FOR this 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 him to 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 his confrÈre, 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 explosion of 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!—you have not been thrust into a gloomy desert of an Armitage Park, and congratulated on your good fortune—you can 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 such cold comfort as could be found in a Parisian appartement, 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 think I should 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 but prononcÉe, 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 the two 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 his protegÉ. 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, the deliberate 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 find that, 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 not very 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 change his 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.”
