THE COLONEL'S CORRESPONDENT.
The pleasant house in Kent at which Colonel Orpington and his daughter
are staying is filled with agreeable company. Not merely young men who
are out shooting all day in the thick steaming coverts well preserved
with pheasants; not merely young women who are in the habit of carrying
on perpetual flirtation with the afore-named young men in language
intelligible to themselves alone, who look upon the Colonel as rather
a fogey, and who, as he confesses himself, bore him immensely, and are
very much deteriorated from the youth of his time; but several people
of his own age--club-hunting men who began life when he did, and have
pursued it much after the same fashion; and ladies who take interest in
all the talk and scandal and reminiscences of bygone years.
The house is situated at such a little distance from town--some sixty
miles or so--that it is traversed in very little more than an hour
by the express train, which (the owner of the house is a director
of the railway) can be always stopped by signal at the very small
station nearest to it; so that the company is constantly changing, and
receiving fresh accessions, the coming guests being welcomed, and the
parting guests being speeded, after the ordinary recipe.
But throughout the changes, Colonel Orpington and his daughter are
among the company who stay on; both of them are voted excellent
company, for the nights are beginning to grow long now, and the
dinner-hour has been fixed at seven instead of eight; and there is a
great talk of and preparation for certain amateur theatricals, of which
the Colonel, who is an old hand at such matters, is stage-manager and
principal director, and in which Miss Orpington is to take a leading
part. Much astonishment has been privately exhibited by certain of the
assembled people that that restlessness which generally characterised
"old O.," as he was familiarly termed amongst them, seemed to have
abated during his visit to Harbledown Hall; more especially has a calm
come over those horribly troublesome slate-quarries and lead-mines in
South Wales, which usually took the Colonel so frequently away from his
daughter and his friends. The matter is discussed in the smoking-room
late at night, long after the well-preserved Colonel has retired to his
rest; and Badger Bobus, who is come down to stay at Harbledown on the
first breath of there being any possibility of club-hunting, thinks
that he ought to keep up the reputation which he acquired by his famous
saying on the subject; but the Muse is unpropitious, and all that Bobus
can find to remark is, that "it is deuced extraordinary."
The long interval which has now elapsed since her father found it
necessary to relieve her of his presence does not seem to have had much
effect upon Miss Orpington. Truth to tell, whether her revered parent
is or is not with her has now become a matter of very small moment with
that lady; and when her hostess congratulates herself in supposing that
her house must indeed be attractive when that dear Colonel consents
to remain there as a fixed star, Miss Orpington merely shrugs her
shoulders slightly and expresses no further acquiescence.
Life has gone on in all this Arcadian simplicity for full five
weeks, when the appearance of the Colonel at the breakfast-table,
blue frock-coated and stiff-collared, instead of in the usual easy
garb adopted by him in the country of a morning, shows some intended
change in his proceedings. The wags of the household, Badger Bobus
and his set, are absent from the breakfast-table; for there was a
heavy billiard-match on the night before, and they were yet sleeping
off its effects. Nevertheless the change in the Colonel's costume is
not unobserved; but before a delicately-contrived question can be put
to extract its meaning, the Colonel himself announces that he has to
go to town for a day, and may possibly be prevented from returning
that night. Modified expressions of horror from the young ladies
and gentlemen about to act in the amateur theatricals, then close
impending--fears that everything will go wrong during the manager's
absence, and profound distrust of themselves without his suggestions
and experience. The Colonel takes these compliments very coolly--is
pretty nearly certain to be back that night; and his absence will
give them a chance of striking-out any new lights which may occur to
them, and which can be tendered for his acceptance on his return. Miss
Orpington, when appealed to to persuade her father not to be longer
away than is absolutely necessary, meets the matter with her usual
shoulder-shrug, and a calm declaration that in those matters she never
interferes, and papa always pleases himself.
The Yorkshire baronet with money to whom she is engaged, and who does
not put in appearance until after the Colonel's announcement has been
made (he was one of the most interested in the billiard-match, and ran
Badger Bobus very hard at the last), is really delighted at the news.
He and the Colonel get on very well together--they are on the best of
terms both as regards present and prospective arrangements; but there
is, as Sir George Hawker remarks, something about the "old boy" which
did not "G" with his, Sir George's, notions of perfect comfort.
Before the last of the dissipated ones has dropped-in to the dry bacon
and leathery toast, the remnants of the haddocks, and the _débris_
of the breakfast, the Colonel is driving a dogcart to the station,
where the signal for the express to stop is already flying. The
equanimity which the old warrior has sustained in the presence of his
friends deserts him a little now when there is no one near him save a
stolid-faced groom who is gazing vacantly over the adjacent country.
His annoyance does not vent itself on the horse--he is too good a whip
for that--but he "pishes!" and "pshaws!" and is very short and sharp
with the groom demanding orders as he leaves his master at the station;
and when he has been sucked-up, as it were, into the train, which
is again thundering on its townward way, he takes a letter from his
pocket, and daintily adjusting his natty double-eyeglass on his nose,
reads it through and through.
"This is the infernal nuisance of having to make women allies in
matters of this kind," says he softly to himself, laying down the
letter and looking out of the window. "They are always doing too much
or too little; anything like a _juste milieu_ seems to be utterly
impossible to them; and I cannot make out from this girl's rodomontade
nonsense whether she has not just overstepped her instructions, and
so spoiled what promised to be a remarkably pretty little plot. And
yet it was the only thing I could do, and she was the only available
person. It was a thousand pities that Clarisse was away from town at
the moment; for she is not merely thoroughly trustworthy, but always
has her wits about her."
When the train arrives in London, the Colonel calls a cab, and is
driven to the Beaufort Club, which is still empty and deserted, and
where he asks the porter whether certain members, whom he names, had
been there lately. Among these names is that of Mr. Derinzy; and on
being answered in the negative, he brightens up a little and pursues
his way. This time the cabman is directed to drive to the Temple; and
at the Temple gates he stops and deposits his fare.
There are symptoms of renewing life among the lawyers, for term-time
is coming on. As the Colonel steps down Middle Temple Lane, he passes
by long ladders, and has to skip out of the way of the shower of
whitewash and water which the painters, standing on them, scatter
refreshingly about. It is for Selden Buildings that Colonel Orpington
is making; and, arrived in that quiet little nook, where the hum of
the many-footed passing up and down Fleet Street sounds only like the
distant roar of the sea, he stops before the doorway of No. 5, and
after a rapid glance upwards, to assure himself that he is right,
enters the house, and climbs the dingy staircase. The clerks in the
attorney's office on the ground-floor seem to be in full swing; but the
oak on the first-floor, guarding the chambers where Tocsin, Q.C., gets
himself in training for gladiatorial practice, is closed, Tocsin being
still away. Arrived at the second-floor, the Colonel pauses to take
breath, the ascent having been a little steep. There are two doors,
one on either hand, and both are closed. After a moment's breathing
space, the Colonel turns to the one on the right, which bears the name
of "Mr. John Wilson," and after a short glance round, to see that he
is unobserved--it was scarcely worth the trouble, for he was most
certain there would be none there to see him--he takes a neat little
Bramah-key from his pocket, opens the oak, and entering, closes it
carefully behind him. There is nothing in the little hall but a stone
filter and a couple of empty champagne bottles. So the Colonel does
not linger there, but quickly passing through, opens the door in front
of him, and finds himself in a large room dimly lit, by reason of
the window-blinds being all pulled down. When these are raised--and
to raise them is the Colonel's first proceeding--he looks round him
with a shiver, lights a fire, which is already laid in the grate, and
carelessly glances round the apartment. Not like a lawyer's rooms
these; not like the office of a hardworking attorney, the chambers of
a hard-reading, many-brief-getting barrister; not like the chambers of
Tocsin, Q.C.--even though Tocsin notoriously goes in for luxury, and
affects to be a swell; no litter of many papers here, no big bundles
of briefs, no great sheets of parchment, no tin boxes painted with
resonant names (in most cases as fictitious as the drawers of Mr. Bob
Sawyer's chemist-shop), no legal library bound in calf, no wig-box,
no stuff-gown refreshingly dusted with powder hanging up behind the
door. Elegant furniture, more like that found in a Mayfair drawing-room
than in the purlieus of the Temple: long looking-glasses from floor to
ceiling, velvet-covered mantelpiece, china gimcrackery placed here and
there, easy-chairs and sofa; no writing-table, but a little davenport
of old black oak, a round dining-table capable of seating six persons,
a heavy sideboard also in black oak, and a dumb-waiter. Heavy cloth
curtains, relieved by an embroidered border, cover the windows; and on
the walls are proofs after Landseer. Thick dust is over all; and as the
fire is slow in lighting, the Colonel shivers again as he gives it a
vicious poke, and says to himself:
"'Gad! there is a horrible air of banquet-halls deserted, and all that
kind of thing, about the place! It must be more than three months
since anyone was in it. When was the last time, by-the-way? Oh, when
I gave Grenville and Brown and Harriet that supper after the picnic."
The fire struggles up a little, but the Colonel still shivers. "I wish
I had told that old woman who attends to this place that Mr. Wilson
was likely to be here for an hour or two to-day, and wanted his fire
lit. I hope my young friend will be punctual. It is better down at
Harbledown than at this dreary place; and it wouldn't do for me to
show in town--not that there is anybody here to see me, I suppose.
Young Derinzy away still--that is good hearing; but what could she have
meant by 'things not looking very straight?' Always so confoundedly
enigmatical and mysterious in her writing. Perhaps she will be more
explicit when we meet face to face." Then, looking at his watch, "Let
me see--just two; and I have not time to get any luncheon anywhere;
that is to say, if she comes at the hour which I telegraphed to her."
The fire is burning bravely now, and the Colonel is bending over it,
rejoicing in its warmth, when he hears a slight tinkling of a bell. He
looks up and listens.
"'Gad! I forgot I had closed the oak," he says. "I come here so seldom,
that the ways of these places are still strange to me." (Tinkle again.)
"That must be my young friend."
He rises leisurely, crosses the hall, and opens the door, and is
confronted by a tall young woman, rather flashily dressed, who lifts
her veil, and reveals the features of Miss Bella Merton, the clerk at
Mr. Kammerer's, the photographer.
"Is Mr. Wilson in, sir?" asked the young lady, with a demure glance.
"He is," said the Colonel; "and delighted to welcome you to his
rooms. Come in, my dear young lady; there is no necessity for either
of us acting a part now. You are very punctual, and in matters of
business--and ours is entirely a matter of business--that is a very
excellent sign."
He led her into the room, pulled an arm-chair opposite the fire, and
handed her to it.
"I scarcely know whether I am doing right in coming here, Colonel
Orpington," said Bella Merton--"by myself, you know, and alone with a
gentleman," she added, as if in reply to his wondering look.
"I mentioned just now that there was no necessity for any nonsense
between us, Miss Merton," said the Colonel quietly, "and that we are
engaged on what is purely a matter of business. Let us understand
each other exactly. You are my agent, my paid agent--I don't wish to
hurt your feelings, but in business frankness is everything--to make
inquiries and act for me in a certain matter, and you have come here
to make me your report. There is no mystery about it so far as you are
concerned, except that you are to know me in it as Mr. Wilson; but you
will find, my dear Miss Merton, as you grow older, that in many of
the most important business transactions in the world the name of the
principal is not allowed to transpire. Do I make myself clear?"
Miss Merton, though still young, has plenty of _savoir faire_. She
takes her cue at once; lays aside her giggling, demure, and blushing
friskiness, and comes to the point.
"Perfectly, Mr. Wilson," she replied. "I received your telegram, and am
here obedient to it."
"That is very right, very prompt, and very much to the purpose," says
the Colonel. "I ask you to meet me here, because in your note received
this morning you seem to intimate that things were not going quite as
comfortable as I could wish with our young friend--Fanny, I think you
call her. Is not that her name?"
"Yes; Fanny Stafford."
"Very well, then; in future we will always speak of her as Fanny, or
Miss Stafford, as occasion may require. Will you be good enough now to
enter into farther particulars?"
"Well, you see, Mr. Wilson"--and the girl cannot help smiling as she
repeats his name, for Colonel Orpington looks so utterly unlike any
possible Mr. Wilson--"Fanny has grown dull and out of sorts lately; and
I cannot help thinking, from some words she has occasionally dropped,
that she is anxious to leave Madame Clarisse, and settle herself in
life."
"I don't know that I should prove any obstacle to that," says the
Colonel; "it would depend, of course, on the manner in which she
proposed to settle herself."
"Of course," says the girl, looking at him keenly; "that is just it;
and, if I may be excused for saying so, I don't think hers was in your
way."
"Very likely not. Please understand you are to say everything and
anything that comes into your head and you think relates to the
business we have in hand. I imagine, from the hint in your letter, that
the gentleman of whom we have spoken, Mr. ----, how do you call him?"
"Mr. Douglas--Paul Douglas."
"Ay, Mr. Douglas--had come to town. On inquiry, I find this is not the
case."
"No, but she hears from him constantly; and though she never shows
me his letters, I can gather from what she says that there has been
something in the last one or two of them which has upset her very much."
"You have not the least idea what this something may be? Do you imagine
he proposes to break with her?"
"On the contrary, I think she discovers that his love for her is
even deeper than she imagined, and I think that her conscience is
reproaching her a little in regard to him."
The Colonel looks up astonished.
"Who can have benefited by any lapse or waywardness of which these
conscience-stings can be the result?" he asks. "Not I for one."
"I don't think anyone is benefited by them, Colonel Orpington,"
says the girl, with a shadow on her face; "I am sure no one has in
the way you suggested. What I mean is this, that Fanny is naturally
discontented with her position, and anxious for riches, and fine
clothes, and a pretty home, and all that. Since I have talked to her
about you and the strong admiration you have for her, and your coming
after her photograph and giving Mr. Kammerer the heavy price he asked
for it, and constantly speaking to me about her, she has grown more
discontented still, I fancy; and we women can generally read each
others minds and guess at each other's ideas, principally from the fact
that we are all made use of and played upon in the same way, I imagine.
I fancy that Fanny thinks that she has not acted quite fairly towards
Paul Douglas since his absence; that all this talk about you has
lessened her regard for him, and led her to picture to herself
another future than that which she contemplated when he went away,
and---- Well, I have rather an idea that there is another disturbing
element in the matter."
"'Gad!" says the Colonel, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, "there
seems to be quite enough complication as it is. What is it now?"
"I fancy that a young man in her own station of life, bright, active,
and industrious, and likely to make a very good position for himself in
that station out of which he would never want to move--for he is proud
of it, and thoroughly self-reliant--is deeply smitten with Fanny, and
that she knows it."
The Colonel looks up relieved.
"I wouldn't give much for this young man's chance, pattern of all the
virtues though he may be. I don't think he is much in Miss Stafford's
line."
"Perhaps not," says Bella Merton, "nor do I think he would be likely
to succeed, if Fanny had not several sides to her character. At all
events, whether he succeeds or not, the knowledge that he cares
for her, and that he is ready to open a new career for her, has an
irritating and upsetting effect upon her just now."
The Colonel lit a cigar during the progress of this dialogue, and sat
smoking it thoughtfully.
"Do you happen to know whether Madame Clarisse is in town?" he asks her
after a few minutes' pause.
"I think I heard Fanny say that she came back from Paris last week,"
replies Miss Merton; "yes, I am sure she did; for I recollect Fanny
telling me Madame had said that she might have a holiday, and I wanted
her to come away with me to get a change somewhere."
"Quite right of you to throw yourself as much with her as possible;
but don't take her away just yet. You have given me most admirable
aid, Miss Merton, and have managed this affair with a delicacy and
discretion which do you infinite credit, and which I shall never
forget. Will you add to your favour?"
"Willingly if I can, Colonel--I mean Mr. Wilson," says Bella, with a
blush. "How is it to be done?"
"By getting yourself a dress, or mantle, or something of that new brown
colour which has just come into fashion, about which all the ladies are
raving, and which I am sure would become you admirably, and by wearing
it the next time I have the pleasure of receiving a visit from you,"
says the Colonel, pressing a bank-note into his visitor's hand. "And
now goodbye. Not a word of thanks; I told you at the beginning this was
a mere matter of business; I am merely carrying out my words."
"You wish me still to see Fanny, and to let you know anything that may
transpire?" asks Bella.
"Certainly; though perhaps I may soon---- However, never mind; write
always to the same address, and keep me well informed."
Miss Merton goes tripping through the Temple, in great delight at the
crisp little contents of her purse that she has just received from the
Colonel, and commanding great tribute of admiration from the attorneys'
clerks who catch glimpses of her through the grimy windows behind which
they are working; and Colonel Orpington, _alias_ Mr. John Wilson, sits
with his feet before him on the fender, smoking slowly, and cogitating
over all he has heard.
It is dusk in the Temple precincts, though still bright light outside,
before he rises from his chair, flings the but-end of his last cigar
into the fire, and says to himself:
"Yes, I think that I must now appear on the scene myself, and see how
the land lies with my own eyes. I wonder whether young Derinzy has
been playing this recent game from forethought or by accident. Deuced
clever move of his if he intended it; but I rather think it was all a
chance; such knowledge of life does not come to one until after a great
deal of experience, and he is a mere boy as yet. I don't think much
of what my young friend just now said about the tradesman, artisan,
or whatever the fellow may happen to be, though she seemed to have a
notion that he would prove dangerous. However, it will all work out in
time, I suppose. I won't stop in town to-night, now there is nothing
to be done; the house in Hill Street is all upset, and I will go back
to my comfortable quarters at Harbledown, and give those acting people
the benefit of my society. John Orpington," he says, looking at himself
in the glass over the mantelpiece, "you have come to a time of life
when rest is absolutely necessary for you, and you have got too much
good sense to ignore the fact; and as to Miss Fanny Stafford, well--_la
nuit forte conseil_--I will sleep upon all I have heard, and make up my
mind to-morrow morning." And so little excited or flurried is Colonel
Orpington by the events of the day, that when the down express is
stopped by signal at the little station, the guard, previously charged
to look out for him, finds the Colonel deep in slumber over his evening
newspaper.