A Soldier's Son Part 3

--AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.

With thoughts so joyous and uplifted, Carol's feet scarcely seemed to touch the springy turf of the park as he returned to the Manor. The uplifting joy, unlike anything that earth can give, which comes from the consciousness that work done for, and in the Master's name, is accepted of him, was his; the promised signs following.

He did not see Mrs. Mandeville until she paid her usual visit to his bedroom.

His young face was radiant with joy and happiness. "Auntie," he said, "Mr. Higgs is beginning to understand; and he is losing his rheumatism."

Mrs. Mandeville smiled. There was so much love and tenderness in her smile the incredulity was not apparent. She put a loving arm around him, drawing the boy closer to her.

"Is that what you have been thinking to-night, dear?"

"Not altogether, Auntie. I have been thinking of what it means by the words, 'The mind that was in Christ.' That was what I was reading when I came to bed. If we are to have that Mind, we should understand what it is. But, Auntie, I can't get any farther than love: the mind that was in Christ was love. G.o.d is Love, and Jesus said, 'I and my Father are one.' So, Auntie, when our hearts are filled with love for the poor and afflicted and sorrowing, it is the Christ mind that comes to us. Because Jesus loved all who came to him, he was able to heal them. He said, 'I can of myself do nothing, it is the Father that worketh in me. He doeth the works.' Jesus was a perfect mirror, reflecting the love which is G.o.d. That is why he said, 'They that have seen me have seen my Father also.' Cousin Alicia explained this once to me, but I did not quite understand it at the time. I see so clearly now. When we reflect love as Jesus did, we shall be able to do the works that he did. I often wonder, Auntie, why Uncle Raymond and all the clergy who preach the Gospel don't help people when they are ill. It is not being obedient, is it?"

Mrs. Mandeville's face was grave.

"Ought I not to question this, Auntie?"

"Perhaps it would be better not, dear, until you are older. I do not understand myself. It is a subject I never seriously considered until you came to us. Now I think I must say good-night, my little lie-awake."

"I always fall asleep soon after I have said 'good-night' to you, Auntie."

"That is right, darling. I do enjoy our little talks; they are very sweet and helpful to me, Carol."

Then, after a long, loving embrace, she left him, a grave, thoughtful, but happy expression on her face.

The following Sat.u.r.day morning after breakfast the three little girls told Carol, with delight, that they were going to the home farm in the afternoon, and begged him to go with them. Carol promised. He never refused to go anywhere or to do anything when Rosebud asked him. It was different with Percy and Frank. They were always too busy.

Carol knew how great a delight a visit to the farm was to the little girls, where each had a special pet of her own which the farmer's wife kindly took care of for them. Carol had visited the farm once before, and was almost as interested as the little girls in the animals and poultry yard. The schoolroom children had grown out of the interest they once had in visiting the farm.

Sat.u.r.day being a school holiday, the boys were at home all day. After lunch Percy said: "I say, Carol, some fellows are coming this afternoon; we are going to have a game at rounders. You can manage that. Will you come?"

Carol was never asked to join in a game at cricket or football, as his uncle and aunt feared it would not be good for him. "I am sorry, Percy; I cannot. I promised Rosebud and Sylvia to go with them to the farm this afternoon."

Percy turned impatiently away. He was annoyed. Carol caught the muttered words: "Milk-sop prefers a walk with the babies."

He was not versed in school-boy slang, but naturally felt it was an opprobrious epithet applied to himself. A crimson flush rose to his face. On the way to the farm, he asked Jane, the second nurse, who accompanied them: "Can you tell me what milk-sop means, Jane?"

"Well, Master Carol, it's what school-boys call one another, sometimes. But it's not a nice word. I suppose it means something of a coward."

Carol fell behind. The crimson flush returned and dyed his cheeks again. "Percy did not mean it. He spoke without thinking. He forgot I am a soldier's son. I am not angry. I will not let you in!"

"Were you speaking, Master Carol?" Jane asked.

"I was only telling Mrs. Anger and Mr. Anger, and a lot of little Angers, there is no room for them in my mansion. Love is there, and cannot be driven away."

"You do say such funny things, Master Carol," Jane remarked.

"But there is nothing funny in that, Jane. You see our mind is our mansion, and if we keep it filled with loving thoughts, angry thoughts cannot creep in. Some angry thoughts were just trying to force their way in, and I had to tell them there was no room."

Still Jane smiled, but she, as everyone else at the Manor, loved the gentle boy, who had what seemed to them such strange thoughts.

A messenger always appeared to go in advance and tell the farmer's wife when the little ladies might be expected. She never failed to have such a lovely tea spread on a snowy white tablecloth, and her best china gracing the table. Tea in the farm kitchen was quite different from the usual nursery tea at home. Such delicious scones and tea-cakes! (It really would not have pleased cook to hear the praise bestowed upon them, as if she did not make quite as good.) After tea they went around the farmyard to inspect their pets. A little gosling, quite tame and friendly, was chosen for Carol's especial pet. The hour, which was all nurse had allowed them, pa.s.sed very quickly, and they started on the homeward walk. They had not gone far when a drizzling rain began. Jane then suggested the advisability of crossing a field which would shorten the distance considerably. When they came to the field, she was surprised to find the gate fastened.

"This gate is generally open. I wonder why it is padlocked to-day, but it is not too high to get over. If you climb over first, Master Carol, I can lift Rosebud over to you."

Carol soon mounted the five-barred gate, and landed safely on the other side, then received one by one Rosebud, Estelle, and Sylvia, from Jane's arm, as she lifted them over. They had walked about two hundred yards when Jane stood still in an agony of fright, as an animal, which had been lying unperceived in a distant corner of the field, rose up and came towards them with a loud bellow.

"Oh, Master Carol! What shall we do? It's the bull! He's a terror! I've heard of him. He's a t.o.s.s.e.r!"

"Don't be frightened, Jane. Just walk quietly. The bull won't hurt us, if we are not frightened."

Jane caught Rosebud in her arms, and with Estelle and Sylvia clinging to either side, walked as quickly as she dared towards the stile on the other side of the field. Fortunately, it was a stile easier to mount than the five-barred gate had been. It was but the work of a moment and the three little girls were lifted safely to the other side. Then, Jane turned to look for Carol. He had walked only a third of the distance, keeping always between the bull and his cousins, and now he stood face to face with the animal, a few yards only between them. Another low bellow, and then the animal bent his head to the ground, prepared for a spring.

"Run, run, Master Carol," Jane screamed. It was a fatal appeal. The mesmerism of fear seized Carol. He turned to look after his cousins. The next instant he was on the horns of the animal, tossed high in the air, as if he had been no heavier than an India-rubber ball. Mercifully, he fell on the other side of the hedge, which divided that field from the next. With a roar of baffled rage, the animal stampeded the field, seeking to toss his victim a second time.

CHAPTER XI.

--PERCY'S REMORSE.

The three little girls set up a piteous cry of "Carol," "Carol." Jane was speechless, only wringing her hands in her extremity. What could she do? It was half a mile to return to the farm for help, and a mile to the nearest lodge belonging to the Manor; and there was no house between. She could not see where Carol had fallen. But she knew it was over the hedge into the next field. She feared the infuriated animal would force its way through. Though she could not in any way protect him, it seemed terrible to go from the place, even to get help, and leave him there. Many moments were lost in her frenzied attempts to force an entrance into the field from the lane. It was in vain. The thick, high hedge was impregnable. She called again and again to Carol to speak, to answer her, but there was no response. It seemed an eternity before there was the welcome sound of a horse's hoofs in the lane, which drew nearer until a stanhope came in sight, containing Colonel Mandeville, a friend, and a groom.

The three little girls cried: "Daddy, Daddy, the bull has tossed Carol!"

Colonel Mandeville sprang from the vehicle on the instant, scarcely understanding what the children said. Their distress was evident. That was sufficient. Jane then tried to explain.

"We were crossing the field, sir. I did not know the bull was there. He has tossed Master Carol over the hedge into this field, and we cannot get at him."

Colonel Mandeville uttered one low, sad exclamation.

"Where is the entrance into the field?" he asked.

"There is a gate into it from the field where the bull is. Oh, please, sir, it isn't safe; the bull is awfully enraged," she added, as Colonel Mandeville walked towards the stile.

He turned to say to the groom: "Follow me," and to his friend: "Manton, drive to the village and bring Dr. Burton along. I fear we shall want him." To Jane he said briefly: "Take the children home."

Then he mounted the stile, and entered the field, a gun in his hand, which the groom had handed him from the stanhope. The gentlemen had been shooting. The bull was standing in the middle of the field. He sprang towards the fresh intruder with a bellow. Colonel Mandeville pointed his gun; there was a report, and the next instant the beast rolled over on his side, dead. The groom then followed his master. They had a little difficulty in opening the gate into the next field, but succeeded at last, and were able to get in.

Under the shadow of the hedge Carol was lying--still, motionless.

Colonel Mandeville knelt beside him.

"Carol, Carol," he said softly, but there was no response. "Go to the farm as quickly as you can. Tell them to improvise an ambulance. Bring it along. Lose not a moment," he said to the groom.

Then he knelt on the ground, trying again to awake the boy to consciousness: "My poor wife, how will she bear this?" he said to himself, knowing well that Carol was as dear to her as her youngest born, the Rosebud of the family. The signs of life were so faint, he could not hope the boy would ever regain consciousness.

Dr. Burton was fortunately at home. In an inconceivably short time he arrived on the scene; and the groom returned with an ambulance, followed by the farmer, his wife, and some of the men, all anxious to give any a.s.sistance they could.

Dr. Burton and Colonel Mandeville very tenderly lifted Carol on to the ambulance, a faint moan was the only sign of life, but all were glad to hear even that. Dr. Burton would not make any examination until they could lay him on a bed, and cut off his clothes.

There was no question of breaking the news gently to Mrs. Mandeville; she was returning from a drive as the little girls reached the gates. They ran to her sobbing broken-heartedly.

She was very calm, but her face grew deadly white, and wore again the strained expression which had been so frequent during the sad days of the war. She could not remain inactive, and walked to meet the sad procession.

As soon as Colonel Mandeville saw her, he advanced quickly to her side, and turned her steps homeward. He would not let her see the boy as he lay on the ambulance, looking so like death.

Only Colonel Mandeville was with Dr. Burton when he made the critical examination. There were no broken bones, he said, but added that there are things worse to deal with than broken bones, and hinted gravely at concussion of the brain and spinal congestion. There were two terrible bruises where he had been caught on the bull's horns. He could not hold out any hope to them, but desired a second opinion, and a telegram was at once despatched to a great London physician, who, it was calculated, would be able to reach Mandeville that night if he caught the evening express. Then Mrs. Mandeville took her place by the bedside. She could do nothing, only watch in tearful silence the pallid face that had become so dear to her, lying so still, so calm, it seemed at times the lips were breathless. The reply telegram came quickly. Sir Wilfrid would be able to catch the evening express which would stop at Mandeville by request. He would reach the Manor about ten o'clock.

Not until the physician's arrival, when he and Dr. Burton held a consultation together, did Mrs. Mandeville leave the bedside. She then retired to her own room for a little time. Miss Markham came to her there, begging her to go and speak to Percy. "His grief," she said, "is quite uncontrollable. I have done all I can to comfort him. But nothing I can say seems to touch him." Mrs. Mandeville went at once to Percy's room. He had thrown himself undressed on his bed, and was sobbing hysterically, as she entered the room.

"Percy, my dear boy, you must not grieve like this."

As soon as he was aware it was his mother beside him, he flung his arms round her neck.

"Oh, Mother, I can never, never, be happy again if Carol dies. If he had not been there with them, the bull would have tossed my little sisters. Jane said he stood between them and the bull. He is the bravest boy, and I--I--called him a--a--" He could not repeat the word he had so lightly, thoughtlessly uttered a few hours previously.

"If only I could tell him I did not mean it, and ask him to forgive me, Mother. Oh! won't he ever be able to speak to me again?"

"Dear Percy, I hope so. Sir Wilfrid Wynne is with him now, and everything possible will be done for him. I am sure, darling, he would not like you to grieve like this. He always has such loving thoughts of others." The remembrance of all his gentleness and loving thought for others was too much for Mrs. Mandeville. Clasping her boy closely to her, she wept with him. Heaven was still to her a locality, and death the gateway to it; and Carol had always seemed so very near to the Kingdom of Heaven.

All the household awaited with cruel suspense the great man's verdict, trusting to him, forgetful that human skill had failed the boy once before in his hour of need, forgetful of that friend in Devons.h.i.+re who loved him as her own son. No message had been sent to her.

CHAPTER XII.

--THE PHYSICIAN'S VERDICT.

Sir Wilfrid Wynne gave his verdict, and it was almost a repet.i.tion of what Dr. Burton had said. He could do nothing. There was little hope he would regain consciousness. If he did, it would be but a pa.s.sing flash before the end. He might linger in his present condition twenty-four hours or longer; and he might pa.s.s away any moment without a struggle. It would be cruel to wish him to live; the shock to the spine had been so great, if he lived, he would inevitably lose the use of his lower limbs. Sir Wilfrid was grieved; he had known the boy's father. He would gladly have remained, had there been any hope of doing anything for him. He took his departure by motor-car to catch the mail train at a junction ten miles distant.

Mrs. Mandeville returned to her place by the bedside, calm and still, after her paroxysm of weeping. Colonel Mandeville was with her, and presently the Rector came into the room.

"Raymond, pray for him," Mrs. Mandeville said. "He is in G.o.d's hands. No human power can help him."

They all knelt and the Rector prayed aloud. He did not pet.i.tion for the boy's life to be spared. He humbly asked that the hearts of those who loved him might be submissive to G.o.d's all-wise decree. "Thy will be done," was the dominant note of the prayer. When they rose from their knees, there was an expression on Mrs. Mandeville's face which no one had ever seen before. The prayer had not helped her: it was not submission nor resignation in any degree which had come to her. She turned to the Rector.

"I do not believe it, Raymond. This is not G.o.d's will. G.o.d could not order anything so cruel to befall a child, so loving and dutiful--whose faith in G.o.d's loving care of him has always been so beautiful to me to witness. Could I, who know only human love, suffer anything like this to befall my little Rosebud, or any of my children? Is human love more pitiful and compa.s.sionate than divine love? This dear boy could easily have saved himself; he stood between the cruel beast and my little girls. All three of them might be lying as he is lying now but for his self-sacrifice. Don't tell me it is G.o.d's will! If I could believe it, I would wish I were a heathen, and wors.h.i.+pped a G.o.d of wood and stone!"

The Rector could only gaze in pained astonishment. Such an outburst was so unlike his usually calm and gentle sister. He judged she was beside herself with grief. She stood with clasped hands, wide-open eyes, unseeing, yet seeing, gazing beyond the confines of that room, catching a momentary vision of that light which 'never was, on land or sea.'

She became calm again--serenely calm.

"I see it," she said. "I understand. This is not G.o.d's will. It is not His work. His compa.s.sions fail not. His love is over all His children. With Him is the Fountain of Life. Does He not say, 'I will redeem them from death'? He will save this dear child from the grave. Leave me, please. I want to be alone--alone with Carol and G.o.d. I want to realize it. Yes; G.o.d's will be done. Life, not death, is G.o.d's will. I see it, I see so clearly."

To her husband she said softly, "I will ring if I want anything, dear. Don't let anyone come into the room until I ring."

When all had left the room, and the door was closed, she knelt beside the bed, with outstretched arms. It was a mother's cry to G.o.d for the life of a child that was as dear to her as her own. Hour after hour pa.s.sed, and still she knelt. Words failed her, pet.i.tion ceased: the realization came to her that G.o.d is Life: in Him we live, and move, and have our being. In Infinite Life there is no death. Death never is, and never can be G.o.d's will. The knowledge, the understanding of G.o.d as All-in-all vanquishes death! "O, death, I will be thy plagues. O, grave, I will be thy destruction!" (Hosea XIII., 14.) The morning dawned, the bright sunbeams stole into the room. The boy opened his eyes. "Auntie,"--she was bending over him--"I have been dreaming. I thought I was in a field, and a bull tossed me high up into the air. But I knew in my dream, 'underneath are the everlasting arms.' Then I dreamed again, and two men were turning me about, and moving my arms and legs, and one said, 'There is not a broken bone, nor even a dislocation. It's a miracle.' I tried to say 'underneath are the everlasting arms,' but I could not speak."

The words were very faint and low. She bent close to catch them, then stopped them with a kiss, a paean of joy in her heart. He spoke again: "Auntie, something is hurting me very much. I can't move."

"Do not try, darling, lie quite still. I will sit beside you and hold your hand."

A spasm of pain pa.s.sed over his face, and he fell again into unconsciousness. But she had no fear, she knew that death had been vanquished by the knowledge that had come to her of life.

A low knock came to the door. She opened it, and found her maid there with a cup of tea. She took it from her saying: "Tell them all he lives, and he will live. But I wish to be alone with him for the present. No one is to trouble about me, I am quite well."

So she sat down again beside him, waiting and patiently watching, knowing that he would awake again to consciousness. It was nearly noon when he opened his eyes and spoke again. His voice was stronger: "Auntie, was it a waking dream? Was I really in a field, and a bull tossed me? I am so aching all over me."

"Yes, darling."

"I think I remember now, Auntie. Rosebud and Estelle and Sylvia were there, and Jane called to me, 'Run, run!' They were not hurt, were they?"

"No, darling, not one of them."

"I am glad. Error is telling me I cannot move my legs and arms, Auntie. But it is not true. G.o.d's child cannot be bound like that. Does Cousin Alicia know?"

"I am sorry, Carol. I fear no one has thought to send her word."

"Will you send word now, Auntie--something quicker than a letter?"

"A telegram, dear?"

"Yes, Auntie, and put in, 'Please help Carol'."

"I will ask Uncle to send the message at once, dear."

When she opened the bedroom door, she found Colonel Mandeville pacing the corridor without. As a sentinel he had kept watch there throughout the night and a great part of the morning. He came into the room, and stood with one arm around his wife, looking down at Carol.

"Well, little man, so we are going to cheat the doctors?"

Carol didn't at all know what 'cheat' meant.

"Carol wishes you to let Miss Desmond know, dear. Will you wire at once? And say in the message, 'Please help Carol.' She will know what he means."

"I will gladly do so. Dr. Burton is downstairs, Emmeline. He had better come up now."

An expression of distress came over Carol's face.

"Auntie," he said, "don't let the doctor do anything to me, please."