“I love Scotland,” the little witch said to him, when he came into the drawing-room, to which he was now admitted during Sir Thomas’s nap—and, to tell the truth, Lady Frankland herself had just closed her eyes in a gentle doze9, in her easy chair—“but, though you are a Scotchman, you don’t take the least notice of my ribbons; I am very fond of Scotland,” said Matty;—“and the Scotch10,” the wicked little girl added, with a glance at him, which made Colin’s heart leap in his deluded11 breast.
“Then I am very glad to be Scotch,” said the youth, and stooped down over the end of the sash till Matty thought he meant to kiss it, which was a more decided12 act of homage13 than it would be expedient14, under the circumstances, to permit.
“Don’t talk like everybody else,” said Miss Matty; “that does not make any difference—you were always glad to be Scotch. I know you all think you are so much better and cleverer than we are in England. But, tell me, do you still mean to be a Scotch minister? I wish you would not,” said Matty, with a little pout15. And then Colin laughed—half with pleasure at what he thought her interest in him, and half with a quaint16 recollection which belonged only to himself.
“I don’t think I could preach about the twentieth Sunday{114} after Trinity,” he said with a smile; which, however, was a speech Miss Matty did not understand.
“People here don’t preach as you do in Scotland,” said the English girl, with a little offence. “You are always preaching, and that is what makes it so dull. But what is the good of being a minister? There are plenty of dull people to be ministers; you who are so clever—”
“Am I clever?” said Colin. “I am Charley’s tutor—it does not require a great deal of genius—” but while he spoke17, his eyes—which Matty did not comprehend, which always went leagues further than she could follow—kindled up a little. He looked a long way beyond her, and no doubt he saw something; but it piqued19 her not to be able to follow him, and find out what he meant.
“If you had done what I wished, and gone to Oxford20, Campbell,” said Sir Thomas, whose repose21 had been interrupted earlier than usual; “I can’t say much about what I could have done myself, for I have heaps of boys of my own to provide for; but, if you’re bent22 on going into the Church, something would certainly have turned up for you. I don’t say there’s much of a career in the Church for an ambitious young fellow, but still, if you do work well and have a few friends—. As for your Scotch Church, I don’t know very much about it,” said the baronet, candidly23. “I never knew any one who did. What a bore it used to be a dozen years ago, when there was all that row; and now, I suppose, you’re all at sixes and sevens, ain’t you?” asked the ingenuous24 legislator. “I suppose whisky and controversy25 go together somehow.” Sir Thomas got himself packed into the corner of a sofa very comfortably, as he spoke, and took no notice of the lightning in Colin’s eyes.
“Oh, uncle! don’t,” said Miss Matty; “don’t you know that the Presbyterians are all going to give up and join the Church? and it’s all to be the same both in England and Scotland? You need not laugh. I assure you I know quite well what I am saying,” said the little beauty, with a look of dignity. “I have seen it in the papers; such funny papers!—with little paragraphs about accidents, and about people getting silver snuff-boxes!—but all the same, they say what I tell you. There’s to be no Presbyterians and no precentors, and none of their wicked ways, coming into church with their hats on, and staring all round instead of saying their prayers; and all the ministers are to be made into clergymen—priests and deacons, you know; and they are going to have bishops26 and proper service like other{115} people. Mr. Campbell,” said Matty, looking up at him with a little emphasis, to mark that, for once, she was calling him formally by his name—“knows it is quite true.”
“Humph,” said Sir Thomas, “I know better; I know how Campbell, there, looked the other day when he came out of church. I know the Scotch and their ways of thinking. Go and make the tea, and don’t talk of what you don’t understand. But, as for you, Campbell, if you have a mind for the University and to go in for the Church—”
But this was more than Colin, being twenty, and a Scotchman, could bear.
“I am going in for the Church,” said the lad, doing all he could to keep down the excitement at which Sir Thomas would have laughed, “but it did not in the least touch my heart the other day to know that it was the twentieth Sunday after Trinity. Devotion is a great matter,” said the young Scotchman, “I grant you have the advantage over us there; but it would not do in Scotland to preach about the Church’s goodness, and what she had appointed for such or such a day. We preach very stupid sermons, I dare say; but at least we mean to teach somebody something—what God looks for at their hands, or what they may look for at His. It is more an occupation for a man,” cried the young revolutionary, “than reading the sublimest27 of prayers. I am going in for the Church—but it is the Church of Scotland,” said Colin. He drew himself up with a grand youthful dignity, which was much lost on Sir Thomas, who, for his part, looked at his new tutor with eyes of sober wonderment, and did not understand what this emotion meant.
“There is no occasion for excitement,” said the baronet; “nobody now-a-days meddles28 with a man’s convictions; indeed, Harry29 would say, it’s a great thing to have any convictions. That is how the young men talk now-a-days,” said Sir Thomas; and he moved off the sofa again, and yawned, though not uncivilly. As for Miss Matty, she came stealing up when she had made the tea, with her cup in her hand.
“So you do mean to be a minister?” she said, in a half whisper, with a deprecating look. Lady Frankland had roused up, like her husband, and the two were talking, and did not take any notice of Matty’s proceedings30 with the harmless tutor. The young lady was quite free to play with her mouse a little, and entered upon the amusement with zest31, as was natural. “You mean to shut yourself up in a square house, with five windows in front, like the poor gentleman who has such red hair; and{116} never see anybody but the old women in the parish, and have your life made miserable32 every Sunday by that precentor—”
“I hope I have a soul above precentors,” said Colin, with a little laugh, which was unsteady still, however, with excitement; “and one might mend all that,” he added a minute after, looking at her with a kind of wistful inquiry33 which he could not have put into words. What was it he meant to ask with his anxious eye? But he did not himself know.
“Oh yes,” said Matty, “I know what you could do: you could get a little organ and marry somebody who would play it, and teach the people better; I know exactly what you could do,” said the young lady with a piquant34 little touch of spite, and a look that startled Colin; and then she paused, and hung her head for a moment and blushed, or looked as if she blushed. “But you would not?” said Matty, softly, with a sidelong glance at her victim. “Don’t marry anybody; no one is of any use after that. I don’t approve of marrying, for my part, especially for a priest. Priests should always be detached, you know, from the world.”
“Why?” said Colin. He was quite content to go on talking on such a subject for any length of time. “As for marrying, it is only your rich squires35 and great people who can marry when they please; we who have to make our own way in the world—” said the young man, with a touch of grandeur36, but was stopped by Miss Matty’s sudden laughter.
“Oh, how simple you are! As if rich squires and great people, as you say, could marry when they pleased—as if any man could marry when he pleased!” cried Miss Matty, scornfully. “After all, we do count for something, we poor women; now and then, we can put even an eldest37 son out in his calculations. It is great fun too,” said the young lady, and she laughed, and so did Colin, who could not help wondering what special case she might have in her eye, and listened with all the eagerness of a lover. “There is poor Harry—” said Miss Matty under her breath, and stopped short and laughed to herself and sipped38 her tea, while Colin lent an anxious ear. But nothing further followed that soft laughter. Colin sat on thorns, gazing at her with a world of questions in his face, but the siren looked at him no more. Poor Harry! Harry’s natural rival was sensible of a thrill of jealous curiosity mingled39 with anxiety. What had she done to Harry, this witch who had beguiled40 Colin?—or was it not she who had done anything to him, but some other as pretty and as mischievous41? Colin had no clue to{117} the puzzle, but it gave him a new accès of half-conscious enmity to the heir of Wodensbourne.
After that talk there elapsed a few days during which Colin saw but little of Matty, who had visits to pay, and some solemn dinner-parties to attend in Lady Frankland’s train. He had to spend the evenings by himself on these occasions after dining with Charley, who was not a very agreeable companion; and, when this invalid42 went to his room, as he did early, the young tutor found himself desolate43 enough in the great house, where no human bond existed between him and the little community within its walls. He was not in a state of mind to take kindly44 to abstract study at that moment of his existence, for Colin had passed out of the unconscious stage in which he had been at Ardmartin. There, however much he might have wished to be out of temptation, he could not help himself, which was a wonderful consolation45; but now he had come wilfully46 and knowingly into danger, and had become aware of it; and far more distinctly than ever before had become aware of the difference between himself and the object of his thoughts. Though he found it very possible at times to comfort himself with the thought that this was an ordinary interruption of a Scotch student’s work, and noways represented the Armida’s garden in which the knight47 lost both his vocation48 and his life, there were other moments and moods which were less easily manageable; and, on the whole, he wanted the stimulus49 of perpetual excitement to keep him from feeling the false position he was in, and the inexpediency of continuing it. Though this feeling haunted him all day, at night, in the drawing-room—which was brightened and made sweet by the fair English matron who was kind to Colin, and the fairer maiden50 who was the centre of all his thoughts—it vanished like an evil spirit, and left him with a sense that nowhere in the world could he have been so well; but, when the stimulus was withdrawn51, the youth was left in a very woeful plight52, conscious, to the bottom of his heart, that he ought to be elsewhere, and here was consuming his strength and life. He went out in the darkness of the December nights through the gloomy silent park into the little village with its feeble lights, where everybody and everything was unknown to him; and all the time his demon53 sat on his shoulder and asked what he did there. One evening while he strayed through the broken, irregular village-street, to all appearance looking at the dim cottage-windows and listening to the rude songs from the little ale-house, the curate encountered the tutor. Most pro{118}bably the young priest, who was not remarkable54 for wisdom, imagined the Scotch lad to be in some danger; for he laid a kindly hand upon his arm and turned him away from the vociferous55 little tavern56, which was a vexation to the curate’s soul. “I should like you to go up to the Parsonage with me, if you will only wait till I have seen this sick woman,” he said; and Colin went in very willingly within the cottage porch to wait for his acquaintance, who had his prayer-book under his arm. The young Scotchman looked on with wondering eyes while the village priest knelt down by his parishioner’s bedside and opened his book. Naturally there was a comparison always going on in Colin’s mind. He was like a passive experimentalist, seeing all kinds of trials made before his eyes, and watching the result. “I wonder if they all think it is a spell,” said Colin to himself; but he was rebuked57 and was silent when he heard the responses which the cottage folk made on their knees. When the curate had read his prayer he got up and said good-night, and went back to Colin; and this visitation of the sick was a very strange experience to the young Scotch observer, who stood revolving58 everything, with an eye to Scotland, at the cottage-door.
“You don’t make use of our Common Prayer in Scotland?” said the curate; “pardon me for referring to it. One cannot help being sorry for people who shut themselves out from such an inestimable advantage. How did it come about?”
“I don’t know,” said Colin. “I suppose because Laud59 was a fool, and King Charles a ——”
“Hush, for goodness sake,” said the curate, with a shiver. “What do you mean? such language is painful to listen to. The saints and martyrs60 should be spoken of in a different tone. You think that was the reason? Oh, no; it was your horrible Calvinism, and John Knox, and the mad influences of that unfortunate Reformation which has done us all so much harm; though I suppose you think differently in Scotland,” he said with a little sigh, steering61 his young companion, of whose morality he felt uncertain, past the alehouse door.
“Did you never hear of John Knox’s liturgy62?” said the indignant Colin; “the saddest, passionate63 service! You always had time to say your prayers in England, but we had to snatch them as we could. And your prayers would not do for us now,” said the Scotch experimentalist; “I wish they could; but it would be impossible. A Scotch peasant would have thought that an incantation you were reading. When you go to see a{119} sick man, shouldn’t you like to say, God save him, God forgive him, straight out of your heart without a book?” said the eager lad; at which question the curate looked up with wonder in the young man’s face.
“I hope I do say it out of my heart,” said the English priest, and stopped short, with a gravity that had a great effect upon Colin;—“but in words more sound than any words of mine,” the curate added a moment after, which dispersed64 the reverential impression from the Scotch mind of the eager boy.
“I can’t see that,” said Colin, quickly, “in the church for common prayer, yes; at a bedside in a cottage, no. At least, I mean that’s how we feel in Scotland—though I suppose you don’t care much for our opinion,” he added with some heat, thinking he saw a smile on his companion’s face.
“Oh, yes, certainly; I have always understood that there is a great deal of intelligence in Scotland,” said the curate, courteous65 as to a South-Sea Islander. “But people who have never known this inestimable advantage—I believe preaching is considered the great thing in the North?” he said with a little curiosity. “I wish society were a little more impressed by it among ourselves; but mere66 information even about spiritual matters is of so much less importance! though that, I daresay, is another point on which we don’t agree?” the curate continued, pleasantly. He was just opening the gate into his own garden, which was invisible in the darkness, but which enclosed and surrounded a homely67 house with some lights in the windows, which, it was a little comfort to Colin to perceive, was not much handsomer nor more imposing68 in appearance than the familiar manse on the borders of the Holy Loch.
“It depends on what you call spiritual matters,” said the polemical youth. “I don’t think a man can possibly get too much information about his relations with God, if only anybody could tell him anything; but certainly about ecclesiastical arrangements and the Christian69 year,” said the irreverent young Scotchman, “a little might suffice;” and Colin spoke with the slightest inflection of contempt, always thinking of the twentieth Sunday after Trinity, and scorning what he did not understand, as was natural to his years.
“Ah, you don’t know what you are saying,” said the devout70 curate. “After you have spent a Christian Year, you will see what comfort and beauty there is in it. You say, ‘if anybody could tell him anything.’ I hope you have not got into a sceptical way of thinking. I should like very much to have a{120} long talk with you,” said the village priest, who was very good and very much in earnest, though the earnestness was after a pattern different from anything known to Colin; and, before the youth perceived what was going to happen, he found himself in the curate’s study, placed on a kind of moral platform, as the emblem71 of Doubt and that pious72 unbelief which is the favourite of modern theology. Now, to tell the truth, Colin, though it may lower him in the opinion of many readers of his history, was not by nature given to doubting. He had, to be sure, followed the fashion of the time enough to be aware of a wonderful amount of unsettled questions, and questions which it did not appear possible ever to settle. But somehow these elements of scepticism did not give him much trouble. His heart was full of natural piety73, and his instincts all fresh and strong as a child’s. He could not help believing, any more than he could help breathing, his nature being such; and he was half-amused and half-irritated by the position in which he found himself, notwithstanding the curate’s respect for the ideal sceptic, whom he had thus pounced74 upon. The commonplace character of Colin’s mind was such, that he was very glad when his new friend relaxed into gossip, and asked him who was expected at the Hall for Christmas; to which the tutor answered by such names as he had heard in the ladies’ talk, and remembered with friendliness75 or with jealousy76, according to the feeling with which Miss Matty pronounced them—which was Colin’s only guide amid this crowd of the unknown.
“I wonder if it is to be a match,” said the curate, who, recovering from his dread77 concerning the possible habits of his Scotch guest, had taken heart to share his scholarly potations of beer with his new friend. “It was said Lady Frankland did not like it, but I never believed that. After all, it was such a natural arrangement. I wonder if it is to be a match?”
“Is what to be a match?” said Colin, who all at once felt his heart stand still and grow cold, though he sat by the cheerful fire which threw its light even into the dark garden outside. “I have heard nothing about any match,” he added, with a little effort. It dawned upon him instantly what it must be, and his impulse was to rush out of the house or do something rash and sudden that would prevent him from hearing it said in words.
“Between Henry Frankland and his cousin,” said the calm curate; “they looked as if they were perfectly78 devoted79 to each other at one time. That has died off, for she is rather a flirt80, I fear; but all the people hereabouts had made up their minds{121} on the subject. It would be a very suitable match on the whole. But why do you get up? you are not going away?”
“Yes; I have something to do when I go home,” said Colin, “something to prepare,” which he said out of habit, thinking of his old work, at home, without remembering what he was saying or whether it meant anything. The curate put down the poker81 which he had lifted to poke18 the fire, and looked at Colin with a touch of envy.
“Ah! something literary, I suppose?” said the young priest, and went with his new friend to the door thinking how lucky he was, at his age, to have a literary connexion; a thought very natural to a young priest in a country curacy with a very small endowment. The curate wrote verses, as Colin himself did, though on very different subjects, and took some of them out of his desk and looked at them, after he had shut the door, with affectionate eyes, and a half intention of asking the tutor what was the best way to get admission to the magazines; and on the whole he was pleased with what he had seen of the young Scotchman, though he was so ignorant of church matters; an opinion which Colin perfectly reciprocated82, with a more distinct sentiment of compassion83 for the English curate, who knew about as much of Scotland as if it had lain in the South Seas.
Meanwhile Colin walked home to Wodensbourne with fire and passion in his heart. “It would be a very suitable match on the whole,” he kept saying to himself, and then tried to take a little comfort from Matty’s sweet laughter over “Poor Harry!” Poor Harry was rich and fortunate, and independent, and Colin was only the tutor; were these two to meet this Christmas time and contend over again on this new ground? He went along past the black trees as if he were walking for a wager84; but, quick as he walked, a dog-cart dashed past him with lighted lamps gleaming up the avenue. When he reached the Hall-door, one of the servants was disappearing up stairs with a portmanteau, and a heap of coats and wrappers lay in the Hall.
“Mr. Harry just come, sir—a week sooner than was expected,” said the butler, who was an old servant and shared in the joys of the family. Colin went to his room without a word, and shut himself up there with feelings which he could not have explained to any one. He had not seen Harry Frankland since they were both boys; but he had never got over the youthful sense of rivalry85 and opposition86 which had sent him skimming over the waters of the Holy Loch to save the boy who was his born rival and antagonist87. Was this the day of their encounter and conflict which had come at last?{
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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simplicities
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| n.简单，朴素，率直( simplicity的名词复数 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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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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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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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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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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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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meddles
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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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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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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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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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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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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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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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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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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84
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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