Little Soldiers All

By

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

Author of 'Little Maid Marigold,'

'Angel's Brother,' 'Prosperity's Child,'

'The Bottom of the Bread Pan,' etc., etc.

London:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.

CHAPTER I

NEWS FROM INDIA

"DEAR me!" exclaimed Miss Basset; "oh, dear me! I was saying only yesterday that the whole world seemed topsy-turvy as the result of the war, but I never thought that this might happen! Oh, dear me!"

She was a gentle-faced maiden lady of nearly seventy, with soft brown eyes and silvery hair. As she spoke she glanced across the breakfast-table, at which she was presiding, at her brother, and then at the young folks—a girl and boy—who were seated facing each other. Having assured herself she had every one's attention, she proceeded—

"Really it is most upsetting! Though we have often said we should like to see Paul's little daughter, haven't we, John? It will be a great responsibility for us to have charge of her, but under the circumstances—"

"Had you not better let me know the contents of Paul's letter, my dear Ann?" interposed Mr. Basset, smiling.

He was a tall thin man, with stooping shoulders which made him look older than his sister, who was his senior by several years. Being of a retiring disposition, he lived a quiet life, spending most of his days in the pursuits he loved—the study of flowers and insects. The gardens surrounding his home—the Glen, a modern red brick residence, situated near the west country town of Midbury—were full of the choicest plants; and he was the possessor of one of the finest collections of moths and butterflies in England.

Miss Basset had kept house for her brother for many years, during which they had been very happy together. They were good, kind people, always ready to help any charitable cause which was brought to their notice; but they lived rather narrow lives, and made few new acquaintances.

Six years previously Mr. Basset had been left trustee to two orphan children—May and Donald Rae—who had then come to live at the Glen. They were twins, twelve years of age, and were being educated by a daily governess.

Donald had been to a boarding-school at Exeter for some months; but, unfortunately, whilst playing football he had seriously injured his right knee. He had been laid up for weeks, and was still obliged to walk with a crutch. The doctors advised that he should be kept at home for the present, and had expressed the opinion that he would most likely be lame all his life.

Miss Basset passed the letter she had been reading to her brother. It was from their nephew, Paul Basset, their dead brother's only son, who was an officer in an Indian regiment. He was a widower, his young wife having died eighteen months after their marriage, leaving him with a baby girl whom he had kept with him in India. She was now eleven years of age.

"I see! I see!" murmured Mr. Basset, as, having read his nephew's letter, he folded it carefully, placed it in its envelope, and returned it to his sister. "Well, I suppose having Josephine here will not make much difference anyway, Ann?"

"I don't know about that," Miss Basset answered doubtfully; "it will depend upon what she is like, of course. An Indian-born child, accustomed to native servants, may not settle down comfortably in an English home. Dear me, I was saying only yesterday that we had no relative at the front, little thinking how soon our nearest and dearest would be there! Oh, dear me!"

"Is Captain Basset going to the front then?" asked Donald eagerly. He and his sister had been listening to their elders with growing curiosity.

Miss Basset assented, her eyes filling with tears as she did so; she wiped them hastily.

"And he is sending his little daughter to us in charge of a brother officer's wife who is going to Exeter," she explained; "he wants us to keep her till the end of the war. I do think—" turning to her brother— "that he should have consulted us, though, before making his plans."

"My dear Ann, don't you realize he had no time for anything but to act? His regiment was ordered immediately to the front, and he had to decide what to do with Josephine at once. He has paid us a compliment, I consider, in sending the child to us. It shows he realizes we shall do our best for her and try to make her happy. You noticed, I suppose, that he remarked she would probably be with us almost as soon as her letter? So we may expect her any time now."

"Then I must see about having a bedroom prepared for her," Miss Basset said, rising; "she shall have the one next mine, for it faces south and is very warm and cosy. If she is a nice child it will be pleasant for May. Poor little soul, I dare say she's in dreadful trouble about her father—because he's gone to the war, I mean. She may never see him again."

"Or he may live to win the Victoria Cross!" cried Donald, his eyes sparkling. Then, as Miss Basset left the room, he continued: "Oh, how I wish I was a man and able to enlist in the army! When I think of those poor Belgians fighting so bravely I long to be a few years older—but, there, my knee will prevent my ever being a soldier now, I suppose!"

"Never mind!" said May; "never mind, dear!"

"But I do mind!" the boy answered sharply, "so what's the good of your talking like that? Never mind, indeed!"

Mr. Basset had gone to the window, and was looking out into the garden where autumn flowers still lingered. He was paying no attention to the children, and presently he opened the window and stepped out into the October sunshine. There was silence in the breakfast-room for some minutes after he had gone. May felt snubbed, but she showed no resentment. She was naturally sweet-tempered and allowed Donald to treat her as he pleased. It would have been better for both of them, perhaps, if she had not. During the time he had been ill with his injured knee she had been his willing slave, and when he had vented his irritability upon her she had borne it without complaint.

"I wonder what Josephine will be like," she remarked presently, "and if we shall get on with her?"

"What's the good of wondering? I wish it was a boy who was coming instead of a girl!"

"I dare say you do. For your sake I wish so, too, dear."

"And I wish you wouldn't keep on calling me dear!" Donald exclaimed complainingly; "you have such an old-fashioned way of speaking, May, as though you were your own grandmother!"

May laughed, but she was secretly hurt. She moved to the window and watched her guardian pacing the garden paths. In a minute she cried—

"I hear a band! I believe the soldiers are coming! Let us go to the gate and watch them pass!"

There were several hundred recruits billeted in Midbury, and nearly every day they went for a long march. This morning, as they came to the big iron gate leading into the shrubbery which hid the Glen and its gardens from the high road, they found an elderly gentleman there with a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl, and a boy leaning on a crutch. They saluted them as they passed by.

"I seem to know the faces of some of them," remarked Mr. Basset, as the last line of khaki-clad figures disappeared from view.

"A lot of them are Midbury men," Donald answered. "How well they are marching!—much better than they did a week ago! Did you notice young Dicker, May?"

May nodded. Her face was flushed, and her eyes sparkling. She could not think why it was that the sounds of a military band and marching feet should always bring a lump into her throat.

"What Dicker is that?" inquired Mr. Basset. "Not the blacksmith's son? Yes? Why, he is an only child! I wonder his father let him join!"

"His father wouldn't have been very pleased if he hadn't," Donald answered quickly; "I managed to get as far as the blacksmith's yesterday, and had a talk with old Dicker. He was so proud to tell me that his boy had been the first man in Midbury to obey the call to arms. He says that after our duty to God comes our duty to our king and country. He's right, isn't he?"

"Yes, yes!" agreed Mr. Basset. "Old Dicker is a very fine fellow, straight as a line, and honest as the day, but I should have thought he was too peace-loving to have consented to his son being a soldier. I thought he hated war as much as I do."

"But you don't think it wrong to fight in a good cause?" questioned Donald eagerly.

"Certainly not, certainly not! It's the right thing to do—only people don't always do it."

"Then they're cowards!" declared the boy hotly.

Mr. Basset did not gainsay it. Hitherto the shadow of the war had not come very near him. He had subscribed to the hospital which was shortly to be opened in Midbury for wounded soldiers, as had his sister, and to various war funds; but until that morning it had not occurred to him, any more than it had to Miss Basset, that it might effect them personally. Now it seemed as if it might, for their dead brother's son was very dear to them.

"Oh, Donald, don't you wish there was something you and I could do for our country?" cried May. "If I was a little older I might be a Red Cross nurse—"

Donald interrupted her with a laugh. "I like that!" he cried; "you a Red Cross nurse indeed! Why, you haven't the pluck of a mouse! I shan't forget how you wept over that dead rabbit we found in a snare the other day!"

"That was because it had suffered," May answered; "you know it had been caught by the leg, not killed outright. If it had been living I should have loved to care for it till it was well."

Donald made no reply to this. He had suddenly remembered the hours his sister had devoted to him during his late illness, and felt ashamed that he had laughed at her tender-heartedness. He did not tell her so, however, and they went back to the house without speaking to each other again.

Punctually at ten o'clock Miss Cummings, the governess, arrived. She lived at Midbury with her widowed mother, and had held her present situation for years. She was a clever teacher, and a strict disciplinarian. May and Donald had a great respect but no affection for her. She was a tall, gaunt young woman, with a sallow complexion, grey eyes, and tightly-braided brown hair.

"Oh, Miss Cummings, have you heard the news?" May questioned, as the governess entered the schoolroom where she and Donald were waiting for her. "Captain Basset is sending his little girl to England—"

"So Miss Basset has informed me," Miss Cummings interrupted; "I met her in the hall. But no talking now, children! It's time for work to begin."

As a rule work ceased at half-past twelve o'clock. This morning May and Donald were inattentive, not wilfully, but because they found it impossible to keep their thoughts from wandering to the expected visitor, and the result was that it was nearly one o'clock before they had finished writing the impositions their governess gave them. By that time they were both feeling very ill-used.

The family at the Glen, who were simple living people, dined at half-past one. After dinner, if the weather was fine, Miss Cummings generally took May for a walk. She did so to-day.

"Where are we going?" May inquired, as, on closing the big iron gate behind them, the governess paused, looking undecided. "May I choose the way?"

"Yes, if you like," Miss Cummings replied.

So May chose the road towards Midbury, which led past the blacksmith's house and shop. Old Dicker, a vigorous man of sixty, with grizzled hair, was at work in the shop, and his wife, a little, plump, rosy-cheeked, brown-eyed woman, stood in the doorway knitting. May nodded smilingly to the blacksmith, and spoke to Mrs. Dicker.

"I saw your son march past the Glen this morning," she informed her.

"Ah, yes!" said the woman. "He was on his way to Kilber Down with the other recruits. They're going to be taught trench-digging there."

"How interesting!" exclaimed Miss Cummings.

"Ah, there's a lot for them to learn," said Mrs. Dicker, "and they've got to be sharp about it."

"Did you want your son to be a soldier?" asked May curiously.

"Not at first," Mrs. Dicker admitted, "but when I'd thought about it more I did, and felt ashamed I hadn't bid him go and do his duty. God's calling us all to-day, as plain as plain can be to show ourselves Christian soldiers."

"But women can't be soldiers," said May; "they don't fight battles."

"They have sometimes the hardest battles of all to fight," Mrs. Dicker answered gravely, "and so you'll find, miss. I wanted to keep my boy. That was selfishness, and I had to fight it. It wasn't easy."

"But you won!" smiled Miss Cummings.

At this minute a cab appeared, coming towards them from the direction of Midbury. As it passed by May clutched her governess excitedly by the arm.

"Did you see?" she cried— "see all the luggage I mean? And the lady and little girl? Oh, let us go home, please, Miss Cummings! I feel sure that little girl is Josephine Basset!"

CHAPTER II

JOSEPHINE'S ARRIVAL

"I SUPPOSE, my dear, you are very glad to be at your journey's end?"

The speaker was Miss Basset. Half an hour since she had been disturbed in her afternoon nap by the arrival of Josephine, and Mrs. Ford, the lady with whom Josephine had travelled to England. Having delivered her charge into the keeping of Miss Basset, Mrs. Ford had declined to remain longer, and had left in the cab which had brought her and Josephine from Exeter; and now Miss Basset and her niece were alone in the pretty, comfortable bedroom which had been prepared for the latter only just in time.

Josephine Basset was a tall girl for her age, and very thin. She had a pale face, dark eyes with well-marked brows, and wavy dark hair. She was not pretty, but her expression was attractive—frank and good-humoured.

"Yes, very glad," she answered, "though, of course, I was sorry to say 'good-bye' to Mrs. Ford. But if she remains at Exeter, perhaps I shall see her again. She is staying there with friends at present, but she may take a furnished house later."

"I liked her appearance very much," remarked Miss Basset; "she looked such a motherly woman. She has children of her own, I suppose?"

"No. But her husband, Colonel Ford, calls her the mother of the regiment, because if people are in trouble she helps them—mothers them, you know."

"I understand. How good of her! No wonder you were sorry to say 'good-bye' to her, my dear! But I hope you will be happy with us, Josephine—as happy as it is possible for you to be under the circumstances."

Josephine was standing by the window, looking out. Her face was composed, but her voice sounded slightly tremulous as she answered—

"You are very kind, Aunt Ann. I promised father to try to be happy, and of course I shall keep my word. I hope it hasn't put you out very much, my coming so suddenly? Father really didn't know where else to send me, and he thought you wouldn't mind. Everything was such a rush, you know."

"Yes, yes! I am very glad you have come! John and I have often said how much we should like to see you—our dear nephew's little girl! Your uncle will be disappointed that he was not here to welcome you. He went out directly after dinner, and there's no knowing where he's gone—he takes such long walks looking for rare insects and flowers. You have heard of the Raes, I suppose—the children who live with us?"

"Oh, yes! Uncle John is their guardian, isn't he? I expect that was the Rae boy I saw looking over the balusters when we arrived? You wrote and told father about his accident. Is he still lame?"

"Yes, and we fear he always will be. His sister has gone for a walk with her governess."

"I think they are coming up the carriage drive now, Aunt Ann."

"Then we will go downstairs, and we will have tea early—"

"Oh, please don't have it earlier for me!" interposed Josephine. "I had lunch before I left Exeter, not so very long ago."

"We dine at midday," explained Miss Basset, "and have a laid tea at five o'clock, and supper at half-past eight as a rule. Come along, my dear!"

She led the way downstairs. In the hall they found May and her governess in conversation with Donald, and Josephine was introduced to them.

"I want you to give the young folks a holiday to-morrow, please, Miss Cummings," said Miss Basset, "so that they may get to know Josephine."

"Certainly!" Miss Cummings answered.

"Oh, thank you!" cried Josephine.

It being now four o'clock, the hour at which the governess usually left the Glen, she said "good afternoon" and took her departure. As soon as she had gone May ran upstairs to take off her hat and jacket, whilst the others went into the dining-room, where Jane, the parlour-maid, was laying the table for tea.

"I thought perhaps you would want tea early, ma'am," the girl said to Miss Basset, with a glance at Josephine.

"Quite right, Jane," Miss Basset answered; "as soon as it is ready, please. We shall not wait till Mr. Basset returns."

Five minutes later the old lady and the three young people—May had soon returned—were seated at the table. It had a big bowl of chrysanthemums in the centre, most beautiful blooms. Josephine's face lighted up with a smile when she saw the old-fashioned bronze urn set before Miss Basset and heard it singing.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "everything's exactly as father said it would be!—exactly as it was when he was a boy and used to spend his holidays here, Aunt Ann. He has always remembered—oh, everything! And how kind you were to him, too! Lots of times we've talked of coming home together, and—"

She paused abruptly, for Miss Basset was wiping her eyes, then added quickly—

"Oh, please don't cry! I didn't mean to make you cry!"

"I'm very foolish," murmured Miss Basset, "but when I think of your poor father—oh, dear me!"

Josephine was silent. Her pale face had become a little paler, but she showed no other sign of emotion. After a minute she said quietly: "Father is all right, Aunt Ann."

Miss Basset was so surprised at this remark that she could only stare at Josephine in amazement. May and Donald stared at her too; they thought she certainly must be rather heartless.

"You mustn't trouble about his having been ordered to the front, if that's what you're crying about," Josephine continued; "I don't mean to—more than I can help. Of course—" her voice trembling slightly— "I can't help being anxious; but I'm a soldier's daughter, and I don't want to be a coward as though I couldn't trust God to take care of father—wherever he is—whatever happens. Oh," springing to her feet, "is this Uncle John?"

Mr. Basset had entered the room in quite a state of excitement, for he had been told by the gardener of Josephine's arrival.

"Yes, it's Uncle John, who's heartily glad to see you, my dear," he said. "Why, what a tall girl you are! And very like your father! His eyes, I see! Ann, have you noticed?"

Miss Basset assented. Having kissed Josephine, Mr. Basset seated himself at the table by her side, and, for a time, gave her all his attention, asking her many questions about her father, which she answered cheerfully.

"Does he think the war will last long?" he inquired by and by.

"He is afraid it will," Josephine replied gravely; "but he says no one can really tell."

"True!" agreed Mr. Basset. "Ann, did you know some Belgian refugees were expected at Midbury to-day?" he asked, turning to his sister.

"I didn't know when they were expected," she answered, "but I knew they were coming. Some one called here this afternoon for a subscription to a fund for providing for them. I promised a guinea a month, and said no doubt you would give something, too."

"Very willingly. I was passing the railway station when the Belgians arrived, and waited to have a look at them. There were twenty—mostly women and children; they had lost everything except the clothes they were wearing, so I was told."

"Oh, how sad!" cried May pitifully.

"It must be terrible to be homeless," remarked Miss Basset; "heart-breaking, I call it."

Mr. Basset agreed. "Yet most of them appeared cheerful," he said; "that seemed marvellous to me."