THE Colonel took his leisurely way, with his hat a little on the back of
his head, and his cane in his hand, along the dusty high-road towards
Edinburgh. Most of the people who met him on the way knew the old
soldier: he got salutations respectful and familiar on all sides; he had
something to say to half at least of the people on the road; and at the
doors, as he passed along in the fresh sunshine, which gladdened the air
without much warming it. Through the breaks in the houses were to be
seen glimpses of the broad sands, with the sea breaking upon them in its
long rush and roll, ringing through the air like a cannon-shot, though
there was nothing beyond a fresh breeze to impel its course. The
Colonel, born in this neighbourhood, and carrying its well-remembered
sights and sounds in his heart, during all his years of exile, rejoiced
in the boom of the Firth with that mixture of familiarity and novelty
which makes all the special features of his native locality so
delightful to a man who has been absent from it for years. He went
along, stopping now and then to speak to some one, recognizing every
turn on the road, and curious if he met a face which he had not seen
before; happy in his fresh outward eye, his youthful heart, and the
natural friendliness and universal interest which covered the sunny
surface of this Christian soul. Do not think that what lay below was
less profound or less sincere; but for that happy, natural temperament,
that involuntary observation of external things, the Colonel would have
been a bereaved, solitary, heartbroken man--would he have been better,
or more worthy of the love and respect which followed him everywhere?
As he approached the little town of Portobello, the Colonel diverged
from his road, and went to make inquiries of kindness for an old
friend. It was a prim suburban house, with its little plot of grass and
evergreens before the door, at which he entered, on the urgent
invitation of the maid, who, with perhaps less apparent deference than
such a maid would have had on the other side of the border, smiled over
all her fresh face her own welcome to "the Cornel," and took upon
herself to assure him that "the mistress was all her lane, and had been
baith the day and yesterday, and would be so thankful to see him." On
this representation the Colonel entered. This, too, it was easy to
gather from _a priori_ evidence, was an Indian house. Indian curiosities
ornamented the hall and staircase, by which the Colonel proceeded to the
drawing-room, a little faded in colour but very comfortable, where an
old lady, wrapped in a large old Indian shawl, of which the colours,
like the colours of the room, were rather the worse of years, sat in an
easy chair, with a soft footstool, and cushions for her shoulders, the
bell within her reach, and a little table with her book and her work
close by her side. Her hair was snow-white, but her cheeks as fresh in
complexion through their wrinkles as the cheeks of her rosy maid; and
her close cap, with its soft white blond and white ribbons, came round
her kind old face with a warm and homely simplicity, increasing the
natural expression, which was that which we call by instinct motherly.
Yet mother as she certainly must have been, she was alone, with nothing
near to bear witness of family love or ties, save a half-open letter,
written on impalpable pink Indian-letter paper, which lay on her little
table. The old lady held out her hand to her visitor without rising from
her chair. "Is that you, Edward? I am very glad to see you," she said,
with a look of real pleasure. The Colonel drew a chair to the other side
of the table, and sat down opposite to her. Then they asked each other
about their health, and the Colonel confided his private pangs of
rheumatism to the attentive ear of his ancient friend. They were old
friends, "close connections," as they said themselves--old people--had
lived much the same kind of life, with the difference of man and woman;
knew each other's affairs and each other's friends; and had lived for
years on those terms of affectionate amity which by-and-by perhaps will
be impracticable, and not to be hoped for, between a man and his
deceased wife's sister. Such was the relationship between Colonel
Sutherland and Mrs. Melrose: they had all the confidence of brother and
sister in each other, with perhaps even a touch of more animated
kindness, because their friendship had a little of choice in it, as well
as of nature.
"You look _fashed_," said the old lady. "I can see there's some trouble
going on behind your smile. What's the matter? Nothing wrong, I hope,
with the boys?"
"No, thank heaven!" said the Colonel; "if I had not meddled with other
boys, who are less within my control. I have two vexatious letters this
morning--one from that trustee I told you I had written to about my
nephew: he will not do anything for him."
"I thought as much," said Mrs. Melrose, with a little nod of her head.
"Take my advice another time, Edward: never you put any dependence on
these business men; what do they care for a young man's heart or
spirit, when it's interest and compound interest that's in the
question? I saw a great deal of them when I was young. My uncle that we
were sent home to was a merchant, you remember: we used to spend our
holidays there. I was very near marrying in that way myself, if I had
had my own will at seventeen. They're very good fathers and husbands,
and the like of that; but put a question of what's good for a man, and
what's good for his money, before them, and they aye put the last first.
Yes, yes, I had very little hopes from that; but you, you see, you're
one of the sanguine kind--you are a man that never will learn."
"So it appears," said the Colonel; "and now, as though that were not
enough, here's that hot-headed young Musgrave I told you of--he about
whom I wrote to old Armitage, of the Fifty-ninth, and to Sir George--a
famous young fellow!--a boy you'd make a pet of, as sure as life; here's
a letter from _him_, informing me that he can't impose upon my goodness,
and all that sort of thing, and that he's off to London. I have no doubt
in my own mind," said the Colonel, solemnly, "that at this moment the
lad's on horseback under the arch at the Horse-Guards, with a crowd
staring at him. You may laugh, but it's a very melancholy reflection; a
man of birth and manners; the last of an old family; it is extremely
vexatious to me."
"And why should the folk stare at him?--is he such a paladin?" asked the
old lady, with her merry laugh.
"He is a handsome fellow," said the Colonel, "and carries himself like a
gentleman--which is more than can be said of everybody," he added, with
a vexed recollection of Horace; "however, these are all _my_ affairs. Is
that a letter from Charlie? I certainly begin to forget the time for the
mail."
"You'll find it out by-and-bye, when Ned is gone," said Mrs. Melrose;
"but look you here, Uncle Edward--here's a sight for you--do ye think
that's like Charlie's hand?"
The Colonel made haste to get his spectacles from his pocket, and put
them on with a little nervousness.
"Eh?--what?--it's a lady's hand," he cried, peering at the pink epistle,
which the old lady held out to him triumphantly at arms length. "Who is
it? Eh? What's this? Fanny--no--Annie Melrose? Who on earth is Annie
Melrose? Do you mean to tell me the boy's married before he has been out
a year?"
"Indeed, and I am very sorry to say it is quite true," said the old
lady, shaking her head with a demure and proper regret, which was quite
belied by the bright expression in her eyes; "and really the two young
fools, they seem so happy, that I have not the heart to blame him; for,
after all, he's my only one, Edward, and I know who _she_ is--she's
Charlie's Colonel's daughter--you may recollect her; but I doubt if she
was out before you came home. It's a very short acquaintance, to be
sure, but she was at school here, and used to come and spend the day
with me. Her mother and I were great friends at Bintra when my poor
General was in command there. The father was just a subaltern then, and
no so very discreet either; and she was fighting among her young family,
poor thing! I took a notion in my head that she was like one of my
friends at home, and grew very fond of her. That time when Charlie was
ill, when he was five years old, just before we sent him home, when I
wanted poor Mary to go to the hills with me, and she could not--you
remember?--I took Mrs. Oswald and her youngest, who was very delicate
just then. To be sure, it was only a baby, poor bit thing, but the two
bairns had but one ayah between them, and lived for a month or two like
brother and sister. They were too young to remember anything about it;
but I always think there's a providence in these things. And so the
short and the long of it is, Charlie's married, and here's a penitent
letter from him, and a loving one from _her_; and if you believe me,
when I got them first, what with Charlie's pretence to be very sorry for
doing the rash act, as the newspapers say, out of my knowledge, when it
was just as clear as possible the boy was out of his wits with
happiness; and what with her pretty bit kindly letter, poor thing! I
laughed with pleasure till I cried, and cried till I laughed again. And
you may look as grave as you like, Uncle Edward--it was what you did
yourself, my man, and what your son will do after you; and you'll no
persuade me to make myself wretched because my only son is happy, and
has made himself a home."
Here some tears rolled quietly into the corners of the old lady's eyes,
and were wiped off with a small, withered, lively hand.
"For you know, Edward," she added, softly, "though I am not the person
to say much about that kind of thing, or to deny that there's quite as
many bad women as bad men, still, you know, Edward, it wants one of us
really to make a home."
"Ay, Elizabeth, I know," said the Colonel, with a suppressed and quiet
sigh. Then there was a momentary pause; but these two old people had
both come through life and its battles; both knew losses severe enough
to be beyond talking of; and over both beneficent age, consciously
approaching the invisible borders of another world, had spread his
patience and calm. The stream of talk was renewed again with a very
little interval.
"But I want to know," said Mrs. Melrose, "what you are going to do about
your nephew--is he coming here?"
"I proposed he should; I don't know--very likely he may prefer London;
indeed, it is rather difficult to decide for Horace; he has a great
opinion of his own judgment," said the Colonel. "However, things are
less complicated now; there is only himself to think of, since it
appears whatever is to be done for him I must do."
"Mind the boys in the first place, who have the best right, Edward,"
said the prudent old lady; "and mind, too, that I have a penny in the
corner of my purse if you should be put to that; and then about your
niece--is there any word of her coming to Milnehill?"
"I fear it," said the Colonel, shaking his head; "but, by-the-bye, that
reminds me--if I could persuade her father to let Susan come, will _you_
come to Milnehill, Elizabeth, and take charge of my little girl?"
"For why?" said Mrs. Melrose; "do you think you are not a safe enough
guardian for your niece at your age?--or that the young creature wants
an old wife to be spying over her for propriety's sake? Nonsense!--and
beside, Edward, if all's true the papers say, I'll want somebody to take
care of me, a delicate young person that I am, when I go to your house.
You do not suppose I would have gone to see you if I had thought you any
less than a brother all this time? But look at the fellow's impudence,
venturing to say, in the very Parliament itself, that the like of us are
no relations, and might court and marry like strangers. I would just
like to have a woman's Parliament for once in a way, to settle _them_,
the filthy fellows!--if they got out of it with a hair upon their heads
I can tell you it would be no fault of mine."
"You were always a politician, Elizabeth," said the Colonel, rising with
a smile.
"Very true. I had to read up all the news by every mail to let my poor
General know what he would be interested in," said the old lady; "little
wonder if I came to like it myself; and speaking of that, Edward, go
you your ways home and send me the _Times_. You would have brought it
with you if you had been a thoughtful man."
"Wait a wee," said the Colonel, in his kindly Scotch. "I had very near
forgot it with your news; here it is, safe in my pocket all this
time--and never deliver your judgment, Elizabeth, after this, till
you're sure the pannel is duly convicted. Here it is!"
So saying, the Colonel put down the paper, and took his leave of his
sister-in-law. As he went downstairs her elder servant, who seemed to be
on the watch, came out of the kitchen, followed by the pretty maid, to
arrest the Colonel, and ask if he knew Mr. Charlie was married. "And the
mistress is as pleased!" said that respectable functionary, "and
pretends to be angry, and laughs wi' her heart grit--and him only
three-and-twenty, and her eighteen! Cornel! did ye ever hear the like a'
your days?"
"Oh, yes, I've heard the like," said Colonel Sutherland, smiling; "and
as it was sure to happen some time, Janet, do you not think it's as
well soon as syne?"
"Weel, Cornel, that's true," said Janet, going out with grave perplexity
to open the little garden gate for him. Janet was more shocked in her
propriety than her mistress, and did not find it nearly so easy to
reconcile herself to the strange event.
Then the Colonel proceeded homeward in the same leisurely fashion. The
day had overcast, the breeze had freshened, the sea rushed with a louder
fling upon the sand, and made a sharper report at the height of each
successive wave. Rain was coming on, and Colonel Sutherland quickened
his footsteps. When he had reached as far as the wayside village of
Joppa (Joppie in the vernacular), it was necessary to take shelter till
the shower was over. While he stood waiting, with his deaf ear attentive
to the entreaty of the good woman at whose porch he stood, to come in
and rest, a post-chaise went rapidly past. Glancing out from it, with
the momentary glance of a wayfarer, appeared a face which the Colonel
recognized without being able to tell who it was; a yellow face,
querulous but kindly--a fastidious, inquisitive pair of eyes. Beside the
driver on the box was a man with a cockade on his hat, with whose face,
too, the Colonel found himself strangely familiar. Who could it be? He
watched the vehicle till it was out of sight, persuading himself that it
had taken the road to Inveresk, and followed it as soon as the rain was
over, without knowing who his visitors might be, but in the fullest
expectation of finding somebody arrived before him at Milnehill.