THE Colonel 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, born in 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 old friend. 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 from a priori evidence, 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 complexion through 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; and had 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 look fashed,” 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 from him, 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 all my affairs. 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 the old 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 who she is—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 a notion 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 from her; 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 cried till 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 stream of 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, will you come 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 settle them, 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 like it myself; and speaking of that, Edward, go you your ways home and send me the Times. 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 to happen 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 to tell 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.