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Jim spent a rather bad quarter of an hour on the occasion of breaking the news of his enlistment to Alison. He preferred to do it personally, rather than by letter, so waited until he could pay her a visit in the cottage at Blairanster, where she had settled down, and meant to end her days. It might have been better had he prepared her, for it was an undoubted shock to Alison when he walked in clad in uniform; and, perhaps, this accounted in some degree for the violence of the language with which she first addressed him. It was, indeed, more violent than she intended, and it hurt Jim as she had little idea, for much of it bore reference to what she called his ingratitude to his dead benefactress, and how she was “hardly cauld in her grave” before he turned his back on all her counsels, undid all she had done for him, and took to evil ways. Jim did not attempt to explain, as he did to Evie; he bowed his head to the storm, and waited till it should blow over. Which it did presently. Alison, cooling down from her first outburst, and surveying the object of her wrath, probably felt the quiet face and clear steady eyes, which met hers, scarcely bore out the charge of evil ways. She turned, perhaps rather shame-faced, to settle the kettle on the fire. “If ye were twa three years younger,” she observed, “I wad just tak’ the tawse tae ye.” And Jim felt the prospects of reconciliation were improving. “What are ye standin’ there for?” she went on. “Is there no’ a chair guid enough for the like o’ you tae sit on? You in a sodger’s coat indeed!” And Jim sat down on the opposite side of the fire. “There’s nae whisky or tobacco in this hoose,” proceeded Alison, with considerable severity, “but if ye can drink a cup o’ tea, I’ll mak’ it tae ye.” Jim rose and went over to the dresser. “I don’t want tobacco or whisky, thank you, Alison,” he said; “but I would like some tea before I go back, please—and in this.” He took down a white mug that was hanging on a nail, and held it towards her, exhibiting its gilt inscription, “For a good boy.” Alison had brought it to him years before from Edinburgh on the occasion of one of her rare holidays, and he had proudly used it every morning to hold the milk he took with his porridge. “Hech, sirs!” she cried now. “Ye’re no’ blate! ‘For a guid boy!’ A fine ‘guid boy’ ye’ve been from the first day o’ a’, when ye took and soaped yon puir wee piggie. Eh, I think I see ye noo! A queer wee laddie ye were, and that earnest tae hae the bit beastie clean. And noo—eh, my laddie! my laddie!” cried Alison, suddenly crashing down the teapot, and upsetting the milkjug, as she turned and flung her arms round Jim. “Are they sendin’ ye awa’ owre the sea tae get killed wi’ their pagan swords and guns, that they should be beatin’ intae plough-shares and prunin’-hooks? And me a cross auld wife wi’ a tongue in my heid that wad better be oot, misca’in’ my ain wee laddie! Eh, my bonnie man, yer uniform sets ye fine—and we’re a’ in the Lord’s hands whatever.” “I reckon the last’s true anyway, Alison,” said Jim, patting her gently, and soothing her complicated emotions into quietude. And so they parted in peace and amity. Captain Field and Archie Melville came out to Glengail to bid farewell. Archie had paid other visits there since his first, Miss Janet not having detected him in any heinous crime. He had had to join almost directly he was gazetted, on account of the regiment receiving its orders for the Crimea. “Did you ever know any one have such luck?” he said, delightedly, to Evie. “Here am I just through Sandhurst, and right in the middle of a regular war already. Isn’t it splendid?” “You all seem to think so,” said Evie, dubiously. “Do you know Jim has enlisted in your regiment?” “Yes,” said Archie; “I was tremendously pleased to come upon him. Only, you know,” he added, “it’s a confounded nuisance he’s in the ranks. You see, we were such friends here, and I feel as though I wanted to go and talk to him in the old way; but, of course, it wouldn’t do. And, anyway, Jim has got such a notion of keeping to his own place, he’s not likely to let me forget about keeping to mine.” “No,” said Evie; “but when it comes to fighting, I hope you’ll take care of each other.” She did not explain how she expected it to be done; but Archie said, “Oh, of course!” gaily, as though he did not anticipate there would be any difficulties in attending to her wishes. It chanced that Evie was able to fulfil her threat of seeing Jim once more before he sailed; for some of the war-fever that had spread through the land had reached even the laird and Aunt Janet. Besides, Captain Field was the laird’s friend; and Aunt Janet took, for his mother’s sake, as we know, a qualified sort of interest in young Cornet Melville. So one morning, at breakfast, Evie learned they were going to drive into the town; and from the window of a room which the laird had engaged at the Red Lion Hotel, they would see the —th Hussars march out. It was the most exciting thing which had, so far, happened in Evie’s life—to see real soldiers going off to a real war, and feel that some among them were her personal friends. So she was thrilling with unwonted emotions, as she put on her hat with almost trembling fingers. Her best hat it was, too, sacred to church and stately visits paid in company with Aunt Janet; and she went downstairs fully expecting to be sent back for her second-best. But—wonder of wonders!—Miss Janet herself was decked in her Sunday bonnet, her iron-grey ringlets appearing under an erection of lace and feathers, which Evie always regarded with admiration not unmixed with awe. It may have been that Aunt Janet felt, when men were going away to be shot at in foreign climes, with the off-chance of never coming back again, it was only proper that the girls they left behind should present themselves before them for the last time arrayed in their best; though to allude to Aunt Janet as a “girl” is, to say the least, disrespectful. But Evie wore her best hat unreproved, and experienced a certain sense of relief that she had not had to do battle on its behalf. “This is quite a little event for you, Evie,” said the laird, kindly, as they drove off. “And I believe you are interested in soldiers.” “I have soldier-friends, you see,” said Evie. “Quite so,” said her father; “Captain Field and Archie Melville.” “And Jim,” said Evie, promptly. “Jim?” said the laird, inquiringly. “Oh, the young lad from the village! I remember you told me he had enlisted. You have always taken a kindly interest in him,” and he smiled at her indulgently. “He’s my friend,” said Evie. “My dear,” said Aunt Janet, in her stately way, “you must be more careful how you express yourself. In connection with a lad in his position, such a remark is barely proper.” And when Aunt Janet said a thing was not proper, she might just as well have said, “Let it be anathema.” Evie did not pursue the subject. She had been taught not to argue. On the occasions when her views did not coincide with her aunt’s, she simply relapsed into silence, and retained her own opinions. She sat now looking out of the carriage window, a flush of excitement gradually growing and deepening on her cheeks. They drove straight to the hotel when they reached the town, finding the streets all astir with unwonted crowds as they passed along. Evie ensconced herself in the corner of a window directly they arrived, and leant out watching. She had not long to wait before her quick ear caught the sound of a distant band. “Father, Aunt Janet, they’re coming! That’s them!” called Evie, hurriedly, as she craned further out. And Miss Hamilton did not even correct her lapse of grammar, as she and the laird took their places behind her. Yes, it was plain enough now, the strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” mingled with the shouts of the hurrying crowd, and the steady trampling of horses’ feet. “They’re coming! They’re coming! There they are!” cried Evie, as the first gleam of blue and yellow appeared round the corner, and “The Girl I Left Behind” suddenly changed to “Auld Lang Syne.” Evie was not the only one with a lump in her throat just then. She found the blue and yellow had begun to swim about before her and disappear in a mist, and she brushed her hand quickly across her eyes; she would see them all. On they came, with the cheering crowd running beside them; some come to see the last of old friends; some drawn merely by the excitement of it all, the glitter, the pomp and circumstance of war; boys envying the men riding along in their handsome uniforms; sad-eyed women, sweethearts and wives, come to see the last of their lovers and husbands. A girl, with a baby in her arms, ran by the side of a stalwart trooper, holding to his stirrup-leather, while she vainly tried to swallow down her sobs. And he rode, with his teeth set in a sort of grim misery, for it was the old story, “Married without leave,” not “on the strength,” and what was to become of this poor girl-wife and her helpless infant now? And here came Captain Field at the head of his troop. What a gallant officer he looked, to be sure! Evie sent him her brightest smile, and flourished her handkerchief energetically, as he looked up at the window, and seeing the three there, smiled and waved his hand in return. And there was Archie Melville, looking very well in his becoming uniform, it must be confessed, and with a delighted flash of excitement in his eyes, as he, too, looked for and received his greeting. But it was for one young trooper that Evie’s warmest recognition was reserved. A young trooper, who was riding along, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, not gazing up at windows, or expecting greetings from any, till a sudden cry of, “Jim! Jim! Jim!” fell on his ears. Then, indeed, he looked and saw two hands stretched out towards him, and a flushed face, with eyes damp and rather smeared, bending down. He was almost past before he heard the cry, but he half turned in his saddle, and looked up with a steady smile to the face of his old playmate. “Evie!” said Aunt Janet, in a tone of scarcely suppressed horror. “Behave yourself! I insist upon your conducting yourself with propriety.” And then—it was the only time it ever happened, but it did happen—Evie stamped her foot, actually stamped her foot at Aunt Janet. “I don’t care what’s proper!” she cried with utter recklessness. “It’s my friend Jim.” And she thrust herself still further out of the window. “You’re in luck, Wallace,” said the man who rode on Jim’s left hand, as they passed on. But Jim put the innuendo aside with a simple dignity, which seemed partly characteristic of him. “The laird’s family have always been good to me, as they are to all the poor about Gailside,” he said quite calmly, putting Evie and himself in what he had taught himself to regard as their proper relative positions. They had all gone now. The blue and yellow had faded from sight; the sounds of the noisy crowd, the trampling horses, and the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” had died away in the distance. Evie turned from the window. The excitement was still on her, and her hands trembled. She had never appealed to Aunt Janet for sympathy in her life; but now she suddenly flung herself on her, grasping her hysterically, as she cried, with a quick sob— “Oh, Aunt Janet, Aunt Janet, how many will come back?” And when she looked up, frightened at her own temerity and her aunt’s absence of response, she discovered that the cause of Miss Janet’s silence was in no wise connected with the cardinal virtue of propriety, but that two well-defined and perfectly human tears were stealing down either side of her nose.
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