“The Colonel was at his duty, mum,” said Patchey. “He was resident at Rum Chunder station, and me with him; and he served in the Burmah war, and wherever bullets were flying, as the Sergeant can tell you. There was little time to think of our own bairns, let alone ither people’s, in these days. The Colonel was in Indeea, and in het wark, and me with him, for nigh upon forty year.”
“Hot work, ye may well say, Patchey, my friend,” said the Sergeant, authoritatively. “It’s little they know, them easy foulks at home, what the like of huz souldiers goes through. Eat when you can and sleep when you can, but work and fight awlways: them’s the orders of life as was upon you and me.”
“Eyeh, Sergeant!” cried Mrs. Gilsland, suddenly facing round upon the self-betrayed veteran, “was them the words you said to my Sam, when the lad was ’ticed away and ’listed all out of your flatteries?—or to the young Squire, when he hearkened to you? Eyeh, ye deceitful ould man! Is’t a parcel o’ stories, and nowght else, ye tell to the poor young lads, that knaw no better? and make poor mouths, and take pity on the sodgherin’, when ye’re awl by yoursel’?”
“Whisht, mistress, whisht!” said the Sergeant, who had recovered during this speech from his momentary dismay. “Did I say owght but what’s come true? Sam Gilsland’s been home on furlough, Patchey—as pretty a lad as ever handled a gun—corporal, and well spoken on; and the young Squire’s leftenant, and mentioned in the papers—and what could friend or relation, if it was an onreasonable woman, wish for more?”
“Ye may make your mind easy, mum, about Leftenant Musgrave; and your son, if he’s steady, will come well on in the Rifles—’special when the Cornel’s tooken him up,” said Patchey. “Our Cornel, he’s that kind of a man when he takes an interest in a lad he’s not one that forgets. I should say he would do uncommon well if he’s steady, being come of responsible folk, and the Cornel for a friend.”
“The Lord be thankit, I have little reason to complain!” said Sam’s mother, wiping her eyes with her apron; “and it’s a rael handsome uniform, though it’s no so gaudy as your redcoats. I took my Sam for an officer and a grand gentleman when he came in at the door, before I saw his honest face,” cried the good woman, with a sob of pride; “and the Cornel’s good word is as good as a fortin’, and he’s uncommon kind is the young Squire. I wish them all comfort and prosperity now and evermore,” she concluded, with a little solemn curtsey, giving emphasis to her good wishes—“and Miss and Mr. Horry, as well; though he’s no more like the Cornel than you or me.”
“He takes after the faither’s family—he’s no like none of our folk,” said Patchey; “but, though I wouldna say the Cornel altogether approves of him, he’s much concerned about the young gentleman the noo. He’s showed great feeling after a’, that young man; he was like a lad out of his mind when the faither was ill; and the day of the death, what does the Cornel find but Maister Horace dead on his face, fainted off in the study, and in a high fever ever since. The like of that, ye ken, shows feeling in a young man.”
“Feeling? They were none such good friends in life, if awl tales be true,” said Mrs. Gilsland. “My man, John, was all but put to the door when he went for Mr. Kerry’s things; and a lad like him, that was never greatly knawn for a loving heart, and was coming into a fortin’ besides—feeling here or feeling there, I don’t see no occasion for Mr. Horry fainting away.”
“Nor me,” said the Sergeant, emphatically; “but I ever said, and I’ll ever say, that though he’s the Cornel’s nevvy, and doubtless well connected, and good blood on wan side of the house, I’ll ever say yon’s an inscrutable lad.”
“That may be,” said the solemn Patchey; “but scrutable or no, he’s in a brain fever, and craves guid guiding, and here’s me come for the medicine, if I hadna fallen in with ower guid company. Weel, weel—an hour mair or less will do the lad nae harm. I’ve little faith in physic for such like disorders. If ye’ve a good constitution and a clear conscience, and the help of Providence, ye’ll fight through: if ye havena, ye must e’en drop out of the ranks, and anither man’ll take your place. But I have Mr. Horace’s bottle in my pocket a’ this time; so, with your leave, I’ll bid you good day.”