As soon as the children had scattered to their different amusements she
started down to the lindens, and she did not stop till she reached the
little house among the willows. All four children were standing in the
door-way awaiting her. They cried out with joy when they espied her, and
ran to meet her, and when she took little Lenchen up in her arms, the
child almost choked her in her close embrace. The boys too were so glad
to see her, and pressed so near her side, that she began to feel as if
she were surrounded by a tenderness and love such as she had never
before received; the poor, lonely little girl!
The mother’s welcome was warm, and the grandfather raised both arms in
the air and cried out:--
“God be praised! I had begun to think that there was no chance for
to-day!”
He asked her to help him go directly out into the sun; for it was
pleasant and warm outside, but within he sat chilly all day long. It
was no easy task, for the old man was heavy, and leaned upon her so that
she could scarcely stand under his weight, but at last they struggled
out to where the sun shone pleasantly on the water, and gilded the
trunks of the old willows with his beams. Here the old man sat down, and
asked Elsli to sit by him. She did so, and he went on talking.
“Yes,” he said, “that is the same old Rhine! How I have always loved it!
But it will soon be all over with me; I shall not be long here to see
it; I must go, and where? But it’s foolish to talk this way to you; you
are too young to understand. Your life is just beginning. Are you not
happy, and glad to think that you can stay here by this beautiful water
for a long, long time to come?”
“I don’t think of that when I look at the river,” said Elsli. “I think
of the beautiful stream that flows through Paradise, and of the
happiness of those who live there.”
“What do you say! How can you know anything about that?” said the old
man, looking at Elsli in amazement.
“I know what is said about it in a beautiful song; I have known it a
long time. One of my friends taught it to me, and she has gone there
already. Shall I repeat it to you?”
The old man nodded assent, and Elsli was glad to repeat the song again
to some one who must be interested to hear it, since he was so soon
going there himself, he said. She began directly, and, as the old man
listened with great attention, she kept on to the end. He shook his head
several times during the recitation, and, when it was finished, he
said:--
“That will not be for me.”
Elsli was very much startled. “But why not, why not?” she asked,
anxiously. “It is certainly for every one; we must all die some time,
and then how happy we shall be, when we go there.”
He shook his head again.
“Not for me; it is only for the good.” He said no more for some minutes,
and Elsli sat in silence. At last he spoke again.
“I could tell you something, but I don’t think you would understand me.
If a man doesn’t get along well in life, and he thinks that God can help
him but does not, he says to himself that there’s no use in praying, and
he must help himself as he can; and so he grows reckless and does things
that are wrong and that he shouldn’t do; then when he comes to die, and
he has not thought for a long time anything about God and Heaven, then
the door of Paradise does not open to him, and he cannot go in to that
happy life. But why do I talk to you of this? You cannot understand.”
But Elsli did understand partly, for she remembered hearing her
step-mother once say it was easy enough for those to pray who had all
they wanted, for they could see that God helped them; but he had never
helped her. And Elsli could hear again the sorrowful tones of her
father’s voice as he answered:--
“If we think that, it will be worse and worse for us; that is not the
right way to think.”
These thoughts made Elsli very sad; but presently she roused herself and
said she would go into the house and see if she could do something for
the sick woman; she would come back by and by, and help him into the
house again. The old man would not let her go, however; he drew her down
again upon the fallen tree on which he was sitting.
“No, no; stay here,” he said. “Let us talk a little more; you are wise
for your age. Don’t you know some other song? I should like to hear
another.”
Yes; Elsli knew many others; but she could not tell which it would be
best to repeat now. After thinking awhile, she suddenly looked up
brightly and said, “I remember one now that perhaps you will like. Shall
I say it?” and as her companion nodded assent, she went on:--
“The night draws on--sped is my day;
I know my end is near.
I raise my trembling hands to pray;
The grave’s dark road I fear.
“O God! thou art my only light!
Be thou my guiding star!
Hide all my trespasses from sight;
Thy mercies endless are.
“Look down upon me, Lord! I bow,
Repenting of my sin,
Oh! ope the gates of heaven now,
And bid me enter in.”
The old man was silent. In a few moments Elsli arose, and the
grandfather rose also, to go back with her into the house. While with
slow and painful steps they regained the door, he said, thoughtfully:--
“Yes; I heard that long ago when I went to church. Then, it is still
true! If I could only find my way there! Will you come to-morrow, my
child, and say those verses again?”
Elsli promised heartily. She was glad that she had thought of the right
words to help the poor old man. She set to work at once in the house,
and did not rest till she had put to rights everything that could make
the mother uneasy, and had made the sick woman and the children orderly
and comfortable. The boys were eager to have her come into the kitchen,
to see how well they remembered their yesterday’s lesson. Everything
went right; and as she was leaving the house she again met the father
coming in, and again received from him the friendly yet depressed
greeting which reminded her of her own father. And when the four
children seized and held her, declaring that she should not leave them,
a rare smile lighted up his weary face for a moment, and he stretched
out his hand to her with such a tender look of love as she had never in
her life received from any one but her father.
And this was the story of one day after another for many succeeding
days. Elsli was living in quite another world from that in which the
other children were amusing themselves at Rosemount. A new life had come
to her, and she looked so happy always and so changed that Fred one day
called out:--
“What makes you so happy, Elsli? You look as if you had just caught two
gold beetles!”
Elsli had found a place in the world, and no longer felt herself
useless and superfluous. She knew that early every morning the four
children began to count the hours till she should come. The sick mother
longed for her to appear and with her skilful hands bring neatness and
comfort into her room. The grandfather depended on her help to take his
daily airing, and, more than that, he loved the songs and hymns and
gentle talk, with which Elsli brightened an hour of his lonely day. And
every day Elsli could see more clearly how the father grew happier in
his home-coming, now that he found the house-work done and a peaceful
evening of rest before him.
Only one thing troubled her. She had not found a chance to talk with
Aunt Clarissa, and these daily visits were still a secret. And what if
Mrs. Stanhope should disapprove them! This thought gave her great
anxiety. She knew that there was nothing wrong about them, but she was
not sure that they would be allowed. For all that, she could not give
them up. She had made many attempts to tell Aunt Clarissa, but there was
a great deal going on in the house, and every time she spoke she was
told that she must wait till another time. One day she determined to
make another effort to get a few minutes’ attention from Aunt Clarissa
in the evening, and then she would tell her the whole story. After
supper she went to her and asked whether she might tell her something
before they went out on the terrace with the others. Aunt Clarissa asked
how long it would take, for Mrs. Stanhope wished them all to go out
together in a few minutes. Elsli answered that it would take some time
to tell it all, but that it was very important.
“Then, dear,” said Aunt Clarissa, “we shall have to wait till some
other time; but I will call you to come to me in my room as soon as I
can find a quiet time. There is no hurry, I’m sure.”
So it was put off again.
CHAPTER V.
GREAT PREPARATIONS.
The day had come for the expedition to Cologne. It was a perfect day.
The sky was blue and the sun shone bright. The children had a delightful
trip, and the zoölogical garden was beyond all expectation interesting.
Nevertheless, when they went to bed that night, each was a little
dissatisfied on looking back over the day. Each thought:--
“It was splendid! but what a shame!”
Yet each was thinking of a different disappointment.
When they went on board the steamboat in the morning, Mrs. Stanhope
said:--
“Now, all come and sit here quietly with me; there are so many
passengers to-day that it will not do for you to be running about.”
This prevented Oscar from carrying out his plan of going through the
crowd, to find as many fellow-countrymen as he could, whom he could
invite to his great Festival.
Emma had cherished a hope that by some unexpected arrangement it would
turn out that the boat would stop for a little while in sight of the
ruined castle, and she had brought pencils and paper, so as to be ready
for the fortunate moment, if it should come. She was greatly
disappointed when the boat shot swiftly by the spot, so that she hardly
caught even a glimpse of the chosen view. Fani glanced at her
despondently, with a look which said:--
“You see I was right. There’s nothing to be done about it.”
On entering the gardens, Mrs. Stanhope said again that they must all
keep together. No one must linger behind, nor hurry before, or they
might get lost; and they must not touch anything in the garden.
This was a blow to Fred, and took away most of his satisfaction in
seeing the animals; and his martyrdom did not cease while they were in
the gardens. Here he heard great buzzing and humming in a bush, and he
longed to see the wonderful insects that made it. There he saw
bright-colored butterflies fluttering about the flowers; on one side
red-gold beetles were creeping in the grass before his eyes; on the
other some huge lizards were sunning themselves on a rock. He must pass
by all these attractions; not stop a moment to examine them, not touch
one of all this multitude of treasures. It was almost too much for him.
He could scarcely keep his hands off.
Elsli walked silently along, scarcely able to enjoy anything she saw,
for thinking:--
“They are all waiting for me; and I shall not come all day.”
And so it was that all five, in spite of the enjoyments of the day, went
to bed at night with the feeling, “What a shame!”
But the next morning the thoughts of disappointment had passed away, and
they came out to their recreation in the garden with happy plans for the
day.
Oscar had a great deal of business on hand. He must see the Fink boys
and fix the day for the Festival. Then, Feklitus was to come to-day, and
he must be met at the station. They had put off the Festival till his
arrival, for he would be one countryman more, and that was worth
counting. Oscar had written him that there were three good hotels near
the station; the Bunch of Grapes, the Eagle, and the Morning Star. A
little farther on, down by the Rhine, was a magnificent house, as large
as the church and the school-house at home put together; yes, and six
dwelling-houses besides. It was called the Crown Prince. There were
Rhine baths there, and many guests came for the sake of the bathing;
perhaps this hotel was rather more expensive than the others.
Mr. and Mrs. Bickel immediately decided in favor of the Crown Prince, on
account of the name, which certainly suited perfectly for their son, and
also because of the acquaintances he might make there. Of course, there
would be only the best of company there, since only those would go who
could afford to pay high prices. It was proper, too, to show people
that their son was a person who could afford to stay at the most
expensive place. Oscar was therefore requested to engage a room for
Feklitus at the Crown Prince.
When the time came for the children to go out and occupy themselves as
they pleased, Oscar went off like a shot. He and the Fink brothers were
now such fast friends that they could not pass one day without meeting,
and had promised to remain intimate all their lives long. Oscar had
never had such friends before. When they were together the hours flew
like minutes, for they had a thousand interests in common--their plays,
their plans, their wishes for the future; they talked over everything
together.
When the hour came for Feklitus to arrive, they started for the station
together. In spite of the friendliness with which the Fink boys met the
new-comer, the greeting was rather a one-sided affair, for Feklitus was
not accustomed to making friends with strangers. His trunks were handed
over to the omnibus-driver, and the four boys proceeded to the hotel on
foot. Here he was shown to a very large room, furnished in splendid
bright red satin, and with windows higher than the doors of most
Buchberg houses.
Oscar began directly to tell Feklitus the arrangements that were to be
made to-day in preparation for the great Festival to-morrow. The
flag-staff must be set in a hole in the ground, and held firm by stones
placed close around its base, so that there would be no delay in the
morning. Then he told him whom he had found to join the society and take
part in the Festival.
Feklitus’ nose went up in scorn.
“A fine set of people you have collected! and all from the small
cantons, too!” he exclaimed.
“What do you mean?” cried Oscar, angrily. “Who was it that wanted to
put on the banner, ‘Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity’?”
“Well, I say that still,” answered Feklitus, stoutly. “But I’ll have
fraternity with those I choose, and not with every one that comes along,
as you do.”
“Ho, ho! that’s it, is it?” cried Oscar, still more furious. “What do
you understand, then, by equality?”
“Just what you do,” retorted Feklitus. “I mean that we all have equal
rights to do our own way; I don’t care what other people do as long as
they let me alone to act as I choose.”
“Oh, you’re a fine Swiss!” cried Oscar, screaming with excitement. “Much
you must know about the history of your country! Do you know what you
would be doing now if it had not been for the brave fellows from the
small cantons? You’d be crouching before the tyrant’s hat and licking
the dust from his shoes!”
At this point the Fink boys joined with great liveliness in the dispute,
and supported Oscar’s side so energetically that Feklitus became excited
in his turn, and shouted that he knew the history of Switzerland as well
as they did, and that he had always been at the head of his class in
school. The quarrel grew louder and louder, and above all Oscar’s voice
rose the loudest, crying angrily:--
“We will show you by and by, when we are old enough, what fraternity and
equality and love of our country means. We will found a society for the
whole of Switzerland, and every year we will celebrate the Feast of the
Foundation, in which all the inhabitants of all the cantons shall take
part; and at the feasts they shall sit in the order in which they
joined the society. The first members shall sit at the head, and then
you will see who they are!”
“Yes; then you’ll see!” screamed the Finks, and Feklitus raised his
voice still more furiously:--
“Well, you won’t come anywhere near the first, you St. Gall fellows, not
by a long piece!”
Just here the door was thrown wide-open by a very elegant waiter, who
looked anxiously at the windows, as if he was afraid they had been
broken in the fray. Then he placed himself in the door-way with a very
polite air, as if to intimate that he would there await the close of the
entertainment.
Oscar found it quite time to lower his voice, and to invite his friends
to go with him to the place chosen for the Festival. The polite
spectator waiting at the door seemed to exercise a subduing influence
upon all the young patriots; for they became suddenly silent, and
followed Oscar readily. He stopped at Rosemount only to fetch his
banner, and then the boys went on.
When they reached the hill where the windmill stood, the banner was
unrolled and admired. The garland of Alpine roses was beautiful with its
bright colors and green leaves. On the other side Elsli had neatly sewed
a large circle of paper, on which Oscar had inscribed his favorite
motto, in large, legible letters.
The afternoon sun shone brightly on the hill and on the great sails of
the windmill. It was a fine place for a festival. The Fink brothers
began to dig a hole for the flag-staff; and Oscar directed them, and
when they were ready he held the staff upright while they filled in the
earth around it, and piled up the heavy stones. Feklitus looked on.
Just before this, the owner of the mill had decided on a walk to visit
his property. He was looking about inside, when unusual noises without
attracted his attention. Coming to a window in the upper story, he
looked down on the scene below. There, directly before his astonished
eyes, floated a banner, on which these words were plainly visible:
“Freedom we shout! Freedom for all!
Freedom forever and aye!
We will not yield till all chains fall,
And tyrants are banished or die!”
He saw, too, that the boys were working hard to fasten the staff
securely in its place.
“Hm, hm, so, so!” he murmured; “that’s to be planted on my land! We’ll
see about that.”
He stood still at his post of observation, and watched the farther
proceedings. When the staff was firmly fixed so that it was not swayed
by the blowing of the banner above, it was carefully drawn out, the
stones were buried in the hole and neatly covered with sod. The
preparations for the Festival were now all made, and to-morrow the
banner could be easily set in place, and the celebration go on.
Oscar had long had a speech in readiness. Now he cast one long delighted
glance at the beautiful platform before the windmill, so suitable for a
speaker.
“At six o’clock to-morrow evening, not before; the others could not get
away before,” he said to his friends. “The meeting-place is behind
Rosemount, by the three oaks. From there we shall march to music.”
Then the four boys went down the hill, and at the main road they
separated, promising to meet at the appointed time and place to-morrow.
Early in the morning of this same day, Emma had begun in her busy brain
a new set of schemes. On the trip the day before, she had seen something
which had excited her inventive powers in the highest degree. At the
table at noon a keen observer would have suspected that something was in
the wind, from the unseemly haste with which the little girl devoured
her food. She was too busy with her project to remember her manners!
When they arose from the table, and Mrs. Stanhope, with her
never-forgotten politeness, dismissed them with “many wishes for an
agreeable afternoon,” Emma slipped lightly down the stairs, like a
little weasel, and into the kitchen. The fat cook looked up with
surprise from her cup of coffee; she could not get along without her
coffee at noon, whatever happened.
“Well, now, has anything gone wrong with you, miss?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” answered Emma; “but I have a little favor to ask of you.
Drink your coffee, first; do.”
“I’ve finished. What do you want?” asked the cook, slowly rising from
her chair.
“My shoes are very dusty; will you please wipe them for me?” asked Emma,
as politely as if she could not speak in any other way.
“It’s hardly worth while,” answered the woman, but she lifted Emma’s
foot upon a cricket, and began to rub it.
“And I want to ask you something more,” began Emma. “Where do you get
those beautiful fish that we have on the table so often?”
“They come out of the water near by,” answered the cook.
“Yes, of course; but I mean, does a fisherman bring them to you, or do
you go yourself to fetch them?”
“That would be a queer thing, if I had to trot round a couple of hours
before I could have fish for my frying-pan! There! your shoes are all
clean again.” And she laid the brush away.
“Does it take a couple of hours to go to the fisherman’s?” asked Emma.
“Goodness me! I can’t speak always as if I were on oath; if you want to
know how far it is, you’d better go measure it yourself, miss,” retorted
the displeased woman.
“That’s just what I want to do! Will you please tell me the way?” asked
Emma; and she thanked the cook for brushing her shoes, like a little
lady.
“You go directly down behind the house, as far as the main road; go
along the road a little way, and then turn to the left along a narrow
path, till you come to a clump of willows; there you’ll find the
fisherman’s house.”
With many thanks Emma ran off.
“She is thinking of going a-fishing herself, I’m sure,” said the cook,
looking after her.
Emma rushed into the garden to find Fani.
“Come along, come with me! I know something nice! We can do it now!”
and, dragging the boy along with her, the impetuous girl told him that
the day before she had seen a fisherman out in his boat on the river,
and she had made an excuse to go into the kitchen to speak to the cook,
because she knew that children were not allowed there unless they had an
errand to do; and she had found out where the fisherman lived, and of
course they could hire his boat. In that they could go out on the river,
and she would keep the boat still while Fani took a sketch of the ruin.
If he could not finish it the first time, they could go again and again.
It wouldn’t cost so much to hire the boat that they couldn’t take it
several times if necessary.
Fani was delighted. But there was one difficulty.
“Who will row us, Elsli? I don’t know how, and the fisherman couldn’t
leave his work so long.”
“I can row myself. I took four people out in a boat once, when I was
making a visit, near a lake, to some friends of mamma’s. I have often
rowed about alone. You don’t know how skilful I am.”
Fani was quite satisfied. He never dreamed of questioning Emma’s
capability. They went down to the road, and, after looking about for
some time and retracing their steps, they found at last the narrow
foot-path leading to the left, and, after walking a little way, they
saw before them the clump of willows at a short distance. It was now
nearly evening, for they had been a long time finding the way. The path
they had taken was twice as long as that by the river, by which Elsli
went; but they knew nothing of that. Under the willows all was still;
there was nothing to be seen beyond but more willows, and the sound of
the rushing river came through the silence to their ears. The children
came in among the trees till they could see the water that flowed
beyond. There lay the boat not far from them, and behind the bushes a
slender thread of blue smoke rising into the air showed them where the
fisherman’s hut was. A man was just going down to the edge of the water,
and presently he began to hammer at something in the boat. Emma ran
towards him, and Fani followed.
“Are you the fisherman?” asked Emma?
The man raised his head, and stopped hammering.
“Yes, I am; at your service,” he answered, politely. “Do you want to buy
some fish?”
Emma explained that they only wanted to hire a boat, just for an hour or
two; not to go far away from the shore at all. The man looked doubtful.
Fani looked like a steady little fellow. He ought to manage a boat;
still, it was best to be prudent, so he asked,--
“Are you young people in the habit of rowing yourselves?”
“Oh, yes, it is not our first trip, by any means,” said Emma. “We can
take care of ourselves”; and Fani was no less confident.
The fisherman said it was too late to go that day; he should need the
boat himself, and there was some mending to be done to it before it
could be used. If they wanted it the next day, he would have it ready;
they could take it themselves, if he was not there. They ought not to go
far from shore, and the young gentleman could use the pole where the
oars wouldn’t serve; he would understand. Emma promised to be careful,
and they promised to pay on their return; and these arrangements being
completed to their immense satisfaction, the children walked happily
back to Rosemount, eagerly discussing their plans on the way. At the
same time Elsli came silent and alone along the little foot-path by the
river. All three came from the same place, but they knew nothing of each
other, for Elsli had not come out of the house till after the others had
reached the road. In the garden they met, and asked each other whether
the supper-bell had rung. As they spoke they heard it; and, running up
the stone steps, they sat down to supper without farther questions, and
each was glad that the others asked none.
CHAPTER VI.
ANXIETY AT ROSEMOUNT.
The only really quiet part of the day at Rosemount was during the
morning hours, when the children were busy writing letters home and
learning their lessons. To-day, however, a certain restlessness seemed
to have taken possession of them all. Emma and Fani could not keep still
a minute. The latter tossed his papers about as if he couldn’t make up
his mind which one he wanted. The former made all sorts of signs to him
across the table, and, in the midst of studying her French verbs, she
seemed to be suddenly seized with a desire for lead-pencils, for she
began to sharpen all that she could get together, one after the other.
Oscar was writing out his speech. Any one would have thought that he was
composing a drama and acting it out as he went along; he kept throwing
up his head, and gazing enthusiastically first at one inkstand and then
at another, as if he were summoning them all to great heroic deeds.
Aunt Clarissa, who generally sat in the room during the lesson-time to
keep order in the little company, had just been called out by Lina, the
maid-servant, who was usually a most quiet and reserved young person,
but who was now, evidently, much excited and almost distressed as she
asked to “speak a word with Mrs. Clarissa.”
No sooner was the door closed than Oscar broke out eagerly:--
“Though neither you nor anybody knows where the Festival is to be this
evening, Fani, yet promise me, on your word of honor, that you will
join us--Promise! at quarter before six, at the three oaks. Promise! and
from there we march to the place of celebration.”
Fani looked at Emma.
“Yes, of course you can promise. We shall be back by that time,” said
Emma, decidedly. “You see, Oscar, we have something to do together
before that; but we are going at two o’clock if we can get away.”
“Go where you please; only promise to be back,” said Oscar.
Fani promised that he would be at the three oaks before six o’clock.
“And you too, Fred; we have not too many at the best. Promise that
you’ll come too.”
It was not so easy to get Fred’s consent; he was always slow to make a
promise. Perhaps he would come; but, if he had anything important to
attend to, he couldn’t come if he did promise, so he must be excused.
Oscar was determined to have his own way. Fred was obstinate and would
not yield. Emma and Fani were not at all loath to give up their studies
and join in the dispute.
In the other room, Lina, her cheeks flaming with excitement, was
declaring to Mrs. Clarissa that she would not stay another day in the
house; no one would believe such things could happen who hadn’t seen
them; she never heard of such things before in her life.
“Do try to speak plainly, so that I can understand what you mean,” said
Clarissa, who had not an idea what the girl was talking about.
“Well, I noticed it a little once or twice before,” said the agitated
house-maid; “but I thought it came in at the open window. But to-day,
just now, when I opened the drawer of the young gentleman’s wash-stand
to clean it, out jumped a live frog. I opened another and there were a
lot of spiders crawling about! I slapped at them with a cloth and they
ran into all the corners, and I couldn’t get them out. Then I saw that
the key was in the writing-desk, and I thought what if by chance any of
the disgusting creatures had got in there; for what would Mrs. Stanhope
say? I opened one division and then another and another. Hu! how it
looked! I can’t tell you how horrid it was! Snails, caterpillars,
beetles, every sort of ugly living creature crawled out of every
place,--it was all dirty and nasty and abominable! I cleaned and brushed
and washed and scrubbed as well as I could; but it was so dirty and so
sticky! Ugh! And it was done on purpose, too; that’s the worst of it;
and the nasty things have got into my clothes and my hair and all over
me! That stupid young gentleman did it just to frighten whoever came and
found them there! I know he did!”
“No, Lina, you’re mistaken,” said Clarissa, when she could get in a
word. “Come with me, and I’ll see what can be done with the room. The
boy didn’t mean to frighten any one. I’m only afraid he was trying to
hide them where they wouldn’t be found. Let’s go and see.”
The aspect of Fred’s room was indeed alarming. All the drawers and
shelves in the different pieces of furniture were pulled out, and all
were dirty and bore the marks of the creatures who had been kept in
them. On the floor lay the remains of the spiders and worms that Lina
had destroyed. The windows also were spotted with the dead bodies of
insects. Clarissa shook her head sadly.
“Call the lad to come up here,” she said. “But do not make any more fuss
about the matter. Listen to me, Lina; we must make this all clean and
nice again without letting Mrs. Stanhope know anything about it. Do you
understand?”
Lina muttered something to herself and went to call Fred. When the poor
lad entered his room and saw the destruction of all his carefully
preserved treasures, he turned as white as chalk, and spoke not one
word.
“My dear boy,” said Clarissa very gently, “you need not be frightened,
but I must tell you that you cannot use these drawers nor this desk for
this purpose. Now, we will clean them all out, but remember that no more
creatures must be brought into the house.”
“Oh, my collection! my whole collection!”
“Yes, you see this is not the way to go to work to make a collection.
Don’t be unhappy. I will see about your getting some more creatures. But
the first thing is to get this room cleaned up, and I’m sure you won’t
want to give us so much trouble again.”
Fred glanced at the places where his most cherished treasures had been
stored. His rare oleander-worms and his priceless beetles all were
destroyed. The drawers all opened, the creatures all killed and spoiled.
He went down stairs again, but he could not go back to the others and
have them ask him why he had been sent for. He went out into the garden,
and down to the seat under the lindens by the river. The thought of his
specimens, his precious specimens, was too much for the poor fellow. He
threw himself on the ground and poured out his sorrows in sobs and
tears.
In the afternoon, when the others all ran out rejoicing in the sunshine,
he hid himself in a corner of the school-room, and wrote the following
letter:--
DEAR AUNTY:--You will cry when you read this, I am sure. It is all
done for, my entire collection; all killed with a dust-cloth,
squashed, smashed, driven out of windows, and into holes, and all
by a maid-servant. As I had no boxes for them, I naturally put my
specimens into the best places I could find for them. In the
writing-desk in my room were ever so many little divisions, just
the very thing to put different varieties into. When the maid came
to clear up the room, she didn’t know anything about their value,
of course, and she thrust her hateful brush right in and destroyed
them all. She is a savage, an ignorant savage. I did as you told
me, dear aunty. Not one tiny little frog even have I carried in my
pockets, not even a beetle; and this is the result. I will not tell
you all the things I had found; I couldn’t bear to describe them.
Two such beauties of beetles--bright red wings, the body lilac
blue, and glittering as any precious stone! Such a rare species!
And an oleander-sphinx! And my magnificent caterpillar of the
humming-bird moth!--you know, aunty, that one with yellow stripes
and blue eye-spots. All trodden to death on the floor.
I must stop; the longer I think of it, the worse I feel. I will
say one thing though. You may call a person “Aunty,” but that
doesn’t make her one. When we first came here, I used to say to
Fani, when he wanted anything, “Why don’t you go and ask Aunt
Clarissa?” and he answered more than a dozen times, “That isn’t
allowed here.” So at last I understood, and as I didn’t want to
lead him to do anything out of the way, I didn’t say it any more.
But now you see the difference between a real aunt and a
make-believe one. There is nothing in the world that we can’t ask
you. If you can’t do it, you say so, and there’s the end of it. But
that’s no reason for not asking another time; there is always
something to ask, and you understand that, and don’t expect us to
stop asking just because you have to say no sometimes. Now, this
whole trouble comes from this; for when I asked Fani to ask Aunt
Clarissa to give me some twenty or thirty old boxes to keep my
specimens in, he said it was not proper to ask for so many things,
and I could pack them in paper. Just think of that! To wrap living
creatures up in paper! Of course Fani doesn’t understand anything
about such things.
Now what I want you to do, dear aunty, is to write in your next
letter that we are to come home; it is high time. It is four weeks
since we came, and that is long enough to be away from home; for
home is the best place in the whole world. There are plenty of
boxes to be had there, and everything that you want, and there are
nice places for things, and there isn’t such danger of accidents.
And if anything does go wrong, you are there, aunty, and in a
minute it is set right again. Do write and say that we may leave
here on Saturday, and then on Sunday we shall be at home again. How
glad we shall be! Good-bye, dear aunty; your ever-loving nephew,
FRED.
The evening came; lovely and bright. Under the three oaks were assembled
the two Fink boys, the baker’s son from Lucerne, the shoemaker’s
apprentice from Uri, the hotel porter from Schwyz, and Feklitus! Oscar
stood in the midst with his banner, and looked sharply in every
direction, for it was almost six o’clock and neither Fred nor Fani was
in sight. The clock struck; five, ten minutes passed, and they did not
come.
Oscar felt that it was useless to wait longer. Fred did not mean to
come; he had seen that in the morning; but Fani, where was he? As he
asked himself this question, Oscar raised his fist threateningly in the
air and muttered to himself:--
“Oh, that Emma! that Xanthippe!”
His original intention had been to march to the windmill to the music of
fife and drum, flute and harmonicon, but he had given up part of this
plan; chiefly, he said to himself, on account of his father’s advice not
to make any disturbance in a strange place; but also because he could
not get a drum, and Feklitus would not play the flute.
Now it was time to move, and the procession began to march. The lad from
Lucerne went first, playing briskly upon the harmonicon; the others
followed two and two, and Oscar in the middle held aloft the banner. The
staff was quickly planted as previously arranged; the beautiful banner
floated proudly over the land. Oscar took his stand by it, and the
others formed a circle, lying on the grass about him. With a loud
ringing voice he began:--
“Friends and brothers!”
“What does this mean? What is this all about?” suddenly thundered a
voice behind him.
The boys sprang to their feet. Oscar looked round. Two bearded men in
uniform stood close behind him and looked at him with threatening
glances. In a flash Oscar turned about, made one great leap down the
hill-side and away across the field like a madman. Behind him came the
Finks, scarcely touching the ground. Down the other side ran the
Lucerner fast on the heels of the Schwyzer, who tripped, and both went
headlong into a ditch. Feklitus was the only one who kept his ground. He
knew who he was; Fortunatus, the only son of Mr. Bickel. No one would
dare to meddle with him. He knew, too, that he was by no means nimble,
and the sudden appearance of the men in uniform had given him a strange
feeling of heaviness in his legs. He had no mind to stay alone, however,
and so he seized the shoemaker’s boy by the collar, and held him as in a
vise.
One of the men now came up to them and said roughly,--
“Come along to the watch-house and explain what you have been about, and
what it all means.”
The Uri boy hid himself as well as he could. Feklitus, half-frightened,
half-angry, answered,--
“We have done nothing. We are not to blame. It’s all Oscar’s doing.”
“We don’t know anything about that,” said the man. “You come along with
us. Our motto is, ‘Taken together, hung together.’” Then he turned to
his comrade, and they began to whisper.
Feklitus was as pale as a ghost.
“Did you hear that? They are going to hang us,” he said, grasping his
companion still more tightly.
“Let us run away,” gasped the boy, hardly able to speak for choking.
Feklitus looked at the men; they were in earnest conversation with the
miller. He sprang from the ground; fear gave him unwonted agility. Down
the hill he raced, his hair fairly standing on end with fright, and the
Uri boy after him. Neither looked back to see whether they were pursued,
but they thought they heard footsteps behind them. On they ran--on, on;
at last they separated; one this way, the other that; and then both
disappeared. They had not been followed.
Oscar reached Rosemount all out of breath. He rushed up the steps, ran
to his bed-room, took out his portfolio, threw himself on a seat before
the table, and wrote the following, sobbing more and more as he went
on:--
DEAR AUNTY,--I want your help. Something has happened that may have
very unpleasant consequences, and you are the only person that can
help me; you will know how. I really did mean to be careful, just
as my father bade me, and not do anything out of the way, and
particularly not make a noise. You will not think that I did wrong
to select the best of the mottoes. You know you said yourself that
though we had no tyrants ourselves, yet, where there were any, it
was a splendid verse. I cannot explain it all exactly, but we were
taken by surprise in the middle of a perfectly harmless meeting. We
succeeded in escaping, but I think perhaps we shall be prosecuted;
and if my name comes out, they may write to papa from the court of
justice here, and that would be horrible. You will stand by me,
won’t you, dear aunty? If a letter should come to my father,
couldn’t you get hold of it and read it and answer it yourself,
without letting him know? You can explain to the gentlemen that we
were only having a little Swiss celebration just among ourselves.
Pray do help me, and not let the story get out. I hope you will
write to-morrow and tell us to come home. We have been away long
enough. I am sure papa and mamma would be glad, for we cannot do
our lessons nicely here, at all. Everything is far better at home;
things are better arranged, and the amusements are a great deal
better. Do write to us to come home directly; and tell me too that
you have done what I ask about the letter to papa. Best love,
dearest aunty,
From your loving nephew,
OSCAR.
The letter was folded in haste, and the address quickly added; and the
writer ran with all his might to the post-office, a short distance from
the house. He had to hurry, for it was nearly supper-time. As he came
tearing along into the court-yard at Rosemount, on his return, he
started back; for there stood one of the men in uniform, with the
deserted banner in his hand. He was waiting to be let in. The door
opened. He entered. Oscar drew back behind a great oak-tree. His heart
beat like a trip-hammer. What was going on inside there? Mrs. Stanhope
would know now all about it! What would she think of him after this!
Perhaps she would send them all home with a letter of complaint to their
father! His heart beat louder and louder. Perhaps the man came to fetch
him to be punished and imprisoned. Had he broken some law when he had
the hole dug in front of the mill, when there was nothing but short
grass there? Oh, if he had only followed his father’s advice, and not
tried to do anything in this strange country without leave! All these
anxious thoughts ran through Oscar’s head, and the longer that dreadful
man stayed, the more alarmed he grew.
Clarissa had just finished her disagreeable task, and, assisted very
reluctantly by the indignant Lina, had at last succeeded in removing all
traces of Fred’s unfortunate collection, when a tremendous ringing at
the house-door called her down stairs. It was the watchman with the
banner. Another strange occurrence. What would happen next? She was
really frightened when she recognized Oscar’s banner, and read the too
distinctly printed motto which embellished it. Clarissa looked anxiously
at the different doors for fear that Mrs. Stanhope might come through
one of them. She asked the man what his business might be. He replied
that they had discovered that the owner of the banner he held in his
hand belonged at Rosemount, and also that they had come to the
conclusion that all that affair was only boys’ play, though at first the
miller had thought otherwise because of the motto. This was why he had
informed the police. Now, they merely wished to advise Mrs. Stanhope to
bid her young people keep such games within the limits of her own
grounds.
Clarissa still glanced anxiously towards the doors, while she assured
the man that his advice would be followed, and pressed a coin into his
hand as an acknowledgment of the trouble he had taken. Then she
hurriedly took the banner, rolled it up, and carried it away. She was
determined, if possible, to keep from Mrs. Stanhope all knowledge of
this day’s occurrences. But would it be possible?
However, all was safe for the present; and, when the bell rang for
supper, Clarissa laid aside her anxiety and went cheerfully into the
dining-room. Oscar and Fred followed each other with slow steps and
dejected demeanor. Their usual vivacity had vanished, and, as they
seated themselves at the table, they hung their heads like hyacinths
nipped by the frost.
Elsli sat next to Fred; her cheeks were glowing with exercise, for she
had had to run fast all the way home to be in time for supper. She, too,
hung her head over her plate to hide her heated face.
Emma and Fani were not there.
Mrs. Stanhope looked silently first at the empty places, then at the
children.
Clarissa watched the door uneasily; no one came.
“I am willing to allow children all possible freedom,” said Mrs.
Stanhope, seriously; “but the order of the house must be maintained. I
am very much annoyed at unpunctuality at meals. Fani has never allowed
himself any such irregularity. I wonder how it happened now.”
She looked from one brother to another as if expecting some explanation.
They looked so uncomfortable that she took it as a sign of regret for
their sister’s delinquency, and so forbore farther remark.
After supper, Mrs. Stanhope went out as usual on the terrace, and the
others followed. It began to grow dark. Clarissa’s anxiety became
unendurable; what could have happened to the children?
“Dear Mrs. Stanhope,” she said, entreatingly, “do let me send some one
out to look for the children. I cannot rest for fear that they have met
with some accident.”
“Where can we send? We have no clue to the direction they have taken,”
answered Mrs. Stanhope in a tone of vexation. “It is very provoking.
Fani never did such a thing before. I will go with you.”
She rose and went through a long corridor to the court-yard. Clarissa
and the children followed. There they found the servants all assembled:
the footman, coachman, cook, and maids were holding a council. They were
talking over the children’s absence, its possible cause, and Mrs.
Stanhope’s probable displeasure. When that lady came upon them
unperceived, they tried to separate and escape; but it was too late. She
told the men to go out into the street and to inquire in different
directions whether anything had been seen of the lost children. Lina
came forward to say that the cook knew that the young lady had gone
fishing. It was a pity that all these young people were so cruel to
animals, the house-maid added; and therewith she shot an angry glance at
Fred, whom she hadn’t forgiven for the trouble he had given her.
“For Heaven’s sake!” cried Clarissa, in great alarm. “If those children
have gone out on the river, something terrible must have happened to
them! If we could only have the least idea which way they went!”
The cook, being appealed to, said that she had directed the young lady
to the fisherman’s hut. It might be well to look for her there.
Clarissa started at once, calling the men to go with her and show her
the way.
Poor Elsli was more frightened now than any one else. She thought that
Aunt Clarissa would now learn the story which she ought long ago to have
told her. By her daily visits she had become so familiar with all the
wants and sufferings of the fisherman’s family that she had been led on
to undertake more and more, till at last she had come to do nearly all
the housework of the poor little dwelling. But gradually had grown upon
her the conviction that Mrs. Stanhope would be extremely displeased if
she knew of her conduct. In great agony she now started after Aunt
Clarissa, crying out:--
“Oh, do let me go with you! I have something to tell you, and we can
talk as we go.”
“My dear child, what a time to choose to tell me something! How could I
listen now? Turn back directly. What will Mrs. Stanhope think to see you
running away at such a time?”
Mrs. Stanhope only thought that Elsli was anxious about her brother, as
was very natural. She bade the children go to bed, since they could be
of no use in finding the missing ones. They obeyed her in silence, and
went to their rooms. The boys fell asleep as soon as their heads touched
their pillows, and so happily lost remembrance of their troubles; but
poor Elsli sat on her bed with wide-open eyes, for the anxious fear in
her heart made sleep impossible. She went over and over again the events
of the last few weeks. She had not at first meant to do wrong, but she
certainly ought not to have repeated her visits to the fisherman’s house
without leave, especially as she knew that Mrs. Stanhope would probably
object. Yet, how could she have left those poor people without help,
when she found that she could do so much for them, and they reminded her
so much of her family at home? Probably Mrs. Stanhope would send her and
Fani away, but she deserved it and Fani did not. The more the poor girl
pondered over all this trouble, the more unhappy she became; and at last
she burst into tears and sobbed out:--
“Oh, if I only had some one to help me. I cannot tell what to do!”
Then Elsli remembered that she could bring her trouble to her Heavenly
Father, and seek comfort and forgiveness from him. She had already
repeated her daily evening prayer; but now she folded her hands again,
and prayed, not as a form but from the bottom of her heart, that God
would help her in her dire need, so that Fani should not be punished for
her fault, and that she should not do wrong again, and that the
fisherman’s family should not suffer any more. Peace came as she prayed,
and she lay down and slept at last.
CHAPTER VII.
AN UNEXPECTED TERMINATION.
Directly after dinner Emma and Fani had started on their expedition.
They had no trouble to-day in finding their way to the willows, and they
went as quickly as they could, so that they could have a long afternoon,
and yet get back in time for Oscar’s Festival.
They found the boat ready for them; oars and pole all in position, and a
seat in the middle. The boat was but lightly fastened to the shore, and
the children sprang gayly into it. Emma took the oars and pushed off.
She rowed well, and knew what she was about. She handled the boat
skilfully, for she had often been out on the lake with her friend when
the wind blew and the waves were high.
Fani took his seat in the stern, saying:--
“When you want my help, just say so, Emma. But I don’t know anything at
all about rowing.”
“I shan’t need you,” answered Emma, bravely, as she pulled away.
Two things, however, she had not counted on. The boat was much heavier
than that which she had used on the lake, and the swift current of the
river was a very different thing to row against, from the quiet waters
of a lake. Emma worked sturdily against the stream. She wanted to go out
far enough to be in full sight of the ruined castle. She had arranged in
her mind a plan for keeping the boat in place while Fani sketched. But
she soon began to find herself growing very tired, while yet she made
little head-way.
“Take the pole, Fani,” she said, “and stick it firmly against the
bottom and push.” Fani did so, and the boat made an advance of several
feet. “Again, again, Fani.” Fani did his best.
“Now I’ll row a bit farther into the middle of the river, then hold fast
so that we shall not be carried down; here we are! there is the ruin,
Fani! Now, Fani, stick the pole down, and I’ll hold it and you can begin
to sketch.”
Fani stuck his pole manfully into the bottom of the river, but the
rushing current seized it and threw it up again as if it had been a
reed.
“Oh! oh!” he cried, “we shall be carried away!”
“You take one of the oars and we’ll row back to the shore,” said Emma,
anxiously. “Come, be quick!”
But the stream seized the oar before Fani could take it from her, and it
was swept away.
“What shall we do? There is no one to help us,” cried Emma, beside
herself. “Suppose the boat should upset!”
Faster and faster they were whirled along, the boat tossing like a
nut-shell upon the waves.
The children sat still, although frightened almost to death.
“Fani, we are lost! who can help us?” screamed Emma. “Let us say our
prayers. I have forgotten to say them ever since I came to Rosemount. I
promised mamma not to forget; but I did. Do you think God will hear me
now? Fani, you pray; you do it every day, I know.”
“No; I thought Elsli would do it for me and for herself,” said the boy
hoarsely.
“That is no good; you must do it for yourself or God will not listen. He
will only say, ‘I do not know him,’ when Elsli prays for you. Oh, if I
had not forgotten to pray myself, he would not punish me so now!”
And then she sat silent, looking at the sky and praying from her heart
that God would forgive her forgetfulness of him, and save her and Fani
from the danger that threatened them.
“A steamboat! A steamboat! It is going to run us down!” shrieked Fani;
and his fears were well grounded. With lightning speed, as it seemed,
the great boat came rushing toward them like a huge giant, and in a few
minutes the little boat would be engulfed in the swelling waves.
The children screamed; the steamer came nearer; it was close upon them;
the boat was upset! At the same instant Emma was seized by a strong
hand, lifted into the air, and then set down upon her feet on the deck
of the steamer. Fani was saved, too, by another seaman, and both stood
shivering with cold and fright, dripping with water, and soaked to the
skin, but safe and sound. The passengers crowded about them.
Suddenly a tall, black-bearded man with angry eyes came toward them. It
was the captain.
“What madness is this?” he thundered. “Do you think it is the business
of steamboats to look out for little fools of fishermen? Whose fault
would it have been if you had been run down and drowned?”
But as he looked at the two little dripping, miserable figures, his tone
softened.
“Bring them below and give them something hot to drink,” he said to one
of the gaping by-standers. It was a mercy to get them away from all
those staring eyes; they swallowed the steaming contents of the glass
that was given them in the cabin without a word, though it burned their
throats. They did not dare to sit down; they were too wet.
After a while the captain came down and asked where they came from, and
where they were going in that “old fish-box.”
Fani told the whole story without reserve. An expression of amusement
passed over the captain’s brown face more than once during this
narration, and when he had heard all, he said kindly that they must get
themselves dried off as best they could; he was going to stop at
Cologne, and there they could take the train home again.
To reward him for saving them, Mrs. Stanhope could invite him to visit
her house at the next vintage.
This was their second visit to Cologne; how different it was from the
first one!
The captain’s parting advice was that they should in future make their
expeditions by land rather than by water; it was much safer, he said.
It was pretty dark by this time, and they had some trouble in finding
the way to the station. They wandered from street to street inquiring
their way, and at last found themselves again at the steamboat wharf,
just where they had landed. They began to fear that they should lose the
train and have to stay in the city all night. They set out again upon
their search, and at last they came upon a policeman, who took pity upon
them and led them through alleys and by-streets to the station, where
they found that one train had just left, and they must wait two hours
for the next. The little wanderers sat down outside the building to
wait. They were wet and cold and hungry, but they did not complain of
these minor troubles; their anxieties lay far deeper.
“I am dreadfully worried,” said Fani, with a deep sigh.
“So am I, but I don’t know exactly why,” replied Emma.
“Well, I do,” said the boy. “I’m perfectly sure that Mrs. Stanhope will
send me home after this, and poor Elsli will have to go too, for she
could never stay without me.”
“Oh, that is dreadful!” cried Emma. She was conscience-stricken. It was
a bad scrape, and it was mainly her fault. “Mrs. Stanhope is so kind,”
she went on hopefully, “perhaps she will not be so very angry.”
Fani shook his head.
“You don’t know about it, Emma. Of course Mrs. Stanhope is the greatest
benefactress in the world. But she is very particular about our minding
exactly what she tells us; and one of her principal rules is that we
must never disturb the regularity of the household, and must keep
punctually to just such hours; and now see what we have done! We shall
not get home till twelve o’clock to-night, midnight! Probably they are
hunting for us everywhere. How will it all turn out? Oh, dear! if she
sends us off, there’s an end of drawing and painting for me! That’s all
over”; and Fani looked despairing.
Emma felt that he knew Mrs. Stanhope far better than she did, and her
courage began to fail. They sat in silence till the train came along. At
the end of their journey they had a long walk from the station to
Rosemount, and they stumbled along in the dark, frightened and
trembling, and scarcely exchanging a word. Their hearts beat more and
more as they neared the house. As they entered the court-yard, the
watch-dog began to bark, but he stopped when he heard Fani’s voice.
The great house-door was opened, and Aunt Clarissa came out to meet
them from the lighted hall.
“Is it you?” she cried. “Thank God!” and she drew them into the house.
Mrs. Stanhope had not gone to bed. She was standing just inside the
door.
“Now you may tell me all about it,” she said, looking seriously at the
children, who presented a shocking appearance. “So, you’ve been in the
water! Where are the men?”
The children stammered out that they had seen no men. They had just come
up from the station.
Mrs. Stanhope shook her head.
“Some one must be sent to the fisherman’s hut to tell the men to stop
the search,” she said coldly. “I will leave the care of the children to
more skilful hands”; and she withdrew without more words.
Aunt Clarissa put them to bed directly, and a big pitcher of hot tea
was brought to each of them, from which they had to drink one steaming
cup after another, till they were warmed through. Then Clarissa sat down
first by Emma’s bed, and then by Fani’s, to learn exactly what had
happened, and whether they had met with any injuries that would need a
doctor’s attention.
In the midst of assurances that they were not injured, and of attempts
to explain what had happened, the two tired miscreants fell asleep, and
Aunt Clarissa went to her room with thankful heart that things were no
worse.
The next morning Fani was determined, in spite of his weariness of limb,
to be punctual at the breakfast table. He sprang out of bed the moment
that he waked, and dressed an hour too early. He went into the garden to
listen to the birds; he thought their happy singing might make him
happier. As he was walking up and down, he saw the fisherman coming into
the court-yard. He went to meet him. The man stopped and lifted his cap
politely. “I know what you have come for,” said Fani, taking out his
purse; “how much do I owe you?”
The man turned his cap about in his hands, as if he were turning his
thoughts over too.
“I don’t want to be unreasonable,” he said presently, “and I don’t
suppose a young gentleman like you knows how much a boat with all its
belongings is worth. I cannot say less than eighty marks; I shall lose
at that, but I will not ask more.”
Fani stood thunder-struck. Of course, as the boat was lost, he must make
it good. But eighty marks! He had never even seen so much money as
that. He was speechless. The fisherman looked thoughtfully at him.
Presently he said modestly:--
“I can understand that you cannot pay me the money yourself; you will
have to ask your mother for it. I will come again to-morrow.”
“No, no!” cried Fani. “I will bring it to you as soon as I get it. I
will certainly come,” he added, as he saw the man’s disappointed look.
“I shall keep my word; only I can’t say exactly when.”
It seemed as if the man had something more to say; but he swallowed it
down, and went away, muttering to himself, “No boat! and no money to buy
another!”
Fani ran back into the house. He looked at Emma’s door to see whether
her boots were still outside, but they had disappeared; so he tapped on
the door and said softly:--
“Come out, Emma, I have something to say to you.”
“What is the matter? Has Mrs. Stanhope been talking to you?” asked Emma,
in a low tone, as she opened the door.
“No,” said Fani, “it’s not that”; and he drew her into the garden, to an
arbor in a far-away corner, and there he told her about the eighty marks
that were owing for the lost boat. Emma was greatly excited.
“We can never in the world get together so much as eighty marks! What
can we do?” she cried in a tone of anguish.
“I don’t know. We can’t ask Mrs. Stanhope for a lot of money like that,
after all that we have done to displease her. Can’t you think of any
way? If I only knew some one to borrow of! Oh, don’t you know of
anybody, Emma?”
Emma had sunk upon a bench, and her eyes looked as if they would start
out of her head; she was trying so hard to see some way out of the
dilemma.
Fred came running down the walk. He wanted to know what they were about
the night before, but they had no time to answer, for just then the bell
rang for breakfast.
The meal was not a merry one. The children were all embarrassed, and
they knew why; they were all conscious that they had not behaved well to
their hostess.
Mrs. Stanhope looked at them inquiringly, but said not a word. Aunt
Clarissa nervously buttered large slices of bread as fast as she could;
the dish was piled high with them, for no one ate much.
As Mrs. Stanhope left the table, she turned to Fani and said:--
“Go into the library and wait for me. I want to speak to you.”
Fani grew white; Emma, red. “It’s coming now,” they said to themselves.
As Mrs. Stanhope opened the door to leave the room, she was knocked
against by a house-maid who was entering in great haste.
“Excuse me, madam,” she said. “I was in such a hurry. Something else has
happened. A servant has just come from the Crown Prince to say that the
young gentleman for whom Master Oscar ordered a room there has not been
at home all night; and this morning the shoemaker told them at the hotel
that he was with the young man himself last evening, and saw him running
like a crazy fellow down towards the river.”
It was now Oscar’s turn to grow pale.
Aunt Clarissa sent the maid away, saying that she would speak to the
hotel servant herself. She was afraid that Lina would let out the secret
of Fred’s untidy room if she were allowed to go on.
Mrs. Stanhope looked very serious.
“I don’t understand all this,” she said, turning to Clarissa; “but if
the young stranger has anything to do with Oscar, I will be responsible
for his bill at the hotel.” And she left the room.
Emma instantly rushed to the school-room, seized her portfolio, and
began to write as fast as her pen could go.
DEAR AUNTY,--For pity’s sake, help me now! Something dreadful has
happened. I will never make any plans again as long as I live, even
if they would be sure to come out right. I will always do just as
mamma bids me, and never suggest anything more to Fani. I gave him
the book just to encourage him; but he said before he looked at it
that what he cared for most was to be an artist. And there was
something that he could do that would make Mrs. Stanhope willing to
have him one, only he couldn’t find any way to do it. So I found a
way. I didn’t forget that I promised mamma that I wouldn’t make any
plans; but I thought this was different. Fani knew what he wanted
to do; only he couldn’t see the way clear to do it, and I was just
going to help him. Don’t you see? And there was a dreadful thing
that happened when we tried that way; but I can’t write about it
now, it is a long story. I’ll tell you by and by. But the trouble
now is, we have lost a boat in the river; it is a poor fisherman’s,
and we must pay him for it. You will understand that we do not dare
to tell Mrs. Stanhope anything about it. We can’t ask her for so
much money. Fani says he would rather go to work in the factory.
But you will help us, I know, dear aunty; you will not let us
suffer. We want eighty marks. It is terrible. But it is worth that,
for there were two oars and a pole besides the boat. I don’t ask
you to give it to me, but only to lend it. I will keep thinking day
and night how I can earn enough to pay you. I have some things, you
know; my godfather’s present. In my drawer in the little
writing-table at home are six silver spoons, and a beautiful
pincushion, and two old Easter eggs with pictures on them cut out
of paper: dragons spitting fire, and flowers, and the sun, moon,
and stars. You can sell them for something, I am sure; and after
this I will sell directly everything that I get and give you the
money. And perhaps I shall contrive to think of some way to earn
something too; if I can I will. Oh, dearest aunty, you will help
us, I know, for you help everybody.
Write as soon as you can and tell us to come home. How glad we
shall be to get there! There we can tell you all our troubles. I
wish we could go to-morrow, and get back to you and mamma. Write
directly, dear aunty. I send you my love a thousand thousand times.
Your loving niece,
EMMA.
P.S. Aunty, dear, I have thought of another way. In Cologne I saw a
girl who went about in the street with a basket and sold roses. Now
I think that if Mrs. Stanhope would let me take two roses from each
bed in her garden I should get a basket full, and I could earn a
lot of money, I am sure. Don’t you think so? With a thousand
kisses, Your niece,
EMMA.
P.S. I have thought this very moment of the nicest plan of all. In
the vineyards here they put horrid looking figures, like men with
red beards and arms stretched out, to frighten away the birds. If
you will send me some red stuff and some yellow, I can make figures
a great deal more frightful, and they will sell for a great deal.
Perhaps in this way I can pay you half the money, and I’m sure I
shall find something else to do by and by.
I am again and always,
Your loving niece,
EMMA.
Fani had been sitting for some time in the library, awaiting with a
beating heart the coming of Mrs. Stanhope. When the door opened, he
sprang to his feet; he had learned that that was the proper thing to do
when a lady entered the room. Mrs. Stanhope took a seat on the sofa, and
motioned him to take a cricket and sit down by her.
“Now tell me all about it, Fani,” she began. “Tell me the exact truth
about what happened yesterday. What made you think of going out on the
water, and how did you manage it? Tell me the whole story just as it
was. Keep nothing back.”
Fani obeyed. He went way back to the plans which Emma and he had made
before he left home so that he might become an artist. How pleased he
had been to take drawing-lessons, and how they made him love drawing
more and more. How glad Emma had been at his progress, and how she had
urged him to tell Mrs. Stanhope how he felt about his future career. Now
came the most important point, and Fani related it very clearly. He
wished to make a picture of the old ruin, because if he got a prize for
it he thought Mrs. Stanhope would look more favorably on his adoption of
art as a business; and Emma had thought out a way of getting a good
view of it from the river. Then followed the mishap, which occurred
because Emma did not know the strength of the current, nor understand
how different the river was from the lake on which she had been in the
habit of rowing. Fani told the whole story faithfully. Mrs. Stanhope
listened in silence to the end, and then said briefly,--
“Very well; you may go, Fani.”
In the hall behind one of the pillars stood Emma, impatient to hear the
result of the interview.
“Well? well?” she asked eagerly.
“Well; it’s just as it was before; I don’t know any more than I did.”
“Did she scold you very hard? Did she say anything about me? For I was
the one to blame.”
“No, indeed; Mrs. Stanhope never scolds; but she is very angry with me,
I know, for she did not speak to me when I had told her all about it.
Generally she talks a good deal to me about all sorts of things; even
when I have done something to displease her. I am sure there is no help
for us.”
Emma sighed. She knew too well how much she was to blame for this
unfortunate state of things.
Three days passed. The house was more quiet than it had been before
since the children came. A cloud was over them all. No one laughed or
talked freely or cared for amusement. All seemed waiting for some
unpleasant thing that was going to happen.
Early in the morning of the fourth day, a letter was brought to Mrs.
Stanhope, containing an enclosure for the children. The letter was from
their mother. She expressed her gratitude to Mrs. Stanhope for all her
kindness, and for the pleasure the children had enjoyed at Rosemount.
Then followed apologies and regrets for the trouble and annoyance that
the visit must have caused Mrs. Stanhope. And Mrs. Stein closed by
saying that they had too long trespassed on the indulgence of their kind
hostess, and begged her to set a time when it would be convenient to her
for them to take their leave.
The enclosure for the children contained three letters from their aunt.
Emma tore hers open first. A banknote met her delighted eyes. She ran
out of the room, and called Fani. “She has saved us!” she cried. “Oh,
isn’t aunty an angel from heaven!” Fani’s face shone with pleasure and
surprise. Emma thrust the money into his hand.
“Take it, and run to the fisherman’s. I must read my letter”; and she
ran off to the arbor.
After an affectionate greeting it ran thus;--
“It is a crying shame, my dear girl, that this delightful visit, full of
pleasures that may never fall to your lot again, should have been
spoiled by each of you three children, only because of your
disobedience. Especially you and Oscar. Your father and mother gave you
both particular warning against what you were not to do. You both set to
work to see how you could manage to obey in all the trivial details, and
yet carry out your own plans in essentials. You both knew very well what
you were about, and have well deserved the unpleasant consequences of
your actions. I trust that you have both received a lasting lesson. How
much worse the results might have been, dear Emma, we do not dare to
think. We can only guess, though you do not tell us that you had a very
narrow escape. We trust that you will show your gratitude to God for it
by never again straying into forbidden paths. I send you the money you
asked for, in order to spare Mrs. Stanhope any trouble about it. Fani
showed a proper sense of his own folly and of his obligations to her
when he said he would make any sacrifice rather than ask her for it. I
do not lend you the money. It is a gift. But do not run in debt again.
Another time I might not be able to help you. We shall all be glad to
see you at home again.”
In her letter to Oscar, aunty wrote that he deserved a much worse
punishment than he had received, for his wilful misinterpretation of his
father’s warning, obeying the letter, rather than the spirit, and for
his obstinacy about the motto. The letter then continued:--
“No notice from the police nor from the court of justice has been sent
to your father; but a complaint has been lodged against you from
another quarter. Only three days after he went from home, Feklitus came
back again, without bag or baggage, as if he had fled for his life. He
told a terrible tale of some scrape into which you had led him, and from
which he had got away safe only by his own most skilful management. On
the evening of that unlucky Festival he had scampered away from his
captors with all his might, flung himself into a railway carriage, and,
travelling all night, had not stopped till he reached home. Now you see,
dear Oscar, that you have something to answer for in this affair; for
even if Feklitus was unnecessarily frightened, it does not alter the
fact that you got him involved in a most unpleasant way, and his parents
are naturally very angry with you. You must at any rate take measures to
set Mrs. Bickel’s mind at rest She told me yesterday that she had lost
her sleep and her appetite, from thinking about the beautiful leather
trunk, and the six new suits of clothes, which she has no doubt the
waiters at the Crown Prince are sharing among themselves. You must go to
the hotel, pack all the clothes carefully, lock the trunk, and send it
to him. Send the keys in a separate package, and then you will have
removed one cause of their not unreasonable displeasure.”
With Fred, aunty pathetically condoled on the loss of his collection;
and then she added:--
“Yet you see, my dear Fred, you are to blame after all; for I told you
not to put your creatures where they would displease Mrs. Stanhope, if
she should see them. I could not specify every such place, but I trusted
to your commonsense to tell you that beetles and caterpillars do not
belong in a writing-desk! You are such an insatiable collector! You will
have to learn moderation. If you had only been satisfied with a
reasonable number of the finest specimens, you would not have needed so
many boxes; I am very glad that Fani hindered you from asking for them
in a house where so many kindnesses were being shown to all of you. It
ill becomes guests to make unreasonable demands. After all, dear Fred, I
hope you will be able to bring home a few treasures, notwithstanding
your great loss, and we will enjoy them together.”
These letters were a great relief to all; but some uneasiness still
remained. They did not know yet how Mrs. Stanhope would treat their
several delinquencies, when she knew all about them, and, besides, they
were homesick.
“What about going home?” they asked each other; and none of the letters
had mentioned the subject. They were disappointed.
As to Fani, he began to wonder what Mrs. Stanhope’s plans were for him.
When would she talk with him again? Would he have to go back to the
factory? She had never since that day talked with him as she used to do;
but often he was aware that she was looking at him, long and
thoughtfully.
In Elsli’s heart, too, anxiety reigned supreme; not so much for herself
as for Fani. Mrs. Stanhope was already displeased with him; and when she
found out that she had been doing wrong too, Elsli could not but fear
that her displeasure would be so severe that they should both be sent
away.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HAPPY END.
Elsli’s bedroom opened into that of Aunt Clarissa. During this time of
worry and excitement, when every day so much happened that was new and
unexpected, Clarissa found it difficult to fulfil all her household
duties with her usual promptness and regularity, so it was often very
late before she could get to her room for the night, and she always
thought Elsli was fast asleep. One evening she was even later than
usual, and she had hardly seated herself to read her evening prayer when
she was surprised to hear Elsli calling her.
“I don’t feel very well, Aunt Clarissa,” said the child in a feeble
voice; and before she had finished speaking her kind friend was at her
bedside. Clarissa was startled to see her heavy eyes and feverish
cheeks.
“What ails you, my dear girl?” she asked, tenderly, stroking the hot
head with her cool hand, and trying to conceal the anxiety that she
felt.
“Not much, I think,” answered Elsli, with a faint smile; “I haven’t been
feeling very well for a week or two; I have had a good many dizzy turns
and I’ve been hot and restless. I’ve heard you come up to bed every
night though it was so late.”
“Why didn’t you speak to me, dear? I might have done something to make
you sleep.”
“I didn’t want to trouble you and it was really nothing. I had no pain,
only heat and restlessness. But to-night I thought I must call you,
because I feel very ill, and besides I have something that I must tell
you, you know, and you told me you would hear it when you could find a
quiet time. Can you spare the time to-night, though it is so late? I
think I could go to sleep better after I have told it. It has worried me
so long.” Elsli spoke feebly but eagerly; and Aunt Clarissa, full of
anxious fear, could not but assent to her request, though she was almost
afraid to have her go on; for she saw that the little girl was really
very ill.
She sat down by the bedside holding Elsli’s trembling hand in her own
and gently pressing it from time to time. Elsli began:--
“I want to tell you something that I ought to have spoken of long ago.
It was not right for me to go on as I have been doing without telling
you; and I am afraid Mrs. Stanhope will be very much displeased when she
knows about it.”
Clarissa could scarcely control her astonishment. Was it possible that
this gentle, conscientious creature had been capable of doing something
wrong and concealing it?
But she only said quietly: “Tell me everything that is on your mind, it
will relieve you; but do not hurry, there is time enough.”
Elsli told her of her accidental acquaintance with the fisherman’s
family, of their extreme poverty, of the illness of the mother, and of
her own efforts to help them.
“Do you think I have done very wrong?” she asked, timidly, looking up at
Clarissa with wistful eyes.
Clarissa was very much moved.
“My darling,” she said, “do not worry about it. You did not mean to do
anything wrong, and all that you did was in kindness. You wanted to tell
me about it long ago, I remember; and it was no fault of yours that I
did not hear it. I will explain it all to Mrs. Stanhope, and she will
understand it and will not be displeased.”
“And do you think she will let me go again and help them?”
“You are too ill to think about going now; but I promise to see to them
myself, so do not fret about it, dear. I had no idea that the family
were so poor; the man never has complained when he has been here with
the fish. I will go and inquire what the sick woman needs. Will that
satisfy you, dear?”
“Yes,” said Elsli, but somewhat doubtfully. “You see, there is so much
to be done that no one would know about, and she would never tell about
it. I couldn’t do much darning and mending, and the clothes are so worn
out that the children can scarcely keep them on; and their mother is
too ill to cook, and when the father comes home he is too tired, and he
has hard work even to keep a house over their heads. If I don’t help
them, they will never get through; they will suffer in silence. They are
just like us at home.”
Elsli’s sobs prevented her from saying any more. The remembrance of her
early sufferings and the thought of her parents’ trials came over her
like a flood, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Clarissa
lifted her head and raised the pillows behind it, so that she could look
out into the clear, star-lit night.
Elsli gradually grew more tranquil, and by and by she looked up into
Clarissa’s face and smiled.
“Do you think I shall go to Nora?” she asked. “The old grandfather said
that only good people go to heaven.”
“My child,” said Clarissa, “our Lord and Saviour shows us the way. He
has opened the door for those who have erred, and shown us that our
Heavenly Father is always ready to forgive and receive those who repent
and turn to him. Don’t you remember the parable of the Prodigal Son and
the words of Jesus to the men who were crucified with him? They were not
good, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said the child in a tone of relief; and she repeated
softly to herself the hymn which she had said to the old man. The last
couplet was scarcely audible.
“Oh, ope the gates of heaven now,
And bid me enter in!”
The next morning Clarissa went to the other children with the sad news
that Elsli was very, very ill. They could not at first believe it. She
had never complained, and had been only yesterday in the garden with
them, joining in their play; quiet to be sure, but always sympathetic
and trying to please them all. It was a sad day for them. They could not
occupy themselves as usual, but sat about in the house and garden,
weeping in silence, or talking in subdued tones about the sick girl whom
they all loved so dearly.
Fani was, of course, the most unhappy of all. Elsli’s goodness to him in
their days of poverty and hardship came clearly to his mind. How she had
silently taken many a punishment and rebuke that were really deserved by
him. He felt keenly that if Elsli did not recover he should never meet
with any one to take her place. He saw now, as he had never seen before,
what his sister had been to him.
To Mrs. Stanhope too the blow was a severe one. She blamed herself for
not having noticed that the child had been growing thin and pale during
the last few weeks, and she recalled, now that it was too late, several
times when she had thought that Elsli looked over-heated and tired, but
she had done nothing about it, thinking it only a passing matter. She
sent at once for the physician. He gave little hope of the child’s
recovery. He said she had evidently been “running down” for some time,
and she must have been eating too little and doing too much, and,
besides, he suspected some mental depression and anxiety. All this,
acting on a frame naturally delicate and weakened by the hardships of
her early years, had more than counteracted the gain that Elsli had
certainly made during the first months of her life at Rosemount.
Clarissa then told Mrs. Stanhope the story which the little girl had
related to her, and their tears fell fast over the simple tale of pity
and self-sacrifice. Mrs. Stanhope’s heart smote her, as she learned how
Elsli had suffered from fear of her displeasure, and from the
concealment into which this had led her, a concealment so foreign to her
nature. She went to the child’s bedside, and, embracing her more fondly
than she had ever done before, she said tenderly:--
“I can’t tell you, darling child, how sorry I am that you should have
been afraid of me. I never meant it should be so, but I am naturally
reserved, and when my Nora died, I felt as if all my power of loving had
died with her. I liked you, and I meant to take good care of you, but I
see now that I have seemed cold to you, and haven’t shown you the love
that has really been growing up for you in my heart. Forgive me, dear,
and believe that I do love you, and that I will be a real loving mother
to Fani, as I would be to you--” She stopped, overcome by her own
emotion.
Elsli’s face beamed with a radiant smile. She lifted her feeble arm and
laid it around Mrs. Stanhope’s neck.
“I am going to Nora,” she whispered; “I will tell her how good you have
been to us. I love you,” she added, and it went to Mrs. Stanhope’s heart
that it was the first time the child had ever said these words to her.
She could not speak, but she drew Elsli’s head to rest upon her
shoulder, and in a few moments the sick girl fell asleep with a peaceful
look upon her face, and Mrs. Stanhope sat holding her unwearied, till
Clarissa came and gently laid the little head back upon the pillows.
For several days Elsli continued in a critical state; but they were
happy days. Mrs. Stanhope never left her, and it seemed as if she could
not do enough to show her tenderness. Clarissa was devoted to her
comfort, and brought her every day news from her friends in the
fisherman’s hut, whom Mrs. Stanhope had already begun to help in the
wisest and kindest ways. The poor family sent many messages of love and
gratitude to their little helper, and these Clarissa delivered; but she
did not tell Elsli how unhappy they were at the thought of losing her,
nor how the father said:--
“I knew she was an angel from heaven; and we could not expect her to
stay long with us. Now she is going back again where she belongs.”
The children at Rosemount were allowed to come for a few minutes at a
time into Elsli’s room. They were charged to bring only cheerful faces,
and not to trouble her with their grief. They brought her flowers from
the garden, and sometimes they read to her from the books she loved.
Fani especially was very tender and devoted, and Elsli took great
satisfaction in having him with her.
Every interview was precious, since the time for them was probably so
short.
But Elsli did not die. The complete repose of the sick-room, and the
devoted care she received, but perhaps more than all that the new
happiness that had come into her heart in Mrs. Stanhope’s awakened
affection and her own response to it, and the fresh hopes which sprang
from seeing how large a place she held in the lives of those about her,
and the happy prospect of being useful and valuable without need of
concealment or anxiety,--all these things helped in her recovery; and
when, in a few weeks, she again came down stairs and out into the sunny
garden, it was with new eyes that she looked upon life and its duties
and opportunities, and she thanked God that he had permitted her to stay
upon his beautiful earth, and help his children here. For she saw that
the earth is the Lord’s as well as the heavens, and while she still
looked forward to the happy life of Paradise with hope and confidence,
she no longer undervalued the joys and privileges which surrounded her
here.
As soon as Elsli was fairly convalescent, the doctor’s children went
home. Their parents could spare them no longer. Mrs. Stanhope bade them
good-bye with the assurance that she should depend on having another
visit from them next year, so that it was plain that she felt no serious
displeasure with them. They were grateful for her forgiveness, and
fervently resolved that next year she should have nothing to forgive.
The three travellers went rapidly on towards their own dear home. At
the last station their father’s carriage was waiting for them. A shout
of joy hailed them. It was Rikli. She had been allowed to come to meet
them. It seemed that night as if they would never be tired enough to go
to bed, they were so excited with joy at seeing father and mother and
aunty, and at feeling themselves at home again. Questions and answers
were all poured out together, interrupted by frequent exclamations of
affection and of joy at being all together once more. There seemed no
chance of quiet or rest that night.
But at last the evening came to an end. The active trio were in bed and
asleep, and the happy mother went softly from one bedside to another,
and breathed a silent thanksgiving over each sleeping child, that they
had all been preserved from harm and brought safely back to her arms.
Mrs. Stanhope’s summer had been full of excitement of various kinds,
such as she had never in her whole life experienced before. It had been
rather a trying thing to her to have her very methodical and regular
life so disturbed, and she had not always known how to take with
equanimity the alarms and inconveniences that her generous invitation to
the doctor’s children had brought upon her. But she had been interested
in the children, and it had been a good thing for her to become
accustomed to the interruption of the too rigorous routine in which she
had been living. Elsli’s illness had been a deep and painful experience,
but it had produced a blessed change in the whole tone of her life and
spirit. Her new-born love for the little girl had broken up the sealed
fountains of her heart, and she felt again the bliss of a mother’s love
ardently returned by a child. A warmer glow was infused too into her
feeling for Fani, to whom she had been attracted at first by his
resemblance to her Philo. Time had softened her sorrow for the loss of
her boy, so that this resemblance endeared Fani to her, while in Elsli’s
case, a similar likeness to Nora had only made it the more difficult to
receive one who was brought to her to take Nora’s place, while she was
still stunned with the grief of the recent parting.
Her first thought now was for Elsli. The doctor said that the child must
spend the next winter in a warmer climate, and recommended a removal to
the south of France or to Italy before the coming of cold weather.
“And meantime,” he said, “you must put a stop to all this long sitting
on the stone seat under those heavy lindens down by the water, and to
pacing up and down that damp little path that leads to the willows, and
to spending hours in that wretched hut by the bog, that isn’t fit for
any one to live in. The river is very beautiful, but it’s better to be
looked at from a distance above. Dry air and sunshine are what our
little girl needs. She couldn’t do anything worse for mind or body than
to sit and meditate in that cold, damp, lonely place.”
Mrs. Stanhope’s eyes were opened, and she resolved to act on the
doctor’s suggestion, not only with regard to Elsli, but also to the
fisherman’s family. She took measures directly for building a small
house on her own land, in a dry situation, but not far from the river,
so that he could continue his avocation as a fisherman, while she also
gave him steady and profitable employment as a laborer on her estate.
Elsli was very happy watching the progress of the new house and fitting
it up for its inmates, and she had the pleasure of seeing them
comfortably established there before she went south for the winter.
Meantime Mrs. Stanhope, after much deliberation, and with considerable
reluctance, for she was not accustomed to change a resolution once made,
had come to a decision with regard to Fani’s future, quite at variance
with her former plans, which had been to bring him up with a knowledge
of business, with a view to his becoming steward of her estates.
One evening she was sitting with the two children in the parlor after
supper; for they no longer went out on the terrace at this hour, since
the days were growing shorter and Elsli must not be out after sundown.
The children were chatting gayly, on various subjects, when Mrs.
Stanhope, who had been reading, laid down her book, and said:--
“Come and sit by me, Fani; let us have a little talk together. That
unfortunate expedition of yours on the river, and what you said when you
told me about it, seemed to show that your heart was fully set on
becoming an artist. Is it so still? or was it only a passing fancy? Are
you sure that you have thought long enough about it to be certain of
yourself?”
Fani grew crimson. He hesitated an instant, and then said:--
“Yes; I have thought about it and wished for it a long, long time; and
the more I draw, the more I care for it. But I am willing to think no
more about it; and I will do whatever you wish, to the very best of my
ability.”
“I have been talking to your teacher,” continued Mrs. Stanhope, “and he
says, if your industry and perseverance are as great as your talent, you
will be a successful artist. And as you care so much about it, I am
sure you will be persevering. So I have decided to take you with us to
Florence this winter, where you will have good instruction in drawing,
and also the benefit of the galleries. You will go on with your studies
too, for I want you to be a well educated man as well as an artist, and
you are too young yet to give up school-work. If you do well, and at the
end of a year or two still persevere in your desire to become a painter,
you shall go to an art-school, at Düsseldorf or somewhere else, and take
a course of several years. There you will find out just how much you can
do, and after that we will decide what is best for our young artist.”
Fani sprang to his feet and stood speechless before his kind
benefactress. When he tried to speak, tears came instead of the words he
meant to utter.
Mrs. Stanhope saw his emotion with far more satisfaction than if he had
overwhelmed her with thanks.
“Now,” she said to herself, “he is certainly in earnest.”
“Meanwhile,” she continued aloud, “we shall often be with you, Elsli and
I, sometimes at home, or wherever it is best for us to spend the
winters. In summer we shall be all together here. You are my own
children now; and I shall do for you just as I should have done for my
Philo and Nora if they had stayed with me.”
Tears stood in Mrs. Stanhope’s eyes, but she smiled too, as she held out
her arms to the children, and drew them, radiant with joy and gratitude,
into a mother’s embrace.
There were great rejoicings among their friends in Buchberg over the
news that Mrs. Stanhope had adopted the two children, and that Fani was
to become an art-student. Oscar and Fred, and still more the triumphant
Emma, could already see with prophetic eyes the announcement of the
great exhibition to be held in the neighboring city, of the wonderful
landscapes of that “celebrated painter, Fani von Buchberg!”
Heiri’s family grew better off every year with the help that came from
the absent children and their new mother, and Elsli was happy in the
thought that her father’s hardest days were over, and that her own
good-fortune had brought good to him also.
Oscar and the Fink boys kept up an uninterrupted correspondence. They
were determined that when they were grown up to manhood they would found
a Swiss brotherhood which should astonish the world.
Feklitus got back his shirts and his new clothes and his trunks safe
from the clutches of the waiters at the Crown Prince. But he never
spoke of his journey to the Rhine, no matter how much his companions
might ply him with questions. If, in school, his geography lesson was
upon the Rhine country, he turned a deaf ear, for he absolutely declined
to learn anything about a place where innocent persons are treated with
such indignity as they meet with there.
Mrs. Stein and her sister still had their hands and their hearts full
with the care of the boys and girls who were at once their anxiety and
their delight; but they still had time and thought to give to the
interests of others, and they never failed to rejoice over the
improvement and the happiness of Gritli’s children.
[Illustration]