THE COLONEL AS A CONSOLER.
"I say, Doctor," said Colonel Stanburne to Dr. Bardly, the day before
the presentation of colors, "I wish you'd look to Philip Stanburne a
little. He doesn't seem to me to be going on satisfactorily at all. I'm
afraid that accident at Whittlecup has touched his brain--he's so
absent. He commanded his company very fairly a short time back, and he
took an interest in drill, but now, upon my word, he gets worse and
worse. To-day he made the most absurd mistakes; and one time he marched
his company right off, and, by George! I thought he was going to take
them straight at the hedge; and I believe he would have done so if the
Adjutant hadn't galloped after him. Eureton rowed him so, that it
brought him to his senses. I never saw such a youth. He doesn't seem to
be properly awake. I'm sure he's ill. He eats nothing. I noticed him at
mess last night. He didn't eat enough to keep a baby alive. I don't
believe he sleeps properly at nights. His face is quite haggard. One
might imagine he'd got something on his conscience. If you can't do him
any good, I'll see the Catholic priest, and beg him to set his mind at
ease. I'm quite anxious about him, really."
The Doctor smiled. "It's my opinion," he said, "that the young gentleman
has a malady that neither you nor I can cure. Some young woman may cure
it, but we can't. The lad's fallen in love."
"Why, Doctor, you don't believe that young fellows make themselves ill
about such little matters as that, do you? Men are ill in that way in
novels, but never in real life. I was desperately spoony myself before I
married Helena, and it wasn't Helena I was spoony about either, and the
girl jilted me to marry a marquis; and I think she did quite right, for
I'd rather she ran away with the marquis before she was my wife than
after, you know. But it didn't spoil me a single meal--it didn't make me
sleep a wink the less. In fact I felt immensely relieved after an hour
or two; for there's nothing like being a bachelor, Doctor--it's so jolly
being a bachelor; no man in his senses can be sad and melancholy because
he's got to remain a bachelor."
The Doctor heartily agreed with this opinion, but observed that men in
love were _not_ men in their senses. "Indeed they're not, Doctor--indeed
they're not; but, I say, have you any idea about who the girl is in this
business of Philip's? It isn't that pretty Miss Anison, is it?"
Now the Doctor had seen Captain Stanburne coming out of Mr. Stedman's
mill one day when he went there to get the manufacturer's present
address, and, coupling this incident with his leave of absence, had
arrived at a conclusion of his own. But he was not quite sure where
young Stanburne had been during his leave of absence.
"Why, he was down in Derbyshire," said the Colonel. "He told me he
didn't feel quite well, and wanted a day or two for rest in the country.
He said he was going to fish. I don't like giving leaves of
absence--we're here only for twenty-eight days; but in his case, you
know, after that accident"--
"Oh, he went down to Derbyshire, did he? Then I know for certain who the
girl is. It's Alice Stedman. Her father is down there, fishing."
"And who's she?"
"Why, you met her at Whittlecup, at Joseph Anison's. She's a quiet bit
of a lass, and a nice-looking lass, too. He might do worse."
"I say," said the Colonel, "tell me now, Doctor, has she got any tin?"
"She's safe to have thirty thousand if she's a penny; but it'll most
likely be a good bit more." Then the Doctor continued, "But there's no
blood in that family. Her father began as a working man in Shayton. It
wouldn't be much of a match for a Stanburne. It would not be doing like
you, Colonel, when you married an earl's daughter."
"Hang earls' daughters!" said the Colonel, energetically; and then,
recollecting himself, he added, "Not all of 'em, you know, Doctor--I
don't want all of 'em to be hanged. But this young woman--I suppose she
hasn't been presented at Court, and doesn't want to be--and doesn't go
to London every season, and has no swell relations." The Doctor gave
full assurances on all these points. "Then I'll tell you what it is,
Doctor; if this young fellow's fretting about the girl, we'll do all we
can to help him. He'd be more prudent still if he remained a bachelor;
but it seems a rational sort of a marriage to make. She ain't got an
uncle that's a baronet--eh, Doctor?"
"There's no danger of that."
"That's right, that's right; because, look you here, Doctor--it's a
foolish thing to marry an earl's daughter, or a marquis's, or a duke's;
but the foolishest thing of all is to marry a baronet's niece. A
baronet's niece is the proudest woman in the whole world, and she's
always talking about her uncle. A young friend of mine married a
baronet's niece, and she gave him no rest till, by good luck, one day
_his_ uncle was created a baronet, and then he met her on equal terms.
It's the only way out of it: you _must_ under those circumstances get
your uncle made a baronet. And if you don't happen to have such a thing
as an uncle, what then? What can cheer the hopelessness of your
miserable position?"
After this conversation with the Doctor, the Colonel had another with
Philip Stanburne himself. "Captain Stanburne," he said, gravely, in an
interval of afternoon drill, "I consider you wanting in the duties of
hospitality. I ask you to the Sootythorn mess, and you never ask me to
the Whittlecup mess. I am reduced to ask myself. I beg to inform you
that I shall dine at the Whittlecup mess this evening."
"I should be very happy, but--but I'm afraid you'll have a bad dinner.
There's nothing but a beefsteak."
"Permit me to observe," continued the Colonel, in the same grave tone,
"that there's a most important distinction to be drawn between bad
dinners and simple dinners. Some of the very worst dinners I ever sat
down to have been elaborate, expensive affairs, where the ambition of
the cook exceeded his artistic skill; and some of the best and
pleasantest have been simple and plain, and all the better because they
were within the cook's capacity. That's my theory about dining, and
every day's experience confirms it. For instance, between you and me, it
seems to me highly probable that your Whittlecup mess is better than
ours at headquarters, for Mr. Garley _rather_ goes beyond what nature
and education have qualified him for. His joints are good, but his
side-dishes are detestable, and his sweets dangerous. So let us have the
beefsteak to-night; there'll be enough for both of us, I suppose. And, I
say," added the Colonel, "don't ask anybody to meet me. I want to have a
quiet hour or two with you."
When drill was over, Fyser appeared on the field with a led horse for
the Captain, and the two Stanburnes rode off together in advance of the
company, which for once was left to the old sergeant's care. The dinner
turned out to be a beefsteak, as had been promised, and there was a
pudding and some cheese. The Colonel seemed to enjoy it very much, and
ate very heartily, and declared that every thing was excellent, and
talked at random about all sorts of subjects. They had the inn parlor
all to themselves; and when dinner was over, and coffee had been served,
and Mr. Simpson, the innkeeper (who had waited), had retired into other
regions, the Colonel lighted a cigar, and plunged _in medias res_.
"I know what you went down into Derbyshire for. You didn't go to fish;
you went to ask Mr. Stedman to let you marry his daughter, Miss Alice
Stedman."
For the first time since he had known him, Philip Stanburne was angry
with the Colonel. His face flushed at once, and he asked, in a tone
which was any thing but conciliatory,--
"Do you keep spies in your regiment, Colonel Stanburne?"
"Bardly saw you accidentally just as you were coming out of Mr.
Stedman's counting-house, and between us we have made a guess at the
object of your visit to Derbyshire."
"You are very kind to interest yourself so much in my affairs."
"Try not to be angry with me. What if I _do_ take an interest in your
affairs? It isn't wrong, is it? I take an interest in all that concerns
you, because I wish to do what I can to be of use to you."
"You are very kind."
"You are angry with me yet; but if I had plagued you with questions
about your little excursion, would it not have been more impertinent and
more irritating? I thought it best to let you see that I know all about
it."
"It was unnecessary to speak upon that subject until I had informed you
about it."
"My dear fellow, look here. It is not in the nature of things that you
_would_ tell me. You have been rejected either by the father or the
daughter, and you are going to make yourself ill about it; you are ill
already--you are pale, and you never eat any thing, and your face is as
melancholy as a face well can be. Be a good fellow, and take me into
your confidence, and we will see if we cannot put you out of your
misery."
"That is a phrase commonly used by people who kill diseased or wounded
animals. You are becoming alarming. You will let me live, I hope, such
as I am."
The Colonel perceived that Philip was coming round a little. He waited a
minute, and then went on.
"She's a very nice girl. I met her at Mr. Anison's here. I would rather
you married her than one of those pretty Miss Anisons. She seems a quiet
sensible young lady, who will stay at home with her husband, and not
always be wanting to go off to London, and Brighton, and the Lord knows
where."
Philip had had a suspicion that the Colonel was going to remonstrate
with him for making a plebeian alliance, but that began to be dispelled.
To induce him to express an opinion on that point, Philip said,--
"Her father is not a gentleman, you know."
"I know who he is--a very well-to-do cotton manufacturer; and a very
intelligent, well-informed man, I'm told. A gentleman! pray what _is_ a
gentleman?"
"A difficult question to answer in words; but we all know what we mean
by the word when we use it."
"Well, yes; but is it quite necessary to a man to be a gentleman at all?
Upon my word, I very often think that in our line of life we are
foolishly rigid on that point. I have met very clever and distinguished
men--men of science, and artists, and even authors--who didn't seem
quite to answer to our notions of what a gentleman is; and I know scores
of fellows who are useless and idle, and vicious too, and given up to
nothing but amusement--and not always the most innocent amusement
either--and yet all who know society would recognize them as gentlemen
at once. Now, between ourselves, you and I answer to what is called a
gentleman, and your proposed father-in-law, Mr. Stedman, you say
doesn't; but it's highly probable that he is superior to either of us,
and a deal more useful to mankind. He spins cotton, and he studies
botany and geology. I wish I could spin cotton, or increase my income in
any honest way, and I wish I had some pursuit. I tried once or twice: I
tried botany myself, but I had no perseverance; and I tried to write a
book, but I found my abilities weren't good enough for that; so I turned
my talents to tandem-driving, and now I've set up a four-in-hand. By the
by, my new team's coming to-morrow from London--a friend of mine there
has purchased it for me."
There was a shade of dissatisfaction on John Stanburne's face as he
concluded this little speech about himself. He did not seem to
anticipate the arrival of the new team with pleasure unalloyed. The
price, perhaps, may have been somewhat heavy--somewhat beyond his means.
That London friend of his was a sporting character, with an ardent
appreciation of horse-flesh in the abstract, and an elevated ideal. When
he purchased for friends, which he was sometimes commissioned to do, he
became truly a servant of the Ideal, and sought out only such realities
as a servant of the Ideal might contemplate with feelings of
satisfaction. These realities were always very costly--they always
considerably exceeded the pecuniary limits which had been assigned to
him. This was his only fault; he purchased well, and none of the
purchase-money, either directly or indirectly, found its way into his
own pocket.
The Colonel did not dwell, as he might have been expected to do, upon
the subject of the horses--he returned almost immediately to that of
matrimonial alliances.
"It's not very difficult to make a guess at the cause of Mr. Stedman's
opposition. Bardly tells me he's a most tremendous Protestant, earnest
to a degree, and you, my dear fellow, happen to be a Catholic. You'll
have to let yourself be converted, I'm afraid, if you really want the
girl."
"A man cannot change his faith, when he has one, because it is his
interest to do so. I would rather you did not talk about that
subject--at least, in that strain. You know my views; you know that
nothing would induce me to profess any other views."
"Bardly tells me he doesn't think Stedman will give in, so long as you
remain a Catholic."
"Very well."
"Yes, it may be very well--it may be better than marrying. It's a very
good thing, no doubt, to marry a good wife, but I'm not sure that the
condition of a bachelor isn't really better than that of the most
fortunate husband in the world. You see, Philip (excuse me calling you
by your Christian name; I wish you'd call me John), you see a married
man either cares about his wife or he doesn't. If he doesn't care about
her, what's the use of being married to her? If, on the other hand, he
_does_ care about her, then his happiness becomes entirely dependent
upon her humors. Some women--who are very good women in other
respects--are liable to long fits of the sulks. You omit some little
attention which they think is their due; you omit it in pure innocence,
because your mind is very much occupied with other matters, and then the
lady attributes it to all sorts of imaginary motives--it is a plan of
yours to insult her, and so on. Or, if she attributes it to
carelessness, then your carelessness is itself such a tremendous crime
that she isn't quite certain whether you ought ever to be forgiven for
it or not; and she hesitates about forgiving you for a fortnight or
three weeks, and then she decides that you shall be forgiven, and taken
into her grace and favor once more. But by the time this has been
repeated twenty or thirty times, a fellow gets rather weary of it, you
know. It's my belief that women are divided into two classes--the sulky
ones and the scolds. Some of 'em do their sulking in a way that clearly
shows it's done consciously, and intentionally, and artistically, as a
Frenchwoman arranges her ribbons. The great object is to show you that
the lady holds herself in perfect command--that she is mistress of her
own manner in every thing; and this makes her manner all the more
aggravating; because, if she is so perfectly mistress of it, why doesn't
she make it rather pleasanter?"
"It's rather a gloomy picture that you have been painting, Colonel, but
every lover will believe that there is _one_ exception to it."
"Of course he will. You believe Miss Alice Stedman is the exception;
only, if you can't get her, don't fret about her. She seems a very
admirable young lady, and I should be glad if you married her; because,
if you don't, the chances are that you will marry somebody else not
quite so suitable. But if I could be quite sure that you would remain a
bachelor, and take a rational view of the immense advantages of
bachelorhood, I shouldn't much regret Mr. Stedman's obduracy on your
account."
These views of the Colonel's were due, no doubt, to his present position
with Lady Helena. The causes which were gradually dividing them had been
slowly operating for several years, but the effects which resulted from
them were now much more visible than they had ever previously been.
First they had walked together on one path, then the path had been
divided into two by an all but invisible separation--still they had
walked together. But now the two paths were diverging so widely that the
eye began to measure the space between them, and as it measured the
space widened. It is as when two trains leave some great railway station
side by side. For a time they are on the same railroad, but after a
while you begin to perceive that the distance from your own train to the
other is gradually widening; and on looking down to the ground, which
seems to flow like a swift stream, you see a streak of green between the
two diverging ways, and it deepens to a chasm between two embankments;
and after that they are separated by spaces ever widening--spaces of
field and river and wood--till the steam of the other engine has
vanished on the far horizon.
John Stanburne's offers of assistance were very sincere, but what, in a
practical way, could he do? He could not make Mr. Stedman come round by
asking him to Wenderholme. There were plenty of people at Sootythorn who
would have done any thing to be asked to Wenderholme, but Mr. Stedman
was not one of them. Him the blandishments of aristocracy seduced not;
and there was something in his looks, even when you met him merely by
accident for an hour, as the Colonel had met him at Arkwright Lodge,
which told you very plainly how obdurate he would be where his
convictions were concerned, and how perfectly inaccessible to the most
artful and delicate coaxing. So the Colonel's good offices were for the
present very likely to be confined to a general willingness to do
something when the opportunity should present itself.
The day fixed for the ceremony of presentation of colors was now rapidly
approaching, and the invitations had all been sent out. It was the
Colonel's especial desire that this should take place at Wenderholme,
and the whole regiment was to arrive there the evening before, after a
regular military march from Sootythorn. The Colonel had invited as many
guests of his own as the house could hold; and, in addition to these,
many of the Sootythorn people, and one family from Whittlecup, were
asked to spend the day at Wenderholme Hall, and be witnesses of the
ceremony. The Whittlecup family, as the reader has guessed already, was
that from Arkwright Lodge; and it happened that whilst the Colonel was
talking with Philip Stanburne about his matrimonial prospects, Mr.
Joseph Anison came to the Blue Bell to call upon his young friend.
Philip and the Colonel were both looking out of the window when he came,
and before he entered the room, the Colonel found time to say, "Take
Anison into your confidence--_he_'ll be your best man, he knows Stedman
so well. Let me tell him all about it, will you? Do, now, let me."
Philip consented, somewhat reluctantly, and Mr. Anison had not been in
the room a quarter of an hour before the Colonel had put him in
possession of the whole matter. Mr. Anison's face did not convey very
much encouragement. "John Stedman is very inflexible," he said, "where
his religious convictions are in any way concerned, and he is very
strongly Protestant. I will do what I can with him. I don't see why he
should make such a very determined opposition to the match--it would be
a very good match for his daughter--but he is a sort of man that
positively enjoys sacrificing his interests and desires to his views of
duty. If I've any advice to offer, it will be to leave him to himself
for a while, and especially not to do any thing to conciliate him. His
daughter _may_ bring him round in her own way; she's a clever girl,
though she's a quiet one--and she can manage him better than anybody
else."
When Mr. Anison got back to Arkwright Lodge, he had a talk with Mrs.
Anison about Philip's prospects. "_I_ shouldn't have objected to him as
a son-in-law," said the husband; "he'll be reasonable enough, and let
his wife go to her own church."
"I wish he'd taken a fancy to Madge," said Mrs. Anison.
"Have you any particular reason for wishing so? Do you suspect any thing
in Madge herself? Do you think she cares for him?"
Mrs. Anison looked grave, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "I'm
afraid there _is_ something. I'm afraid she _does_ think about him more
than she ought to do. She is more irritable and excitable than she used
to be, and there is a look of care and anxiety on her face which is
quite painful sometimes. And yet I fancy that when Alice was here she
rather encouraged young Stanburne to propose to Alice. She did it, no
doubt, from anxiety to know how far he would go in that direction, and
now he's gone farther than she wished."