Some days after this memorable soiree, Colonel Pompley sat alone in his study (which opened pleasantly on an old-fashioned garden), absorbed in the house bills. For Colonel Pompley did not leave that domestic care to his lady,—perhaps she was too grand for it. Colonel Pompley with his own sonorous voice ordered the joints, and with his own heroic hands dispensed the stores. In justice to the colonel, I must add—at whatever risk of offence to the fair sex—that there was not a house at Screwstown so well managed as the Pompleys’; none which so successfully achieved the difficult art of uniting economy with show. I should despair of conveying to you an idea of the extent to which Colonel Pompley made his income go. It was but seven hundred a year; and many a family contrived to do less upon three thousand. To be sure, the Pompleys had no children to sponge upon them. What they had they spent all on themselves. Neither, if the Pompleys never exceeded their income, did they pretend to live much within it. The two ends of the year met at Christmas,—just met, and no more.

Colonel Pompley sat at his desk. He was in his well-brushed blue coat, buttoned across his breast, his gray trousers fitted tight to his limbs, and fastened under his boots with a link chain. He saved a great deal of money in straps. No one ever saw Colonel Pompley in dressing-gown and slippers. He and his house were alike in order—always fit to be seen

The colonel was a short compact man, inclined to be stout,—with a very red face, that seemed not only shaved, but rasped. He wore his hair cropped close, except just in front, where it formed what the hairdresser called a feather, but it seemed a feather of iron, so stiff and so strong was it. Firmness and precision were emphatically marked on the colonel’s countenance. There was a resolute strain on his features, as if he was always employed in making the two ends meet!

So he sat before his house-book, with his steel-pen in his hand, and making crosses here and notes of interrogation there.

“Mrs. M’Catchley’s maid,” said the colonel to himself, “must be put upon rations. The tea that she drinks! Good heavens!—tea again!”

There was a modest ring at the outer door. “Too early for a visitor!” thought the colonel. “Perhaps it is the water-rates.”

The neat man-servant—never seen beyond the offices, save in grande tenue, plushed and powdered-entered and bowed. “A gentleman, sir, wishes to see you.”

“A gentleman,” repeated the colonel, glancing towards the clock. “Are you sure it is a gentleman?”

The man hesitated. “Why, sir, I ben’t exactly sure; but he speaks like a gentleman. He do say he comes from London to see you, sir.”

A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the colonel and one of his wife’s trustees touching the investment of Mrs. Pompley’s fortune. It might be the trustee,—nay, it must be. The trustee had talked of running down to see him.

“Let him come in,” said the colonel, “and when I ring—sandwiches and sherry.”

“Beef, sir?”

“Ham.”

The colonel put aside his house-book, and wiped his pen. In another minute the door opened and the servant announced—

The colonel’s face fell, and he staggered back.

The door closed, and Mr. Digby stood in the middle of the room, leaning on the great writing-table for support. The poor soldier looked sicklier and shabbier, and nearer the end of all things in life and fortune, than when Lord L’Estrange had thrust the pocket-book into his hands. But still the servant showed knowledge of the world in calling him gentleman; there was no other word to apply to him.

“Sir,” began Colonel Pompley, recovering himself, and with great solemnity, “I did not expect this pleasure.”

The poor visitor stared round him dizzily, and sank into a chair, breathing hard. The colonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor relation, and buttoned up first one trouser pocket and then the other.

“I thought you were in Canada,” said the colonel, at last. Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, “The climate would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned.”

“You ought to have found a very good place in England to make it worth your while to leave Canada.”

“She could not have lived through another winter in Canada,—the doctor said so.”

“Pooh,” quoth the colonel.

Mr. Digby drew a long breath. “I would not come to you, Colonel Pompley, while you could think that I came as a beggar for myself.”

The colonel’s brow relaxed. “A very honourable sentiment, Mr. Digby.”

“No: I have gone through a great deal; but you see, Colonel,” added the poor relation, with a faint smile, “the campaign is well-nigh over, and peace is at hand.”

The colonel seemed touched.

“Don’t talk so, Digby,—I don’t like it. You are younger than I am—nothing more disagreeable than these gloomy views of things. You have got enough to live upon, you say,—at least so I understand you. I am very glad to hear it; and, indeed, I could not assist you—so many claims on me. So it is all very well, Digby.”

“Oh, Colonel Pompley,” cried the soldier, clasping his hands, and with feverish energy, “I am a suppliant, not for myself, but my child! I have but one,—only one, a girl. She has been so good to me! She will cost you little. Take her when I die; promise her a shelter, a home. I ask no more. You are my nearest relative. I have no other to look to. You have no children of your own. She will be a blessing to you, as she has been all upon earth to me!”

If Colonel Pompley’s face was red in ordinary hours, no epithet sufficiently rubicund or sanguineous can express its colour at this appeal. “The man’s mad,” he said, at last, with a tone of astonishment that almost concealed his wrath,—“stark mad! I take his child!—lodge and board a great, positive, hungry child! Why, sir, many and many a time have I said to Mrs. Pompley, ‘‘T is a mercy we have no children. We could never live in this style if we had children,—never make both ends meet.’ Child—the most expensive, ravenous, ruinous thing in the world—a child.”

“She has been accustomed to starve,” said Mr. Digby, plaintively. “Oh, Colonel, let me see your wife. Her heart I can touch,—she is a woman.”

Unlucky father! A more untoward, unseasonable request the Fates could not have put into his lips.

Mrs. Pompley see the Digbies! Mrs. Pompley learn the condition of the colonel’s grand connections! The colonel would never have been his own man again. At the bare idea, he felt as if he could have sunk into the earth with shame. In his alarm he made a stride to the door, with the intention of locking it. Good heavens, if Mrs. Pompley should come in! And the man, too, had been announced by name. Mrs. Pompley might have learned already that a Digby was with her husband,—she might be actually dressing to receive him worthily; there was not a moment to lose.

The colonel exploded. “Sir, I wonder at your impudence. See Mrs. Pompley! Hush, sir, hush!—hold your tongue. I have disowned your connection. I will not have my wife—a woman, sir, of the first family—disgraced by it. Yes; you need not fire up. John Pompley is not a man to be bullied in his own house. I say disgraced. Did not you run into debt, and spend your fortune? Did not you marry a low creature,—a vulgarian, a tradesman’s daughter?—and your poor father such a respectable man,—a benefited clergyman! Did not you sell your commission? Heaven knows what became of the money! Did not you turn (I shudder to say it) a common stage-player, sir? And then, when you were on your last legs, did I not give you L200 out of my own purse to go to Canada? And now here you are again,—and ask me, with a coolness that—that takes away my breath—takes away-my breath, sir—to provide for the child you have thought proper to have,—a child whose connections on the mother’s side are of the most abject and discreditable condition. Leave my house, leave it! good heavens, sir, not that way!—this.” And the colonel opened the glass-door that led into the garden. “I will let you out this way. If Mrs. Pompley should see you!” And with that thought the colonel absolutely hooked his arm into his poor relation’s, and hurried him into the garden.

Mr. Digby said not a word, but he struggled ineffectually to escape from the colonel’s arm; and his colour went and came, came and went, with a quickness that showed that in those shrunken veins there were still some drops of a soldier’s blood.

But the colonel had now reached a little postern-door in the garden-wall. He opened the latch, and thrust out his poor cousin. Then looking down the lane, which was long, straight, and narrow, and seeing it was quite solitary, his eye fell upon the forlorn man, and remorse shot through his heart. For a moment the hardest of all kinds of avarice, that of the genteel, relaxed its gripe. For a moment the most intolerant of all forms of pride, that which is based upon false pretences, hushed its voice, and the colonel hastily drew out his purse. “There,” said he, “that is all I can do for you. Do leave the town as quick as you can, and don’t mention your name to any one. Your father was such a respectable man,—beneficed clergyman!”

“And paid for your commission, Mr. Pompley. My name! I am not ashamed of it. But do not fear I shall claim your relationship. No; I am ashamed of you!”

The poor cousin put aside the purse, still stretched towards him, with a scornful hand, and walked firmly down the lane. Colonel Pompley stood irresolute. At that moment a window in his house was thrown open. He heard the noise, turned round, and saw his wife looking out.

Colonel Pompley sneaked back through the shrubbery, hiding himself amongst the trees.