“Oh, Mr. Campbell, what a beautiful idea!” said the young lady; and then, the service being ended, they walked about a little, and looked up from the centre of the place to the blue wintry sky, which forms the living centre of that vault of ages—an occupation which Lauderdale interrupted hurriedly enough by reminding Colin that they had still to get out to Frascati, and were already after time.
“Oh! you still live in Frascati,” said Colin’s acquaintance, “with that very strange young man? I never spoke to anybody in my life who startled me so much. Do you happen to know if he is a son of that very strange Mr. Meredith, whom there was so much talk of last year? that man, you know, who pretended to be so very good, and ran away with somebody. Dear me, I thought everybody knew that story. His son was ill, I know, and lived abroad. I wonder if it is the same.”
“I don’t think my friend has any father,” said Colin, who, stimulated by the knowledge that the last train would start in half an hour, was anxious to get away.
“Ah, well, I hope so, I am sure, for your sake; for that Mr. Meredith was a dreadful man, and pretended to be so good till he was found out,” said the lady. “Something Hall was the name of his place. Let me recollect. Dear me, does nobody know the name?”
“Good-bye; it is our time,” said Colin, and he obeyed the gesture of Lauderdale, and rushed after his already distant figure; but, before he had turned the corner of the square, one of the sons overtook him. “I beg your pardon, but my mother wishes you to know that it was Meredith of Maltby she was talking of just now,” said the young man out of breath. Colin laughed to himself as he hastened after his friend. What had he to do with Meredith of Maltby? But, as he dashed along, he began to recollect an ugly story in the papers, and to bethink himself of a certain odd prejudice which he had been conscious of on first hearing the name of the brother and sister. When he got near enough to Lauderdale to lay hold of his arm, Colin could not help uttering, as was usual to him, what was at present on the surface of his mind.
“You know all about them,” he said; “do you think they have a father?” which simple words were said with a few gasps, as he was out of breath.
“What’s the use of coming after me like a steam-engine?” said Lauderdale; “did you think I would run away? and you’ve need of a’ your breath for that weary brae. How should I ken all about them? They’re your friends, and not mine.”
“All very well, Lauderdale; but she never makes me her confidant,” said the young man, with his usual laugh.
“It’s no canny to speak of she,” said Lauderdale; “it’s awfu’ suggestive, and no a word for either you or me. She has an aunt in India, and two uncles that died in the Crimea, if you want to know exactly. That is all she has ever told to me.”
And with this they dismissed the subject from their minds, and, arm-in-arm, addressed themselves to the arduous task of getting to the station through the narrow crowded streets in time for the train.