“SOMEBODY has arrived!—who is it?” asked the Colonel of his factotum, who opened to him the garden-door—that door in the wall which admitted you suddenly into all the verdure of the garden of Milnehill.
“Cornel, you’re a warlock!” exclaimed the man, with amazement. “This very moment, sir, two carpet-bags and a portmanteau. I reckon they’re meaning to stay.”
“They—who are they?—is there more than one?” asked the Colonel; “make haste! do you see you keep me in the wet, blocking up the door?”
“The rain’s off,” said Patchey, dogmatically; “I’m meaning to say there’s wan gentleman, and his man, of course—his man. That’s maybe no interesting to you, Cornel—but it is to me.”
“You provoking old rascal!—who is it?” said the Colonel.
Patchey scratched his head. “If you’ll believe me, Cornel, I cannot think upon the name. It’s no Arnot—no, that’s not it; nor Titchfield neither. I ken him as weel as I ken mysel’, Cornel—dash me if ever I thought of asking him his name! Arnold—na—tuts! he was in the Queen’s service, this gentleman, up Burmah ways, when there was warm work gaun on; but, bless me, what whimsy’s ta’en the Cornel by the head noo?”
This last exclamation followed the Colonel’s abrupt disappearance along the garden-path, leaving Patchey amazed and wonderstricken, with his hand upon the door. Colonel Sutherland had heard enough to inspire him with a new hope in respect to his visitor. To be sure, he recognized him!—to be sure, it could be no other person! He made haste into his cozy dining-room, casting a hurried glance as he passed at the carpet-bags and portmanteau, which still encumbered the hall. The dining-room was in confusion, much unlike its usual state; great-coats, and cravats, and wrappings of every kind lay scattered on the chairs; while in his own easy chair by the fire the stranger sat pouring out his tea, and with all the materials for a comfortable breakfast round him. Certainly he had lost no time.
“Armitage!—it is you, then?” cried the Colonel, hastening up to him with the heartiest welcome.
“Ah! yes, it is me—how d’ye do, Sutherland?—delighted to see you again. Here I am in full possession, like an old campaigner,” said the stranger, somewhat languidly; “puts one in mind of Kitmudgharee, eh?—the happiest time of my life!”
“And yet I am very glad to hear you have advanced in fortune and the world since then,” said Colonel Sutherland, drawing a chair to the other side of the table; “and how is your health? They tell me you have become an invalid of late days—how is that? you used to be the most vigorous of us all. India?—liver affected?—how is it?”
“Humph!” said Sir John, shaking his head; “can’t tell—come to my fortune—some people say that’s it. Nothing to do but please a man’s self is what I call hard lines, Sutherland; and duties of property, and all that. Never had any bad health till I got rich. Here’s a nice kind of existence for a man come to my time of life—not married and not intending to marry. Here’s a set of men that hunt half the year and shoot the other half—ought to keep friends with ’em—only society in the country, except my Lord Duke, and he’s stuck-up. Then, when I’m at home, there’s a confounded lawyer with his new leases and his raised rents, and ‘Sir John,’ ‘Sir John,’ till I’m sick of my own name. Then there’s a fellow of a chaplain pegs into me about an heir. What the deuce do I want with an heir? Says the estates go into another family after me—swears it’s a sin to let the name of Armitage die out of the country. What’s the consequence?—I can’t look a woman in the face without thinking she wants to marry me, or I want to marry her, or something; and the end of the whole concern was, Sutherland, that I ran away—bolted, that’s the fact, and got your letter in Paris, where I was bored to death. Thought I couldn’t do better than come to you express—and, by George! I haven’t enjoyed my breakfast like this for ten years!”
“Very well—here you shall do as you like, and hear not a word of leases or heirs,” said Colonel Sutherland, laughing. “We’ll have it all our own way at Milnehill—ladies never come here.”
“Ah! very sorry,” said the new comer, glancing up vaguely, as if to see how far it was safe to go in reference to the past; then returning to his breakfast, proceeded with the perfect inconsequence of a man—not selfish, but occupied with himself, and saying whatever came uppermost. “Very odd thing—the very day I got your letter something came into my head: There’s old Sutherland, thought I, got a couple of nice daughters—honest girls—mother a very pretty woman—no doubt they take after her. Then came your letter: ’pon my life, it brought the tears to my eyes!”
This downright stroke the Colonel bore with sufficient fortitude. He held his breath for a moment, and said nothing—then hastened to interest himself in the progress of the stranger’s breakfast, which was going on in the most satisfactory manner. Never guest did more honour to hospitality. He repeated that he could fancy himself once more in the Kitmudgharee station, but for the blazing fire, and the Frith haddocks, which were perfection; and repeated over again, with emphasis, “The happiest time of my life!”
“Before then I was a young fellow of ambition,” said Sir John, “waiting to get on in society, and all that sort of rubbish. If this confounded fortune had come then, there would have been some comfort in it. Never felt myself a man till I went to India—always kept trying to find out what this one and the other thought of me. Got clear of all that rubbish among your bungalows. Ah! these were the days! But I say, Sutherland, guess how I came here?”
“In a postchaise; I saw you, but could not remember for my life who you were,” said the Colonel. “Eh? Ah! couldn’t remember me?—humph!” said Sir John, with momentary mortification; “odd that—I should have known you anywhere. Postchaise from the boat—detestable boat!—rocks like a tub, and smells like an oilshop—came down from London by sea. And, now that I think of it, do you know, I’m mighty sorry about poor Musgrave; a fox-hunter, you know—nothing but a fox-hunter; but a very good fellow—gave me a helping hand myself, when I was young and stood in need of one—what have you made of the poor boy?”
“I am sorry to say he has made something of himself which I don’t like,” said the Colonel. “Poor fellow! he was too high-spirited, and impatient, and proud, to wait for our influence, and what we should do for him: he’s gone off to London, I fear, to enlist. He’s a famous young fellow—I grudge the lad putting on a private soldier’s uniform even for a day.”
“I don’t—best thing he could do,” said Sir John. “If the service was as it ought to be, that fellow would rise like a shell. If I had sons I’d put them in the ranks, every one, and push ’em, sir—for an example, if nothing else—sons, ah!” Here Sir John shrugged his shoulders slightly, shrank back into his chair, and, in dismal contemplation of that distressing subject, made an end of his breakfast. “However,” he said, after a pause of thought, devoted to his own engrossing affairs, “I’ll give in to the popular opinion of course here, as I always do. We’ll look the fellow up, Sutherland: he shall have his commission; I’ve got no claims upon me, at present, at least. Musgrave’s boy shall not go to the bad if I can help it. I suppose, after all, it’s not likely to help a young man’s morals to throw him loose on London, out of his own class into a barrack room, eh?—where he don’t care a straw for the public opinion, and where the fellows get drunk, eh? Where do you suppose now he’ll go?”
“He’s six foot one, if he’s an inch,” said the Colonel, meditatively; “of course into the Guards.”
“Guards!—ah! lots of fellows there that have seen better days,” said Sir John—“wild fellows, that break their mothers’ hearts, and bring gray hairs to the grave, and so on. Regent’s Park—nursery-maids—wont do that; he’s fit to marry any girl he might take a fancy to, sir, and make it impossible for any man to help him—for a fellow who marries beneath him,” said Sir John, falling into the favourite channel of his own thoughts, “is lost—you can do no more for him. To be sure! I never thought of that, odd enough, till this moment; raise a man from the ranks, all very well—but I defy you to raise his wife; that must be looked to directly, Sutherland—don’t you know where he is?”
In answer to this question, the Colonel placed before his old comrade Roger’s letter. Colonel Sutherland was not at all afraid of the nursery-maids or of young Musgrave’s foolish falling in love. The Colonel, who had loved and been married at the natural season, wore no false spectacles to throw this hue upon everything, as did the unhappy old bachelor, hunted to death by his problematical heir, and able to think of nothing else. Certainly lads of twenty are not to be guaranteed against such accidents; but Roger, the Colonel felt very certain, was by no means possessed by that hyperbolical fiend who directed the thoughts of the unfortunate baronet to “nothing but ladies.” Sir John read the letter with a little emotion, which he was evidently ashamed of; he held it in his hand for some little time after he had finished reading it, in order that he might be able to look perfectly unsympathetic and unconcerned. Then he put it down and got up hastily.
“With your permission, Sutherland, I’ll have an hour’s rest,” he said. “I tumbled in here—what with the cold and feeling desperately hungry; nothing like sea-sickness for giving a man an appetite afterwards—without ever asking for my apartment. Thank you for your hospitality, old fellow—you see I mean to take advantage of it—and we’ll talk this all over after dinner. I say, what a famous snug place you’ve got! There’s another grievance of that said Armitage Hall, which the fellows there would have you believe a paradise. Not a room in the house that does not want half a dozen people about to make it look inhabited; not a chance for a snug chat like what we’ve just had. Suppose a mite of a fellow like me crouching by a fire that could roast me, shut in by a screen in a room that would hold half the county!—ugh! the thought is enough. Here we are!—famous!—there’s a fire!—I’ll bet you sixpence my man lighted that fire. He has a genius for that sort of thing. I’ll tell him to communicate his secret to your people here.”
“I suspect,” said the Colonel, with a smile, but a momentary pique, “the fabric was built by the maid; but I hope you’ll find the place comfortable. Take care you don’t injure your night’s rest by resting through the day—dinner at six—nobody but ourselves. You will find me downstairs whenever you please, but don’t think you’re in the least degree called upon to make your appearance before dinner.”
Then the Colonel went downstairs and stepped into a little side-room, in which he sometimes indulged himself with a modest cigar, while the dining-room was being cleared of all the litter brought by his visitor. Colonel Sutherland was an orderly man by nature; he did not like to see the coats and rugs and mufflers lying about on his chairs, and smiled to himself with a little perplexity over that guest, who was so singularly unlike himself. He was not quite certain as yet how they should “get on,” though very confident in Sir John’s good meaning and his own good temper. Presently Patchey came to consult him about the dinner, and to state that the cook would gladly have an audience of her master, which, with a little reluctance, the Colonel accorded. An arrival so sudden, and of so important a person, was no small event at Milnehill.