Perhaps Colin did not know what he himself meant when he accepted Sir Thomas Frankland’s proposal. He thought he was coming to live in Matty’s society, to be her companion, to walk with her and talk with her, as he had done at Ardmartin; but, when he arrived to find Wodensbourne deserted13, with nothing to be seen but Sir Thomas and a nursery governess, who sometimes emerged with her little pupils from the unknown regions upstairs, and was very civil to the new tutor, Colin’s disappointment was overwhelming. He despised himself with a bitterness only to be equalled by the brilliancy of those vain expectations over which he laughed in youthful rage and scorn. It was not to be Matty’s companion he had come; it was not to see, however far off, any portion of the great world which he could not help imagining sometimes must be visible from such an elevation14. It was only to train Charley’s precocious15 intellect, and amuse the baronet a little at dinner. After dinner Sir Thomas went to sleep, and even Charley was out of the way, and the short winter days closed down early over the great house, over the damp woods and silent park, which kept repeating themselves, day by day, upon Colin’s wearied brain. There was not{106} even an undulation within sight, nothing higher than the dull line of trees, which after a while it made him sick to look at. To be sure, the sunshine now and then caught upon the lofty lantern of Earie Cathedral, and by that means woke up a gleam of light on the flat country; but that, and the daily conflict with Charley’s sharp invalid understanding, and the sight of Sir Thomas sleeping after dinner, conveyed no exhilaration to speak of to lighten the dismal17 revulsion of poor Colin’s thoughts. His heart rose indignant sometimes, which did him more good. This was the gulf18 of dismay he tumbled into without defence or preparation after the burst of hope and foolish youthful delight with which he left Ramore.
As for the society at Wodensbourne, it was at the present moment of the most limited description. Colin, who was inexperienced, roused up out of his dullness a little when he heard that two of the canons of Earie were coming to dinner one evening. The innocent Scotch19 lad woke himself up, with a little curiosity about the clerical dignitaries, of whom he knew nothing, and a good deal of anxiety to comport20 himself as became the representative of a Scotch University, about whom he did not doubt the visitors would be a little curious. It struck Colin with the oddest surprise and disappointment, to find that the canons of Earie were perfectly21 indifferent about the Scotch student. The curate of the parish, indeed, who was also dining at Wodensbourne that day, was wonderfully civil to the new tutor. He told him that he understood the Scotch mountains were very near as fine as Switzerland, and that he hoped to see them some day, though the curious prejudices about Sunday and the whisky-drinking must come very much in the way of closer intercourse22; at which speech Colin’s indignation and amusement would have been wonderful to see, had any one been there who cared to notice how the lad was looking. On the Sundays, Colin and his pupil went along the level ways to the quaint23 old mossy church, to which this same curate was devoting all his time and thoughts by way of restoration. The Scotch youth had never seen anything at once so homely24 and so noble as this little church in the fen-country. He thought it nothing less than a poem in stone, a pathetic old psalm25 of human life and death, joining in for ever and ever, with the tenderest, sad responses, in the worship of heaven. Never anywhere had he felt so clearly how the dead were waiting for the great Easter to come, nor seen Christianity standing16 so plainly between the beginning and the end; but when Colin, with his{107} Scotch ideas, heard the curious little sermons to which his curate gave utterance26 under that roof, all consecrated27 and holy with the sorrows and hopes of ages, it made the strangest anti-climax in the youth’s thoughts. He laughed to himself when he came out, not because he was disposed to laughter, but because it was the only alternative he had; and Sir Thomas, who had a glimmering28 perception that this must be something new to his inexperienced guest, gave a doubtful sort of smile, not knowing how to take Colin’s strange looks.
“You don’t believe in saints’ days, and such like, in Scotland?” said the perplexed29 baronet; “and of course the sermon does not count for so much with us.”
“No, it does not count for much,” said Colin; and they did not enter further into the subject.
As for the young man himself, who had still upon his mind the feeling that he was to be a Scotch minister, the lesson was the strangest possible; for, being Scotch, he could not help listening to the sermon according to the usage of his nation. The curate, after he had said those prayers which are all but divine in their comprehension of the wants of humanity, told his people how wonderfully their beloved Church had provided for all their wants; how sweet it was to recollect30 that this was the day which had been appointed the Twentieth Sunday after Trinity—and how it was their duty to meditate31 a fact so touching32 and so important. Colin thought of the Holy Loch, and the minister’s critics there, and laughed to himself, perhaps a little bitterly. He felt as if he had given up his own career—the natural life to which he was born; and at this distance the usual enchantments33 of nature began to work, and in his heart he asked himself what he was to gain by transferring his lot and hopes to this wealthy country, where so many things were fairer, and after which he had been hankering so long. The curate’s sermons struck him as a kind of comical climax to his disappointments—and the curate himself who looked at Colin much as he might have looked at a South-Sea Islander, and spoke34 of the Scotch whisky and Scotch Sabbaths. Poor curate! He knew a great deal more than Colin did about some things, and, if he did not understand how to preach, that was not the fault of his college; neither did they convey much information at that seat of learning about the northern half of the British island—no more than they did at Glasgow about the curious specimen35 of humanity which is known as a curate on the brighter side of the Tweed.{108}
All these things went through Colin’s mind as he sat in the dining-room after dinner contemplating36 Sir Thomas’s nap, which was not of itself an elevating spectacle. He thought to himself at that moment that he was but fulfilling the office of a drudge37 at Wodensbourne, which anybody could fill. It did not require those abilities which had won with acclamation the prize in the philosophy class to teach Charley Frankland the elements of science; and all the emulations and glories of his college career came back to Colin’s mind. The little public of the University had begun to think of him—to predict what he would do, and anticipate his success, at home; but here, who knew anything about him? These thoughts disturbed him much as he sat watching the fire gleam in the wainscot, and calculating the recurrence38 of that next great snore which would wake Sir Thomas, and make him sit up of a sudden and look fiercely at his companion before he murmured out a “Beg your pardon,” and went to sleep again. Not an interesting prospect39 certainly. Should he go home? should he represent to the baronet, when he woke up for the night, that it had all been a mistake, and that his present office was perfectly unsuited to his ambition and his hopes? But then what could he say? for after all it was as Charley Frankland’s tutor simply, and with his eyes open, that he came to Wodensbourne, and Sir Thomas had said nothing about the society of his niece, or any other society, to tempt40 him thither41. Colin sat in a bitterness of discontent, which would have been incredible to him a few weeks before, pondering these questions. There was not a sound to be heard, but the dropping of the ashes on the hearth42, and Sir Thomas’s heavy breathing as he slept. Life went on velvet43 slippers44 in the great house from which Colin would gladly have escaped (he thought) to the poorest cottage on the Holy Loch. He could not help recalling his shabby little room in Glasgow, and Lauderdale’s long comments upon life, and all the talk and the thoughts that made existence bright in that miserable45 little place, which Sir Thomas Frankland’s grooms46 would not have condescended47 to live in, but which the unfortunate young tutor thought of with longing48 as he sat dreary in the great dining-room. What did it matter to him that the floor was soft with Turkey carpets, that the wine on the table was of the most renowned49 vintages, and that his slumbering50 companion in the great easy-chair was the head of one of the oldest commoner families in England—a baronet and a county member? Colin after all was only a son of the soil; he longed for his Glasgow{109} attic51, and his companions who spoke the dialect of that remarkable52 but unlovely city, and felt bitterly in his heart that he had been cheated. Yet it was hard to say to any one—hard even to put in words to himself—what the cheat was. It was a deception53 he had practised on himself, and in the bitterness of his disappointment the youth refused to admit that anybody’s absence was the secret of his mortification. What was she to him?—a great lady as far out of his reach as the moon or the stars, and who no doubt had forgotten his very name.
These were not pleasant thoughts to season the solitude54, and he sat hugging them for a great many evenings before Sir Thomas awoke, and addressed, as he generally did, a few good-humoured, stupid observations to the lad whom, to be sure, the baronet found a considerable bore, and did not know what to do with. Sir Thomas could not forget his obligations to the young man who had saved Harry’s life; and thus it was, from pure gratitude55, that he made Colin miserable—though there was no gratitude at all, nor even much respect, in the summary judgment56 which the youth formed of the heavy ’squire.
This was how matters were going on when Wodensbourne and the world, and everything human, suddenly, all at once, sustained again a change to Colin. He had been living thus, for six weary weeks—during which time he felt himself getting morose57, ill-tempered, and miserable—writing sharp letters home, in which he would not confess to any special disappointment, but expressed himself in general terms of bitterness like a young misanthrope58, and in every respect making himself, and those who cared for him, unhappy. Even the verses, which did very well to express the tender griefs of sentiment, had been thrown aside at this crisis; for there was nothing melodious59 in his feelings, and he could not say in sweet rhymes and musical cadences60 how angry and wretched he was. He was sitting in such a mood one dreary December evening when it was raining fast outside and everything was silent within—as was natural in a well-regulated household where the servants knew their duty, and the nursery was half a mile away through worlds of complicated passages. Sir Thomas was asleep as usual, and, with his eyes shut and his mouth open, the excellent baronet was not, as we have already said, an elevating spectacle; and, at the other end of the table, sat Colin, chafing61 out his young soul with such thoughts of what was not, but might have been, as youth does not know how to avoid. It was just then, when he was going over his long succession of miseries—thinking of his natural{110} career cut short for the sake of this dreary penance62 of which nothing could ever come—that Colin was startled by the sound of wheels coming up the wintry avenue. He could not venture to imagine to himself what it might be, though he listened as if for life and death; he heard the sounds of an arrival and the indistinct hum of voices which he could not distinguish, without feeling that he had any right to stir from the table to inquire what it meant; and there he sat accordingly, with his hair thrust back from his forehead and his great eyes gleaming out from the noiseless atmosphere, when the door opened and a pretty figure, all eager and glowing with life, looked into the room. Colin was too much absorbed, too anxious, and felt too deeply how much was involved, to be capable even of rising up to greet her as an indifferent man would have done. He sat and gazed at her as she darted63 in like a fairy creature, bringing every kind of radiance in her train.
“Here they are, aunty!” cried Miss Matty; and she came in flying in her cloak, with the hood64 still over her head and great raindrops on it, which she had caught as she jumped out of the carriage. While Colin sat gazing at her, wondering if it was some deluding65 apparition66, or, in reality, the new revelation of life and love that it seemed to be, Matty had thrown herself upon Sir Thomas and woke the worthy67 baronet by kissing him, which was a pretty sight to behold68. “Here we are, uncle; wake up!” cried Matty; “my lady ran to the nursery first, but I came to you, as I always do.” And the little witch looked up at Colin, with a glance under which heaven and earth changed to the lad. He stumbled to his feet, while Sir Thomas rubbed his astonished eyes. What could Colin say? He stood waiting for a word, seeing the little figure in a halo of light and fanciful glory. “How do you do? I knew you were here,” said Miss Matty, putting out two fingers to him while she still hung over her uncle. And presently Lady Frankland came in, and the room became full of pleasant din9 and commotion69 as was inevitable70. When Colin made a move as if to leave them, fearful of being in the way, Miss Matty called to him, “Oh, don’t go, please; we are going to have tea, and my lady must be served without giving her any trouble, and I want you to help me,” said Matty; and so the evening that had begun in gloom ended in a kind of subdued71 glory too sweet to be real; surely too good to be true.
Lady Frankland sat talking to her husband of their reason for coming back so suddenly (which was sad enough, being an{111} unexpected death in the house: but that did not make much difference to the two women who were coming home); Matty kept coming and going between the tea-table and the fire, sending Colin on all sorts of errands, and making comments to him aside on what her aunt was saying. “Only fancy the long dreary drive we have had, and my uncle and Mr. Campbell making themselves so cozy,” the little siren said, kneeling down before the fire with still one drop of rain sparkling on her bright locks. And the effect was such that Colin lost his head altogether, and could not have affirmed, had he been questioned on his oath, that he had not enjoyed himself greatly all the time. He took Lady Frankland her tea, and listened to all the domestic chatter72 as if it had been the talk of angels; and was as pleased when the mistress of the house thanked him for his kindness to Charley, as if he had not thought Charley a wretched little nuisance a few hours ago. He did not in the least know who the people were about whom the two ladies kept up such an unceasing talk, and, perhaps, under other circumstances would have laughed at this sweet-toned gossip, with all its lively comments upon nothing, and incessant73 personalities74; but, at the present moment, Colin had said good-bye to reason, and could not anyhow defend himself against the sudden happiness which seized upon him without any notice. While Sir Thomas and his wife sat on either side of the great fire, and Matty kept darting75 in and out between them, Colin sat behind near the impromptu76 tea-table, and listened and felt that the world was changed. If he could have had time to think, he might have been ashamed of himself; but then he had no time to think, and in the meantime he was happy, a sensation not to be gainsaid77 or rejected; and so fled the few blessed hours of the first evening of Matty’s return.
When he had gone up stairs, and had heard, at a distance, the sound of the last good-night, and was fairly shut up again in the silence of his own room, the youth, for the first time, began to realize what he was doing. He paused, with a little consternation78, a little fright, to question himself. For the first time, he saw clearly, without any possibility of self-delusion, what it was which had brought him here, and which made all the difference to him between happiness and misery79. It was hard to realize now the state of mind he had been in a few hours before; but he did it, by dint80 of a great exertion81, and saw, with a distinctness which alarmed him, how it was that everything had altered in his eyes. It was Matty’s presence that made all{112} the difference between this subdued thrill of happiness and that blank of impatient and mortified82 misery. The young man tried to stand still and consider the reality of his position. He had stopped in his career, made a voluntary pause in his life, entered upon a species of existence which he felt in his heart was not more, but less, noble (for him) than his previous course—and what was it for? All for the uncertain smile, for the society—which might fail him at any time—of a woman so far out of his way, so utterly removed from his reach, as Matilda Frankland? For a moment, the youth was dismayed, and stopped short, Wisdom and Truth whispering in his ear. Love might be fair, but he knew enough to know that life must not be subservient83 to that witchery; and Colin’s good angel spoke to him in the silence, and bade him flee. Better to go back, and at once, to the grey and sombre world, where all his duties awaited him, than to stay here in this fool’s paradise. As he thought so he got up, and began to pace about his room, as though it had been a cage. Best to flee—it might take all the light out of his life and break his heart, but what else had he to look for sooner or later? He sat up half the night, still pacing about his room, hesitating over his fate, while the December storm raged outside. What was he to do? When he dropped to sleep at last, his heart betrayed him, and strayed away into celestial84 worlds of dreaming. He woke, still undecided, as he thought, to see the earliest wintry gleam of sunshine stealing in through his shutters85. What was he to do? But already the daylight made him feel his terrors as so many shadows. His heart was a traitor86, and he was glad to find it so; and that moment of indecision settled more surely than ever the bondage87 in which he seemed to have entangled88 his life.
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1
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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auguries
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| n.（古罗马）占卜术，占卜仪式( augury的名词复数 )；预兆 | |
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13
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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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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comport
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| vi.相称，适合 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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46
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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47
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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48
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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50
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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54
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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59
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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61
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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63
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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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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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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71
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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72
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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74
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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75
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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79
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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80
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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81
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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82
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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83
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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84
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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85
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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86
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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87
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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