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CHAPTER XLIX.
This conversation, however, as was natural, had a certain effect upon both the friends. It threw Colin, who, to be sure, was chiefly concerned, into a world of confused imaginations, which influenced even his dreams, and through his dreams reacted upon himself. When he was alone at night, instead of going to sleep at once, as would have been natural after his day’s journey, he kept falling into absurd little dozes, and waking up suddenly with the idea that Alice was standing by him, that she was calling him, that it was the marriage-day, and that somebody had found him out, and was about to tell his bride that he did not love her; and at last, when he went to sleep in good earnest, the fantastic mélange of recollection and imagination carried him back to Frascati, where he found Arthur and Alice, as of old, in the great salone, with its frescoed walls, and talked to them as in former days. He thought Meredith told him of an important journey upon which he was setting out, and made arrangements in the meantime for his sister with an anxiety which the real Arthur had never dreamt of exhibiting. “She will be safe with you at present,” the visionary Arthur seemed to say, “and by-and-by you can send her to me——” And when Colin woke it was hard for him to convince himself at first that he had not been in actual communication with his friend. He accounted for it, of course, as it is very easy to account for dreams, and made up his mind how it came about, and yet left behind in some crevice of his heart a dumb certainty which hid itself out of sight that it might not be argued with, that after all Arthur and he in the dark had passed by each other, and exchanged a word or thought in passing. Colin took care not to betray even{393} to himself the existence of this conviction; but deep down in the silence it influenced him unawares.

As for Lauderdale, his thoughts, as might have been expected, had taken another direction. Perhaps he was past the age of dreaming. Colin’s revelation which he did not make had possibly told his friend more than if it had been said out in words; and the two began their second day’s journey with but little talk, and that of a vague and general kind. They had not gone far upon the white and dusty road when Lauderdale drew aside a little, and stepped across the boundary of furze and wild thorn and bramble bushes which separated it from the hillside.

“No, I’m no tired at this hour of the morning,” he said, “but I’ve an awfu’ objection to dust, and the road is as powdery as a mill. My intention is to take a seat on this brae and let that carriage pass.”

“Wait a little, then; it comes on very slowly; there must be some invalid in it, for the horses look good enough,” said Colin; and he turned his back to the approaching carriage, about which he was altogether indifferent, and faced round to the green slope, covered with trees and brushwood, upon which Lauderdale meant to rest. They were separated a little when the carriage came up, and neither of them paid much attention to it. Lauderdale was already half way up the slope, and Colin was standing by the side of the road, looking after him. Then all at once there was a sudden cry, and the horses made a dash forward, and rolled the equipage along at such a pace that its occupants were quite out of Colin’s sight when he turned round. This he did with a start so violent that the stones under his feet seemed suddenly to get in his way and trip him up: and Lauderdale for his part came down from the brae with a long leap and strange exclamation. “What was that?” they said to each other, in the same breath, and paused for a moment, and looked into each other’s faces, and listened. The carriage went on faster, raising a cloud of dust, and nothing was to be heard except the sound of the horses’ hoofs and the wheels. It was Colin who was the first to break the silence. He detached himself from among the stones and bushes, where he had got entangled in that moment of agitation, and sprang back again to the high road which lay before him, veiled in a cloud of dust. “It is simply absurd,” said Colin. “Lauderdale, I cannot imagine what you mean; you are enough to drive a man mad. Some one gives a chance outcry in {394}passing, and you make up your mind that it is—— Good heavens! I never knew such folly!” cried the young man. He took off his hat without knowing it, and thrust his hair up over his forehead, and made an effort to take courage and regain his composure as he took breath. But it was very clear that Lauderdale had nothing to do with Colin’s excitement. He had himself heard the cry, and felt in his heart that it was no imagination. As he stood there in his pretended indignation the impulse of flight came upon him, mingled with a terror, which he could not explain nor comprehend. There was not a man in existence before whom he would have flown; but that little cry of recognition took away all his courage. He did not feel in himself the strength to go forward, to venture upon a possible meeting. The blood which had rushed to his face for the first moment seemed to go back upon his heart and stifle it. He had made a step or two forward without thinking; but then he stopped himself, and wavered, and looked upon the road which lay quite tranquil behind him in the shadow of the hills. It seemed to him for the moment as if his only safety was in flight.

As for Lauderdale, it took him all the time which Colin had occupied in these thoughts to get down from his elevation and return to his friend’s side. He for his part was animated and eager. “This is no her country,” said Lauderdale; “she’s a traveller, as we are. The carriage will stop at our next stage, but there’s no time to be lost;” and as he said these words he resumed his march with that long steady step which got over so much ground without remarking the hesitation of Colin, or what he had said. The young man himself felt that saving impulse fail him after the first minute. Afterwards, all the secondary motives came into his mind, and urged him to go on. Had he allowed that he was afraid to meet or to renew his relationships with Alice Meredith, supposing that by any extraordinary chance this should be she, it would be to betray the secret which he had guarded so long, and to betray himself; and he knew no reason that he could give for such a cowardly retreat. He could not say, “If I see her again, and find that she has been thinking of me, I shall be compelled to carry out my original mistake, and give up my brighter hopes,”—for no one knew that he had made any mistake, or that she was not to his eyes the type of all that was dearest in woman. “The chances are that it is all a piece of folly—a deception of the senses,” he said to himself instead—“something like what people have when they think they see ghosts. We have talked of her, and I have dreamed of her, and now, to be sore, neces{395}sity requires that I should hear her. It should have been seeing, to make all perfect;” and, after that little piece of self-contempt, he went on again with Lauderdale without making any objection. The dust which had been raised by the carriage came towards them like a moving pillar; but the carriage itself went rapidly on and turned the corner and went out of sight. And then Colin did his best to comfort and strengthen himself by other means.

“Don’t put yourself out of breath,” he said to Lauderdale; “the whole thing is quite explainable. That absurd imagination of yours yesterday has got into both our heads. I don’t mind saying I dreamt of it all last night. Anything so wild was never put into a novel. It’s an optical illusion, or, rather I should say, it’s an ocular illusion. Things don’t happen in real life in this kind of promiscuous way. Don’t walk so quick and put yourself out of breath.”

“Did you no hear?” said Lauderdale. “If you hadna heard I could understand. As for me, I canna say but what I saw as well. I’m no minding at this moment about my breath.”

“What did you see?” cried Colin, with a sudden thrill at his heart.

“I’ll no say it was her,” said Lauderdale; “no but what I am as sure as I am of life that she was there. I saw something white laid back in the carriage, somebody that was ill; it might be her or it might be another. I’ve an awfu’ strong conviction that it was her. It’s been borne in on my mind that she was ill and wearying. We mightna ken her, but she kent you and me.”

“What you say makes it more and more unlikely,” said Colin. “I confess that I was a little excited myself by those dreams and stuff; but nothing could be more improbable than that she should recognise you and me. Bah! it is absurd to be talking of her in this ridiculous way, as if we had the slightest reason to suppose it was she. Any little movement might make a sick lady cry out; and, as for recognising a voice!—All this makes me feel like a fool,” said Colin. “I am more disposed to go back than to go on. I wish you would dismiss this nonsense from your thoughts.”

“If I was to do that same, do you think you could join me?” said Lauderdale. “There’s voices I would ken after thirty years instead of after three; and I’m no likely to forget the bit English tone of it. I’m a wee slow about some things, and I’ll no pretend to fathom your meaning; but, whether it’s daft{396}like or no, this I’m sure of, that if you make up to that carriage that’s away out of our sight at this moment, you’ll find Alice Meredith there.”

“I don’t believe anything of the kind. Your imagination has deceived you,” said Colin, and they went on for a long time in silence; but at the bottom of his heart Colin felt that his own imagination had not deceived him. The only thing that had deceived him was that foolish feeling of liberty, that sense that he had escaped fate, and that the rash engagements of his youth were to have no consequences, into which he had deluded himself for some time past. Even while he professed his utter disbelief in this encounter, he was asking himself how in his changed circumstances he should bear the old bridle, the rein upon his own proud neck? If it had been a curb upon his freedom, even at the moment when h............
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