“You were blythe enough about us a’ yesterday, Jeanie,” he would say with a smile, “and nothing’s happened to change the prospect9 but the rain. It’s just as weel for the wean that the doctor’s a dozen miles off; for it’s your e’en that want physic, and a glint o’ sunshine would set a’ right.” He was standing10 by her, hovering11 like a great good-humoured cloud, his eyes dwelling12 upon her with that tender perception of her sacred weakness, and admiring pride in her more delicate faculties13, which are of the highest essence of love.
“I hope you dinna think me a fool altogether,” the mistress would answer, with momentary offence; “as if I was thinking of the rain, or as if there was onything but rain to be lookit for! but when I mind that my Colin gangs away the morn—”
And then she took up her basket of mended stockings, and, with a little impatience14, to hide a chance drop on her eyelash, carried them away to Colin’s room, where his chest stood open and was being packed for the journey. It was not a very long journey, but it was the boy’s first outset into independent life; and very independent life was that which awaited the country lad in Glasgow, where he was going to the University. On such a day dark shadows of many a melancholy story floated somehow upon the darkened atmosphere into Mrs. Campbell’s mind.
“If we could but have boarded him in a decent family,” she said to herself, as she packed her boy’s stockings. But it had been “a bad year” at Ramore, and no decent family would have received young Colin for so small a sum as that on which he himself and various more wise advisers16 considered it possible for him to live, by the help of an occasional hamper17 of home produce, in a little lodging18 of his own. Mrs. Campbell had acceded19 to this arrangement as the best; but it occurred to her to remember various wrecks20 she had encountered even in her innocent life; and her heart failed her a little as she leaned over Colin’s big “kist.”
Colin himself said very little on the subject, though he thought of nothing else; but he was a taciturn Scotch21 boy, totally unused to disclose his feelings. He was strolling round and round the place with his hands in his pockets, gradually getting soaked by the persistent22 rain, and rather liking23 it than otherwise. As he strayed about—having nothing to do that day in consideration of its being his last day at home—Colin’s presence was by no means welcomed by the other people about{26} the farm. Of course, being unoccupied himself, he had the sharpest eyes for every blunder that was going on in the stable or the byre, and announced his little discoveries with a charming candour. But in his heart, even at the moment when he was driving Jess to frenzy24 by uncalled-for remarks touching25 the dinner of the pigs, Colin was all a-blaze with anticipation26 of the new life that was to begin to-morrow. He thought of it as something grand and complete, not made up of petty details like this life he was leaving. It was a mist of learning, daily stimulation27 and encounter of wits, with glorious prizes and honours hanging in the hazy28 distance, which Colin saw as he went strolling about the farm-yard in the rain, with his hands in his pockets. If he said anything articulate to himself on the subject, it was comprised in one succinct29, but seemingly inapplicable, statement. “Eton’s no a college,” he said once, under his breath, with a dark glow of satisfaction on his face as he stopped opposite the door, and cast a glance upon the loch and the boat, which latter was now drawn30 up high and dry out of reach of the wintry water; and then a cloud suddenly lowered over Colin’s face, as a sudden doubt of his own accuracy seized him—a torturing thought which drove him indoors instantly to resolve his doubt by reference to a wonderful old Gazetteer31 which was believed in at Ramore. Colin found it recorded there, to his great mental disturbance32, that Eton was a college; but, on further inquiry33, derived34 great comfort from knowing that it certainly was not a university, after which he felt himself again at liberty to issue forth35 and superintend and aggravate36 all the busy people about the farm.
That night the family supper-table was somewhat dull, notwithstanding the excitement of the boys, for Archie was to accompany his father and brother to Glasgow, and was in great glee over that unusual delight. Mrs. Campbell, for her part, was full of thoughts natural enough to the mother of so many sons. She kept looking at her boys as they sat round the table, absorbed in their supper. “This is the beginning, but wha can tell what may be the end?” she said half to herself; “they’ll a’ be gane afore we ken15 what we’re doing.” Little Johnnie, to be sure, was but six years old; but the mother’s imagination leapt over ten years, and saw the house empty, and all the young lives out in the world. “Eh me!” said the reflective woman, “that’s what we bring up our bairns for, and rejoice over them as if they were treasure; and then by the time we’re auld37 they’re a’ gane;” and, as she spoke38, not the present shadow only, but legions of{27} vague desolations in the time to come came rolling up like mists upon her tender soul.
“As lang as there’s you and me, we’ll fend39, Jeanie,” said the farmer, with a smile; “twa’s very good company to my way o’ thinking; but there’s plenty of time to think about the dispersion which canna take place yet for a year or twa. The boys came into the world to live their ain lives and serve their Maker40, and no’ just to pleasure you and me. If you’ve a’ done, ye can cry on Jess, and bring out the big Bible, Colin. We maunna miss our prayers to-night.”
To tell the truth, Colin of Ramore was not quite so regular in his discharge of this duty as his next neighbour, Eben Campbell of Barnton, thought necessary, and was disapproved41 of accordingly by that virtuous42 critic; but the homely little service was perhaps all the more touching on this special occasion, and marked the “night before Colin went first to the college,” as a night to be remembered. When his brothers trooped off to bed, Colin remained behind as a special distinction. His mother was sitting by the fire without even her knitting, with her hands crossed in her lap, and clouds of troubled, tender thought veiling her soft eyes. As for the farmer, he sat looking on with a faint gleam of humour in his face. He knew that his wife was going to speak out her anxious heart to her boy, and big Colin’s respect for her judgment43 was just touched by a man’s smile at her womanish solemnity, and the great unlikelihood that her innocent advices would have the effect she imagined upon her son’s career. But, notwithstanding the smile, big Colin, too, listened with interest to all that his wife had to say.
“Come here and sit down,” said Mrs. Campbell; “you needna’ think shame of my hand on your head, though you are gaun to the college the morn. Eh! Colin, you dinna ken a’ the temptations nor the trials. Ye’ve aye had your ain way at hame—”
Here Colin made a little movement of irrepressible dissent44. “I’ve aye done what I was bidden,” said the honest boy. He could not accept that gentle fiction even when his heart was touched by his mother’s farewell.
“Weel, weel,” said the farmer’s wife, with a little sigh; “you’ve had your ain way as far as it was good for you. But its awfu’ different, living among strangers, and living in your father’s house. Ye’ll have to think for yoursel’ and take care of yoursel’ now. I’m no one to give many advices,” said the mother, putting up her hand furtively45 to her eyes, and looking{28} into the fire till the tears should be re-absorbed which had gathered there. “But I wouldna like my firstborn to leave Ramore and think a’ was as fair in the world as appears to the common e’e. I’ve been real weel off a’ my days,” said the mistress, slowly, letting the tears which she had restrained before drop freely at this reminiscence of happiness; “a guid father and mother to bring me up, and then him there, that’s the kindest man!—But you and me needna praise your father, Colin; we can leave that to them that dinna ken,” she went on, recovering herself; “but I’ve had ae trouble for a’ so weel as I’ve been, and I mean to tell you what that is afore you set out in the world for yoursel’.”
“Nothing about poor George,” said the farmer, breaking in—
“Oh, ay, Colin, just about poor George; I maun speak,” said the mistress. “He was far the bonniest o’ our family, and the best-likit; and he was to be a minister, laddie, like you. He used to come hame with his prizes, and bring the very sunshine to the auld house. Eh! but my mother was proud; and for me, I thought there was nothing in this world he mightna’ do if he likit. Colin,” said Mrs. Campbell, with solemn looks, “are ye listening? The last time I saw my brother was in a puir place at Liverpool, a’ in rags and dirt, with an auld coat buttoned to his throat, that it mightna’ be seen what was wantin’, and a’ his wild hair hangin’ about his face, and his feet out o’ his shoon, and hunger in his eye—”
“Jeanie, Jeanie, nae mair,” said big Colin from the other side of the fire.
“But I maun say mair; I maun tell a’,” cried his wife, with tears. “Hunger in his bonnie face, that was ance the blythest in the country-side—no hunger for honest meat as nature might crave46, but for a’ thing that was unlawfu’, and evil, and killin’ to soul and body. He had to be watched for fear he should spend the hard-won silver that we had a’ scraped together to send him away. Him that had been our pride, we couldna trust him, Colin, no ten minutes out o’ our sight but he was in some new trouble. It was to Australia we sent him, where a’ the unfortunates go. Eh, me! the like o’ that ship sailing! If there was a kind o’ hope in our breasts it was the hope o’ despair. It wasna’ my will, for what is there in a new place to make a man reform his ways? And that was how your Uncle George went away.”
“And then?” cried the boy, whose interest was raised, and who had heard mysteriously of this Uncle George before.{29}
“We’ve heard no word from that day to this,” said Mrs. Campbell, drying her eyes. “Listen till I tell you a’ that his pleasurings brought him to. First, and greatest, to say what was not true, Colin—to deceive them that trusted him. If the day should ever dawn that I couldna trust a bairn o’ mine—if it should ever come sickening to my heart that e’e or tongue was false that belonged to me—if I had to watch my laddies, and to stand in doubt at every word they said—eh! Colin, God send I may be in my grave afore such an awfu’ fate should come to me.”
Young Colin of Ramore answered not a word; he stared into the fire instead, making horrible faces unawares. He could not have denied, had he been taxed with it, that tears were in his eyes; but rather than shed them he would have endured tortures; and any expression of his feelings in words was more impossible still.
“No as if I was a better woman than my mother, or worthy47 o’ a better fate,” said the thoughtful mistress of Ramore; “for she was ane o’ the excellent of the earth, as a’body kens48; and if ever a woman won to her rest through great tribulations49, she was ane; and, if the Lord sent the cross, He would send the strength to bear it. But oh! Colin, my man, it would be kind to drown your mother in the loch, or fell her on the hill, sooner than bring upon her such great anguish50 and trouble as I have told you of this night.”
“Now, wife,” said the farmer, interfering51, “you’ve said your part. Nae such thought is in Colin’s head. Gang you and look after his kist, and see that a’ thing’s right; and him and me will have our crack the time you’re away. Your mother’s an innocent woman,” said big Colin, after a pause, when she had gone away; “she kens nae mair of the world than the bairn on her knee. When you’re a man you’ll ken the benefit of taking your first notions from a woman like that. No an imagination in her mind but what’s good and true. It’s hard work fechting through this world without marks o’ the battle,” said big Colin with a little pathos52; “but a man wi’ the like o’ her by his side maun be ill indeed if he gangs very far wrang. It mightna’ be a’ to the purpose,” continued the farmer, with a little of his half-conscious common-sense superiority, “as appeals to the feelings seldom are; but, Colin, if you take my advice, you’ll mind every word of what your mother says.”
Colin said not a syllable53 in reply. He had got rid of the tears safely, which was a great deal gained: they must have fallen had the mistress remained two seconds longer looking at{30} him with her soft beaming eyes; but he had not quite gulped54 down yet that climbing sorrow which had him by the throat. Anyhow, even if his voice had been at his own command, he was very unlikely to have made any reply.
“Ye’ll find a’ strange when ye gang to Glasgow,” continued the farmer. “I’m no feared for any great temptation, except idleness, besetting55 a callant like you; but a man that has his ain bread and his ain way to make in the world, has nae time for idleness. You’ve guid abilities, Colin, and if they dinna come to something you’ll have but yoursel’ to blame: and I wouldna’ put the reproach on my Maker of having brought a useless soul into the world, if I were you,” said big Colin. “There’s never ony failures that I can see among the lower creation, without some guid reason; but it’s the privilege o’ men to fail without ony cause o’ failure except want o’ will to do weel. When ye see the like of George, for instance, ye ask what the Lord took the trouble to make such a ne’er-do-weel for?” said the homely philosopher; “I never could help thinking, for my part, that it was labour lost—though nae doubt Providence56 kent better; but I wouldna’ be like that if I could help it. There’s no a silly sheep on the hill, nor horse in the stable, that isna’ a credit to Him that made it. I would take good heed57 no to put mysel’ beneath the brute58 beasts, if I were you.”
“I’m no meaning,” cried Colin, with ungrammatical abruptness59 and a little offence; for he was pricked60 in his pride by this address, which was not, according to his father’s ideas, any “appeal to his feelings,” but a calm and common-sense way of putting an argument before the boy.
“I never said you were,” said the farmer. “It’ll cost us hard work to keep ye at your studies, and I put it to your honour no to waste your time; and you’ll write regular, and mind what kind o’ thoughts your mother’s thinking at home in Ramore; and I may tell you, Colin, I put confidence in you,” said the father, laying his big hand with a heavy momentary pressure upon the lad’s shoulder. “Now, good night, and go to your bed, and prepare for the morn.”
Such were the parting advices with which the boy was sent out into the world. His mother was in his room, kneeling before his chest, adding the last particulars to its store, when Colin entered the homely little chamber—but what they said to each other before they parted was for nobody’s ear; and the morning was blazing with a wintry brightness, and all the hills standing white against the sky, and the heart of the mistress{31} hopeful as the day, when she wiped off her tears with her apron61, and waved her farewell to her boy, as he went off in the little steamer which twice a day thrilled the loch with communications from the world. “He’ll come back in the spring,” she said to herself, as she went about her homely work, and ordered her household. And so young Colin went forth, all dauntless and courageous62, into the great battlefield, to encounter whatsoever63 conflicts might come to him, and to conquer the big world and all that was therein, in the victorious64 dreams of his youth.
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1
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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gazetteer
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| n.地名索引 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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41
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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43
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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44
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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45
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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46
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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47
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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48
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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49
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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50
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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51
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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52
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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53
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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54
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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55
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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56
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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57
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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60
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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61
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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62
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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63
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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