Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
A
Soldier's Son
_By_
MAUDE M. BUTLER
DAVIS & BOND
BOSTON : MASS.
Copyright 1912
by
DAVIS & BOND
LINCOLN & SMITH PRESS
BOSTON
DEDICATION.
To the children in years, and the children in
Science, this little book is trustingly and lovingly
inscribed by the author.
NOTE.
The Author wishes to state that no case of
Christian Science healing has been cited
in this story but such as she has known
of a parallel case in real life.
"We may not climb the heavenly steeps
To bring the Lord Christ down.
* * * * *
The healing of the seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again."
--_J. G. Whittier._
----
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.--HOME FROM THE WAR.
CHAPTER II.--CAROL'S LETTER.
CHAPTER III.--A FORBIDDEN BOOK.
CHAPTER IV.--A WELCOME LETTER.
CHAPTER V.--QUIET DAYS.
CHAPTER VI.--FIRST WORK IN THE VINEYARD.
CHAPTER VII.--"I KNOW."
CHAPTER VIII.--A SECOND VISIT TO THE COTTAGE.
CHAPTER IX.--"IT IS THE TRUTH."
CHAPTER X.--AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.
CHAPTER XI.--PERCY'S REMORSE.
CHAPTER XII.--THE PHYSICIAN'S VERDICT.
CHAPTER XIII.--THE RECTOR'S REFUSAL.
CHAPTER XIV.--"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."
CHAPTER XV.--LETTERS AND TELEGRAMS REACH COUSIN ALICIA.
CHAPTER XVI.--"IT IS A MIRACLE."
CHAPTER XVII.--MRS. BURTON VISITS CAROL.
CHAPTER XVIII.--HAPPY THOUGHTS.
CHAPTER XIX.--THE REASON OF THE DELAY.
CHAPTER XX.--"LIGHT AT EVENTIDE."
CHAPTER XXI.--JOYFUL NEWS FROM ELOISE.
CHAPTER XXII.--THE RETURN OF ELOISE.
CHAPTER XXIII.--A LONG-DELAYED LETTER.
CHAPTER XXIV.--A JOYFUL SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XXV.--A LITTLE SERVICE.
CHAPTER XXVI.--CONCLUSION.
----
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 pronounced 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 pronounced
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 anticipated 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 God 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."