‘Aw, ma dear soul!’ cried the girl, throwing up her hands in dismay, ‘what iver did ’ee du that vur?’
It was a thing, Jan answered, that had to be done—a thing that every young man in England would be doing before long, by what he had heard tell. He further attempted to explain why for him in particular it was essential to break fresh ground; but, not making much of a success of this and noticing, moreover, that Judith was not listening, he desisted.
Judith was crying softly, and that gave him a pain at his heart. His mother also, instead of scolding him, as he had expected her to do, had wept, throwing her apron over her head and rocking herself to and fro, while his father, after one short, angry outburst, had abruptly fallen silent and had walked out of the house with bowed shoulders. It is cruel to have to hurt people like that; but—what can one do? He did his best to comfort poor little Judy, who was afraid ‘they pesky Germans’ would kill him—which indeed did not seem unlikely—but who tried to recover a cheerful countenance and assured him that she understood everything. He could not, of course, believe that she did, and would have been quite sorry if she had; still he was grateful to her for being so brave about it and for readily promising to deliver a message to Miss Mildred.
He had thought—perhaps half hoped—that Miss Mildred would reproach him a little for having so suddenly taken a step from which he had been dissuaded by her; but when she met him on the morrow she did nothing of the kind. Circumstances alter cases; the country now needed all who were fit to serve; she assumed that Jan had been actuated by patriotic motives and had only praise and congratulations for him.
‘How proud we shall all be of you if you come back with a V.C. or an officer’s commission!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing is impossible in war time, you know.’
Jan smiled and shook his head, but, he often thought of her words afterwards and made them the nucleus of innumerable day-dreams. What he longed for at the time was some hint of regret on her part, some intimation that she would miss him a little. However, she did not seem to think that there was anything to regret, and it was absurd to suppose that his departure could make any difference to her. Why should it? One thing, at any rate, she said which was as delightful as it was unforeseen.
‘You must let me hear from you, John. Write often and at great length, please, and tell me exactly how everything strikes you. Answer? Oh, of course I will, and I’ll send you socks and mufflers and things, not to mention books.’ She added, after a moment, ‘I was thinking of giving you something now, only I don’t know what you would like to have.’
Jan knew very well what he would like to have: whether he might dare to ask for it was another question. However, he was going away and it was probable enough that he would see her no more; so he screwed up courage to confess that the most welcome gift she could bestow upon him would be something that had belonged to herself—maybe the little silver pencil-case which he had so often seen her use.
She presented it to him with a bright smile and with no appearance of thinking him presumptuous. Then she frankly shook him by the hand, wished him the best of luck and left him beside the gate leading up to Bratton Farm, where their colloquy had been held. At the bend of the road she turned to wave him a last farewell and so disappeared into the misty twilight.
Jan raised the precious pencil-case to his lips, pushed it into his waistcoat pocket and was happy. He even told himself in so many words that he was happy; which is an experience of such rarity that those to whom it has once come never quite forget it. Jan thought that if he were to be shot the next week, he would still have had as good a moment as three score years and ten of life could bring him.