“Dear Sir,—Your favour of the 15th came duly to hand, though I confess that I wasstartled by its contents. My connection with the Scarsdale estate is not what you imagine. I have no control over the money whatever, nor power to draw upon it until the proper period; therefore, of course, I must decline, as you will perceive it is entirely impossible for me to accede to your request. My position is sufficiently uncomfortable at present without further complications.“You are, perhaps, aware that the trustees were chosen from among young men, for the express reason that they might be expected to survive until the time stipulated. As I have just said, I find my position sufficiently disagreeable already, and should be very sorry to embarrass it further with any unjustifiable proceedings. Your relation has the eye of a lynx, and keeps it constantly upon us. As for the young man, I cannot but think his father is quite right in keeping him ignorant. In such circumstances as his, with the least inclination towards gaiety, and knowing his own position, he would assuredly fall into the hands of the Jews. As for putting him in a profession, I am bound to say with Mr. Scarsdale, that Iconsider it unnecessary; but as I am unable to render any assistance, I refrain from advice which might not be so acceptable as I could wish.”
“Dear Sir,—Your favour of the 15th came duly to hand, though I confess that I wasstartled by its contents. My connection with the Scarsdale estate is not what you imagine. I have no control over the money whatever, nor power to draw upon it until the proper period; therefore, of course, I must decline, as you will perceive it is entirely impossible for me to accede to your request. My position is sufficiently uncomfortable at present without further complications.
“You are, perhaps, aware that the trustees were chosen from among young men, for the express reason that they might be expected to survive until the time stipulated. As I have just said, I find my position sufficiently disagreeable already, and should be very sorry to embarrass it further with any unjustifiable proceedings. Your relation has the eye of a lynx, and keeps it constantly upon us. As for the young man, I cannot but think his father is quite right in keeping him ignorant. In such circumstances as his, with the least inclination towards gaiety, and knowing his own position, he would assuredly fall into the hands of the Jews. As for putting him in a profession, I am bound to say with Mr. Scarsdale, that Iconsider it unnecessary; but as I am unable to render any assistance, I refrain from advice which might not be so acceptable as I could wish.”
The Colonel read this over and over again, with concern and attention. After he had fully satisfied himself of its meaning, and discovered that there was not even an inference of help from one end to the other, he folded it up again, and threw it into the fire. “Better leave no chance of its ever coming into Horace’s hands,” he said, as he accomplished this discreet destruction. He was annoyed and vexed with a renewal of the feeling which had moved him on his interview with Mr. Scarsdale, though without the profound regret and compassion which he then experienced; but he was scarcely disappointed. He held his other letter in his hand, and entered into a little rapid mental calculation before he broke the seal, considering how it would be possible, out of his own means, to make the necessary provision for his nephew’s studies—“Unnecessary for him to have a profession?Is it necessary for the boy to be ruined body and soul?” cried the Colonel, unconsciously aloud—“because he has the luck to be descended from a diabolical old——.” Here Colonel Sutherland made a pause, restrained himself, shook his head, and said, with a sigh, thinking certainly of his brother-in-law, and perhaps a little of his nephew, “Ah! there’s mischief in the blood!”
His other letter was that one which poor Roger Musgrave had written amid all the echoes of his empty house. This agitated and excited the Colonel much more than the other had done. His spectacles grew dim while he was reading it—he gave utterance to various exclamations at the different points of the letter. He said, “Very true!” “Very natural!” “Poor fellow!” “Exactly as I should have felt myself!”—and showed other demonstrations of interest in his restless movements and neglect of his half-finished breakfast. The conclusion, however, threw him into evident distress; he got up and walked about the room, stopping unconsciously to take up a piece of useless paper on one of the tables andtear it into little pieces. Anxiety and doubt became the prevailing expression of his face. Here in a moment were all his plans for Roger deranged and broken to pieces; and yet it was so natural, so characteristic, on the whole so right and honest, that he could not say a word against it. But it did not grieve him the less on that account. Roger was going to London, that was the sole clue to him; and he had no reply from Sir John Armitage—no response to his own appeal from the influential personages whom he believed himself to have influence with.
“He’ll be a private soldier by this time; most likely a Guardsman,” said the Colonel, and his imagination conjured up the splendid figures under the arches at the Horse Guards with a positive pang, as he thought of Roger Musgrave’s ingenuous face turned, crimson and shame-faced, towards the crowd. What could the Colonel do?—nothing but fill his mind with anxious and uncomfortable reflections concerning the life and fortune, and, besides these, the manners and morals, of his youngprotegé—and wait.
The house of Milnehill stood upon the sunny brae of Inveresk, at no great distance from the square barn-church, ornamented by a pepperbox steeple, with which the taste of our grandfathers has crowned that lovely little eminence. The garden on one side was surrounded by an old wall, mossed and gray, above which you could see nothing but the towering branches of the chestnuts, which in the early summer built fair their milky pinnacles of blossom over this homely enclosure. The garden sloped under these guardian shadows open and bright towards the sea, though at the distance of at least two miles from the immediate coast—and the wall on the lower side was low enough to permit a full view from the windows of that beautiful panorama: the little town of Musselburgh, with its fishing suburb lying snug below; the quiet pier stretching its gray line of masonry into the sea; the solitary fishing-boat hovering by; the wide sweep of bay beyond, with the Bass in the distance lying like a turtle or tortoise upon the water, and all the low, far, withdrawing ranges of the hills of Fife.The house was of two stories, homely and rural, with one pretty bright room on either side of the little hall, which was filled with Indian ornaments, as was also Colonel Sutherland’s drawing-room, which the Colonel did not enter once in a month. Behind and on the upper story there was abundant room for a family—though the rooms upstairs were low, and shaded by the eaves. The house altogether was old-fashioned, and much behind its neighbours. Smooth polished stone, square-topped windows, palladian fronts, and Italian villas have strayed into Inveresk as to other quarters of the world. But Milnehill remained red-tiled and picturesque, with eaves in which the swallows built, and lattice windows which opened wide to the sweet air and sunshine, and smoke curling peacefully through the branches over the red ribs of the tiled roof. The Colonel had some family associations with the place—perhaps, in his heart, for he was no artist, the old soldier was a little ashamed of his tiles, and thought the smooth “elevation” next to him, turning its windows to the dusty road, and looking as if it had strayed out fromthe town for a walk and been somehow arrested there, was a much superior looking place to his nest among the trees. But Milnehill, the Colonel was fond of saying, was very comfortable, and he liked the view; and, indeed, not to consult the Colonel, the fact was, Milnehill was the cosiest, honestest little country house within a dozen miles.
If Susan could but see that paradise of comfort and kindness!—she who knew no interior but Marchmain. When the Colonel had read his paper he put up his glasses, put on his great-coat, took his hat and his cane, and went out through his garden, pausing to see the progress of the crocuses, and to calculate in his own mind when his earliest tulip would bloom—to take his daily walk. Though his mind was engaged, he had all that freshness and minuteness of external observation which some old men keep to the end of their days: he saw, with a real sensation of pleasure, the first big bud upon his favourite chestnut begin to shake out its folded leaves; he noted the earliest tender shoot of a green sheath starting through the sheltered soil, in that sweet nookwhere his lilies of the valley waited for the spring; and so opened his garden gate and went out into the sunshine of the high-road, to see the light shining upon Arthur’s seat, and the smoke floating over Edinburgh, and the country between quivering over with an indescribable sentiment of renewal and life. There was not very much variety in the Colonel’s walks—this day, without any particular intention, he turned his steps towards the sea.
THEColonel 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, bornin 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 oldfriend. 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 froma priorievidence, 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 complexionthrough 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; andhad 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 lookfashed,” 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 fromhim, 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 allmyaffairs. 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 theold 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 whosheis—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 anotion 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 fromher; 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 criedtill 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 streamof 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, willyoucome 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 settlethem, 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 likeit myself; and speaking of that, Edward, go you your ways home and send me theTimes. 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 tohappen 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 totell 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.
“SOMEBODYhas 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. Thedining-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 breathfor 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, ifnothing 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 amanfrom the ranks, all very well—but I defy you to raise his wife; that must be looked to directly, Sutherland—don’tyou 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 possessedby 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. Supposea 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 andmufflers 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.
FORthis first day, it must be allowed, the Colonel did not particularly enjoy the stranger in his house. The establishment of Milnehill consisted of two maids and Patchey, who had been Colonel Sutherland’s factotum and personal manager for twenty years. Patchey’s name was Paget as it happened, and he was supposed to have noble blood in his veins, as he boasted on certain extreme occasions; but it was only on very grand festivals, and as a name of state, that his noble patronymic was produced, and for the most part he was well content with Patchey, which consisted better with his fortunes. Patchey was Irish by birth, though Scotch to extremity in everything else; but that accident perhaps helped himto rather more blunders than might have been expected from his discreet years and sober mind. At the present moment Patchey was considerably elated by the arrival of his old acquaintance, Sir John’s man, who required more entertainment than his master, and made demands upon Patchey’s time as host which somewhat interfered with his duties. This travelled gentleman made no less an impression upon the maids, who were also considerably distracted from their proper and necessary occupations, in spite of the anxiety of Betsy, the cook, to produce a creditable dinner in honour of Sir John. These combined causes made great infringement upon the Colonel’s quiet comfort during the day. His biscuit and little bottle of Edinburgh ale did not make their appearance till nearly an hour after the proper time. He had to ring three times for something he wanted; and Patchey himself, the soberest of men, shared, by way of encouraging hisconfrère, in so many little bottles of the said Edinburgh, that he appeared at last in a confused condition of wisdom, which excited to the utmost the wrath of the Colonel. The explosionof unwonted indignation which came upon Patchey’s astonished head sobered him effectually, and the house recovered its equilibrium, especially when Sir John’s man was summoned to his master, and the maids awoke to an uncomprehending dread of “the Cornel in a passion,” which frightful picture Patchey presented to them in colours sufficiently terrible. Afterwards things went on smoothly enough. An unexceptionable dinner made its appearance, with such a curry as would have won the heart and warmed the palate of any old Indian; and Patchey, if he looked a little wiser and more solemn than usual, was all the more rigid in the proprieties, and behaved himself with a dignity worthy of the grand butler at Armitage Park. Sir John, who had not been seen since breakfast, appeared wonderfully refreshed and rejuvenated at the dinner-table. The leading fancy which inspired him at the present moment, though it frightened him, and though he feigned to fly from it, had nevertheless its influence upon his toilette, as well as on more important things. He was about fifty, middle-sized, yellow-complexioned,but, save for a little querulousness of expression, by no means like an invalid. Neither did the shade of Parisian fashion in his dress increase his pretensions to ill health, though it added a certain odd, indefinable something of the ridiculous to his appearance, which Colonel Sutherland could not make out, yet could not help observing. Of this, however, nobody could be more profoundly unaware than Sir John, though no one would have been quicker to perceive the same thing in another. He took his seat at the cosy round table with a sigh of satisfaction, and looked round upon all the comforts of the room; the fire sparkling and manageable and not too large, the crimson curtains drawn, the bright lamp, the well-spread table, and Patchey’s solemn face at the sideboard. “Happy man!—youhave not been thrust into a gloomy desert of an Armitage Park, and congratulated on your good fortune—youcan make yourself as cosy as you will!” said Sir John, who for the moment commiserated himself most sincerely, and thought with a positive shudder of those ghostly rooms from which he had fled, to suchcold comfort as could be found in a Parisianappartement, shining with white marble and white muslin, stucco and gold.
“I suppose you could make yourself snug, too, if you preferred it, eh?” said the Colonel, across the table. “I don’t thinkIshould have quarrelled with Armitage Park, for the sake of my Ned and Tom.”
And as he said these words he put his hand to his ear, and bent across the table for his companion’s answer; for the Colonel was not without a spice of mischief in his nature, and rather enjoyed the silent hitch of the unfortunate baronet’s shoulder, the pucker on his brow, and the “pshaw!” of disgust which burst from his lips. However, the dinner mollified Sir John—that Indo-British dinner, with its one yellow-complexioned dish, and its general tone, slight butprononcée, of oriental fervor. Had not Betsy been cook to General Mulligatawny, and lived three years with Mrs. Melrose? Paris was nothing to her—Sir John proclaimed his enthusiastic approbation aloud.
When the important meal was over, and thetwo gentlemen sat by the fire over their wine, they had a long dinner-talk about Scott of the 27th and Wood of the 40th—and that fine fellow Simeon, who was forming the troop of Irregulars, you know—and poor Peter, who lost his majority by that ugly accident, and only recovered to see his juniors passed before him—and Hodgson, who came home on sick leave—and Roberts, who had got cadetships for all his five sons. When that highly interesting and satisfactory talk flagged with the removal of the cloth, and the departure of the servants, Colonel Sutherland began to grow a little anxious about hisprotegé. Poor Roger, though Sir John might be very willing to befriend him, evidently occupied a very small place in the baronet’s memory. The Colonel cracked some nuts very slowly, and fell into silence. His visitor lost in the depths of that easy chair—the Colonel’s own chair—which the selfish little man, in the most entire disregard of prescriptive rights, had unfeelingly appropriated, looked round him with perfect comfort and satisfaction. In the momentary silence, the crackle of the fire, thedeliberate crack, crack of Colonel Sutherland’s nutcrackers, the faint sound of the breeze outside, combined to heighten the tranquillity, ease, and uninterrupted comfort of the scene. “By George!” cried Sir John, suddenly starting up with an action so impetuous that he almost upset his wine, and caused the Colonel to stop short in his occupation, holding out his nutcracker in one hand, putting the other to his ear, and looking with a startled glance over the top of his spectacles.
“This time last night I was tossing on your detestable German ocean, wishing you and your house far enough, and as sick as—as—as an unfortunate traveller could be. I think this a very agreeable contrast. Though you do throw your boys in my teeth, old fellow, here’s prosperity and happiness to Milnehill!”
“And a very hearty welcome to my old comrade,” said the Colonel, stretching out his kind hand.
Settling down after this little effusion, cost the English temper of the guest a few minutes silence. Then he resumed upon the business of the night:—
“Now, Sutherland, about this boy. I think that was a very proper letter of his, do you know; I like him the better for having written it: I should have done the same thing in his place. The young fellow of course has done something to bring us into mud and bother by this time; of course he has—what’s the good of making a bolt if nothing comes of it? I incline with you to think he’s gone into the Guards.”
“By-the-bye,” said the Colonel, “I’ve been thinking that over. I’m not so sure of that by this time: a man who hopes to rise from the ranks would findthat, I fear, about the most unkindly soil he could try. Musgrave, of course, wants to see service—the Guards very rarely leave London. After all, I incline to change my opinion: a marching regiment would be better for him with his views.”
“What a fellow you are!” cried the baronet, “you bring a man round to your views, and then cast him off and declare a contrary opinion. Now I’m all for the Guards and the Regent’s Park barracks. He’s a handsome fellow enough, I suppose, and I know he’s notvery clever. Of course, he’s taken in by the superior corps, and high reputation, and all that sort of thing. I’ll bet you something he’s a Guardsman. Now, what’s to be done? If you want me to start for town directly and hunt him up, I say thank you, my excellent friend, I am exceedingly comfortable here; travelling bad for my health—beginning of March the worst season in the year—and so on, to any extent you please. But I don’t want the boy to slip through our fingers, mind you. What’s to be done? Don’t you think he’ll write again?”
“Very doubtful,” said Colonel Sutherland.
“Doubtful?—doubtful’s something,” said Sir John. “It can do no harm, so far as I can perceive, to wait and see. Let’s be quiet for a little, and keep on the look-out. Of course, had I known what had happened I might have stayed in town,” he added, with a slightly injured air, “and settled that concern before I came on here. But, of course, as I did not know—”
“I did not know either; nobody knew—he only left home the day before yesterday,” interrupted the Colonel.
“To be sure; and yet it would have been very convenient could I have been informed of it while in town,” proceeded the baronet, still in a tone of injury; “really at this time of the year—and I don’t see there can be any damage done by waiting to see if he writes again.”
“Only that he might enter a regiment going to India, or Canada, or Australia, and might write on the eve of the voyage, as is most likely, and be lost beyond remedy,” said the Colonel, anxiously.
Sir John scratched his head. “That would be a bore,” he admitted; “at all events, let’s wait—we’ll say a week; a recruit can’t be off to the end of the world in that time. Then there’s a little leisure to think; and I say, Sutherland, keep your interest for your own occasions, old fellow—you may want it yet for one of those everlasting boys of yours. I’ve a strong confidence Tom will take you in, and go for a soldier like the rest of his race. What would you make the boy a parson for? A Scotch parson too!—whom nobody can be of the least benefit to. Wait a little—he’ll changehis mind, that fellow will, or he’s not the boy I took him for. Let’s join the—hum—I forgot—no ladies to join,” he muttered, in as low a tone as he could drop his voice to so suddenly. “Play chess still, Sutherland?—let’s try a game.”
SIRJOHNARMITAGEfound Milnehill an exceedingly agreeable habitation. He fell into the routine of the Colonel’s habits as a man long accustomed to a life and duties similar to those of his host only could have done. Day by day he recovered of his querulousness and invalidism. He even forgot the dreaded heir who had driven him from his new inheritance, and began to be able to speak on ordinary subjects without much allusion to the dreadful subject of marriage, and his own perplexities in respect to it. Then Sir John, when once delivered from himself, was a little of a humorist, and enjoyed the peculiarities of the society in which he found himself. Numberless old Indian officers, members of theCivil service, families who, without being of that origin, had two or three sons in our oriental empire, and people more or less connected with India, were to be found in the neighbourhood. Indeed, with the mixture of a clergyman or two, a resident landed proprietor, linked to the community by means of a son in the B.N.I., or a daughter married in Calcutta, and one or two stray lawyers from Edinburgh—this formed the whole of Colonel Sutherland’s society, and no small part of the general society of the neighbourhood.
These excellent people, to the greater part of whom the world consisted of India and Edinburgh, whose associations were all connected either with the kindly and limited circle of home, or with thebizarreand extraordinary life of the East, and to whom the rest of the world came in by the way, a sort of unconsidered blank of distance between the two points of interest, were as original and agreeable a community as one could wish to meet with; experienced, for years of travel, of intercourse with primitive people, and of universal command and authority, had given a certain decision andauthority to their judgment; yet so singularly simple in respect to this European world and its centres of civilisation, and so innocent of all public sentiment other than the dominant Anglo-Saxon instinct of sway and rule over an inferior race, that their views on general subjects had a freshness and novelty which, if sometimes a little amusing, was always racy and original. Knowing very little, except in words, of the races who contest with us the supremacy of the modern world; of those powers so equally balanced whose slightest move on either side sets all the kingdoms of Christendom astir, and threatens contests bigger and more ominous than any conquering campaign of the East; this community was good-humouredly contemptuous of the incomprehensible ignorance of those dwellers at home who knew no difference between Tamul and Hindostani, who innocently imagined that a man at Agra, being in the same country with his brother at Madras, might have a chance of meeting with him some day, or who could not be made to comprehend the difference between a Dhobi and aman of high caste. These strange ignorances they laughed at among themselves with a pleasant feeling of superiority, and contested Indian appointments and the new regulations of the Company with far greater interest than the state of Europe could excite them into. One and another had charge of a little troop of children, “sent home” for their education. Somebody was always returning, somebody always “going out.” There was great talk, especially among the ladies, of outfits and their comparative cheapness, and of the respective advantages and disadvantages in travelling overland or by the Cape. Sir John, who was Indian enough to find himself much at home in this society, was at the same time man of the world enough to be amused by its characteristics. He found it more entertaining to listen to a lady’s troubles in a journey to the hills, to the adventures of the dàkh, or the misbehaviour of the Syces, than he had found it in recent days to bewail the afflictions of a continental tour, the impositions of the inns, and the failure of the cooks. Palanquins and howdahs wereunquestionably more picturesque than travelling carriages andvetturini, and the Dakh Bungalow ten times more original than theHôtel d’Angleterreor theRömische Kaiser. Sir John, for the moment, found himself so famously entertained, that he showed no inclination whatever to abridge his stay at Milnehill.
He liked his host, he liked the society, he liked the quarters; the dinners were good, the curry superlative, the house extremely cosy. Then the freedom of the bachelor life, free from any disagreeable claim of duties, suited the baronet exactly. His room was exactly the size he preferred, his fire always burned cheerfully, the Colonel left him to himself with perfect good breeding and discreet kindness, forcing his inclinations in nothing. General Mulligatawny, whose “policy” touched one side of the humble enclosure of Milnehill, had two unmarried ladies at present resident in his house, in whom the baronet felt a certain interest, both bound for India, and consequently not to be seen or treated with after a certain date, which greatly increased theirattractions. One of them, the General’s grand-daughter, a pretty girl of eighteen, to whom Sir John seriously, but secretly, inclined, and who, he rather more than suspected, was pretty certain to laugh in his face at any avowal of his incipient sentiment; the other, a handsome woman of thirty, youngest of all the said General’s dozen children, “going out” to keep house for a brother, who had already got through two wives, and preferred a little interregnum before looking for another. This latter lady, Sir John felt with a little terror, was what people call “extremely suitable,” and the very person for him. Consequently, he conceived a great dread of her, mingled with a little anxiety to look well in her presence. With these attractions to the neighbourhood, is it wonderful that Sir John showed little inclination to leave Milnehill?
The week passed, and another week followed it. There was still no news from Roger Musgrave, and the Colonel grew at once impatient and anxious. These feelings, struggling with his punctilious and old-fashioned hospitality, madehim exceedingly uncomfortable. He could no longer enjoy the presence of his guest, while at the same time it was against all his traditions of friendliness to suggest anything to him which should shorten his stay, or make him feel himself unwelcome. The Colonel, to whom all the varied sentiments of life had come in their due season, could not see the baronet’s perplexities and pre-occupations in presence of womankind without secret amusement and wonder; and Sir John’s regards, divided between Miss Mulligatawny and her niece, surprised his host into occasional accesses of private laughter; but this by no means sufficed to divert the Colonel, as it diverted his visitor, from the important object which had originally brought him here. Colonel Sutherland never entered his cosy dining-room in the morning without the dread of finding a letter from Roger, telling of some step which was irrevocable, and carried him quite out of their reach. He went to rest with that thought in the evening, and took it up on waking the next day: he began to be quiterestless and full of discomfort; he even meditated setting out by himself to London to find the young man: he wrote to various old friends in town, begging them to make inquiries. Then he repeated to himself, “Make inquiries! look for a needle in a bundle of hay!” Yet, nevertheless, sent off his letters. On the whole, nothing had so agitated and disturbed the Colonel for years. He pictured to himself the lingering hope of being yet sought after and aided, which would dwell in the youth’s mind unawares: he imagined the hope sickening, the expectation failing: he thought of the bitter enlightenment, which has ceased to believe in words and promises, growing round the boy: he felt his own word losing its meaning, and his own earnest desire frustrated. Then, unable to keep silence, in spite of his reticence as host, he spoke to Sir John on the subject. Sir John made light of his troubles: “My dear fellow, what can they do with a batch of new recruits in a week—three weeks, is it? Very well, then, three weeks; what do you suppose could be done in that time? Besides, have you any certainty thattroops are being sent abroad at all? I don’t know of any; and for the Queen’s service, you know, I ought to be almost a better authority than yourself. No, no, have patience—we’ll hear from the boy presently, I have not the slightest doubt of it. Give him up?—no, not a bit! but a little knocking about will do him good—always does young men good! If you look so very serious, I shall believe you want to get rid of me.”
This last address was unanswerable. The Colonel closed his lips with a sigh. As for his own influence, from which he at one time hoped a good deal, he found it conclude in a courteous letter and a ready promise. The Colonel was extremely discomfited and discouraged; for the first time in his life he repented of kindness. Had he, after all, “raised expectations which could never be realized?” The matter gave him a great deal more pain than Sir John could have thought possible.He, with all the carelessness of a man who has commonly found the world go well with him, put this affair aside lightly. Why should anything happen to disconcert their plans?As soon as the boy should turn up he was ready and eager to help him. He had no apprehension of any romanticcontretemps, such as the Colonel feared; such things only occurred in very rare cases. What harm could it do to wait?
Thus still another week passed on. A month after hearing from Roger, Colonel Sutherland found another letter on his breakfast table; it was dated “Ship ‘Prince Regent,’ in the Downs, March 21st.” With a gasp of excitement the Colonel ran his eyes over it, and then thrust it into the hand of Sir John, who was calmly eating his breakfast. The baronet started, read it over, jumped from his seat, and called for his man in a voice of thunder. Then he flew to a writing-table which stood in one corner, wrote something hurriedly in gigantic characters, shouting aloud at the end of every word for “Summers! Summers!” Summers made his appearance hastily, amazed and fluttered by the imperative demand.
“Fly!—horseback, railway, anything that’s quickest—telegraph-office, Edinburgh! To be sent this instant; return directly; here’s yourmoney; I tell you, fly!” cried the excited baronet.
Summers made an astonished bow, looked at the paper, and demanded where? His master took him by the shoulders and thrust him out of the door, following him through the rain along the garden, and shouting, “Telegraph-office, Edinburgh!” in his ear, with sundry stimulating expletives. Then Sir John returned much more slowly. He found the Colonel marching about the room, very grave, and very much excited.
“It’s not your fault, old fellow,” said the baronet, hastily “bolting,” to use his own expression, the remainder of his breakfast; “here’s the man that’s to blame; come down uponme, it’ll do you good. I don’t give this up yet. How’s the wind? Dead south-west for a miracle—can’t go a step down the Channel in a sou’-wester! Come along—put up your traps, brighten your grave face, and let’s be off by the first train!”
“We’ll be too late!” said the Colonel, whose mortification and distress were great.
“Not a bit of it,” said Sir John. “Telegraphreaches the ship in half-an-hour—‘Young man, Roger Musgrave, enlisted among the troops on board the “Prince Regent,” to be detained. To the officer in command.’ We shall be there by noon to-morrow all right. Why do you suppose now that Fortune should make up her mind to spite us? Why shouldn’t the wind stay for twenty-four hours in that quarter, and all be well?”
“Why, indeed?” said the Colonel, with a sigh; “why should not everything serve our caprice when we lose the true opportunity, and then make a fictitious one?—but they don’t, Armitage. I shall never forgive myself; however, while there is still a hope let us go.”
For the Colonel’s fears had been literally fulfilled. Roger had enlisted in a regiment about to sail for the Cape, where there was at present raging one of the many Caffre wars. He wrote to take leave of his friend, believing well to be out of reach before any late succour could reach him. A certain shade of proud and forlorn melancholy was in his farewell. The young man felt to his heart a pang which he would not confess—he had been taken at his word.
BYthe same evening train—for they were too late for any other—which had carried the Colonel not very long before to that little rural world which included Tillington and Marchmain, Horace Scarsdale and Roger Musgrave, the two gentlemen that night rushed to London. As they went their darksome way in the dimly-lighted carriage, which, as it chanced, they occupied alone, each leaned back into a corner, occupied with his own thoughts. Sir John, totally refusing to accept the uncomfortable chance of being too late, looked out at every station with an anxious eye upon the wind, and cried, “Hurrah for the sou’-wester!” as they dashed into London in the cheery spring morning which brightened the grimyface of even that overgrown enchantress. Colonel Sutherland said nothing; his interest in the wind was very limited; he had made up his mind to misfortune, and blamed himself deeply. The old man understood, as by a revelation, the mind of the youth who had addressed to him that letter. The feeling of secret disappointment, without anything to complain of, the forlorn success of his experiment, the perfect acquiescence which everybody seemed to have given to his self-disposal; while, at the same time, it was quite true that he had put himself out of everybody’s way, and “that nobody was to blame,” as people say, all shone through his melancholy leave-taking. If they did succeed in finding him, would he return? the Colonel asked himself. If they came to the rescue at last, after he had made his plunge, and had borne the bitterest part of it, would he consent to be bought off, and owe his improved rank to Sir John’s tardy benevolence? The message itself—was that judicious?—might not its only effect be to leave a certain stigma upon the character of the young soldier? Thus one subjectof reflection only more painful than another had quick succession in the Colonel’s thoughts. He vowed to himself he should never again wait for the co-operation of another in anything which was necessary to be done; and so only shook his head as Sir John hurra’d for the “sou’-wester,” and, looking behind him as he descended from the carriage, shook his head still more, and felt the cold whisper of another wind rising upon his cheek. Sir John perceived it also, and grew pale. “It is only a current—there are always currents of wind under these archways,” he explained, hurriedly. Then they drove across London in a cab to the Dover railway, snatched a hasty breakfast of boiling coffee and cold beef, for which they had not above ten minutes time, and so rushed on again to make sure of poor Roger’s fate. Even Roger’s uncertain fate, however, and all his self-reproach on this occasion, could not hinder the Colonel’s eyes to brighten as they whirled past almost in sight of Addiscombe, and saw some distant figures in the Cadet’s uniform on a distant road. Could one of them perhaps be Ned?—and the Colonel thought of seeing his boy to-morrow with a cheerful warmth at his heart, which, in spite of himself, made him more hopeful—thinking of Ned he could still believe to find the wind unchanged, the ship unsailed, the young man’s mind unembittered. As the miles and the moments passed, as the green country sloped upward into grassy hills, and showed here and there its little precipice of chalk, the Colonel’s courage rose. Not from any reason; he was a man to be above reasons sometimes, this tender old soldier; the comfort and the courage came, an inexplicable genial breath from the neighbourhood of his boy.
While, in the meantime, a result perfectly contrary was produced on Sir John: he shuffled about in his seat with an incontrollable impatience; he gazed out of the window; he closed his eyes with disgust when he turned from that; he could have got out and pushed behind like the Frenchman, so eager was his anxiety. The express train was too slow for him—the wind had changed!
The wind had changed! When they came in sight of the sea these stormy straits were specked with ships liberated from their prison, with white wings spread, and impatient feet, making their way out to the ocean. Cold and shrill, with its whistle of ungracious breath, the gale hissed with them through the narrow tunnels; pennons fluttering to the west—bowsprits pointed seaward, clouds flying on the same cold track, and as much as these an increase of cold, an acrid contradiction of the sunshine, bewrayed the east wind which drove invalids to their chambers, but carried ships down channel. Often before had Sir John Armitage anathematized the east wind—perhaps he never cursed it in his heart till now, as he watched with envious impatience a large vessel covered with sail making her way out of the Downs. “That’s her for a wager!” said Sir John to himself; “the very thing they’d send troops in—a round, shapeless, horrid old hulk, warranted the worst sailer on the station. To be sure!—there she goes, bobbing like an apple in a posset—ugh, you ugly old beast!—couldn’t you have waited another day?”
“Eh?—you were speaking—what’s the matter, Armitage?” said the Colonel, roused by the sound.
“Nothing,” said Sir John. To tell the truth, he did not feel himself quite the hero of the position at this moment; he did not care to disclose his fears until hope was proved vain; perhaps, after all, that was not the “Prince Regent”—perhaps the officers were still not aboard, or some happy accident had prevented her from taking the earliest advantage of the change of wind. The baronet dragged his companion along with him to the “Ship” before he would suffer him to ask any questions. There the obsequious attendants who received the strangers were startled by the impatient outcry and gesture, almost wild, of the excited baronet. “The ‘Prince Regent,’ lying in the Downs, with troops on board for the Cape—who can tell me if she has sailed?” This inquiry was somewhat startling to the innkeeper and his vassals. “We can send and see,” suggested timidly one of the waiters, “directly, sir.” Sir John rushed out again, and started off almost at a run towards thepier. “Sailed two hours ago,” said a “seafaring” individual, of questionable looks, who stood on the steps of the hotel smoking his cigar. “Hallo there! sailed two hours ago, I tell you—d’ye think you can make up to her, hey? I’d back you against the precious old tub if you’re in that mind—but she’s got the start, look you, by two hours—all sail and a fresh wind!”
Sir John came back much discomfited and crestfallen. He could not make up his mind to the disappointment. It was quite intolerable to him. He consulted everybody round as to the chances of overtaking the ship—was he likely to do so if he hired a steamer? The nautical bystander took up this idea with great zeal; but before Sir John committed himself a better informed waiter volunteered the information that there were still some officers to join the vessel at Portsmouth, and that she might be overtaken there. The Colonel shook his head. To him the chances of success seemed so small, that the further journey was scarcely worth the while, and some hours would still elapse before there was a train. Sir Johnhowever, still sanguine, found out with a telescope the vessel, which he still held to be the “Prince Regent,” exhausted himself in contemptuous criticisms on her build and sailing qualities, and declared that they were certain to be at Portsmouth hours before the unwieldy transport. The Colonel said nothing; he paced about the room with serious looks and a grieved heart, sometimes pausing to look wistfully out from the windows; a week earlier and Roger might have been saved—a day earlier and they could still have seen him, have tried the last chance for his deliverance, and made him aware of their real intentions and regard for his welfare. The Colonel could not forgive himself. For perhaps the first time in his life he judged his companion unfairly, felt disgusted at Sir John’s exclamation of self-encouragement, and secretly blamed as levity his eager special pleadings and arguments with himself. Presently they started again for Portsmouth, fatigue and vexation together proving almost too much for Colonel Sutherland, who was the elder by several years, and the most seriously affected in the present instance.As for Sir John, he still kept himself up by expectations: of course, they must reach Portsmouth in time—of course, there could be no difficulties in the way of buying Roger off—he would return with them, get his commission, and then follow his pseudo-comrades, if he had still a hankering after the smell of powder. He was thus flattering himself, when they reached the busy seaport. Sir John, for once forgetful alike of dinner, rest, and toilette, with yesterday’s beard, and no better provision for the fatigues of the day than a couple of biscuits, rushed at once into the hubbub of the port. Some time was occupied in these inquiries; he ran from place to place, the Colonel marching gravely by his side, putting his hand to his anxious ear when any one addressed them, listening with his solicitous stoop forward to every word of every answer. But it was again in vain—the “Prince Regent” had only signaled in passing, and had neither paused nor taken in any officers at Portsmouth: by this time, heavy transport as she was, the vessel was at sea.
Heavily and in silence the two travellerssought an hotel, marched up the stairs side by side, without saying a word to each other, and threw themselves, with a simultaneous groan of fatigue and disappointment, into chairs. This last performance elicited a short, hard laugh from the baronet, now thoroughly out of sorts. “I’ve been a confounded fool!” cried Sir John—“I’ll never forgive myself. Why the deuce don’t you come down upon me, Sutherland?—I’m an ass—I’m an idiot—I deserve to be turned out of decent society! Hang me, if I did not mean to be a father to that boy!”
The real sincerity and penitence of his tone woke once more all the kindly feelings of the Colonel. “It cannot be helped now,” he said with a sigh; “by this time it’s providence: and I don’t doubt it’ll turn out for the best.”
“Ah, it is easy for you to speak,” said Sir John, who perhaps did not quite understand his companion’s simple, practical reference to a disposition beyond the power of man; “you are not to blame: to think, with my confounded trifling, I should have let Musgrave’s boy throw himself away!”
This led the Colonel to soothe his friend, and take the guilt upon himself, a proceeding which the baronet, after a few minutes, did not object to. After a while his spirits rose. He began to be reminded of a vigorous appetite, and to recover the exhaustion of fatigue. With a little assumption of languor on his own part, and a tender regard for the necessities of the Colonel, Sir John took upon himself at last to order dinner. Then the travellers separated, to make their most needful ablutions. When they met again at dinner Sir John was himself again.
“After all, Sutherland,” he said, “nothing can be more absurd than to disturb ourselves about this, though it is very vexatious. ’Twill do the boy good, after all—nothing I should have liked better at his age; and won’t harm his prospects a bit—everybody likes adventurous young men. Here’s a health and a famous voyage to the young fellow. I’ll take care there’s a welcome waiting for him when he lands—for of course every ship that sails the passage will outstrip the transport. To be sure, he’s melancholy enough now, I believe.Do him good—teach him to be careful how he runs away from his friends another time. What’s the good of breaking our hearts over it?—he’d be just as sea-sick if he were Colonel; and I warrant the ‘Prince Regent’ gives him quite enough to think of for eight days. What can’t be cured, you know—here’s good luck to him!—the end of his voyage will make up for it all.”
The Colonel drank his lucklessprotegé’shealth very gravely: he thought of him all night, travelling with the forlorn lad over the darksome sea; and sent better things than wishes after him—remembering his name, in every break of his sleep through that long night, before God, who saw the boy; and so, unseen, unaided, and ignorant of the disappointed efforts which had toiled after him, and of the one tender heart which ached over its failure, and was his bedesman, nothing else being possible, the young adventurer went away deeper into the world and his life, further into the night and the distance, and the black paths of the sea.