THE WISH FULFILLED.
Mary’s plan, which developed itself the next day, turned out to be a
project for taking the children, in their new clothes, to visit their
sister at the hospital. She had stipulated that nothing should be
said to Berty, though she had taken care to give Tim warning that he
might be on hand to enjoy the surprise. It was a beautiful, bright
autumn day, and everything worked to Mary’s satisfaction. Grandmamma
seemed to enjoy it as much as she; and even Tom, who had grumbled a
good deal at bringing his horses so often into such “ojus” streets,
could not resist a contagious grin as he lifted the happy children,
one by one, into the carriage.
It was indeed a wonderful delight to Berty’s little family. Driving
through the gay streets, where Mrs. Grey took care that Tom should
go, in the handsome, easy carriage, would have been pleasure enough,
but going in such a way to see Berty, whom they had missed so
much, was almost more than they could bear. Then the wide lawn of
the hospital, where the little pale children were playing in the
sunshine, was a new surprise; and the children’s ward, with its
lofty walls and little white beds, in one of which sister Berty lay,
looking so placid and happy, seemed like a glimpse of paradise.
You will guess, of course, how joyfully Berty received them; how she
hugged little Fritz with her one arm, and set him on the bed beside
her, while she made the others stand off, one by one, that she might
admire them in the comfortable new clothing; how she thanked Mrs.
Grey and the Doctor and Mary; how Tim grinned from ear to ear, and
Dr. John rubbed his hands, and Polly clapped hers, and the nurse and
old Mrs. Grey both cried, and the hospital children sat up in bed and
laughed at the merry hubbub, until the matron came up and chided them
all for making such a noise and threatened Dr. John with a policeman
if he did not keep his party quiet.
Yes, it was a happy time; and happy, too, though in a different way,
was the long quiet time which followed, when, under the Doctor’s kind
care, Berty was growing better and stronger every day, and learning
every day to love more and more dearly the pleasant room, the lively
prints upon the walls, the happy little sick children, the gentle
nurses, the good rector who stopped to talk with her so often, and
the dear, dear Dr. John, to whom she owed it all.
The Christmas-time to which she had looked forward in her dreary
attic on that dismal night—how far away the attic seemed, how long
ago the night—was drawing near, was close at hand. Tim told her of
the laurel-wreaths which they were hanging in the chapel. Her dearest
wish was to get strong enough to go down there with Tim and keep the
Christmas feast, and afterwards, perhaps, to have the children come
to her again. It would be treat enough for them, she knew, and joy
enough for her; but when she asked the Doctor, she got no answer but
a smile.
The Doctor was so busy nowadays, perhaps he had no time for anything
but smiles. And very busy, too, was little Mary; it was wonderful
what a deal of shopping those two found it necessary to do together,
and what piles upon piles of parcels, of all shapes and sizes, they
brought home at night, and stowed away in that mysterious parlor
which no one else was allowed to enter. If Polly paid for all those
goods, I think she must have made a requisition upon Dr. John’s
newfound pocket-book; for I am sure no little girl’s purse could have
been half long enough.
But at last there came a day, the 24th of December it was, when
Polly’s purchases seemed to be all made. She did not go down-town
at all that day, but spent all the morning closeted with Dr. John
in the mysterious room. And, altogether, that seemed to be quite
a mysterious day at Mrs. Grey’s; for all day long there came such
mysterious noises from the mysterious parlor, and Mrs. Grey and the
housekeeper and Nurse Evans went about with such mysterious smiles
upon their faces, that even Jenny and Jemmy seemed to have a notion
that something was the matter, and no amount of coaxing could keep
them in the nursery. Then, towards evening, there came a mysterious
ring at the door, and a mysterious stranger was ushered in, whose
arrival seemed to fill Dr. Grey and Mary with the most mysterious
surprise and delight; and finally the Doctor and Tom took the
carriage and went off upon some mysterious errand.
If you could have peeped into the hospital just about that time,
you would have seen that the mystery had penetrated even there; for
Berty sat, wrapped in cloaks, in a great arm-chair, with a strangely
excited expression upon her thin, pale face. She had received that
morning a note, in a little white envelope, addressed to Fräulein
Bertha Weisser. This note of course she could not read, but Mrs.
Gantz read it for her. It was an invitation, in good set terms, to
spend the evening with Miss Mary Kendall, at her grandmother’s house;
and accompanying this note was a new dress and other very comfortable
things for Berty to wear. And so our little Berty sat there, very
happy and eager, though a little frightened and shy, waiting for the
carriage.
And when the carriage came, and Tom took her up in his strong arms
and bore her down to it, a new surprise was waiting for Berty; for
there were her little ones all peeping out to greet her with shouts
of delight. Berty thought this was all that was needed to make her
perfectly happy.
Miss Mary received them with a joyous welcome, and kind Mrs. Grey had
a sofa ready furnished with pillows for Berty to rest upon, which Dr.
John insisted that she should occupy at once, though she did not feel
in the least tired.
The children were very shy at first, but Fritz and the twins soon
made friends. Tim took upon himself to entertain Gottlieb, and as for
Rosa and Lina, it was entertainment enough for them to look about
them. Berty wondered at Tim; he seemed, she thought, quite as much at
home in Mrs. Grey’s handsome house as at Biddy Flanagan’s, always the
same-merry, good-natured fellow, never shy, and never too forward;
she wondered, too, at her little ones, so clean and bright and
wholesome; and when she heard Fritzy’s happy laugh, she thought this
was even better than the Christmas tree for which she had longed.
Presently, little Mary, who had been flitting in and out in a most
extraordinary manner, came in once more, and made a significant
motion to Dr. Grey, seeing which, the Doctor, with a merry look, took
her hand and led her up in front of Berty’s couch.
“Berty,” said he, “you were wishing for a fairy godmother, I hear.
Mrs. Flanagan was right about one thing, the fairies do not emigrate;
but she was wrong about the other, for there is a tribe of them in
America, wild as it is; and as fast as you little people come over
they adopt you, because there are not Yankee children enough to keep
them busy. So you see everybody has a fairy godmother, and all is
right. Hearing, from Mrs. Flanagan, that you were in need of yours, I
have been at some pains to find her, and here she is, very happy to
make your acquaintance.”
Berty was quite puzzled by this speech, but Polly seemed to think it
great fun; her eyes fairly danced with glee as she dropped Berty a
queer little courtesy, and said, “Dr. Grey has summoned me, and I
have come. You were wishing for a Christmas tree, he tells me. Ah,
well; my children have but to wish, and, presto! it is here!” saying
which she stamped with her little foot upon the floor, and, lo!
the folding-doors of the mysterious parlor glided swiftly back and
disclosed a wondrous sight,—a Christmas tree indeed, whose blazing
tapers far outshone those which had lighted Berty’s dreams, whose
graceful branches bent beneath their weight of generous fruit! While
the children’s eyes were still dazzled with the burst of light, Dr.
Grey and Mary stepped forward and took their stations on either side
the tree. Then Mary turned to the wondering children, and pointing to
it, said: “This, children, is Berty’s Christmas Gift to her little
family.”
Berty was too happy, too thankful for words; she could only cast a
grateful look at Dr. John, who, she felt sure, was at the bottom of
it somehow; and Dr. John looked back at her with a merry twinkle in
his eye, which she did not quite understand. The children, meanwhile,
were pressing round the tree, and devouring it with eager, wondering
eyes.
“It is finer than the Westermann’s, Lina,” said Gottlieb, at last.
“But where is the Christ-child, Lieb?” said little Rosa. “I don’t see
him at all.”
“But he is here, Rosa,” said Dr. John. “He is here, though you do
not see him. It is he who put it into the heart of Berty’s fairy
godmother here to give you this pleasure.”
“Now,” said Mary, who seemed somehow to be in a great hurry, “if you
have gazed your fill, perhaps you would like me to gather you some
fruit;” and she took a long, hooked stick which leaned against the
wall beside her, and began to take off the presents from the tree.
I shall not trouble myself to describe those presents. Christmas
trees, I am happy to say, are getting very common. A bountiful crop
of them springs up every year all over the land, and I dare say there
are none of you who have not assisted in stripping at least one.
So I shall only tell you that every one of the children got a very
satisfactory share of the magical fruit,—every one except Berty.
Strange to say there seemed to be no present for Berty. She never
thought of wishing for one; it was all just as she had planned it
herself, and she was heartily satisfied; but so were not the others.
Tim especially, who had gotten a bountiful share himself, was greatly
concerned about Berty; and at last, when the branches were nearly
bare, and nothing was yet forthcoming, he bethought himself of
speaking to Dr. Grey. It might have been forgotten, though Tim did
not see how that could be. At any rate, he knew Dr. John would never
be content to have Berty neglected, any more than he. So he made his
way through the children to where the Doctor still stood beside the
tree.
“Dr. Grey,” he whispered, “has Miss Mary forgotten Berty, d’ye
think—or what?”
“Berty!” cried the Doctor, speaking very loud, and pretending to be
quite astonished. “Sure enough! the tree is quite stripped, and Berty
has nothing! That’s a great oversight of yours, my good fairy; it
will never do at all. Couldn’t you manage to spirit us in a present
for Berty yet?”
“What shall it be?” asked Mary, paying no attention to Berty’s
exclamations and assurances that the tree itself was present enough
for her.
“Since you have kept her waiting so long,” said the Doctor, “I think
it should be something very nice,—something, for instance, from over
the sea.”
Mary nodded, and, tapping her stick three times upon the floor, sang,
in a queer little piping voice, which made all the children laugh,—
“Come, fairies, good fairies, bring swiftly to me
A present for Berty from over the sea!”
Then she stood quite still for a moment, and looked towards the door,
as if expecting some one; and at last nodded and waved her hand,
and, dropping a courtesy to the Doctor, said, “My good Doctor, your
bidding is done. You will find a present for Berty there at your
right hand. If my elves have been somewhat dilatory, you must excuse
them; for the package, you perceive, was rather heavy.”
The Doctor sprang quickly aside, and, sure enough, there at his right
hand, half hidden by the spreading branches, was a heavy oaken
chest, strongly bound with iron, which everybody stared at as if it
had fallen from the sky.
“Upon me word, Miss Mary,” said Tim, “if ye’d hire out yer elves down
at the docks there, ye’d make yer fortin in no time. They’re stronger
than any derrick they have there, certain sure.”
“Well, Tim,” answered Polly, laughing, “I’ll think of it.”
“Somebody’ll have to open it for Bert,” said prudent Gottlieb,
looking appealingly to Dr. John; “she never can.”
“Sure enough. Shall we want a hammer, think you, or is it locked?”
said Dr. Grey, bending over the chest with a puzzled look. “Ah, yes,
here’s a lock,” he added, fumbling at the side towards the wall.
“Have your elves brought the key, Madam Fairy?”
Polly fumbled in her pocket a little, and brought out a huge bunch
of keys, one of which Dr. John, with great jingling, applied to
the lock. Tim had a shrewd suspicion that the chest was not locked
at all, nor even fairly closed; but, before he had time to assure
himself by nearer inspection, the cover flew up with a bang, and
out sprang—what? A genie? All the children thought so at first, and
shrank away, while Berty covered her eyes with her hands.
But the strange being, whatever it was, went straight to Berty’s
couch, and bending down, whispered some German words close in her
ear. Berty could not help peeping out between her fingers. Surely, it
was no genie. Would a genie call her his darling, his goddaughter,
his dear, dear child? Would a genie look at her with blue eyes so
like her mother’s? Ah no, this was no genie, though he had come to
her as strangely as any genie could. It was, it _could_ be, no one
in the world but the dear, dear uncle Gottlieb, from the blessed old
Fatherland.
So Berty let the stranger take her in his arms, and gave him kiss for
kiss, and answered his caresses with her own, and called the children
to her, one by one, to show this dear uncle who had come so far to
see them all. It was so sweet to little Berty to feel that strong arm
round her, and to know that it was ready to shield her from all care
and harm; it was so sweet to hear him call her children his, and to
know that he would care for them as she, with all her efforts, never
could have done.
Yes, it was uncle Gottlieb, to whom Dr. Grey had written as soon as
he heard of him from Berty, and who, hearing thus, for the first
time, of his sister’s death, (for Madame Hansmann’s letter had
miscarried,) had hastened to the orphans, and arrived just in time
to be put into Polly’s strong box. He had entered heartily into the
joke, though he declared that he had nearly smothered in carrying
it out; and Dr. John averred that he had chuckled so much as nearly
to discover himself to the children before the time. Polly produced
from the chest a whole bundle of presents for Berty, which she had
hidden there the better to carry out her scheme; but, though Berty
was properly grateful, it was easy to see that uncle Gottlieb’s niece
thought him the best present of all. There is no need that I should
tell you they spent a merry evening,—what could prevent them? Uncle
Gottlieb informed them next morning, for they all spent the night
with hospitable Mrs. Grey, that he had risen in the world,—become
a composer of music and leader of the band; and also that some old
relative in Frankfort had left him a little house. He had been
thinking, he said, of getting a wife to keep house for him; but he
should take the children all back with him, and Berty should keep
house: it would be much better, and leave him more time for his music.
And so Berty and her little ones went back to the dear Fatherland.
It was hard parting from the Doctor and Mary and Tim; but Dr. Grey
promised to bring Mary to see them at Frankfort, which promise he
has kept. And as for Tim, I have a shrewd suspicion that that young
gentleman has by this time paid uncle Gottlieb off in his own coin,
and taken Berty another sea-voyage; but then Lina must be quite big
enough for a housekeeper now.
THE END.