“NO that I mean to say I believe in fate,” said Lauderdale, when they had finished their meal; “though there is little doubt in my mind that what happens is ordained. I couldna tell why, for my part, though I believe in the fact—for most things in life come to nothing, and the grandest train of causes produce nae effect whatsoever; that’s my experience. Indeed, it’s often a wonder to me,” said the homely philosopher, who was not addressing himself particularly to Colin, “what the Almighty took the trouble to make man for at a’. He’s a poor creature at the best, and gives an awfu’ deal of trouble for very little good. Considering all things, I’m of opinion that we’re little better than an experiment,—and very likely we’ve been greatly improved upon in mair recent creations. Are you pleased with your dinner? You’re young now, and canna’ have much standing against you in the great books. Do you ever think, laddie, of what you mean to be?”
“I mean to be a minister,” said Colin, with a furious blush. His thoughts on the subject, if he could but have expressed them, were magnificent enough, but nothing was more impossible to the shy country lad, than to explain the ambition which glowed in his eager, visionary mind. He would have sacrificed a finger at any time, rather than talk of the vague but splendid intentions which were fermenting secretly in absolute silence within his reserved Scotch bosom. His new friend looked with a little curiosity at the subdued brightness of the boy’s eyes, which spoke more emphatically than his words.
“They a’ mean to be ministers,” said Lauderdale, in his reflective way; “half of them would do far better to be cobblers; but nae fool could ever be persuaded. As for you, I think there’s something in you, or I wouldna have fashed my head about you and your gown. You’ve got a fair start, and nae drawbacks. I would like to see you go straight forward, and be good for something in your generation. You needna look glum at me; I’ll never be good for much mysel’. You see I’ve learnt to be fond of talking,” he said, philosophically; “and a man that takes up that line early in life seldom comes to much good; though I grant you there’s exceptions, like Macaulay, for example. I was just entered at college, when my father died,” he continued, falling into a historical strain, “I was only a laddie like yoursel’, but I had to give up that thought, and work to help the rest. Now they are all scattered, and my mother dead, and I’m my own master. No that I’m much the better for that; but, you see, after I got this situation”——
“What situation?” said Colin, quickly.
“Oh, an honourable occupation,” said his tall friend, with a gradually brightening smile. “There’s ane of the same trade mentioned with commendation in the Acts of the Apostles. Him and St. Paul were great friends. But you see I’m free for the most part of the day; and, it being a fixed idea in my mind that I was to go to the college some time or other, it was but natural that I should enter mysel’ as soon as I was able. I may go forward, and I may not; it depends on the world more than on me. So your name’s Colin Campbell?—the same as Sir Colin; but, if you’re to be a minister, you can never be anything mair than a minister. In any other line of life a lad can rise if he likes, but there’s nae promotion possible to that. If I were you, and fifteen, I would choose another trade.”
“To this Colin answered nothing; the suggestion staggered him considerably, and he was not prepared with anything to say. He looked round the shabby room, and watched the shabby tavern-waiter carrying his dinner to some other customer; and Colin’s new and unaccustomed eyes saw something imposing even in the aspect of this poor place. He thought of the great world which seemed to surge outside in a ceaseless roar, coming and going—the world in which all sorts of honours and powers seemed to go begging, seeking owners worthy to possess them: and he was pursuing this splendid chain of possibilities, when Lauderdale resumed his monologue:—
“The Kirk’s in a queer kind of condition a’thegither,” said the tall student; “so are most Kirks. Whenever you hit upon a man that kens what he wants, all’s well; but that happens seldom. It’s no my case for one. And as for you, you’re no at the age to trouble your head about doctrine. You’re a young prince at your years—you don’t know your privileges; you believe everything you’ve been brought up to believe, and are far more sure in your own mind what’s false and what’s true than a college of doctors. I would rather be you than a’ the philosophers in the world.”
“I’m no a fool to believe everything,” said Colin, angrily, rousing himself up from his dreams.
“No,” said his companion, “far from a fool; it’s true wisdom if you could but keep it. But the present temper of the world,” said the philosopher calmly, “is to conclude that there’s nothing a’thegither false, and few things particularly true. When you’re tired of the dinners in Donaldson’s Land,” he continued, without any change of tone, “and from the looks of the honest woman I would not say much for the cookery, you can come and get your dinner here. In the meantime, I’ll take ye up to Buchanan Street, if you like. It’s five o’clock, and the shop-windows are lighted by this time. I’m very fond of the lights in the shop-windows mysel’. When I’ve been a poor laddie about the streets, the lights aye looked friendly, which is more than the folk within do when you’ve no siller. Come along; it’s no trouble to me, and I like to have somebody to talk to,” said Lauderdale.
Colin got up very reluctantly, feeling himself unable to resist the strange personal fascination thus exercised over him. The idea of being only somebody to talk to mortified the boy’s pride, but he could not shake himself free from the influence which had taken possession of him. He was only fifteen, and his companion was thirty; and he had no power to enfranchise himself. He went after the tall figure into the street with very mingled feelings. The stream of talk, which kept flowing on above him, stimulated Colin’s mind into the most vigorous action. Such talk was not incomprehensible to a boy who had been trained at Ramore; but the philosophers of the Holy Loch were orthodox, and this specimen of impartial thoughtfulness roused all the fire of youthful polemics in Colin’s bosom. He set down his companion unhesitatingly, of course, as a “sceptic,” perhaps an infidel; and was already longing to rush in upon him, with arbitrary boyish zeal and disdain, to make an end on the spot of his mistaken opinions. As for Colin himself, he was very sure of everything, as was natural to his years, and had never entertained any doubts that the Shorter Catechism was as infallible a standard of truth, as it was a terrible infliction upon the youthful memory. Colin went along the murky streets, by his companion’s side, thinking within himself that, perhaps, his own better arguments and higher reason might convert this mistaken man, and listened to him eagerly as they proceeded together along the long line of the Trongate, much excited by his own intentions, and feeling somehow, in his boyish heart, that this universal stimulation of everything, within and without, was a real beginning of life. For everything was new to the country boy, who had never in his life before been out of doors at night, anywhere, save in the silent country roads, through darkness lighted by the moon, or, when there was no moon, by the pale glimmer of the loch. Now his eyes were dazzled by the lights, and all his senses kept in exercise by the necessity of holding his own way, and resisting the pressure of the human current which flowed past him; while Lauderdale kept talking of a hundred things which were opposed to his boyish belief, and which, amid all this unaccustomed hubbub, he had to listen to with all his might lest he should lose the thread of the argument—a loose thread enough, certainly, but still with some coherence and connexion. All this made Colin’s heart thrill with a warmer consciousness of life. He was only in Glasgow, among floods of dusky craftsmen going home from their work; but it appeared to his young eyes that he had suddenly fallen upon the most frequented ways of life and into the heart of the vast world.
“I’m fond of a walk in the Trongate mysel’, especially when the lamps are lighted,” said Lauderdale; “I never heard of a philosopher but was. No that I am much of a philosopher, but—. It’s here ye see the real aspect of human affairs. Here, take the shopwindows, or take the passengers, there’s little to be seen but what’s necessary to life; but yonder,” said the reflective student, pointing over Colin’s head to the street they were approaching, “there’s nothing but luxury. We spend a great deal of siller in Glasgow—we’re terrible rich, some of us, and like the best of everything—but there’s no so much difference as you would think. I have no pleasure in that side of wealth for my part; there’s an awful suggestion of eating and drinking in everything about there. Even the grand furniture and the pictures have a kind of haze about them, as if ye could only see them through a dinner. I don’t pretend to have any knowledge for my own part of rich men’s feasts; but it’s no think pleasant to that Genius and Art, no to speak of a great deal of skilful workmanship, should be all subservient to a man’s pleasure in his dinner, and that that’s what they’re here for. Hallo, laddie, I thought you had no friends in Glasgow? there’s somebody yonder waving their hands to you. What do you hang back for? it’s a lady in a carriage. Have you no respect for yoursel’ that you’re so slow to answer?” cried Colin’s monitor, indignantly. Colin would gladly have sunk through the pavement, or darted up a friendly dark alley which presented itself close by, but such an escape was not possible. It was Lady Frankland who was making signals to him out of the carriage-window, and with all his awkwardness, he was obliged to obey them.
As for Lauderdale, whose curiosity was considerably excited, he betook himself to the window of a printshop to await his protégé, not without some surprise in his mind. He knew pretty nearly as much about Colin by this time as the boy himself did, though Colin was quite unaware of having opened up his personal history to his new friend; but he had heard nothing about young Frankland, that being an episode in his life of which the country lad was not proud. Lauderdale stood at the printshop-window with a curious kind of half-pathetic egotism mingling with his kindly observation. No fair vision of women ever gleamed across his firmament. He was just about shaking hands with youth, and no lady’s face had ever bent over him like a star out of the firmament, as the gracious countenance of the English lady was just then bending over the farmer’s son from Ramore. “It’s maybe the Duchess,” said Lauderdale to himself, thinking of the natural feudal princess of the lochs; and he looked with greater interest still, withdrawn out of hearing, but near enough to see all that passed. Colin for his part did not know in the least what to say or to do. He stood before the carriage looking sulky in the excess of his embarrassment, and did not even take off his cap to salute the lady, as country politeness and his anxious mother had taught him. And, to aggravate the matter, there was a bewildering little girl in the carriage with Lady Frankland—a creature with glorious curls over her shoulders, and a wonderful perfection of juvenile toilette, which somehow dazzled Colin’s unused and ignorant eyes. In the midst of his awkwardness it occurred to the boy to note this little lady’s dress, which was a strange thing enough for him, who did not know one article of feminine attire from another. It was not her beauty so much as the delicacy of all her little equipments which amazed Colin, and prevented him from hearing what Lady Frankland had to say.
“So you have gone to the University?” said that gracious lady. “You are ever so much further advanced than Harry, who is only a schoolboy as yet; but the Scotch are so clever. You will be glad to hear that dear Harry is quite well, and enjoying himself very much at Eton,” continued Harry’s mother, who meant to be very kind to the boy who had saved her son’s life. Now the very name of Harry Frankland had, he could not have told how, a certain exasperating effect upon Colin. He said nothing in answer to this satisfactory intelligence, but unconsciously gave a little frown of natural opposition, which Lady Frankland’s eyes were not sufficiently interested to see.
“He doesn’t care for Harry, aunt,” said the miniature woman by Lady Frankland’s side, darting out of the dusky twilight a sudden flash of perception, under which Colin stood convicted. She was about his own age, but a world in advance of him in every other respect. A little amusement and a little offence were in the voice, which seemed to Colin, with its high-bred accent and wonderful “English,” like the voice of another kind of creature from any he had encountered before. Was she a little witch, to know what he was thinking? And then a little laugh of triumph rounded off the sentence, and the unfortunate boy stood more speechless, more awkward, more incapable than before.
“Nonsense, Matty; when you know we owe Harry’s life to him,” said bland Lady Frankland. “You must come and dine with us to-morrow; indeed you must. Sir Thomas and I are both so anxious to know more of you. Sir Thomas would be so pleased to forward your views in any way; but the Scotch are so independent,” she said, with her most flattering smile. “Was that your tutor who was walking with you, that very tall man? I am sure we should be delighted to see him too. I suppose he is something in the University. Oh! here comes my husband. Sir Thomas, this is—Oh! I am sure I beg your pardon; I forget your name—the dear, brave, excellent boy who saved Harry’s life.”
Upon which Sir Thomas, coming out of one of the shops, in that radiance of cleanness and neatness, perfectly brushed whiskers, and fresh face, which distinguishes his class, shook hands heartily with the reluctant Colin.
“To be sure, he must dine with us to-morrow,” said the good-humoured baronet, “and bring his tutor if he likes; but I thought you had no tutors at the Scotch Universities. I want to know what you’re about, and what your ideas are on a great many subjects, my fine fellow. Your father is tremendously proud, and so are you, I suppose; but he’s a capital specimen of a man; and I hope you allow that I have a right to recollect such an obligation. Good-bye, my boy,” said Sir Thomas. “Seven to-morrow—but I’ll probably be at your college and see you in the morning. And mind you bring the tutor,” he cried, as the carriage drove off. Lady Frankland shed a perfect blaze of smiles upon Colin, as she waved her hand to him, and the creature with the curls on the other side gave the boy a little nod in a friendly condescending way. He made a spring back into the shade the minute after, wonderfully glad to escape, but dazzled and excited in spite of himself; and, as he retired rapidly from the scene of this unexpected encounter, he came sharp up against Lauderdale, who was coming to meet him, with his curiosity largely excited.
“It was me he took for the tutor, I suppose?” said the strange Mentor who had thus taken possession of Colin; and the tall student laughed with a kind of quaint gratification. “And so I might have been if I had been bred up at Oxford or Cambridge,” he added, after a moment; “that is to say, if it had been my lot to be bred up anywhere; but they’ve a grand system in these English universities. That was not the Duke,” he said interrogatively, looking at Colin, whose blood of clansman boiled at the idea.
“That the Duke!” exclaimed the boy with great disdain; “no more than I am. It’s one of the English that are aye coming and making their jokes about the rain; as if anybody wanted them to come,” said Colin, with an outbreak of scorn; and then the boy remembered that Archie Candlish had just bought a house in expectation of such visitors, and stopped abruptly in full career. “I suppose the English are awfu’ fond of grouse, or they wouldna’ come so far for two or three birds,” he continued, in a tone of milder sarcasm. But his companion was not to be so easily diverted from his questions.
“Grouse is a grand institution, and helps in the good government of this country,” said Lauderdale, “and, through this country, of the world—which is a fine thought for a bit winged creature, if it had the sense to ken. Yon’s another world,” he said, after a little pause, “no Paradise to be sure, but something as far removed from this as Heaven itself; farther, you might say, for there’s many a poor man down below here that’s hovering on the edge of heaven. And how came you to have such grand friends?” asked the self-constituted guardian, stooping from his lofty height to look straight into Colin’s eyes. After a time, he extracted the baldest narrative that ever was uttered by a hero ashamed of his prowess from the half-indignant boy, and managed to guess as clearly as the wonderful little lady in the carriage the nature of Colin’s sentiments towards the young antagonist and rival whom he had saved.
“I wouldna have let a dog drown,” said the aggrieved Colin; “there was nothing to make a work about. But you would have laughed to see that fellow, with his boots like a lassie’s and feared to wet his feet. He could swim, though,” added the boy, candidly; “and I would like to beat him,” he said, after a moment; “I’d like to run races with him for something, and win the prize over his head.”
This was all Colin permitted himself to say; but the vehement sentiment thus recalled to his mind made him, for the moment, less attentive to Lauderdale, who, for his part, was considerably moved by his young companion’s excitement. “I’m not going to see your fine friends,” he said, as he parted from the boy at the “stairfoot” which led to Colin’s lodging; “but there’s many a true word spoken in jest, and, my boy, you shall not want a tutor, though there’s no such thing in our Scotch colleges.”
When he had said so much, hastily, as a man does who is conscious of having shown a little emotion in his words, Colin’s new friend went away, disappearing through the misty night, gaunt and lean as another Quixote. “I should like to have something to do with the making of a new life,” he said to himself, muttering high up in the air over the ordinary passengers’ heads, as he mused on upon his way. And Colin and his story had struck the rock in the heart of the lonely man, and drawn forth fresh streams in that wilderness. He was more moved in his imaginative, reflective soul, than he could have told any one, with, half-consciously to himself, a sense of contrast, which was natural enough, considering all things, and which coloured all his thoughts, more or less, for that night.
As for Colin—naturally, too—he thought no more of Lauderdale, nor of his parting words, and found himself in no need of any tutor or guide, but fell asleep in the midst of his Greek, as was to be expected, and dreamt of that creature with the curls nodding at him out of gorgeous Lord Mayor’s coaches, in endless procession. And it was with this wonderful little vision dancing about his fancy that the Scotch boy ended his first day at the University, knowing no more what was to come of it all than the saucy sparrow which woke him next morning by loud chirping in the Glasgow dialect at his quaint little attic window. The sparrow had his crumbs, and Colin had another exciting day before him, and went out quite calmly to lay his innocent hands upon the edge-tools which were to carve out his life.