“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!”