“I think you said you had never been in Scotland?” said Lauderdale. “For my part I’m no heeding much about the churches; but I’m curious to see the workings of an irrational system where it has no limit. It’s an awfu’ interesting subject of inquiry; and there is little doubt in my mind that a real popular system must aye be more or less irrational——”
“I beg your pardon,” said the curate. “Of course there are many errors in the Church of Rome; but I don’t see that such a word as irrational——”
“It’s a very good word,” said Lauderdale. “I’m no using it in a contemptuous sense. Man’s an irrational being, take him at his best. I’m not saying if it’s above reason or below reason, but out of reason; which makes it none the worse to me. All religion’s out of reason for that matter—which is a thing we never can be got to allow in Scotland. You understand it better here,” said the philosopher; but the curate’s attention was too much distracted to leave him any time for self-defence.
During this pause, however, Colin and Harry were eyeing each other over the Italian books. “You won’t find it at all difficult,” said young Frankland; “if you had been staying longer we might have helped you. I say—look here; I am much obliged to you,” Harry added suddenly: “a fellow does not know what to say in such circumstances. I am horribly vexed to think of your being ill. I’d be very glad to do as much for you as you have done for me.”
“Which is simply nothing at all,” said Colin, hastily; and then he became conscious of the effort the other had made. “Thank you for saying so much. I wish you could, and then nobody would think any more about it,” he said, laughing; and they regarded each other for another half minute across the table while Lauderdale and the curate kept on talking heresy. Then Colin suddenly held out his hand.
“It seems my fate to go away without a grudge against anybody,” said the young man; “which is hard enough when one has a certain right to a grievance. Good-bye. I daresay after this your path and mine will scarcely cross again.”
“Good-bye,” said Harry Frankland, rising up—and he made a step or two to the door, but came back again, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Good-bye,” he repeated, holding out his hand another time. “I hope you’ll soon get well! God bless you, old fellow! I never knew you till now;” and so disappeared very suddenly, closing the door after him with a little unconscious violence. Colin lay back in his chair with a smile on his face. The two who were talking beside him had their ears intently open to this bye-play, but they went on with their talk, and left the principal actors in the little drama alone.
“I wonder if I am going to die?” said Colin, softly, to himself; and then he caught the glance of terror, almost of anger, with which his mother stopped short and looked at him, with her lips apart, as if her breathing had stopped for the moment. “Mother, dear, I have no such intention,” said the young man; “only that I am leaving Wodensbourne with feelings so amicable and amiable to everybody, that it looks alarming. Even Harry Frankland, you see—and this morning his cousin——”
“What about his cousin, Colin?” said the Mistress, with bated breath.
Upon which Colin laughed—not harshly or in mockery—softly, with a sound of tenderness, as if somewhere not far off there lay a certain fountain of tears.