“Let us read together—let us consider it together,” said Meredith; “it is all set down very plain, you know. He that runneth may read. In all the world there is nothing so important. My friend, you took pains to understand about Italy—”
“And a bonnie business I made of it,” said Lauderdale; “deluded by the very bairns; set right by one that’s little more than a bairn, that little sister of yours; and now letting myself be drawn into discussions! I’m twenty years, or near it, older than you are,” he went on, “and I’ve walked with them that have gone away yonder, as far as flesh and blood would let me. I’m no misdoubting anything that’s written, callant, if that will satisfy you. It’s a’ an awfu’ darkness, with visions of white angels here and there; but the angels dinna belong to me. Whisht—whisht—I’m no profane; I’m wanting more—more than what’s written; and, as I cannot get that, I must even wait till I see for myself.—Here’s a grand spot for looking at your Campagna now,” he said, breaking abruptly off; but poor Meredith, who had so little time to spare, and whose words had to be in season and out of season, could not consent to follow, as a man without so great a mission might have done, the leading of his companion’s thoughts.
“The Campagna is very interesting,” he said, “but it is nothing to the safety of your soul. Oh, my dear friend!—and here is Campbell, too, who is not far from the kingdom of heaven. Promise me that you will come with me,” said the dying man. “I shall not be able to stay long with you. Promise me that you will come and join me there!” He put out his thin arm, and raised it towards the sky, which kept smiling in its sunny calm, and took no note of these outbursts of human passion. “I will wait for you at the golden gates,” the invalid went on, fixing his hollow eyes first on one and then on another. “You will be my joy and crown of rejoicing! You cannot refuse the prayer of a dying man.”
Colin, who was young, and upon whom the shadow of these golden gates was hovering, held out his hand this time, touched to the heart. “I am coming,” he said, softly, almost under his breath, but yet loud enough to catch the quick ear of Lauderdale, whose sudden movement displaced Meredith’s arm, which was clinging almost like a woman’s to his own.
“It’s no for man to make any such unfounded promises,” said Lauderdale, hoarsely; “though you read till your heart’s sick, there’s nothing written like that. It’s a’ imaginations, and yearnings, and dreams. I’m no saying that it cannot be, or that it will not be, but I tell you there’s no such thing written; and, as far as I ken, or you ken, it may be a’ delusion and disappointment. Whisht, whisht, callants! Dinna entice each other out of this world, where there’s aye plenty to do for the like of you. I’m saying, Silence, sir!” cried the philosopher, with sudden desperation. And then he became aware that he had withdrawn the support which Meredith stood so much in need of. “A sober-minded man like me should have other company than a couple of laddies, with their fancies,” he said, in a hurried, apologetic tone; “but, as long as we’re together, you may as well take the good of me,” he added, holding out his arm, with a rare, momentary smile. As for Meredith, for once in his life—partly because of a little more emotion than usual, partly because his weakness felt instantly the withdrawal of a support which had become habitual to him—he felt beyond a possibility of doubt that further words would be out of season just at that moment: and they resumed their way a little more silently than usual. The road, like other Italian roads, was marked by here and there a rude shrine in a niche in the wall, or a cross erected by the wayside—neither of which objects possessed in the smallest degree the recommendation of picturesqueness which sentimental travellers attribute to them; for the crosses were of the rudest construction, as rude as if meant for actual use, and the poor little niches, each with its red-eyed Madonna daubed on the wall, suggested no more idea of beauty than the most arbitrary symbol could have done. But Meredith’s soul awoke within him when he saw the looks with which Colin regarded those shabby emblems of religious feeling. The Protestant paused to regain his breath, and could keep silence no more.
“You look with interest at these devices of Antichrist,” said the sick man. “You think they promote a love of beauty, I suppose, or you think them picturesque. You don’t think how they ruin the souls of those who trust in them,” he said, eagerly and loudly; for they were passing another English party at that moment, and already the young missionary longed to accost them, and put his solemn questions about life and death to their (presumably) careless souls.
“They don’t appear to me at all picturesque,” said Colin; “and nobody looks at them that I can see except ourselves; so they can’t ruin many souls. But you and I don’t agree in all things, Meredith. The cross does not seem to me to come amiss anywhere. Perhaps the uglier and ruder it is it becomes the more suggestive,” the young man added, with a little emotion. “I should like to build a few crosses along our Scotch roads; if anybody was moved to pray, I can’t see what harm would be done; or, if anybody was surprised by a sudden thought, it might be all the better; even—one has heard of such a thing,” said Colin, whose heart was still a little out of its usual balance—“a stray gleam of sunshine might come out of it here and there. If I was rich like some of your Glasgow merchants, Lauderdale,” he said, laughing a little, “I think, instead of a few fine dinners, I’d build a cross somewhere. I don’t see that it would come amiss on a Scotch road—”
“I wish you would think of something else than Scotch roads,” said Meredith, with a little vexation; “when I speak of things that concern immortal souls, you answer me with something about Scotland. What is Scotland to the salvation of a fellow-creature? I would rather that Scotland, or England either, was sunk to the bottom of the sea than stand by and see a man dying in his sins.”
The two Scotchmen looked at each other as he spoke; they smiled to each other with a perfect community of feeling and motive, which conveyed another pang of irritation to the invalid who by nature had a spirit which insisted upon being first and best beloved.
“I think we had better go home,” he said abruptly, after a pause. “I know Scotch pretty well, but I can’t quite follow when you speak on these subjects. I want to have a talk with Maria about her brother, who used to be very religiously disposed. Poor fellow, he’s ill now, and I’ve got something for him,” said the young man. Here he paused, and drew forth from his pocket a sheet folded like a map, which he opened out carefully, looking first to see that there was nobody on the road. “They took them for maps at the dogana,” said Meredith; “and geography is not prohibited—to the English at least; but this is better than geography. I mean to send it to poor Antonio, who can read, poor fellow.” The map, which was no map, consisted of a large sheet of paper, intended apparently to be hung upon a wall, and containing the words, “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden,” translated into Italian. It was not without a little triumph that Meredith exhibited this effort at clandestine instruction. “He has to lie in bed,” he said, with a softened inflection of his voice; “this will console him and bear him company. It is a map of his future inheritance,” the young missionary concluded, putting it back fondly into its deceitful folds;—and after this there was an uneasy pause, no one quite knowing what to say.