"THE TWINS WITH THEIR WHITE CAT ATTRACTED SOME ATTENTION.""THE TWINS WITH THEIR WHITE CAT ATTRACTED SOME ATTENTION."
Tutti walked in charge of Bianca, while Tuttu devoted all his attention to thescaldinoin its red handkerchief, and a large green cotton umbrella he had brought from home in case the day should turn out to be rainy.
This umbrella seemed to be endowed with life, so extraordinary was its power of wriggling itself under the legs of the passers by. It had to be constantly wrenched out, withmany apologies, by its owner; while the person who had been nearly tripped up by it, went on his—or her—way grumbling.
No one did more than grumble, however, for the look of horror on Tuttu's face was irresistible.
"Go on, Tutti; do hurry!" he cried, urgently. "I'm getting so hot with this horrible umbrella. It seems to catch hold of people whichever way I carry it!"
"Iamgoing," replied Tutti laconically. "But remember, I've got the cat."
As he spoke a boy darted out from one of the grim old houses close by, and picking up a loose stone threw it at Bianca, grazing her head, and leaving a great red stain that commenced to trickle slowly down her spotless white body.
Tuttu, his eyes blazing with wrath, placed thescaldinoby the side of the kerbstone, and darted at the boy, waving his umbrella; while Tutti threw his arms round Bianca's neck and tried to hush her mews of terror by a shower of tears and kisses.
"Howdareyou?" shouted Tuttu, beside himself with anger. "Go away, and leave our poor Bianca! You've killed her, I expect; and I wish I could kill you!" But even in the midst of his ungovernable rage, Tutti's voice reached him.
"Oh, Tuttu, Tuttu! thescaldino!"
Tuttu darted across the street towards the stone where he had left the precious red bundle. There it was, lying unhurt, and he was about to seize it and carry it to a place of safety, when a fast-trotting horse with one of the light country gigs behind him, dashed down the street.
"Get out of the way! Get out of the way!" shouted the driver—but it was too late!
The gig flew on, and Tuttu lay white and quiet, thescaldinostill grasped in his two little outstretched hands.
"Where's thescaldino, grandmother?" were Tuttu's first words, when he woke up to find himself lying on a little bed in a long room, with Maddalena and Father Giacomo bending over him. "We saved up.... It's all for you...." he muttered brokenly, "Have you got it?"
"Yes, my lamb. A beautiful one it is," said the old woman, the tears streaming down her wrinkled face. "You lie still and get better, my Tuttu."
"I will, grandmother, but I want you to see the surprise inside. It's from weeding.... Father Giacomo will tell you. I'm so tired, grandmother.... How's Bianca?"
"Very well, Tuttu, she has only a slight scratch.... Oh, my poor boy!" and Father Giacomo's voice broke.
"Is it near evening?" said Tuttu, after a few minutes, during which he lay moving his head restlessly.
"It soon will be," said the Padre. "Why do you ask, Tuttu?"
"Thefiasco.... Do you think I may put a bean in to-night, or was I too angry?"
"You may, Tuttu," said Father Giacomo, turning away his head. "If you tell me where it is, I will send for it."
"By the melon bed. Tutti knows. He'll bring it," whispered Tuttu. "It's nearly full—only four days more. Put one in for Tutti."
As the setting sun streamed into the long room, Tutticrept in, holding Father Giacomo's hand; carrying the brokenfiasco.
Tuttu awoke from a restless sleep as they entered, and smiled with a faint reflection of his old happy laugh. "That's right, Tutti. Youhavebeen good, haven't you?"
"Yes," quavered Tutti, lifting his terrified, tear-stained face to his brother.
"Put your bean in then, Tutti, and give me mine. It's getting so late, it's almost night-time."
Tutti held out the bean with a trembling hand, and as it dropped into the old bottle, little Tuttu gave a quiet sigh.
"It only wants four more," he said happily.
Only four more! But Tuttu might never put them in. That night he started on a long, long journey, and as the old grandmother with choking sobs placed the broken bottle on a shelf among her treasures, she turned to Tutti who was lying, worn out with grief, upon the doorstep.
"Come, my Tutti," she said, "there are only us two now. We must try and be very good to each other."
Years afterwards, Tutti, coming home on leave—for he had clung to his childish idea of being a soldier—found the brokenfiascoin the corner where his grandmother had hidden it; and taking out the beans that had been lying there so long, he carried them to a little grave with a small white cross at the head of it.
"Dear Tuttu! He would like to have these growing round him," he thought, and planted them carefully amongst the flowers and grasses.
Grandmother Maddalena was too old to move out of the house now, but Father Giacomo watered the beans lovingly, and in the soft spring air they grew rapidly, so that they soon formed a beautiful tangle, hiding the cross and even the name that still stood there clearly in black letters
"Tuttu."
Atven was the son of a fisherman, and lived with his father on a flat sandy coast far away in the North-land.
Great rocks strewed the shore about their hut, and the child had often been told how, long, long ago, the giant Thor fought single-handed against a shipload of wild men who attempted to land in the little bay; and drove them off—killing some, and changing others into the wonderful stones that remained there to that day.
The country people called them "Thor's balls;" and Atven often wandered about amongst them, trying to find likenesses to the old warriors in their weather-worn surfaces; and peering into every hole and cranny—half dreading, half hoping to see a stone hand stretched out to him from the misty shadows of the past.
Here and there, a row of smaller boulders lay half sunk in the sand, with only their rounded tops, covered with long brown seaweed, appearing above the surface.
These, Atven decided, must be the heads of the ancient Norsemen, and further on stood their huge mis-shapenbodies, twisted into every imaginable form, and covered by myriads of shell-fish, that clung to their grey sides like suits of shining armour.
Atven was often lonely; for he had no brothers or sisters, and his mother had died many years before. He was a shy, wild boy—more at home with the sea birds that flew about the lonely shore, than with the children he met sometimes as he wandered about the country; but in spite of his shyness he had friends who loved him everywhere he went. The house dogs on every farm knew his step, and ran out to greet him; the horses rubbed their noses softly upon his homespun tunic; the birds clustered on his shoulders; the cats came purring up, and the oxen lowed and shook their bells as soon as they caught sight of him. The very hens cackled loudly for joy—and Atven would caress them all with his brown hand, and had a kind word for every one of them.
All the short Northern summer, Atven spent his evenings in searching about amongst "Thor's balls" for traces of the warriors of the old legend; and one night, in the soft clearness of the twilight, he came upon something that rewarded him for all his patient perseverance.
Lifting a mass of seaweed that had completely covered one of the larger rocks, he saw before him the graceful form of a little Stone-maiden!
There she lay, as though quietly sleeping, her long dress falling in straight folds to her feet, her rippled hair spreadingabout her. One small hand grasped a chain upon her neck, the other was embedded in the rock on which she was lying.
Atven was so astonished that he stared at the child-figure as if turned into a statue himself.
Then he realized that his long search had been rewarded, and he fell on his knees and prayed that the Stone-maiden might be released from her prison, and given to him to be a little playfellow.
As soon as it was daylight the next morning, he started off to ask the advice of his one friend, the old Priest of Adgard.
The day was fine, with a crisp northern air, and a bright sun that danced on the long stretches of sandy grass, and on the swaying boughs of the fir trees.
Atven's heart beat hopefully as he neared the neat wooden house in which the old Priest lived.
Father Johannes welcomed him kindly, as he always did; and listened attentively whilst Atven told his story.
"It must have consideration, my child," he said. "I will come down to the shore to-morrow—perhaps I may be able to think of something."
Atven took up his cap humbly, and started on his homeward journey.
As he threaded his way beneath the shadows of the pine-trees, the sun's fingers darted through the branches and drew a golden pattern on the mossy ground under his feet; the mosquitoes hummed drowsily, the air was full of softsummer warmth and brightness—but Atven's thoughts were far away with the ancient legend and the Stone-maiden.
How had she come to be amongst the shipload of "wild-men" in the misty ages when Thor yet walked the earth? Had she a father and mother who loved her, and perhaps brothers and sisters—and how long had she been sleeping so quietly in the arms of the great rock?
It was a strange cradle, with only the sea to sing her lullaby, and wash her lovingly, like a tender mother!
Atven hurried on; and as he peered before him with sun-dazzled eyes, he thought he saw a figure flitting in and out between the brown tree stems.
It was a small, light figure, with a strange kind of loose dress, and long floating hair of a beautiful gold colour. It glided along so rapidly that Atven had some difficulty in keeping pace with it.
Every now and again it seemed to be beckoning to him with one little hand; and at last as he ran faster and faster, it suddenly turned its head, and he saw the face of a beautiful young woman. Her brown eyes were soft and clear, and her cheeks tinted with a colour so delicate, it reminded Atven of the little pink shells he sometimes found after a storm upon the sea-shore.
"Atven! Atven!" she murmured, "You have found my child. Give her life! Give her life!"
"Tell me what I am to do!" cried Atven, and stretched out his hands towards the beautiful young woman; but atthat moment she reached the shore, and gliding between the boulders, disappeared amongst their dark shadows.
Atven threw himself down beside the rock on which the Stone-maiden lay sleeping. He grieved for her so much that tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and as they touched the stone, the great boulder shook and crumbled, and a shudder passed over the figure of the Stone-maiden. She seemed to Atven to sigh gently, and half open her eyes; but in a moment they closed again; the rock settled into its place, and everything was motionless.
"To-morrow! To-morrow!" he said to himself, "When Father Johannes comes, he will help me."
Early next morning the old Priest knocked at the door of the fisherman's hut. He had started at daybreak, for he knew that Atven would be anxiously awaiting him.
They went down together to the shore; and when Father Johannes saw the figure of the sleeping child, he took out of his bark basket, a little jar of water from the Church Well, and sprinkled it over her.
The Stone-maiden stirred and opened her eyes. She raised her hands, breathed gently, and lifting her head, gazed at the old Priest and the boy with wistful brown eyes, like those of the figure Atven had met in the forest.
"Where is my father? Where am I?" she asked, in a low soft voice, as she rose up from the rock, and shook out the folds of her long dress.
Father Johannes took her hand, and gently repeated theold legend; while the Stone-maiden listened with wide-open eyes.
"I remember it all now," she said, as the puzzled look faded from her face. "We had but just landed when the thick cloud came down, and a shower of stones fell upon us. My father was smitten down with all his followers, and I only was left weeping upon the shore. A cold air seemed to breathe upon me, and I fell asleep."
She spoke slowly, in the old Norse tongue, but Father Johannes had studied it, and understood her without much questioning.
"Where was your mother?" he asked kindly, as Atven with smiles of delight, seized her other hand.
"My mother died just before we set sail, and my father would not leave me lonely," answered the Stone-maiden sadly.
"But we will all love you now," cried Atven. "I will grow tall and strong to work for you, and you shall never be unhappy any more!"
The Stone-maiden smiled, as she stood on the threshold of her new life. She looked up trustingly at her two friends, and the old Priest of Asgard, bending down, laid his hand upon her head with a gentle blessing.
The Warriors' heads, with their tangled elf-locks, still peer out of the drifting sand—the twisted bodies in their seaarmour, lie half surrounded by the green waters; but the log hut, and Atven have vanished into the misty shadows of the past. They, and the good old priest, have drifted away to Shadow-Land.
Only the sea talks of them still; and croons them a lullaby, as soft as the centuries-old song, it sang over the cradle of the enchanted Stone-maiden.
On the banks of a clear stream in one of the far away Greek islands, grew a small flowering plant, with delicate stem and transparent white flower, called "Grass of Parnassus."
Every day it saw its own face, reflected in the running water, and every day it made the same complaint—
"This place is beautiful, the soft earth wraps me round, the branches bend over me, but I can never be happy, for I have never seen a River-God!"
The fish swimming close to the shore had talked to the Grass, of the mysterious race who lived in the shallows of the river, higher up, where it broadened into a lake; and played on their rude pipes as they rested in the flickering gloom of the water-weeds and rushes.
"Everyone has seen the River-Gods but me!" said the white flower. "The wind brings me the floating sound of their piping—I can even hear their laughter, and the echo of their voices. Yet they do not come, and I may wither, and never have the happiness I long for!"
But one day, the river-side thrilled, with a strange, newfeeling of hope and expectation. The sun shone, a faint breeze stirred the trees; and down the stream waded a beautiful youth, carrying his pipes in his hand, blowing a few notes mournfully, at long intervals. His hair, crowned with an ivy wreath, hung down, curled and tangled; his hoof-feet splashed in the shallows of the water, and he cried—
"Nadiä! Nadiä! Where are you hiding—Why do you not come to me?"
The white flower remained, enchanted and motionless, upon its stem, bending its yellow eye upon the stranger.
"Nadiä! Nadiä!" the voice wailed, "Do not hide from me any more!—Come to me!"
The bushes rustled and parted; a delicate girl's face looked out, and a wood nymph in floating garments, slid to the side of the stream, and dabbled her white feet in the water.
The youth gave a cry of joy; "I have found you, Nadiä! I have piped to you, and called to you till I was weary; but I loved you, and at last I have found you!"
The wood nymph smiled as she sat in the flickering shadows—and the River-God bending down, gathered the Grass of Parnassus, and placed it timidly in her shining tresses.
The wish of the white flower had been fulfilled; but the end of its life's longing was—Death.
It was winter time, and the Thuringia-Wald lay still and white under its snowy covering.
The fir trees waved their branches in the frosty air, and a clear moon had risen over the mountains.
All was quiet and deserted, except that a faint sound of music and singing floated on the wind, coming undoubtedly from the comfortable burrow of the Hedgehog family, who lived under one of the largest pine stumps.
Councillor Igel—for the father was a member of the Hedgehog Government—had consented to allow the young people to have one or two friends to coffee, and they had been dancing with the greatest spirit for the last half hour.
By the porcelain stove stood the Councillor's only brother, Uncle Columbus, who had devoted himself since childhood to learned pursuits, and was much respected by the rest of the family.
He looked down upon all amusements as frivolous, butthen he had been to College, so his superior mind was only what was to be expected.
The Councillor belonged to an ancient Thuringian race who had been settled for centuries in the forest near the little town of Ruhla. They were a proud family, for one of their uncles had, some years before, been called to take up the position of Court Hedgehog at the Royal country Palace, where he moved in the highest society, and occasionally invited his relations to visit him.
"But fifty miles is really almost too far to go with nothing but a cup of coffee at the end," said the Hedgehog-mother, "and he never invites us to sleep. We don't, therefore, see so much of him as we otherwise should do."
"That must be very trying," replied the Mole-mother, to whom these confidences were being poured out.
"Yes, for of course it would be an inestimable advantage to the children to see a little Court life. However, with the fashions altering so quickly, it would be difficult for me to arrange their dresses in the last mode—and I couldn't have them looked down upon."
"Of course not," humbly replied the Mole-mother. She was sitting by the table, with her homespun knitting in her hand; and though she was trying to pay attention to her friend's words, she was arranging her dinner for the next day at the same time, and wondering whether her eldest child could have one more tuck let out of her frock before Christmas time.
"It's all very well for the Hedgehog-mother," she thought. "She comes of a high family, and can live in luxury; but with all my children, and my poor husband working away from morning till night, I'm obliged to plan every coffee bean, or I could never keep the house together!"
The Councillor's wife, however, talked on without noticing her distraction.
"Do you ever find any inconveniences from living so near the town?" she enquired. "Do the boys ever annoy you? They are sometimes very ill-bred."
"Our house is in such a retired position, I seldom see anyone," replied the Mole-mother. "The Forester's family are our nearest neighbours, and really they are so kind they might almost be Moles themselves."
"That is very pleasant for you," said the Frau Councillor. "Ourcase is quite different. The Rats who keep the inn at the cross roads, are most disagreeable people. We can't associate with them."
"THE RATS WHO KEEP THE INN ARE MOST DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.""THE RATS WHO KEEP THE INN ARE MOST DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE."
"Gypsies!" cried Uncle Columbus at this moment. He had an unpleasant habit when he did not like the conversation, of suddenly reminding the family of a tragedy that had happened some sixty years ago, when a promising young Hedgehog had been carried off to captivity by a band of travelling Tinkers, and finally disposed of in a way too terrible to be alluded to.
The Councillor's wife looked angry, and hastily changed the subject.
"He is quite a trial to us sometimes!" she whispered to the Mole-mother. "Such bad taste to mention Gypsies. It makes me tremble in every quill!"
"I think I must be going now," said the Mole-mother hurriedly, putting away her knitting into a reticule, and tying a woollen hood over her head—for she felt that it would not do for strangers to be mixed up in these family matters.
Calling her children to her, she helped them into their warm galoshes; and lighting a small lantern, they were soon out in the snowy forest.
"Oh, mother, I wish we were rich like the Hedgehogs," cried the eldest daughter, Emmie; "Wilhelm and Fritz are so fashionable, and on Berta's birthday they are going to give a grand coffee party, to which the Court Hedgehog is expected!"
"Well, they won't ask us, so you had better not think too much about it," said the Mole-mother; "don't let your mind run on vanities."
As she spoke they saw the two rats from the Inn coming towards them. The elder—the proprietor of the Inn—in a peasant's dress with a pipe in his mouth, dragging a small sledge on which three infant rats were seated, wrappedin a fur rug, while their mother walked beside them, her homespun cloak trailing over the snow.
"Good evening, neighbours!" cried the Mole-mother pleasantly, for though she did not exactly approve of the Rat household, she always treated them with civility. "Where are you out so late? How well the children are looking!"
"Yes, they grow rapidly—bless their little tails and whiskers!" said the Rat-mother proudly. "We have just been to my brother's in the town, taking a cup of coffee with him, and there we heard some news.Ican tell you! There's to be a grand Coffee Party at the Hedgehogs, and though all the guests have been invited,wealone are left out. Most insultingIcall it!"
"Well, itisrude," allowed the Mole-mother, "but they've not asked us either. You see the Court Hedgehog is to be there, and so it is very select."
"Select! I'll make them select!" growled the proprietor of the Inn with a scowl. "Who are they I should like to know? They may have Gypsies upon them at any moment!"
"Oh, I hope not!" cried the Mole-mother.
"There's a Tinker's boy in the town," said the Innkeeper, darkly, "and he's always looking out for Hedgehogs—I shouldn't be surprised if he heard where the family live."
"Good-night!" said the Mole-mother, nervously, and hurried on with her children.
"Some mischief will be done if we don't watch," she saidto Emmie, who was a mole of unusual intelligence. "I'll tell your brother to keep his eye on the Rat Inn."
After about half an hour's walking, they arrived at home; for their house was in a secluded position in the most unfrequented part of the forest.
Though very simple, it was clean and well kept, and furnished with a large cooking stove, a four-post bedstead, and a few wooden benches.
In the one arm-chair sat the Mole-father, reading the newspaper; while his sister, Aunt Betta, with a cap with long streaming ribbons on her head, was busily stirring something in a saucepan.
As the Mole-mother and her family, descended the stone stairway that led from the upper air, a delicious smell of cooking greeted them. Two large tallow candles were burning brightly, and altogether the house presented a very lively appearance.
"Here you are at last," cried the Mole-father. "Supper is just ready, and I have sent Karl to the Inn for some lager-beer."
"I wonder if he will hear anything," said the Mole-mother taking off her galoshes; and then she related all the news of the evening.
"If there isn't some mischief brewing, may I be made into waistcoats!" exclaimed the Mole-father, throwing down his newspaper.
It was his favourite expression when much excited, andnever failed to give the Mole-mother a shiver all down her back. She called it such very strong language.
At this moment Karl came clattering down the steps.
"Oh, father! mother! Ihaveheard something!" he shouted. "The Rat-father has started off to the Tinker's to tell the boy where the Hedgehogs are living!"
The Mole-mother sank down on a bench gasping.
"He's done it then! Oh, the poor Hedgehogs!" she cried wringing her hands, "They'll be cooked in clay before they can turn round."
"Don't be in such a hurry, wife," said the Mole-father. "I've thought of something. We won't terrify the Hedgehogs—What cantheydo?—but we'll collect all the Moles of the neighbourhood, and make a burrow all round the house; then if the Tinker's son comes, he'll fall in, and can't get any further. What do you think of that, eh?"
"An excellent idea!" said the Mole-mother, recovering. "Send Karl round to-night, and begin the first thing to-morrow morning."
As soon as daylight dawned in the forest, the Mole-father, accompanied by his wife and children, and all their friends; went out in a long procession, with their shovels and wheelbarrows, and commenced work round the Hedgehogs' house.
The Councillor's family were so busily occupied in turning out, and arranging, their rooms for the festivity—which was to include a dance in the evening—that they had no time to takeany notice of the Moles' digging; in fact they never even observed it. The younger Hedgehogs were roasting coffee. The house-mother sugared the cakes in the back-kitchen, while the Councillor, with a large holland apron, rubbed down the floor, and gave a final dust to the furniture.
As to Uncle Columbus—he sat on a sort of island of chairs in one corner, studying a book, and looking on misanthropically at the preparations.
The Moles, therefore, were quite uninterrupted, and burrowed away vigorously, until the earth all round the house was mined to a depth of several feet; and they returned home to dinner in high spirits.
"If that boy dares to venture, may I be made into waistcoats, if he doesn't fall in!" cried the Mole-father, wiping his face with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief—for though the snow was on the ground the work was exhausting.
The Tinker's family sat round a fire, in one of the tumble-down wooden cottages that dotted the outskirts of the little town of Ruhla.
A small stove scarcely warmed the one room, for great cracks appeared in the walls in every direction.
"We've got no dinner to-day; are you going after those Hedgehogs?" said the Tinker to his son Otto. "Now youknow where they are, it will be an easy thing to get hold of them."
"Yes; we'll have a fine supper to-night," said Otto, stamping his feet to get them warm. "Come with me, Johann, and we'll take the old sack over our shoulders to bring them back in."
They started off over the crisp snow sparkling in the early sunshine, away to the forest; and straight towards the great pine tree, which sheltered the underground home of Councillor Igel.
"Come, Johann!" cried Otto, bounding along over the slippery pathway; but Johann was small and fat, and his little legs could not keep pace with Otto's long ones. He soon fell behind, and Otto raced on by himself.
"Do be careful, Otto! There's lots of Moles here," cried little Johann, but Otto did not stop to listen. On he ran almost up to the pine tree; when Johann saw him suddenly jump into the air, and disappear through the snow with a loud shriek.
At the sound of the fall, the Councillor ran up the steps to his front door, and put out his head cautiously to see what was the matter.
"Gypsies!" said Uncle Columbus without raising his eyesfrom his book; and for the first time in his life he was right!
Gypsies it certainly was, as the Councillor soon determined; and he hastily scratched some snow over the door, and retired to the back kitchen with his whole family, in a terrible state of fright and excitement.
"Whatcanthe boy have fallen into?" he enquired vainly of the Hedgehog-mother, and of Uncle Columbus, in turn. "There are no houses there thatIknow of. We have been saved by almost a miracle!"
As they remained shuddering in a little frightened knot—only Uncle Columbus maintaining his philosophical calm—the air filled with the odour of burnt sugar; a faint knocking was heard against the side of the stove pipe, and in another minute the Mole-father's red nightcap appeared through a hole, and his kind face shortly followed.
"Don't be frightened," he said reassuringly. "I have made a little tunnel and come through—merely to explain things. I thought perhaps you might be a little alarmed."
"Alarmed!" cried the Hedgehog-mother. "It doesn't describe it! Terrified, and distracted, is nearer to the real thing. The sugar biscuits are all spoilt, for I forgot them in the oven; and my daughter Berta fainted on the top of the stove, and is so seriously singed, she will be unable to appear at the party. Not that we shall be able to have a party now," continued the Hedgehog-mother, weeping, "for Uncle Columbus sat down on the plum cake in mistake for afoot-stool, and Fritz has trodden on the punch bottles. Oh, what a series of misfortunes!"
"Cheer up, my good neighbour, all will come right in time," said the Mole-father encouragingly.
"As long as the Court Hedgehog doesn't appear in the middle," wailed the Councillor. "It makes me shudder in every quill to think of it. Not even a front door to receive him at!"
"Oh, as to that, let him come to us, and we will give him the best we have," replied the Mole-father. "Our place is homely, but I daresay he will condescend to put up with it till your house is in order again. I sent Karl on to intercept him, and explain just how it is. He will take him straight to our house till you are ready for him."
"Well, I must say you have been exceedingly thoughtful," said the Councillor, pompously, "and I feel sincerely grateful to you; but now, will you kindly explain to me the cause of this severe disturbance?"
"I think I'll come into the room first, if you'll allow me," said the Mole-father. "I am getting rather a crick in the neck from sticking my head through here."
"Come in by all means," said the Hedgehog-mother, graciously. "I am sorry to be obliged to receive you in this humble apartment."
"Gypsies!" growled Uncle Columbus, who was brushing the currants and crumbs off his coat with a duster.
The Mole-father had by this time worked himself into thekitchen, dragging his spade after him; and seated on a bench by the stove, he related the whole story to the Councillor, but carefully omitted to give the name of the person who had betrayed the Hedgehogs to the Tinker's family; and notwithstanding the requests of the whole family, he firmly refused to do so.
"All's well that ends well," he said cheerfully, "and as I heard the Tinker forbidding his sons ever to come near the place again, you will be quite safe in the future."
"What has happened to that dreadful boy? Is he still in the hole, or have they got him out?" enquired the Hedgehog-mother anxiously.
"Got him out some time ago," said the Mole-father, "and carried him off to the hospital. Broke his leg, I am sorry to say, though it's nothing very bad. He will be all right in six weeks or so. I don't think much of those human fractures."
"Serves him right," said the Councillor viciously. "And now, my good preserver, in what way can we show our gratitude to you? I shall send Fritz and Wilhelm into the town for more provisions, and we might have our Coffee Party after all. What do you say to that, my children?"
The family clapped their hands joyfully.
"I trust you and your family will grace the party?" said the Hedgehog-mother to the old Mole.
"On one condition," he replied, "I shall be delighted to do so; and that is that you will allow me to ask the Ratsfrom the Inn. They are touchy people, and do not readily forgive an injury."
"What I said all along," muttered Uncle Columbus, lifting his eyes from his dusting. "I said 'away with pride,' but I wasn't listened to."
"You will be now," said the Councillor in a soothing and dignified manner. "Certainly; send an invitation to the Inn if you wish it. Just write, 'To meet the Court Hedgehog,' at the top, Wilhelm; it will make it more gratifying."
The Court Hedgehog, with an escort of six guards, had meanwhile arrived at the Mole's house, and was being entertained by the Mole-mother and her children, who were all in a state of great nervousness.
The Court Hedgehog, however, appeared to be more condescending than could have been expected from his position. He accepted some refreshment, and a pipe of the Mole-father's tobacco, and then reclining in the one easy chair, he awaited the course of events with calmness.
Here the Councillor found him some hours later, when the confusion in the Hedgehog household having been smoothed over—a deputation of the father and sons started to bring the distinguished guest home in triumph.
The rooms in the Councillor's house had all been gailydecorated with pine branches; the stove sent out a pleasant glow; and the Hedgehog-mother, in her best cap and a stiff black silk dress, stood waiting to welcome her guests in the ante-room.
By her side sat Berta, who had fortunately recovered sufficiently to be present at the entertainment; though still suffering from the effects of the shock, and with her head tied up in a silk handkerchief.
The Court Hedgehog.
As the Court Hedgehog appeared in the doorway, three of the younger children, concealed in a bower of branches, commenced to sing an ode composed by Uncle Columbus for the occasion, beginning "Welcome to our honoured guest,"—while a fiddler hired for the occasion accompanied it upon the violin, behind a red curtain.
The first visitors to arrive were the Moles; followed by the Rat family, who were filled with remorse when they received the invitation, at the thought of their treacherous behaviour.
"I declare, mother," said the Innkeeper to his wife in a whisper, "the Mole-father is such a good creature, I shall be ashamed to quarrel with any of his friends for the future. 'Live and let live,' ought to be our motto."
Uncle Columbus did not appear till late in the evening, when he entered the room dressed in an antiquated blue coat with brass buttons, finished off by a high stand-up white collar.
He staggered in, carrying a large plum cake about twice the size of the one he had unfortunately sat down upon; which he placed upon the coffee table, where the Hedgehog-mother was presiding over a large collection of various cups, mugs, and saucers.
"I have only just come back from town, where I went to procure a cake fit for this happy occasion," he whispered. "It does my heart good to see this neighbourly gathering, and I have made up my mind to promise you something in memory of the event. I will from this day, give up for ever a habit which I know has been objectionable to you—the word 'Gypsies' shall never again be mentioned in the family."
On the one hill of the district, just outside the village of Viletna, stood the great house belonging to Madame Olsheffsky.
All round it lay, what had once in the days gone by, been elaborate gardens, but were now a mere tangle of brushwood, waving grass, and wild flowers.
Beyond this, again, were fields of rye and hemp, bounded on one side by the shining waters of the great Seloe Lake, dug by hundreds of slaves in the time of Madame Olsheffsky's great-grandfather; and on the other by the dim greenness of a pine forest, which stretched away into the distance for mile after mile, until it seemed to melt into the misty line of the horizon.
Between the lake and the gardens of the great house, lay Viletna, with its rough log houses, sandy street, and great Church, crowned with a cupola like a gaily-painted melon; where Elena, Boris, and Daria, the three children of MadameOlsheffsky, drove every Sunday with their mother in the old-fashioned, tumble-down carriage.
All the week the children looked forward to this expedition, for with the exception of an occasional visit to Volodia Ivanovitch's shop in the village, it was the only break in the quiet monotony of their lives.
They were allowed to go to Volodia's, whenever they had money enough to buy anything; and often spent the afternoon there listening to his long tales, and examining the contents of the shop, which seemed to supply all that any reasonable person could wish for—from a ball of twine to a wedding dress.
Volodia himself, had been a servant at the great house many years before, "when the place was kept up as a country gentleman's should be"—he was fond of explaining to the children—"but when the poor dear master was taken off to Siberia—he was as good as a saint, and no one knew what they found out against him—then the Government took all his money, and your mother had to manage as well as she could with the little property left her by your grandfather. She ought to have owned all the country round, but your great-grandfather was an extravagant man, Boris Andreïevitch! and he sold everything he could lay hands on!"
Elena and Boris always listened respectfully. They had the greatest opinion of "Uncle Volodia's" wisdom, and they could just remember the time of grief and excitement when their father left them; but it had all happened so long agothat though their mother often spoke of him, and their old nurse Var-Vara was never tired of relating anecdotes of his childhood, they had gradually begun to think of him, not as a living person, but as one of the heroes of the old romances that still lingered on the shelves of the dilapidated library.
It was a happy life the children led in the great white house. It made no difference to them that the furniture was old and scanty, that the rooms were bare, and the plaster falling away in many places from the walls and ceilings.
Their mother was there, and all their old friends, and they wished for nothing further.
Was there not Toulu, the horse, in his stall in the ruined stable; Tulipan, the Pomeranian dog, Adam, the old butler, and Alexis, the "man of all work," who rowed their boat on the lake, tidied the garden—as well as the weeds and his own natural laziness would allow him—and was regarded by Boris as the type of all manly perfection!
What could children want more? Especially as Volodia was always ready at a moment's notice to tell them a story, carve them a peasant or a dog from a chip of pine-wood, dance a jig, or entertain them in a hundred other ways dear to the heart of Russian children.
On one of the clear dry days of an early Russian autumn, when a brilliant glow of colour and sunshine floods the air, and the birch trees turned to golden glories shake their fluttering leaves like brilliant butterflies, Elena, Boris, and Daria, stood on one of the wide balconies of the great house, with their mother beside them, sorting seeds and tying them up in packets for the springtime.
Some large hydrangeas, and orange trees, in green tubs, made a background to the little scene.
The eager children with clumsy fingers, bent on being useful; the pale, thin mother leaning back in her garden chair smiling at their absorbed faces.
"Children, I have something I must tell you," commenced Madame Olsheffsky, seriously, when the last seeds had been put away and labelled. "It is something that will make you sad, but you must try and bear it well for my sake, and for your poor father's—who I hope will return to us one day. I think you are old enough to know something about our affairs, Elena, for you are nearly thirteen. Even my little Boris is almost eleven. Don't look so frightened, darling," continued Madame Olsheffsky, taking little Daria in her arms, "it is nothing very dreadful. I am obliged to enter into a lawsuit—a troublesome, difficult lawsuit. One of our distant cousins has just found some papers which he thinks will prove that he ought to have had this estate instead ofyour grandfather, and he is going to try and take it from us. I have sent a great box of our title deeds to the lawyer in Viletna, and he is to go through them immediately—but who knows how it may turn out? Oh, children! you must help me bravely, if more ill-fortune is to fall upon us!"
Elena rushed towards her mother, and threw her arms round her neck. "We will! We will! Don't trouble about it, dear little mother," she cried. "What does it matter if we are all together.Iwill work and dig in the garden, and Boris can be taught to groom Toulu, and be useful—he really can be very sensible if he likes. Then Var-Vara will cook, and Adam and Daria can do the dusting. Oh, we shall manage beautifully!"
Madame Olsheffsky smiled through some tears.
"You are a dear child, Elena! I won't complain any more while I have all my children to help me. But run now Boris, and tell Alexis to get the boat ready. I must go to the other side of the lake, to see that poor child who broke his arm the other day."
Boris ran off to the stables with alacrity. He found it difficult to realize all that his mother had just told them. "Of course it was very dreadful," he thought, "but very likely it wouldn't come true. Then, as Elena said, nothing mattered much if they were all together; and perhaps, if they were obliged to move into the village, they might live near Volodia's shop; and the wicked cousin might let them come and play sometimes in the garden."
"Alexis! Alexis!" he shouted into the hay loft, and a brown face with a shock of black hair, appeared at one of the windows.
"What is it, Boris Andreïevitch?"
"Mamma wants the boat immediately," replied Boris. "She is going over to see Marsha's sick child."
Alexis took a handful of sunflower seeds out of his pocket, and began to eat them meditatively, throwing the husks behind him.
"The mistress won't go another day?" he enquired slowly.
Boris shook his head.
"The lake's overflowing, and the dam is none too strong over there by Viletna," continued Alexis; "it would be better for her to wait a little."
"She says she must go to-day," said Boris, "but I will tell her what you say."
Madame Olsheffsky, however, refused to put off her visit; and Elena, Boris, and Daria, looking out from the balcony, saw the boat with the two figures in it start off from the little landing-place, and grow smaller and smaller, until it faded away into a dim speck in the distance.
Late that afternoon the three children were playing with Tulipan in the garden, when they heard Volodia's well-known voice shouting to them—
"Elena! Boris Andreïevitch!"
They fancied he seemed to be in a great hurry, and as they flew towards him, they noticed that he had no hat, and there was a look of terror on his face that froze Elena's heart with the certainty of some unknown but terrible misfortune.
"The lake! the lake!" he panted; "where is the mistress?"
"Gone to see Marsha's sick child," said Elena, clinging to little Daria with one hand, and gazing at Volodia with eyes full of terror.
"Ah, then it is true. It was her I saw! The poor mistress! Aïe! Aïe! Don't move, children! Don't stir. Here is your only safety," cried Volodia in piercing tones. "The river has flooded into the lake, and the dam may go any moment. The village will be overwhelmed. Nothing can save it! The water rises! rises! and any minute it may burst through! The Saints have mercy! All our things will be lost; but it is the will of God—we cannot fight against it." And Volodia crossed himself devoutly with Russian fatalism.
"But mamma! what will happen to her?" cried Elena passionately. "Can nothing be done?"
"To go towards the lake now would be certain death,"replied Volodia brokenly. "No, Elena Andreïevna; we must trust in God. He alone can save her if she is on the water now! Pray Heaven she may not have started!"
As he spoke, a long procession of terrified peasants came winding up the road towards the great house. All the inhabitants of the village had fled from their threatened homes, and were taking refuge on the only hill in the neighbourhood.
Weeping, gesticulating and talking; the men, women, and children, rushed on in the greatest state of confusion.
Some carried a few possessions they had snatched up hastily as they left their houses, some helped the old bed-ridden people to hobble along on their sticks and crutches; others led the smaller children, or carried the gaily-painted chests containing the holiday clothes of the family; while the boys dragged along the rough unkempt horses, and the few cows and oxen they had been able to drive in from the fields close by.
All, as they came within speaking distance of Elena and Boris, began to describe their misfortunes; and such a babel of sound rose on the air that it was impossible to separate one word from another.
"Where shall they go to,Matoushka?"[B] enquired Volodia anxiously, as the strange procession spread itself out amongst the low-growing birch trees.
[B] _Matoushka_—little mother.
Elena shook herself, as if awakening from a horrible dream.
"Oh, it is dreadful! dreadful! But you are welcome, poor people!" she cried. "Put the horses into the stables—Adam will show you where—and the dogs too; and come into the house all of you, if you can get in. The cows must go to the yard. Oh, Var-Vara!" she added, as she turned to her old nurse, who had just come out, attracted by the noise. "Have you heard? Oh, poor mamma! Do you think she will be safe?" and Elena rushed into the house, and up the stair of a wooden tower, from which she could see for miles round, a wide vista of field, lake, and forest.
No boat was in sight, and the lake looked comparatively peaceful; but just across the middle stretched an ominous streak of muddy, rushing water, that beat against the high grass-grown dam, separating the lake from the village, and threatened every moment to roll over it.
Elena held her breath, and listened. There was a dull roaring sound like distant thunder.
The streak of brown water surged higher and higher; and suddenly—in one instant, as it seemed to the terrified child—a vast volume of water shot over the dam, seeming to carry it away bodily with its violence; and with a crash like an earthquake, the pent-up lake burst out in one huge wave, that rolled towards the village of Viletna, tearing up everything it passed upon its way.
Elena turned, and, almost falling downstairs in her terror, ran headlong towards the group of peasants who had gathered on the grass before the wooden verandah, and in despairingsilence were watching the destruction of their fields and houses.
Beside them stood the old Priest, his long white hair shining in the sunshine.
"My children, let us pray to the good God for any living things that are in danger!" he said.
The peasants fell upon their knees.
"Save them! Save them!" they cried, imploringly, "and save our cattle and houses!"
The blue sky stretched overhead, all round the garden the birch trees shed their quivering glory; the very flowers that the three children had picked for their mother, in the morning, lay on a table fresh and unfaded; yet it seemed to Elena that years must have passed by since she stood there, careless and happy.
"Oh, Boris, come with me!" she cried, passionately, "I can't bear it!"
Boris, with the tears falling slowly from his eyes, followed his sister up to the tower, and there they remained till evening, straining their eyes over the wide stretch of desolate-looking water.
It was some months afterwards. The flood was over, and the people of Viletna had begun to rebuild their loghouses, and collect what could be found of their scattered belongings.
A portion of the great dyke had remained standing, so that the lake did not completely empty itself; and the peasants were able, with some help from the Government, to rebuild it.
Everyone had suffered; but the heaviest blow had fallen upon the great house, for Madame Olsheffsky never returned to it. Her boat had been upset and carried away, with the sudden force of the current, and though Alexis managed to save himself by clinging to an uprooted pine tree, Madame Olsheffsky had been torn from him, and sucked under by the rush of the furious water.
Elena's face had grown pale and thin during these sad weeks, and she and Boris looked older; for they had begun to face the responsibilities of life, with no kind mother to stand between them and the hard reality.
To add to their misfortunes, the wooden box containing the title-deeds of their estate, and all their other valuable papers; had been swept away with the rest of Lawyer Drovnine's property, and there seemed no chance that it would ever be recovered again.
In the interval, as no defence was forthcoming, the lawsuit had been decided in favour of the Olsheffsky's cousin; and the children were now expecting every day to receive the notice that would turn them out of their old home, and leave them without a place in the world that really belonged to them.
The few relations they had, made no sign to show they knew of their existence; but they were not without friends, and one of the first and truest of these was Volodia.
"Don't trouble about this lawsuit, Elena Andreïevna," he said, on one of his frequent visits to the great house. "If the wickedness of the world is so great, that they rob you of what rightfully belongs to you; take no notice of it—it is the will of God.Youwill come down with Boris Andreïevitch, and Daria Andreïevna, to my house, where there is plenty of room for everyone; and my wife will be proud and honoured. Then Var-Vara can live with her brother close by—a good honest man, who is well able to provide for her; and Adam will hire a little place, and retire with his savings. Alexis shall find a home for Toulu—You know Alexis works for his father on the farm now, and is really getting quite active. You see,Matoushka, every one is nicely provided for, and no one will suffer!"
"But how can we all live with you, when we have no money?" said Elena. "Good, kind Volodia! It would not be fair for us to be a burden to you!"
"How can you talk of burdens, Elena Andreïevna! It's quite wrong of you, and really almost makes me angry! Your grandfather gave me all the money with which I started in life, and it's no more than paying back a little of it. Besides, think of the honour! Think what a proud thing it will be for us. All the village will be envious!"
Elena smiled sadly. "I suppose we shall have a little money left, shan't we, Volodia?"
"Of course,Matoushka. Plenty for everything you'll want."
And so, after much argument and discussion, with many tears and sad regrets, the three children said good-bye to the great house; and drove with Toulu down the hill for the last time, to Volodia's large new wooden house, which had been re-built in a far handsomer style than the log hut he had lived in formerly.
Fortunately the winter that year was late in coming, so that the peasants of Viletna were able to build some sort of shelter for themselves before it set in with real severity.
Volodia's house, which stood in the centre of the village, had been finished long before any of his neighbours'.
"That's what comes of being a rich man," they said to each other, not grumbling, but stating a fact. "He can employ what men he likes; it is a fine thing to have money."
Volodia's shop had always been popular, but with the arrival of the three children it became ten times more so.
Everyone wished to show sympathy for their misfortunes; and all those who were sufficiently well off, brought a little present, and left it with Volodia's wife, with many mysterious nods and explanations.
"Don't tellthemanything about it, but just cook it. It's a chicken we reared ourselves—one of those saved from the flood."
Volodia would have liked to give the things back again, but his wife declared this would be such an affront to the donors that she really couldn't undertake to do it.
"It's not for ourselves, Volodia Ivanovitch, but for those poor innocent children; I can't refuse what's kindly meant. Many's theroubleAnna Olsheffsky (of blessed memory) has given to the people here, and why shouldn't they be allowed to do their part?"
Meanwhile, Elena and Boris, were getting slowly used to their changed life. It still seemed more like a dream than a reality; but they began to feel at home in the wooden house, and Elena had even commenced to learn some needlework from Var-Vara, and to help Maria in as many ways as that active old woman would allow of.
"Don't you touch it, Elena Andreïevna," she would say, anxiously, "it's not fit you should work like us. Leave it to Adam, and Var-Vara, and me. We're used to it, and it's suitable."
And so Elena had to give herself up to being waited upon as tenderly by the old servants, as she had been during their time of happiness at the great house.
Boris had no time for brooding, for he was working hard at his lessons with the village Priest; and as to little Daria, she had quickly adapted herself to the new surroundings.
She played with Tulipan, made snow castles in Volodia's side yard, and whenever she had the chance, enjoyed a sledge drive with Alexis, in the forest.
"If only mamma were here, I should be quite happy," she said to Elena. "It does seem so dreadful, Elena, to think of that horrible flood. You don't think it will come again, do you?"
Elena's eyes filled with tears, as she answered reassuringly.
"You'll see mamma some day, Daria, if you're a very good girl; and meantime, you know, she would like you to learn your lessons, and be as obedient as possible to Var-Vara."
"Well, I do try, Elena, but she is so tiresome sometimes. She won't let me play with the village children! They're very nice, but she says they're peasants. I'm sure I try to remember what you teach me, though the thingsareso difficult. I'm not soverylazy, Elena!"
Elena stooped her dark brown head over the little golden one.
"You're a darling, Daria! I know you do your best, when you don't forget all about it!"
Volodia Ivanovitch had devoted his two best rooms to the children. He had at first wished to give up the whole of his house to them, with the exception of one bedroom; but Elena had developed a certain strength of character and resolution during their troubles, and absolutely refused to listen to this idea; so that finally the old man was obliged to give way, and turn his attention to arranging the rooms, in a styleof what he considered, surpassing elegance and comfort.
They were plain and simple, with fresh boarded walls and pine floors.
The furniture had all been brought from the great house, chosen by Volodia with very little idea of its suitability, but because of something in the colour or form that struck him as being particularly handsome.
A large gilt console table, with marble top, and looking glass, took up nearly one side of Elena's bedroom; and a glass chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling—where it was always interfering with the heads of the unwary. The bed had faded blue satin hangings; and a large Turkish rug and two ricketty gilt chairs, completed an effect which Uncle Volodia and his wife considered to be truly magnificent.
Boris slept in the room adjoining.
This was turned into a sitting-room in the daytime, and furnished in the same luxurious manner. Chairs with enormous coats-of-arms, a vast Dresden china vase with a gilt cover to it; and in the corner a gold picture of a Saint with a little lamp before it, always kept burning night and day by the careful Var-Vara—Var-Vara in her bright red gold-bordered gown, and the strange tiara on her head, decorated with its long ribbons.
"If ever they wanted the help of the Saints, it's now," she would say, as she filled the glass bowl with oil, and hung it up by its chains again. "The wickedness of men has been too much for them. Aïe! Aïe! It's the Lord's will."
Volodia Ivanovitch's house stood close to the village street, so that as Elena looked from her windows she could see the long stretch of white road—the snow piled up in great walls on either side—the two rows of straggling, half-finished log huts, ending with the ruined Church, and the new posting-house.
In the distance, the flat surface of the frozen lake, the dark green of the pine forest, and the wide stretches of level country; broken here and there by the tops of the scattered wooden fences.
Up the street the sledges ran evenly, the horses jangling the bells on their great arched collars, the drivers in their leather fur-lined coats, cracking their whips and shouting.
Now and then a woman, in a thick pelisse, a bright-coloured handkerchief on her head, would come by; dragging a load of wood or carrying a child in her arms.
The air was stilly cold, with a sparkling clearness; the sky as blue and brilliant as midsummer.
Elena felt cheered by the exhilarating brightness. She was young, and gradually she rose from the state of indifference into which she had fallen, and began to take her old interest in all that was going on about her.
"I want to ask you something, Uncle Volodia," she said one day, as they sat round thesamivar,[C] for she had beggedthat they might have at least one meal together, in the sitting-room.
[C] Tea-urn.
Maria was rather constrained on these occasions, seeming oppressed with the feeling that she must sit exactly in the centre of her chair. She spread a large clean handkerchief out over her knees, to catch any crumbs that might be wandering, and fixed her eyes on the children with respectful solemnity.
Volodia, on the contrary, always came in smiling genially, in his old homespun blouse and high boots; and was ready for a game with Daria, or a romp with Boris, the moment the tea things had been carried away by his wife.
"What is it, Elena Andreïevna?" he asked. "Nothing very serious, I hope?"
"Not very, Uncle Volodia. It's only that I want to learn something—I want to feel I candosomething when our money has gone, for I know it won't last very long."
"Why trouble your head about business, Elena Andreïevna? You know your things sold for a great deal, and it is all put away in the wooden honey-box, in the clothes chest. It will last till you're an old woman!"
"But I would like tofeelI was earning some money, Uncle Volodia. I think I might learn to make paper flowers. Don't you think so, dear Uncle Volodia? You know I began while mamma was with us; the lady in Mourum taught me. I wish very much to go on with it."
Uncle Volodia pondered. It might be an amusement forthe poor girl, and no one need know of the crazy notion of selling them.
"If you like,Matoushka. Do just as you like," he said.
So it was decided that Elena should be driven over to Mourum on the next market day.
Volodia had undertaken, in the intervals of shop-keeping, to teach little Daria how to count; with the elaborate arrangement of small coloured balls, on a wire frame like a gridiron, with which he added up his own sums—instead of pencil and paper.
They sat down side by side with the utmost gravity. Old Volodia with the frame in one hand, Daria on a low stool, her curly golden head bent forward over the balls, as she moved them up and down, with a pucker on her forehead.
"Two and one's five, and three's seven, and four's twelve, and six's——"
"Oh, Daria Andreïevna! You're not thinking about what you're doing!"
"Oh, really I am, Uncle Volodia; but those tiresome little yellow balls keep getting in the way."
And then the lesson began all over again, until Daria sprang up with a laugh, and shaking out her black frock, declared she had a pain in her neck, and must run about a little!
"What a child it is!" cried Volodia admiringly. "If she lives to be a hundred, she'll never learn the multiplication table!"