PLANS AND PROJECTS.
“Hullo! Here is Squib without his satellite. Will wonders never cease?”
Squib looked up with a start as this voice reached him, and found
himself face to face with Uncle Ronald. He had been looking very serious
as he came up the hill towards the chalet, but now his face beamed all
over.
“Uncle Ronald! You have got back.”
“Yes; got back an hour ago, a few days before we expected. We’ve had a
grand time of it. We’ll tell you all about it in good time. But what are
you doing without Czar? He has not deserted you surely?”
The tears sprang suddenly to the child’s eyes.
“Czar is dead,” he answered slowly.
“Dead!” echoed Uncle Ronald, drawing his lips together in a low whistle.
“You don’t mean it, Squib! What took him off?”
“He was killed by lightning in the storm,” answered Squib, turning his
face away as he spoke.
“Killed by lightning! Good gracious! What a frightful thing! And where
were you at the time, Squib?”
“Close by,” he answered, and then was silent a long time. The young
uncle did not like to ask any more questions; but Squib suddenly broke
out in his impetuous fashion,—
“We were trying to get to the hut. Seppi said it would be a dreadful
storm. Czar was a little in front, and the goats had run down far ahead.
There had been one awful flash, and everything was dark and smelt as if
the giant had been mixing his chemicals down in his cavern and had had
an explosion; and then just as we got nearly down to the bridge there
came another worse one, and _such_ a clap of thunder! It made me hide my
eyes, and when I looked up Czar was just tumbling over. Seppi said he
had been struck—he had seen it. He has seen things like that before. He
was dead in a moment. Seppi said it did not hurt him.”
“Poor old fellow!” said Uncle Ronald softly. But whether he meant the
dog or the boy he did not explain.
Squib was silent for several moments, and then burst out again,—
“We buried him with military honours. I took my flag, and there was a
gun in the cottage, and Seppi’s mother let Peter fire it over his grave.
Seppi has made a headstone, and Ann-Katherin has planted some flowers on
it. I’ll take you to see it some day.”
“All right, old chap; I’ll go and drop a tear for our faithful old
friend Czar. But you must have had rather a narrow shave yourself,
youngster. How far off were you when this happened?”
“Not very far. Czar always kept near me. Seppi thinks about twenty
metres. That’s what mother said. She cried when I told her, and I
thought she was crying for Czar; but she said they were partly tears of
joy, because I hadn’t been hurt—nor Seppi.”
Uncle Ronald’s face was grave as he drew the child towards him. He, too,
felt that he had come very near to losing his small nephew.
“I think I might have been killed but for Seppi,” pursued Squib. “He
made me come back with him when he knew the storm would be bad; and it
was worse up the hill where I should have gone if he hadn’t said I must
come with him. Lots of trees were struck. They are lying about still
right across the path. I shouldn’t have known what to do; but Seppi did.
Seppi knows a great deal about the mountains. He is a very nice boy. We
are great friends.”
At this moment Colonel Rutland appeared, and his greeting to Squib
showed that he, too, had heard the story of the boy’s narrow escape, and
was feeling some considerable emotion at the thought of it.
Squib soon found himself telling the story of the adventure in detail,
and how kind Seppi’s mother had been in drying his clothes and keeping
him warm by the stove all the time; and how Peter had set off in the
pouring rain, directly it was safe to leave the hut, to take word to the
chalet that he was safe, and to bring him down some dry garments, for
his own were not fit to put on till the next day.
“I knew mother would be afraid about me,” said Squib; “but I didn’t mean
Peter to go. I wanted to go myself as soon as the thunder and lightning
stopped, but Seppi’s mother wouldn’t let me. Peter went instead. Peter
is a very nice, brave boy—although Seppi is really my friend.”
He was silent for a short time, and then began again,—
“Father, I wish I might do something for them!”
“For your friends in your favourite valley? Well, Squib, what do you
want to do?”
“I don’t quite know. I have so many plans. Father, haven’t I a lot of
money in the bank? You know my godfathers and godmother always send me
sovereigns on my birthday, and mother puts it in the bank. I think I
must have a lot there now; haven’t I?”
“Well, according to your ideas, I daresay you have. Twelve or fifteen
pounds, perhaps.”
To Squib that seemed a perfect fortune. His eyes shone brightly.
“Father, would that be enough to buy a cow? or enough to send Seppi to a
school where he could be taught drawing and wood-carving, so that he
could make his living? You know he is lame, and he is very delicate,
too. He got a bad cold in the storm, and he has coughed ever since. I
think if he could be sent to some warmer place in the winter, and be
taught a sort of trade, it would be a very good thing. Do you think my
money would do that? And do you think I might give it to him?”
“We will think about it seriously,” answered Colonel Rutland smiling,
“since it does seem as if Seppi’s promptitude and presence of mind had
saved you from possible danger. What is the name of this family in which
you are so much interested?”
“Ernsthausen,” answered Squib at once; “and Lisa knows all about them.
They have lived here a long time.”
But Squib suddenly found that his father was not listening any longer,
but had turned to Uncle Ronald.
“Ernsthausen! Can it possibly be the same?”
“It may be; but one doesn’t know how far the name may be a common one in
these parts. I think Lorimer, who talked with him so much, said that he
hailed from these parts.”
“What is it, father?” asked Squib earnestly. “What are you talking of?”
“Why, we had a guide called Ernsthausen—an uncommonly good fellow he
was, too; and, though I said nothing about it to your mother in my
letters, we were once in a nasty predicament, and things might have gone
badly with us but for Ernsthausen, who showed great presence of mind and
courage. He would not take anything beyond his ordinary fee and small
gratuity, saying he had only done his duty. But we thought very well of
the man, and were talking about trying to find some way of helping him.
Mr. Lorimer used to have long conversations with him that we did not
understand. He may have found out something about him. Run and call him,
Squib; let us take him into counsel.”
Squib, quite excited by the prospect of a council over his friends, at
once jumped to his feet.
“I expect it’s the same!” he cried eagerly. “Seppi’s father _is_ a
guide, I know; and a very good one. That’s partly what makes them afraid
when he goes away for the summer, and when storms come on. Gentlemen
going long and dangerous ascents always try to get him, because he can
be trusted. He gets well paid, of course; but they are always afraid
lest some harm should happen to him.”
“Sounds rather like the same man, doesn’t it?” said Uncle Ronald. “Well,
we’ll see what Lorimer has to say about it.”
Mr. Lorimer was soon there, and could tell them many things he had
gleaned from the guide Ernsthausen. It very soon seemed almost certain
that he was none other than Seppi’s father, for he had spoken of having
his home in a valley not far from the chalet whither his gentlemen
travellers were bound at the conclusion of their mountaineering trip,
and he had certainly spoken more than once of a little lame son at home.
That quite settled the matter in Squib’s mind, and he was quite excited
to know what was to follow.
“I know what Ernsthausen has really set his heart upon,” said Mr.
Lorimer. “It has been a project of his for years, and he is saving money
for it; but he is still some way from having sufficient to start it.”
“What is that?” asked Colonel Rutland with interest.
“Well, I don’t know whether you know how things are done in this
country, but I will tell you something of it in brief. I may not be very
accurate in detail, but the substance is true. If a man wants to
undertake any big bit of work—build a hotel or pleasure resort, or even
get himself a large farm, he scrapes together a certain sum, and then
applies to the government for a loan sufficient to enable him to carry
it out. He pays a modest rate of interest for this when the thing is
started, and gradually pays off the debt as well if he is thrifty and
careful; but the government has what we should call a mortgage, I
suppose, on the place all the while; and if the man is a ne’er-do-well,
or idle, or extravagant, and does not keep his pledges, government
simply steps in and ousts him, and takes the place over bodily. I
suppose he gets his own capital back; but I don’t know the details, as I
say. I only know that that is the sort of thing that goes on, and
explains the ease with which small men build and set going these monster
hotels, which in England would ruin the first two or three proprietors
very likely.”
“Sounds a simple and Arcadian method,” remarked Uncle Ronald; “but what
has all this got to do with Ernsthausen?”
“Why, just this. He is very anxious to have a small hotel of his own for
mountaineers; just in that spot we have so often spoken of as needing
one so badly—where all those valleys converge, and so many ascents can
be made. It has been an idea of his for a long while, and he has been
saving up all he can. His wife would manage the kitchen department, and
his son would help in many ways, and he would still do a certain amount
of his old work for the gentlemen he knew, but gradually grow
independent of it as his strength diminished. He has been thinking of
the scheme for years, always afraid lest somebody should be beforehand
with him; but he does not think he has yet quite sufficient to get the
advance from government. He told me that in two or three years he hoped
to make a start. But often some calamity in the winter to his home, or
some failure in the crops, has obliged him to draw upon his savings. I
thought, then, that it would be a happy notion to make over to him the
balance he needs; but, with a man of free, independent character, it is
not easy to tender help. He is proud, this Ernsthausen, with all his
poverty.”
“And a good thing, too,” breathed Uncle Ronald softly. “That is a
complaint I wish more poor people suffered from in these days!”
But Squib, who had been listening breathlessly all this time, now burst
into excited speech.
“Oh, father, do let me give my pounds to Seppi! and let me tell him all
about it I don’t think he knows; but I believe he would be glad, because
they are always so sad when their father goes away. It would be
beautiful if they all lived together always, and had a place of their
own, and took in travellers, and were not so poor. I don’t think they
mind being poor. I think they are wonderfully good; but it would be nice
for them not to have to be afraid about their father any more, and to be
with him all the year.”
“Well, we will think about it,” answered Colonel Rutland. “I shall make
inquiries, and see what I think can be done. We must first make sure
that the family is the same: and then we will see how we can go to work.
I should like to help them very well, I confess; but we must not be in a
hurry.”
Squib always was in a hurry; and he found all this very exciting. He
wanted to talk it over with Seppi at once, but he resolved not to do so
till things were more settled.
But he was off early next morning to the valley, and to his surprise and
pleasure found Seppi on his old knoll by the fir-trees, with his
sketch-book and chalks beside him. He was looking eagerly out for Squib,
to hail him as he passed, fearing lest he should plunge straight down to
the bridge.
Moor, too, was on the lookout on his own account, and came bounding up
to him, pushing his black nose into his hand, and soliciting notice.
Moor had been very affectionate to Squib ever since the death of Czar.
It seemed as if he recognized the child’s loss, and tried to show
sympathy in his own way. Squib repaid this affection warmly, and thought
Moor, next to Czar, the nicest dog in the world. He followed him
willingly enough to Seppi’s knoll.
“You are up here again, Seppi! That is nice!”
“Yes; I wanted to come again,” said Seppi with a wistful look round him.
“I do so love the mountains; and I cannot see them properly from the
other side.”
Squib sat silent a little while thinking, and then asked,—
“Do you think these mountains are so much better than any other
mountains? Would you be very sorry to go away and leave them?”
There was a strange look in Seppi’s eyes as he looked straight out
before him.
“I—I—don’t quite know,” he said softly, almost more to himself than to
his companion. “Sometimes I think—perhaps—it would be better there.”
Squib shot a little glance at him from under his brows. Seppi’s face
wore the sort of look one sees on the face of a person who is looking on
things from which he is soon rather likely to have to part. And the
younger boy recognized this look at a glance.
“He does know something about it,” he said to himself. “Perhaps his
father doesn’t want it talked about, and so he keeps it to himself. But
he has heard something, I am sure. I hope he does not mind very much.”
There was silence a while between the children, and then Squib asked in
a tentative fashion,—
“You are not unhappy, Seppi?”
The dark eyes were turned full upon him, and Seppi smiled.
“No,” he answered softly, “I don’t think I am unhappy, little Herr; I
have thought about it so often. I think it will be better really,
perhaps; only—only—well, I suppose it is always rather hard to go away
when one loves everything so much.”
“Yes,” answered Squib with sympathy, “I think that is the hard part of
it—and you love your valley so much. But you know it will be just as
beautiful there—perhaps it may even be more beautiful. We don’t know
because we have never seen it.”
Seppi gently shook his head, and smiled.
“That’s always what I try to think—that it will be so much more
beautiful than this that I shan’t want ever to come back. I don’t
suppose people ever do really. Only sometimes one can hardly help
thinking one would.”
“No, of course not,” answered Squib eagerly, “and you especially,
because you are so fond of your valley and mountains; but I think the
other will be better. I really do.”
“I think so too—really,” answered Seppi softly. “I’m glad you know about
it, little Herr. I didn’t know whether I could talk to you about it.”
“Oh yes, you can—if you like,” answered Squib eagerly; “I didn’t know
you knew anything about it yourself. I shouldn’t have said anything if
you hadn’t. But I do like to know what you think about it. Will you mind
going very much?—and will Ann-Katherin mind?”
Seppi’s face looked very grave and rather sad.
“Ann-Katherin does not know,” he answered very softly. “I couldn’t tell
her; she would cry so. I don’t speak about it to any one: but I am sure
mother knows. She cries often, but she doesn’t talk about it.”
Squib felt a little puzzled.
“But isn’t she rather glad too? Doesn’t she like to think of having your
father always there, and his not going so much up the dangerous
mountains?”
It was Seppi’s turn to look puzzled now.
“I don’t quite understand you, little Herr.”
Squib turned a bright look upon him.
“Why, about the hotel, you know, which your father wants to have down in
that other valley where there isn’t one. Weren’t you talking of that all
the time? I thought he had told you all about it, only it was a secret.”
Seppi’s bewildered face astonished Squib not a little.
“I don’t know what you mean, little Herr.”
“Didn’t he ever tell you about it, then?—or your mother?”
Seppi shook his head.
“I’ve never heard anything about it.”
“Then what did you mean about going away?”
The children looked into each other’s eyes, and Squib felt a sudden stab
of pain somewhere which he did not understand.
“Tell me what _you_ meant,” said Seppi after a pause. “Why did _you_
think I was going away? And what do you mean about a hotel?”
Squib looked eager, yet doubtful.
“I’m not quite sure if I ought to tell. If I do, it must be a great
secret, Seppi.”
“Oh, I won’t tell; but I should like to know. It would be something to
think about when I am thinking of them all. Will you please tell me,
little Herr?”
“Do you know what a hotel is, Seppi?”
“Yes, father talks about them sometimes. People stop there and have
their food and beds. Father once said that he should like to keep one
himself. It paid very well when it was well managed, and he should like
the life. But mother said it was no use thinking of it, because they
should never have the money.”
“Oh, then you _do_ know!” cried Squib eagerly. “I’m so glad; because I
_think_ perhaps your father will have the money quite soon; and then
he’ll begin to build, and perhaps by next spring you will all go and
live there. It would not be your own valley, of course, but Uncle Ronald
says it’s one of the most beautiful valleys in all Switzerland.”
Seppi’s eyes were shining now with excitement.
“Oh, how wonderful! Would they really! Oh, how do you know about it?
Mother doesn’t know, I’m sure; I should know if she did. How can father
get the money?—and how do you know, little Herr?”
Squib nodded his head sagely. He wasn’t going to be betrayed into any
premature disclosures, nor did he quite know how people were going to
manage matters; but he knew that what his father took in hand always was
carried through somehow, and so he had no doubts at all.
“My father told me,” he answered proudly. “My father is a very good man,
and he knows a great deal. Your father was his guide, and he saved his
life; and mother and they all think that you saved me from being hurt in
the storm. That’s what makes them all so interested in it. When my
father means a thing to be done, it always is done,” concluded Squib
rather grandly, though without any assumption. “He has been a soldier,
you know, and has always had people obeying him. Things always come
right when he takes them in hand. Everybody says that.”
The lame boy’s eyes were shining brightly.
“Oh, I am so glad! I am so glad!” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to
think of leaving mother and Ann-Katherin before; but if they go away
somewhere else, and if they have a different home and a different
valley, they will not miss me the same way. How good God is to us!”
added the boy with sudden vehemence. “Just as Herr Adler says. He does
everything we ask Him, and ever so much that we should never have
thought of asking. He is good and kind!”
Squib was looking rather disturbed.
“I don’t quite understand you, Seppi. Why do you talk about going away,
except to the new home?”
Seppi turned his eyes over towards the mountains, and Squib saw how
pinched and thin his face had grown. He began to apprehend the meaning
of the words, though he did not fully comprehend them.
“I think I shan’t be here in the spring to go with them,” said the lame
boy quietly. “The doctor said last time that another cold would make an
end of me. There’s been something wrong here,” touching his chest, “ever
since I was all those hours in the ice-cave. Every winter they think it
will be then; but I’m sure it’s coming now.”
Squib looked very much awed, but not afraid. The thought of death is not
in itself terrible to children. Their hold upon life is not very strong,
and their simple faith carries them over all perplexities and
misgivings.
“Do you mean you will not get better?” he asked softly.
“I don’t think I can. I feel so very weak, and at night I can’t breathe,
and I have to sit up and pant. I am best out on the mountains; but soon
I can’t be there any longer. If it were not for mother and Ann-Katherin
I think I should be glad. It isn’t good being weak and lame, and not
able to do anything like other boys and men. In God’s garden it will not
matter. I shall be like the others there.”
“God’s garden!” repeated Squib quickly.
“Yes; I once had a dream about being in God’s garden. I can’t explain
how it was; but there was a beautiful garden with mountains all round
it, and flowers growing everywhere. And I was one of them; and I knew
that the others had been live people once, and had died and been taken
there to rest and sleep until the resurrection. And we were all so
happy. And presently a whisper ran through that the Lord was coming, and
that we were to be ready for Him; and that made me so glad and happy
that I awoke before He had come. But I always remember my dream; and
once I told it to Herr Adler, and he told me that he knew many good men
who had dreamed something very much the same. So when I think of being
dead, I never feel as if I should be in a narrow grave in the cold and
the dark, but be a flower in God’s garden, just waiting for the Lord to
come.”
Squib’s eyes were bright with interest and sympathy.
“That was a nice dream,” he said. “I shall think about that often. I am
glad you told it me.”
“I’m glad I’ve talked to you,” said Seppi. “I was feeling rather unhappy
before you came, and now I am quite happy again. I think mother and
Ann-Katherin would have missed me so if they had stayed always here; but
if they go to another place, it will be quite different. They will have
a lot of nice things to think of, and that will keep them happy.”
“Will Ann-Katherin mind leaving the valley?”
“I don’t think so if I’m not there. I think she will be glad to go.
Ann-Katherin loves the mountains and the goats and everything here, but
she likes change too. If there are mountains and pretty things where she
is going, I think she would like it better. She would like to see a lot
of people; and Peter will be very happy.”
Seppi had so much to talk of and think about that his face quite beamed,
and lost its pinched, wistful expression.
“Perhaps he will get better,” thought Squib to himself, as at last he
rose and made his way home.