When the darkness had hushed and covered up the Campagna, and stilled all the village sounds, Lauderdale himself, a little flushed from an address he had just been delivering to Meredith, went in and looked at the sleeping face which was so precious to him, and tortured himself once more with questions whether it might be fever which gave colour to the young man’s cheek. But Colin, notwithstanding his cold, was breathing full long breaths, with life in every inspiration, and his friend went not uncomforted to bed.
But while Colin lay thus at rest, Meredith had resumed his writing, and was working into his current chapter the conversation which had just taken place. “The worldly man asks if the afflictions of the just are signs of favouritism on God’s part,” wrote the young author, “and appeals to us whether a happy man is less beloved of his Father than I am who suffer. He virtually contradicts scripture, and tells me that the Lord does _not_ scourge every son whom He receiveth. But I say, and the Holy Bible says with me, Tremble, oh ye who are happy--our troubles are God’s tokens of love and mercy to our souls.” As he wrote this, the young eyes, which were so soon to close upon life, brightened and expanded with a wonderful glow. His mind was not broad nor catholic, nor capable of perceiving the manifold diversity of those ways of God which are beyond the comprehension of men. He could not understand how, upon the last and lightest labourer, the Master of the vineyard might bestow the equal hire; and--taking that as the hardest labour which fell to his own share--was bent at least on making up for it by the most supreme compensation. And, indeed, it was hard to blame him for claiming, by way of balance to his afflictions, a warmer and closer share in the love of God. At least, that was no vulgar recompense. As for the “worldly man” of Arthur’s paragraph, he, too, sat a long while in his chamber, not writing, but pondering--gazing into the flame of the tall Roman lamp on his table as if some solution of the mysteries in his thoughts was to be found in its smoky light. To identify Lauderdale in the character of a worldly man would have been difficult enough to any one who knew him; yet, to Meredith, he had afforded a perfect example of “carnal reasoning,” and the disposition which is according to the flesh, and not according to the Spirit. This worldly-minded individual sat staring into the lamp, even after his young critic had ceased to write--revolving things that he could see were about to happen, and things which he dreaded without being able to see; and more than all wondering over that awful mystery of Providence to which the young invalid gave so easy a solution. “It wouldna be so hard to make out if a man could think he was less loved than his fellows, as they thought lang-syne,” said Lauderdale to himself, “or more loved, as, twisting certain scriptures, it’s the fashion to say now; but its awfu’ ill to understand such dealings in Him that is the Father of all, and makes nae favourites. Poor Callant! it’s like he’ll be the first to find the secret out.” And, as he pondered, he could not restrain a groan over the impending fate which threatened Meredith, and on the complications that were soon to follow. To be sure, he had nothing particular to do with it, however it might happen; but every kind of Christian tenderness and charity lurked in the heart of the homely Scotch philosopher who stood in Arthur Meredith’s last chapter as the impersonation of the worldly man.
