GOING ASTRAY
When Renti arrived at the lonely looking house at Broadwood everything
was quiet, and the door, which in country houses usually stands open
all day, was sternly closed. As he approached, a big, ugly dog darted
out of his kennel toward him, barking and growling angrily. Renti
shrank back in terror. Fortunately the dog was chained, for he was in a
fierce mood, being enraged at the arrival of so late a visitor.
The door of the house opened and a rough voice called out, "What's the
matter out here?"
"It's--only I," Renti answered in trembling tones.
"Who is 'I'?" said the farmer. "Come closer. He will not eat you. Down,
Turk!"
Renti came forward and said, "Good evening."
The farmer, seeing the bundle on Renti's arm, said: "Ah! you are the
boy from Lindenhof. A pretty time to arrive! They surely sent you away
long ago. If you think we are going to allow you to vagabond and come
home when you please, you are mistaken. Come in."
The farmer's wife had been trying to make out with whom her husband
could be talking at this late hour. Every one else was in bed,--sons
and farm hands,--for here the rule was, "Early to bed and early to
rise." When she saw her husband come in with a boy she understood who
it was.
"Send him right up to bed," she said, as she brought a little lamp and
gave it to her husband. "You will have to show him the way and light
his candle. To-morrow he will go without a light. He is to sleep in the
room with Matthew, the young fellow."
The farmer led the way with his meager little light, and Renti followed
him to a small room under the roof, where the hired man was already
sound asleep. Renti undressed quickly and slipped into his narrow
little bed; the farmer went away with the light. Renti realized that
the bed was harder than the one he had slept in last, but this did
not trouble him long. He was very tired and in a few moments was fast
asleep. Then he thought he was under the alder trees with Gretchen,
and the Broadwood steer came, and he charged down upon it and rescued
Gretchen.
There was more noise and bustle about this new establishment than in
the home he had just left. The Broadwood estate contained a great deal
of woodland, and the farmer, with his three sons and two hired men,
worked in the woods all winter. In the barn there was a team of stout
horses besides the cows, and sometimes even the bad-tempered steer was
put into harness, for there was much carting and hauling to do.
Renti was expected to fetch and carry and make himself useful in all
the different kinds of work, in the barn, wood lot, or house. The
summer vacation was over, and he was supposed to spend a number of
hours in school each day, but in this matter the farmer was not very
particular.
On Monday morning Renti was told to stay about the barn and help the
farmer. At noon he was to carry dinner to the workmen in the wood lot
and was to stay there and help for the rest of the day. Renti was
quick, and being familiar with the work about the barn, he got along
very well with his new master. At noon he carried a big basket to the
woods, and after the men had disposed of the lunch they kept Renti busy
running here and there, wherever they needed him. Now he had to push,
now to pull, and to carry the tools back and forth continually.
But suddenly he disappeared. Loud voices called him repeatedly, but he
did not answer. The voices grew angry; they threatened, they scolded,
growing harsher and harsher. Renti did not come; he was by this time
far beyond the reach of their calls. A feeling had suddenly come over
him so irresistibly that he could not withstand it,--he must go to
Lindenhof; and he ran and ran, without stopping, until he reached the
barn. There he stopped and looked about him. Yes, the place was all
unchanged: the big barn door was standing open, and he could hear
his cows inside pulling the hay out of their cribs; his hens were
scratching about as usual for seeds and grain, cackling contentedly.
The feeling that this was no longer his home, that he no longer
belonged to the creatures he loved, was more than Renti could stand.
He crept out behind the barn, where no one could see him, and threw
himself down on the ground, burying his face and sobbing and moaning
piteously. For a long time he lay there; it was twilight when he arose.
Then he ran as fast as he could up to the pasture, and climbed onto
the little stone wall. The wind rustled through the alder branches and
shook dead leaves down upon him; everything else was very quiet. Renti
sat motionless, staring into the twilight as though he hoped to summon
forth some figure that was not there. Presently the church bell rang
for evening prayers. The sound must have aroused him. He leaped to the
ground and ran across the meadow toward The Alders, where he stole
around the corner of the barn and looked over at the house. Everything
was quiet; not a person was in sight. He stood there until he saw some
one coming out of the house. It was Hannes going to the barn. Then
Renti started off and ran home, but it was quite dark when he reached
Broadwood. When he entered the house he saw that supper was over and
that the farmer, who was putting out his lantern, had just come in from
his last trip to the barn. The farmer's wife stood beside him. She
spoke first. "Here comes the vagabond! Do you think we are going to
allow such conduct here? I wonder that you have the face to come back!"
Then the farmer spoke. "Where did you learn such tricks? I hear you ran
away in the middle of the day. Did they allow that at Lindenhof? Be
careful, my boy; if this happens again, you will rue it. For this time
I will let you off, because it is your first day and you worked well
this forenoon; but don't try it again! Now go to bed. Supper is over.
Whoever is here in time sits down with us."
Renti went upstairs to his room. He did not mind going without supper,
now that he had been to Lindenhof. The next day the farmer took him
into the potato field. Here he had to push the cart and sort over
potatoes, picking out the poor ones and laying them in a separate heap
for the pigs.
Everything went well through the morning. Renti worked diligently and
the farmer was pleased with him. In the afternoon the wife said she
wanted Renti to help her in the garden. She was going to put things
in order for the winter and take up the plants that were not to stay
outdoors. Renti proved especially quick at this work, for he had always
helped the mistress of Lindenhof in the same task. He knew just what
had to be done and took up one thing after another, even before the
woman had a chance to direct him.
"How clever you can be when you want to!" she said, half in approval,
half in reproach. "Don't you see how pleasant it would be if you would
only behave as you should? You know how to do your work properly, and
we are all friendly toward you; but you must not run away."
At four o'clock the woman packed a lunch basket and gave it to him.
"Now carry the men's supper out to them. They are at the edge of the
wood and it is not far. Come right back and you shall have your own
supper. But remember to come back at once."
Renti did not come back.
"Scalawag!" exclaimed the woman angrily, when she found herself still
working alone an hour afterward. It was now growing dark, and she
gathered up her tools and went into the house.
When the farmer and his men came home to supper Renti had not appeared.
"Now you must teach him who is master," said the wife, after she had
told her husband about Renti.
"Yes, he shall learn it once for all," he replied.
Supper-time came and passed and the workmen went to bed; only the
farmer and his wife were still busy with their last duties.
At length Renti appeared in the door.
"Straggler!" the farmer called out angrily. "Where have you been
roaming about?"
Renti said nothing.
"Can't you speak?" demanded the wife.
No answer.
"Do you know what you deserve? There, now perhaps you'll remember
to-morrow!" said the farmer as he boxed his ears sharply. "Now go to
bed."
On Wednesday Renti worked diligently, doing carefully whatever task he
was set to. He held out bravely until twilight, then he disappeared.
When the housewife wanted wood for her fire she called him, but there
was no Renti.
"What can we do with such a boy?" said the farmer in despair when he
heard this last report.
"I had my suspicions from the first," said the wife accusingly, "when
the farmer of Lindenhof offered him to you so readily. I suppose his
wife had had enough of the rascal's tricks."
"He does his work very well when he is at it," said the man in a
conciliatory tone; "but I really am curious to know where he wanders
about." He opened the door once more and looked out.
"I am not," replied the wife. "I'm sure he has fallen in with some
good-for-nothing boys who go tramping about the country, and that's why
he won't tell where he's been. And what if he does work well? What good
is he to us if he is always gone when we need him most? No, we cannot
keep him if he goes on in this way."
Just as the farmer was about to lock the door Renti came running in.
He had to go without supper, as on the previous night, and received a
worse punishment than before, and a stern warning that if the offense
was repeated something serious would happen.
On Thursday the farmer said to his wife: "Let him go to school to-day.
There is nothing special to do. Next week we shall have particular
need of him, and if he is out too many days we may get a notice from
the schoolmaster."
Renti went to school. He saw Gretchen for the first time since they
had parted in the meadow; but he saw her only at a distance, for as
soon as school was dismissed the boys all ran off together in one
direction and the girls in another. That was the way they always did
at school,--except that in the winter the boys ran after the girls and
snowballed them; but there had not been enough snow for that this year.
So at four o'clock Renti ran off toward Broadwood without having spoken
a word to Gretchen. When he was halfway home and was still running he
suddenly felt some power seize him from behind and turn him around. He
faced about, and the next moment was running back over the same road
faster than ever.
On the previous Sunday after church, when the farmers usually met
and exchanged news items, Gretchen had heard that Renti was to leave
Lindenhof and go to Broadwood. She was so downcast by the news that she
did not speak a word at dinner, and Uli said teasingly: "What's the
matter with you? Has your kitten run away again?"
But the mother said: "Don't bother her, Uli. She feels sad about Renti,
because he must go away."
"Indeed, I don't think that's anything to feel sad about," protested
Hannes. "At Broadwood he will be well provided for. It is one of the
finest farms in the country. I wish we had a team of horses like
theirs."
Gretchen felt certain that Renti would come in the afternoon. He always
came on Sundays, and now that he was going away he would surely come to
say good-by, and then she would tell him to be sure to come the next
Sunday. But she waited for him in vain. She went to the window again
and again to look for him, and still he did not come. Gretchen was very
sad at heart. At the supper table her father remarked that it was not
very mannerly in Renti to go away without saying good-by,--and that
made her feel still worse.
Hannes and Uli agreed with their father and said they would not have
thought it of Renti; but the mother suggested in her kindly way that
perhaps he had wanted to come but was kept at home for some reason by
the farmer or his wife.
For several days Gretchen had looked for Renti at school, but in vain.
She knew, however, that he had left Lindenhof, for Uli had heard it
directly from the master of Lindenhof. But to-day he had been at
school. He had not spoken to her, and she had only seen him sitting on
his bench on the other side of the room, and after school he had run
away with the other boys; but she was glad that he had been there and
that she knew at least this much of him.
In the evening, when it was growing dark, Gretchen's mother sent her
to the well with the bucket and told her to set it where Uli would
see it and bring it in filled when he came. As Gretchen was coming
back from the well she heard a strange sound, like suppressed moaning.
It seemed to come from the barn, and she stood still and looked in
that direction, but could not distinguish anything on account of the
darkness. As she stood looking she heard the piteous sound again. She
was frightened and ran toward the house.
Then she heard her name called, quite plainly,--"Gretchen!" She knew
the voice and ran toward the barn.
There stood Renti with his face pressed against the wall.
"Renti! is it you?" said Gretchen in pleased surprise. "Why are you
standing out here? Come in. Mother is in the kitchen. And why are you
crying?"
"I can't come in; I am afraid. Everybody is angry with me for running
away. I suppose she is, too."
[Illustration]
"Oh, oh! you went away without asking?" cried Gretchen in sad, shocked
tones. "But why didn't you come on Sunday? You will surely come next
Sunday, won't you?"
"Last Sunday I couldn't come, and till next Sunday is so long I can't
wait. I have to run away every day."
"Where do you run, Renti? I never see you."
"It is always late when I come, and then I have to go right, back. And
you are never here. I run home every day to Lindenhof, and if no one is
there to see, I go into the barn and look down through the feed holes
at the cows. And Brindle always knows me, and says 'Moo' when she sees
me. Oh, I can't endure it! I can't endure it!" groaned Renti, pressing
his face against the cold stones as though to wring pity from them.
Gretchen's eyes filled with tears.
"If you run away every day, Renti, don't they whip you?"
"Of course they do. They'll whip me to-day, too."
"O Renti! then go home as fast as you can, or they will be more and
more severe with you. And don't run away to-morrow, nor the next day,
nor any more, so that they won't whip you," entreated Gretchen.
"I don't mind it very much," said Renti. "It isn't so bad as not
running away."
He was still pressing his face against the stones, but at length
Gretchen drew him away and entreated him to go. It made her heart ache
to think that they would beat him, and she hoped he might be spared if
he ran very fast.
So Renti turned and darted off down the road.
Gretchen went in and told her mother all about it,--how sorry she
felt for Renti and how dreadful it was that they should whip him. The
mother was sorry for the boy, too; but she said that he must learn to
reconcile himself to the change and not run away any more. And she told
Gretchen to tell him, if she saw him again, that he would be welcome on
Sundays at The Alders, if they allowed him to come, but that he would
certainly not be welcome if he ran away.
All this trouble about Renti lay heavy on Gretchen's heart. The boy
was kept out of school the rest of the week. The farmer thought he
could thus keep better watch of him and prevent his running away, until
he was settled in the new life and trained to its ways. But every
day--usually it was dark before he got a chance--he would manage to
slip out, and away he would shoot like an arrow. The later it was when
he escaped, the later would he come home and the harsher would be the
punishment that awaited him. On Saturday evening, after the boy had
been chastised as usual and sent to bed without supper, the farmer told
him: "I will give you one more week's trial. If you do not improve I
will send you away."
The next day the woman said to Renti: "This afternoon you may go out
with my permission; but see that you come back at a reasonable time for
supper, as befits decent people."
Renti went away right after dinner, but he did not go to The Alders.
He thought the family had probably heard of his running away, and he
was ashamed to go. And perhaps Gretchen's father and her brothers would
look accusingly at him and make him feel that he was not welcome. He
felt the same way about the people at Lindenhof, and not for anything
would he have gone into their house or let them see him.
It had begun to snow a little, and a cold, sharp wind was whirling the
flakes about him in eddies.
Renti ran up to the meadow and sat down on the stone wall. He stayed
there until it became dark, although he was shivering with cold and
the wind almost blew him off the wall. When it was so dark that no one
could see him, he went down to Lindenhof and wandered about the barn
and the stables like some restless spirit condemned to leave a place
and yet unable to tear itself away. Several times he started toward
home; then he would turn back and go all around the barn once more,
laying his ear to the cracks and trying to hear some dear, familiar
sound from his cows or his chickens. Finally he tore himself away and
went over to The Alders. At the corner of the barn he waited a long,
long time to see whether Gretchen would come out; but she was nowhere
to be seen, so at last he ran off home.
The following week passed as the previous one had. If on any one
evening Renti found no chance to run away, then he slipped out so much
earlier the next day. Several times he came home so late that the
farmer could not go to bed at his usual time. Then the boy was punished
with exceeding severity, so that the farmer thought, "Surely this will
cure him." But it did not cure him.
On the second Sunday, when Renti came down in the morning, the farmer
said: "You may go as soon as you have finished breakfast. The alms
commissioner knows you are coming; I told him about you."
The wife packed his clothes in a bundle, and when Renti rose from the
table she gave him his package, and he went accompanied by the parting
injunction from both the farmer and his wife to "be better in his next
place than he had been with them."
Renti went on his way utterly indifferent; he did not care where he
might be sent next. When he reached the commissioner's house the man
had not yet returned from church, so he waited. Presently the man
appeared, and seeing Renti at his door, at once exclaimed: "What's this
I hear about you? A fine record you are making! You'd better try to
stay in your new place, for I don't know what will become of you after
the next three months. The parish will not pay for you after that; so
think over the matter a little. Now you are to go to the shoemaker's."
Renti felt that the commissioner did not feel friendly toward him, as
he had formerly. He turned away in embarrassment and went on.
In winter the farmers did not usually take boys, as they did through
the summer, for their clothes and keep, so no one had offered to take
Renti on these terms; but the shoemaker had agreed to take him for a
small sum to cover his board, since he always had use for a boy.
When Renti presented himself at the shoemaker's the man was sitting in
the one room of the house, with his wife and three small children. He
was mending a shoe, although it was Sunday.
"I suppose you are the new boy," said the woman, when he presented
himself. "Lay your bundle in here. This is where you are to sleep," and
she pointed toward the door by which he had entered. Renti understood
that he was to sleep in the small cupboard-like opening that he had
noticed on the left of the door. It was shut off from the rest of the
room by a few narrow boards, with wide cracks between them, these
openings being the only means by which light and air could enter the
space. Within, there was nothing but a straw bed and a broken chair.
This was to be Renti's bedroom. He tossed his bundle on the chair and
ran out.
The poor shoemaker had no order or system in his household. He took
Renti for the sake of the little money he would get for him, and
because he needed some one to do his errands, as his own children were
too small to be of any use to him. Aside from this he paid little
attention to the boy and let him go his own way. He sent him to school
mornings, because the boy's expenses were paid by the community and he
would have been called to account if Renti had not gone to school; but
in the afternoon, if he had long errands, or any other kind of work
for him, he kept him out. In the evening the shoemaker always sent him
about here and there, and Renti came home when he pleased, no one
paying any attention to him; but he never found anything to eat then,
for he was always too late for the family supper, and of course nothing
was saved for him. The others were glad that he did not come, for there
was hardly enough for the family, and if he had come in time they would
have had to give him something. To have anything left over was a thing
unknown to them.
Renti was becoming sadly demoralized. In school he never knew anything
because he never studied at home, being out every night. In appearance,
too, this thin, ragged little fellow was much changed from the Renti of
former days.
Gretchen was much worried about it all; her days had become very
unhappy. When she heard the teacher saying so often, "Renti, you have
become one of the very worst boys in school," she felt like sinking
through the floor, for she always felt as though it were she herself
being thus disgraced. She never had a chance to speak to Renti; he
always ran away right after school and seemed to have grown shy and
timid. She could not tell her troubles at home, for as soon as she
mentioned his name her brothers would cry out, "Don't speak of him;
he's a good for nothing." And even her mother would no longer take his
part and say in her kind way, "He may turn out all right in time."
Gretchen had but one hope,--that when Renti's time with the shoemaker
was over and he was once more taken on a farm, where there was better
management, he would turn over a new leaf; for she could not believe
that he was really the good for nothing that her brothers thought him.
Evenings she often wanted to go out to see whether Renti might not be
standing at the corner of the barn; she wanted to console him and urge
him to do better; but her mother would never let her go. She said that
Renti should not be wandering about at night, and if he had a clear
conscience he would find their door on Sunday afternoons. If he didn't
come then, Gretchen was not to watch for him.
So on many and many a night Gretchen went to bed with a heavy heart,
and lay awake thinking of some way by which Renti could be led back to
the right path.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]