GOING HOME.
It was the last day at the chalet. On the morrow Colonel Rutland and his
party were to start for England and home.
Squib stood holding his father’s hand beside a little newly-made grave
in the quaint little burying-ground of the little church on the
hillside, just where it began to slope gently down towards the wider end
of the valley where the small township lay.
Squib held in his hands a wooden cross about three feet high. He had
spent the last days of his stay in Switzerland in carving that cross,
and in striving to put into it some of the many imaginings which crowded
his busy brain. For a child’s handiwork it was very creditable. There
was a lily carved upon the upright bar, standing out in bold relief, and
the greatest pains had been taken with the shape and veining of every
leaf and petal. At the very top of the cross the word “SEPPI” was cut in
small capitals, and that was all. The lower end of the upright bar was
pointed, and as Squib stood at the little grave looking very seriously
upon it, he gave a questioning look up into his father’s face, and on
receiving a nod of assent he moved forward and drove his cross into the
ground just at the head of the little grave. The earth, having recently
been loosened, gave no great resistance. With the aid of his father the
boy fixed his little memento safely in its place, and, having done this,
he hung upon it a wreath of Alpine flowers which he carried on his arm,
and stood looking at the result with a smile on his lips and a tear in
his eye.
Colonel Rutland, standing bare-headed at the grave, bent his keen gaze
on the face of the child beside him. The death of little Seppi was
Squib’s first real acquaintance with death (for he had been too little
to understand or remember the loss of his baby brother), and it had
produced a considerable effect upon the child, as his parents had
observed. His presence at the deathbed could not have failed to leave an
impression on a mind so thoughtful and sensitive as Squib’s; and it had
been plain to those about him that the boy had thought of little else
ever since his return from the peasant’s chalet with news of Seppi’s
sudden death, and the way in which he had been summoned.
“I think they will know whose doing that is,” said the Colonel, and the
boy looked up with a smile. Although grave, and sometimes tearful, Squib
had not been sorrowful during these intervening days, and there was a
look of gladness in his face now as he surveyed his handiwork.
After rather a long silence he broke out in his earnest way,—
“I think they will. I’m sure Ann-Katherin will, because Seppi always
told her everything—what we talked about and what we thought about. She
will know why I made it a cross, and why I put the lily on.”
“Why did you, my boy?” asked the father gently.
“Well, you see, father, it was like this. We used to talk about
things—Seppi and I—and he used to tell me things I didn’t know. You know
the people about here are some of them Roman Catholics, and they do
things that seem queer to us. They go down on their knees when they pass
a cross or a crucifix by the roadside, and Seppi said that Protestants
called that wicked, so that they didn’t have any crosses or anything
like that in their churches. But I told him we did in England, and he
thought it was nice, if it wasn’t wrong; and so we asked Herr Adler
about it, and he told us.”
“Told you what?”
“Oh, just made us understand what was right and beautiful and true,
without getting wrong things mixed up with it. Herr Adler is so nice
like that. He loves the Roman Catholics, and calls them brothers, but he
knows better than anybody I ever met just where they are wrong, because
they go beyond the Bible, and teach things that are not there; and he
loves the Protestants, because they made a stand for the truth and would
not have the Bible kept from them, nor have a Pope for the head of the
church instead of our Lord; but he tells us just where they have cut
away too much and left their churches bare and their services too. And
so he told us that we were right to love the symbol of the cross (as
Seppi did, only he was afraid it was wrong), because St. Paul said that
he would glory in it, and our Lord said we were to take up our cross and
follow Him. We used to talk about Seppi’s lameness. I think that was his
cross; and I knew he would have liked to have one at his grave—though I
don’t think anybody else would put one there. And you see the lily means
that he isn’t lame any more—that he has laid down his cross, and that he
is in God’s garden now—a lily, perhaps, or some beautiful flower, just
blooming there with the others, and waiting for the Lord to come. Like
his dream.”
And then Squib slipped his hand again into his father’s, and the pair
walked back to the chalet again.
They had plenty of interesting things to talk of. Not only were they
going home soon, but everything had been arranged about the Ernsthausens
and the piece of ground which Colonel Rutland had bought and made over
to them. Everything was practically settled by that time; and as they
passed through the place on their homeward way, Squib was to have the
great delight of seeing the site of the proposed hotel, and of being
introduced to Seppi’s father.
Moor was one of the little party at the grave that day. He had stood
with wistful eyes and drooping tail whilst father and son remained
there. It seemed almost as if he knew who it was that lay sleeping
below; but he had quite settled down by this time in his new home and
with his new master, and Squib had won his fathers consent to taking the
faithful dog back to England with him.
At first there had been some doubt about this. Both parents had thought
the dog would be far happier in his own home, and could not understand
Squib’s assurances to the contrary; but when it was demonstrated time
after time that, if taken back to the peasant’s chalet, the dog would
return almost immediately to his new master with every demonstration of
joy and affection, Colonel Rutland was fain to admit that some
inexplicable bond had been formed between the pair, and he no longer
resisted Squib’s earnest appeal to be permitted to take the dog home
with them. He was not a beautiful animal, but his fidelity and sagacity
were beyond dispute. Squib and he were devoted friends, and since poor
Czar was no more, one dog was manageable on the homeward journey.
Squib’s farewells were all made by this time. The visit to Seppi’s grave
was the very last. His precious collections of plants and flowers were
all packed up by the careful Lisa. His many small gifts and his numerous
carvings were stowed away in the great boxes, all carefully marked for
identification. On his last visit to the home of the Ernsthausens he had
been given numbers of Seppi’s drawings, and especially, what he greatly
valued, the sketch-book, full of those chalk sketches and studies whose
progress he had watched with such keen interest. There were several
beautiful portraits of Czar in this book, which made it the more
valuable, and every picture recalled some incident to the boy’s mind, or
portrayed some familiar effect of sunshine and snow such as the pair had
loved to watch. With that sketch-book in his hands, he would be able to
make the brothers and sisters at home understand everything about his
life in the valley. Here were the Silent Watchers with their great snow
crowns, there the tumbling cascades and watercourses with their many
bridges. On one page was a picture of Seppi’s home, with Peter digging
in the garden, and Ann-Katherin sitting in the doorway with her red
handkerchief on her head; on another, the flock of goats browsing on the
hillside with Moor watching them, and Czar lying beside him with his
head on his paws. There were studies of some of their favourite Alpine
flowers too, such as would be useful to carve from by-and-by, if Squib
continued to keep up that accomplishment; and almost everything Squib
most wanted to describe to the girls at home was illustrated in Seppi’s
book.
There was even a portrait of Herr Adler in his long coat, pointing out
to Squib something in the rocks at their feet. Perhaps the faces were
not particularly like, being on so small a scale; but the general effect
was good, and Squib was very glad he had not let Seppi tear out the page
on which the hasty sketch had been drawn, as he wished to do, being
himself dissatisfied with it.
Squib was ready by this time to go home. Seppi’s death had in a great
measure broken the tie which had bound his heart to the green valley;
and the thought of all the party at home, the pleasant summer holidays,
and the interest and excitement of preparing for school next term, drew
his thoughts and interests homewards like a magnet.
The parting with Lisa was the only really hard thing, and that was hard;
for the pair had always been much attached, and the bond had been drawn
very close during these long summer weeks.
However, they consoled themselves by promises of writing sometimes. Now
that there would be no Seppi to write to, Squib would have lost all news
of the valley and of his friends there if Lisa had not promised to keep
him informed from time to time. Her home was about midway between this
valley and the one in which the Ernsthausens were to set up in the
spring in their new hotel. She would be sure to hear and see something
of them from time to time, and would let her “Liebchen” know.
Squib was permitted to spend a part of his money in the purchase of a
silver watch for Lisa, which he gave to her on the morning of departure.
Her wonder and delight helped them to get through the good-byes
wonderfully well, and it was rather a relief at the last to be actually
on their homeward way again.
The first stages were taken slowly, and by the evening of the first day
the party only got as far as the place where Ernsthausen stayed during
the summer months. Here they remained for the night, and Colonel Rutland
hired a light carriage and drove Squib out in the evening to see the
spot where the hotel was to be built. As they approached it they saw
several peasants standing about and looking with great interest at what
was going on, and Colonel Rutland remarked with a smile,—
“Ah, here is my friend Ernsthausen himself, measuring the level ground,
and seeing how best to pitch his building. We will go and speak to him.”
This was all very interesting, and Squib highly enjoyed the encounter.
He did not know which to admire most—the gratitude and dignity of the
fine Swiss mountaineer, who now knew to whom he was indebted for this
piece of good fortune; or the pleasant, kindly manner of his father in
first accepting, then quietly putting aside the thanks, going into all
the calculations and measurements, dropping a hint here and making a
suggestion there, always to the point, and always eagerly listened to by
those standing by.
“I am so glad we went,” cried Squib, as they got into the carriage at
last, followed by something very like a cheer from the peasants. “What a
nice place it will be when it is done! Father, do you think you will
ever bring me here again?”
Colonel Rutland looked down at his small son, and seeing the eagerness
in the boy’s eyes, answered after a little thought—
“Well, Squib, suppose we make a compact. You are going to school, and
for the next few years you will be busy and full of other
interests—interests which you cannot understand yet, but which will
absorb you immensely by-and-by. In the holidays you will want to be at
home with your brothers and sisters, and they will want you. But our
compact shall be this, Squib, that if you are an industrious boy at
school, if you do well there—do your best, I mean—and give satisfaction
to your masters, then when the time comes for you to leave—the time when
there is a break in a boy’s life, and often rather an unwelcome one—then
I will take you or send you to Switzerland once more for a couple of
months; and you shall do some mountaineering with Ernsthausen, provided
you are strong enough, and he is here to take care of you.”
Squib’s eyes had been growing brighter and brighter during the course of
this speech. Now, after turning the delightful proposition over and over
in his mind for several minutes, he said,—
“Oh, father, you _are_ kind to me! I will be good and diligent. I meant
to before, but I shall never forget now. I told Seppi I didn’t know if I
should ever come again, not till I was quite grown up and could do as I
liked. But now I shall always have this to look forward to! Oh, I am so
much obliged to you!”
Colonel Rutland patted his son’s head as he replied,—
“Being grown up, and doing as one likes in your sense of the word, my
little man, by no means always go together. When we look back at our
boyhood, we fancy it was then that we did as we liked, not now. The
fetters of life are much heavier as we go on than they are at starting,
as you will find for yourself one of these days.”
Squib gave a quick upward glance at his father’s face, then turned
matters over and over in his mind for a long while, after which he broke
out in his vehement way,—
“I know what you mean, father—at least I think I do. But I mean to like
everything I have to do, which is better than just doing as one likes.
You know that’s what Herr Adler does, and he’s always happy. I don’t
know what he does do, but it’s hard work, because Seppi says so; and yet
he says it is beautiful work, because he loves it so. He says everything
can be beautiful if it is done right—done the best way—done,” here Squib
dropped his voice to a whisper and added, “to the glory of God. Seppi
found it out. He said it was beautiful work to keep the goats on the
mountains, though at first it seemed so dull. I’m going to try that way
of doing everything and looking at everything. Then I shall always do as
I like, because I shall always like what I do.”
The Colonel bent an earnest look at the child and said,—
“Well, Squib, if coming to Switzerland has taught you that lesson, I
don’t think your journey has been in vain.”
Going home was very interesting, Squib thought, though perhaps not quite
so exciting as going out, when everything had the charm of novelty. He
understood things better now, and could explain them all to Moor, who
was very much perplexed by some of his experiences, especially his first
introduction to trains, and his first sight of a large town and paved
streets. He was so afraid of being lost that he would not leave Squib’s
side for a single second, and had to be permitted to sleep at his bed’s
foot at night. This dependence formed a very strong bond between the dog
and the child; and before they reached England, Squib felt as if he must
have had Moor all his life, and his grief for the loss of Czar was very
much lessened. There would have been a great blank in his life if he had
had no canine companion especially his own; but Moor was more his own
even than Czar had been, and, being so much smaller in size, could come
much more indoors with him at home. His only trouble in prospect was the
thought which sometimes presented itself—“What will he do when I go to
school?” But Squib had always possessed a fund of philosophy of his own,
and would answer to himself, “Better wait and see what happens before
bothering. Perhaps he will get fond of them all at home, and will not
miss me more than Czar would have done. Everybody at home will be fond
of Moor for being such a good dog. He must learn to do without me
sometimes. He will have all the girls to love him.”
And so Squib would not be troubled by the future, but enjoyed the
present very much, sitting in the corner of a railway carriage, whilst
Moor squeezed up beside him next the window, eagerly watching the flying
landscape, his ears very tightly pricked, his brown eyes full of light,
but quite content even amidst all this unwonted bustle and confusion so
long as he and his master were together. There was less trouble with him
than with Czar in travelling, on account of his smaller size.
Squib occupied his leisure moments in trying to teach him English, as he
was afraid things would be very strange for him at the Chase if he did
not know any English words. He soon reached the conclusion that Moor had
a “natural gift for languages,” for he soon obeyed words of command as
readily in French or in English as in his native tongue.
“I wonder if he will be sea-sick!” thought Squib, as he led him on board
the packet. “Poor Czar was, but perhaps Moor will be a better sailor. In
people, one can never tell.”
Apparently Moor was a better sailor than Czar, for the slight motion of
the boat did not seem to affect him at all, and he presently grew so
much at home that at last he left his little master’s side and wandered
about on his own account.
Presently Squib heard a short sharp bark, such as Moor was wont to give
when anything pleased him, and that roused the boy, who was leaning over
the ship’s side thinking about the home he was rapidly approaching, and
he went to see what had excited his companion. There were a good many
passengers on board that day, and Moor’s bark came from some distance
off, for Squib was right up in the prow, watching the sharp point cut
through the waves and throw back two great flashing scimitars of shining
water as it tore its way along, and the sound came from the hinder part
of the packet.
Suddenly he came in view of Moor, triumphantly holding by the corner of
a gentleman’s long coat, and drawing him along with him; and a quick
flush rose in Squib’s face as he exclaimed joyfully,—
“Herr Adler!”
“My little friend the firework,” said Herr Adler, in his kind way,
holding out a hand and drawing the boy to him. “Squib with Seppi’s dog!
I could scarcely believe my eyes when Moor came and claimed
acquaintance. Have you got Seppi somewhere here? or how come you to have
his dog?”
“Seppi is dead,” answered Squib gravely, “and he asked me when he was
dying to have Moor, and father said I might;” and then Squib launched
out into the history of the last weeks of his stay at the chalet, and
Herr Adler listened with undivided attention and sympathy, just putting
in a word here and there, “saying some of his nice things that leave you
feeling happy afterwards,” as Squib expressed it to his mother, but
leaving the greater part of the talk in the hands of the child.
It was a great satisfaction to Squib to have this talk.
“Seppi would have liked you to know everything, I’m sure,” he said in
conclusion, “because it was you who helped him so when he was lame
first. Isn’t it funny we should both he crossing in the same boat? It
seems like a beautiful thing to me. I think beautiful things do happen
to you, Herr Adler.”
“I think they happen to all of us, my little friend, if we have eyes to
see and hearts to understand.”
Squib looked up eagerly into the kind face and said,—
“Oh, I think they do! I do indeed! Everything seems beautiful to me, I
mean about going to Switzerland and finding Seppi, and being his friend,
and meeting you and everything. I wonder whether it will go on being
like that always! Do you think it will, Herr Adler?”
He was smiling in the way Squib remembered so well—the way that always
drew the children’s eyes to his face in eager anticipation of his next
words.
“I hope it will, my child,” he said. “There is nothing to stop it,
unless we raise obstacles ourselves. Sad things may happen to us, but,
as you have found already, sad things can be beautiful things too.
Everything that comes to us from God has a beautiful side, if we can but
find it; and with what is evil, and comes not from Him, we must have
nothing to do. And the most beautiful thing of all is surely coming, and
may come any day. We must always live in that hope, and then everything
about us is beautiful.”
Squib did not entirely comprehend what those last words meant, but that
did not matter. Children do not ask to comprehend all they hear; it is
enough that they apprehend something beyond their ken which lifts their
hearts upwards. The pair sat side by side for some minutes in silence,
and then the boy said with a sigh of contentment,—
“I am so glad I have seen you again. Now will you come and see my
mother? I am sure she would like it.”
After that there was no more private talk between Squib and his friend,
but he kept by Herr Adler’s side, and enjoyed hearing him talk with his
parents and uncle. They all liked him so much—Squib was quite proud of
the fact. Everybody loved Herr Adler who came across him. As Squib
expressed it, “They just couldn’t help it!”
“Well, good-bye, my little friend,” said Herr Adler at last, as the boat
was slowly steaming within the great stone crescent that guarded the
harbour; “perhaps some day we may meet again; but whether or not we do
here, we shall meet one day, and know each other again. Be a good boy,
and never forget whose child you are. A very happy home-returning to
you! What a clamour there will be when they all come out to meet
you—brothers and sisters, and horses and dogs! I should like to be there
to see!”
“Oh, do come, sir!” cried Squib eagerly. “I’m sure they would all so
like it!”
But Herr Adler shook his head, though he was smiling all the time.
“Thank you, my little man, but those pleasant things cannot be.
Good-bye, my child. You must go to your parents now.”
The boat had come to a standstill, the great engine had ceased to throb.
There began to be a movement amongst the passengers. Squib knew that he
must not linger now. Although he was growing to be a big boy, and was
not much in the way of kissing now, he suddenly lifted his face to Herr
Adler’s and received a kiss from him.
The next minute his friend had passed across the narrow gangway, and was
with the crowd on the shore. Squib waved his hand to him once, and then
turned quickly back, joining his father and mother almost before they
had had time to miss him.
“I was just saying good-bye to Herr Adler,” he said. “I’m so glad we met
him again!”