WHICH DESCRIBES A PLEASANT DINNER-PARTY, AND AN UNPLEASANT WALK.
For when little Peter and his mother and brothers came out of the
church at Nullepart, the sun had been hidden some time behind thick
clouds. Fierce gusts of wind rushed down the street, blowing off hats,
and blowing about petticoats, and making window-shutters rattle, and
doors slam.
'Make haste, children, make haste,' cried Susan Lepage. 'We must get
our dinner at the Red Horse and start homewards as quickly as we can.'
'Oh! I have been hearing something so terrible,' said Eliza, to her
mistress, as she came down the church steps. 'Not that I am surprised
at it--no, no, no. I have always suspected it. I am sure his appearance
this morning was enough to confirm one's worst suspicions.'
Eliza pursed up her lips and shook her head with an air of extreme
wisdom.
'They do say that Paqualin is a wizard,' she went on. 'Take care,
Peter; if you look one way and walk another, you will unquestionably
tumble down. And you needn't stare at me so. I wasn't talking to
you.--Joseph Berri, the watchmaker's brother, has just been telling me
all about it. There is no doubt he overlooked one of Miller Georgeon's
draught oxen three years ago, so that it would not eat, and grew daily
thinner and thinner, and had, at last, to be killed.--Go on, Peter;
your ears will grow as long as a donkey's if you are always listening
like that.--And they do say he can call up evil spirits, and storms,
and thunder and lightning, and whirlwinds, when he wants them for his
own vicious purposes.'
'Nonsense, Eliza, nonsense,' said Susan Lepage. 'You are far too
willing to listen to idle, ill-natured tales.'
Eliza sighed profoundly and turned up her eyes.
'Ah!' she murmured, 'some day, ma'am, you will see who was in the
right, and give credit where it is due. For my part, if it does snow
to-day, I shall know what to think.'
'Make haste, children,' said Susan Lepage again. 'The time draws on,
and we have no time to waste.'
But it was not so easy to make haste. The large dining-room of the Red
Horse, with its tall, white-curtained windows, was crowded. From up the
valley and down the valley in their long, narrow, country carts--for
all the world like tea-trays set on four wheels--with cracking whips
and jangling bells, or on foot, from lonely hamlets in the forest, or
solitary herdsmen's huts on the steep grass slopes beneath the grey
limestone cliffs and crags, all the inhabitants of the district had
gathered to attend the church, and see the show, and spend a merry
Sunday. And among all these good people were many friends of Susan
Lepage, who detained her with greetings and questions. Then, too, the
places at the tables were already taken, and it was some time before
the boys and their mother could get seats. Even so little Peter had to
squeeze himself into a very small space between Madame Georgeon,--the
stout, comely wife of Monsieur Georgeon, the miller at Oùdonc--and
his mother. But little Peter thought it all delightful, though he was
rather pinched as to elbow-room. He liked the rattle of the knives and
forks, and the many voices, and the talk and laughter; and watched with
great curiosity the active serving-maids, balancing in their hands--and
indeed all up their arms, too, so it seemed--an incredible number of
plates and dishes. Even the floor sprinkled with sawdust, and the not
altogether spotless table-cloth, were interesting. For it was all new,
you see, to little Peter; and even things not very nice in themselves
are charming when they are new.
Then, too, Peter was very hungry; and though Madame Georgeon's full
skirts overflowed his small legs, and her handsome shawl, thrown
gracefully back from her shoulders--the room was warm, what with the
great, china stove in the corner and all the company--and though her
shawl, I say, enveloped him entirely now and then in a cloud of many
coloured cashmere, the miller's wife was very kind, and coaxed and
petted him, and piled up his plate with all manner of dainty things.
'Eh, _par exemple_,' she said, smiling and nodding at him as she sipped
her glass of red wine--'it is not every day we go into society, is it,
to meet old friends and make new ones? You, Susan Lepage, from a child
were of a serious turn of mind. That is an excellent thing, too, no
doubt. It secures the future. But the present should not be despised
either. The members of my family--the saints be praised--have ever
possessed a little grain of gaiety in their composition. For my part I
think it is only economical to make the most of this world while you
are permitted to be in it. And I regard it as an actual impiety to
neglect any opportunity of innocent entertainment. Eat, my child, eat
then--a spoonful or so more of this admirable pastry. See, on my plate
here. I was provident when the dish came round, and secured a double
portion.'
Then, turning, she smiled at Susan Lepage again:--
'Do not alarm yourself. It will not injure him. He will walk it off.
Exercise is a fine thing to prevent food lying heavy on the stomach.'
'Perhaps moderation is a finer one still,' answered the other gently.
'But are you not ready, my sons? We must not linger, though you in your
kindness would tempt us to do so, good Madame Georgeon. We do not drive
home by the high road as you do, but go on foot through the forest, and
the days are short.--Antony, we should surely be moving.'
But Antony was in no haste to be going, for he, too, was making the
most of this opportunity of innocent enjoyment. He sat beside Marie
Georgeon, the miller's pretty daughter, who certainly took after
her mother's family in respect of gaiety. And, clean glasses being
somewhat scarce at the Red Horse from the unusual number of guests, it
happened that she and Antony shared one; and her brown eyes were as
full of mischief as a May morning is full of sunshine as she glanced
up at him over the rim of it, and laughed and talked, and fingered
the gold and garnet necklace that fitted so neatly about her throat.
And what with her pretty looks and merry words, the young fellow's
head was completely turned--and if you do not quite understand what
that means, you need only wait a little, for you are bound to find out
clearly enough some day. And, as the inevitable consequence of his
head being turned, he hardly heard his mother when she spoke to him,
and made no haste in the world to finish his dinner, and loitered and
dawdled about upon one excuse and another as long as possible; and, I
am sorry to say, spoke quite snappishly to his brother Paul, when the
latter pointed out to him that the clock had struck three already, and
that it was high time to be going. You see, it is just as well not to
understand--by experience, anyhow--what it is to have your head turned,
since it leads to these deplorable errors both of manners and conduct.
So it fell out that when at last our friends left the jovial company
at the Red Horse, and came out from the steaming dining-room into the
street, the snow-fairies had already been some half-hour at work, and
the roadway and house-roofs were all lightly powdered with snow. To
little Peter, warm with his dinner, this seemed the crowning piece
of fun of a glorious day. He could hardly get along for turning to
look at the marks his nailed boots made in the snow. But Susan Lepage
thought very differently. She glanced up at the dull, clouded sky, and
remembered the sad words of John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner, that
everyone had treated so lightly some few hours ago.
'Will it last, do you think?' she asked of Antony.
Antony, however, was still thinking of pretty Marie Georgeon, with whom
he had shared the kernel of a double almond at parting, both wishing
as they eat it. He was wishing his wish still, and it was such an
agreeable one that he felt quite superior to all inconvenient incidents
in the way of snowstorms and such like.--He cocked his cap more on one
side than ever, and assumed quite a patronising air, even towards his
mother, which, to say the least, was very silly of him.
'It may last or it may not,' he answered. 'But really, it doesn't very
much matter.'
'I wish that your father was with us,' added Susan.
'Why?' cried Antony. 'He couldn't stop it snowing any more than I can.
And pray remember, mother, that this isn't by any means the first time
I have walked home from Nullepart in bad weather. I believe I could
find my way back blindfold or at midnight for that matter.'
'I am not at all troubled about you, my son,' replied his mother
quietly, 'but about our poor little Peter here, with his little short
legs.'
'Oh, Peter will do well enough,' said the lad impatiently.
Some find it difficult to make room in their hearts for more than one
person at a time, you know; and Antony's heart was still pretty well
occupied by Marie Georgeon. He walked along briskly humming the tune of
_Partant pour la Syrie_, which is a song about a young soldier who was
pious as well as brave; and a lucky fellow into the bargain, for when
he came back from the war he married his master the count's daughter,
and lived happily ever after.
'Never mind, mother,' said Paul; 'if the snow is deep, or Peter is
tired, I can carry him pick-a-back. He's not very heavy, you know.'
'I shan't be tired. I like the snow,' cried little Peter, and he
clapped his hands and pranced about, till Eliza--who was still rather
cross because her cousin had neglected to invite her to dinner--caught
hold of him and made him walk soberly.
'If you laugh so now there will be tears before night,' she said.
'Laugh at breakfast, cry at dinner, laugh at dinner, cry at
supper-time. Ah, dear me! this cold wind; I wish I had thought to put
some wool in my ears--I shall be martyred with the toothache.'
So they passed down the main street. It was almost deserted now, for
the storm had driven people to take shelter in the wine shops, or,
which was far wiser, in their own houses. Even the pigs had gone to
their styes, and the fowls to their roosts; and the goats, with their
little tinkling bells, were safe housed, too, in their sheds, munching
the dry, brown hay that in the summer-time had waved as green grass
full of a rainbow of flowers. They passed by the smaller houses and
out-buildings, and the great saw-mills where the pine logs from the
mountains are cut up, that stand along the bank of the swift river; and
crossed the bridge with the dark water rushing underneath; and began
climbing the road that zig-zags up the long hill between the great,
bare walnut-trees and stubble fields, and wild rocky pastures, to the
edge of the pine forest--four tall straight figures, and one short
roundabout one, showing black against the ever-deepening snow.
[Illustration]
For, alas! the snow was falling thicker and thicker--here in the
open it was already up to the second lace-hole of little Peter's
boots--scurrying and racing in wild confusion before the icy breath of
the North Wind; twisting, and twirling, and dancing; clinging to grass
blade, and bush, and branch, and tree stem; hiding the road so that you
could no longer see the margin of it; covering the wheel tracks and
marks of the horse hoofs; filling up hollows under the grey rocks and
boulders, and blurring the jagged outline of the pine-trees where they
rise against the sky. Hundreds of thousands of white, hurrying flakes,
soft, silent multitudes, filling the air as far as eye could see. There
was no fun now in turning round to look at the marks of his nailed
boots, for Peter found the snow hid them again almost as soon as they
were made; and it was hard work, too, struggling up the steep hill and
battling with the wind.
Still the little fellow trudged along without making any complaint.
For, you see, he had often heard his father praise the virtues of the
Ancient Romans, their courage and endurance; and so Peter had got the
notion into his head that it is rather a grand thing not to mind what
is uncomfortable and disagreeable, and that it is rather a shameful
and unworthy thing to grumble and make a fuss, and cry when your
chilblains itch, or you happen to bump your head against the table, or
when your legs ache, as his legs began to ache now, with the length and
steepness of the hill. More than once his mother stopped and called
him to her, and told him he was a good, brave, little man, and pulled
the collar of his overcoat up about his red, little ears. And Peter,
though he would not have said so for three dozen baking apples, or half
a washing-basket full of sugar pigs, did find it very comfortable to
stand still in the shelter of her petticoats for a minute or two and
get his breath. The town below was hidden in the driving snow, and the
dark wall of the pine-trees loomed nearer and nearer.
At last the forest path was reached, and here it was better walking.
The snow was lighter, and there was shelter from the force of the wind.
But they had taken so much time in climbing the hill that the dusk was
coming on, and there was still a long way to go.
Antony no longer whistled. He walked on steadily ahead of the others,
turning round now and then with a fine air of superiority and command.
Antony, indeed, was as yet not at all displeased with the adventure.
He believed that this was an occasion on which he showed to great
advantage. His mother followed him in silence. Little Peter came next.
He had taken his brother Paul's hand now, and trotted along as fast as
his sturdy little legs would carry him, for to tell the honest truth he
was getting a trifle frightened. The birds had all hidden themselves
away in the thick brushwood, and no longer welcomed him with their
merry round eyes. The well-known path looked mysterious, almost awful,
in the half-light, with the tall ranks of the pine-trees on either
side of it swaying in the blast. Sometimes the snow would slip in great
masses from the high branches and fall close to little Peter's feet, as
if the black dwarf was throwing snowballs at him. Poor Peter began to
feel very shivery and creepy, and did not the least care to look round
lest _something_, he did not exactly know what--and that made it all
the worse, perhaps--should be coming tripping, tripping, tripping over
the white ground behind him.
But the only person who really came behind little Peter was Eliza;
and though I do not want to be rude to Eliza, who was a very worthy
young woman in her way, I cannot pretend to say that she was doing
anything so graceful as tripping over the snow. Not a bit of it. Eliza
was extremely disgruntled by the events of the day, and was as full of
complaints and lamentations as a hedgehog's back is full of spines.
The wet snow had made her fine, white cap limp and drabbled; so that
instead of standing up like the vizor of an ancient helmet, the big,
lace frill of it tumbled in the most melancholy manner about her face.
She had turned the skirt of her dress up over her head; and what with
holding it, and her books tied up in her handkerchief, and what with
the tightness of her boots, which were a pair of brand new ones and
half a size too small for her into the bargain, Eliza came very much
nearer floundering than tripping over the snow.
The forest opens out in places into wide spaces of waste moorland.
Across these by daylight or in fine weather it is easy enough to find
the right road; but on such an evening as I am telling you about it is
by no means easy. On the edge of the moorland, Susan Lepage called to
Antony to stop.
'Go slowly,' she said, 'and pray be careful. If we once mistake the
path we may find ourselves in a sad plight. I wish your father was with
us! Go on in front,' she added, turning to Paul, 'and I will follow
you.'
Now his mother's words rather nettled Antony.
[Illustration: LOST. _Page 110._]
'You haven't any real confidence in me,' he said sulkily; 'or you
wouldn't be repeating all the while that you wish my father was here.'
You see, Antony had been a good deal flattered and excited by his
pretty companion at the Red Horse at Nullepart. And it often happens,
unfortunately, that pleasure when it is past makes us quarrelsome.
He kicked the snow about with his foot, and his handsome, young face
looked quite rebellious and naughty.
'No, no, my son,' Susan Lepage answered gently. 'I have every
confidence in your good intentions. But the way must needs be difficult
to find. I merely caution you to be careful.'
'Of course I shall be careful,' said the lad angrily, as he stepped
from the shelter of the pine trees into the dim, white waste beyond.
For a time all went well; but, all of a sudden, the ground began
to grow rough and uneven under foot. Peter stumbled and fell, and
scrambled up again half smothered in snow, his poor, little mouth and
eyes full of it, and his hands scratched with the harsh heath roots and
stones beneath.
'Antony, Antony, we are wandering!' cried his mother, as she wiped
the snow out of Peter's eyes and off his clothes, and kissed him. The
little boy clung to her, for he felt very desolate and cheerless. He
did not think it in the least amusing now to be out in the storm. He
longed for the warm, cosy kitchen and for the society of Cincinnatus;
but he choked down his tears as his mother kissed him, and tried to be
very brave and not to mind his tumble.
Antony turned back, he was a few steps ahead.
'We can only have missed the path by a yard or two,' he said hurriedly.
'You just stand still and I'll find it.'
And he did find it. But, alas! he could not keep to it, for the light
faded and darkness came on quicker and quicker, and still the snow
fell in hundreds of thousands of soft white flakes. Eliza groaned and
lamented, and our poor, little Peter's snow-clogged boots began to
chill his feet through, and his hands grew as cold as frogs' paws, and
he got more and more hungry and tired. But he did not grumble about it,
for he knew his mother and brothers were cold and weary too; so he
struggled on manfully through the ankle-deep snow. And, at last, he got
too tired even to feel hungry, and began to cry quite gently to himself.
[Illustration]
'Please, mother,' he said, 'I can't go any further.'
Susan Lepage took him up in her arms and held him close against her
bosom. She did not speak; but, if it had been light enough to see, I
think Peter would have found that she was crying too. For the ground
was all rough and uneven under foot again; and though Antony went first
to the right hand and then to the left he could not make out the road
at all.
'I've come all wrong, mother,' he said, and his voice trembled. 'I
don't know where we are or which way we are walking. We are lost.'
There was a silence before his mother answered him.
'You have done your best,' she said. 'The event is in the hands of
God.'