Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  Whenever I woke, either Mr. or Mrs. Owen was there beside me. Once I woke from a bad dream and found Janet beside me, her face pale and tearstained.

  “Janet,” I asked, suddenly clear and sensible, “why are you crying? Am I going to die?”

  Poor Janet! She never knew how to pretend or to say anything that wasn’t the exact truth, so she answered my question simply. “I don’t know, Elaine. They say you might. But you needn’t be frightened—you’d go straight to Jesus.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I answered, struggling for breath to explain. “Fullness of joy . . .” Then the mists closed around me again, and I fell asleep.

  Then suddenly all the faces disappeared, and there was just one that was there all the time—my mother’s face. At first I hardly recognized it, for it was no longer pretty and carefully made-up. It was pale and frantic with great dark circles under the eyes. And when I cried out in my dreams, she would clutch hold of me, and I felt her fear almost as strong as mine. Somehow we both seemed lost in the mist together. So night followed day, and day followed night, and I dreamed and cried and woke and dreamed again.

  And then suddenly I woke up properly and knew I was not dreaming any longer. It was very early morning, for the windows were gray. I raised myself on my elbow and called the nurse, who came over to my bed at once.

  “Where’s my auntie?” I asked her. Surely they hadn’t all gone and left me!

  “Your mother’s here, sleeping in the side ward,” said the nurse kindly. “I’ll get her at once.”

  Mummy was at my side in a few moments, in her night clothes. She looked old and tired and dreadfully frightened, and I had a strange feeling that it was me who should be helping her.

  “Hello, Mummy,” I said calmly. “I’m better. Did you come because I was ill?”

  “Oh, Elaine,” cried my mother, putting her arms around me and bursting into tears. “Are you really better? I thought I was going to lose you, and I was so dreadfully frightened!”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” I answered. “I’d have gone to be with Jesus. But now I’m going to get better instead. Please give me a drink, Mummy. I’m really thirsty.”

  The nurse arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits for my mother, and she took my temperature and seemed delighted. My mother fed me, and I found I was hungry and ate two biscuits. Then, tired but still feeling cool and at peace, I lay holding her hand as the sweet summer dawn came creeping in through the windows, and the birds began to sing in the hospital garden.

  The Path that Led Home

  I soon began to feel quite well again, and my mother said she should be getting back to work. I was still in bed on the morning she left, and for the first time I brought up the subject of the Christmas holidays.

  “We shall be leaving France in November, darling,” she said, “and then it will be only another few weeks, and you’ll be home for good. I’m already finding out about flats, and I’ll get two weeks holiday over Christmas. What fun it will be to be together again!”

  I lay very still. I did not want to hurt Mummy’s feelings, but somehow she must understand. I wanted to see her on visits, but my home was here in the country now with Janet and Philippa; I could not go back and live in London. But I did not know how to explain and, being very weak after my illness, the tears welled up in my eyes and I felt my lips trembling.

  My mother stared at me and went rather red. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  “Don’t you want to come home?” she asked in a light, hard voice. “Would you rather stay and have Christmas with the Owens? They seem very fond of you. It will be just as you like, you know.”

  It was the chance I had been waiting for, but somehow I could not take it—I wasn’t sure if Mummy was angry or just sad, but in any case I was too nervous to explain anything. I lay there feeling miserable and twisting the sheets in my hands.

  “Well,” said my mother, “you’ve only to say so, and it’ll be exactly as you like.”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I’ll ask Auntie,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you later, Mummy.”

  “Oh, very well,” answered my mother coldly, “but make up your mind soon, as I must make my plans as well.” She glanced at her watch and yawned. “I must be going soon. Well, good-bye, darling. Get better quickly. I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  She kissed me lightly and turned away. But the nurse stopped her at the ward door, and I caught a glimpse of her face and noticed tears on her cheeks. I buried myself under the bedcovers and cried and cried.

  I’ll ask Auntie to explain, I thought to myself. She’ll be able to make Mummy understand. And with this I comforted myself and grew stronger every day, until one morning the doctor stopped quite casually at the bottom of my bed and said he thought I could go home the next day.

  Waiting to go seemed to take forever—I was so excited. Mrs. Owen, Janet, and Peter came to get me, all looking almost as excited as I was. At last we were all driving through the gates and away into the world that I had not seen for nearly a month.

  Mr. Owen, Blodwen, Johnny, Frances, Robin, Lucy, and Cadwaller were all at the gate under an amazing banner with the words Welcome Home stitched across it in uneven red letters, and the noise of their greeting must have shaken the parish. I was carried down the path by many loving hands and in through the front door, where another surprise awaited me. The table was laid for a party, and the room was full of red roses, while on the couch by the window lay Philippa, with her mother sitting beside her. Philippa was determined to be there on the great day.

  It was a wonderful party, better than Christmas, so Johnny remarked. We had ham sandwiches, chocolate biscuits, fruit salad, and a big cake baked by Blodwen, frosted by Janet, and with “Welcome Home, Elaine” printed on it in silver balls by Frances. We talked and talked, because there was so much to say.

  Then Mr. Owen told us about the thief, who might have escaped if he had not gone out in response to a cry for help. All night long, Mr. Owen had talked with him while I slept an uneasy sleep. The man told his pitiful story. He had had an unhappy childhood, then his wife had left him, taking with her the only person he had really loved—his little girl. He had already been to prison once and come out ill, without work, and without a friend in the world. Life had been a bitter, hopeless struggle ever since, and he was sick of it all and ready to give himself up. He fully admitted to the robbery.

  So he and Mr. Owen had gone to court together, and the previous week he had been sentenced to three months’ imprisonment. But he had gone quietly enough, knowing that at last he had a friend who would stand by him all the way through and be there waiting for him on the day when the prison gates would open for him. Mr. Owen had promised to write to him every week and visit him once a month, and already Mr. Owen was looking for a kind employer and a decent job for the man.

  We sat silently for a minute, thinking of the poor man’s unhappy life. I glanced around at the happy, healthy children, the good food we were eating, the warm clothing we were wearing, the yellow evening sunshine streaming in the window, and realized we’d been given very much.

  I think we could have talked all night, but Mrs. Owen suddenly jumped up and said that I’d been up too long for the first day and must go to bed at once. So they all came to the bottom of the stairs to watch me climb up with my plaster-casted leg and wave good night to me.

  Mrs. Owen helped me into bed and then went off to get me a last hot drink. It was wonderful to be back in my own little room and to know I would wake up in the morning and find Janet sleeping beside me. And then an unhappy thought came into my heart—suppose I had to leave it? Suppose I had to go back to London? Well, I wouldn’t leave it; it was my home now, and Mummy had said I could do as I liked. Now was my chance to get things straight.

  Mrs. Owen sat down on my bed while I drank my hot chocolate, and I decided to talk to her about it there and then.

  “Auntie,” I said abruptly, “I never want to go back to London. I want to stay here and have Ch
ristmas with you and go on going to school with Janet. Can you tell Mummy, because she said I could do what I liked, and she could always come up and visit me?”

  Mrs. Owen looked very troubled, and this surprised me, for it had all seemed perfectly simple to me.

  “I couldn’t tell her,” she said. “If you really want to stay, you must talk it over between yourselves. Of course, we all want you to stay very badly, and we will miss you dreadfully if you go. But you see, you are all your mother has got. Have you ever thought how lonely she would be without you?”

  I was silent. I had not thought very much about her side of it. My own side mattered to me too much.

  “I don’t think we need to decide tonight,” she said quietly. “We must think about it. But don’t forget your special verse. The Lord Jesus has the path all planned out for you. Ask Him to show you very, very clearly where it is going to lead you, because only by walking in that path will you find fullness of joy.”

  She kissed me and left me, and I buried my head in the pillows and said my prayers. But I did not ask to be shown the path of life. I just said, “Please, please, let me stay here because I could never be happy again in London.”

  I grew strong again surprisingly quickly, and by October my cast was off, and I was able to go back to school. I could also climb the hill to visit Philippa again, and I looked forward to these visits, for she had really changed. She had asked Jesus to come and live in her heart, and since that day He had quite simply been teaching her that true happiness lies in making other people happy and by giving instead of getting. Day by day, she was putting up a brave, steady fight against grumbling and selfishness, and winning victories over her crossness and self-pity. She worked hard at her lessons now, and had learned to knit, and was always thinking of things she could do for other people. Mr. Owen used to visit her and tell her about the parish, and she had started to knit clothes for new babies and to write little letters and verses for people who were ill or in trouble.

  It was on a clear, cool day toward the end of October that I was sitting on the windowsill talking to Philippa. It was nearly time to go home.

  “Elaine,” said Philippa suddenly, “when do you have to go back to your mother in London?”

  The old fear leaped in my heart, for it was nearly November, and Mummy would soon be coming. But I felt sure it would be all right. After all, she had said I could do as I liked.

  “I’m not going back,” I answered. “Mummy said I could choose. I’m going to stay here. I could never be happy in London.”

  Philippa’s clear blue eyes, which sometimes seemed to see much more than I wanted them to, were looking at me in surprise. “Well, I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “You told me that if I belonged to the Lord Jesus, I could be happy with lame legs, and I believed you. And now you say that you couldn’t even be happy in London. Having lame legs is far, far worse than living in London!”

  Her words seemed to hit me, and I had no answer to give at all, but I tried to think of some excuse. “Oh, but if I went back to London, there’d be no one to teach me about Jesus,” I stammered. “My mother doesn’t know much about the Bible.”

  “Well, neither does mine,” said Philippa firmly. “But she’s awfully pleased I’ve stopped being so cross, and I told her it was knowing about Jesus. So now she thinks the Bible must be a very good Book, and she comes and reads it with me. But all the same, Elaine, I really do hope you don’t go away because I shall miss you so much.”

  “Well, it isn’t quite decided,” I said slowly, rising to my feet. I wanted to get away and think things over. I said a hasty good-bye, but I didn’t go home. I climbed to the lamb pasture and sat down on the roots of a huge beech tree. I could see a long way. Just below me were the woods, and beyond them the brown, plowed fields, then the purple-blue line of the sea, and the pale evening sky. This was my home, the land I’d learned to love. How could I leave it?

  I turned and looked behind me. The hills seemed very close tonight, and on one of them I could see a lonely little path winding up over the rocks and twisting through the yellow bracken. It seemed to run right to the top of the crest and to meet the sunset.

  “Lord Jesus,” I whispered, “show me the right path. I really want to know.”

  And, as I sat waiting for my answer, I began to think about my mother—my pretty, clever, capable mother, who went to France and gave parties and rushed off in airplanes and always seemed to know what to do and how to do it. And yet at the hospital she had been desperately afraid, and I remembered her frightened face and the funny feeling I’d had that Mummy was lost in the mist, and I must put out my hand and lead her home. And there was no one else. The Owens all had one another, but Mummy had only me.

  I turned and went downhill, limping a little. Across the shadowed fields I saw two figures coming toward me. Mrs. Owen had started out to look for me, and plump Lucy was toddling beside her. We met by the first beech tree, and I slipped my hand in hers.

  “There’s a letter from your mother,” said Mrs. Owen a little hesitatingly. “She’s coming to see you on Saturday to talk things over.”

  I looked up with the light of certainty on my face. “Good,” I said. “I’m glad she’s coming. I’m going back to London at the end of term to live with her.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps Mrs. Owen was waiting for me to explain, but I’d said all I had to say.

  “Did you find out? Is it the path of life?” she asked softly at last.

  I nodded.

  “Then you’ll find fullness of joy,” she said, stooping to pick up Lucy. And hand in hand we strolled home through the dark fields, and the lights shone out in a cozy glow from the vicarage windows ahead of us.

  © 1948 PATRICIA M. ST. JOHN

  First published 1948

  This edition first published 1999

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Interior and Cover Design: Ragont Design

  Cover Illustration: Matthew Archambault

  ISBN: 0-8024-6575-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8024-6575-7

  Printed by Versa Press in Peoria, IL – 04/2010

  We hope you enjoy this book from Moody Publishers. Our goal is to provide high-quality, thought-provoking books and products that connect truth to your real needs and challenges. For more information on other books and products written and produced from a biblical perspective, go to www.moodypublishers.com or write to:

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  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  1 Christmas Eve

  2 Grandmother Arrives

  3 A Very Special Christmas Present

  4 The Quarrel Begins

  5 The Accident

  6 The Rescue

  7 Annette Plans Revenge

  8 A Day of Escape

  9 A Visit to the Hospital

  10 Lucien Makes a Friend

  11 A Trip to the High Pastures

  12 Annette’s Revenge

  13 The Old Man’s Story

  14 The Handwork Competition

  15 Christmas Again—and Gingerbread Bears

  16 Klaus Goes Missing

  17 An Open Door

  18 Things Start to Come Right

  19 Annette Wins a Battle

  20 Lucien Has an Idea

  21 An Unforgettable Night

  22 Lucien Finds Monsieur Givet

  23 Dani Meets the Doctor

  24 Jesus’ Love Makes All the Difference

  25 Getting Better

  26 A New Start

  Revised Edition

  It has been over fifty years since the first editions of Patricia St. John’s Treasures of the Snow and The Tanglewoods’ Secret were published, and they
have become classics of their time.

  In these new editions, Mary Mills has sensitively adapted the language of the books for a new generation of children, while preserving Patricia St. John’s superb skill as a storyteller.

  A note from the author

  When I was a child of seven I went to live in Switzerland. My home was a chalet on the mountain, above the village where I have imagined Annette and Dani to live.

  Like them, I went to the village school on a sled by moonlight, and helped to make hay in summer. I followed the cows up the mountain, and slept in the hay. I went to church on Christmas Eve to see the tree covered with oranges and gingerbread bears, and was taken to visit the doctor in the town up the valley. Klaus was my own white kitten, given to me by a farmer, and my baby brothers rode in the milk cart behind the great St. Bernard dog.

  But all this was over twenty years ago, and I have been back only as a visitor; Switzerland today is probably very different. I expect it would be impossible now for a child to miss school for any length of time, and no doubt the medical service has improved. Perhaps all little villages have their own doctors now. I do not know.

  But I do know that today, as twenty years ago, the little school and the church still stand, the cowbells still tinkle in the valley, and the narcissi still scent the fields in May. And I hope that little children still sing carols under the tree at Christmas and love their gingerbread bears as much as I loved mine.

  I have not given the village its proper name, because for the sake of the story, I have added one or two things that are not really there. For instance, there is no town nearby that could not be reached except by the Pass. But otherwise I have tried to keep it true to life, and if ever you go to Switzerland and take an electric train up from Montreux you will stop at a tiny station where hayfields bound the platform and high green hills rise up behind, dotted with chalets. To the right of the railway the banks drop down into a foaming, rushing river, beyond which the mountains rise again, and between a long, green mountain and a rocky, pointed mountain there lies a Pass. If, added to all this, you see a low white school building not far from the station and a wooden church spire rising from behind a hillock, you will know that this is the village where this story was born.