“The question is, will ye go or will ye stay?” said big Colin of Ramore; “but for this, you and me might have had a mair serious question to discuss. I see a providence in it for my part. You’re but a callant; it will do you nae harm to wait; and you’ll be in the way of seeing the world at—what do they call the place? If your mother has nae objections, and ye see your ain way to accepting, I’ll be very well content. It’s awfu’ kind o’ Sir Thomas after the way ye’ve rejected a’ his advances—but, no doubt he’s heard that you got on gey weel, on the whole, at your ain college,” said the farmer, with a little complacency. They were sitting late over the breakfast table, the younger boys looking on with eager eyes, wondering over Colin’s wonderful chances, and feeling severely the contrast of their own lot, who had to take up the ready satchel and the “piece,” which was to occupy their healthful appetites till the evening, and hurry off three miles down the loch to school. As for Archie, he had been long gone to his hard labour on the farm, and the mother and father and the visitor were now sitting, a little committee{96} upon Colin’s prospects, which the lad himself contemplated with a mixture of delight and defiance wonderful to see.
“It’s time for the school, bairns,” said the farmer’s wife; “be good laddies, and dinna linger on the road either coming or going. Ye’ll get apples a-piece in the press. I couldna give ony advice, if you ask me,” said the Mistress, looking at her son with her tender eyes: “Colin, my man, it’s no for me nor your father either to say one thing or another—it’s you that must decide—it’s your ain well-being and comfort and happiness——.” Here the Mistress stopped short with an emotion which nobody could explain; and at which even Colin, who had the only clue to it, looked up out of his own thoughts, with a momentary surprise.
“Hoot,” said the farmer; “you’re aye thinking of happiness, you women. I hope the laddie’s happiness doesna lie in the power of a year’s change one way or another. I canna see that it will do him any harm—especially after what he was saying last night—to pause awhile and take a little thought; and here’s the best opportunity he could well have. But he doesna say anything himself—and if you’re against it, Colin, speak out. It’s your concern, most of all, as your mother says.”
“The callant’s in a terrible swither,” said Lauderdale, with a smile; “he’ll have it, and he’ll no have it. For one thing, it’s an awfu’ disappointment to get your ain way just after you’ve made up your mind that you’re an injured man; and he’s but a callant after all, and kens no better. For my part, I’m no fond of changing when you’ve once laid your plans. No man can tell what terrible difference a turn in the road may make. It’s aye best to go straight on. But there’s exceptions,” continued Lauderdale, laying his hand on Colin’s shoulder. “So far as I can see, there’s no reason in this world why the callant should not stand still a moment and taste the sweetness of his lot. He’s come to man’s estate, and the heavens have never gloomed on him yet. There’s no evil in him, that I can see,” said Colin’s friend, with an unusual trembling in his voice; “but for human weakness, it might have been the lad Michael or Gabriel, out of heaven, that’s been my companion these gladsome years. It may be but more sweetness and blessing that’s in store for him. I know no reason why he shouldna pause while the sun’s shining, and see God’s meaning. It cannot be but good.”
The lad’s friend who understood him best stopped short, like his mother, with something in his throat that marred his utter{97}ance. Why was it? Colin looked up with the sunshine in his eyes, and laughed with a little annoyance, a little impatience. He was no more afraid of his lot, nor of what the next turn in the path would bring, than a child is who knows no evil. Life was not solemn, but glorious, a thing to be conquered and made beautiful, to his eyes. He did not understand what they meant by their faltering and their fears.
“I feel, on the whole, disposed to accept Sir Thomas’s offer,” said the young prince. “It is no favour, for I am quite able to be his boy’s tutor, as he says; and I see nothing particularly serious in it either; most Scotch students stop short sometime and have a spell of teaching. I have been tutor at Ardmartin; I don’t mind being tutor at Wodensbourne. I would not be dependent on Sir Thomas Frankland or any man,” said Colin; “but I am glad to work for myself, and free you, father. I know you are willing to keep me at college, but you have plenty to do for Archie and the rest; and now it is my turn; I may help myself and them too,” cried the youth, glad to disguise in that view of the matter the thrill of delight at his new prospects, which came from a very different source. “It will give us a little time, as you say, to think it all over,” he continued, after a momentary pause, and turned upon his mother with a smile. “Is there anything to look melancholy about?” said Colin, tossing back from his forehead the clouds of his brown hair.
“Oh, no, no, God forbid!” said the Mistress—“nothing but hope and the blessing of God;” but she turned aside from the table, and began to put away the things by way of concealing the tears that welled up to her tender eyes; though neither she nor any one for her could have told why.
“Never mind your mother,” said the farmer, “though it’s out of the common to see a cloud on her face when there’s no cloud to speak of on the sky. But women are aye having freits and fancies. I think mysel’ it’s the wisest thing ye can do to close with Sir Thomas’s proposal. I wouldna say but you’ll see a good deal o’ the world,” said the farmer, shrewd but ignorant; “not that I’m so simple as to suppose that an English gentleman’s country-seat will bring you to onything very extraordinary in the way of company; but still, that class of folk is wonderfully connected, and ye might see mair there in a season than you could here in a lifetime. It’s time I were looking after Archie and the men,” said big Colin; “it’s no often I’m so late in the morning. I suppose you’ll write to Sir Thomas{98} yourself, and make a’ the arrangements. Ye can say we’re quite content, and pleased at his thoughtfulness. If that’s no to your mind, Colin, I’m sorry for it; for a man should be aye man enough to give thanks where thanks are due.” With this last admonition big Colin of Ramore took up his hat and went off to his fields. “I wish the callant didna keep a grudge,” he said to himself, as he went upon his cheerful way. “If he were to set up in rivalry wi’ young Frankland!” but with the thought a certain smile came upon the father’s face. He too could not refrain from a certain contempt of the baronet’s dainty son; and there was scarcely any limit to his pride and confidence in his boy.
The Mistress occupied herself in putting things to rights in the parlour long after her husband had gone to the fields. She thought Lauderdale too wanted to be alone with Colin; and, with natural jealousy, could not permit the first word of counsel to come from any lips but her own. The mistress had no baby to occupy her in these days; the little one whom she had on her bosom at the opening of our history, who bore her own name and her own smile, and was the one maiden blossom of her life, had gone back to God who gave her; and, when her boys were at school, the gentle woman was alone. There was little doing in the dairy just then, and Mrs. Campbell had planned her occupations so as to have all the time that was possible to enjoy her son’s society. So she had no special call upon her at that moment, and lingered over her little business, till Lauderdale, who would fain have said his say, strayed out in despair, finding no room for him. “When you’ve finished your letter, Colin, you’ll find me on the hill,” he said, as he went out; and could not refrain from a murmur in his own mind at the troublesome cares of “thae women.” “They’re sweet to see about a house, and the place is hame where they are,” said the philosopher to himself with a sigh; “but, oh, such fykes as they ware their hearts on!” The mistress’s “fykes,” however, were over when the stranger left the house. She came softly to Colin’s table, where he was writing, and sat down beside him. As for Colin, he was so much absorbed in his letter that he did not observe his mother; and it was only when he lifted his head to consider a sentence, and found her before him, that he woke up, with a little start, out of that more agreeable occupation, and asked, “Do you want me?” with a look of annoyance which went to the mistress’s heart.
“Yes, Colin, I want you just for a moment,” said his mother.{99} “I want to speak to you of this new change in your life. Your father thinks nothing but it’s Sir Thomas Frankland you’re going to, to be tutor to his boys; but, oh, Colin, I ken better! It’s no the fine house and the new life that lights such light in my laddie’s eye. Colin, listen to me. She’s far above you in this world, though it’s no to be looked for that I could think ony woman was above you; but she’s a lady with mony wooers, and you’re but a poor man’s son. Oh, Colin, my man! dinna gang near that place, nor put yourself in the way of evil, if you havena confidence both in her and yoursel’. Do you think you can see her day by day and no break your heart? or do you think she’s worthy of a heart to be thrown away under her feet? Or, oh, my laddie! tell me this first of a’—do you think you could ask her, or she could consent, to lose fortune and grandeur for your sake? Colin, I’m no joking; it’s awfu’ earnest, whatever you may think. Tell me—if you’ve ony regard for your mother, or wish her ony kind of comfort the time you’re away.”
This Mrs. Campbell said with tears shining in her eyes, and a look of entreaty in her face, which Colin had hard ado to meet. But the lad was full of his own thoughts, and impatient of the interruption which detained him.
“I wish I knew what you meant,” he said pettishly. “I wish you would not talk of—people who have nothing to do with my poor little concerns. Surely, I may be suffered to engage in ordinary work like other people,” said Colin. “As for the lady you speak of—”
And here the youth paused with a natural smile lurking at the corners of his lips—a smile of youthful confidence and self-gratulation. Not for a kingdom would the young hero have boasted of any look or word she had ever bestowed upon him; but he could not deny himself the delicious consciousness that she must have had something to do with this proposal—that it must have been her suggestion, or at least supported, seconded by her. Only through her could her uncle have known that he was tutor at Ardmartin; and the thought that it was she herself who was taking what maidenly means she could for their speedy reunion was too sweet to Colin’s heart to be breathed in words, even if he could have done it without a betrayal of his hopes.
“Ay, Colin, the lady—” said his mother; “you say no more in words, but your eye smiles, and your mouth, and I see the flush on your cheek. She’s bonnie and sweet and fair-spoken, and I canna think she me............