Squib and His Friends

“What is it, Moor? What is it, good dog?” he asked. “And oh, Moor, how did you find your way here?” for Squib suddenly remembered that Moor had never been to the chalet before, and had never accompanied him further than to the ridge just above the knoll with the fir-trees, where he had first seen Seppi and his goats.

Moor could not answer, but he whined round the child, putting up his paws and seeming to try as hard as he could to tell him something.

Squib understood dog-ways and dog-talk almost as well as dogs understood him, and he quickly comprehended that Moor wanted him to go with him somewhere.

“I’ll come! I’ll come!” he answered, and began hurrying on his clothes. Moor was satisfied the moment he saw this, and ran to a water-jug to slake his own thirst, for he had plainly run fast and hard. Squib was not many minutes in getting into his clothes, and as soon as he was dressed he paused for nothing save to get a few biscuits out of a cupboard, some for himself and some for Moor, as they ran down the staircase and through the dewy grass together.

“Is it Seppi?” asked Squib anxiously; and at the sound of the familiar name the dog looked backwards over his shoulder and uttered a little, low whine.

“Did he send you for me?” said Squib again, still running onwards along the familiar track, with Moor always a few yards in advance. But Moor only wagged his tail that time and said nothing, and the pair sped on in silence.

“Something is the matter,” said Squib to himself, “and Moor will show me what it is. Can Seppi have fallen, or be in danger? But then Moor would have run home for help. Besides, Seppi could not be out so early. He is not well enough.”

Down the side of the valley plunged Squib in the wake of the faithful Moor, looking keenly to right and left as he did so, but seeing nothing to attract his attention or account for the eagerness of the dog.

At last they reached the bridge, and were quite near the chalet. Squib suddenly began to wonder what they would think there of his appearing at such an hour, and, for a moment, he paused, as though in doubt; but Moor uttered a quick, sharp bark, either of joy or command, and out from the chalet darted a little bare-headed figure, and Squib heard Ann-Katherin’s voice raised in sudden excitement and relief.

“Mother, he has come! He is here! Mother – Seppi – the little Herr has come!”

The next moment Frau Ernsthausen herself had come running out, and she met Squib a few paces from her door. Her face was pale and stained with weeping. Her voice shook as she held out her hands.

“Ah, the good God must surely have sent His angel to tell you! Oh, how my poor little Seppi has been calling for you!”

“Moor came for me,” answered Squib, rather bewildered and awed. “What does Seppi want?”

“Ah, don’t ask! don’t ask! My child is dying!” cried the poor mother, her tears gushing forth again. “Peter is away for the doctor. I could not let Ann-Katherin go, nor did she know the way. But all the night through he has been asking for you. Oh, thank God that you have come in time!”

Very full of awe, but without any sense of fear, Squib entered the low door, and found himself in the familiar room. A shaft of sunlight entered with him, and Seppi, who was lying in his bed propped up high with pillows, stretched out his arms to him with such a smile of welcome.

“The angel has brought him, mother!” he cried, in a quick succession of panting breaths. “I see the shining of his wings. How good God is!”

Squib went straight up and took Seppi’s two hands.

“I have come,” he said simply. “Moor came for me; he said you wanted me, Seppi!”

The eyes, so wonderfully bright and full of the intense light which is not of this world, suddenly drew off, as it were, from looking out into space and fastened themselves on Squib’s face. Seppi smiled a different kind of smile now, but it was a very happy one.

“I am so glad you have come,” he said; “I did so want to see you again. I have something to give you, little Herr. Will you let me?”

“O Seppi, yes. Is it anything I can do for you?”

“Yes; I want you to have Moor,” said Seppi, still panting out his words in the same quick, breathless way. “I want you to have him for your very own. He loves you next best. He would be happy with you. Will you have him?”

“O Seppi, don’t give him away yet; you may want him again,” sobbed Squib, overcome for a moment by the sense of near parting which this request brought home to him.

A quick, strange smile flashed over Seppi’s face, over which a grey shadow was falling.

“No,” he whispered, “I shan’t want him any more; but I love him. He brought you. He will miss me most. Please have him and keep him for me,” and possessing himself of Squib’s hand, Seppi drew it down upon the head of Moor, who had stretched himself upon the bed beside his little master, and who now licked the joined hands of both children, with his eyes full of tears.

“I’ll keep him,” answered Squib, steadying his voice. “He shall come home and live with me. I will make him happy.”

Seppi smiled. It seemed the last little cloud upon his mind. Now that he was satisfied he lay back on his pillows and put out one hand to his mother, the other lying still in Squib’s close clasp upon the head of the dog.

“Tell me about 'He shall give His angels charge,’” he whispered the next moment. Seppi looked at the mother, and the woman looked back at him, and then Squib, suddenly thinking of Herr Adler and some of the things he had said, answered with one of his own bursts of subdued vehemence, —

“Seppi, I daresay the angels are here. I daresay it was they who helped Moor to find me and bring me; but that doesn’t matter. The Lord Jesus is here Himself, and I think you will see Him soon. Never mind anything else. He is coming.”

Seppi’s eyes filled suddenly with strange light, and then the lids closed, and the quick panting breathing grew very slow – and then stopped.

“Jesus has come!” said Squib in his heart, and he turned by a sudden impulse and put his arms round the neck of the weeping woman on her knees beside him.

“Seppi is not lame any more,” said Squib softly.

CHAPTER XIII.

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.