GRITLI’S CHILDREN
by
JOHANNA SPYRI
Author of (“Heidi” & “Cornelli.”)
Translated by LOUISE BROOKS
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers New York
[Illustration: Gritli’s Children]
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
CHAPTER
I. AT THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE
II. IN THE DOCTOR’S HOUSE AT BUCHBERG
III. IN THE VILLAGE AND IN THE SCHOOL
IV. FARTHER PROCEEDINGS AT BUCHBERG
V. ON OAK-RIDGE
VI. AUNTY IS IN DEMAND AGAIN
VII. WHAT OSCAR FOUNDED AND WHAT EMMA PLANNED
VIII. AT SUNSET
IX. A LAST JOURNEY AND A FIRST
VOLUME II
I. THE NEW HOME
II. A JOURNEY
III. ON THE BEAUTIFUL RHINE
IV. IN THE FISHERMAN’S HUT
V. GREAT PREPARATIONS
VI. ANXIETY AT ROSEMOUNT
VII. AN UNEXPECTED TERMINATION
VIII. THE HAPPY END
VOLUME ONE
CHAPTER I.
AT THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE.
The golden sunshine of a glorious June morning flooded the roses of the
beautiful garden that surrounded a handsome stone villa on the banks of
the Rhine. A thousand sweet perfumes borne upon the gentle breeze
mounted like incense to the open windows, and sought entrance there.
From a great basin in the middle of the garden, a slender shaft of water
rose straight up into the blue sky, and then fell plashing back,
sprinkling the flowers and the grass with sparkling moisture. Gay
butterflies fluttered hither and thither, sipping sweets from the
honey-laden flowers. Under the trees stood marble statues gleaming white
through the shadows; and seats in sheltered nooks invited the loiterer
to rest and listen to the concert of the myriad birds that made their
happy homes in this paradise of summer beauty.
At the closed window of one of the upper rooms of this delightful house
sat a little maiden, pressing her pale face against the wide, clear
glass, as she peered out with longing eyes over the roses, toward the
wavering fountain, and into the depths of the trees, whose graceful
branches stirred in the light breeze. Her gaze passed over the shining
flowers and the green terraces of the sunny garden, and rested far away
on the glistening waves of the fast-flowing Rhine, that ran past the
foot of the garden, bathing caressingly the long over-hanging branches
of the old linden trees as it passed along. The rich foliage of the
trees by the river-side was visible from the windows of the house; but
not the stone bench which stood in the cool shade, so close to the water
that one could look from it directly down into the eddying waves, and
watch the drooping branches dip and rise again and again, as if in pure
delight. What a spot for summer dreaming and castle-building! The pale
child at the window knew the place well; and as her eyes turned in that
direction, the expression of longing grew more and more painful as she
gazed.
“Oh, mamma!” she cried presently, with tears in her voice, “may I not go
out soon into the garden, and down to the seat under the lindens by the
river?”
An hour before, the mother had brought her suffering little girl into
this room, and placed her in her favorite resting-place in the
window-seat, and her anxious gaze had scarcely left the pale little
face, with its big eyes full of pain, that looked so longingly into the
beautiful garden, which the poor child could not enjoy in any other way.
“Dear child,” she said now, in a voice which trembled with anxiety and
affection, “you know that you are too tired to go out in the morning;
but this afternoon, perhaps, we will go down to the river. Will not that
be better, my darling?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” sighed the child; but though she said no more,
she did not turn her eyes away from the blooming roses and the waving
leaves below her.
“Oh, it is so beautiful down there! Do let me go out, mamma!” she
exclaimed again a little while afterwards. “Do let me go!” and her
mother could not resist the beseeching tones. She arose, and at that
moment an elderly woman entered the room--a woman who looked so
exquisitely neat that one would have thought that she had no other
business in life than that of keeping in perfect order her gray hair,
with its snow-white cap, and her simple, spotless dress; but, on the
contrary, she was the house-keeper, and had the whole charge of the big
house, with all its complicated domestic arrangements. Both mother and
daughter exclaimed on seeing her, “Oh, Clarissa, how glad I am that
you’ve come!” And both began to ask her opinion as to the visit to the
garden, which the invalid so longed for, but which her mother hesitated
to grant.
Clarissa was a person of rare character, and a tower of strength in this
household, where, from the lady of the house down to the lowest servant,
her word was followed as law and obeyed with affection; and one look
into the clear depths of her honest, loving eyes explained the secret of
her power: they were “Mother’s eyes.”
“Say ‘yes,’ Clarissa, and let us go,” begged the child, pathetically.
“The air is soft, all the birds are singing and calling us: why should
we not try it to-day, dear Mrs. Stanhope?” said Clarissa.
“Yes; if you think best, we will,” answered the mother. And Frederic,
the tall footman, was summoned to carry the little girl down the long
staircase and out of the house. Then, once out-of-doors, the two women,
supporting the child tenderly between them, led her through the sunny
garden.
“Nora, are you happy now?” asked the mother, tenderly.
“Yes; it is beautiful here,” replied the child; “but I should like to go
down to the stone bench by the river-side, where the branches dip into
the water.”
So they went on over the green terraces to the water-side, down to the
seat almost hidden under the lindens, among the clusters of whose
pendent, sweet-smelling blossoms the bees were busy, mingling their deep
murmur with the song which the Rhine sang in passing. Nora’s eyes
followed the dancing waves that seemed like living, happy sprites.
“Oh! how I wish that I could leap and dance so, mamma! away! away! but I
am so tired; I am always tired. I long to hop about as the birds do up
in the trees there, and sing and be merry; but I am always so tired.”
“My darling, when you are stronger you will dance,” replied her mother,
in a cheerful tone; but her looks belied her voice, for she was far from
feeling the confidence which she tried to give.
“The doctor is coming to-day, and we will ask him what we can do this
summer to make you stronger. Now we must go back to the house, Nora; you
look pale and ill, my child. Is anything more than usual the matter with
you?”
Nora assured her mother that she was only tired. After any unusual
exertion, her face always grew paler and her expression more suffering.
She reached the house with difficulty, and, when Frederic had carried
her up to her bed-room, she lay on the sofa a long time without moving,
thoroughly exhausted.
The doctor came towards noon, and declared that a complete change of air
would be the best thing for the little Nora, who certainly seemed to be
losing strength daily. He would write to a physician, a friend of his in
Switzerland, to find a suitable place for her, and would come again as
soon as he received an answer.
Towards evening, Nora sat once more in the window, gazing wearily at the
long slanting rays of the setting sun that fell across the greensward in
golden radiance, and lighted up the rose-leaves till they shone like
lamps among the flowers. Clarissa sat at her work-table by Nora’s side
and from time to time, she raised her head and looked sadly at the frail
form that lay so motionless in the window-seat.
“Clarissa,” said the child, presently, “will you repeat the old song of
Paradise to me?”
Clarissa laid aside her work.
“We will sing it together again some day, dear child, when you are
strong enough; now I will say it to you if you wish” and she folded her
hands and began:--
“A stream of water, crystal bright,
Flows down through meadows green,
Where lilies, shining in the light,
Like twinkling starlets gleam.
“And roses blow, and roses glow,
While birds in every tree
Are singing loud, are singing low,
‘In Paradise are we.’
“Here, gently blows the soft, sweet wind;
Bright flowers grow all around;
Men wake, as from a dream, to find
They tread on holy ground.
“In blissful happiness they rove,
At peace with each and all;
United now in bonds of love,
Freed from the grave’s dark pall.
“All want and weariness are o’er,
All sorrow and all pain;
Their rapture gathers more and more;
The sick are well again.”
After Clarissa had finished her recitation, no sound broke the stillness
for a long time; Nora seemed lost in thought. “Clarissa,” she said at
last, “that is a beautiful poem, and makes me long to go.”
“Yes; go willingly, go gladly, dear child,” replied Clarissa, with tears
in her eyes. “Then you can wander joyfully among the bright flowers, and
sing:
“‘Our rapture gathers more and more;
The sick are well again.’
“And we shall soon join you there, your mamma and I--”
At this moment the mother entered, and Clarissa stopped suddenly; for
she knew well that Mrs. Stanhope could not endure the thought of losing
little Nora, even though her child were called to heaven; but the mother
had heard enough of what had been said, and looked at the child with
renewed anxiety. Nora certainly looked very pale and weary; and, at her
mother’s request, she let herself be carried at once to bed in
Clarissa’s strong and tender arms.
Later in the evening when Mrs. Stanhope sat alone with her old friend,
she began anxiously to question the suitableness of talking to the child
upon such topics.
“Surely there is no need of dwelling on such mournful things, Clarissa.
Nora is not so ill that we need think the worst, much less talk about
it.”
“Nora likes to hear me repeat her favorite poem,” replied Clarissa;
“and, dear Mrs. Stanhope, let me say one thing to you. If our darling is
to live only to suffer through long years of pain, can you wish for life
for her? Why should we wish to keep her here, where she cannot enjoy the
smallest part of the wealth and beauty about her, rather than let her go
to that heavenly home, where there is no more sorrow nor pain?”
“I cannot bear the thought of parting from her; it must not, it cannot
be. Why may not all yet go well, and Nora get strong again?” said the
poor mother; and the heart within her was heavy with grief. She could
say no more, and withdrew in silence to her own room.
The great stone mansion was soon wrapped in stillness; and as the light
of the summer moon shone down upon it, whoever had seen it standing
there in stately beauty, its high white pillars gleaming through the
dark trees, would surely have thought:
“How beautiful it must be to live there! No care nor sorrow can reach
the inmates of that lovely dwelling!”
Mrs. Stanhope occupied her paternal home on the banks of the Rhine. She
had married an English-man when very young, and had lived in England
until his death, when she returned to the home of her childhood,
unoccupied since the death of her parents, bringing with her two little
children, the brown-eyed Philo, and his delicate, fair-haired sister,
Nora. The faithful Clarissa, who had taken care of Mrs. Stanhope in her
childhood and who had accompanied her to her foreign home, loved these
children as if they were her own. The little family had now lived
several years in this beautiful house on the Rhine; a very peaceful and
regular life it was, one day like another; for the children were
delicate and could bear no exciting pleasures. Two years ago a heavy
sorrow dropped its dark shadow over the household. Little Philo closed
his dark eyes forever, and was laid to rest under the old linden-tree in
the garden, where the roses bloomed all summer long. Nora, who was only
a year younger than her brother, was now in her eleventh year.
In about a week after his first visit, the doctor came again. He had
heard from his friend, the physician, who had willingly offered to find
a house for Mrs. Stanhope near his own, in the little village of
Buchberg, among the mountains. Mrs. Stanhope might set out as soon as
she pleased. He would answer for all being in readiness to receive her.
In a few days they were ready to start. Clarissa was to remain behind to
put the house in order, and only a young maid-servant went with them. As
the carriage rolled away, bearing Mrs. Stanhope and her little daughter
on the way to Switzerland, Clarissa gave them many a God-speed, and,
turning back into the empty house, she wiped away the tears she could no
longer repress, saying softly to herself:
“‘Their rapture gathers more and more;
The sick are well again.’”