"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.