When he had gone up stairs, and had heard, at a distance, the sound of the last good-night, and was fairly shut up again in the silence of his own room, the youth, for the first time, began to realize what he was doing. He paused, with a little consternation, a little fright, to question himself. For the first time, he saw clearly, without any possibility of self-delusion, what it was which had brought him here, and which made all the difference to him between happiness and misery. It was hard to realize now the state of mind he had been in a few hours before; but he did it, by dint of a great exertion, and saw, with a distinctness which alarmed him, how it was that everything had altered in his eyes. It was Matty’s presence that made all the difference between this subdued thrill of happiness and that blank of impatient and mortified misery. The young man tried to stand still and consider the reality of his position. He had stopped in his career, made a voluntary pause in his life, entered upon a species of existence which he felt in his heart was not more, but less, noble (for him) than his previous course—and what was it for? All for the uncertain smile, for the society—which might fail him at any time—of a woman so far out of his way, so utterly removed from his reach, as Matilda Frankland? For a moment, the youth was dismayed, and stopped short, Wisdom and Truth whispering in his ear. Love might be fair, but he knew enough to know that life must not be subservient to that witchery; and Colin’s good angel spoke to him in the silence, and bade him flee. Better to go back, and at once, to the grey and sombre world, where all his duties awaited him, than to stay here in this fool’s paradise. As he thought so he got up, and began to pace about his room, as though it had been a cage. Best to flee—it might take all the light out of his life and break his heart, but what else had he to look for sooner or later? He sat up half the night, still pacing about his room, hesitating over his fate, while the December storm raged outside. What was he to do? When he dropped to sleep at last, his heart betrayed him, and strayed away into celestial worlds of dreaming. He woke, still undecided, as he thought, to see the earliest wintry gleam of sunshine stealing in through his shutters. What was he to do? But already the daylight made him feel his terrors as so many shadows. His heart was a traitor, and he was glad to find it so; and that moment of indecision settled more surely than ever the bondage in which he seemed to have entangled his life.
CHAPTER XV.
From that day life flew upon celestial wings for Charley Frankland’s tutor. It was not that love-making proved possible, or that existence at Wodensbourne became at all what it had been at Ardmartin. The difference was in the atmosphere, which was now bright with all kinds of gladsome chances, and pervaded by anticipations—a charm which, at Colin’s age, was more than reality. He never knew what moment of delight might come to him any day—what words might be said, or smiles shed upon him. Such an enchantment could not, indeed, have lasted very long; but, in the meantime, it was infinitely sweet, and made his life like a romance to the young man. There was nobody at Wodensbourne to occupy Miss Matty, or withdraw her attention from her young worshipper; and Colin, with his poetic temperament, and his youthful genius, and all the simplicities and inexperience which rendered him so different from the other clever young men who had been seen or heard of in that region, was very delightful company, even when he was not engaged in any acts of worship. Lady Frankland herself acknowledged that Mr. Campbell was a great acquisition. “He is not the least like other people,” said the lady of the house; “but you must take care not to let him fall in love with you, Matty;” and both the ladies laughed softly as they sat over their cup of tea. As for Matty, when she went to dress for dinner, after that admonition, she put on tartan ribbons over her white dress, partly, to be sure, because they were the fashion; but chiefly to please Colin, who knew rather less about tartan than she did, and had not the remotest idea that the many-coloured sash had any reference to himself.
“I love Scotland,” the little witch said to him, when he came into the drawing-room, to which he was now admitted during Sir Thomas’s nap—and, to tell the truth, Lady Frankland herself had just closed her eyes in a gentle doze, in her easy chair—“but, though you are a Scotchman, you don’t take the least notice of my ribbons; I am very fond of Scotland,” said Matty;—“and the Scotch,” the wicked little girl added, with a glance at him, which made Colin’s heart leap in his deluded breast.
“Then I am very glad to be Scotch,” said the youth, and stooped down over the end of the sash till Matty thought he meant to kiss it, which was a more decided act of homage than it would be expedient, under the circumstances, to permit.
“Don’t talk like everybody else,” said Miss Matty; “that does not make any difference—you were always glad to be Scotch. I know you all think you are so much better and cleverer than we are in England. But, tell me, do you still mean to be a Scotch minister? I wish you would not,” said Matty, with a little pout. And then Colin laughed—half with pleasure at what he thought her interest in him, and half with a quaint recollection which belonged only to himself.
“I don’t think I could preach about the twentieth Sunday after Trinity,” he said with a smile; which, however, was a speech Miss Matty did not understand.
“People here don’t preach as you do in Scotland,” said the English girl, with a little offence. “You are always preaching, and that is what makes it so dull. But what is the good of being a minister? There are plenty of dull people to be ministers; you who are so clever—”
“Am I clever?” said Colin. “I am Charley’s tutor—it does not require a great deal of genius—” but while he spoke, his eyes—which Matty did not comprehend, which always went leagues further than she could follow—kindled up a little. He looked a long way beyond her, and no doubt he saw something; but it piqued her not to be able to follow him, and find out what he meant.
“If you had done what I wished, and gone to Oxford, Campbell,” said Sir Thomas, whose repose had been interrupted earlier than usual; “I can’t say much about what I could have done myself, for I have heaps of boys of my own to provide for; but, if you’re bent on going into the Church, something would certainly have turned up for you. I don’t say there’s much of a career in the Church for an ambitious young fellow, but still, if you do work well and have a few friends—. As for your Scotch Church, I don’t know very much about it,” said the baronet, candidly. “I never knew any one who did. What a bore it used to be a dozen years ago, when there was all that row; and now, I suppose, you’re all at sixes and sevens, ain’t you?” asked the ingenuous legislator. “I suppose whisky and controversy go together somehow.” Sir Thomas got himself packed into the corner of a sofa very comfortably, as he spoke, and took no notice of the lightning in Colin’s eyes.