CHAPTER II.
LONG, LONG DAYS.
It was not many days after the events mentioned in the last chapter. Dorasat by her father's bedside, her head buried in the pillows, vainlystriving to choke down her tears and sobs. It seemed as if her heart mustbreak. The Major lay back on his pillow, white and still, with a peacefulsmile on his calm face. Dora could not understand it, could not take itin, 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 awakenher, so when at last she opened her eyes, she went to seek him, and shefound him still in bed, and lying so quiet that she seated herself quitesoftly by his side, that she might not disturb him.
Presently the servant came up with the breakfast, and looking through theopen door into the bed-room where Dora sat by her father's bed-side, shecalled 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 thepillow and sobbed and wept. Presently she heard her aunt come into theroom, and she raised her head and tried to control herself, for shedreaded the scene that she knew was coming. And it came--cries and sobs,loud groans and lamentations. Aunt Ninette declared that she could neverbear this terrible blow; she did not know which way to turn, nor what todo first.
In the open drawer of the table by the side of the bed, lay severalpapers, and as she laid them together, meaning to lock them up, she saw aletter 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 helpgrowing calmer as she read. She turned to the silently weeping Dora withthese words,
"Come, my child, your home henceforth will be with us. You and I will tryto remember that all is well with your father; otherwise we shall breakdown under our sorrow."
Dora arose at once and prepared to follow her aunt, but her heart washeavy within her; she felt as if all was over and she could not live muchlonger.
As she came up the stairs behind her aunt, Aunt Ninette omitted for thefirst time to caution her to step lightly, and indeed there was no neednow of the usual warning when they approached Uncle Titus' room, for thelittle girl was so sad, so weighed down with her sorrow as she entered hernew home, that it seemed as if she could never again utter a sound ofchildish merriment.
A little room under the roof, hitherto used as a store-room, was changedinto a bed-room for Dora, though not without some complainings from AuntNinette. 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 thedining-room, where they were joined by Uncle Titus, who however seldomspoke, so deeply was he absorbed in his own thoughts. After supper, Dorawent up to her little room under the roof, and with her face buried in herpillow, cried herself softly to sleep.
On the following morning she begged to be allowed to go over to look onceagain at her father, and after some objection, her aunt agreed to go withher, and they crossed the narrow street.
Dora took a silent farewell of her dear father, weeping all the time butmaking no disturbance. Only when she again reached her little bed-room,did she at last give way to her sobs without restraint, for she knew thatsoon 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 inKarlsruhe. Her father went over with her the lessons she had learned inHamburg, but he did not seem to care to begin any new study, preferring toleave everything for her aunt to arrange.
It happened that one of Aunt Ninette's friends was the teacher of aprivate school for girls, so that it was soon settled that Dora was to goto her every morning to learn what she could. Also a seamstress wasengaged to teach her the art of shirt-making in the afternoon, for it wasa theory of Aunt Ninette's that the construction of shirts of all kindswas a most useful branch of knowledge, and she proposed that Dora shouldlearn this art, with a view of being able to support herself with herneedle. She argued that since the shirt is the first garment to be put onin dressing, it should be the first that one should learn to make, andwith this as a foundation, Dora could go on through the whole art ofsewing, till in time she might even arrive at the mighty feat of makingdresses! With which achievement Aunt Ninette would feel more thansatisfied, but this great end would never be reached, unless the firststeps were taken in the right direction.
So every morning Dora sat on the school-bench studying diligently, andevery afternoon on a little chair close to the seamstress' knee, sewing ona big shirt that made her very warm and uncomfortable.
The mornings were not unpleasant; for she was in the company of otherchildren who were all studying, and Dora was ambitious and willing tolearn. So the hours flew quickly, for she was too busy to dwell much onthe loss of her dear father, and to think that he was gone forever. Butthe afternoons were truly dreadful. She must sit through the long hothours, close by the seamstress, almost smothered by the big piece ofcotton cloth, which her little fingers could hardly manage, and she grewrestless and irritable, for her hands were moist, and the needle refusedto be driven through the thick cloth. How often she glanced up at theclock on the wall during those long hours, when the minute hand was surelystuck at half-past three, and the regular tic-tac seemed to fill thequiet room with its sleepy droning. So hot, so still, so long were thehours 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 atthe piano and practise exercises, and all sorts of pretty tunes!" Shecould think of nothing more delightful; she listened with hungry ears, anddrank in every note that reached her. In the narrow street where theseamstress lived she could hear the music distinctly, for no wagonspassed, and the voices of foot-passengers did not reach up so high as toher room. So Dora listened to the sweet melodies which were her onlyrefreshment during those hot long hours, and even the running scales werea pleasure to her ear. But then the thought of her father came back toher, and she felt bitterly the terrible contrast between these hot lonelyafternoons and those which she used to spend with him under the cool shadeof the lindens. Then she thought of that glorious sunset, and of herfather, as he stood transfigured in the golden light. She remembered hiscomforting words, his assurance that some day they two and the motherwould stand thus together, shining in the eternal light of Heaven. ButDora sighed at the thought of the long weary time before she should jointhem, unless indeed some accident should happen to her, or she should fallill and die, from this too heavy task of shirt-making. After all, her bestconsolation was her father's verse; and then too, he had been so sure ofits 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 heartgrew lighter, and even her needle moved more easily, as if inspired by thecheering thoughts. Yet the days were long and wearisome, and theirstill
ness followed her when she went home to her uncle and aunt.
She reached home just in time for supper. Uncle Titus always held thenewspaper before his face, and read and ate behind its ample shelter. AuntNinette spoke in whispers all the while, and asked only the most necessaryquestions, in order not to disturb her husband. Dora said little; and lessevery day, as she grew accustomed to this silent life. Even when she camehome from school at noon for the short interval before the time for hersewing lessons, there was no need to caution her against noise; for thechild moved ever less and less like a living being, and grew more like ashadow day by day.
Yet by nature she was a lively little maiden, and took so keen an interestin all about her, that her father often used joyfully to observe it,saying,
"That child is exactly like her dear mother; just the same movements, thesame indomitable spirit and enjoyment of life!"
But now all this vivacity seemed extinguished. Dora was very careful neverto provoke her aunt to complaints, which she dreaded exceedingly. Yet forall her pains it would happen sometimes, most unexpectedly and when shewas least looking for a storm, that one would break over her head, andfrighten all her thoughts and words back into her childish heart; nay,almost check the flow of youth in her veins.
One evening, she came home from her work filled with enthusiasm, by a songshe had been listening to, played by her unseen musician. Dora knew thewords well:
"Live your life merrily While the lamp glows, Ere it can fade and die, Gather the rose."
Dora had often sung this song, but she had never dreamed that it could beplayed on the piano, and it sounded so beautiful, so wonderful to her,that she said to her aunt, as she entered the dining-room,
"Oh, Aunt Ninette, how delightful it must be to know how to play on thepiano! Do you think that I can ever learn it in my life?"
"Oh, in heaven's name, how can you ask me such a thing? How can you worryme so? How could you do anything of the kind in our house? Think of theterrible din that a piano makes! And where would the money come from ifyou could find the time? Oh, Dora, where did you get hold of thatunfortunate idea? I should think I had enough to worry me already, withoutyour asking me such a thing as this into the bargain."
Dora hastened to assure her aunt that she had no intention of asking forany thing, and the storm blew over. But never again did she dare even tospeak of music, no matter how eagerly she had listened to the piano,during her long sewing lessons.
Every evening after Dora had learned all her lessons for school, while heraunt in utter silence knitted or nodded, the child climbed up to herlittle attic room; and before she closed her tiny window, she leaned outinto the night to see whether the stars were shining, and looking downupon her from the high heavens. Five there were always up there just aboveher head; they stood close together and Dora looked at them so often andso steadily, that she began to consider them as her own specialproperty--or rather as friends who came every night and twinkled down intoher heart, to tell her that she was not utterly alone. One night the ideacame to her that these bright stars were loving messengers, who broughther kisses and caresses from her dear parents. And from these heavenlymessengers the lonely child gained nightly comfort when she climbed to herlittle chamber in the roof, with her feeble candle for her only companion.She sent her prayers up to heaven through the tiny window, and receivedfull assurance in return, that her Father in heaven saw her, and would notforsake her. Her father had told her that God would always help those whotrusted him and prayed to him, and she had no fear.
And so the long hot summer passed, and Autumn came. Then followed a long,long winter with its cold and darkness; such cold that Dora often thoughtthat even the hot summer days were better, for she no longer dared toopen the window to look for her friends the stars, and often she couldhardly get to sleep, it was so cold in the little room, under the roof. Atlast the Spring rolled round again, and the days passed one like another,in the quiet dwelling of Uncle Titus. Dora worked harder than ever on thebig shirts, for she had learned to sew so well, that she had to help theseamstress in earnest now. When the hot days came again, somethinghappened; and now Aunt Ninette had reason enough to lament. Uncle Titushad an attack of dizziness, and the doctor was sent for.
"I suppose it is thirty years since you went beyond the limits of the townof Karlsruhe, and in all that time you have never left your desk exceptto eat and sleep. Am I right?" asked the physician, after he had lookedsteadily at Uncle Titus and tapped him a little here and there.
There was no denying that the doctor had stated the case truly.
"Very well," he said, "now off with you! go away at once; to-day ratherthan to-morrow. Go to Switzerland. Go to the fresh mountain air; that isall the medicine you need. Don't go too high up, but stay there six weeksat least. Have you any preference as to the place? No? Well, set yourselfto thinking and I will do the same, and to-morrow I shall call again tofind you ready for the journey."
With this off started the doctor, but Aunt Ninette would not let himescape so easily. She followed close at his heels with a whole torrent ofquestions, which she asked over and over again, and she would have ananswer. The doctor had fairly deserved this attack, by his astoundingprescription. His little game of snapping it suddenly upon them, and thenquickly making his escape, had not succeeded; he lost three times as muchtime outside the door as if he had staid quietly in the room. When at lastAunt Ninette returned to her husband, there he sat at his desk again,writing as usual!
"My dear Titus," cried the good woman really in great astonishment, "is itpossible that you did not hear what we are ordered to do? To dropeverything and go away at once, and stay away for six weeks! And where? Wehave not an idea where! And there's no way of knowing who our neighborswill be! It is terrible, and there you sit and write as if there werenothing else to be done in the world!"
"My love, it is exactly because I must go away so soon, that I wish tomake the most of the little time I have left," said Uncle Titus, and hewent on with his writing.
"My dear Titus, your way of accepting the unexpected is most admirable,but this must be talked over, I assure you. The consequences may be veryserious, and the matter must not be lightly treated. Do think at oncewhere we are to go! Aunt Ninette spoke very impressively.
"Oh, it makes no difference where we go, if it is only quiet, and out inthe country some where," said the good man, as he calmly continued hiswriting.
"Of course, that is the very thing" said his wife, "to find a quiet house,not full of people nor in a noisy neighborhood. We might happen on aschool close by, or a mill, or a waterfall. There are so many of thosedreadful things in Switzerland. Or some noisy factory, or a market place,always full of country folk, all the people of the whole canton pouring inthere together and making a terrible uproar. But I have an idea, mydearest Titus, I have thought of a way to settle it. I shall write to anold uncle of my brother's wife. You remember the family used to live inSwitzerland; I am sure I can find out from him just what it is best for usto do."
"That seems to me rather a round-about way," said her husband, "and if Iremember right the family had some unpleasant experiences in Switzerland,and are not likely to have kept up any connection with it."
"Oh, let me see to that; I will take care that all is as it should be, mydear Titus," said aunt Ninette decidedly, and off she went, and withoutmore delay wrote and dispatched a letter to her brother's wife's uncle.This done, she hurried away to Dora's sewing teacher, who was a mostrespectable woman, and arranged that while they were in Switzerland, Dorashould spend the days with her, going to school as usual in the morningand sewing all the afternoon, and that the woman should go home with Dorato pass the nights.
Dora was informed of this plan when she came home that evening. Shereceived the news in silence, and after supper in silence went to herlittle attic room. There as she sat upon her little bed, she realizedfully what her life would be when her uncle and aunt had gone away, and asshe compared it sadly with the happ
y companionship of her dear father, hersorrow and solitude seemed too terrible to bear, and she hid her face inher hands and gave way to bitter tears. Her uncle and aunt might die too,she thought, and she should be left alone with no one to care for her, noone in the world to whom she belonged, and nothing to do but to sitforever sewing on endless shirts. For ever and ever! for she knew she mustearn her living by sewing. Well, she was quite willing to do that; but oh!not to be left all alone.
The poor child was so wholly absorbed in these painful thoughts, as theypassed again and again through her mind, that she lost all sense of time,till at last she was aroused, by the clock on the neighboring towerstriking so many times that she was frightened. She raised her head. Itwas perfectly dark. Her little candle had burned out, and not a glimmer oflight came from the street. But the stars; yes, there were the five starsabove still shining so joyfully, that it seemed to Dora as if her fatherwere looking down upon her with loving eyes, and saying cheeringly,
"God holds us in his hand God knows the best to send."
The sparkling starlight sank deep into her heart, and made it lighter. Shegrew calmer. Her father knew, she said to herself, she would trust hisknowledge, and not fear what the future might hold in store. And after shelaid her head on her pillow, she kept her eyes fixed upon the beautifulstars until they closed in sleep.
On the following evening the doctor came as he had promised. He began tosuggest various places to Uncle Titus, but Aunt Ninette assured him rathercurtly, that she was already on the track of something that promised to besatisfactory. There were a great many things to be taken intoconsideration, she said, since Uncle Titus was to make so vast a change inhis habits. The utmost prudence must be exercised in the selection of thesituation, and of the house also. This was her present business, and wheneverything was settled she would inform the doctor of her arrangements.
"Very well, only don't be long about it; be off as soon as you can, thequicker the better," said the physician warningly, and he was making ahasty retreat, when he almost fell over little Dora who had stolen soquietly into the room that he had not seen her.
"There, there, I hope I did not hurt you," he said, tapping the frightenedchild upon the shoulder. "It will do this thin little creature a world ofgood too, this trip to Switzerland," he continued. "She must drink plentyof milk,--lots of milk."
"We have decided to leave Dora behind," remarked Aunt Ninette drily.
"As you please; it is your affair, Mrs. Ehrenreich; but you must let meobserve that if you do not look out, you will have another case on yourhands, as bad as your husband's, if not worse. Good-morning madam," and hevanished.
"Doctor, doctor! what do you mean? What did you say?" cried Aunt Ninettein her most plaintive tone, running down the stairs to overtake him.
"I mean that the little person up there has quite too little good blood inher veins, and that she cannot last long, unless she gets more and betternourishment."
"For heaven's sake! What unfortunate people we are!" cried Mrs.Ehrenreich, wringing her hands in distress, as she came back into herhusband's room. "My dearest Titus, just lay down your pen for one moment.You did not hear the dreadful things the doctor said would happen toDora, if she did not have more and better blood?"
"Oh, take her with us to Switzerland. She never makes any noise," andUncle Titus went on with his writing.
"My dearest Titus, how can you decide such a thing in one second? To besure she never makes any noise, and that is the most important thing. Butthere are so many other things to consider, and arrange for, and thinkover! Oh dear! Oh dear me!"
But Uncle Titus was again absorbed in his work, and paid not the slightestheed to his wife's lamentations. So, seeing that she could expect no helpfrom him, she went into her own room, thought everything over carefullyagain and again, and at last decided that it was best to follow thedoctor's advice, and take Dora with them.
In a day or two the expected letter came from Hamburg. It was very short.The old uncle knew nothing about his brother's residence in Switzerland,now thirty years back. Tannenburg was certainly quiet enough, for hisbrother had always complained of the want of society there, and that wasall he knew about it. But this was satisfactory so far, and Aunt Ninettedecided at once to write to the clergyman at Tannenburg for fartherparticulars. Solitude and quiet! this was just what Uncle Titus needed.
This second letter brought an immediate answer which confirmed her hopes."Tannenburg is a small place, with scattered houses," wrote the clergyman."There is just such a dwelling as you describe, now ready for lodgers. Itis occupied by the widow of the school-teacher, an elderly and very worthywoman, who has two good-sized rooms and a little bed-room which she willbe glad to let." And the widow's address was added, in case Mrs.Ehrenreich should wish farther information.
Mrs. Ehrenreich wrote immediately, setting forth her wishes at full lengthand in great detail. She expressed her satisfaction that the houses inTannenburg were so far apart, and she hoped that the one in question wasnot situated in such a way as to be undesirable for the residence of aninvalid. She wished to make sure that there was in the vicinity no smithy,no locksmith, no stables, no stone-breaker's yard, no slaughter-house normill, no school, and particularly no waterfall.
The answer from the widow, very prettily expressed, contained theagreeable assurance, that not one of these dreaded nuisances was to befound in her neighborhood. The school and the mill were so far away thatnot a sound could reach her dwelling from either, and there was nowaterfall in that part of the country. Also there was not a house to beseen far or near, except the large residence of Mr. Birkenfeld, standingsurrounded by beautiful gardens, fields and meadows. The Birkenfelds werethe most respected family in the neighborhood. He was a member of everycommittee, and was a most benevolent man, and his wife was full of goodworks. The widow added that she herself owed a great deal to the kindnessof this family, particularly with regard to her little house which wastheir property, and which Mr. Birkenfeld had allowed her to occupy eversince her husband's death. He had proved to be the kindest of landlords.
After a letter like this there was no need for farther delay; everythinghad been provided for. Dora now heard for the first time that she was togo with them, and with a light heart and a willing hand, she packed theheavy materials for six large shirts, which she was to make while theywere in Switzerland. The prospect of sewing on the shirts in a new place,and with different surroundings, excited her so much that she looked on itall as a holiday. At last all was ready. The trunks and chests werecarried down to the street door, and the servant-girl was sent out for acabman with a hand-cart, to take them away.
Dora had been ready for a long time, and stood at the head of the stairswith beating heart filled with expectations of all the new things that shewas to see for the next six weeks. The idea of this coming freedom almostovercame her with its bewildering delight, after all those long, long daysin the seamstress' little, stifling room.
At last her uncle and aunt came from their room laden with innumerableumbrellas and parasols, baskets and bundles, got down stairs with somedifficulty, and mounted the carriage that was waiting below. And they werefairly off for the country,--and quiet.