THE TERRACE-COTTAGE.
Batti made no opposition to Johanna's plans further than was demanded by
courtesy; in fact, he was glad not to have opposite him at every meal
her dark, serious eyes, in which he read now melancholy, and now, as it
seemed to him, reproach. And Helena soon contrived to persuade him to
consent to leave Lisbeth with her sister when they left Hanover,
representing to him that the child would be more likely to overcome the
repugnance she now felt to the circus if she were to hear and see
nothing of it for a time.
So the very next morning Johanna removed to her terrace-cottage. Helena
and Lisbeth accompanied her. Helena was dissatisfied; she thought the
house too small, the rooms too plain. Lisbeth, on the contrary, was
enraptured. The little rooms, the odd terrace, the six sisters, who were
so merry and kind, took her childish heart by storm. "Rika, Fanny,
Jetta, Minny, Annie, Sanna," she repeated to herself; and when her
mother called her to go, she begged to be allowed to stay with Johanna.
"You know, mamma dear, you are never, never at home." And Helena, who
could not bear to forego an entertainment of any kind, yielded to the
little one's persuasions.
And for like reasons the child was soon left entirely with her sister.
Helena's time was much occupied, as she was to leave town so shortly,
and then it would be well for the little girl to become accustomed to
her new home. "A mother must learn to forget herself," she said, and she
was content with having Lisbeth with her for a couple of hours in the
hotel every day, and with now and then calling for her to drive.
But when the final separation took place she made no attempt at
self-control; never heeding the physician's warning that the excitable
child must not be agitated in any way. Johanna had taken Lisbeth to the
hotel, and Helena, sobbing convulsively, clasped her in her arms,
declaring that she would soon, soon return, never to be separated from
her darling more. Her husband led her away, and his own eyes were moist.
Johanna could not refuse to take the hand he offered her in farewell.
They went. Johanna let the child look out of the hotel window while
'mamma and Uncle Carlo' got into the vehicle which was to take them to
the railway station. They looked up and nodded; the horses started.
Helena leaned out of the carriage-window, her fair curls fanning her
pretty face, her blue eyes filled with tears. She gracefully threw a
kiss to the child at the window. Johanna was never to forget the
picture.
After this departure, that is, now that the routine of the day was no
longer disturbed by Helena's caprices, Johanna's life was duly and
methodically arranged. For a while Lisbeth rebelled a little against the
stupid work which took up so much of her sister's time, and to which
also all the other inmates of 'Terrace-Cottage' seemed devoted. The
father, a kind old man, who could tell the most delightful stories, and
who every evening accompanied with his violin his daughter's performance
upon the piano, taught in the public school. The two oldest daughters
gave music-lessons, the third helped her mother about the house, and the
three 'little ones' went off to school every day, with heavy satchels
and a most important air. In a short time Lisbeth grew weary of her
idleness, and as soon as the physician, who continued to look after her
now and then, gave his consent, she, to her intense delight, accompanied
her beloved Sanna to school.
Dr. Wolf was not satisfied with Johanna's mode of life. "Remember what
Goethe says about the man 'who devotes himself to solitude,'" he said.
"The author must not be alone; the full stream of being must bring him
refreshment and invigoration. And it is well also, for material reasons,
that he should be known personally."
Johanna did not agree with him. More than aught else, she assured him,
she needed repose. She had much to overcome and to analyze in herself
before she could attempt to create a position for herself. She did not
confess to him how crushed she was by her experience with Batti and Dr.
Stein. She dreaded the sight of a strange face. Her intercourse with Dr.
Wolf and the inmates of the house sufficed her, and when she was tired
of work, a walk in the quiet fields, or a rest on the terrace in the
shade of the lindens, restored her courage. Even the simple musical
performances in the evenings refreshed her more and more. The old
teacher's exquisite taste supplied his want of _technique_. Many a
brilliant performance in her father's house had failed to give Johanna
such an insight into Haydn and Mozart as she now gained from this
reverent, child-like nature. Or was it that she had become more
impressionable? Her greatest gain, however, was in the constant
companionship of her little sister, in the consciousness that, for a
while at least, the child was physically, morally, and mentally
breathing a healthy atmosphere. Now for the first time Lisbeth learned
to laugh and play without thinking of the impression she was producing.
She often spoke of her pretty mamma, but as of some image of a
fairy-tale, which had no place in every-day life.
And one day--Helena had already written twice from Brussels in raptures
with the charming city--there came a letter from Batti with terrible
news. He and Helena had driven out with a new pair of young horses; the
fiery animals had run away. Helena, needlessly terrified, had jumped
out of the carriage, and in so doing had received injuries from which
she had died in a few hours. "If I die, Johanna must take care of
Lisbeth," she had repeatedly declared; and although Batti passionately
longed for his step-daughter, he thought it his duty to fulfil his
wife's last wishes. Perhaps when Lisbeth was perfectly well Johanna
might take pity upon his desolate existence and bring the child to him
for a while. For the present, he went on to say, the sight of her would
be more than he could bear. And he could not stay in Brussels. He should
probably go immediately to St. Petersburg, or to Paris, or to London. It
was all the same to him now, only he must flee from the place where he
had had so terrible an experience. But wherever he might be, he should
labour for Lisbeth. The hope of providing brilliantly for her future was
now the only tie that bound him to life and that could console him for
his lost happiness.
He hoped that Johanna would aid him in making the child happy. She must
fulfil her every wish, and surround the lovely little creature with all
the splendour in which Helena had so delighted.
At this moment Lisbeth, who had been playing with the 'little ones,'
came running merrily into the room. "Hanna dear, what is the matter?"
she cried, when she saw the tears in her sister's eyes.
Johanna clasped her in her arms. "Come, my darling," she whispered,
holding her in a close embrace. "Now you have no one except your sister;
now you are all my own."