TWO HEROES
"OH, Uncle John, I see him! I see him!"
So saying, Josephine darted along the down platform of the Midbury
railway station, followed closely by Mr. Basset. The train for which
they had been waiting for nearly half an hour had just slowed into
the station, and from one of its carriages Captain Basset was
carefully stepping, assisted by his servant. But for the shade he
wore over his eyes he looked much as usual, and quite as erect and
soldierly.
"Father!" Josephine cried, as she reached him, "here we are!—Uncle
John and I!"
She put her arms around his neck, and they kissed each other; then
Mr. Basset shook him by the hand—in silence, for the old man was too
moved for the moment to speak.
"I guessed you two would come to meet me," Captain Basset said.
"Warner, where are you?"
"Here, sir!"
Warner was a grey-haired man of about fifty, with an honest, cheerful
face. He looked kind and trustworthy, Josephine thought.
"I've engaged a cab, Paul," said Mr. Basset, putting his nephew's
hand on his arm; "let me take you to it."
"Thank you," Captain Basset replied. "Please see to the luggage,
Warner."
Josephine followed her father and Mr. Basset out of the station into
the hot sunshine of the August evening, and they took their seats in
the waiting cab—Josephine beside her father, Mr. Basset on the seat
opposite.
The little girl's heart had swelled with pity as she had watched her
father's uncertain footsteps and the clumsy manner in which he had
entered the cab; and now her eyes filled with tears as she noted the
painfully attentive way in which he was listening to every sound.
It was a relief when Warner appeared, having arranged for the luggage
to be conveyed to the Glen by the town carrier, and took his seat
beside the driver. The next minute they had started for home.
"Oh, father," Josephine said, as she slipped her hand through her
father's arm and nestled against him, "it's seemed ages waiting for
you! We thought you would have come straight here from London."
"My object in going to Brighton was to visit some of my poor men who
are in hospital there," he answered. "When I realized the pleasure
it was to them to see and talk to me I felt more than glad that I had
followed the impulse which had prompted me to go to them. Brave,
splendid fellows! Even those who were worst injured made light of
their wounds! Some, like me, will never draw a sword again, but I
heard no word of complaint. Are we out of the town yet, Josephine?"
"Not quite, father; we are passing the mission church. As we go on
shall I tell you where we are?"
"Please do. You will have to be eyes to me now, little daughter!"
Captain Basset pressed Josephine's hand closer to his side as he
spoke; her heart was full to overflowing. Presently the little girl
remarked that they had left the town, and by and by that they were in
sight of Vine Cottage.
"And there's Mrs. Rumbelow standing at the garden gate!" she cried;
"she's smiling all over her face and waving a pocket-handkerchief.
Oh, father, I must take you to see her! She'll love to talk to you
about her son!"
A few minutes later they reached the blacksmith's. Several men,
including old Dicker, were standing around the forge; they came into
the road as the cab appeared in sight, and raised a hearty cheer as
it passed by.
"I did not expect this," Captain Basset said, a flush rising to his
cheeks. "Who are the people?"
"The blacksmith and a few farm labourers," Mr. Basset answered;
"I believe they meet together here every evening to discuss the war."
There was silence after that until the cab turned into the Glen
grounds. Under the porch of the house Miss Basset stood waiting in
company with May and Donald, a flush on her pretty old face, a tender
light shining in her soft brown eyes. She ran forward as her nephew
was assisted from the cab, and clasped her arms around him.
"Oh, my poor boy!" was all she could say.
"Dear Aunt Ann, I'm all right!" Captain Basset replied, kissing her.
"Oh, Paul, you can say that?" she whispered brokenly, the ever-ready
tears filling her eyes.
"Yes, and feel it, too," he answered her, "so there's no need to cry.
I thought you'd be so happy to-night."
"So I am, so I am! You mustn't mind my crying—I can't help it!"
With an effort the old lady overcame her emotion, and released her
nephew from her embrace. Then May and Donald shook hands with him;
after which Warner came forward, and respectfully but firmly said his
master must go straight to his own room and rest after his journey.
"Yes, yes!" Mr. Basset agreed; "we must not forget he is still
an invalid."
But that Captain Basset stoutly declared he was not, at the same time
admitting he was very tired.
"I've given you your own old room, Paul," Miss Basset told him, "and
the little room next to it has been turned into a sitting-room for
you. We want to make you so comfortable here that you will never want
to leave us any more!"
After that Warner led his master upstairs. Captain Basset did not
appear downstairs again that night, but later he sent for Josephine
to come to him. He had had his supper, and was resting in a
comfortable easy chair by the open window of his sitting-room when
his little daughter joined him. She took a chair at his feet, and
leaned her head against his knees, whilst they talked in low,
confidential tones, first of matters affecting themselves alone, then
of the various members of the household and the kindness and
consideration they had showed to Josephine during the time she had
been at the Glen.
"Surely I smell roses," Captain Basset remarked by and by; "there
must be some in the room, I am sure, or is the scent coming in the
window?"
"There are roses on the table and on the mantelpiece," Josephine
answered, "and there's a 'Celine Forrester' in bloom against the wall
under the window. Uncle John says there is going to be a wonderful
crop of autumn roses this year."
"How I shall enjoy them! I shall be able to smell them, and picture
them. Ah, Josephine, I have so much to be thankful for! So many have
been injured far worse than I have and yet live! Several poor fellows
I know have lost their memories, but mine has been spared. I can
picture your dear mother as well as though I had seen her yesterday,
and Aunt Ann, and Uncle John, and—oh, every one I know! I have many
happy memories, thank God, but I think almost the happiest is that of
my brave little daughter's face as I last saw it, smiling and—"
"Oh, you don't know how my heart was aching!" Josephine broke in.
"It was ever so difficult to keep bright and smile! It's just been
one long, hard fight to keep brave ever since I've been here.
I didn't want to be a coward—as though I didn't put my trust in God."
Captain Basset laid his hand tenderly on the dark head resting
against his knee, and kept it there. For a few minutes there was
silence, then he said—
"For a while I shall be rather a useless sort of person, I'm afraid;
but by and by I shall grow accustomed to the changed circumstances of
my life. Depend upon it all is for the best, little daughter. You and
I are trying to fight the good fight; we are soldiers of the King of
kings, and soldiers don't ask the why and wherefore, you know—"
He paused as a gentle knock sounded on the door, then called out—
"Come in!"
The door opened, and Miss Basset entered the room. Her glance was
very tender as it rested on the father and child.
"I am come to advise you not to talk any longer to-night," she said;
"Josephine is looking pale and tired—it has been an exciting day
for her—and she ought to go to bed. It's past ten o'clock."
"So late?" exclaimed Captain Basset. "Then say 'good night,'
Josephine, and be off!"
Josephine obeyed, whilst Miss Basset rang the bell for Warner.
"Are you going to send me to bed, too, Aunt Ann?" her nephew asked,
laughing.
"Yes, my dear boy," she answered. She bent over him, and kissed him
on the forehead.
"Oh, Paul," she whispered, "I thank God that your life has been
spared!"
"So do I," he replied earnestly. "Dear Aunt Ann, you're not crying
again?"
The old lady had to admit that she was. "But it's only for joy,
dear," she assured him, "only for joy! It's such a pleasure to John
and me to see you and Josephine together again after all you have
both gone through. Josephine is a dear child; she has been very,
very brave!"
Captain Basset smiled. This praise of his little daughter was sweet
hearing. That her faith might not fail had been his constant prayer
during the long months of their separation, and that prayer had been
answered. In Christ she had found strength, hope, and the power to
face trouble bravely. Christ had been with her, as with him,
through all.
* * * * *
"Can you see him, Uncle John?" asked Donald.
"Yes, my boy, yes!" Mr. Basset answered.
They were standing in the midst of a crowd in the market square at
Midbury in the pleasant sunshine of a September afternoon. It was
market day, and a meeting to aid recruiting was being held outside
the butter market. Up to the present the speakers had not made much
impression on their audience; but now, as the chairman announced that
Captain Basset would address the meeting, a sudden hush fell on the
crowd, and all eyes were fixed on the man who, it was well known, had
lost his sight in the service of his country.
Captain Basset looked every inch a soldier as, guided by Warner,
he mounted the platform which had been erected for the speakers. With
head erect he made his appeal. Duty was calling the young men present
to come forward and help their fellow-countrymen, who had already
responded to their king's and country's call, to fight in the
righteous cause for which the great British nation had become a
nation in arms; and Duty, he reminded them, was God's voice to which
no man, certainly no Christian man, dare turn a deaf ear.
"That's right!" Donald overheard an old farmer remark, as Captain
Basset ceased speaking; "I've lost one son in Flanders already and
another's just gone to the Dardanelles—I'd rather lose him, too, than
feel he'd shirked his duty, that I would!"
There was a sudden movement in the crowd. Several young men were
pushing towards the platform. A way was made for them at once.
"Capital!" Donald whispered to Mr. Basset, "four—no, five recruits!"
Before the meeting was over a dozen more had volunteered, making the
total seventeen.
"It was your father who got them," Donald told Josephine in the
evening, when he discussed the recruiting meeting with her and his
sister in the schoolroom at the Glen; "he spoke so well, and he has
such a beautifully clear voice that one could hear every word he
said. I heard lots of people say how sorry they were he was blind."
"Perhaps they would not have listened to him with so much attention
if he had not been blind," remarked May shrewdly; "every one realizes
what a terrible affliction blindness is."
"But father says he is sure that as time goes on he will feel it less
and less," Josephine said quickly, "he finds already that it is not
nearly such a block to him in many ways as he thought it would be.
He is learning to read very fast, and—oh, do you know who invented
Braille?"
"No!" May and Donald answered, and the former added: "Whoever it was
must have been very clever indeed."
"It was a Frenchman called Braille," Josephine informed him, "and he
wouldn't have thought of it if he hadn't been blind himself. Father
told me all about him yesterday. I remember Mrs. Ford saying that
many a cross brings a blessing with it, but I didn't think it
possible then that blindness could bring a blessing with it at all.
I know it can now."
There was a brief silence, during which they all looked very serious
and thoughtful. Then Donald said—
"I suppose one ought to be content to be just what God wills us
to be. Perhaps I shall make a better doctor than soldier after all."
Josephine nodded. She and Donald were good friends now. He had much
improved in many ways during his last term at school—had become
manlier and better tempered, and was more considerate and far kinder
to his sister.
"Ever since the war began I've thought I should like to be a Red
Cross nurse when I grow up," said May gravely, "but I dare say the
war will be over before then—I hope so."
"I hope so, too!" a voice answered her from the doorway.
Captain Basset had found his way to the schoolroom unaided, and now,
with his hands cautiously extended, crossed the threshold of the
room. Josephine ran to him and guided him to a chair; then seated
herself close to him, and slipped her hand in his.
"I've brought you a piece of news," he said, "some one in whom you
are all interested has won the V.C. for his bravery in exposing
himself to shell fire again and again in order to save the lives of
wounded comrades. I don't know him myself, but—"
"Oh!" interposed Josephine excitedly, "you mean Dick Rumbelow!"
Her father assented.
"I understand his name is in all the newspapers to-day," he said;
"his mother must be proud of him."
"Oh, I wonder if she knows!" cried May.
"She does by this time if she did not before," Captain Basset
answered, "for Aunt Ann has sent her niece Jane to tell her."
"Good Aunt Ann!" exclaimed Donald. "Fancy Dick Rumbelow,
the scapegrace, winning the V.C.! Well, I'm glad!"
"So am I!" Captain Basset replied heartily; "I'm sure he deserves it.
He must be a very brave man. As Uncle John says, the war has
evidently brought out the best in him."
"Ah, it's a fine thing to be a soldier!" sighed Donald.
"We are all soldiers," Captain Basset answered, "and life's a stiff
battle for us all if we're trying to fight the good fight. To some
the battle is short, to others long, but, short or long, we shall win
through to Victory if we trust in God. 'There hath not failed one
word of all His good promise' and He has promised us peace after
battle, perfect peace with Him."
Butler & Tanner Frome and London