“Your experiences!” said Meredith. He put his thin arm eagerly, before any one was aware what he intended to do, through Lauderdale’s arm. “I frighten and horrify many,” said the invalid, not without a gleam of satisfaction; “but there are so few, so miserably few, with whom it is possible to have true communion. Let me share your experiences—there must be instruction in them.”
The philosopher, thus seized, made a comical grimace, unseen by anybody but Colin; but the sick man was far too much in earnest to observe any reluctance on the part of his new acquaintance, and Lauderdale submitted to be swept on in the strange wind of haste and anxiety and eagerness which surrounded the dying youth, to whom a world lying in wickedness, and “I, I alone” left to maintain the knowledge of God among men, was the one great truth. There was not much room to move about upon the deck; and, as Meredith turned and went on, with his arm in Lauderdale’s, his sister, who was sharply turned round also by his movement, found it hard enough to maintain her position by his side. Though he was more attached to her than to any other living creature, it was not his habit, as it might have been in happier circumstances, to care for her comfort, or to concern himself about her personal convenience. He swept her along with him over the hampered deck, through passages which were barely wide enough for two, but through which she crushed herself as long as possible, catching her dress on all the corners, and losing her breath in the effort. As for Colin, he found himself left behind with a half-amazed, half-mortified sensation.
Not his the form, not his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly;
and though he was not truly open to Lauderdale’s jibe concerning flirtations, the very name of that agreeable but dangerous amusement had roused him into making the discovery that Meredith’s sister was very pretty, and that there was something extremely interesting in the rapt devotion to her brother, which at first had prevented him from observing her. It seemed only natural that, when the sick man seized upon Lauderdale, the young lady should have fallen to Colin’s share; and he kept standing where they had left him, as has been described, half amused and half mortified, thinking to himself that, after all, he was not an ogre, nor a person whom ladies in general are apt to avoid.
After poor little Alice had hurt herself and torn her dress in two or three rapid turns through the limited space, she gave up her brother’s arm with a pained, surprised look, which went to Colin’s heart, and withdrew to the nearest bench, gathering up her torn dress in her hand, and still keeping her eyes upon him. What good she thought she could do by her watching it was difficult to tell, but it evidently was the entire occupation and object of her life. She scarcely turned her eyes upon Colin when he approached; and, as the eyes were like a fawn’s—brown, wistful, and appealing (whereas Miss Matty’s were blue, and addicted to laughter)—it is not to be wondered at that Colin, in whom his youth was dimly reawaking, with all its happier susceptibilities, should feel a little pique at her neglect. The shadow of death had floated away from the young man’s horizon. He believed himself, whether truly or not, to have come to a new beginning of life. He had been dead and was alive again; and the solemn interval of suffering, during which he questioned earth and heaven, had made the rebound all the sweeter, and restored with a freshness almost more delightful than the first, the dews and blossoms to the new world. Thus he approached Alice Meredith, who had no attention to spare to him—not with any idea that he had fallen in love with her, or that love was likely, but only with that vague sense that Paradise still exists somewhere, not entirely out of reach, and that the sweet Eve, who alone can reveal it, might meet him unawares at any turn of his path—which is one of the sweetest privileges of youth. But he did not know what to say to the other youthful creature, who ought to have been as conscious of such possibilities as he. No thought was in her mind that she ever could be the Eve of any paradise; and the world to her was a confused and darkling universe, in which death lay lurking somewhere, she could not tell how close at hand—death, not for herself, which could be borne, but for one far dearer than herself. The more she felt the nearness of this adversary, the more she contradicted herself and would not believe it; and so darkness spread all round the beginning path of the poor girl, who was not much more than a child. She would not have understood the meaning of any pretty speeches had Colin been so far left to himself as to think of making them. As it was, she looked up at him wistfully as he sat down beside her. She thought in her mind that he would be a good friend for Arthur, and might cheer him; which was the chief thing she cared for in this world.
“Has your brother been long ill?” said Colin. It seemed the only subject on which the two could speak.
“Ill?” said Alice; “he is not very ill—he takes a great deal of exercise. You must have observed that; and his appetite is very good.” The question roused her to contradict her own fears, and doing so out loud to another was more effectual somehow than anything she could say to herself. “The storm which made everybody else so ill had no effect upon Arthur,” she went on, almost with a little irritation. “He is thin to be sure, but then many people are thin who are quite well; and I am sure you do not look very strong yourself.”
“No,” said Colin, who possessed the instinct rare among men of divining what his companion wished him to say; “my people had given me up a few weeks ago. I gave myself a poke somewhere in the lungs which very nearly made an end of me; but I mean to get better if I can,” he said, with a smile, which for the moment brought a doubtful look upon the girl’s face.
“You don’t think it wrong to talk like that,” she said; “that was what made me wish so much you should come to see Arthur. Perhaps if he were more cheerful it would do him good. Not that he is very ill, you know, but still—we are going to Italy,” she went on with a little abruptness, “to a place near Rome—not to Rome itself, because I am a little afraid of that—but into the country. Are you going there?”
“I suppose so,” said Colin; “it is the most interesting place in the world. Do you not think so? But everything will be new to me.”