"WHAT MUST BE, MUST BE."
Time passed quickly at the two houses, in this new and happy
companionship.
"Another week gone already!" and "Sunday again so soon!" were the
exclamations heard on every side, as each week went by. And Dora was the
happiest of all; the days fairly danced with her: they certainly had not
more than half as many hours as they had had in Karlsruhe, and every
evening she was sorry to have to go to bed, and lose in sleep so much of
the little time that remained of her visit. If she could only have passed
the whole night at the piano, practising while the others were sleeping,
she thought she could have nothing more to desire. Her arm was now wholly
healed, and she was taking music-lessons with a kind of furor; and in Lili
she had a teacher whose zeal equaled her own. A most agreeable teacher
too, who did not trouble her pupil with finger-exercises and scales, but
gave her tunes at once without more ado; and first of course the favorite,
"Live thy life merrily." Dora learned the air very quickly with the right
hand, and Lili did not require her to learn the left hand yet; declaring
that it was quite too difficult to play both together. All this
playing-teacher was so improving to Lili, that she began to make wonderful
progress herself, so that Miss Hanenwinkel was equally surprised and
pleased at her improvement, and her mother often paused outside of the
school-room door to listen to the firm but lively touch with which her
little daughter rendered her studies; for Lili had really great talent for
music, and now that a sufficient motive had been applied, she advanced
rapidly.
Paula was in a state of tranquil blessedness all day long. She had found a
friend, and such a friend! The reality of this friendship far surpassed
her imagination and her hopes, for such a one as Dora she could not have
conceived of; one who was so attractive not only to her, but to every
member of the family. Like Dora, Paula grudged the hours passed in sleep,
now that there were so few left that they could spend together.
Rolf had abandoned his old plan of charade-making, and had started on an
entirely new system, and he spent his leisure hours striding up and down
certain of the garden-walks, sunk in thought with his hands clasped behind
his back, and so lost to outward things that Hunne was charged to keep
away from these paths; for more than once he was almost run down by his
brother. A new set of riddles was now ready every evening for Uncle Titus,
who was always waiting for his young friend in the summer-house, prepared
to guess, and showing remarkable skill in finding out even the most
intricate puzzles; and as a natural result, Rolf grew more and more clever
in making them. Before long, Uncle Titus began to give riddles himself in
return, and his were carefully written out; for they required serious
study, as they were in Latin. Rolf carried these home to his father and
Jule, but they would not even try to guess them. Mr. Ehrenreich declared
that his Latin was quite too rusty for such work as this, and Jule
maintained that during vacation he did not dare to tax his brain
unnecessarily; he needed all his wits for his serious work next term. So
Rolf worked away by himself, dictionary in hand, and twisted and turned
the words till he wrung out their meaning. Then he showed them with
triumph to his father and brother, and in the evening carried them to
Uncle Titus. The pleasure which his kind old friend took in his success
spurred the boy on to greater activity. He studied not only the riddles
themselves, but his Latin lessons more earnestly, and he took to early
rising, and every morning before breakfast he worked with his Lexicon in
the garden, as if his livelihood depended on the solution of Latin
puzzles.
Hunne too was a lucky boy in these days, for no matter how often or how
long he hung upon Dora, and claimed her as his own property, never once
did the good-natured girl avoid or repulse her little friend; but always
lent herself to his wishes, and took so much pains to amuse him, that it
seemed as if she found her own pleasure in pleasing him. Mrs. Birkenfeld
had persuaded Aunt Ninette to leave Dora entirely at liberty both morning
and evening, and when in the afternoon she took her sewing and sat with
the family under the apple-tree, she found that even shirt-making might
be an agreeable occupation, under such favorable circumstances as these.
One day Dora made a new riddle for Hunne; for indeed his "nut-cracker" one
had become rather an old story; yet he couldn't bear to give up
riddle-giving. To his unspeakable joy this new riddle had a triumphant
experience, quite unprecedented in the family annals--no one could guess
it. This time nobody could turn him off with, "Oh, go away with that same
old charade." For as no one knew the answer, no one could laugh at the
little questioner, and he and Dora agreed not to give the slightest hint
that might lead to the right guess, and so put an end to this delightful
state of things.
The riddle was this:
"My first makes you cry--not for sorrow,
For my second a spoon you may borrow,
To my whole, you say, 'thank you--to-morrow.'"
What could it be? Julius said it was "Hot-tea, because if the tea is very
hot and you try to drink it, the tears start to your eyes, and then you
cool it with a spoon, and you would like to let it stand till to-morrow."
Hunne jumped for joy, crying "Wrong, wrong!"
Miss Hanenwinkel suggested "Plum-jam," because Hunne often cried when he
couldn't have plums, and everybody ate jam with a spoon, and if plum-jam
was not on the supper-table to-night, it was sure to be, to-morrow.
"Wrong! wrong!" cried Hunne again.
"Well, I guess Tear-ful," said Rolf; but that was even worse than the
others.
"I think it may be Snow-drop," said the mother. "The sight of the snow
makes you cry for joy, and a spoon is used for your drops if you are ill,
and you always want snowdrops to-morrow."
Mamma had failed! "Not Snowdrops; no!" screamed Hunne, almost beside
himself with delight.
"I guess it is _ice-cream_," said Mr. Birkenfeld. "Ice makes me cry
sometimes, it is so cold. Cream certainly needs a spoon, and I have often
heard the cry, 'To-morrow please,' when ice-cream has been mentioned."
Hunne spun round with delight. "No, no!" he shouted. It was almost too
good to be true, that his father should have missed it too. He scampered
about crying out to everyone, "Guess! guess!"
Rolf was really vexed not to be able to see through this simple little
"Hunne riddle" as he called it; and was mortified to perceive that he had
made a worse guess than any one.
Meantime the days were passing. One morning at breakfast Uncle Titus said,
"My dear Ninette, our last week is drawing near. What should you say if we
put off going home, another fortnight? I feel remarkably well here, no
dizziness at all, and an extraordinary increase of strength in my legs!"
"You show it in your looks, my dear Titus--" said his wife tenderly, "you
look ten years younger, at the very least, than when we came here."
"And to my mind, this way of living has done you a world of good too, my
dear Ninette;" replied he, "It seems to me that you find much less to
lament over of late."
"Everything is so different," she answered; "It seems to me that
everything has changed. The noise of the children even doesn't seem the
same, now that I know each one of them. I must say that I am very glad
that we didn't leave here that first week; I feel the loss of something
pleasant now when I do not hear the children's voices, and I am always a
little uneasy if it is perfectly quiet in the garden."
"It is just so with me," said Uncle Titus, "and I cannot get through an
evening with any satisfaction unless that bright boy has been in to see
me, full of impatience to tell me what he has been about during the day,
and eager to hear the enigmas I have to give him. It is a perfect pleasure
to have such a young fellow about one."
"My dear Titus, you are growing younger every day. We will certainly stay
longer," said Aunt Ninette decidedly, "just as long as we conveniently
can. I'm sure even the doctor did not expect such good results from one
country visit; it is almost miraculous!"
Dora lost no time in carrying the enchanting news of this decision to
Paula, for in her inmost heart she had been very unhappy at the thought of
going away so soon. How could she live, away from all this dear family
with whom she had learned to feel so entirely at home? She thought that
when the day of separation came her heart would surely break.
When the good news of Dora's longer stay among them spread through the
family, there was general rejoicing, and the little girl was in danger of
being fairly hugged to death by her friends.
That evening after the children were all safely in bed, and Miss
Hanenwinkel had withdrawn to her own room, Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld sat
together upon the sofa, talking. This was the only quiet time that they
could count upon in the course of the day, when they could talk over the
needs, the pleasures and the pains, of their large and busy family. They
were talking now about the decision of their new friends, and Mrs.
Birkenfeld expressed her great satisfaction with it, adding,
"I cannot bear to think of losing Dora. She has grown very dear to me.
What a real blessing that child has been in the family! She leaves her
mark wherever she goes, and always for good. Wherever I turn I find some
new evidence of her beneficial influence. And to me personally she is
particularly attractive; I can't understand exactly why, but whenever I
look into her eyes, I feel as if I had known her for a long time, and as
if we had been sympathetic friends in days gone by."
"Ah, my dear wife, how often I have heard you say that whenever you feel a
particular friendship for any one. I recollect perfectly that after we had
known each other a little while, you said it seemed to you as if we had
been intimately acquainted some time before."
"Well, suppose I did, you most incorrigible tease," said his wife, "you
cannot convince me to the contrary, nor can you take away the fact that
Dora is dear and delightful, not only to me, but to all the family
besides. Paula goes about beaming like the sunshine, and with no trace of
her usual discontent. Jule pulls off his own riding-boots without stirring
up the whole house about it; Rolf is so full of interest in his pursuits
that he has not a moment of idleness all day long; Lili has developed a
love for music and a talent for playing the piano, that we never dreamed
she possessed; and little Hunne has become so gentle and so contented at
his games, that it is a pleasure just to look at the child."
"I think too," said Mr. Birkenfeld, "that it is because of Dora's being
with us, that there has been a cessation of those mischievous pranks that
the twins were always at, and that kept the house in a constant state of
excitement."
"I have not the least doubt of it;" said his wife, "Dora has aroused in
Lili an enthusiasm for music, and all the child's lively energy is turned
into that channel. Wili follows his sister's lead, and they are both
therefore so busy that they have not even a thought for mischief."
"Dora is certainly an uncommon child and I am very sorry she is to leave
us so soon;" said Mr. Birkenfeld regretfully.
"That is what is weighing upon my mind," said his wife, "I am constantly
trying to devise some plan for prolonging her stay still farther."
"No, no;" said her husband, decidedly, "we can't do anything about that.
We don't know these people well enough to try to influence their
movements. They must go away now, but perhaps next year we may see them
here again."
Mrs. Birkenfeld sighed; there was a long winter to come, and there seemed
to her to be but little chance of the visit being repeated.
The day fixed for the departure was Monday, and on the day before there
was to be a grand feast, a farewell festival; though to tell the truth,
none of them felt much like making a jubilee. Rolf alone was in the mood,
and he took charge of the preparations, as an important part of which, a
number of choice riddles were to be hung about the summer-house as
transparencies: in honor of his patron.
On Saturday Dora took her seat, as usual, with the family at dinner, but
no one had any appetite; the coming separation was too much in their
thoughts. As the mother was helping to soup, one after another exclaimed,
"Very little for me," "Please only a little," "I really don't care for any
to-day," "Scarcely any for me, thank you," "And less for me, to-day."
"I should like to ask--" said their father, amid this shower of "No, thank
yous;" "I can't help wondering whether this 'thank you, to-morrow,' style
of thing is caused by grief at parting, or by a general dislike for
onion-soup."
"Onion-soup! onion-soup! that is the answer to Hunne's riddle!" cried Rolf
with a cry of victory, for he had really taken it seriously to heart, that
Hunne's charade had been so long unguessed. The answer was right. Poor
Hunne was quite depressed at this unexpected blow, and in a moment he said
somewhat pitifully,
"Oh dear! papa, if you had not said that about 'thank you, to-morrow,' for
the soup, then no one would ever have found it out. Now I shall have no
more fun with it."
But Dora had a comforting word for him, even now, and whispered softly,
"Yes, Hunne dear, you shall have some more fun with it, for I will bring
over my album this afternoon, and I will guide your hand while you write
the charade in it, and then I will take it to Karlsruhe, and show it to
all the people I know there, and they will all try to guess it."
So Hunne was comforted, and was able to finish his dinner happily. But
under the apple-tree where they were assembled for the last time, the
family were in very low spirits. For the next day Dora must stay with her
aunt to help her, and could not join them until the evening, in time for
the good-bye feast. Paula sat with her eyes full of tears, and did not
speak one word. Lili had already given signs of her state of mind, by all
sorts of restless movements, and at last she exclaimed,
"Mamma, I wish I never need touch the piano again; it will be terribly
tiresome without Dora, and Miss Hanenwinkel will find fault again and say
I am 'not progressing,' and I don't want to 'progress' when Dora is not
here!"
"Oh dear!" sighed Jule, "what terrible days are before us, with danger to
life and limb, when the twins begin again to find their time hang heavy
on their hands. It is a very stupid arrangement anyway," he went on quite
excitedly; "it would be far better for Dora to pass the winter with us.
Her aunt and uncle could go on in their quiet way in Karlsruhe all the
same without her."
The mother sympathized entirely in the children's regret at the separation
and said she hoped to persuade Mr. Ehrenreich to bring his wife and Dora
back for another summer.
Hunne was the only one more interested in the present than in the future,
and he kept pulling Dora's dress and saying,
"Go get your book, Dora! get the book!"
So Dora went to get her album, and brought it over for each one of her
friends, in the good old fashion, to write a verse or a motto in it, by
way of remembrance. It was no new, elegant, gilded affair. It was an old
book, faded and worn, and much of the writing in it was pale with age.
Here and there had been pasted on, tiny bunches of flowers and leaves all
of which had lost their color, and many of which had fallen off. The album
had belonged to Dora's mother, and the verses were all written in
unformed, childish characters. There were also some drawings, and among
these one of a small house and a well, with a man standing near it,
particularly attracted Hunne's attention, and he took the book in his own
hands, and began turning the leaves.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed with a knowing look, as he took out a piece of paper
that lay folded between the leaves; "Mamma has one like this; it belongs
to Lili; the one I am going to America to find."
Julius laughed aloud. "What in the world are you chattering to Dora about
now, Hunne?" But his mother glanced, quickly at the little boy as she
caught his words, took the paper from his hand and read what was written
there.
Great tears fell from her eyes as she read; the memory of long past hours
of her happy childhood rose before her, clear and distinct, and almost
overpowered her, Her own mother's face, and all the sights and sounds of
childhood! It was the other half of her own poem that she held in her
hand, the half that had been kept by her dearly loved friend. She gave it
silently to her husband; she could not trust her voice to read it aloud.
The children watched her curiously as she took the other half from her
notebook, and laid the two bits of yellow faded paper side by side. They
made a sheet of the usual size of old-fashioned letter paper. The writing
was the same on both, and as the lines were joined, their meaning became
plain. Mr. Birkenfeld read the verses aloud:
"Lay your hand in mine dear,
Joined thus we need not fear,
Each the other clasping fast,
That our union should not last,
But behold, the fates decree
That our future severed be.
We will cut our verse in two,
Half for me and half for you.
But we still will hope forever
That the halves may come together,
And with no loss to deplore.
Our friendship be as 'twas before."
The mother had taken Dora's hand in hers. "Where did you get this paper,
Dora?" she asked, much moved.
"It has always been in my mother's album," replied the child with
surprise.
"Then you are my Lili's child!" cried Mrs. Birkenfeld, "and that is what
your eyes always said to me, when I looked into them;" and she folded Dora
softly to her heart.
The children were intensely excited, but seeing how much moved their
mother was, they restrained themselves, and sat very still, watching Dora
and their mother with eager looks. But little Hunne broke the spell.
"Then I sha'n't have to go to America, shall I, mamma?" he said gaily, for
since he had given his word to go to find the lost Lili, he had often
thought with alarm of the long journey that he must take alone.
"No, dear child, we will all stay here together," said his mother, turning
towards the children with Dora's hand fast in hers; "Dora is the Lili you
were to seek, and we have found her."
"Oh, mamma," cried Paula, "Dora and I will be what you and her mother
were; we will carry out the verses. We will say:
"'But we still will hope forever
Now the halves have come together
No farther losses to deplore,
Our friendship prove as yours before.'"
"Oh yes, and ours," "me too," "so will I," and all the children joined in
promising eternal friendship with Dora. But the mother had taken her
husband's hand and had drawn him away down the shady walk.
"All right, I agree to it all," said Mr. Birkenfeld over and over again,
as his wife talked eagerly, while they walked back and forth. Presently
Mrs. Birkenfeld left him and crossed over to the next house. She asked for
Mrs. Ehrenreich, and now as they sat together by the window, she told Aunt
Ninette in words that came from her heart, with what delight she had
discovered that Dora was the daughter of her earliest and dearest friend;
that friend from whom she had been so long separated, but whose memory was
still green in her heart. She wanted to learn all that could be told of
her friend's life and death, but Aunt Ninette had little to tell. She had
never known Dora's mother; her brother had spent several years in America
where he had married, and his wife had died in Hamburg shortly after
Dora's birth. That was all she knew. Then Mrs. Birkenfeld went directly to
the point. She explained to Mrs. Ehrenreich how much she had enjoyed and
profited by, her long visits at her friend's father's house, and how
deeply she felt that she owed these kind friends a debt of gratitude which
she now saw an opportunity partly to repay, by doing what she could for
Dora. In short, if Aunt Ninette and her husband would consent, her most
fervent wish would be to take Dora and bring her up as her own child.
She met with none of the opposition which she had feared. Aunt Ninette
said frankly that Dora had not a cent of property, and that she would be
entirely dependent on her own work as a seamstress; as neither her aunt
nor her uncle could afford to spend anything on her farther education. She
considered it a great blessing that the child should have found such a
friend, and she heartily rejoiced in her good fortune; and was sure that
her husband would fully agree with her. So there was nothing farther for
Mrs. Birkenfeld to do, but to embrace Mrs. Ehrenreich most cordially, and
then to hasten home to tell the children the happy news. She knew how they
would take it.
There they were all under the apple-tree, all looking towards their mother
and impatient for what she might have to tell them; hoping that it might
be some plan for prolonging Dora's stay. But when the mother told them
that from that day forward Dora was to belong to them, forever, as their
sister and a child of the family, then a shout of joy arose that made the
welkin ring again and awoke the echoes in the farthest corner of the
garden. It aroused Uncle Titus and brought him from his distant
summer-house with a gentle smile, saying half to himself and half aloud,
"It is a pity it will soon be over."
Aunt Ninette was standing at an open window, looking down into the garden,
and as she heard the shouts of joy that rose again and again from under
the apple-tree, she said to herself, smiling "How we shall miss all this
cheerful noise when we are far away."
The children were indeed jubilant, and they decided to organize a feast in
honor of Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette, a feast more brilliant than any
that had ever before made the shades of the garden glow with splendor.
That night Dora went up to her little room for the last time, for the next
morning she was to move over to the other house. The happy family of
children whom she had secretly watched with longing heart, were now to be
her brothers and sisters; the lovely garden into which she had gazed with
hopeless eyes was henceforth to be her home; she was to have parents who
would surround her always with their protecting love. She was to learn
what the others learned; yes, to have regular studies with them, as well
as music-lessons. Dora's heart was flooded with the thoughts that welled
up within her. One thing she was sure of; that her father was looking down
at her, and rejoicing with her. She stood at the window and gazed up at
the sparkling stars, and recalled the sad hours of depression that she had
known, when these stars did not seem to bring her comfort, and when she
had almost lost faith in that kind heavenly Father, who nevertheless had
now brought all this happiness to her.
She fell on her knees and thanked God for his goodness, and prayed that
she might never again doubt Him, but that even in times of sorrow, she
might be able to say, with heart-felt trust in the words of her father's
verse:
"God holds us in his hand,
God knows the best to send."
Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette engaged their rooms with Mrs. Kurd for the
following summer; Uncle Titus even went farther still, and begged Mrs.
Kurd, no matter what happened, never to promise them to any one else; for
he left her house now with keen regret, and hoped to return to it every
summer as long as he lived.
When Monday morning came, the whole family were on hand before the
cottage, to wish the departing guests good-speed. Rolf drew the uncle
aside, and asked if he might venture to send a charade to Karlsruhe, now
and then; to which Uncle Titus kindly replied that he should receive any
such with pleasure, and answer them with punctuality.
Sly little Hunne, when he overheard these remarks, declared at once, "I
will also send mine;" for he did not doubt that his would be equally
acceptable to Uncle Titus, if not more so. He thought also that the quiet
people of Karlsruhe would never be able to guess such charades as he would
make, and his heart was filled with pride. Dora and Paula wandered arm in
arm into the garden, singing gaily,
"No farther losses to deplore
In friendship live for evermore."
APPENDIX.
The Charades in this story, involving play upon the German words and
syllables, are of course nearly all untranslatable; the translator has
therefore substituted English ones; as follows:
PAGE
_Welcome_ for "Heimkehr" 80
_Music_ " "Katzenmusik" 104
_Milton_ " "Vogelweide" 105
_Palfrey_ " "Milch Strasse" 107
_Plato_ " "Aristotle" 227
_Caesar_ " "Heliogabal" 228
_Bonaparte_ " "Wallenstein" 230
_Matterhorn_ " "Finsteraarhorn" 230
_Gladstone_ " "Semiramis" 231