A Son of the Soil

by Mrs. Oliphant

“Stuff!” said Colin; “you don’t suppose it is for myself. I want to give it to somebody,” said the young man with a conscious smile. And to look at him with his countenance all a-glow, pleasure and fun and affection brightening his eyes, and his face lighted up with the gentle commotion of thought which had ended in that writing of verses, it was hard to think of him as a man whom God for a solemn purpose had weighted with affliction—as he had appeared in Meredith’s eyes. Rather he looked, what he was, one of God’s most joyful and gifted creatures; glad without knowing why; glad because the sweet imaginations of youth had possession of him, and filled heaven and earth with brave apparitions. Love and anxiety had introduced into the heart of Lauderdale, so far as Colin was concerned, a certain feminine element—and he laughed unsteadily out of a poignant thrill of relief and consolation, as he took the book from his patient’s hands.

“He’s no a callant that can do without an audience,” said Lauderdale; “and, seeing it’s poetry that’s in question, no doubt it’s a female audience that’s contemplated. You may spare yourself the trouble, Colin. She’s bonnie, and she’s good; and I’m no free to say that I don’t like her all the better for caring for none of these things; but I see no token that she’ll ever get beyond Watts’s hymns all her days. You needna trouble your head about writing out things for her.”

Upon which Colin reddened a little, and said “Stuff!” and made a long grasp at the writing-case—which exertion cost him a fit of coughing. Lauderdale sat by his side gloomily enough all day, asking himself whether the colour was hectic that brightened Colin’s cheeks, and listening to the sound of his breathing and the ring of his voice with indescribable pangs of anxiety. When evening came the watcher had considerably more fever than the patient, and turned his eyes abroad over the Campagna, with a gaze which saw nothing glorious in the scene. At that moment, the sun going down in grandeur over the misty distance, which was Rome—the wonderful belts and zones of colour in the vault of sky which covered in that melancholy waste with its specks of ruin—were nothing in Lauderdale’s eyes in comparison with the vision that haunted him of a cosy homely room in a Scotch farmhouse, full of warm glimmers of fire light and humble comforts. “He would mend if he were but at home,” he said to himself almost with bitterness, turning his eyes from the landscape without, to which he was indifferent, to the bare white stony walls within. He was so cold sitting there, he who was well and strong, that he had put on his great-coat. And it was for this he had brought the youth whom he loved so far away from those “who belonged to him!” Lauderdale thought with a pang of the Mistress, and what she would say if she could see the comfortless place to which she had sent her boy. Meanwhile the patient who caused so much anxiety, was, for his own part, very comfortable, and copied out his verses with a care that made it very apparent he had no intention of coming to a speedy end, either of life or its enjoyments. He had not written anything for a long time, and the exercise was pleasant to him—and when it was done he lay back on his pillows, and took the trouble to remark to Lauderdale upon the decorations of the poor bare stony chamber which the philosopher was cursing in his heart.—“We are before them in some things,” said Colin, reflectively, “but they beat us in a great many. See how simply that effect is obtained—just a line or two of colour, and yet nothing could be more perfect in its way.” To which observation Lauderdale responded only by an indescribable growl, which provoked the laughter of his unruly patient. The next remark Colin made was, however, received with greater favour, for he asked plaintively if it was not time for dinner—a question more soothing to Lauderdale’s feelings than volumes of remonstrances. He carried Colin’s portion into the room when that meal arrived from the Trattoria, scorning female assistance, and arranging everything with that exquisite uncouth tenderness which, perhaps, only a woman could do full justice to; for the fact is, that Colin, though ravenously hungry, and fully disposed to approve of the repast, had a momentary thought that it would have been ever so much pleasanter to have been served by the little housekeeper herself.

When the darkness had hushed and covered up the Campagna, and stilled all the village sounds, Lauderdale himself, a little flushed from an address he had just been delivering to Meredith, went in and looked at the sleeping face which was so precious to him, and tortured himself once more with questions whether it might be fever which gave colour to the young man’s cheek. But Colin, notwithstanding his cold, was breathing full long breaths, with life in every inspiration, and his friend went not uncomforted to bed.

But while Colin lay thus at rest, Meredith had resumed his writing, and was working into his current chapter the conversation which had just taken place. “The worldly man asks if the afflictions of the just are signs of favouritism on God’s part,” wrote the young author, “and appeals to us whether a happy man is less beloved of his Father than I am who suffer. He virtually contradicts scripture, and tells me that the Lord does not scourge every son whom He receiveth. But I say, and the Holy Bible says with me, Tremble, oh ye who are happy—our troubles are God’s tokens of love and mercy to our souls.” As he wrote this, the young eyes, which were so soon to close upon life, brightened and expanded with a wonderful glow. His mind was not broad nor catholic, nor capable of perceiving the manifold diversity of those ways of God which are beyond the comprehension of men. He could not understand how, upon the last and lightest labourer, the Master of the vineyard might bestow the equal hire; and—taking that as the hardest labour which fell to his own share—was bent at least on making up for it by the most supreme compensation. And, indeed, it was hard to blame him for claiming, by way of balance to his afflictions, a warmer and closer share in the love of God. At least, that was no vulgar recompense. As for the “worldly man” of Arthur’s paragraph, he, too, sat a long while in his chamber, not writing, but pondering—gazing into the flame of the tall Roman lamp on his table as if some solution of the mysteries in his thoughts was to be found in its smoky light. To identify Lauderdale in the character of a worldly man would have been difficult enough to any one who knew him; yet, to Meredith, he had afforded a perfect example of “carnal reasoning,” and the disposition which is according to the flesh, and not according to the Spirit. This worldly-minded individual sat staring into the lamp, even after his young critic had ceased to write—revolving things that he could see were about to happen, and things which he dreaded without being able to see; and more than all wondering over that awful mystery of Providence to which the young invalid gave so easy a solution. “It wouldna be so hard to make out if a man could think he was less loved than his fellows, as they thought lang-syne,” said Lauderdale to himself, “or more loved, as, twisting certain scriptures, it’s the fashion to say now; but its awfu’ ill to understand such dealings in Him that is the Father of all, and makes nae favourites. Poor Callant! it’s like he’ll be the first to find the secret out.” And, as he pondered, he could not restrain a groan over the impending fate which threatened Meredith, and on the complications that were soon to follow. To be sure, he had nothing particular to do with it, however it might happen; but every kind of Christian tenderness and charity lurked in the heart of the homely Scotch philosopher who stood in Arthur Meredith’s last chapter as the impersonation of the worldly man.

Next day Colin reappeared, to the astonishment of the brother and sister. Let us not say, to their disappointment—and yet poor little Alice, underneath her congratulations, said to herself with a pang, “He has got well—they all get well but Arthur;” and, when she was aware of the thought, hated herself, and wondered wistfully whether it was because of her wickedness that her prayers for Arthur were not heard. Anxiety and even grief are not the improving influences they are sometimes thought to be—and it is hard upon human nature to be really thankful for the benefits which God gives to others, passing over one’s self. Meredith, who was the sufferer in his own person, could afford to be more generous. He said, “I am glad you are better” with all his heart; and then he added—“The Lord does not mean to leave you alone, Campbell. Though He has spared you, He still continues His warnings. Do not neglect them, I beseech you, my dear friend”—before he returned to his writing. He was occupied now day and night with his “Voice from the Grave.” He was less able to walk, less able to talk, than he had been, and now, as the night came fast in which no man can work, was devoting all his time and all his feeble strength to this last message to the world.

It would have been pitiful enough to any indifferent spectator to note the contrast between the sick man’s solemn labour apart, and the glow of subdued pleasure in Colin’s face as he drew his seat in the evening towards the table which Alice had chosen for herself. The great bare room had so much space and so many tables, and there was so large a stock of lamps among the movables of the house, that each of the party had a corner for himself, to which (with his great-coat on or otherwise) he could retire when he chose. The table of Alice was the central point; and as she sat with the tall antique lamp throwing its primitive unshaded light upon her, still and graceful with her needlework, the sight of her was like that of a supreme objet de luxe in the otherwise bare apartment. Perhaps, under due protection and control, the presence of womankind, thus calm, thus silent—letting itself, as the old maxim commanded, be seen and not heard—is to men of sober mind and middle age—such as Lauderdale, for example—the most agreeable ornament with which a room could be provided. Younger individuals might prefer that the tableau should dissolve, and the impersonation of womankind melt into an ordinary woman. Such at least was the feeling of Colin. She was very sweet to look at; but, if she had descended from her pedestal, and talked a little and laughed a little, and even perhaps—but the idea of anything like flirtation on the part of Alice Meredith was too absurd an idea to be entertained for a moment. However, abstracted and preoccupied as she was; she was still a woman young and fair—and Colin’s voice softened and his eyes brightened as he drew his chair to the other side of the lamp, and looked across the table at her soft, downcast face. “I have something here I want you to look at,” said the young poet, who had been used to Matty Frankland’s sympathy and curiosity; “not that it is much worth your while; but Lauderdale told you that writing verses was a weakness of mine,” he went on, with, a youthful blush and smile. As for Alice, she took the paper he gave her, looking a little frightened, and held it for a moment in her hand.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Campbell; am I to read it?” she said, with puzzled, uncertain looks. Naturally enough she was perplexed and even frightened by such an address; for, as Lauderdale said, her knowledge of poetry was confined to hymns, over which hung an awful shadow from the “Paradise Lost.” She opened Colin’s “copy of verses” timorously as she spoke, and glanced at them, and stumbled at his handwriting, which, like most other people’s in these, scribbling days, was careless and indistinct. “I am sure it is very pretty,” faltered Alice as she got to the end of the page; and then, more timidly still, “What am I to do with it, Mr. Campbell?” asked the poor girl. When she saw the sudden flush that covered his face, Alice’s slumbering faculties were wakened up by the sharp shock of having given pain—which was a fault which she had very seldom consciously committed in the course of her innocent life.

Colin was too much a gentleman to lose his temper; but it is impossible to deny that the effort which he made to keep it was a violent one, and required all his manhood. “Keep it if you like it,” he said, with a smile which thinly covered his mortification; “or put it in the fire if you don’t.” He said this as philosophically as was possible under the circumstances. And then he tried a little conversation by way of proving his perfect composure and command of his feelings, during which poor Alice sat fluttered and uncomfortable and self-conscious as she had never been before. Her work was at an end for that night at least. She held Colin’s little poem in her hand, and kept her eyes upon it, and tried with all her might to invent something gracious and complimentary which could be said without offence; for, of course, carefully as he imagined himself to have concealed it, and utterly unconscious of the fact as Lauderdale remained, who was watching them, Alice was as entirely aware of the state of Colin’s mind and temper at the moment as he was himself. After a while he got up and went to Meredith’s table by the fire; and the two began to talk, as Alice imagined, of matters much too serious and momentous to leave either at leisure to remark her movements. When she saw them thus occupied she left the room almost stealthily, carrying with her the tall lamp with its four tongues of flame. She set down her light in her own room when she reached that sanctuary, and once more read and pored over Colin’s poem. There was nothing about love in it, and consequently nothing improper or alarming to Alice. It was all about the Pantheon and its vespers, and the echoes in the dome. But then why did he give it to her? why did he look so much disturbed when she in her surprise and unreadiness hesitated over it? Such an offering was totally new to Alice: how could she be expected to understand exactly how it ought to be received? But it is impossible to describe how vexed and mortified she was to find she had failed of what was expected of her, and inflicted pain when she might have given pleasure. She had been rude, and to be rude was criminal in her code of manners; and a flutter of other questions, other curiosities, awoke without any will of her own in the young creature’s maiden bosom; for, indeed, she was still very young, not nineteen, and so preoccupied by one class of thoughts that her mind had been absolutely barred against all others until now.

The end was that Alice put away Colin’s poem in the private pocket of her writing-case, the very innermost of her sanctuaries. “How clever he is,” she thought to herself; “how odd that such things should come into any one’s head; and to think I had not even the civility to say that it was beautiful poetry!” Then she went back very humbly into the sitting-room, and served Colin with the last cup of tea, which was the most excellent. “For I know you like strong tea, Mr. Campbell,” she said, looking at him with appealing eyes. “It feels quite strange to think that we should know you so well—you who can write such beautiful poetry,”[1] she managed to say later in the evening. “I have always supposed a poet so different.”