“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.