Next day Colin reappeared, to the astonishment of the brother and sister. Let us not say, to their disappointment--and yet poor little Alice, underneath her congratulations, said to herself with a pang, “He has got well--they all get well but Arthur;” and, when she was aware of the thought, hated herself, and wondered wistfully whether it was because of her wickedness that her prayers for Arthur were not heard. Anxiety and even grief are not the improving influences they are sometimes thought to be--and it is hard upon human nature to be really thankful for the benefits which God gives to others, passing over one’s self. Meredith, who was the sufferer in his own person, could afford to be more generous. He said, “I am glad you are better” with all his heart; and then he added--“The Lord does not mean to leave you alone, Campbell. Though He has spared you, He still continues His warnings. Do not neglect them, I beseech you, my dear friend”--before he returned to his writing. He was occupied now day and night with his “Voice from the Grave.” He was less able to walk, less able to talk, than he had been, and now, as the night came fast in which no man can work, was devoting all his time and all his feeble strength to this last message to the world.
It would have been pitiful enough to any indifferent spectator to note the contrast between the sick man’s solemn labour apart, and the glow of subdued pleasure in Colin’s face as he drew his seat in the evening towards the table which Alice had chosen for herself. The great bare room had so much space and so many tables, and there was so large a stock of lamps among the movables of the house, that each of the party had a corner for himself, to which (with his great-coat on or otherwise) he could retire when he chose. The table of Alice was the central point; and as she sat with the tall antique lamp throwing its primitive unshaded light upon her, still and graceful with her needlework, the sight of her was like that of a supreme _objet de luxe_ in the otherwise bare apartment. Perhaps, under due protection and control, the presence of womankind, thus calm, thus silent--letting itself, as the old maxim commanded, be seen and not heard--is to men of sober mind and middle age--such as Lauderdale, for example--the most agreeable ornament with which a room could be provided. Younger individuals might prefer that the tableau should dissolve, and the impersonation of womankind melt into an ordinary woman. Such at least was the feeling of Colin. She was very sweet to look at; but, if she had descended from her pedestal, and talked a little and laughed a little, and even perhaps--but the idea of anything like flirtation on the part of Alice Meredith was too absurd an idea to be entertained for a moment. However, abstracted and preoccupied as she was; she was still a woman young and fair--and Colin’s voice softened and his eyes brightened as he drew his chair to the other side of the lamp, and looked across the table at her soft, downcast face. “I have something here I want you to look at,” said the young poet, who had been used to Matty Frankland’s sympathy and curiosity; “not that it is much worth your while; but Lauderdale told you that writing verses was a weakness of mine,” he went on, with, a youthful blush and smile. As for Alice, she took the paper he gave her, looking a little frightened, and held it for a moment in her hand.