No, Annette had never thought about it at all. “Think of Lucien’s fright when he saw Dani fall,” went on Grandmother. “Think how miserable and terrible he will be feeling tonight, and think of his shame and fear of others finding out what he did. And then think whether perhaps he has not been punished enough already, and whether we should forgive him and help him to start again.”
Annette did not take much notice of Grandmother’s words, except for one sentence. “Think of his fear of others finding out what he did.” That was a splendid idea. She would make sure people did find out. Wherever she went she would tell everyone. She would tell it in the village and tell it at school until everyone would hate him for his wickedness.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a hurried knock at the door, and Lucien’s big sister burst into the room. She had arrived home from the town across the mountain, where she worked, just in time to meet the slow little procession coming down from the fields. She had raced down to the village post office to phone the doctor, who lived five miles up the valley.
“Dr. Pilliard can’t come,” she panted. “He has gone to another village to a sick woman and he won’t be home till midnight and the last train’s gone. They say you must take Dani in the cart to the hospital tomorrow morning and he will see him there.”
“Thank you, Marie,” said Grandmother. “It was good of you to go for us.” She turned back to the kitchen. But Marie stayed. She wanted to know what had actually happened.
“Tell me, Annette,” Marie said, lowering her voice, “how did the accident happen? Why is my mother so silent and troubled?”
“It happened up the mountain,” replied Annette shortly. “Lucien threw Dani’s kitten over the ravine and Dani tried to rescue it. Lucien did not try to stop Dani at all. I shouldn’t be surprised if he pushed him. I think Dani has broken his leg. He lay on the rocks for hours and Lucien never told anybody. He could have died.”
Marie went quite pale with horror, for she had never been very fond of her younger brother. If she had been, perhaps Lucien might have turned out a better, kinder boy. Children who are not loved themselves often find it difficult to love others.
“He shall be severely punished,” she said angrily. “I will see to it myself.” Then she flounced out of the house.
Annette smiled. To turn his own family against Lucien was just what she wanted. She felt her revenge had begun.
There was nothing more to wait for now, so after a rather silent meal Annette dragged her way up to bed, tired and heavy-hearted. She lit a candle and stood looking at Dani through eyes that were misty with tears. He lay with his damp hair pushed back from his forehead and his arms flung out, and his usual peaceful look had gone. He was frowning even in his sleep, and now and then he moved his head restlessly and muttered troubled words.
Annette got into her bed by the window, but tired as she was, she could not sleep. She felt strangely alone. Then, to her joy, she heard slow, painful steps climbing the stairs and Grandmother came into her room. Grandmother hardly ever came upstairs because it hurt her rheumatic legs so badly.
“Grandma,” cried Annette, holding out her arms. Grandmother said nothing for a time. She sat down on the bed and stroked Annette’s head until the child stopped crying.
“Listen, my child,” said Grandmother at last, “when Dani was a baby we took him to the church, and by faith we asked Jesus to look after him. Every day in prayer we have asked God to hold him safe in His arms, and even when Dani fell, God did not let go of him. His arms were underneath him all the time. Even if he had been killed he would have been carried straight home to heaven. So let us dry our tears and go on trusting God to hold onto Dani and do the very best for him.”
“But why did God let Lucien hurt Dani so?” argued Annette. “Grandma, I hate Lucien so much I should like to kill him.”
“Then you cannot pray for Dani,” replied Grandma simply. “God is love, and when we pray we are drawing near to love, and all our hatred must melt away like the snow melts when the sun shines on it in spring. Leave Lucien to God, Annette. He rewards both good and evil, but remember, He loves Lucien just the same as He loves Dani.”
Grandmother kissed her and went away, and Annette lay thinking over her words. The last remark she did not believe. It seemed impossible that even God should love cruel, ugly, stupid Lucien as much as good, sunny little Dani.
But the first part she knew to be true, and it troubled her. She could not really pray for Dani and go on planning how to hurt Lucien. The two just did not go together. She wanted to pray for Dani, but if she did, her hatred might disappear and she did not want that to happen at all—anyway, not before she had really had her revenge.
In the meantime she would let Grandmother do the praying and she would go on planning her revenge. Just as she decided this, Dani sat up in bed and started crying in a frightened, half asleep sort of way.
“Klaus,” cried Dani. “Where is Klaus? She has fallen in the stream.”
Annette ran over to him. “No, no,” she murmured comfortingly, “she is here,” She picked up the white purring ball of fur at the bottom of the bed and put it in Dani’s arms. He fell back and went fast asleep again with his kitten sprawling across his chest.
Annette waited beside him for a few minutes until his breathing grew quiet and peaceful. Then she climbed into bed and fell asleep, too.
8
A Day of Escape
Lucien lay in bed in the dark with a hot, throbbing head and eyes that would not shut. Each time he closed them he saw Dani just disappearing over the cliff. And it wasn’t an ordinary cliff. It was a dark, steep cliff that had no bottom. You just went on falling forever and ever.
Now and again he fell half asleep, but each time he awoke with a little cry of fear and his heart beating wildly, for his dreams were even worse than his thoughts. If only someone would come! It was so dreadful being alone. He wanted his mother, and he knew she had come in, for he could hear her moving about in the kitchen below. But he dared not call to her, for she must be so terribly angry with him that perhaps she was staying away on purpose. Besides, his sister might answer his call, and Lucien did not in the least want to see his sister. What she would say to him he dared not even imagine.
He began to think about tomorrow. He supposed he would have to go to school and Annette would have told everyone. Nobody liked him much in any case, because he was ugly, bad-tempered, and stupid, but now they would all hate him. No one would be friends with him, or want to sit next to him in class, or walk home from school with him.
He heard steps on the stair, and his mother came into the room. He sat up crying and held out his arms to her, but she did not come to him. Instead, she sat down on the bed and watched him with a worried look on her face.
In her heart she felt very sorry for him, and she longed to comfort him, but she was frightened. She was afraid of what the Burniers would do if Dani was badly injured—afraid of the law, afraid of the doctor’s bills that she could not pay. She dared not seem too sympathetic in case it should be said that she had taken her son’s side. Besides, she felt it was her duty to punish him somehow.
If she had been a more understanding woman she would have seen that no punishment from her was needed. She would have seen the long weeks of fear and misery, loneliness, and guilty shame that lay ahead of Lucien. She would have known that her part was to comfort him and help him through them as best as she could. But she was not an understanding woman.
“You are a naughty boy, Lucien,” she said heavily, “and I do not know what is going to happen. If that Burnier child is badly injured we shall be ruined. We shall have to pay all the bills, and we cannot possibly afford it. I expect we’ll get the police after us. It’s a terrible thing you’ve done, and I hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourself.”
Lucien was so very ashamed of himself that he didn’t answer at all, which puzzled his mother very much for he was usually quick to answer back and to stick up for himself. A silent Lucie
n was indeed a new thing.
“Well,” she said at last in a gentler voice, “we must hope for the best. Tomorrow you could go and tell the Burniers how sorry you are, and perhaps they will forgive you.”
She waited for his reply, but none came, so she left the room feeling very troubled. She returned later with a bowl of hot soup. It might be wrong to comfort her son, but she could at least feed him.
Lucien took the bowl and tried to eat, but at the third mouthful he choked and handed it back to his mother. Then flinging himself down with his face buried in the pillows, he cried again as though his heart would break. His mother said nothing, for she did not know what to say, but she stroked the back of his head gently. As his sobs grew quieter she crept away and left him alone.
When he awoke next morning he could not remember what had happened, nor why his head ached and his eyes felt so hot and heavy. Then it all came rushing back, and he remembered something else, too. Today he had to go to school and face the other children.
Dani might have died in the night and they would all know it was his fault.
He decided he would not go. He would hide all day. It would not be too difficult. He would run up to the pinewoods and come back in the afternoon, and no one would ever know. His mother would think he had been at school and no one from school would ask questions. He lived too far up the valley, and anyway, who cared? Of course someone would find out in the end, but today was all that mattered at the moment. He might feel differently tomorrow, or Dani might be better. Anything might happen later on, but today he would run away and hide.
He got up and went downstairs. Marie was in the kitchen. She had already eaten her bread and drank her coffee and was getting ready to set out for the station. She tossed her head and turned away when Lucien came in, but Lucien did not look at her at all. He passed through the kitchen in silence and went across to the stable to help his mother with the early milking.
She looked at him anxiously when he came in, but he said nothing. Sitting on the stool by the stove eating his breakfast, he was still perfectly silent. At last he got up, put on his coat, kissed his mother goodbye without a word, and went off.
She stood watching him as far as the bend in the road and then waved to him. He waved back and waited around the corner until he was sure she had gone. Then, turning on his steps, he ran off up the hill as quickly as his legs could carry him.
He ran very fast and arrived breathless into the quiet coolness of the great pinewood that went around the mountain. Here he was safe, for it was still early in the morning, so he sat down and began to think.
It was a beautiful pinewood, and sap was bursting from the trees and streaming down their grey trunks. The scent of pine needles rose from the ground and the forest seemed full of peace and cool light. Lucien suddenly felt a tiny bit more cheerful.
He had no idea what he was going to do all day, and he had no food, as dinner was always provided for him at school. But this strange feeling of hope made him feel sleepy, and because he had not slept well the night before, he stretched himself on the ground and fell into a deep sleep. He slept on until the sun was high overhead and the children down in the school were coming out to their dinners. Then he woke up and wanted his dinner, too.
But there was none to be had here in the forest, so he got up and wandered on up the hill, wondering whether some kind farmer in one of the higher chalets might give him a drink of milk. As he wandered he stuck his hands in his pockets and found his knife. He took it out. He sat down on a log, picked up a piece of wood, and began whittling away at it with the knife. He had often whittled at bits of wood, though he had never made anything properly. But now, with nothing to do, he decided to try to carve out the shape of a chamois, one of the wild mountain goats that live on the high precipices. He started off idly, chipping away.
Very gradually it began to take shape under his fingers, and a strange excitement took hold of him. For the first time he forgot his misery and became absorbed in what he was doing. He could see the creature in his mind’s eye, and as he thought about it, so he shaped it.
Lucien held it out at arm’s length to inspect it. It was not perfect, though it was very definitely a chamois and he had no idea how good it was. But for the first time since the accident he felt almost happy. He had found something he could do. Though he was stupid, he could carve, and now he would not mind being alone again. When the other children didn’t want him he would come out to a quiet corner of the woods and see beautiful things and carve them. While he carved he could forget, and that was what he wanted more than anything. Whatever happened, he could come away by himself and forget.
He climbed up the slope and looked down over the forest to the valley below. The sun was moving toward the western mountains, and far beneath he could see little dark specks running in all directions. The children were coming out of school. In another quarter of an hour or so it would be safe to go home.
He walked slowly back through the pinewood, for he must not get back too soon. The sun was shining on the other side of the valley now, and the pinewood was cool and dark. Lucien kept his hand in his pocket with his fingers closed tightly over the rounded body of his chamois. It was a satisfying feeling.
He wondered rather dully what he would hear when he got home. Dani might have died, but Lucien pushed that thought away from him, for he dared not face it. He was probably just badly hurt, and into Lucien’s mind there came a picture of Dani’s white, scared little face looking up from the grass.
If only he could do something to make up for it, but he could think of nothing.
He walked into the chalet a little sheepishly, and his mother, at the sink, looked at him anxiously. She waited a little while for him to speak, but at last, unable to wait any longer, she began to question him.
“Well,” she began, “how did you get on at school today?”
“All right, thank you,” answered Lucien.
“I’ve been down to inquire at the Burniers’,” went on his mother, “and Annette and Monsieur Burnier have taken Dani to the doctor in the cart. They will not be back till late. The grandmother spoke very kindly, Lucien. They are good people and I think they will forgive you and not make the trouble you deserve.”
Lucien did not reply. The grandmother might forgive him, but he knew quite well that Annette never would.
“Did the schoolmaster know of what happened?” asked his mother after a pause.
“Yes,” replied Lucien.
“Did he say anything about it?” went on Madame.
“No,” answered Lucien.
His mother was puzzled. She had had a miserable day thinking of what sort of a time her son might be having at school, but nothing seemed to have happened. He even looked slightly more cheerful than he had in the morning.
“I’m going over to milk the cows, Mother,” said Lucien, and he crossed to the stable with a sigh of relief. The stable was a refuge where he could get away from his mother’s questions, and where the cows thought none the worse of him. He started quickly, and then, tilting the bucket, drank about a pint of the warm, frothing milk straight off and felt better. He had had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast.
Tonight he would save some of his supper, and tomorrow he would go back to the woods again and spend another quiet, hidden day. He would do it every day until he was found out … and that might not be for a long time.
He took as long as he could over the milking and then wandered back into the house carrying the buckets. He reached the door at the same time as his sister, who had hurried up the hill and was flushed and out of breath.
“You little coward, Lucien,” she exclaimed as she saw him. “Fancy missing school like that! What has he been doing all day, Mother? You should have made him go!”
Her mother turned around indignantly. “What are you talking about, Marie?” she asked sharply. “Of course he’s been to school. He’s only just come in. Leave the poor child alone and get on with your work.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed Marie. “Well, if he’s only just come in, I should dearly like to know where he’s come from. I happen to have met the schoolmaster on my way up from the station. He was weeding his vegetable patch. He looked over the fence and called out to me. ‘Where’s Lucien?’ he asked, ‘and why has he not come to school? Is he not well?’ I answered, ‘He’s well enough, and he shall come tomorrow if I have to drag him!’ So now you know, Lucien! Goodness knows where you’ve been today, but tomorrow I shall take you to school myself.”
“Fancy you lying to me like that, Lucien,” cried his mother angrily. “You are a wicked boy. I do not know what to do with you. The master must deal with you.” Because she was so worried, and because her boy had deceived her, she threw her apron over her face and began to cry.
Lucien sat down by the stove in bitter, sullen silence. Everyone and everything seemed against him. His only hope of escape had been taken from him. Tomorrow he would have to go to school and Annette would be there. If he had gone today she would not have been there.
He picked up a large wood chip and began whittling away with his knife, and once more his fingers felt for the wooden chamois in his pocket.
9
A Visit to the Hospital
Dani lay in the cart on a sack stretched across a soft mattress of hay and gazed up at the blue sky, where tiny, white, woolly clouds floated by. He would have liked to look over the sides of the cart, but this was impossible, for he could not sit up. So he looked at the sky instead, and Annette described the scenery and what was happening as they went along. Dani’s leg ached badly, which made him rather bad tempered. When the cart jolted he squealed, but Annette spoke to him soothingly to calm him down, and it was still nice to feel so important.
“We are at the top of the village now, Dani,” said Annette, “just passing the church, and there is Emil the dustman’s son driving the cows out of the churchyard. Some naughty person must have left the gate open.”
Patricia St John Series Page 48