They were so kind—it was wicked not to try and enjoy one's self.
Driving along in the sharp, clear twilight, till we caught sight of the long lines of lamps which make the camp so picturesque at night time, I found that compelling one's self to be gay sometimes makes one so.
We committed all sorts of blunders in-the k—came across a sentry who challenged us, and, nobody thinking of giving the password, had actually levelled his gun, and was proceeding in the gravest manner to do his duty and fire upon us—when our coachman shrieked, and Colin jumped out; which he had to do a dozen times, tramping the snow with his thin boots, to his mother's great uneasiness—and laughing all the time—before we discovered the goal of our hopes—the concert-room. Almost anyone else would have grown cross, but this good mother and son have the gayest spirits and the best tempers imaginable. The present—the present is, after all, the only thing certain. I began to feel as cheery as they.
Giving up our ticket to the most gentlemanly of sergeants, we entered the concert-room. Such a blaze of scarlet—such a stirring of pretty heads, between—such a murmur of merry chat. For the first minute, coming out of the dark—it dazzled me. I grew sick and could see nothing: but when we were quietly seated, I looked round.
There were many of our neighbours and acquaintances whom I knew by sight or to bow to—and that was all. I could see every corner of the room—still that was all.
The audience seemed in a state of exuberant enjoyment, especially if they had a bit of scarlet beside them, which nearly everybody had, except ourselves.
“You'll be quite ashamed of poor Colin in his plain black, Dora, my dear?”
Not very likely—as I told her, with my heart warmly gratefully to Colin, who had been so attentive, thoughtful, and kind.
Altogether a gay and pretty scene. Grave persons might possibly eschew it or condemn it—but no, a large liberal spirit judges all things liberally, and would never see evil in anything but sin.
I sat—enjoying all I could. But more than once ghastly imaginations intruded—picturing these young officers otherwhere than here, with their merry moustached faces pressed upon the reddened grass, their goodly limbs lopped and mangled, or worse, themselves, their kindly, lightsome selves, changed into what soldiers are—must be—in battle, fiends rather than men, bound to execute that slaughter which is the absolute necessity of war. To be the slain or the slayer—which is most horrible? To think of a familiar hand—brother's or husband's—dropping down powerless, nothing but clay; or of clasping, kissing it, returned with red blood upon it—the blood of some one else's husband or brother!