作者：Spyri, Johanna
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Gritli's Children试读：
CHAPTER I.
AT THE COUNTRY-HOUSE ON THE RHINE.
The golden sunshine of a glorious June morning flooded the roses of the beautiful garden that surrounded a handsome stone villa on the banks of the Rhine. A thousand sweet perfumes borne upon the gentle breeze mounted like incense to the open windows, and sought entrance there. From a great basin in the middle of the garden, a slender shaft of water rose straight up into the blue sky, and then fell plashing back, sprinkling the flowers and the grass with sparkling moisture. Gay butterflies fluttered hither and thither, sipping sweets from the honey-laden flowers. Under the trees stood marble statues gleaming white through the shadows; and seats in sheltered nooks invited the loiterer to rest and listen to the concert of the myriad birds that made their happy homes in this paradise of summer beauty.
At the closed window of one of the upper rooms of this delightful house sat a little maiden, pressing her pale face against the wide, clear glass, as she peered out with longing eyes over the roses, toward the wavering fountain, and into the depths of the trees, whose graceful branches stirred in the light breeze. Her gaze passed over the shining flowers and the green terraces of the sunny garden, and rested far away on the glistening waves of the fast-flowing Rhine, that ran past the foot of the garden, bathing caressingly the long over-hanging branches of the old linden trees as it passed along. The rich foliage of the trees by the river-side was visible from the windows of the house; but not the stone bench which stood in the cool shade, so close to the water that one could look from it directly down into the eddying waves, and watch the drooping branches dip and rise again and again, as if in pure delight. What a spot for summer dreaming and castle-building! The pale child at the window knew the place well; and as her eyes turned in that direction, the expression of longing grew more and more painful as she gazed.
"Oh, mamma!" she cried presently, with tears in her voice, "may I not go out soon into the garden, and down to the seat under the lindens by the river?"
An hour before, the mother had brought her suffering little girl into this room, and placed her in her favorite resting-place in the window-seat, and her anxious gaze had scarcely left the pale little face, with its big eyes full of pain, that looked so longingly into the beautiful garden, which the poor child could not enjoy in any other way.
"Dear child," she said now, in a voice which trembled with anxiety and affection, "you know that you are too tired to go out in the morning; but this afternoon, perhaps, we will go down to the river. Will not that be better, my darling?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," sighed the child; but though she said no more, she did not turn her eyes away from the blooming roses and the waving leaves below her.
"Oh, it is so beautiful down there! Do let me go out, mamma!" she exclaimed again a little while afterwards. "Do let me go!" and her mother could not resist the beseeching tones. She arose, and at that moment an elderly woman entered the room—a woman who looked so exquisitely neat that one would have thought that she had no other business in life than that of keeping in perfect order her gray hair, with its snow-white cap, and her simple, spotless dress; but, on the contrary, she was the house-keeper, and had the whole charge of the big house, with all its complicated domestic arrangements. Both mother and daughter exclaimed on seeing her, "Oh, Clarissa, how glad I am that you've come!" And both began to ask her opinion as to the visit to the garden, which the invalid so longed for, but which her mother hesitated to grant.
Clarissa was a person of rare character, and a tower of strength in this household, where, from the lady of the house down to the lowest servant, her word was followed as law and obeyed with affection; and one took into the clear depths of her honest, loving eyes explained the secret of her power: they were "Mother's eyes."
"Say 'yes,' Clarissa, and let us go," begged the child, pathetically.
"The air is soft, all the birds are singing and calling us: why should we not try it to-day, dear Mrs. Stanhope?" said Clarissa.
"Yes; if you think best, we will," answered the mother. And Frederic, the tall footman, was summoned to carry the little girl down the long staircase and out of the house. Then, once out-of-doors, the two women, supporting the child tenderly between them, led her through the sunny garden.
"Nora, are you happy now?" asked the mother, tenderly.
"Yes; it is beautiful here," replied the child; "but I should like to go down to the stone bench by the river-side, where the branches dip into the water."
So they went on over the green terraces to the water-side, down to the seat almost hidden under the lindens, among the clusters of whose pendent, sweet-smelling blossoms the bees were busy, mingling their deep murmur with the song which the Rhine sang in passing. Nora's eyes followed the dancing waves that seemed like living, happy sprites.
"Oh! how I wish that I could leap and dance so, mamma! away! away! but I am so tired; I am always tired. I long to hop about as the birds do up in the trees there, and sing and be merry; but I am always so tired."
"My darling, when you are stronger you will dance," replied her mother, in a cheerful tone; but her looks belied her voice, for she was far from feeling the confidence which she tried to give.
"The doctor is coming to-day, and we will ask him what we can do this summer to make you stronger. Now we must go back to the house, Nora; you look pale and ill, my child. Is anything more than usual the matter with you?"
Nora assured her mother that she was only tired. After any unusual exertion, her face always grew paler and her expression more suffering. She reached the house with difficulty, and, when Frederic had carried her up to her bed-room, she lay on the sofa a long time without moving, thoroughly exhausted.
The doctor came towards noon, and declared that a complete change of air would be the best thing for the little Nora, who certainly seemed to be losing strength daily. He would write to a physician, a friend of his in Switzerland, to find a suitable place for her, and would come again as soon as he received an answer.
Towards evening, Nora sat once more in the window, gazing wearily at the long slanting rays of the setting sun that fell across the greensward in golden radiance, and lighted up the rose-leaves till they shone like lamps among the flowers. Clarissa sat at her work-table by Nora's side and from time to time, she raised her head and looked sadly at the frail form that lay so motionless in the window-seat.
"Clarissa," said the child, presently, "will you repeat the old song of Paradise to me?"
Clarissa laid aside her work.
"We will sing it together again some day, dear child, when you are strong enough; now I will say it to you if you wish" and she folded her hands and began:—"A stream of water, crystal bright, Flows down through meadows green, Where lilies, shining in the light, Like twinkling starlets gleam."And roses blow, and roses glow, While birds in every tree Are singing loud, are singing low, 'In Paradise are we.'"Here, gently blows the soft, sweet wind; Bright flowers grow all around; Men wake, as from a dream, to find They tread on holy ground."In blissful happiness they rove, At peace with each and all; United now in bonds of love, Freed from the grave's dark pall."All want and weariness are o'er, All sorrow and all pain; Their rapture gathers more and more; The sick are well again."
After Clarissa had finished her recitation, no sound broke the stillness for a long time; Nora seemed lost in thought. "Clarissa," she said at last, "that is a beautiful poem, and makes me long to go."
"Yes; go willingly, go gladly, dear child," replied Clarissa, with tears in her eyes. "Then you can wander joyfully among the bright flowers, and sing:"'Our rapture gathers more and more; The sick are well again.'
"And we shall soon join you there, your mamma and I—"
At this moment the mother entered, and Clarissa stopped suddenly; for she knew well that Mrs. Stanhope could not endure the thought of losing little Nora, even though her child were called to heaven; but the mother had heard enough of what had been said, and looked at the child with renewed anxiety. Nora certainly looked very pale and weary; and, at her mother's request, she let herself be carried at once to bed in Clarissa's strong and tender arms.
Later in the evening when Mrs. Stanhope sat alone with her old friend, she began anxiously to question the suitableness of talking to the child upon such topics.
"Surely there is no need of dwelling on such mournful things, Clarissa. Nora is not so ill that we need think the worst, much less talk about it."
"Nora likes to hear me repeat her favorite poem," replied Clarissa; "and, dear Mrs. Stanhope, let me say one thing to you. If our darling is to live only to suffer through long years of pain, can you wish for life for her? Why should we wish to keep her here, where she cannot enjoy the smallest part of the wealth and beauty about her, rather than let her go to that heavenly home, where there is no more sorrow nor pain?"
"I cannot bear the thought of parting from her; it must not, it cannot be. Why may not all yet go well, and Nora get strong again?" said the poor mother; and the heart within her was heavy with grief. She could say no more, and withdrew in silence to her own room.
The great stone mansion was soon wrapped in stillness; and as the light of the summer moon shone down upon it, whoever had seen it standing there in stately beauty, its high white pillars gleaming through the dark trees, would surely have thought:
"How beautiful it must be to live there! No care nor sorrow can reach the inmates of that lovely dwelling!"
Mrs. Stanhope occupied her paternal home on the banks of the Rhine. She had married an English-man when very young, and had lived in England until his death, when she returned to the home of her childhood, unoccupied since the death of her parents, bringing with her two little children, the brown-eyed Philo, and his delicate, fair-haired sister, Nora. The faithful Clarissa, who had taken care of Mrs. Stanhope in her childhood and who had accompanied her to her foreign home, loved these children as if they were her own. The little family had now lived several years in this beautiful house on the Rhine; a very peaceful and regular life it was, one day like another; for the children were delicate and could bear no exciting pleasures. Two years ago a heavy sorrow dropped its dark shadow over the household. Little Philo closed his dark eyes forever, and was laid to rest under the old linden-tree in the garden, where the roses bloomed all summer long. Nora, who was only a year younger than her brother, was now in her eleventh year.
In about a week after his first visit, the doctor came again. He had heard from his friend, the physician, who had willingly offered to find a house for Mrs. Stanhope near his own, in the little village of Buchberg, among the mountains. Mrs. Stanhope might set out as soon as she pleased. He would answer for all being in readiness to receive her.
In a few days they were ready to start. Clarissa was to remain behind to put the house in order, and only a young maid-servant went with them. As the carriage rolled away, bearing Mrs. Stanhope and her little daughter on the way to Switzerland, Clarissa gave them many a God-speed, and, turning back into the empty house, she wiped away the tears she could no longer repress, saying softly to herself:"'Their rapture gathers more and more; The sick are well again.'"
CHAPTER II.
IN THE DOCTOR'S HOUSE AT BUCHBERG.
The kitchen-garden is the especial delight of the true German housewife; that is, of one who lives in the country where such a luxury is possible. The flower-garden is a source of pleasure to the whole family; but the vegetable-garden is her own, so to speak; she cares for it herself; she watches each little plant with her own eyes, and removes each encroaching weed with her own hands. Now this year the cauliflowers were of unusually fine promise, and they excited the hopes of their owner that a wonderful harvest would before long reward her care; not a trace of a noxious worm was as yet to be detected.
"Good evening," said some one from the other side of the hedge; "your vegetables are always the best and the most forward of any in the neighborhood; they show the care you take of them."
The doctor's wife came nearer to the hedge, and over the low barrier Heiri, the day-laborer, stretched his hand, stained and knotted with work, to clasp that of his old friend and schoolmate. How often had he been to her for counsel and aid since those school-days, and when had that willing and helpful hand ever failed him?
"How are you all at home, Heiri?" she asked heartily. "Have you plenty of work? Are your wife and children well?"
"Yes, yes, thank God!" replied Heiri, as he lifted his heavy tools from his shoulder and set them on the ground. "There is work enough; I am just taking these tools to be sharpened. I have to keep hard at it, for the family is growing big."
"The three little boys look finely; I saw them go by yesterday with Elsli," continued the doctor's wife. "But Elsli herself looks quite too pale and delicate. Do not forget how her mother died, Heiri. The little girl ought not to have too much to do; she is not strong, and she is growing too fast. Do take it in time, Heiri; you know by sad experience how rapidly disease gains ground when it has once got hold of a young girl."
"Yes, yes, I can never forget that. It was terrible to see how quickly Gritli sank,—and she so young, so young! Marget is a good wife and an industrious woman; but nothing will ever make me forget my poor Gritli"; and Heiri wiped away a few tears with his hard hand.
Tears were also in the eyes of the doctor's wife, as she said, "Neither can I ever forget her, nor how gladly she would have lived for you and the children, nor how quickly it was all over. Elsli is the very image of her mother, Heiri, and I cannot help fearing that she is working beyond her strength."
"She's a poor, thin little creature, to be sure," said Heiri; "and it strikes me, now and then, that she is delicate; but usually she is so quiet that I don't take much notice of her. Now, the boy is much more like his mother; he's always busy about something, especially about keeping things clean. He can't abide dirt, any more than Gritli could, and he is always at the little ones to make them come and be washed at the spout. Of course the little boys won't stand that, and they set up a scream, and then out comes their mother, and there's a grand row! I scarcely ever come home at night that Marget doesn't come complaining of the boy for plaguing the younger children. She wants me to punish him, but when the little fellow stands up before me, and looks straight into my eyes with such a look of his mother about him, I cannot bring myself to strike him. Then Marget is vexed and begins to scold, and I do not like to vex her, for she works hard and means all right. I have often thought that perhaps you, Mrs. Stein, would speak a word for me to Marget about punishing the boy; for anything from you would have great weight with her."
"Certainly I will, with pleasure. But tell me about Elsli; is Marget kind to her?"
"Well, this is how it is,"—and Heiri drew a little nearer the hedge and spoke in a confidential tone—"the little girl is more like me, and gives in easily and is not obstinate about having her own way, as her poor mother was. She does what she is bid, and never answers back when Marget scolds, nor ever complains, though she has to work from the time she gets home from school till she goes to bed; always carrying the baby, or doing something about the house."
"But you must not let her do too much, Heiri," said Mrs. Stein seriously. "I am very anxious about her. Ask Marget to come over and see me: tell her I have some clothes which my children have out-grown, and I should like to give them to her if she will come for them."
"Thank you; I will certainly send her. Good-night I hope you will have good luck with the cauliflowers"; and, with another shake of his good friend's hand, Heiri went off to the smithy.
The doctor's wife stood lost in thought for several minutes. She was looking towards her vegetables, but she was thinking of neither beet nor cauliflower, though her eyes were resting on the neat rows before her. This talk with Heiri had brought the old days of her childhood forcibly back to her memory. She saw the pretty Gritli with her big brown eyes, as she used to sit weaving forget-me-nots into pretty wreaths with her skilful fingers; always putting a few into her belt and into her hair. Gritli was the child of poor parents, but she was always neatly dressed, and, though her clothes were of the coarsest stuff, yet there was a peculiar look of daintiness about her, which, with the bit of color in flower or ribbon that was never wanting in her costume, gave the impression that she had just been dressed by an artist, as a model for a picture. Many criticised this daintiness and many laughed at it, but it made no difference to Gritli; for indeed it was only the instinctive expression of the girl's natural longing for the beautiful.
At eighteen, Gritli married Heiri, a good-hearted fellow who had long loved her. But after five years of married life she died, of a rapid consumption; leaving two children, Stefan and Elsli, four and three years old. It was not long before Heiri found that he needed help in the care of these little ones, and, taking the advice of friends and neighbors, he married Marget, who was recommended to him as specially capable of looking after his house and children. She proved indeed a good house-keeper; but for ornaments and flowers she had no taste, and she did not see the use of being over particular about neatness either, so that Heiri's household soon lost the air of refinement which had been noticeable during Gritli's life.
Marget's three children did not get by any means the nice care that Fani and Elsli had received from their own mother, and Gritli's children retained an air of distinction that was ineffaceable, and that marked them as quite different from the younger set.
The memories that passed almost like a vision before the eyes of the doctor's wife, as she stood apparently studying her kitchen-garden, were rudely dispelled by a piercing scream that resounded from the house; and presently an eight-year-old girl came running round the corner, pursued by her older brother; a big lad, who held a huge volume under his left arm, and had something tightly clutched in his right hand.
"Rikli! what a fearful noise! come here to me! what has happened now?"
The girl screamed louder and hid her face in the skirts of her mother's dress.
"Now, just look at the innocent cause of this ridiculous disturbance, mother," said Fred. "Only this pretty, dear little froggy, that I caught, and was holding out for Rikli to admire. Just let me read you this description, and you will see how exactly it agrees with Mr. Frog himself. Look, mamma, look!" and Fred opened his hand and showed a small green frog.
"Stand still, and be quiet, Rikli," said her mother to the crying girl, "and, Fred, why do you persist in showing the silly child these creatures, when you know how much she is afraid of them?"
"She was the only person near," answered Fred. "But do listen to this, mamma." Fred opened his book, and began to read:—
"'The green or water frog, esculenta, is about three inches in length, grass-green, with black spots. His eyes have a golden color, and the toes of his hind legs are webbed. His voice, which is often heard on warm summer nights, sounds Brekekex! He passes the winters hidden in the mud and slime. He feeds upon'—"
At this moment a carriage was heard approaching. "It is the lady with the sick child," said Mrs. Stein, putting Fred aside rather hastily, for he tried to detain her. He followed her, crying out:—
"Do listen, mamma; you do not know what he eats. He eats—"
The carriage was at the door. Hans came from the stable, and Kathri, in her best white apron, from the kitchen, to lift out the sick girl and carry her into the house. Fred and Rikli stood back by the hedge, as still as mice, watching the proceedings.
First, a lady alighted from the carriage, and beckoned to Kathri, who came forward, lifted out the pale child, and carried her up the steps into the house. The lady followed with Mrs. Stein.
"That girl is a great deal bigger than you are, if mother did say that she was only eight or nine years old," said Fred to Rikli. "She is more nearly Emma's age, and what do you suppose she would think to hear you screaming as you did just now? I don't think she'd like you for a friend."
"Well, at any rate, she wouldn't always have centipedes and frogs
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