“They’re awfu’ grateful, Colin—I canna but say that for them,” said Mrs. Campbell; “and as anxious as if you were their own son. I’ll no undertake to say that I havena an unchristian feeling myself to Harry1 Frankland; but, when you’re a’ weel and strong, Colin,”—
“And what if I am never well and strong?” said the young man. His mother’s presence had subdued2 and silenced, at least, for a time, the wild questions in his heart. She had taken them upon herself, though he did not know it. So far human love can stretch its fellowship in the sufferings of its Master,—not to the extent of substitution, of salvation3 temporal or spiritual, but, at least, to a modified deliverance. She had soothed4 her son and eased him of his burden, but in so doing had taken it to herself. The eagle that had been gnawing5 his heart had gone to fix its talons6 in hers; but she carried it like the Spartan7, under her mantle8, and smiled while it rent her in twain.
“Whisht, whisht!” she said, in her martyrdom of composure and calm looks, and took her boy’s hand and held it between hers—God only could tell how fondly—with a firm, warm grasp that seemed to hold him fast to life. “Colin, my man, it’s a’ in God’s hands,” said the Mistress of Ramore; “whiles His ways are awfu’ mysterious. I’m no one that pretends to read them, or see a’thing plain, like some folk; but I canna think He ever makes a mistake or lets anything go by hazard. We’ll bide9 His time, Colin; and who can tell what mercy and goodness he may have in His hand?”
“Mercy and goodness, or, perhaps, the contrary,” said Colin. If he had not been a little comforted and eased in his heart, he would not have given utterance10 to words which he felt to be unchristian. But now, with his longing11 to be soothed and to accept the softening12 influence which surrounded him, came an impulse to speak,—to use words which were even more strong than his feelings. As for his mother, she was too thoughtful{159} a woman, and had in her own heart too heavy a burden, to be shocked by what he said.
“Maybe what appears to us the contrary,” she said, “though that maun be but an appearance, like most things in this life. I’m no one to deny my ain heart, or make a show as if I understood the ways of the Lord, or could, aye, in my poor way, approve of them, if a mortal creature might daur to say so, Colin. There’s things He does that appear a’ wrang to me—I canna but say it. I’m no doubting His wisdom nor yet His love, but there’s mony a thing He does that I canna follow, nor see onything in but loss and misery13. But oh, Colin, my bonnie man, that’s nae cause for doubting Him! He maun have His ain reasons, and they maun be better reasons than ours. If you’ll close your eyes, and try and get a sleep, I’ll take a breath of air to myself before night sets in. I was aye an awfu’ woman for the air; and eh, laddie! I think ye’ll be thankful to get back to Ramore after this dreary14 country, where there’s neither hill nor glen—though maybe it might be cauld for you in the spring, when there’s so much soft weather,” said the tender woman, smoothing his pillows, and bending over him with her anxious smile. “It minds me o’ the time when you were my baby, Colin, to get you into my hands again. They say a woman’s aye a queen in a sick room,” said the Mistress. Her smile was such that tears would have been less sad; and she was impatient to be gone—to leave her son’s bedside—because she felt herself at the furthest stretch of endurance, and knew that her strained powers must soon give way. Perhaps Colin, too, understood what it was that made his mother so anxious to leave him, for he turned his face to the waning15 evening light, and closed his eyes, and after a while seemed to sleep. When he had lain thus quietly for some time, the poor mother stole downstairs and out into the wintry twilight16. Her heart was breaking in her tender bosom17; her strength had been strained to the utmost bounds of possibility; and nature demanded at least the relief of tears.
Two days before the Mistress had been tranquil18 and content in her peaceful life at home. When Sir Thomas Frankland’s telegram came late at night, like a sudden thunderbolt into the quiet house, the Holy Loch was asleep and at rest, cradled in sweet darkness, and watched by fitful glances of that moon for which Colin and his friends had looked to guide them on the night of the accident; and no means of communicating with the world until the morning was possible to the inhabitants of{160} Ramore. The anxious mother, whose eyes had not been visited with sleep through all the lingering winter night, set off by dawn to thread her weary unaccustomed way through all the mazes19 of the railways which were to convey her to Wodensbourne. She had neither servant nor friend to manage for her; and no fine lady, accustomed to the most careful guardianship20, could be more unused to the responsibilities of travelling than Mrs. Campbell. When she arrived, it was to find her boy, her firstborn, stretched helpless upon his bed, to see the examination made by the great doctor from London, to hear his guarded statements, his feebly-expressed hopes, which conveyed only despair—and with that sudden arrow quivering in her heart to undertake the duties of a cheerful nurse—to keep smiling upon Colin, telling him the news of the parish, and the events of the countryside, as if her coming here had been a holiday. All this, put together—though so many women have borne it, and though the Mistress of Ramore was able to bear it, and more, for her boy’s sake—was a hard strain upon her. When she got downstairs into the air, the first thing she did was to sit down on the steps of the glass door which led into the terrace and cry bitterly and silently. She was alone among strangers, with scarcely even a friendly feature of familiar nature to give her a little confidence. The aspect of the great house, stretching its long wings and solemn front into the twilight, containing a whole community of people unknown to her, whose very voices were strange and sounded like a foreign tongue, completed the forlorn sense she had of absence from everything that could help or console; and when, in the restlessness of her musing21, she got up and began to walk about upon that deserted22 terrace which Colin had paced so often, all Colin’s questions, all his doubts, rushed with double force and feminine passion into his mother’s mind.
As she pursued her uncertain way, her eye was attracted by the lights in the windows. One of them was large and low, and so close upon the terrace that she could not help seeing the interior, and what was passing there. Harry Frankland was standing23 by the fire with his cousin. The long billiard-table behind them, and the cue which Miss Matty still held in her hand, did not enlighten Mrs. Campbell as to what they had been doing. Matty had laid her disengaged hand on her cousin’s shoulder, and was looking up, as if pleading for something, into his face; and the fire-light which gleamed upon them both, gave colour and brightness to the two young faces, which seemed to the{161} sorrowful woman outside to be glowing with health and love and happiness. When Mrs. Campbell looked upon this scene her heart cried out in her breast. It was Colin’s question that came to her lips as she hurried past in the cold and the gathering24 darkness—“Why? Oh God! why?” Her son struck to the earth in the bloom of his young life—rooted up like a young tree, or a silly flower—and this youth, this other woman’s son, taking the happiness which should have been for Colin. Why was it? The poor woman called in her misery upon the heavens and the earth to answer her. One deprived of all, another possessed25 of everything that soul of man could desire; one heart smitten26 and rent asunder27, and another filled to overflowing28 with safety and happiness.
As she went on in her haste, without knowing where she went, another window caught the Mistress’s eye. It was the nursery window where all the little ones were holding high carnival29. Little boys and little girls, the younger branches of the large happy family, with again the light gleaming rosy30 over their childish faces. One of them was having her toilette made for presentation in the drawing-room, and at sight of her another blow, keen and poignant31, went to Mrs. Campbell’s heart. Just such a child had been the little maiden32, the little daughter who once made sunshine in the homely33 house of Ramore. It came upon the poor mother in the darkness to think what that child would have been to her now had she lived—how her woman child would have suffered with her, wept with her, helped to bear the burden of her woe34. Her heart yearned35 and longed in her new grief over the little one who had been gone so many years. She turned away hastily from the bright window and the gay group and sank down upon her knees on the ground with a sob36 that came from her heart—“Why? oh why?” God had His reasons, but what were they? The agony of loss, in which there seemed no possible gain; the bitterness of suffering, without knowing any reason for it, overpowered her. The contrast of her own trouble with the happiness, the full possession, the universal prosperity and comfort which she saw, struck her sharply with something which was not envy of her neighbour, but the appeal of an amazed anguish37 to God. “The ways of the Lord are not equal,” she was saying in her soul. Was it, as Nature suggested, with natural groans38, because He loved her less—or, as the minister said, because He loved her more, that God sent upon her those pangs39, and demanded from her those sacrifices? Thus she cried out of the depths, not knowing what{162} she said. “If I had but had my Jeanie!” the poor woman moaned to herself, with a vision of a consoling angel, a daughter, another dearer, fairer self, who would have helped to bear all her burdens. But God had not afforded her that comfort, the dearest consolation40 to a woman. When she had wept out those few bitter tears, that are all of which the heart is capable when it is no longer young, she gathered herself up out of the darkness and prepared to go back again to Colin’s bedside. Though she had received no answer to her question—though neither God Himself nor His angels, nor any celestial41 creature, had gleamed through the everlasting42 veil, and given her a glimpse of that Divine meaning which it is so hard to read—there was a certain relief in the question itself, and in the tears that had been wrung43 out of her heart. And so it was that, when Matty Frankland came lightly out of the billiard-room, on her way to dress for dinner, Mrs. Campbell, whom she met coming in from the terrace, did not appear to her to bear a different aspect from that which the Mistress of Ramore had borne in other days.
Matty did not lose a minute in making her advances to Colin’s mother. She was, indeed, extremely sorry, and had even been conscious of a passing thought similar to that which had struggled passionately44 into being, both in Colin’s mind and in his mother’s—a passing sense of wonder why Harry, who was good for nothing in particular, should have been saved, and Colin, who was what Miss Matty called “so very clever,” should have been the sufferer. Such a doubt, had it gone deep enough—had it become an outcry of the soul, as it was with the others—would have made an infidel of that little woman of the world. She ran to Mrs. Campbell, and took her hand, and led her into the billiard-room, the door of which stood open. “Oh, dear Mrs. Campbell, come and tell me about him,” she said; and, as it had been the conjunction of a little real feeling with her habitual45 wiles46 that brought Colin under her influence, the same thing moved his mother at least to tolerate the inquiry47. She drew away her hand with some impatience48 from the little enchantress, but her tender heart smote49 her when she saw an involuntary tear in Matty’s eye. Perhaps, after all, it was less her fault than her misfortune; and the Mistress followed the girl into the room with less dislike, and more toleration, than she could have supposed possible. It might be, after all, the older people—to whom worldliness came by nature, as she was disposed to think—who were to blame.
“Oh, Mrs. Campbell, I am so sorry; I cannot tell you how{163} sorry I am,” cried Matty—- and she spoke50 only the truth, and had real tears in her eyes—“to think that he should save my cousin again, and suffer so for his goodness. Don’t be angry with us—though, indeed, I should not wonder if you could not bear our very name—I am sure I could not, if I were you.”
“Na, God forbid,” said the Mistress. She was but half-satisfied of the reality of the young lady’s professions, and this suspicion, so unusual to her, gave dignity to her speech. “It wasna you nor ony mortal person, but his own heart that moved my Colin. You could do an awfu’ deal,” said Colin’s mother, looking with a woman’s look of disapproving51 admiration52 on Matty’s pretty face, “but you couldna move my son like his ain generous will. He never was one to think of his ain—comfort—” continued Mrs. Campbell with a little shudder53, for something in her throat prevented her from saying his life—“when a fellow creature was in danger. It was his ain heart that was to blame—if anything was to blame—and not you.”
And the homely woman’s eyes went beyond her questioner with that same look which in Colin had so often baffled Miss Matty, showing that the higher spirit had gone past the lesser54 into its own element, where only its equals could follow. The girl was awed55 for the moment and humbled56. Not for her poor sake, not for Harry Frankland, who was of no great account to anybody out of his immediate57 family—but because of his own nature, which would not permit him to see another perish, had Colin suffered. This thought, imperfectly as she understood it, stopped the voluble sympathy, pity and distress58 on Matty’s lips. She no longer knew what to say, and, after an awkward pause, could only stammer59 over her old common-places. “Oh, dear Mrs. Campbell, I am so sorry; I would give anything in the world to make him well again; and I only hope you won’t be angry with us,” said Matty, with a suppressed sob, which was partly fright and partly feeling. The Mistress came to herself at the sound of the girl’s voice.
“I’m no angry,” she said—“God forbid; though I might have something to say to you if my heart could speak. The like of you whiles do mair harm in this world, Miss Frankland, than greater sinners. I’m no saying you kent what you were doing; but, if it had not been for you, my Colin would never have come near this place. You beguiled60 my son with your pleasant words and your bonnie face. He had nae mair need to come here to be tutor to yon bit crooked61 callant,” said the Mistress, with involuntary bitterness, “than Maister Frankland{164} himself. But he thought to be near you, that had beguiled him and made him give mair heed62 to your fables63 than to anything that was true in life. I’m no blaming my Colin,” said the Mistress, with an unconscious elevation64 of her head; “he never had kent onything but truth a’ his days, and, if he wasna to believe in a woman that smiled on him and enticed65 him to her, what was he to believe in at his years? Nor I’m no to call angry at you,” said Colin’s mother, looking from the elevation of age and nature upon Miss Matty, who drooped66 instinctively67, and became conscious what a trifling68 little soul she was. “We a’ act according to our ain nature, and you wasna capable of perceiving what harm you could do; but, if you should ever encounter again one that was true himself and believed in you——”
Here Matty, who had never been destitute69 of feeling, and who, in her heart, was fond of Colin in her way, and had a kind of understanding of him, so far as she could go, fell into such an outburst of natural tears as disarmed70 the Mistress, who faltered72 and stopped short, and had hard ado to retain some appearance of severity in sight of this weeping, for which she was not prepared. Colin’s mother understood truth, and in an abhorring73, indignant, resentful way, believed that there was falsehood in the world. But how truth and falsehood were mingled—how the impulses of nature might have a little room to work even under the fictions of art or the falseness of society—was a knowledge unimagined by the simple woman. She began to think she had done Matty injustice74 when she saw her tears.
“Oh, Mrs. Campbell, I know how good he is! I—I never knew any one like him. How could I help——? But, indeed—indeed, I never meant any harm!” cried Matty, ingeniously taking advantage of the truth of her own feelings, so far as they went, to disarm71 her unconscious and singleminded judge. The Mistress looked at her with puzzled, but pitiful eyes.
“It would be poor comfort to him to say you never meant it,” she said; and in the pause that followed Matty had begun to recollect75 that it was a long time since the dressing-bell rang, though she still had her face hid on the table, and the tears were not dried from her cheeks. “And things may turn out more merciful than they look like,” said the Mistress, with a sigh and a wistful smile. Perhaps it occurred to her that the gratitude76 of the Franklands might go so far as to bestow77 upon Colin the woman he loved. “I’ll no keep you longer,” she continued, laying her tender hand for a moment on Matty’s head. “God{165} bless you for every kind thought you ever had to my Colin. He’s weel worthy78 of them all,” said the wistful mother.
Matty, who did not know what to say, and who, under this touch, felt her own artifice79, and was for a moment disgusted with herself, sprang up in a little agony of shame and remorse80, and kissed Mrs. Campbell as she went away. And Colin’s mother went back to her son’s room to find him asleep, and sat down by his side, to ponder in herself whether this and that might not still be possible. Love and happiness were physicians in whom the simple woman had a confidence unbounded. If they came smiling hand in hand to Colin’s pillow, who could tell what miracle of gladness might yet fall from the tender heavens?
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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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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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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43
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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45
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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48
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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49
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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50
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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51
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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53
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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54
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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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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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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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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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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abhorring
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| v.憎恶( abhor的现在分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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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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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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