There can be no doubt that the clergyman was right in suggesting that Colin should leave Frascati, and that the strange little household which had kept together since Arthur’s death, under the supervision of Sora Antonia, was in its innocence in utter contradiction of all decorum and the usages of society. It was true besides that Alice had begun to be uneasy upon this very point, and to feel herself in a false position; nevertheless, when Lauderdale returned alone with a note from Colin, and informed her that they had found rooms in Rome, and were to leave her with Sora Antonia until the arrangements were made for the marriage, it is inconceivable how blank and flat the evening felt to Alice without her two knights. As she sat over her needlework her sorrow came more frequently home to her than it had ever done before—her sorrow, her friendlessness, and a vague dread that this great happiness, which had come in tears, and which even now could scarcely be separated from the grief which accompanied it, might again fly away from her like a passing angel. Sora Antonia was indifferent company under these circumstances; she was very kind, but it was not in nature that an elderly peasant woman could watch the changing expressions of a girl’s face, and forestall her tears, and beguile her weariness like the two chivalrous men who had devoted themselves to her amusement and occupation. Now that this rare morsel of time, during which she had been tended “like a queen,” was over, it seemed impossible to Alice that it ever could be again. She who was not clever, who was nothing but Arthur’s sister, how could she ever expect again to be watched over and served like an enchanted princess? Though, indeed, if she were Colin’s wife—! but since Colin’s departure and the visit of the clergyman, that possibility seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer—she could not tell why. She believed in it when her lover came to see her, which was often enough; but, when he was absent, doubt returned, and the bright prospect glided away, growing more and more dim and distant. She had never indulged in imagination, to speak of, before, and the few dreams that had possessed her heart had been dreams of Arthur’s recovery—fantastic hopeless visions of those wondrous doctors and impossible medicines sometimes to be met with in books. But now, when her own position began to occupy her, and she found herself standing between hopes and fears, with such a sweet world of tenderness and consolation on one side, and so unlovely a prospect on the other, the dormant imagination woke up, and made wild work with Alice. Even in the face of her stepmother’s refusal to have anything to do with her, the spectre of Mrs. Meredith coming to take her home was the nightmare of the poor girl’s existence. This was what she gained by the clergyman’s attention to the proprieties of the situation; but there was at least the comfort of thinking that in respect to decorum all was now perfectly right.

As for Colin, he, it must be confessed, bore the separation better; for he was not at all afraid of Mrs. Meredith, and he had a great many things to learn and do, and, when he paid his betrothed a visit, it was sweet to see the flush of unmistakeable joy in her face, and to feel that so fair a creature sat thinking of him in the silence, referring everything to him, ready to crown him with all the hopes and blossoms of her youth. And then, but for her sake, Colin, to tell the truth, was in no such hurry to be married as his clerical censor supposed. The weeks that might have to elapse before that event could be concluded were not nearly so irksome to him as they ought to have been; and, even though he began to be irritated by the ambiguous responses of the clergyman, he was not impatient of the delay itself, but found the days very interesting, and, on the whole, enjoyed himself; which, to be sure, may give some people an unfavourable impression of Colin’s heart, and want of sympathy with the emotions of her he looked upon as his bride. At the same time, it is but just to say that he was not aware of these emotions—for Alice said nothing about her fears; and his love for her, which was genuine enough in its way, was not of the nature of that love which divines everything, and reads the eye and the heart with infallible perception. He did not suffer, like Alice, from fears that his dawning happiness was too great, and could never come true; for, though he had fully accepted his position, and even with the facility of youth had found pleasure in it, and found himself growing fonder every day of the sweet and tranquil creature to whom he became day by day more completely all in all, this kind of calm domestic love was unimpassioned, and not subject to the hopes and fears, the despairs and exultations of more spontaneous and enthusiastic devotion. So, to tell the truth, he endured the separation with philosophy, and roamed about all day long with many a thought in his mind, through that town which is of all towns in the world most full of memories, most exciting and most sorrowful. Colin, being Scotch, was not classical to speak of, and the CÆsars had but a limited interest for him; but, if the ancient tutelary deities were worn out and faded, the shrine to which pilgrims had come for so many ages was musical with all the echoes of history, and affecting beyond description or comparison. And in Papal Rome the young priest had an interest altogether different from that of a polemical Protestant or a reverential High-Churchman. Colin was a man of his age, tolerant and indulgent to other people’s opinions, and apt to follow out his own special study without pausing to consider whether the people among whom he pursued it were without spot or blemish in matters of doctrine. The two friends spent a great deal of time in the churches; not at the high mass, or sweet-voiced vespers, where irreverent crowds assembled, as in a concert-room, to hear Mustafa sing, but in out-of-the-way chapels, where there were no signs of festa; in the Pantheon, in churches where there were no great pictures nor celebrated images, but where the common people went and came unconscious of any spectators; and many and strange were the discussions held by the two Scotchmen over the devotions they witnessed—devotions ignorant enough, no doubt, but real, and full of personal meaning. It was Rome without her glorious apparel, without her grandeur and melodies,—Rome in very poor vestments, not always clean, singing out of tune, and regarding with eyes of intensest supplication such poor daubs of saints and weak-eyed Madonnas as would have found no place in the meanest exhibition anywhere in the world. Strangely enough, this was the aspect in which she had most interest for the two friends.

“It would be awfu’ curious to hear the real thoughts these honest folk have in their minds,” said Lauderdale. “I’m no much of the idolatry way of thinking mysel’. It may come a wee that way in respect to Mary. The rest of them are little more than friends at court so far as I can see, and it’s no unnatural feeling. If you take the view that a’ natural feelings are like to be wrong to start with, that settles the question; but if, on the other hand—”

“I don’t believe in idolatry under any circumstances,” said Colin, hotly; “nobody worships a bad picture. It is the something represented by it, never to be fully expressed, and of which, indeed, a bad picture is almost more touching than a good one—”

“Keep quiet, callant, and let other folk have a chance to speak,” said Lauderdale; “I’m saying there’s an awfu’ deal of reasonableness in nature if you take her in the right way. I’m far from being above that feeling mysel’. No that I have ony acquaintance with St. Cosmo and St. Damian and the rest; but I wouldna say if there was ony rational way of getting at the ear of one of them that’s gone—even if it was Arthur, poor callant—that I wouldna be awfu’ tempted to bid him mind upon me when he was near the Presence Cha’amer. I’m no saying he had much wisdom to speak of, or was more enlightened than myself; and there’s no distinct evidence that at this moment he’s nearer God than I am; but I tell you, callant, nature’s strong—and, if I kent ony way of communication, there’s nae philosophy in the world would keep me from asking, if he was nigh the palace gates and could see Him that sits upon the throne, that he should mind upon me.”

“You may be sure he does it without asking,” said Colin—and then, after a moment’s pause, “Your illustration comes too close for criticism. I know what you mean; but then the saints as they flourish in Rome have nothing to do with Scotland,” said the young man. “It would be something to get the people to have a little respect for the saints; but, as to saying their prayers to them, there is little danger of that.”

“The callant’s crazy about Scotland,” said Lauderdale; “a man that heard you and kent no better might think ye were the king of Scotland in disguise, with a scheme of Church reform in your hand. If you’re ever a minister you’ll be in hot water before you’re well placed. But, Colin, it’s an awfu’ descent from all your grand thoughts. You’ll have to fight with the presbytery about organs and such like rubbish—and when you’re to stand, and when you’re to sit; that’s what ambitious callants come to in our kirk. You were like enough for such a fate at any time, but you’re certain of it now with your English wife.”

“Well,” said Colin, “it is no worse than the fight about candles and surplices in England; better, indeed, for it means something; and, if I fight on that point, at least I’ll fight at the same time for better things.”

“It’s aye best no to fight at all,” said the philosopher, “though that’s no a doctrine palatable to human nature so far as I have ever seen. But it’s aye awfu’ easy talking; you’re no ready for your profession yet; and how you are ever to be ready, and you a married man——”

“Stuff!” said Colin; “most men are married; but I don’t see that that fact hinders the business of the world. I don’t mean to spend all my time with my wife.”

“No,” said Lauderdale with a momentary touch of deeper seriousness—and he paused and cast a side glance at his companion as if longing to say something; but it happened at that moment, either by chance or intention, that Colin turned the full glow of his brown eyes upon his friend’s face, looking at him with that bright but blank smile which he had seen before, and which imposed silence more absolutely than any prohibition. “No,” said Lauderdale, slowly changing his tone; “I’ll no say it was that I was thinking of. The generality of callants studying for the kirk in our country are no in your position. I’m no clear in my own mind how it’s come to pass—for a young man that’s the head of a family has a different class of subjects to occupy his mind; and as for the Balliol scholarship”—said the philosopher regretfully; “but that’s no what I’m meaning. You’ll have to provide for your own house, callant, before you think of the kirk.”

“Yes, I have thought of all that,” said Colin. “I think Alice will get on with my mother. She must stay there, you know, and I will go down as often as I can during the winter. What do you mean by making no answer? Do you think she will not like Ramore? My mother is fit company for a queen,” said the young man with momentary irritation; for, indeed, he was a little doubtful in his own mind how this plan would work.

“I’ve little acquaintance with queens,” said Lauderdale; “but I’m thinking history would tell different tales if the half of them were fit to be let within the door where the Mistress was. That’s no the question. It’s clear to me that your wife will rather have your company than your mother’s—which is according to nature, though you and me may be of a different opinion. If you listen to me, Colin, you’ll think a’ that over again. It’s an awfu’ serious question. I’m no saying a word against the kirk; whatever fools may say, it’s a grand profession; there’s nae profession so grand that I ken of; but a man shouldna begin a race with burdens on his back and chains on his limbs. You’ll have to make your choice between love and it, Colin; and since in the first place you’ve made choice of love——”

“Stuff!” said Colin; but it was not said with his usual lightness of tone, and he turned upon his friend with a subdued exasperation which meant more than it expressed. “Why do you speak to me of love and—— nonsense,” cried Colin, “what choice is there?” and then he recollected himself, and grew red and angry. “My love has Providence itself for a second,” he said; “if it were mere fancy you might speak; but, as for giving up my profession, nothing shall induce me to do that. Alice is not like a fanciful fool to hamper and constrain me. She will stay with my mother. Two years more will complete my studies, and then——” here Colin paused of himself, and did not well know what to add; for, indeed, it was then chiefly that the uttermost uncertainty commenced.

“And then—” said Lauderdale, meditatively. “It’s an awfu’ serious question. It’s ill to say what may happen then. What I’m saying is no pleasure to me. I’ve put mair hope on your head than any man’s justified in putting on another man. Ye were the ransom of my soul, callant,” said the philosopher, with momentary emotion. “It was you that was to be; nothing but talk will ever come out of a man like me—and it’s an awfu’ consolation to contemplate a soul that means to live. But there’s more ways of living—ay, and of serving God and Scotland—than in the kirk. No man in the world can fight altogether in the face of circumstance. I would think it a’ well over again, if I were you.”

“No more,” said Colin, with all the more impatience that he felt the truth of what his friend was saying. “No more; I am not to be moved on that subject. No, no, it is too much; I cannot give up my profession,” he said, half under his breath, to himself; and, perhaps, at the bottom of his soul, a momentary grudge, a momentary pang, arose within him at thought of the woman who could accept such a sacrifice without even knowing it, or feeling how great it was. Such, alas, was not the woman of Colin’s dreams; yet so inconsistent was the young man in his youth, that ten minutes after, when the two walked past the Colosseum on their way to the railway, being bound to Frascati (for this was before the days when the vulgar highway of commerce had entered within the walls of Rome), a certain wavering smile on his lip, a certain colour on his cheeks, betrayed as plainly that he was bound on a lover’s errand, as if it had been said in words. Lauderdale, whose youthful days were past, and who was at all times more a man of one idea, more absolute and fixed in his affections, than Colin, could understand him less on this point than on any other; but he saw how it was, though he did not attempt to explain how it could be, and the two friends grew silent, one of them delivered by sheer force of youthfulness and natural vigour from the anxieties that clouded the other. As they approached the gate, a carriage, which had been stopped there by the watchful ministers of the Dogana, made a sudden start, and dashed past them. It was gone in a moment, flashing on in the sunshine at the utmost speed which a reckless Italian coachman could get out of horses which did not belong to him; but in that instant, both the bystanders started, and came to a sudden pause in their walk. “Did you hear anything?” said Colin. “What was it?” and the young man turned round, and made a few rapid strides after the carriage; but then Colin stopped short, with an uneasy laugh at himself. “Absurd,” he said; “all English voices sound something alike,” which was an unlover-like remark. And then he turned to his friend, who looked almost as much excited as himself.

“I suppose that’s it,” said Lauderdale, but he was less easily satisfied than Colin. “I cannot see how it could be her,” he said, slowly; “but——. Yon’s an awfu’ speed if there’s no reason for it. I’m terrible tempted to jump into that machine there, and follow,” the philosopher added, with a stride towards a crazy little one-horse carriage which was waiting empty at the gate.

“It is I who should do that,” said Colin; and then he laughed, shaking off his fears. “It is altogether impossible and absurd,” the young man said. “Nonsense! there are scores of English girls who have voices sufficiently like her’s to startle one. I have thought it was she half-a-dozen times since I came to Rome. Come along, or we shall lose the train. Nothing could possibly bring her into Rome without our knowledge; and nothing, I hope,” said the young lover, who was in little doubt on that branch of the subject, “could make her pass by me.”

“Except her father,” said Lauderdale, to which Colin only replied by an impatient exclamation as they went on to the train. But, though it was only a momentary sound, the tone of a voice, that had startled them, it was with extreme impatience and an uneasiness which they had tried to hide from each other that they made their way to Frascati. To be sure Colin amused himself for a little by the thought of a pretty speech with which he could flatter and flutter his gentle fiancÉe, telling her her voice was in the air, and he heard it everywhere; and then he burst forth into “Airy tongues that syllable men’s names,” to the consternation of Lauderdale. “But then she did not syllable any name,” he added, laughing; “which is a proof positive that it can have been nothing.” His laugh and voice were, however, full of excitement and uneasiness, and betrayed to Lauderdale that the suggestion he had made began to work. The two mounted the hill to Frascati from the station with a swiftness and silence natural to two Scotchmen at such a moment, leaving everything in the shape of carriage behind them. When they reached the Palazzo Savvelli, Colin cleared the long staircase at a bound for anything his companion saw who followed him more slowly, more and more certainly prescient of something having happened. When Lauderdale reached the salone, he found nobody there save Sora Antonia, with her apron at her eyes, and Colin, sunk into Arthur’s chair, reading a letter which he held in both his hands. Colin’s face was crimson, his hands trembling with excitement and passion. The next moment he had started to his feet and was ready for action. “Read it, Lauderdale,” he said, with a choking voice; “you may read it; it has all come true; and in the meantime I’m off to get a vettura,” said the young man, rushing to the door. Before his friend could say a word, Colin was gone, tearing frantically down the stairs which he had come up like lightning; and in this bewildering moment, after the thunderbolt had fallen, with Sora Antonia’s voice ringing in his ear as loudly and scarce more intelligibly than the rain which accompanies a storm, Lauderdale picked up poor Alice’s letter, which was blotted with tears.

“Papa has come to fetch me,” wrote Alice. “Oh, Colin, my heart is broken! He says we are to go instantly, without a moment’s delay; and he would not let me write even this if he knew. Oh, Colin, after all your goodness and kindness, and love that I was not worthy of!—oh, why did anybody ever interfere? I do not know what I am writing, and I am sure you will never be able to read it. Never so long as I live shall I think one thought of anybody but you; but papa would not let me speak to you—would not wait to see you, though I told him you were coming. Oh Colin, good-bye, and do not think it is me—and tell Mr. Lauderdale I shall never forget his kindness. I would rather, far rather, die than go away. Always, always, whatever any one may say, your own poor Alice, who is not half nor quarter good enough for you.”