作者：Spyri, Johanna
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Uncle Titus and His Visit to the Country试读：
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE LINDENS.
The daily promenaders who moved slowly back and forth every afternoon under the shade of the lindens on the eastern side of the pretty town of Karlsruhe were very much interested in the appearance of two persons who had lately joined their ranks. It was beyond doubt that the man was very ill. He could only move slowly and it was touching to see the care with which his little companion tried to make herself useful to him. He supported himself with his right hand on a stout stick, and rested his left upon the the shoulder of the child at his side, and one could see that he needed the assistance of both. From time to time he would lift his left hand and say gently,
"Tell me, my child, if I press too heavily upon you."
Instantly, however, the child would catch his hand and press it down again, assuring him,
"No, no, certainly not, Papa, lean upon me still more: I do not even notice it at all."
After they had walked back and forth for a while, they seated themselves upon one of the benches that were placed at convenient distances under the trees, and rested a little.
The sick man was Major Falk, who had been in Karlsruhe only a short time. He lived before that in Hamburg with his daughter Dora, whose mother died soon after the little girl came into the world, so that Dora had never known any parent but her father. Naturally, therefore, the child's whole affection was centred upon Major Falk, who had always devoted himself to his little motherless girl with such tenderness that she had scarcely felt the want of a mother, until the war with France broke out, and he was obliged to go with the Army. He was away for a long time, and when at last he returned, it was with a dangerous wound in his breast. The Major had no near relatives in Hamburg, and he therefore lived a very retired life with his little daughter as his only companion, but in Karlsruhe he had an elder half-sister, married to a literary man, Mr. Titus Ehrenreich.
When Major Falk was fully convinced that his wound was incurable, he decided to remove to Karlsruhe, in order not to be quite without help when his increasing illness should make it necessary for him to have some aid in the care of his eleven-year-old daughter. It did not take long to make the move. He rented a few rooms in the neighborhood of his sister, and spent the warm spring afternoons enjoying his regular walk under the shade of the lindens with his little daughter as his supporter and loving companion.
When he grew weary of walking and they sat down on a bench to rest, the Major had always some interesting story to tell, to beguile the time, and Dora was certain that no one in the whole world could tell such delightful stories as her father, who was indeed in her opinion the most agreeable and lovable of men. Her favorite tales, and those which the Major himself took most pleasure in relating, were little incidents in the life of Dora's mother, who was now is heaven. He loved to tell the child how affectionate and happy her mother had always been, and how many friends she had won for herself, and how she always brought sunshine with her wherever she went, and how nobody ever saw her who did not feel at once attracted to her, and how she was even now remembered by those who had known and loved her during life.
When Major Falk once began to talk about his dearly-beloved wife, he was apt to forget the flight of time, and often the cool evening wind first aroused him with its chilly breath to the fact that he was lingering too long in the outer air. Then he and his little Dora would rise from the bench in the shade of the lindens, and slowly wander back into town, until they stopped before a many-storied house in a narrow street, and the Major would generally say,
"We must go up to see Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette this afternoon, Dora." And as they slowly climbed the steep staircase, he would add, "Softly now, little Dora, you know your Uncle is always writing very learned books, and we must not disturb him by any unnecessary noise, and indeed, Dora, I do not think your Aunt is any more fond of noise than he is."
So Dora went up upon the tips of her toes as quietly as a mouse, and the Major's ring could scarcely be heard, he pulled the bell so gently! Generally Aunt Ninette opened the door herself, saying,
"Come in, come in, dear brother! Very softly, if you please, for you know your brother-in-law is busy at work."
So the three moved noiselessly along the corridor and crept into the sitting room. Uncle Titus' study was the very next room, so that the conversation was carried on almost in whispers, but it must be said Major Falk was less liable to forget the necessary caution against disturbing the learned writer than Aunt Ninette herself, for that lady being oppressed with many cares and troubles had always to break into frequent lamentation.
When June came, it was safe and pleasant to linger late under the shade of the lindens, but the pair in whom we are interested often turned their steps homeward earlier than they wished, in order not to arouse Aunt Ninette's ever-ready reproaches. But one warm evening when the sky was covered with rosy and golden sunset clouds, the Major and Dora lingered watching the lovely sight longer than was their wont. They sat silent hand in hand on the bench by the side of the promenade, and Dora could not take her eyes from her father's face as he sat with upturned look gazing into the sky. At last she exclaimed:
"I wish you could see yourself, papa, you look all golden and beautiful. I am sure the angels in heaven look just as you do now."
Her father smiled. "It will soon pass away from me, Dora, but I can imagine your mother standing behind those lovely clouds and smiling down upon us with this golden glory always upon her face."
As the Major said, it did pass away very soon; his face grew pale, and shone no longer; the golden light faded from the sky and the shades of night stole on. The Major rose, and Dora followed him rather sadly. The beautiful illumination had passed too quickly.
"We shall stand again in this glory, my child, nay, in a far more beautiful one," said her father consolingly, "when we are all together again, your mother and you and I, where there will be no more parting and the glory will be everlasting."
As they climbed up the high staircase to say good night to Uncle and Aunt, the latter awaited them on the landing, making all sorts of silent signs of alarm and distress, but she did not utter a sound until she had them safely within the sitting room. Then, having softly closed the door, she broke forth complainingly,
"How can you make me so uneasy, dear brother? I have been dreadfully anxious about you. I imagined all kinds of shocking accidents that might have happened, and made you so late in returning home! How can you be so heedless as to forget that it is not safe for you to stay out after sunset. Now I am sure that you have taken cold. And what will happen, who can tell? Something dreadful, I am certain."
"Calm yourself, I beg you, dear Ninette," said the Major soothingly, as soon as he could get in a word. "The air is so mild, so very warm, that it could not possibly harm anybody, and the evening was glorious, perfectly wonderful. Let me enjoy these lovely summer evenings on earth as long as I can; it will not be very long at the farthest. What is sure to come, can be neither delayed nor hastened much by anything I may do."
These words, however, although they were spoken in the quietest possible tone, called forth another torrent of reproach and lamentation.
"How can you allow yourself to speak in that way? How can you say such dreadful things?" cried the excited woman over and over again. "It will not happen. What will become of us all; what will become of—you know what I mean," and she cast a meaning glance at Dora. "No, Karl, it would be more than I could bear, and we never have more trouble sent to us than we can bear; I do not know how I should live; I could not possibly endure it."
"My dear Ninette" said her brother quietly, "Do not forget one thing,
"'Thou art not in command,Thou canst not shape the end;God holds us in his hand:God knows the best to send.'"
"Oh, of course, I know all that well enough. I know that is all true," assented Aunt Ninette, "but when one cannot see the end nor the help, it is enough to kill one with anxiety. And then you have such a way of speaking of terrible things as if they were certain to come, and I cannot bear it, I tell you; I cannot."
"Now we will say good-night and not stand and dispute any longer, my dear sister," said the Major, holding out his hand, "we will both try to remember the words of the verse—'God knows the best to send.'"
"Yes, yes, I'll remember. Only don't take cold going across the street, and step very softly as you go down the stairs, and Dora, do you hear! Close the door very gently, and Karl, be careful of the draught, as you cross the street!"
While the good irritating Aunt was calling after them all these unnecessary cautions, Dora and her father had gone down the stairs and had softly closed the house-door. They had only a narrow alley to cross to reach their own rooms opposite.
The next afternoon, as Dora and her father seated themselves on their favorite bench under the lindens, the child asked,
"Papa, is it possible that Aunt Ninette never knew the verse you repeated to her last night?"
"Oh yes, my child, she has always known the lines," replied the Major. "It is only for the moment that your good aunt allows herself to be so overwhelmed with care and worry as to forget who governs all wisely. She is a good woman, and in her heart she places her trust in God's goodness. She soon comes to herself again."
Dora was silent for a while, and then she said thoughtfully,
"Papa, how can we help being 'overwhelmed with care and worry?' and 'killed with anxiety,' as Aunt Ninette said."
"By always remembering that everything comes to us from the good God, my dear child. When we are happy, we must think of Him and thank Him; when sorrow comes we must not be frightened and distressed, for we know that the good God sends it, and that it will be for our good. So we shall never be 'overwhelmed with care and worry,' for even when some bitter trouble comes, in which we can see no help nor escape, we know that God can bring good out of what seems to us wholly evil. Will you try to think of this, my child? for sorrow comes to all, and you will not escape it more than another. But God will help you if you put your trust in Him."
"Yes, I understand you, papa, and I will try to do as you say. It is far better to trust in God, than to let one's self be overwhelmed with care and worry.'"
"But we must not forget," continued her father, after a pause, "that we must not only think of God, when something special happens, but in everything that we do, we must strive to act according to His holy will. If we never think of Him, except when we are unhappy, we shall not then be able easily to find the way to him, and that is the greatest grief of all."
Dora repeated that she would ask God to keep her in the right way, and as she spoke, her father softly stroked her hand, as it lay in his. He did not speak again for a long time, but his eyes rested so lovingly and protectingly on his little girl, that she felt as if folded in a tender and strengthening embrace.
The sun sank in golden radiance behind the green lindens, and slowly the father and child wended their way towards the high house in the narrow street.
CHAPTER II.
LONG, LONG DAYS.
It was not many days after the events mentioned in the last chapter. Dora sat by her father's bedside, her head buried in the pillows, vainly striving to choke down her tears and sobs. It seemed as if her heart must break. The Major lay back on his pillow, white and still, with a peaceful smile on his calm face. Dora could not understand it, could not take it in, but she knew it. Her father was gone to join her mother in heaven.
In the morning her father had not come as usual to her bedside to awaken her, so when at last she opened her eyes, she went to seek him, and she found him still in bed, and lying so quiet that she seated herself quite softly by his side, that she might not disturb him.
Presently the servant came up with the breakfast, and looking through the open door into the bedroom where Dora sat by her father's bedside, she called out in terror,
"Oh God, he is dead! I will call your aunt, child," and hurried away.
Dora's heart seemed cut in two by these words. She put her head upon the pillow and sobbed and wept. Presently she heard her aunt come into the room, and she raised her head and tried to control herself, for she dreaded the scene that she knew was coming. And it came—cries and sobs, loud groans and lamentations. Aunt Ninette declared that she could never bear this terrible blow; she did not know which way to turn, nor what to do first.
In the open drawer of the table by the side of the bed, lay several papers, and as she laid them together, meaning to lock them up, she saw a letter addressed to herself. She opened it and read as follows:
"Dear Sister Ninette,
"I feel that I shall shall soon leave you, but I will not talk to you about it, for the sad time will come only too quickly. One only wish that I have greatly at heart I now lay before you, and that is, that you will take my child under your protection for as long as she may need your care. I shall leave very little money behind me, but I beg you to employ this little in teaching Dora something that will enable her, with God's help, to support herself when she is old enough.
"Do not, my dear sister, give way to your grief; try to believe as I believe, that God will always take our children under his care, when we are obliged to leave them and can no longer provide for them ourselves. Receive my heartfelt thanks for all the kindness you have shown to me and my child. God will reward you for it all."
Aunt Ninette read and re-read these touching lines, and could not help growing calmer as she read. She turned to the silently weeping Dora with these words,
"Come, my child, your home henceforth will be with us. You and I will try to remember that all is well with your father; otherwise we shall break down under our sorrow."
Dora arose at once and prepared to follow her aunt, but her heart was heavy within her; she felt as if all was over and she could not live much longer.
As she came up the stairs behind her aunt, Aunt Ninette omitted for the first time to caution her to step lightly, and indeed there was no need now of the usual warning when they approached Uncle Titus' room, for the little girl was so sad, so weighed down with her sorrow as she entered her new home, that it seemed as if she could never again utter a sound of childish merriment.
A little room under the roof, hitherto used as a store-room, was changed into a bedroom for Dora, though not without some complainings from Aunt Ninette. However, the furniture was brought over from the Major's rooms, and after a slight delay, all was comfortably arranged for the child.
When supper-time came, Dora followed her aunt, without a word, into the dining-room, where they were joined by Uncle Titus, who however seldom spoke, so deeply was he absorbed in his own thoughts. After supper, Dora went up to her little room under the roof, and with her face buried in her pillow, cried herself softly to sleep.
On the following morning she begged to be allowed to go over to look once again at her father, and after some objection, her aunt agreed to go with her, and they crossed the narrow street.
Dora took a silent farewell of her dear father, weeping all the time but making no disturbance. Only when she again reached her little bedroom, did she at last give way to her sobs without restraint, for she knew that soon her good father would be carried away, and that she could never, never see him again on earth.
And now began a new order of life for Dora. She had not been to school, during the short time that she and her father had lived together in Karlsruhe. Her father went over with her the lessons she had learned in Hamburg, but he did not seem to care to begin any new study, preferring to leave everything for her aunt to arrange.
It happened that one of Aunt Ninette's friends was the teacher of a private school for girls, so that it was soon settled that Dora was to go to her every morning to learn what she could. Also a seamstress was engaged to teach her the art of shirt-making in the afternoon, for it was a theory of Aunt Ninette's that the construction of shirts of all kinds was a most useful branch of knowledge, and she proposed that Dora should learn this art, with a view of being able to support herself with her needle. She argued that since the shirt is the first garment to be put on in dressing, it should be the first that one should learn to make, and with this as a foundation, Dora could go on through the whole art of sewing, till in time she might even arrive at the mighty feat of making dresses! With which achievement Aunt Ninette would feel more than satisfied, but this great end would never be reached, unless the first steps were taken in the right direction.
So every morning Dora sat on the school-bench studying diligently, and every afternoon on a little chair close to the seamstress' knee, sewing on a big shirt that made her very warm and uncomfortable.
The mornings were not unpleasant; for she was in the company of other children who were all studying, and Dora was ambitious and willing to learn. So the hours flew quickly, for she was too busy to dwell much on the loss of her dear father, and to think that he was gone forever. But the afternoons were truly dreadful. She must sit through the long hot hours, close by the seamstress, almost smothered by the big piece of cotton cloth, which her little fingers could hardly manage, and she grew restless and irritable, for her hands were moist, and the needle refused to be driven through the thick cloth. How often she glanced up at the clock on the wall during those long hours, when the minute hand was surely stuck at half-past three, and the regular tic-tac seemed to fill the quiet room with its sleepy droning. So hot, so still, so long were the hours of those summer afternoons!
The silence was broken now and then by the sounds of a distant piano. "What a happy child that must be!" thought little Dora, "who can sit at the piano and practise exercises, and all sorts of pretty tunes!" She could think of nothing more delightful; she listened with hungry ears, and drank in every note that reached her. In the narrow street where the seamstress lived she could hear the music distinctly, for no wagons passed, and the voices of foot-passengers did not reach up so high as to her room. So Dora listened to the sweet melodies which were her only refreshment during those hot long hours, and even the running scales were a pleasure to her ear. But then the thought of her father came back to her, and she felt bitterly the terrible contrast between these hot lonely afternoons and those which she used to spend with him under the cool shade of the lindens. Then she thought of that glorious sunset, and of her father, as he stood transfigured in the golden light. She remembered his comforting words, his assurance that some day they two and the mother would stand thus together, shining in the eternal light of Heaven. But Dora sighed at the thought of the long weary time before she should join them, unless indeed some accident should happen to her, or she should fall ill and die, from this too heavy task of shirt-making. After all, her best consolation was her father's verse; and then too, he had been so sure of its truth:
"God holds us in his hand,God knows the best to send."
She believed it too; and as she repeated the lines to herself, her heart grew lighter, and even her needle moved more easily, as if inspired by the cheering thoughts. Yet the days were long and wearisome, and their stillness followed her when she went home to her uncle and aunt.
She reached home just in time for supper. Uncle Titus always held the newspaper before his face, and read and ate behind its ample shelter. Aunt Ninette spoke in whispers all the while, and asked only the most necessary questions, in order not to disturb her husband. Dora said little; and less every day, as she grew accustomed to this silent life. Even when she came home from school at noon for the short interval before the time for her sewing lessons, there was no need to caution her against noise; for the child moved ever less and less like a living being, and grew more like a shadow day by day.
Yet by nature she was a lively little maiden, and took so keen an
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