Heidi (34 page)

"Don't you know me, papa?" called Clara to him, her face beaming
with happiness. "Am I so altered since you saw me?"

Then Herr Sesemann ran to his child and clasped her in his arms.

"Yes, you are indeed altered! How is it possible? Is it true
what I see?" And the delighted father stepped back to look full
at her again, and to make sure that the picture would not vanish
before his eyes.

"Are you my little Clara, really my little Clara?" he kept on
saying, then he clasped her in his arms again, and again put her
away from him that he might look and make sure it was she who
stood before him.

And now grandmamma came up, anxious for a sight of her son's
happy face.

"Well, what do you say now, dear son?" she exclaimed. "You have
given us a pleasant surprise, but it is nothing in comparison to
what we have prepared for you, you must confess," and she gave
her son an affectionate kiss as she spoke. "But now," she went
on, "you must come and pay your respects to Uncle, who is our
chief benefactor."

"Yes, indeed, and with the little inmate of our own house, our
little Heidi, too," said Herr Sesemann, shaking Heidi by the
hand. "Well? are you still well and happy in your mountain home?
but I need not ask, no Alpine rose could look more blooming. I
am glad, child, it is a pleasure to me to see you so."

And Heidi looked up with equal pleasure into Herr Sesemann's
kind face. How good he had always been to her! And that he should
find such happiness awaiting him up here on the mountain made her
heart beat with gladness.

Grandmamma now led her son to introduce him to Uncle, and while
the two men were shaking hands and Herr Sesemann was expressing
his heartfelt thanks and boundless astonishment to the old man,
grandmamma wandered round to the back to see the old fir trees
again.

Here another unexpected sight met her gaze, for there, under the
trees where the long branches had left a clear space on the
ground, stood a great bush of the most wonderful dark blue
gentians, as fresh and shining as if they were growing on the
spot. She clasped her hands, enraptured with their beauty.

"How exquisite! what a lovely sight!" she exclaimed. "Heidi,
dearest child, come here! Is it you who have prepared this
pleasure for me? It is perfectly wonderful!"

The children ran up.

"No, no, I did not put them there," said Heidi, "but I know who
did."

"They grow just like that on the mountain, grandmamma, only if
anything they look more beautiful still," Clara put in; "but
guess who brought those down to-day," and as she spoke she gave
such a pleased smile that the grandmother thought for a moment
the child herself must have gathered them. But that was hardly
possible.

At this moment a slight rustling was heard behind the fir trees.
It was Peter, who had just arrived. He had made a long round,
having seen from the distance who it was standing beside Uncle
in front of the hut, and he was trying to slip by unobserved. But
grandmamma had seen and recognized him, and suddenly the thought
struck her that it might be Peter who had brought the flowers
and that he was now trying to get away unseen, feeling shy about
it; but she could not let him go off like that, he must have some
little reward.

"Come along, boy; come here, do not be afraid," she called to
him.

Peter stood still, petrified with fear. After all he had gone
through that day he felt he had no longer any power of
resistance left. All he could think was, "It's all up with me
now." Every hair of his head stood on end, and he stepped forth
from behind the fir trees, his face pale and distorted with
terror.

"Courage, boy," said grandmamma in her effort to dispel his
shyness, "tell me now straight out without hesitation, was it
you who did it?"

Peter did not lift his eyes and therefore did not see at what
grandmamma was pointing. But he knew that Uncle was standing at
the corner of the hut, fixing him with his grey eyes, while
beside him stood the most terrible person that Peter could
conceive—the police-constable from Frankfurt. Quaking in every
limb, and with trembling lips he muttered a low, "Yes."

"Well, and what is there dreadful about that?" said grandmamma.

"Because—because—it is all broken to pieces and no one can put
it together again." Peter brought out his words with difficulty,
and his knees knocked together so that he could hardly stand.

Grandmamma went up to Uncle. "Is that poor boy a little out of
his mind?" she asked sympathisingly.

"Not in the least," Uncle assured her, "it is only that he was
the wind that sent the chair rolling down the slope, and he is
expecting his well-deserved punishment."

Grandmamma found this hard to believe, for in her opinion Peter
did not look an entirely bad boy, nor could he have any reason
for destroying such a necessary thing as the chair. But Uncle
had only given expression to the suspicion that he had from the
moment the accident happened. The angry looks which Peter had
from the beginning cast at Clara, and the other signs of his
dislike to what had been taking place on the mountain, had not
escaped Uncle's eye. Putting two and two together he had come to
the right conclusion as to the cause of the disaster, and he
therefore spoke without hesitation when he accused Peter. The
lady broke into lively expostulations on hearing this.

"No, no, dear Uncle, we will not punish the poor boy any
further. One must be fair to him. Here are all these strangers
from Frankfurt who come and carry away Heidi, his one sole
possession, and a possession well worth having too, and he is
left to sit alone day after day for weeks, with nothing to do but
brood over his wrongs. No, no, let us be fair to him; his anger
got the upper hand and drove him an act of revenge—a foolish
one, I own, but then we all behave foolishly when we are angry."
And saying this she went back to Peter, who still stood
frightened and trembling. She sat down on the seat under the fir
trees and called him to her kindly,—

"Come here, boy, and stand in front of me, for I have something
to say to you. Leave off shaking and trembling, for I want you
to listen to me. You sent the chair rolling down the mountain so
that it was broken to pieces. That was a very wrong thing to do,
as you yourself knew very well at the time, and you also knew
that you deserved to be punished for it, and in order to escape
this you have been doing all you can to hide the truth from
everybody. But be sure of this, Peter: that those who do wrong
make a mistake when they think no one knows anything about it.
For God sees and hears everything, and when the wicked doer
tries to hide what he has done, then God wakes up a little
watchman that He places inside us all when we are born and who
sleeps on quietly till we do something wrong. And the little
watchman has a small goad in his hand, And when he wakes up he
keeps on pricking us with it, so that we have not a moment's
peace. And the watchman torments us still further, for he keeps
on calling out, 'Now you will be found out! Now they will drag
you off to punishment!' And so we pass our life in fear and
trouble, and never know a moment's happiness or peace. Have you
not felt something like that lately, Peter?"

Peter gave a contrite nod of the head, as one who knew all about
it, for grandmamma had described his own feelings exactly.

"And you calculated wrongly also in another way," continued
grandmamma, "for you see the harm you intended has turned out
for the best for those you wished to hurt. As Clara had no chair
to go in and yet wanted so much to see the flowers, she made the
effort to walk, and every day since she has been walking better
and better, and if she remains up here she will in time be able
to go up the mountain every day, much oftener than she would
have done in her chair. So you see, Peter, God is able to bring
good out of evil for those whom you meant to injure, and you who
did the evil were left to suffer the unhappy consequences of it.
Do you thoroughly understand all I have said to you, Peter? If
so, do not forget my words, and whenever you feel inclined to do
anything wrong, think of the little watchman inside you with his
goad and his disagreeable voice. Will you remember all this?"

"Yes, I will," answered Peter, still very subdued, for he did
not yet know how the matter was going to end, as the police
constable was still standing with the Uncle.

"That's right, and now the thing is over and done for," said
grandmamma. "But I should like you to have something for a
pleasant reminder of the visitors from Frankfurt. Can you tell
me anything that you have wished very much to have? What would
you like best as a present?"

Peter lifted his head at this, and stared open-eyed at
grandmamma. Up to the last minute he had been expecting
something dreadful to happen, and now he might have anything that
he wanted. His mind seemed all of a whirl.

"I mean what I say," went on grandmamma. "You shall choose what
you would like to have as a remembrance from the Frankfurt
visitors, and as a token that they will not think any more of
the wrong thing you did. Now do you understand me, boy?"

The fact began at last to dawn upon Peter's mind that he had no
further punishment to fear, and that the kind lady sitting in
front of him had delivered him from the police constable. He
suddenly felt as if the weight of a mountain had fallen off him.
He had also by this time awakened to the further conviction that
it was better to make a full confession at once of anything he
had done wrong or had left undone, and so he said, "And I lost
the paper, too."

Grandmamma had to consider a moment what he meant, but soon
recalled his connection with her telegram, and answered kindly,—

"You are a good boy to tell me! Never conceal anything you have
done wrong, and then all will come right again. And now what
would you like me to give you?"

Peter grew almost giddy with the thought that he could have
anything in the world that he wished for. He had a vision of the
yearly fair at Mayenfeld with the glittering stalls and all the
lovely things that he had stood gazing at for hours, without a
hope of ever possessing one of them, for Peter's purse never
held more than a halfpenny, and all these fascinating objects
cost double that amount. There were the pretty little red
whistles that he could use to call his goats, and the splendid
knives with rounded handles, known as toad-strikers, with which
one could do such famous work among the hazel bushes.

Peter remained pondering; he was trying to think which of these
two desirable objects he should best like to have, and he found
it difficult to decide. Then a bright thought occurred to him;
he would then be able to think over the matter between now and
next year's fair.

"A penny," answered Peter, who was no longer in doubt.

Grandmamma could not help laughing. "That is not an extravagant
request. Come here then!" and she pulled out her purse and put
four bright round shillings in his hand and, then laid some
pennies on top of it. "We will settle our accounts at once," she
continued, "and I will explain them to you. I have given you as
many pennies as there are weeks in the year, and so every Sunday
throughout the year you can take out a penny to spend."

"As long as I live?" said Peter quite innocently.

Grandmamma laughed more still at this, and the men hearing her,
paused in their talk to listen to what was going on.

"Yes, boy, you shall have it all your life—I will put it down
in my will. Do you hear, my son? and you are to put it down in
yours as well: a penny a week to Peter as long as he lives."

Herr Sesemann nodded his assent and joined in the laughter.

Peter looked again at the present in his hand to make sure he
was not dreaming, and then said, "Thank God!"

And he went off running and leaping with more even than his
usual agility, and this time managed to keep his feet, for it was
not fear, but joy such as he had never known before in his life,
that now sent him flying up the mountain. All trouble and
trembling had disappeared, and he was to have a penny every week
for life.

As later, after dinner, the party were sitting together
chatting, Clara drew her father a little aside, and said with an
eagerness that had been unknown to the little tired invalid,—

"O papa, if you only knew all that grandfather has done for me
from day to day! I cannot reckon his kindnesses, but I shall
never forget them as long as I live! And I keep on thinking what
I could do for him, or what present I could make him that would
give him half as much pleasure as he has given me."

"That is just what I wish most myself, Clara," replied her
father, whose face grew happier each time he looked at his
little daughter. "I have been also thinking how we can best show
our gratitude to our good benefactor."

Herr Sesemann now went over to where Uncle and grandmamma were
engaged in lively conversation. Uncle stood up as he approached,
and Herr Sesemann, taking him by the hand said,—

"Dear friend, let us exchange a few words with one another. You
will believe me when I tell you that I have known no real
happiness for years past. What worth to me were money and
property when they were unable to make my poor child well and
happy? With the help of God you have made her whole and strong,
and you have given new life not only to her but to me. Tell me
now, in what way can I show my gratitude to you? I can never
repay all you have done, but whatever is in my power to do is at
your service. Speak, friend, and tell me what I can do?"

Uncle had listened to him quietly, with a smile of pleasure on
his face as he looked at the happy father.

"Herr Sesemann," he replied in his dignified way, "believe me
that I too have my share in the joy of your daughter's recovery,
and my trouble is well repaid by it. I thank you heartily for
all you have said, but I have need of nothing; I have enough for
myself and the child as long as I live. One wish alone I have,
and if that could be satisfied I should have no further care in
life."