mind went on pursuing its leisurely meditations all the same.

But Colin’s heart was full. He grasped Lauderdale’s arm without knowing it, with that sudden impulse of saying something which sometimes comes upon people who must not say what is in their hearts. “Come!” he said, with a little choking in his voice, “we will do that day’s work together; for I suppose there never was gain, however great, but had loss in it,” said Colin. Perhaps he did not know very well himself what he meant, but even these vague words were a little ease to him in their way. And then they went indoors, and the long day came to an end.

This was how the holiday excursion terminated. They left Holmby next morning, and went home again; neither one nor the other thinking any more of the Church Reformation, or of the “Tracts for the Times.” When Colin found his MS. in his writing-case when he opened it on the night of his arrival at Ramore to write to Alice, he looked at it with a little wonder, as if it had been a fossil of an early formation unexpectedly disinterred among the fragments of daily use and wont. And then he returned it to his pocket, with something that looked like a very clumsy attempt at a smile. There are points of view from which a good-sized tree or a shepherd’s cottage may blot out a mountain; and everybody knows how easily that is accomplished on the moral horizon, where a tiny personal event can put the greatest revolution in the background. It would be too long to tell the wonder and admiration and perplexed joy of the Mistress when she heard of the accident which had put an end to her son’s journey. Her joy was perplexed, because there was always a shadow which she could not decipher upon Colin’s countenance; and, even if her mother’s pride would have permitted her to consult Lauderdale on such a subject, or to suffer either him or herself to suppose for a moment that he could know more about her boy than she did, Lauderdale’s lips were sealed. Colin stayed only a night at Ramore to let his family know what was going to happen, and then he hurried to Afton, still accompanied by his friend. They talked of almost everything in the world during that journey, except of the preparations they were going to make, and the change that was to follow; but Colin’s great ambition, and the important changes he meant to work in his native Church and country, had little part in their discussions. At such a moment, when it is next to impossible to a man to talk of what he is thinking of, it is such a wonderful relief for him to escape into metaphysics; and, fortunately, in that department of human investigation, there are still so many questions to discuss.

CHAPTER LIII.

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.”