“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-being7 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 momentary8 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 kens10 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 blessing11 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 marred12 his utter{97}ance. Why was it? Colin looked up with the sunshine in his eyes, and laughed with a little annoyance13, a little impatience14. 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 faltering15 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 Scotch16 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 melancholy17 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 concealing18 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 rivalry19 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 jealousy20, 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 bosom21 at the opening of our history, who bore her own name and her own smile, and was the one maiden22 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 murmur23 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 ware24 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 ken9 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 worthy25 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 grandeur26 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 entreaty27 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 pettishly28. “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 lurking29 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 bestowed30 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 maidenly31 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 means ony harm; but, oh, Colin, my man, mind what a difference in this world! You’ve nothing to{100} offer her like what she’s been used to,” said the innocent woman, “and if I was to see my son come back breaking his heart for ane that was above his reach, and maybe no worthy!—” She could not say any more, partly because she had exhausted32 herself, partly because Colin rose from the table with a flush of excitement, which made his mother tremble.
“Worthy of me!” said the young man, with a kind of groan33, “worthy of me! Mother, I don’t think you know what you are saying. I am going to Wodensbourne whatever happens. It may be for good or for evil; I can’t tell; but I am going, and you must ask me no further questions—not on this point. I am to be tutor to Sir Thomas Frankland’s boy,” said Colin, sitting down, with the smile again in his eyes. “Nothing more—and what could happen better to a poor Scotch student? He might have had a Cambridge man, and he chooses me. Let me finish my letter, mother dear.”
“He wouldna get many Cambridge men, or ony other men, like my boy,” said the mother half reassured34; and she rearranged with her hands, that trembled a little, the writing-desk, which Colin’s hasty movements had thrust out of the way.
“Ah, mother, but a Scotch University does not count for the same as an English one,” said Colin, with a smile and a sigh; “it is not for my gifts Sir Thomas has chosen me,” he added, somewhat impatiently, taking up his pen again. What was it for? That old obligation of Harry35 Frankland’s life saved, which Colin had always treated as a fiction? or the sweet influence of some one who knew that Colin loved her? Which was it? If the youth determined36 it should be the last, could anybody wonder? He bent37 his head again over his paper, and wrote, with his heart beating high, that acceptance which was to restore him to her society. As for the Mistress, she left her son, and went about her homely38 business, wiping some tears from her eyes. “I kenna what woman could close her heart,” she said to herself, with a little sob39, in her ignorance and innocence40. “Oh, if she’s only worthy!” but, for all that, the mother’s heart was heavy within her, though she could not have told why.
The letter was finished and sealed up before Colin joined his friend on the hillside, where Lauderdale was straying about with his hands in his pockets, breathing long sighs into the fresh air, and unable to restrain, or account for, his own restlessness and uneasiness. One of those great dramas of sunshine and shadow, which are familiar to the Holy Loch, was going on just then among the hills, and the philosopher had made various attempts{101} to interest himself in those wonderful alternations of gloom and light, but without avail. Nature, which is so full of interest when the heart is unoccupied, dwindles41 and grows pale in presence of the poorest human creature who throws a shadow into her sunshine. Not all those wonderful gleams of light—not all those clouds, driven wildly like so many gigantic phantoms42 into the solemn hollows, could touch the heart of the man who was trembling for his friend. Lauderdale roused himself up when Colin came to him, and met him cheerfully. “So you’ve written your letter?” he said, “and accepted the offer? I thought as much, by your eye.”
“You did not need to consult my eye,” said Colin, gaily43. “I said as much. But I must walk down the loch a mile or two to meet the postman. Will you come? Let us take the good of the hills,” said the youth, with his heart running over. “Who can tell when we may be here again together? I like this autumn weather, with its stormy colours; and I suppose now my fortune, as you call it, will lead me to a flat country—that is, for a year or two at least.”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, with a kind of groan; “that is how the world appears at your years. Who can tell when we may be here again together? Who can tell, laddie, what thoughts may be in our hearts when we are here again? I never have any security myself, when I leave a place, that I’ll ever dare to come back,” said the meditative44 man. “The innocent fields might have a cruel aspect, as if God had cursed them, and, for anything I know, I might hate the flowers that could bloom, and the sun that could shine, and had no heart for my trouble. No that you understand what I’m meaning; but that’s the way it affects a man like me.”
“What are you thinking of?” cried Colin, with a little dismay; “one would fancy you saw some terrible evil approaching. Of course the future is uncertain, but I am not particularly alarmed by anything that appears to me. What are you thinking of, Lauderdale? Your own career?”
“Oh, ay, just my ain career,” said Lauderdale, with a smile; “such a career to make a work about! though I am just as content as most men. I mind when my ain spirit was whiles uplifted as yours is, laddie; it’s that that makes a man think. It comes natural to the time of life, like the bright eye and the bloom on the cheek; and there’s no sentence of death in it either, if you come to that,” he went on to himself after a pause. “Life holds on—it aye holds on; a hope mair or less makes little{102} count. And without the struggle, never man that was worth calling man came to his full stature45.” All this Lauderdale kept saying to himself as he descended46 the hillside, leaping here and there over a half-concealed streamlet, and making his way through the withered47 ferns and the long tangled48 streamers of the bramble, which caught at him as he passed. He was not so skilful49 in overcoming these obstacles as Colin, who was to the manner born; and he got a little out of breath as he followed the lad, who, catching50 his monologue51 by intervals52 in the descent, looked at the melancholy philosopher with his young eyes, which laughed, and did not understand.
“I wonder what you are thinking of,” said Colin. “Not of me, certainly; but I see you are afraid of something, as if I were going to encounter a great danger. Lauderdale,” said the lad, stopping and laying his hand on his friend’s arm for one confidential53 moment, “whatever danger there is, I have encountered it. Don’t be afraid for me.”
“I was saying nothing about you, callant,” said Lauderdale, pettishly. “Why should I aye be thinking of you? A man has more things to consider in this life than the vagaries54 of a slip of a laddie, that doesna see where he’s bound for. I’m thinking of things far out of your way,” said the philosopher; “of disappointments and heart-breaks, and a’ the eclipses that are invisible to common e’en. I’ve seen many in my day. I’ve seen a trifling55 change that made no difference to the world quench56 a’ the light and a’ the comfort out of life. There’s more things in heaven or earth than were ever dreamt of at your years. And whiles a man wonders how, for very pity, God can stay still in His heavens and look on—”
Colin could not say anything to the groan with which his friend broke off. He was troubled and puzzled, and could not make it out. They went on together along the white line of road, on which, far off in the distance, the youth already saw the postman whom he was hastening to meet; and, busy as he was with his own thoughts, Colin had already forgotten to inquire what his companion referred to, when his attention, which had wandered completely away, was suddenly recalled again by the voice at his side.
“I’m speaking like a man that cannot see the end,” said Lauderdale, “which is clear to Him, if there’s any meaning in life. You’re for taking your chance and posting your letter, laddie! and you ken nothing about any nonsense that an old fool like me may be maundering. For one thing, there’s aye{103} plenty to divert the mind in this country,” said the philosopher, with a sigh; and stood still at the foot of the long slope they had just descended, looking with a wistful abstracted look upon the loch and the hills; at which change of mood Colin could not restrain himself, but with ready boyish mirth laughed aloud.
“What has this country to do with it all? You are in a very queer mood to-day, Lauderdale—one moment as solemn and mysterious as if you knew of some great calamity57, and the next talking of the country. What do you mean I wonder?” But his wonder was not very deep, and stirred lightly in the heart which was full of so many wishes and ambitions of its own. With that letter in his hand, and that new life before him, how could he help but look at the lonely man by his side with a half-divine compassion58?—a man to whom life offered no prizes, and scarcely any hopes. He was aware in his heart that Lauderdale was anxious about himself, and the thought of that unnecessary solicitude59 moved Colin half to laughter. Poor Lauderdale—upon whom he looked down from the elevation60 of his young life with the tenderest pity! He smiled upon his friend in his exaltation and superiority. “You are more inexplicable61 than usual to-day. I wonder what you mean?” said Colin with all the sunshine of youth and joy, defying evil forebodings, in his eyes.
“It would take a wise man to tell,” said Lauderdale; “I would not pretend, for my own part, to fathom62 what any fool might mean—much less what I mean myself, that have glimmerings of sense at times. Yon sunshine’s awfu’ prying63 about the hills. Light’s aye inquisitive64, and would fain be at the bottom of every mystery—which is, maybe, the reason,” said the speculative65 observer, “why there’s nae grandeur to speak of, nor meaning, according to mortal notions, without clouds and darkness. Yonder’s your postman, callant. Give him the letter and be done with it. I whiles find myself wondering how it is that we take so little thought to God’s meanings—what ye might call His lighter66 meanings—His easy verses and such-like, that are thrown about the world, in the winds and the sky. To be sure, I ken just as well as you do that it’s currents of air, and masses of vapour, and electricity, and all the rest of it. It’s awfu’ easy learning the words—but will you tell me there’s no meaning to a man’s heart and soul in the like of that?” said Colin’s companion, stopping suddenly with a sigh of impatience and vexation, which had to do with something more vital than the clouds. Just then,{104} nature truly seemed to have come to a pause, and to be standing67 still, like themselves, looking on. The sky that was so blue and broad a moment since had contracted to a black vault68 over the Holy Loch. Blackness that was positive and not a mere69 negation70 frowned out of all the half-disclosed mysterious hollows of the hills. The leaves that remained on the trees thrilled with a spasmodic shiver, and the little ripples71 came crowding up on the beach with a sighing suppressed moan of suspense72 and apprehension73. So, at least, it seemed to one if not both of the spectators standing by.
“It means a thunderstorm, in the first place,” said Colin; “look how it begins to come down in a torrent74 of gloom over Loch Goil. We have just time to get under shelter. It is very well for us we are so near Ramore.”
“Ay—” said Lauderdale. He repeated the syllable75 over again and again as they hurried back. “But the time will come, when we’ll no be near Ramore,” he said to himself as the storm reached him and dashed in his face not twenty yards from the open door. Colin’s laugh, as he reached with a bound the kindly76 portal, was all the answer which youth and hope gave to experience. The boy was not to be discouraged on that sweet threshold of his life.
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1
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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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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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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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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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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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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pettishly
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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41
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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46
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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53
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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54
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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59
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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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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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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72
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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