AUNT LIZZIE'S VISIT.
The next day an aunt of Violet's arrived from a distant town. She was a
sister of John's wife and a wife herself, very young and very fair, and
with a wonderful likeness to the poor dead mother. Her husband, who was
many years older than herself, was amongst the militia, and had not yet
been called out; and at the cry from John's broken heart she came at
once, leaving her own little ones behind her, to remain a few days with
Violet, until the bitterness of the parting was over.
On this day the little girl had made no effort to leave her bed; all
the long morning she had remained with her head buried in the pillows,
and with the sheet drawn over her head, deaf to all comfort or words of
sympathy. For who could comfort her when the appalling fact remained
unchanged that her father was going to leave her, to go to the war, and
she would be left alone?
In vain Fritz had stood by her bed and called to her. He had brought
her a box of the most delicious sweetmeats, a farewell present from
the confectioner; for poor Madame Bellard, like all the rest of the
French residents in Edelsheim, had had to break up her home since
the war was declared, and prepare to leave Germany at once; and now,
as her shop was being closed, the children of the neighbourhood were
profiting by her good-nature. To Violet she had sent a special gift of
great beauty--a box of frosted silver, and all within were sweetmeats
of various colours, pale pink and green and white, which shone
glitteringly, as if they had been sprinkled over with diamond dust.
But no words of Fritz, nor descriptions of the treasure he held in
his hand, could induce Violet to look up. Her head was buried in her
pillows, and no sound but smothered sobbings reached his ears. Once a
little thin hand was stretched out for a moment through the sheets, and
grasped his gratefully, and there was an effort to say something, but
Fritz did not understand it; and having left the sweetmeat-box on the
table beside her bed, he moved away dejectedly, followed by Ella, who,
in endeavouring to walk out on her tip-toes, had nearly fallen down on
her face in the doorway.
Once in the afternoon Violet started up, and lifting herself painfully
from the pillows, flung the clothes from off her face. She had heard
a step on the stairs, and now she heard her father's voice calling
to her. He was standing in the doorway as she looked up, and all the
bright colour rushed to her pale face, and an exclamation of admiration
and surprise burst quite unconsciously from her lips.
"Father, is it thou? Oh, how splendid!"
And splendid he did look this afternoon in his new uniform--a giant in
height, in breadth, in strength, with a fair open face, which could
look stern enough at times, but now there was no sternness about it,
only a searching eagerness to see if he might win one smile from his
darling in the bed yonder.
John had to take his helmet off to enter at the doorway. And now, as he
stood by his little girl's bed, turning himself round with an assumed
pride for her admiration, he looked, as he was, one of the very flower
of the German army, ready to die for his king and fatherland; with a
heart of steel to face the foe, and a heart of wax to be moulded by
those tiny burning fingers in the bed, into whatever shape or form she
chose.
"Has the king seen thee, father?" she asked with a sob and a smile.
"No, my child."
"Ah, he will be delighted. Thou art the finest soldier I ever saw."
"Thou thinkest so, my treasure?"
"Yes, yes; the best soldier in all the army"--she stretched out her
arms lovingly, yearningly--"and the best, the very best, the dearest
father in all the world."
John put down his helmet on the bed; his spurs clattered, his sword
clanked, as he stooped over it; but she heard nothing--only the whisper
in her ear: "Violet, my heart's treasure, how can I go away and leave
thee?"
Later on in the evening, when he had gone out to make some final
arrangements, and to buy some last comforts for his little girl, and
she had relapsed into her former state of speechless grief, there came
a tap at the door of her room, and a voice, which seemed to thrill
through every fibre of her frame, cried softly,--
"Is Violet awake? May Aunt Lizzie come in?"
Violet once more flung down the clothes and made a violent effort to
rise up quickly. Her cheeks flamed to a carmine red, her eyes glowed in
the twilight, and there was something in their expression which made
her aunt pause on the threshold and place her hand suddenly upon her
heart.
"Poor little girlie! all alone?" she said, in the same sweet, low
voice. "Aunt Lizzie has come at a good time to sit and comfort thee."
Violet had not seen her Aunt Lizzie for two long years; but now, at
this crisis of her young life, when her heart was hungering for a face
which she could never see again, and her spirit was crying out for
her lost mother to comfort her, Aunt Lizzie had come in at the door,
with the same gentle voice, the same sweet blue eyes and waving golden
hair, and had laid just such a soft cheek against her own. All Violet's
reserve gave way at once, and she turned with a sudden movement of
overpowering relief, and flung her arms around Aunt Lizzie's neck.
"Aunt Lizzie! Aunt Lizzie! dost thou know, hast thou heard?--my
father--;" here she turned her head in upon her aunt's breast; she
could not finish the sentence--only a storm of sobs completed it.
"Yes, yes; I know it all. Thy father has to go away to the war. It is
terrible. I was thinking of thee all the way in the train, and of all
the other poor little children in Edelsheim who must say 'Good-bye'
to-morrow to their fathers."
"But, Aunt Lizzie, Violet will be so lonely, so quite alone."
"Yes; thy father is so wonderfully good, and so kind, thou wilt miss
him more than most children: I know that well."
"There will be no one to sit with Violet all day, no one to kiss Violet
at night, no one to hear Violet say her prayers, no one to talk about
mother--only Kate, and Kate never knows what Violet says."
"Ah, well, Aunt Lizzie must think of some one to come and stay with
Violet. Our little darling must not be left alone. We will talk to
father this evening. And now Violet must dry her eyes. Aunt Lizzie has
seen so many tears to-day that she feels quite sad; and, besides, when
father comes home we must not weep."
"Where did Aunt Lizzie see so many tears?" asked Violet, still sobbing.
"Oh, so many!--such red eyes and blistered faces!--at the railway
station. It was at first almost impossible for Aunt Lizzie to find a
seat. Only the colonel interfered, and said they must make a place for
her. So many wives with babies in their arms, sobbing and stretching
out their hands; and quite old women from the country, and little girls
about thy size."
"Violet cannot go down to the station and see her father off to the
war, can she, Aunt Lizzie?"
"No, no; it would only make father sad, and it would tire thee."
"Were there any poor little hunchbacks at the station at Edelsheim?"
"What?" cried Aunt Lizzie, with almost a start of horror. "Sweetest
treasure, thou must not say such things. Thou art our own sweet
Violet--a little sick girlie that every one loves, and God most of all.
Is it not so, my loved one?"
"Some hunchbacks have wings," said Violet, with a sudden gasp and a
swift upward glance at her aunt's face. "God gives them wings."
"Yes, dearest child; and some day he will give thee wings too, and then
Violet will fly away and be at rest: she will be so happy up there with
mother; and she will have no more pain in her poor back, and she will
never cry any more, nor have tears in her eyes."
"Yes," said Violet, with a sigh and a long, fluttering sob, "no more
tears. The poor little hunchback in the fairy tale never cried once,
not once, after God gave her wings. I read that in the book, underneath
the picture, and I know it is true, although Fritz will not believe it,
for I found the words in mother's Bible."
"Yes, yes, it is quite true," said Aunt Lizzie softly: "there will be
no more sorrow nor trouble of any kind in heaven--nothing to make us
cry--no more fighting, no more wars."
"No more soldiers, and having to say 'Good-bye,'" added Violet
sobbing. "Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, Violet cannot say good-bye to
father."
"Ah, darling, it is hard, but thou must try to say it;" and Aunt Lizzie
pressed the little head close to her breast. "Father is a soldier, and
Violet must seek to be a soldier too. Thou wilt be brave, sweetest
child, for his sake, wilt thou not? Father's heart is breaking at
having to say farewell to his little girl, and yet thou seest, dearest
one, how he strives for thy sake to be cheerful."
"I know a text about soldiers, Aunt Lizzie," said Violet almost in a
whisper.
"What is it, my little girlie?"
"'Fight the good fight;' but, Aunt Lizzie, Violet is too sick to fight,
and her back aches so."
"Violet is one of Christ's own little soldiers, and when she is very
tired she must just lay her head on his breast, and he will fight for
her all her battles, whatever they may be."
"Yes; that is like mother's hymn that we used to say always at night,
'How sweet to rest on Jesus' breast.' And then when mother used to lie
down beside Violet on the bed, and put her arms so closely around her,
Violet used to say, 'How sweet to rest on mother's breast;' and there
was no harm, was there, Aunt Lizzie?"
"None, none," replied the young mother with an effort to keep back her
own tears. "Now lay thy head softly down on Aunt Lizzie's breast, and
she will sing thee to sleep."
"Dost thou know what Kate said to Violet once?" asked the little girl,
a smile spreading over all her face.
"No, my child; what was it?"
"She said Violet would soon sleep on mother's breast, and then Violet
would have no more headaches. Is not that lovely, Aunt Lizzie?"
"Lovely," she answered almost in a whisper.
While they were talking thus, John came in. At first his face was
somewhat white and stern. He seemed afraid to trust himself to glance
towards the bed. When at last he did look across to the corner where
Aunt Lizzie, who had taken off her hat and shawl, was sitting on the
bed beside Violet, his face suddenly changed; a light, a look came into
it, a sudden flush passed over his handsome face, and he stretched out
his hand with a hasty movement and a quick outburst of thanks.
"Lizzie, thou best of sisters! so thou hast come. I scarcely dared to
hope it. It has been too good of thee to leave thy home; and of Henry,
too, to spare thee." He kissed her affectionately, and sat down on the
edge of the bed, where Violet lay, partially supported by her aunt's
arm.
"Ah, God be thanked, my task is now comparatively light." He drew a
long, deep breath, and tried to smile a happy smile as he gazed into
his little girl's face and lifted one of her hands into his own. "I
have had such a busy afternoon," he continued, still searching into the
large wistful eyes opposite him for some ray of cheerfulness. "I have
finished Violet's carriage, and I have bought a lovely cushion for it,
and a rug to put over her feet; and Fritz put Ella into it, and found
it was so light he could draw her up the steep hill from the church
to the fountain without drawing breath: so now Violet can go out also
every day and get some roses in her cheeks.--Is that not so, my heart's
angel?"
Violet nodded her head silently, and pressed her father's hand, but no
words came.
"And father is going to give Violet his canary to take care of for him;
and such a grand cage as he has bought for him, all gold and silver,
and with beautiful green fountains. And Violet must feed him herself,
and see that he is never hungry or thirsty either. Eh, my darling?"
"Yes, father."
"And here is a desk father has got for thee--a real leather desk full
of paper and envelopes and beautiful red sealing-wax; and, look here,
my treasure, a seal with 'Violet' on it. Is not that lovely?"
"Beautiful," said Violet, her eyes dilating and her mouth expanding
with a troubled smile.
"And somewhere in the desk Violet will find, if she searches well for
it, a little box with silver in it, bright silver money to buy stamps
with; and when she wants more money in her box she must ask Madam Adler
for it, and then she can always write letters to father and tell him
all the news."
"Father will write to Violet?"
"Of course, of course;--and the ink-bottle thou hast not seen yet, nor
the pens and pencils," cried John with a sudden access of interest; for
Violet's lips quivered ominously, and one large tear had already fallen
with a splash upon the pink blotting-paper.
"And now we will shut up the desk, and Violet will get up on father's
knee. We are all going to sit by the stove and have our supper. And
father has a cake for thee, which Madame Bellard has baked on purpose
for us. Wait till Aunt Lizzie sees it; it is all sugar on the top. It
was good of Madame Bellard, in all her trouble, to think of us. Was it
not, Violet?"
"Yes, yes, too good," she said softly.
It did not take long to dress her. A couple of shawls fastened loosely
round her, and stockings drawn up over her feet, were enough for the
occasion; and when the coffee was ready the cake was uncovered in all
its glory. Such a splendid cake as it was, all covered with creamy
frosted white sugar; and on the top were letters made of pink comfits,
which formed these words, "John and Violet;" and underneath, in smaller
comfits of the same colour, was added, "Auf wiedersehen" (To meet
again).
[Illustration: Carving the Cake. _Page 98._]
Poor Violet! once her eyes fell on the pink letters it was with
difficulty she could swallow any of the cake. She put a small piece
in her mouth, and crumbled up the rest in her fingers, letting the
currants fall through them on the floor. She drank her coffee eagerly,
so as to swallow down the tiny bits she had taken; and then John,
watching her closely, saw it was no use to offer her any more.
"We must give some of this grand cake to Kate," he said presently. "We
cannot allow Aunt Lizzie to eat it all. And Fritz, too, and Ella, they
must each have a slice." He took up the knife and began to carve the
cake with some recklessness.
Violet watched him intently as he cut a large piece for Kate, then
another for Fritz; and the knife was already buried in the frosted
silver for Ella's slice, when she suddenly stretched out her hand and
cried out piteously,--
"No, dear father, not there. Ah, leave that piece for me. Do not cut
off those words; Violet loves them."
John drew out the knife and laid it on the plate. "Aunt Lizzie shall
cut Ella a slice by-and-by," he said softly; then drew his girl so
close in to his side that Violet could feel the loud beating of his
heart.
After all, the supper proved but a sorry meal, though Aunt Lizzie
talked and laughed and told anecdotes about her children at home,
some of which caught Violet's attention, and drew forth questions and
answers; but every now and then a deep unconscious sigh from John, or a
smothered sob from Violet, would show that their minds had wandered far
away from the little fair-haired children at Gützberg.
At last he got up and laid her down upon her bed. "I must say
good-night now to my darling," he said wearily as he stretched his arms
up into the air. "Father is very tired, and he must go down to the
barracks presently."
"Not to stay--not to sleep? Thou wilt not say good-bye to-night?" cried
Violet. "Dear father, not to-night!" Her appeal broke into one long,
pitiful wail.
"No, no; not to-night. Oh, darling child, if Violet only knew how
father's heart aches, she would not cry so. Try, sweetest darling, to
be brave. Father will come back when he has reported himself to the
captain, and Aunt Lizzie will stay with thee while he is away."
Violet ceased crying aloud, and lying back on her pillows, resorted to
her old device of drawing the bedclothes over her face. John stooped
down and kissed the little hand that grasped them so tightly; then
saying a few words in a low voice to Aunt Lizzie, he went out of the
room.
When he returned about two hours later, Violet was asleep. Her aunt had
sat by her bed and sung to her, in a low, droning voice, little hymns
and nursery songs familiar to her ears in the old mother days, until
at last the sobbing ceased, the hand which held the sheet gradually
relaxed, and the child slept.
Poor John! it was a relief to him to find all so quiet in the room when
he came up. He had the bird-cage in his hand, which he hung up on a peg
in the centre of the eight-sided alcove which formed the window, and
which jutted out some distance over the street.
Then he drew a chair over into the alcove for Lizzie, and they sat down
in the gloaming to talk over Violet and what was to be done to insure
her happiness and comfort during the time he must be away at the war.
It was a long talk and a sad one, and to John, sitting there in the
moonlit window, it seemed as if he were speaking in a dream to the poor
little dead mother; for Aunt Lizzie listened with the same earnest
sympathy, and when she replied it was in the same low tones. When she
spoke, too, of the poor sick child lying now so quietly asleep on the
bed in the corner, she used the very same expressions and endearing
epithets of love, which came back to poor John's ears like whispers
from the grave.
It was finally arranged between them that she was to remain with
Violet for a few days after his departure, so as to allow the first
burst of childish grief to pass over under her loving and watchful
care. Then Aunt Lizzie had hoped that it might have been possible to
have moved the poor little invalid to Gützberg, where she could have
devoted herself to her charge, and she would have done so lovingly
and faithfully. But John had already thought of this plan, and had
consulted over it with the physician, a kind and clever man, who had
known Violet from her birth; and he had decided against the plan,
saying that any attempt to move the child from the room where she had
lived all her little life would be almost certainly attended with fatal
consequences. The shock of a removal, and the tearing up of the frail
tendrils which held this little fading flower to life would cause it
suddenly to wither away. "And besides," the doctor added kindly, "what
should we all do here in Edelsheim without our little Violet? Why, you
might almost as well take down the clock out of the old church tower
and tell us still to know the time of day, as to take our Violet's face
from the window and tell us all to live pure and patient lives. No, no,
good man; leave us the child, and I for one will watch over her."
So John had returned home with sudden tears in his eyes, satisfied
that the doctor was right. And Aunt Lizzie afterwards confirmed
him regretfully in the same view; for she had said to Violet that
afternoon, when she was lying on the bed beside her, "How would Violet
like to leave Edelsheim for a little while, just while father is away,
and to return with Aunt Lizzie to Gützberg? The little children at home
would scream with joy to have Violet amongst them, and they would hold
out their hands to welcome her."
But the child had cried out almost in terror, "No, no, no; do not take
Violet to Gützberg. She must watch for father at the window; she must
wait for him till he comes home. He will not be long away. And besides,
Aunt Lizzie, Violet could not leave her little mother. She is quite,
quite close to Violet down there at the church; and sometimes Violet
sends her flowers; and Fritz calls out quite loud, 'Mother, mother,
Violet sends thee these flowers and her heart's love, and never, never
forgets thee.' Fritz says it is all no use--she does not hear him
calling out; but oh, Aunt Lizzie, Violet knows she does listen, for God
hears all Violet's prayers, and father says my little mother is quite
close to God."
After this outburst from the child's heart her aunt did not seek to
urge her point. To tear asunder such strong links of love would indeed
be death to Violet, and the little aching, loving heart, already half
in heaven, must not be troubled further by any act of hers.
So now, all thoughts of Gützberg having been abandoned, it was arranged
that a little maid called Evelina, who was at present in charge of
Lizzie's children at Gützberg, should be engaged by John as nurse to
Violet. She had been living in Lizzie's family for three years, and
had a pretty bright face, a gentle manner, and up to this time had,
under Lizzie's motherly direction, taken excellent care of the little
ones. She was the only person Lizzie knew whom she could recommend from
personal experience; and she undertook to impress on the girl's mind
that she must, during John's absence, devote herself entirely to the
sick child, and have no thought but for her comfort and happiness.
"One word more, Lizzie," said John, in a low, constrained voice, as he
bent his head down on the back of Violet's chair, which stood empty in
the moonlit window. "If--if, dearest Lizzie, it should please God that
I should not return--what then? What is to become of my poor child?"
"God preserve us from such trouble," cried Lizzie, starting up
suddenly, for there was a movement in the corner. "Hush. Violet will
hear thee. Make thy mind happy. If I were to leave Gützberg and the
children, and even Henry himself, I would come here and be a mother to
her."
"It will not be for long," he said almost inaudibly as he lifted his
helmet from the window seat and rose up. "The doctor told me so to-day.
Thanks, a thousand thanks, good Lizzie. To-morrow at ten I shall be
here to say good-bye. I shall have but a few minutes, that is all. We
start at twelve for the front."