A Soldier's Son Part 1

A Soldier's Son.

by Maude M. Butler.

CHAPTER I.

--HOME FROM THE WAR.

The war was over--the cruel, cruel war; and Father and Uncle Howard were on their way home. Children's voices, in every key of joy and thanksgiving, sang the happy news from morning to night. The white, strained look faded from Mother's face, and she became her old, bright self again.

Now that they were over, the children tried to forget how long and sad and weary the days had been during which the sight of the post-bag, and the morning newspaper, almost took everyone's breath away, until the columns of "War news" had been hastily scanned before taking letters and papers to Mother's room.

Then came the day when Uncle Howard's name was amongst the "seriously wounded," and there was a brief account of how he had saved the guns, and then returning into the firing line to pick up a wounded soldier, had himself been dangerously wounded.

The children thought of Uncle Howard's delicate young motherless boy, and sobbed: "Poor, poor Carol."

They did not know how to break the news to Mother, because Uncle Howard was her twin brother, and they all knew how dearly she loved him. Unperceived she had entered the room, and had learned the news for herself. The days that followed were darker than before, for it was not known for some weeks if Major Willmar would live or die. Gradually, slightly better news came, and he was p.r.o.nounced out of danger. Later on it was announced he was ordered home, and Father, Colonel Mandeville, was coming with him.

As soon as the vessel left Cape Town the children began their happy, joyous preparations for the welcome home. Then, in the midst of them, when the triumphal arches were erected, awaiting only the final floral decorations, came a telegram from Gibraltar. Major Willmar had suffered a relapse at sea, and the doctors had not been able to save him. His body had been committed to the waves.

Again the children sobbed: "Poor, poor Carol."

Mother was strangely calm and quiet. "Carol must come to us. We must take the place to him of all he has lost," she said.

She wrote to the lady who had charge of him, asking her to take the boy to meet the vessel at Plymouth, in order that Colonel Mandeville might bring Carol home with him.

All the children, seven in number, were at the station when the express drew up. Edith and Gwendolin, two tall fair girls of twelve and thirteen years; Percy and Frank, eleven and ten; then three of the dearest little maidens, Sylvia four, Estelle three, and the sweet Rosebud, whom Father had never seen. She had come to cheer Mother's breaking heart in the dark days of the war, and was now two years old.

It was an unusual occurrence for an express train to stop at that quiet country station. The porters were on the alert to drag out the luggage as quickly as possible. A tall bronzed and bearded man sprang out of the train on the instant of stopping, so changed that even the elder children scarcely recognized him.

He looked at them with hungry eyes, as if he would take them all in his arms at once, had they been big enough to go round, then seized the smallest of all, the little snow-white maiden.

"Iz 'ou Daddy?" she asked.

"I am Daddy, my little white Rosebud." One by one he took each in his strong arms. All looking to him, no one noticed the boy who had followed him out of the railway carriage, who was now looking on with wondering eyes. Rosebud was the first to speak to him. "Iz 'ou Tarol?" she asked. Stooping, he too folded his arms around her, not such strong arms as her father's, but very loving. From that moment the little maiden became one of the dearest things in life to the boy.

"Where's Mother, children?"

"Mother did not feel quite able to come to the station, Father. She bore the news of dear Uncle's death so well at first; then she broke down entirely, and she has not left her room since," Edith told him. The Colonel then remembered the boy who had accompanied him.

"Children, here is Carol."

They quickly gave him the loving welcome which their sympathetic hearts prompted. Father suggested sending on the carriage, saying to the children: "We will walk through the park. Oh, the sweet breath of the dear home land, after Africa's sultry heat!"

Carol kept hold of Rosebud's hand. The little maiden was a revelation to him, never having had little sisters or brothers of his own. His mother for a long time before her death had been a hopeless invalid, and whilst she was slowly dying of consumption the boy had developed tubercular disease of the left hip, and the physicians, who p.r.o.nounced it a hopeless case, also said one lung was affected. Three years the boy lay on his back on a couch, or in a spinal carriage, and it was generally antic.i.p.ated he would quickly follow his mother to an early grave. But after Mrs. Willmar's death a cousin of hers came from America to take charge of the motherless boy, and from the day that she came he began to get better. Now, as he walked with his cousins across the park, though somewhat tall for his twelve years and extremely slight of stature, he bore no trace of his past sufferings.

On arriving at the Manor, Colonel Mandeville went straight to his wife's room, mounting the staircase two steps at a time. The children took Carol to the school-room, saying, "Mother will send for you presently, dear Carol."

School-room tea was ready, and to their great delight the three little girls, who belonged of course to the nursery, were invited to be present. Before they sat down each child had a little offering to make Carol, not a new gift they had bought for him, but one of their own treasures, just to make him feel how glad they were to have him: that henceforth he was to be their own dear brother.

It was all so strange and new to him, he did not know how to thank them. Rosebud's offering of her little white bunny was so perfectly sweet. It became a treasure of treasures to him ever after. He was strangely quiet, but there seemed no sadness in his eyes or voice. His cousins could not understand it, and even wondered if he had loved his father as they loved theirs.

Tea was just finished when the message came for Carol to go to Mother's room. All the children wanted to accompany him, but the maid who brought the message said: "Only Master Carol was to go," and she led the boy to Mrs. Mandeville's room.

Carol had only once before seen his aunt. She had visited his home in Devonshire when his mother was very ill, and he himself had been too ill to care or notice who came and went.

Mrs. Mandeville was lying on a couch in her boudoir. She was a tall, fair woman, of a gentle yielding nature, and a beautiful countenance. Never strong or robust, for some years she had been subject to attacks of nervous prostration. The joyous excitement of her husband's safe return, and the grief for her brother's death, had brought on one of these attacks. She sobbed aloud as she drew Carol into her arms and held him closely to her.

"My darling boy!"

"Auntie, dear, do not grieve like this."

"Carol, I loved your father very, very, dearly."

"But, Auntie, that should make you not grieve for him. Cousin Alicia has taught me to feel so glad and happy about Father. I could not cry or be sorry now. I love to think how he gave his life for that poor, wounded soldier. Jesus said there was no greater love than to lay down one's life for a friend, and it was not even a friend; it was a stranger. Some day there will be no more war, because everyone will know that G.o.d is our Father, and His name is Love. But we are only His children as we reflect Him--reflect Love. When everyone understands this, no one will want war."

Mrs. Mandeville looked with surprise at the earnest young face, so calmly confident of what he said.

"It is nice to see you, Carol, looking so well and strong. You were very ill when I saw you two years ago. We have never been able to understand your recovery. What a mistake the doctors must have made about your case."

"Auntie, they did not make a mistake. It was Cousin Alicia who taught me about Christian Science. Then I began to get well, and I soon lost the dreadful pain in my hip."

"Carol, dear, never mention a word about Christian Science before your Uncle Raymond. He says it is dreadful heresy, and it makes him so angry to hear it talked about. Did he meet you at the station?"

"No, Auntie. I have not seen him yet."

"He said he would meet the train but he generally manages to get too late. He will be here this evening for dinner."

Uncle Raymond was Mrs. Mandeville's brother, and the rector of the parish.

"But, Auntie, if he asks anything about my illness I must tell him what has made me well."

"I do not think he will, dear; so there will be no need to say anything. It is very beautiful, Carol, for you to think Christian Science has healed you, and there is no need for your faith to be shaken."

"I do not think, Auntie, I know, so that no one could shake my faith."

"Well, dear, we won't talk about it. Tell me, did you have a pleasant journey?"

"Yes, Auntie, a very pleasant journey; Uncle was so kind to me."

"I am sure he would be, Carol. You are glad to come to us, darling--to be our own dear son? You will feel this is home, and your cousins not cousins, but brothers and sisters?"

"Yes, Auntie. I know my father wished me to come to you--but--I am sorry to leave Cousin Alicia. I love her so much."

"Of course, darling, that is only natural. She has been quite a mother to you since your own dear mother died."

Carol did not speak; a choking sensation of pain prevented him. He knew that Cousin Alicia had been more than a mother to him.

"May I write to her to-night, Auntie? She will like to hear from me."

"Of course, dear. Write to her as often as you like."

"I think that will be every day then," the boy said promptly, with a smile. Mrs. Mandeville smiled too.

"Dear boy, how you have comforted me. I feel so much better for this little talk with you. Perhaps I shall be able to surprise everybody, and go down to dinner this evening."

"Oh, Auntie, please do. At tea Edith said, 'It would be just lovely if only Mother could come down to dinner.' We can nearly always do what we want to do, Auntie."

"Can we, dear? Then go and write your letter now, and do not mention to anyone that I am going to try to surprise them this evening."

CHAPTER II.

--CAROL'S LETTER.

"MANOR HOUSE MANDEVILLE.

"Dear Cousin Alicia, "It seemed such a long journey before we arrived here. Uncle was so kind and told me about the different places as we pa.s.sed through. But I felt I was getting such a long way from you, as we pa.s.sed town after town. All my cousins were at the station to meet us; but Auntie was not well enough to be there. I should like to describe them all to you, but I am sure I could not. They are ever so much nicer than any of the children I have read about in books. I will only tell you their names. Perhaps you will see them all some day. Edith, Gwendolin, Percy, and Frank, in the school-room; and in the nursery, Sylvia, Estelle, and Rosebud. Uncle had never seen Rosebud. She is two years and three months old, and is the sweetest little girl. She has such pretty ways. I do love to hear her talk.

"We walked from the station through the park. Uncle seemed so glad to see his own home again. The Manor House is very old; such quaint little oriel windows, and turrets, and gables. I have not learned my way about yet, but the school-room and nurseries are quite close together. It was returning from Auntie's boudoir to the schoolroom I got lost, and I found myself in quite a different part of the house. I opened a door I thought was the school-room, and it was the housekeeper's room. Then a maid took me to the school-room. Percy and Frank thought it very amusing, and said they could find their way anywhere blindfold, and Rosebud said 'Me tome wiff 'ou, Tarol.' I didn't see Auntie until after tea. We all had tea together in the school-room, the nursery children as well. The governess invited them. Her name is Miss Markham, she is very strict, but I think she is kind too. I am thinking all the time of the history of England when she speaks, and wondering what part of it she belongs to. The elder children are going down to dinner, as it is Uncle's first evening at home.

"Auntie was lying on a couch when I was taken to her room. She seemed so full of grief and sadness. She wept when she held her arms around me. But I just knew that Love is everywhere, and sorrow and sadness cannot be where Love is. In a little while she was quite different, and even smiled as she talked to me. She said I had comforted her so. I would have liked to explain to her what had comforted her, but she does not like me to say anything about Christian Science, and asked me not to mention it before Uncle Raymond, because it makes him angry. Auntie thinks I could not have been so ill as the doctors thought, or I should not be quite well and strong now. Please tell me, dear Cousin, will it be denying Christ, if I do not tell people what healed me? I did so wish I could have told Auntie some of the beautiful things you have taught me. Will you write to me very often, please? I am going to write nearly every day to you. Auntie says I may--as often as I like. I have such a dear little room all to myself, so I shall be able to do the Lesson-Sermon every morning before breakfast. Thank you again for giving me Science and Health for my very own, and the Bible which was my mother's. I want to study both books so well that when I am a man I shall know them better than anything else in the world. I am to study with Edith and Gwendolin for the present. Frank and Percy go to a large public school at H--. I am to go with them when Uncle is quite sure I am strong enough. He does not understand that I am perfectly well and strong. I must leave off now. I have to put on my Eton suit for dinner. I do not feel so far away from you as when I was in the train. It is just as if you were in the room with me. I can feel your thoughts like loving arms around me.

"Dear Cousin Alicia "Your loving Carol.

"P.S. Bed-time. The post-bag had gone when I had finished my letter. I just want to tell you, Auntie came down to dinner. Every one was so surprised and delighted and we had such a happy evening. Uncle played games with us after dinner, and Auntie looked on. The time went so quickly, we were sorry when Uncle said: 'Bed-time, children. To your tents: double quick march.' So we all had to scamper away. Uncle Raymond came to dinner. He is so grave and stern, so different from Father. He went into the study whilst Uncle was playing with us."

CHAPTER III.

--A FORBIDDEN BOOK.

Carol had always been a lonely boy. The companionship of other children was a pleasure he had never known. In the remote Devonshire village, where all the years of his young life had been spent, there were no children who could be invited to his home as friends and companions for him. First his mother's delicate health, and then his own, had prevented visits to or from his cousins. When he was seven years old a fall from his pony caused an injury to his hip, which eventually developed into what the doctors diagnosed as tubercular disease of the hip bone. For three years his mother had been slowly dying of consumption, and the boy had been the joy and brightness of her life. She did not live long after she was told that what she was suffering from he would suffer, too, in another form. She died about six months before the war broke out in South Africa, and fulfilling a promise made some time before, a favorite cousin, then resident in America, whose girlhood had been spent with her as a sister, came to take charge of the household and the young motherless invalid. Major Willmar was ordered to the front shortly after operations commenced, but before he went he had hopes that his boy would grow well and strong. There had been such a marked change in him from the day Cousin Alicia arrived, bringing to that saddened home love and--Truth.

It can, therefore, be easily understood that the first few days at the Manor were to Carol days almost of bewilderment. As soon as his cousins found that their joy in having Father back again, safe and sound, did not hurt Carol, nothing restrained their wild exuberance of spirits. They could not understand the gentle, reserved boy, who spoke with so much love and tenderness of his father, yet had no tears or sadness because he would return no more.

"Perhaps he doesn't quite understand," said Gwendolin.

"I think he does," said Edith, "and I am sure he loved Uncle as much as we love Father. There is such a far-away look in his eyes, when he speaks of his father and mother, just as if he were looking at something we cannot see. Although he is so gentle and kind, especially to the little ones, I am sure no one could persuade him to do anything he thought wrong. He is a dear boy. I am glad he is going to study with us for the present, because the boys at school would not understand him. Even Percy and Frank are inclined to mistake his gentleness for weakness. Yet I could imagine him standing and facing any real danger, when most boys would run away."

From the first Edith had conceived a great affection for her Cousin Carol, and, as a consequence, she understood him better. On many occasions she was able to help him, when Percy and Frank were somewhat brusque and impatient in their treatment of him. They could not understand his reluctance to join in some of their games. He loved to look on; but everything was new and strange to him. He had never been used to playing the games which were so much to Frank and Percy. Edith then quietly explained to her less thoughtful brothers that they should not expect a boy who had spent three years on an invalid's couch to be able to play the games in which they were so proficient.

Carol was often in the nursery, Nurse was so big and motherly. She had welcomed him, as if he had been one of her own children from the first. It was a fixed idea amongst the children that as long as there had been a Manor House, Nurse had presided over the nursery. She was always ready to tell them stories of their father and uncles and aunts in the old days. She even had tales of their grandfather, and many past generations of Mandevilles, and in all the stories, of however long ago, they imagined Nurse playing part. One thing they never could imagine: that was the Manor House without her.

When the little girls wanted him, and that was very frequently, Carol was always ready to go to the nursery, and often accompanied them on their walks. Percy and Frank considered it much beneath their dignity to take a walk "with the babies."

The improvement in Mrs. Mandeville's health, which had commenced on Carol's first visit to her room, continued. In a few days she had taken her usual place in the household, and the children rejoiced in the nightly visits to their bedrooms. How glad they were when there were no visitors downstairs, and they could keep her quite a long time.

Upon the occasion of her first visit to Carol's room, she found him sitting up in bed, reading. She had expected to find him asleep, as the other children had detained her so long.

"My little book-worm, what is the story you find so interesting?" she asked playfully, intending to tell him lovingly the next morning that she did not like the children to read in bed.

"Auntie, it isn't a story book. It is Science and Health. I read it every night and morning."

"What a very strange book for a little boy to be interested in! The t.i.tle sounds quite alarmingly dry."

"Oh, Auntie, have you never heard of it? It is such a wonderful book. I am beginning to understand it now. At first I could not, but Cousin Alicia used to explain it so beautifully to me, and now I love to read it."

"I cannot say I remember the t.i.tle, dear, but I should like to look into it. Will you spare it to me this evening? I think it is time now for lights to be extinguished."

Carol gave the book to her gladly, little thinking it would be many long days before he would see it again.

When Mrs. Mandeville returned to the drawing-room, the Rector was there. "Do you know anything of this book, Raymond?" she asked, giving it into his hand. "I found Carol reading it in bed--Science and Health." The frown which was habitually on the Rector's face deepened.

"Indeed I do," he said, "and I should like to do with every copy what I am going to do with this."

He walked over to the fireplace; his intentions were plain. Mrs. Mandeville caught hold of his arm.

"No, no, Raymond, you must not. The book was a present from Miss Desmond to Carol, and you have no right to destroy it, however strongly you may disapprove of his reading it."

"I do more than disapprove. I absolutely forbid him to read any more of it; the most unorthodox rubbish that has been published for centuries. The worst of it is, it has taken hold of some people, especially women, and they are carried away by it."

The Rector slipped the little book into his pocket. As he had not destroyed it, he meant to make sure there should be no chance of its falling again into Carol's hands. He, as well as Mrs. Mandeville, was the boy's legal guardian.

Mrs. Mandeville was sorry. She felt sure from the way Carol had spoken that the book was precious to him. Very gently, the next morning, she told him of his uncle's decision. She noted the quivering lips; the tears he was bravely trying not to shed.

"Dear boy, did you value it so much?" she said.

"Oh, Auntie!" The simple exclamation expressed more pain and regret than many words could have done.

"Darling, I am sorry; but we must believe that Uncle Raymond has good reasons for taking the book away. He says it is fearful heresy. You must not forget that your dear grandfather was a bishop, also your great-grandfather. I could not tell you during how many generations there has always been at least one member of our family a dignitary of the Church."

"What does unorthodox mean, Auntie?"