“When the day of my release came, I walked out with my little sum of money in my pocket and took the first train up into the mountains.
“I got out at this village because I saw a man in difficulty with his herd of cows who were trying to push through a broken fence. I helped him get them back into the road and then asked him if he could give me work.
“He did not need me, but pointed to a chalet halfway up the mountain. Up there, he told me, was a peasant whose son had gone down to the lake towns to learn a trade. He badly needed someone to take the place of his son.
“I shall never forget that day! I found the chalet, and the man himself was chopping wood outside when I arrived. I went and stood in front of him. I was tired and hungry and sick at heart, and wasted no time in asking him if he had a job for me.
“He looked me up and down. His face was good and his eyes were kind.
“‘You are not from our village,’ he said. ‘Where have you come from, and who are you?’
“‘I come from Geneva.’
“‘What is your work?’
“‘I have none.’
“‘But what have you been doing up to now?’
I tried to think up some good lie, but the man looked at me so straight, and his face was so honest, that I knew I had to tell him the truth. I wanted him to know me for what I was, or else not to know me at all.
“‘I have just come out of prison,’ I said simply.
“‘Why were you in prison?’
“‘For stealing money.’
“‘How do I know that you will not steal my money?’
“‘Because I want to start again, and I am asking you to trust me. If you do not trust me, I will go away.’
“He looked me up and down. Then he held out his hand to me, and I sat down on the bench beside him and wept.
“I worked hard for that man for five years. I made friends with no one and took no rest. My only joy was to work for the man I loved and who had received me when everyone else had rejected me. I often wondered why he did it, until one night I heard him talking to his son, who was home from town for the weekend.
“‘Father,’ said the boy, ‘why did you take in that prisoner without knowing anything about him? Surely it was a very unwise thing to do.’
“‘My son,’ answered the man, ‘Christ received everyone, whether they were good or bad, and we are his followers. We must do the same.’
“In the summer we took the cows up the mountain and lived in this chalet where I live now. And the peace of the mountain seemed to enter into me and heal me. Slowly I, too, began to believe in the love and mercy of God.
“But after four years my master began to grow weak and ill. He visited the doctor, but nothing could be done for him. I cared for him for a year and his son often came to see him, but at last he died and I was left alone. The night before he died, he spoke to me, as my wife had done, about the love and mercy of God and how He can forgive us for what we have done wrong.
“So I lost my only friend, although his son was very good to me. He was a rich man by now. He sold the cows and gave me this chalet for my own. I bought a goat and a few hens, collected my few possessions, and came here. I have lived here ever since.
“I have only one friend—the shopkeeper in town who sells my carvings. He sometimes gives me news of my sons. They have grown up into good men and they have done well. One is a doctor and one is a businessman. They do not know that I am alive, and it is better like that. I have nothing that I could give them, and my name would only disgrace them.
“Because I now believe in God, and His love and mercy, I want to make things right. I cannot give back the money I stole from the bank, but I have worked hard and saved nearly as much money as I stole. When I have saved the whole amount, I will find some person or good cause that really needs it. In that way I shall pay back all I owe and I will feel I have put things right.
“You tell me there is no way to start again, but you are wrong. I have done far, far worse things than you have ever done, and suffered for it. But I believe that God has forgiven me, and I am spending my days working to give back what I owe and trying to become what God meant me to be. It is all I can do. It is all anyone can do. The past we must leave to God.”
The goat had come up and rested its brown head on the old man’s knee. Now it butted him to remind him that it was milking time. Lucien got up to go.
He walked home slowly. “I am spending my days working to restore what I owe … trying to become what God meant me to be.” He thought about it a lot—so much so that the matter of the prize seemed quite small, and he found that he had stopped minding so much. He couldn’t restore Dani’s leg, but one day he might get the chance to do something great for him. As for the second part, he could at least try to be a nicer boy. There was his mother, for a start. She was miserable because his carving was broken. Well, he would be brave and show her he didn’t mind, and then she would be happy again.
As he left the wood he could see the orange lights in his chalet windows shining out warm and welcoming. He hurried home and ran lightly up the chalet steps and kissed his mother, who was standing on the balcony watching for him.
“I’m hungry, Mother,” he said brightly. “Have you saved my supper?”
Over the top of his soup bowl he smiled at her, and the sadness left her eyes as she smiled back.
14
The Handwork Competition
The sun woke Dani early next morning, and he lay for a few minutes trying to remember what important thing was going to happen that day. It soon came back to him, and he sat up in bed and shouted for Annette.
“’Nette,” he called, “come quick! I’m coming to see you get the prize! Bring me my best black velvet suit and my embroidered braces and my waistcoat. Quick!”
Annette pretended not to hear until he had said it four times. Then she sat up.
“Be quiet, Dani,” she called back rather crossly. “I don’t suppose I shall get that prize at all, and anyhow it’s much too early to get dressed. Papa’s only just got up.”
Dani sighed and lay down again, but he was too excited to stop talking. He pulled Klaus into bed with him and began whispering into one of her silky white ears.
“I shall go in the cart, Klaus,” he murmured, “and I shall see all the things the children have made. But Annette’s is the best, and I shall see her get a lovely prize, and I’ll clap as loud as I can. And I shall wear my best braces.”
Klaus yawned. So did Dani. After all, it was very early in the morning. When Annette came down later, she found them curled up into two little balls, fast asleep in the sun.
One and a half hours later they were off, with Dani dressed in his best clothes. Papa pulled the cart and Annette walked beside him, feeling dull and sad and rather cross.
What could be making Annette so miserable on such a morning? The sun was shining, the river was glistening, and Annette was going to win a prize. There was everything to make them happy, and anyhow Dani never felt sad or cross except when he had a pain in his leg.
“Have you got a tummy ache, ’Nette?” asked Dani suddenly.
“Of course I haven’t, Dani,” answered Annette sharply. “Why should I have a tummy ache?”
“I just thought you might,” replied Dani. “Oh, ’Nette, look. There’s a blue butterfly sitting on my shoe.”
But Annette did not even turn around to look at the blue butterfly. She walked on, staring at the ground.
Whatever could be the matter with Annette? Already the schoolroom was filling when they arrived. The desks had been stacked on one side and the children’s work was laid out on long tables knitting, embroidery, lace, and crochet work—making a very pretty show. Parents walked around admiringly while children jostled and nudged each other, pointing and chattering like magpies.
Pierre, the postman’s son, was standing by the wood-carving table, close to his own piece of work: a wooden inkstand with a bear standing over the inkwell. It was qui
te a good piece of work for a child of his age. Pierre, who was a nice boy, blushed a little and looked the other way as his friends slapped him on the back and congratulated him. Still, he was pleased with that little bear himself, and he looked up and smiled proudly at his mother, who was coming toward him across the room.
Lucien was there, too, wandering around by himself as usual, for his mother had not finished getting the hay in and had not come down. He stared gloomily at the inkstand and compared the heavy-looking bear with his own sprightly galloping horse. If only that accident had not happened, the children would have been standing around him instead of round Pierre. He felt a great angry stab of jealousy for Pierre, who was clever and good-looking and good at games, and who now was going to win the prize that belonged to Lucien. He drifted away into a corner by himself and stared gloomily at the crowd.
Annette, surrounded by a group of chattering friends, was strangely silent. Some thought she would get the prize; others thought Jeanne might win. There was much guessing and running to and fro, and much putting together of heads, some saying one thing and some another. Only Annette, usually so bright and talkative, said nothing.
Dani, his hand clasped tightly in his father’s, hopped around inspecting everything, and everyone made way for him and gave him a kind word as he passed. Then, having seen all he wanted to see, he went to stand at the end of the long table close to Annette’s entry so that he might be right on the spot when the prizewinner was announced.
The door opened and a sudden hush fell on the chattering crowd. The man from the town by the lake had arrived to judge the work. The children and parents stood quietly against the walls as the tall man walked slowly around, picking up and examining first one thing and then another. He praised a great many of the entries and spoke kindly about all of them. He had come prepared to see a good exhibition, he said, and he was not disappointed. He looked through the children’s exercise books, piled on a table at the far end of the room, and talked about their work. He was a kind, patient man, but very slow. All that the children wanted to know was who was going to get the prize.
He was going to make up his mind about the girls first. He walked over to Marcelle’s lace and examined it carefully, then went back to Annette’s knitted sweater and turned it over in his hands. The room was so silent you could have heard a pin drop.
Then suddenly the silence was broken. “My sister made that,” said a clear, distinct child’s voice.
The big man jumped and peered over the end of the table. He saw a small brown face with round blue eyes lifted to his, alight with hope and eagerness.
“Then your sister is a very clever girl,” replied the big man gravely, and as he spoke he noticed the crutches.
“I think it’s the very best of all, don’t you?” went on Dani earnestly, not noticing at all that everyone in the room was listening to him. All he knew was that he wanted Annette to win.
The big man had not quite made up his mind when Dani first spoke, but now he suddenly felt quite certain.
“Yes, I do. I think it’s the very best,” answered the big man, and Dani immediately turned round on his crutches and faced his sister, who was blushing deeply at his bad behaviour.
“You’ve got the prize, ’Nette,” called out Dani, and everybody burst out laughing and started clapping. And so, in this unusual and unexpected fashion, the prizewinner for the girls was announced.
Pierre won the boys’ prize. It was announced properly after a suitable speech to which none of the children listened. Then there was tea and rolls and gingerbread and macaroons, and then Pierre went home with a crowd of admiring friends, who all bought chocolate sticks for him for winning.
Lucien went down to the village alone to collect the bread, and when he came back past the school, the playground was deserted and the children had all gone home. He climbed the hill slowly, but it was not the weight of the bread basket on his back that bowed his shoulders and made him walk with his eyes on the ground.
Lucien was very unhappy. Why was it that one day it seemed easy to be brave and cheerful, and the next day it seemed impossible to be anything but angry and jealous? Yesterday, on the way home from visiting the old man, he had thought that he wouldn’t mind seeing Pierre win the prize. But today he hated Pierre. The old man had talked about trying to become what God meant you to be, but somehow, however hard you tried, it seemed impossible to change yourself for long.
And yet the old man had become different, and Lucien found himself wondering how. The old man had talked about God. Perhaps God could make nasty people nice if they asked Him. Lucien felt he didn’t know very much about God. Anyhow, God was probably very angry with him for being so wicked to Dani.
But could God really love him much? Surely God wouldn’t forgive something so bad in a hurry. And even if He did, nobody else would. His unhappiness came over him again, and he gave a great sniff and kicked angrily at the stones on the path.
He was passing the corner where the path divided, not far from Annette’s chalet, and as he branched off toward his home he suddenly heard a little child singing. He turned to look.
Dani and Klaus were sitting on a hollowed-out pile of new hay, like two birds in a nest, and Dani’s bright head was bent low over something. His crutches lay on the ground beside him.
Because he was feeling so lonely, Lucien drew a step nearer and stood watching. Suddenly his cheeks flushed with pleasure and he drew a sharp little breath. Dani had dug out a sort of cave in the wall of his hay nest, and inside it were grouped all the little wooden animals that Lucien had carved with such care.
“So she did give them to him,” thought Lucien to himself with a little thrill of happiness. “And he does like them!” Then, aloud, he said, “What are you playing at, Dani?”
Dani jumped and looked up, and saw the boy who had tried to kill his kitten. His first reaction was to seize Klaus around the middle tightly and say, “Go away, you horrid boy!”
But as he said it, he, although he was only five years old, could not help noticing that Lucien looked very unhappy, and unhappiness was a thing that his friendly little heart could not bear. So, still holding the struggling Klaus very tightly, he added after a moment’s pause, “I’m playing with my fairy Noah animals, but ’Nette said I mustn’t talk to you.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” answered Lucien very gently. “And I’m sorry about your leg. That’s why I made those animals for you.”
“You didn’t make them,” answered Dani cheerfully. “I found them behind the woodpile. The fairies put them there.”
Lucien was just about to answer when Annette’s voice came sharp and shrill from the door of the chalet.
“Dani,” she shouted, “come in at once. Supper’s ready.”
Lucien turned away. “So she didn’t tell him,” he thought rather bitterly. Still, it was nice to know that Dani loved them and played with them. One day he might get the chance to explain, and then perhaps he and Dani would be friends. He climbed the path between the hay fields feeling a bit more cheerful.
Dani hopped into the kitchen and climbed into his seat, his nose twitching joyfully like a rabbit’s at the smell of Grandmother’s potato soup.
“’Nette,” began Dani, “Lucien said that he made my fairy Noah animals, but he didn’t, did he? The fairies put them behind the woodpile, didn’t they? He wasn’t speaking the truth, was he?”
“I’ve told you not to talk to Lucien, Dani,” said Annette crossly. “He’ll only hurt you again. He’s a horrid boy.”
“Yes,” answered Dani, “and I only talked to him a teeny, weeny bit. But he didn’t, did he, ’Nette? Tell me!”
Annette hesitated. She was a truthful child, and she did not want to tell a lie. But if Dani knew, he would be so grateful that he would forgive Lucien at once, and go and thank him. And there was no telling where it would all end. They would become friends in a few minutes. It was hard enough as it was to make Dani unfriendly with anybody, but if he knew about the
animals it would be quite impossible.
“You know you found them in the woodpile,” she replied, looking away, “so how could he have made them? Don’t be silly, Dani.”
“He said he did,” answered Dani, “but I know he didn’t. It must have been the fairies, mustn’t it, ’Nette?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Dani,” replied poor Annette wearily. “How you do chatter! Eat up your soup quickly. It will be all cold.”
Dani obediently buried his nose in his bowl, but Grandmother, whose dim old eyes saw more than most people’s, looked very hard at Annette. She, too, had heard and wondered at the story of the animals in the woodpile.
Annette, knowing that Grandmother was looking hard at her, went very red. Going over to the stove, she pretended to help herself to more soup. But she only took a little, for somehow she wasn’t a bit hungry. The day she had looked forward to for so long was all spoiled. She had got the prize she wanted so badly, but it hadn’t made her a bit happy. In fact, she was really miserable.
She washed up the supper things in silence, tucked up, and kissed a warm, sleepy Dani. Then she slipped out alone into the summer evening. She usually loved being out alone on summer evenings to do just as she pleased—just her and the still blue mountains.
But tonight it was different. Nothing pleased her, and she could think of nothing but that smashed little horse lying trampled on the ground, and of the light that had died in Dani’s face when she had spoken so crossly to him.
“Perhaps I shall never like being alone again,” thought poor Annette, and she turned back toward home. “I wish I could tell someone! It wouldn’t be so bad then. I wish Mummy was still alive. Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish I hadn’t done it!”
15
Christmas Again—and Gingerbread Bears
Patricia St John Series Page 52