Adventures of Herr Baby

by Mrs. Molesworth

  CHAPTER IV.

  GOING AWAY

  "She did not say to the sun good-night, As she watched him there like a ball of light, For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep."

  How, I can't tell, but, after all, _some_how the packing got done, andeverything was ready. They left a _few_ things behind that Herr Babywould certainly have taken had he had the settling of it. They didn'ttake the horses, _nor_ the fireplaces, and, of course, as the horsesweren't to go, Thomas and Jones had to be left behind too to take careof them, which troubled Baby a good deal. And no doubt Thomas and Joneswould have been _very_ unhappy if it hadn't been for the nice way Babyspoke to them about coming back soon, and the letters he would send themon their birthdays, and that he would never like any other Thomases andJoneses as much as them. It was really quite nice to hear him, andJones had to turn his head away a little--Baby was afraid it was to hidethat he was crying.

  It was a very busy time, and Baby was the busiest of any. There was somuch to think of. The rabbits too had to be left behind, which was verysad, for one couldn't write letters to _them_ on their birthdays;neither Denny, whom he asked about it, nor Baby himself, could tell whenthe rabbits' birthdays were, and besides, as Baby said, "what would bethe good of writing them letters if they couldn't read them?" The onlything to do was to get the little girl at the lodge to _promise_ to takethem fresh cabbages every morning--that was one of the things Herr Babyhad to see about, himself. Lisa lost him one morning, and found him atthe lodge, after a great hunt, talking very gravely to the little girlabout it.

  "Zou will p'omise, Betsy, p'omise certain sure, _nebber_ to forget."--P. 61.]

  "Zou will p'omise, Betsy, p'omise certain sure, _nebber_ to forget," hewas saying, and poor Betsy looked quite frightened, Herr Baby was sovery solemn. Fritz wanted to make her kiss her mother's old Testament,the way he had seen men do sometimes in his grandfather's study whenthey came to tell about things, and to promise they would speak thetruth; but Betsy, though she was ready enough to _promise_, didn't likethe other idea at all. She might be had up to the court for such likedoings, she said, and as neither Fritz nor Baby had any idea what sortof place the court was, though they fancied it was some kind of prisonfor people who didn't keep their word, they thought it better to leaveit.

  The "calanies" and the "Bully" were to go, that was a comfort, andPeepy-Snoozle and Tim, the two dormice, also, another comfort. Baby'sown packing was a serious matter, but, on the whole, I think mother andLisa and everybody were rather glad he had it to do, as it gave otherpeople a chance of getting _theirs_ done without the little feetpattering along the passage or up the stairs, and the little shrillvoice asking what was going to be put into _this_ trunk or into _that_carpet-bag. He gave up thinking so much about the other packing after awhile, for he found his own took all his time and attention. Mother hadfound him a box after all. Not _the_ box of course--that was left empty,by Baby's wish, till some day when he was a big man, he should go to thecountry of the fairy glass and buy mother some new jugs--but a very nicelittle box, and she gave him cotton wool and crushy paper too, andeverything was as neat as possible, and the box quite packed and ready,the first evening. But it was very queer that _every_ day after thatHerr Baby found something or other he had forgotten, or something thatDenny and he decided in their early morning talks, that it would besilly to take. Or else it came into his head in the night that his bestBible would be better in the _other_ corner, and the scenty purse on thetop of it instead of at one side. Any way it always happened that thebox had to be unpacked and packed again, and the very last evening therewas Herr Baby on his knees before it on the floor, giving the finishingtouches, long after he should have been in bed.

  "And we have to be up so early to-morrow morning," said mother, "my dearlittle boy, you really _should_ have been fast asleep by this time."

  "And he wakes me _so_ early in the morning," said Denny, who wasstanding before the fire giving herself little cross shakes every timepoor Lisa, who was combing out her long fair hair, came to a tuggy bit."_Lisa_, you're _hurting_ me; _Lisa_, do take care," she addedsnappishly.

  "My dear Denny, how very impatient you are!" said her mother. "I don'tknow how you will bear all the little discomforts of a long journey ifyou can't bear to have your hair combed."

  On this, Denny, as Fritz would have said, "shut up." She could not bearit to be thought that she was babyish or "silly." Her great, great wishwas to be considered quite a big girl. You could get her to do anythingby telling her it would be babyish not to do it, or that doing it wouldbe like big people, which, of course, showed that she _was_ ratherbabyish in reality, as sensible children understand that they cannot belike big people in everything, and that they wouldn't be at all nice ifthey were.

  Baby always felt sorry for Denny or any of them when mother found faultwith them. He jumped up from the floor--at least he _got_ up, his legswere too short for him to spring either up or down very actively--andtrotted across to his sister.

  "Poor Denny," he said, reaching up to kiss her, "him won't wake her upso early to-mollow morning."

  "But we'll _have_ to wake early to-morrow," said Denny, rather crosslystill, "it's no use you beginning good ways about not waking me now,just when everything's changed."

  Baby looked rather sad.

  "Is your box quite ready now, dear?" said his mother. "Well then, letLisa get you ready for bed as quick as she can, and you and Denny mustgo to sleep without any talking, and wake fresh in the morning."

  But Baby still looked sad; his face began working and twisting, and atlast he ran to mother and hid it in her lap, bursting into tears.

  "Denny makes him so unhappy," he said. "Him doesn't like everysing to bechanged like Denny says. Him is so sorry to go away and to leave him'shouse and Thomas and Jones, and oh! him is _so_ sorry to leave thelabbits!"

  "And him's a tired little boy. I think it's because he's so tired thathe's so sad about going away," said mother. "Think, dear, how nice it isthat we're all going _together_, not Celia or Fritz or anybody leftbehind. For you know Thomas has his old mother he wouldn't like toleave, and Jones has his wife and children. And if the rabbits couldtalk, I'm quite sure they would tell you that they'd far rather stayhere in their own nice little house, with plenty of cabbages, than bebundled into a box and taken away in the railway ever so far, withoutbeing able to run about for ever so many days."

  Baby's face cleared a little.

  "Betsy has p'omised," he said to himself. Then he added, "_Him_ won'tlike the railway neither if it's like that."

  "But _him's_ not going to be put in a box or a basket," said mother,laughing. "Him will have a nice little corner all to himself in acushioned railway carriage, only just now he really _must_ go to bed."

  So she kissed him for good-night, and Denny too, who, by this time, hadrecovered her good-humour in the interest of listening to theconversation between her mother and Herr Baby, and soon both littlesister and brother were fast asleep in their cots, dreaming about thejourney before them I daresay, or perhaps forgetting all about it in themuch queerer and stranger journeys that small people are apt to fly awayupon at night, when their tired little bodies _seem_ to be lying quitestill and motionless in bed.

  It was strange enough--_almost_ as strange as a dream--the next morningwhen, long before it was light, they had all to get up and be dressed atonce in their going-out things--that is to say their thick boots andgaiters, and woollen under-jackets (for it was very cold, though not yetfar on in November), while their ulsters and comforters and caps, andthe girls' sealskin coats and muffs and hats, were all laid out in fourlittle heaps by Lisa, so that they should be ready to put on the momentbreakfast was over.

  What a funny breakfast! Candles on the table, for it was not, of course,worth while to light the lamp, and everything looking more like a sortof "muddley tea," Fritz said, than their usual trim nursery breakfast.

  "I can't eat," said Fritz, throwing down his bre
ad and butter; "it's nouse."

  "And there's eggs!" said Denny, who was comfortably at work at hers,looking across at Fritz as if it wouldn't be very difficult to eat uphis egg too. "I think it's very kind of cook to have got up so early andmade us eggs 'cos we were going away, and----"

  "'Twasn't cook, 'twas Abigail," said Fritz. "I saw her coming up withthe eggs all in a pan with hot water, so that they shouldn't get cold,she said to Lisa."

  "Well then it was very kind of Abigail, and----" said Denny.

  "'Twasn't Abigail that made the eggs," said Baby, "'twas the hens zatlaid them. Denny should say the _hens_ was werry kind."

  "Oh bother," said Denny, "I wish you'd not interrupt me. I don't carewho it was. I only want to say it's very stupid of Fritz not to eat hisegg, when _somebody_ made them for us, extra you know, because we'regoing away, and I think Fritz is very stupid."

  "Come, Herr Fritz," said Lisa, encouragingly, "try and eat. You will beso hungry."

  "I can't," said Fritz, "I've got a horrid feeling just like when mothertook me to have that big tooth out. I feel all shaky and cruddley."

  "Yes, _I_ know," said Denny, going on with _her_ breakfast all the same,"but eating's the best thing to make it go away. I felt just that waythe day I broke grandfather's hotness measure, and mother said I musttell him myself. I couldn't eat a bit of dinner, and I sat on the stairall _screwged_ up, waiting for him to go to the study."

  "How dedful!" said Baby, with great feeling. But neither Fritz nor Celiaseemed to think much of Denny's sufferings. No one had ever seen hernerves disturbed, and they did not therefore much believe in her havingany.

  "Grandfather's _what_ did you say?" asked Celia.

  "His hotness measure--the little glass pipe thing with a blob that goesup and down. He's got another now, you know."

  "You mean his thermometer; you really should learn the proper names ofthings," said Celia, "you're quite big enough."

  Denny would probably not have taken this in good part, though the "quitebig enough" at the end was very much to her taste, but there was no time_this_ morning for squabbling.

  "Quick, quick, mine children," said Lisa, "the cart with the luggage is'way, and the Herr Grandpapa is buttoning his coat."

  "And Fritz hasn't eaten his egg!" said Denny, eyeing it dolefully, asLisa was fastening her jacket.

  "I _couldn't_," said Fritz. "There'll be sandwiches or something in thetrain--sure to be. Now come on; let's see what have I got to look after.Only Tim and Peepy-Snoozle. I _couldn't_ lose my satchel, you see, forits strapped on me. Much more sensible than _girls_, who have to carrytheir bags over their arms."

  And Fritz, in a new ulster, very long and rather stiff, and feeling, totell the truth, a little uncomfortable at first, as new things generallydo, stalked off--I don't think he _could_ have run!--with the air of avery big man indeed.

  Celia and Denny had a slight dispute as to which was which of thebird's cages. For it had been settled that, for the journey at least,the canaries were to be Celia's charge and the "Bully" Denny's, though,hitherto, these three little birds had belonged to all the childrentogether.

  "You've got my cage, Denny," said Celia, sharply.

  "I haven't," said Denny, holding hers the more tightly. It was not veryeasy to see, for both were covered up with dark blue stuff wrappers, tokeep the birds warm, "and to make them think it's night all the way,"said Baby.

  "I haven't," repeated Denny, "there, don't you see _two_ yellow tails inyours? Peep through."

  And Denny proved to be right, so Celia had to give in.

  And at last they were off! The drive to the station safely over withoutany misadventures, the luggage all locked up in the van, the childrenand the dormice and the birds--far more important things, of course,than the big people!--all comfortably settled at one end of the nice bigsaloon carriage, which grandfather had had sent down on purpose fromLondon.

  "Dear me," said Denny, jigging up and down on her seat, "so we're reallyoff! How nice and springy these cushions are! And this carriage is asbig as a little house. I could _never_ be tired of travelling in acarriage like this."

  "Him zought we'd _nebber_ get away," said Baby, with his usualsolemnity. "Dear, dear, what dedful lots of boxes there is! Him's box is'aside the 'normous big straw one; did zou know, Denny?"

  "Poor grandfather," said Celia, "_what_ a lot of times he said over,'three black portmanteaux, four, no five canvas-covered, four carpetbags, one--fourteen in all. Is _that_ right, Helen? Grandfather'ssomething like Baby, he thinks no one can do anything right but himself;and there's Peters come on purpose to bother about these things."(Peters was grandfather's own servant.) "I wish grandfather wouldn'tfuss so. I hate people to think he's a fussy old man, something like Mr.Briggs in Punch. As if he had never travelled before!"

  As may be imagined, these remarks of Celia's were made in a low voice,for, of course, they were intended for the nursery party alone. Fritzflew up in grandfather's defence.

  "Very fine, Miss Celia," he said. "You may laugh at grandfather forfussing, but _suppose_ he didn't, and _suppose_ that when we get to--oh,bother, I can't say those French names--wherever it is we're going to,_suppose_ that Madamazelle Celia's trunk was lost, and Madamazelle Celiahadn't any best frocks or flounces, or Sunday hats, how wouldMadamazelle Celia look _then_? Perhaps she'd wish then that grandfatherhad fussed a little."

  Celia turned to look for her bag, and having found it, she took out thebook which she had brought with her to read on the way.

  "You're too silly to speak to, Fritz," she said; "I'm going to read."

  "So am I," said Denny, who had likewise armed herself with a book,though she was rather a dunce for her age, and couldn't read "runningly"as French people say. But _big_ people always had books to read in therailway--that was enough for Denny, of course, to try to do so too.

  "_I'm_ going to take a nap, then," said Fritz, who was really lookingrather white and tired. He had been wakened out of a very sound sleepthis morning, and had not been able to eat any breakfast. Lisa thoughtthat taking a nap was the best thing he could do, so she got down abundle of the rugs to make him a pillow, and helped him to tuck up hislegs comfortably, and Fritz settled himself for his little sleep, makingLisa promise to waken him when they came to a big station.

  So everybody seemed inclined to be quiet. Herr Baby's corner was by thewindow. He looked about him. Celia and Denny were buried in their books,Fritz seemed asleep already; of the big people at the other end,grandfather's face was quite hidden in his newspaper, which he had keptover from last night on purpose to have something to read in the train,knowing that they would start before the postman came in the morning,and mother and auntie were talking together, softly, not to disturb him.

  "Should you like the window more open?" said grandfather, suddenlylooking up.

  "No, thank you," said auntie. "I think that little chink is enough. Itis really very cold this morning."

  "How good the children are!" said mother. She spoke in a lower voicethan auntie; but Baby heard her, for he had quick ears. "One couldalmost fancy they were all asleep."

  "Yes," said auntie, "if it would last all the way to Santino, or even toParis!"

  "Or even to London!" said mother. "But they'll all be jumping about likegrasshoppers before long."

  Then they went on talking softly again about other things; and Babydidn't hear, and didn't care to hear. Besides, he had already beentaught a lesson that boys and girls cannot learn too young, which is,that to listen to things you are not meant to hear is a _sort_ ofcheating, for it is like taking something not meant for you. Of course,while auntie and mother were talking in a louder voice he could not helphearing, and it was no harm to listen, as if they had minded his hearingthey would have spoken more in a whisper.

  Baby turned to his window to amuse himself by looking out. First hetried to count the telegraph wires, but he could never be sure if therewere eight or nine--he had not yet learnt to count higher than ten--forthe top ones were so tiresom
e, they danced away out of sight, and all ofa sudden danced down again, and sometimes they seemed to join together,so that he could not tell if they were one or two. He wondered what madethem wave up and down so; whether there were men down in the groundthat pulled them, and what they did it for; he had heard of "sendingtelegrams," and Denny had told him it meant sending messages on wires,but he did not know that these were the wires used for that. He fanciedthese wires must have something to do with the railway; perhaps theywere to show the people living in the fields that the trains werecoming, so that they shouldn't get in the way and be "runned over."This made Baby begin to think of the people living in the fields; theywere just then passing a little cottage standing all by itself. Itlooked a nice cottage, and it had a sort of little garden round it, andsome cocks and hens were picking about. Baby looked back at the littlecottage as long as he could see it; he wondered who lived in it, ifthere were any little boys and girls, and what they did all day. Hewondered if they went to school, or if perhaps they sometimes wentmessages for their mother, and if they weren't frightened if they hadto pass through the wood, which by this time the train was runningalong the edge of. Could this be Red Riding Hood's wood, perhaps? Babyshuddered as this idea came into his mind. Or it might be the wood thatHop-o'-my-thumb and his six brothers had to make their way through,where the birds _would_ pick the crumbs they dropped to show the path.It would be very "dedful" for seven little boys to be lost in a woodlike that, and still worse for one little boy all alone. Baby was veryglad that when little boys had to go through woods _now_ it was in nicerailway carriages with mothers and aunties and everybodies with them.But even in this way the wood made him feel a _very_ little frightened;just then it got so much darker. He looked up to see if they were allstill reading or asleep; he _almost_ thought he would ask Lisa to takehim on her knee a little, when, all of a sudden, the "railway," as hecalled it, screamed out something very sharp and loud, the rattle andthe noise got "bummier" and yet sharper; Baby could see no trees, nofields, "no nothing." What could it be? It was worse than the wood.

  "Oh, Lisa," cried poor Herr Baby, "the railway horses must have runnedthe wrong way. We's going down into the cellars of the world."

  Lisa caught him up in her arms and comforted him as well as she could.It was only a tunnel, she told him, and she explained to him what atunnel was, just a sort of passage through a hill, and that there wasnothing to be frightened at. And she persuaded him to look up and seewhat a nice little lamp there was at the top of the carriage, on purposeto light them up while they were in the dark. Baby was quite pleasedwhen he saw the little lamp.

  "Who put it 'zere?" he said. "Were it God?"

  He was rather disappointed when Lisa told him that it was the railwaymen who put it up, but then he thought again that it was very kind ofthe railway men, and that it must have been God who taught them to beso kind, which Lisa quite agreed in. But even though the little lampwas very nice, Baby was very pleased to get out of the tunnel, and outof the rumbly, rattly noise, into the open daylight again, with thebeautiful sun shining down at them out of the sky. For the day wasgrowing brighter as it went on, and the air was a little frosty, whichmade everything look clear and fresh.

  "Nice sun," said Baby, glancing up at his old friend in the sky, "that'sthe bestest lamp of all, isn't it? and it _were_ God put it up there."

  After that he must, I think, have taken a little nap in Lisa's armsalmost without knowing it, for he didn't seem to hear anything more orto think where he was or anything, till all of a sudden he heardmother's voice speaking.

  "Won't Baby have a sandwich, Lisa? And Denny, why, have you been asleeptoo, Denny?"

  And sitting up on Lisa's knee, all rosy and dimpled with sleeping, hisfair curls in a pretty tumble about his eyes, Baby saw Denny, lookingvery sleepy too, but trying hard to hide it.

  "Oh," she said, smoothing down her hair and sitting up very straight,"I've been reading such a long time that my eyes got quite tired; thatwas why I shut them."

  "Oh indeed!" said mother, but Baby could see that she was smiling atDenny, though she didn't laugh right out like Fritz and Celia.

  They were all very happy, however, with their sandwiches and buns, andafter they had eaten as much as they wanted, auntie taught them a sortof guessing game, which helped to pass the time, for already Denny andFritz were beginning to think even the big saloon carriage rather asmall room to spend a whole day in.

  They passed two or three big stations, and then they were allowed to getout and walk up and down the platform a little, which was a nice change.But Baby was so dreadfully afraid of any of them being left behind thathe could hardly be persuaded to get out at all, and once when he andLisa were waiting alone in the carriage while the others walked about,and the train moved on a little way to another part, he screamed soloudly--

  "Oh, mother, oh, auntie, oh, ganfather, and Celia, and Fritz, and Denny!All, all is left behind!"--that there was quite a commotion in thestation, and when the train moved back again, and they all got in, hewas obliged to kiss and hug each one separately, several times over,before he could feel quite sure he had them all safe and sound, andthat "not nobody" was missing.

  It seemed a long time after it got dark, even though the little lamp wasstill lighted. But it was not light enough to see to read, and "the biglamp up in the sky," as Baby said, "was _kite_ goned away." It puzzledhim very much how the sun could go away every night and come back everymorning, and the queerest thing of all was what Celia had told him--that"away there," in the far-off country where they were going, there wouldstill be the same sun, the _very_ same sun, that they had seen everymorning peeping up behind the kitchen-garden wall, and whose red facethey had said good-night to on the winter evenings, as he slipped awayto bed down below the old elms in the avenue, where the rooks had theirnests. Somehow as Baby sat in his corner, staring out now and then atthe darkness through which they were whizzing, blinking up sometimes atthe little lamp shining faintly in the roof, there came before his mindthe pictures of all they had left behind; he seemed to see the gardenand the trees _so_ plain, and he thought how very, very quiet and lonelyit must seem there now, and Baby's little heart grew sad. He felt sosorry for all the things they had left--the rabbits and the pussy mostof all, of course, but even for the dear old trees, and the sweet,"denkle" flowers in the garden; even for the tables and chairs in thehouse he felt sorry.

  "Him's poor little bed will be so cold and lonely," he said to himself."Him sinks going away is _werry_ sad."