Carving the Cake
Carving the Cake.Page 98.
Poor Violet! once her eyes fell on the pink letters it was with difficulty she could swallow any of the cake. She put a small piece in her mouth, and crumbled up the rest in her fingers, letting the currants fall through them on the floor. She drank her coffee eagerly, so as to swallow down the tiny bits she had taken; and then John, watching her closely, saw it was no use to offer her any more.
"We must give some of this grand cake to Kate," he said presently. "We cannot allow Aunt Lizzie to eat it all. And Fritz, too, and Ella, they must each have a slice." He took up the knife and began to carve the cake with some recklessness.
Violet watched him intently as he cut a large piece for Kate, then another for Fritz; and the knife was already buried in the frosted silver for Ella's slice,when she suddenly stretched out her hand and cried out piteously,—
"No, dear father, not there. Ah, leave that piece for me. Do not cut off those words; Violet loves them."
John drew out the knife and laid it on the plate. "Aunt Lizzie shall cut Ella a slice by-and-by," he said softly; then drew his girl so close in to his side that Violet could feel the loud beating of his heart.
After all, the supper proved but a sorry meal, though Aunt Lizzie talked and laughed and told anecdotes about her children at home, some of which caught Violet's attention, and drew forth questions and answers; but every now and then a deep unconscious sigh from John, or a smothered sob from Violet, would show that their minds had wandered far away from the little fair-haired children at Gützberg.
At last he got up and laid her down upon her bed. "I must say good-night now to my darling," he said wearily as he stretched his arms up into the air. "Father is very tired, and he must go down to the barracks presently."
"Not to stay—not to sleep? Thou wilt not say good-bye to-night?" cried Violet. "Dear father, not to-night!" Her appeal broke into one long, pitiful wail.
"No, no; not to-night. Oh, darling child, if Violet only knew how father's heart aches, she would not cry so. Try, sweetest darling, to be brave. Father will come back when he has reported himself to the captain, and Aunt Lizzie will stay with thee while he is away."
Violet ceased crying aloud, and lying back on her pillows, resorted to her old device of drawing the bedclothes over her face. John stooped down and kissed the little hand that grasped them so tightly; then saying a few words in a low voice to Aunt Lizzie, he went out of the room.
When he returned about two hours later, Violet was asleep. Her aunt had sat by her bed and sung to her, in a low, droning voice, little hymns and nursery songs familiar to her ears in the old mother days, until at last the sobbing ceased, the hand which held the sheet gradually relaxed, and the child slept.
Poor John! it was a relief to him to find all so quiet in the room when he came up. He had the bird-cage in his hand, which he hung up on a peg in the centre of the eight-sided alcove which formed the window, and which jutted out some distance over the street.
Then he drew a chair over into the alcove for Lizzie, and they sat down in the gloaming to talkover Violet and what was to be done to insure her happiness and comfort during the time he must be away at the war.
It was a long talk and a sad one, and to John, sitting there in the moonlit window, it seemed as if he were speaking in a dream to the poor little dead mother; for Aunt Lizzie listened with the same earnest sympathy, and when she replied it was in the same low tones. When she spoke, too, of the poor sick child lying now so quietly asleep on the bed in the corner, she used the very same expressions and endearing epithets of love, which came back to poor John's ears like whispers from the grave.
It was finally arranged between them that she was to remain with Violet for a few days after his departure, so as to allow the first burst of childish grief to pass over under her loving and watchful care. Then Aunt Lizzie had hoped that it might have been possible to have moved the poor little invalid to Gützberg, where she could have devoted herself to her charge, and she would have done so lovingly and faithfully. But John had already thought of this plan, and had consulted over it with the physician, a kind and clever man, who had known Violet from her birth; and he had decided against the plan, saying that any attempt to move the child from the roomwhere she had lived all her little life would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The shock of a removal, and the tearing up of the frail tendrils which held this little fading flower to life would cause it suddenly to wither away. "And besides," the doctor added kindly, "what should we all do here in Edelsheim without our little Violet? Why, you might almost as well take down the clock out of the old church tower and tell us still to know the time of day, as to take our Violet's face from the window and tell us all to live pure and patient lives. No, no, good man; leave us the child, and I for one will watch over her."
So John had returned home with sudden tears in his eyes, satisfied that the doctor was right. And Aunt Lizzie afterwards confirmed him regretfully in the same view; for she had said to Violet that afternoon, when she was lying on the bed beside her, "How would Violet like to leave Edelsheim for a little while, just while father is away, and to return with Aunt Lizzie to Gützberg? The little children at home would scream with joy to have Violet amongst them, and they would hold out their hands to welcome her."
But the child had cried out almost in terror, "No, no, no; do not take Violet to Gützberg. She must watchfor father at the window; she must wait for him till he comes home. He will not be long away. And besides, Aunt Lizzie, Violet could not leave her little mother. She is quite, quite close to Violet down there at the church; and sometimes Violet sends her flowers; and Fritz calls out quite loud, 'Mother, mother, Violet sends thee these flowers and her heart's love, and never, never forgets thee.' Fritz says it is all no use—she does not hear him calling out; but oh, Aunt Lizzie, Violet knows she does listen, for God hears all Violet's prayers, and father says my little mother is quite close to God."
After this outburst from the child's heart her aunt did not seek to urge her point. To tear asunder such strong links of love would indeed be death to Violet, and the little aching, loving heart, already half in heaven, must not be troubled further by any act of hers.
So now, all thoughts of Gützberg having been abandoned, it was arranged that a little maid called Evelina, who was at present in charge of Lizzie's children at Gützberg, should be engaged by John as nurse to Violet. She had been living in Lizzie's family for three years, and had a pretty bright face, a gentle manner, and up to this time had, under Lizzie's motherly direction, taken excellent care of thelittle ones. She was the only person Lizzie knew whom she could recommend from personal experience; and she undertook to impress on the girl's mind that she must, during John's absence, devote herself entirely to the sick child, and have no thought but for her comfort and happiness.
"One word more, Lizzie," said John, in a low, constrained voice, as he bent his head down on the back of Violet's chair, which stood empty in the moonlit window. "If—if, dearest Lizzie, it should please God that I should not return—what then? What is to become of my poor child?"
"God preserve us from such trouble," cried Lizzie, starting up suddenly, for there was a movement in the corner. "Hush. Violet will hear thee. Make thy mind happy. If I were to leave Gützberg and the children, and even Henry himself, I would come here and be a mother to her."
"It will not be for long," he said almost inaudibly as he lifted his helmet from the window seat and rose up. "The doctor told me so to-day. Thanks, a thousand thanks, good Lizzie. To-morrow at ten I shall be here to say good-bye. I shall have but a few minutes, that is all. We start at twelve for the front."
Aunt Lizzie slept beside Violet that night, with her arms tightly clasped around the little girl for whom the day was to break so bitterly. She found the soft breathing of the child, so peaceful in its restfulness, almost more difficult to listen to than the quick uneasy panting of the afternoon, for she knew well the anguish to which she must by-and-by awaken.
"So He giveth His beloved sleep," she murmured to herself as, in the summer dawn, she watched the little face so tranquilly turned towards her; and though occasionally there was a little fluttering sob, it was only a relic of yesterday's passionate weeping. Once when Violet smiled in her sleep and nestled more closely to her, Lizzie kissed her gently on the forehead. The child moved, smiled again, a broadening, happy smile, and said with a sigh of content, "On mother's breast."
Aunt Lizzie could not sleep. She watched thebands of crimson rising slowly up behind the roofs opposite like streaks of blood. The cocks crew and screamed from yard, and garden, and barn. The fountain at the angle of the street dribbled and splashed monotonously. There was a child crying in an opposite house, bitterly, ceaselessly. The canary awoke, stretched its wings with the help of its thin yellow legs, took a drink at the green fountain, having eyed it first with suspicion, and then burst out into a loud joyous carol. Aunt Lizzie was afraid it would awake Violet; but she slept calmly on.
Then the sun itself rose up in all its splendour and shone gloriously over all. The red roofs blazed and glistened. The orange weather-cock on the chimney of Madame Bellard's house looked as if each separate painted feather on its wings were a tongue of fire, while the scarlet nasturtiums creeping up the red brick shaft trembled and glowed brilliantly.
Aunt Lizzie's mind, from the long night's watching, felt hot and confused. The rays of the sun which shone slantingly through the round old-fashioned panes of glass in the window threw stripes of prismatic colour on the floor and on the chest which held the dead mother's clothes and all the little relics of her homely happy life. If that bitter crying opposite would cease, Lizzie felt as if she could thinkconnectedly. If it were not for the fear of disturbing Violet, she would have got up ere now and closed the open pane in the window.
She tried to think of the little children at home at Gützberg, of their bright smiles, and hearts innocent of care, but it was impossible. A drum in the distant barrack had begun to throb, and her heart, leaping up to a sudden agony, throbbed with it.
How many other hearts, too, were stirring at that call! men buckling on their armour; and women, who had not slept all night, starting up to fresh paroxysms of grief and despair. It was vain to hope that all the brave fellows going forth this day from their homes would come back to them safe and unharmed. Yet each one cried in their heart, "O God, let this bitterness not come to me"—"Spare, good Lord, spare my husband"—"Lord Jesus, have pity on my son"—"Beloved, thou wilt return to me safe"—"Ah, dear one, forget me not;" while the little ones smiled their adieus, knowing not the dread future.
At six o'clock the whole town seemed astir. Men were talking in the streets; spurs were clanking on the pavement as soldiers hurried to and fro. Bugles were calling, and the incessant rolling of drums came now, not only from the distant barrack across the river, but it seemed as if the whole air andthe blue sky itself were full of this dread prophetic sound.
At seven o'clock, Lizzie, slipping her arm quietly from under Violet, got up and dressed herself. When she came to the window, the first thing she saw opposite was Ella. She was standing in her little night-dress at the small top window in the roof. Her fair hair was partly tied back with a little white night-cap, but stray locks hung out disconsolately. Her face was supported by her two dimpled hands, and her elbows rested on the sill. It needed but one glance at the child's face and eyes for Aunt Lizzie to know who it was who had spent the night in such ceaseless bitter weeping. Even now, though her attention seemed temporarily attracted by the bustle in the street, she saw the white frilled sleeve from time to time passed quickly across the child's face.
In a few minutes Fritz appeared at the other little window in the red roof opposite. He also was attired in his night-dress; but he had a drum hung round his neck by a piece of cord, on which, as he looked down into the street, he began to beat with a prodigious noise; and on his head was a newspaper cap, from which streamed ribbons of scarlet, yellow, and blue. When he was momentarily exhausted he flung open the window, and stretched out his head excitedly.
"War, war, war!" he shouted. "Fritz will go to the war. Fritz will beat the drum and kill the French, and bang and hack and slash with all his might, till every man is dead." A brass trumpet which generally hung on a nail in the garret window, and which was often used by Fritz as a signal to attract Violet's attention, was now taken down and blown vehemently into the air; and then the drum was rattled upon more vigorously than ever.
A few of those gathered beneath in the street looked up on hearing the noise, and recognizing Fritz, smiled somewhat sadly; but when Lizzie glanced across again at the little window of Ella's room, the child had vanished, and the drum having ceased clattering for a moment, she could hear that the crying in the room opposite had been resumed.
"How she does weep, poor little girl! and what a noise the boy makes," said Lizzie, closing over the casement. "He will certainly awaken our Violet." She tried to attract Fritz's attention, to make him desist, but finding it useless, she fastened the bolt and turned back into the room.
To her surprise, on looking round, she found Violet sitting up in her bed, her eyes wide open and her face very pale.
"Aunt Lizzie?"
"Well, darling, hast thou been long awake?"
"A little while. When will father be here?"
"Very soon now."
"I do not want to say 'Good-bye,' Aunt Lizzie."
"No, darling, it is a hard word to speak."
"Will father say 'Good-bye' to Violet?"
"I suppose so. It is at least likely; but wherefore, darling child, dost thou ask Aunt Lizzie this question?"
"I do not want to say 'Good-bye,'" repeated Violet in the same sad voice. "It makes Violet cry to say 'Good-bye.'"
"Ah"—Aunt Lizzie paused with a little start as she suddenly recognized the cause of the child's distressful thoughts—"ah, I understand it. Violet would rather that there were no 'good-byes' said. Aunt Lizzie will tell father so, and he will understand what Violet wishes. Is not this what thou meanest, dearest child?"
Violet nodded her head. "Aunt Lizzie, what is Fritz shouting about over there at the window? and is not his father also going away to the war?"
"Yes, my child; and Fritz is screaming out that he will be a soldier too. He is a noisy lad, that Fritz."
"Violet wants to be a soldier too," said she in analmost inaudible voice; "but father is so long in coming, and Violet's heart goes so quick, Aunt Lizzie, and it makes her sick."
"Here, let me smooth thy hair." Her aunt stooped quickly and kissed the little white face. "Let me bathe thy face and put on a nice clean pinafore, and then thou wilt look so bright and fresh for father. And now try and drink this cup of milk. It will do thee good."
She offered the cup to her, but the child shook her head. "I could not drink it. All the morning something is in Violet's throat, just here, and she cannot make it go down."
"Well, we will not mind the milk." Aunt Lizzie put the cup on the table, and brushed out her long fair hair and tied it up with her purple ribbon. She bathed her face with warm water from the sauce-pan on the stove, and the pinafore was already half over her head, when the door opened and John came in.
"Aunt Lizzie, is it father? Tell him, tell him quickly," cried Violet in a sudden tremor. "Violet cannot be a soldier unless thou tellest him first what I said to thee."
Lizzie turned from the bed, leaving the pinafore still over the child's face. John was already half-way across the room, and there was such a look ofquestioning anguish in his gaze as it met hers that she could scarcely frame the words of poor Violet's request. She whispered, however, something in his ear, which after a second's thought he readily understood; and stepping over towards the bed, he waited until Lizzie drew the pinafore down from his little girl's face, gazing at her with the expression in his eyes of one who waits with a speechless pain and dread to look on the features of the dead.
But what was this! When the face was uncovered there was a smile, an actual smile on her lips, and one which grew with the mounting colour in her cheeks as she stretched up her arms quickly and said in a hurried whisper, "Father, Violet has been waiting for thee."
"Yes, darling, I am somewhat late, but it was with difficulty I could push my way up here through the streets. I thought at one time I should hardly have been able to force my way through them at all, and that I should have been forced to say 'Good-bye' from the street."
"From the street?" cried Aunt Lizzie and Violet in one breath.
"Yes; the colonel has decided that we are to march through the Market-place and then down by the fountain and along past these windows to the station."
"And I shall see thee again, father?"
"Yes, my darling."
"Aunt Lizzie will hold me in her arms, and I will look out at thee from the window."
"Yes, little treasure, yes."
"And Violet will watch thee coming up the street; and then she will see thee all the way along, along, until at last she will look, and look and will see thee no more." The smile had spread wider and wider, and the eyes fixed on his face had dilated and darkened to their deepest purple; but now there came a sudden pause, and the lips trembled. It was evident the struggle could not last much longer. The little heart was brave, but the flesh was weak.
"Father, I have a secret."
"Yes, my own Violet; what is it?"
He stooped down, and Aunt Lizzie moved away.
"Dost thou see my face, father?"
"Yes, yes; the sweetest face in all the world.
"But dost thou see it, father?"
"Yes."
"Put thy arms round my neck, and I will tell thee Violet's secret."
He put his arms round his little daughter, and held her tightly to his breast while she placed her lips to his ear. "Violet is a soldier. The Lord Jesuscan make even little sick girls brave. And, father, listen; look once more at Violet's face; look at her eyes." There was a pause, and then came the whisper, scarcely more than a fluttering breath—"Dost thou not see?—no more tears."
He held her back for one moment and looked into her eyes. He kissed her passionately twice; then recognizing that this whisper was his darling's farewell, he drew her to his heart with one long, silent pressure, and turned away quickly. One moment he gazed from the window, then stretching out his hand to Lizzie with averted face, he passed out into the street.
The Farewell Kiss
The Farewell Kiss.Page 114.
For a long time after John left the room Lizzie did not look round at Violet. She could not trust herself to do so. Bitter tears were running quickly down her own cheeks, and she dreaded to see the face of the child, so she sat by the stove and covered her eyes with her hands, grieving, oh, so sorely, that there was yet another farewell to be gone through, and that Violet's small stock of strength and brave little spirit must be tried still further.
She was surprised, therefore, when about a quarter of an hour after John's departure Violet called to her in a low, quiet voice,—
"Aunt Lizzie, is the flower-shop far from here?"
"No, my darling; it is only just round the corner."
"I mean the stall where Fritz buys the flowers for mother. I forget the name."
"I do not know the name either," replied her aunt, rising and brushing the tears off her face; "butyesterday afternoon, when I was walking from the station, I noticed beautiful flowers for sale in a shop close to this house."
"Didst thou see any violets there?"
"Yes, plenty of them."
There was a short pause, and then Violet said earnestly,—
"Aunt Lizzie, wilt thou go to the shop and buy me some violets? It is not far, thou saidst, and I have some money in my new desk."
"Of course I will go," said Aunt Lizzie, turning at once to look for her hat. "Never mind the money, darling; they will not cost much."
"But I should like to give the money. And please, Aunt Lizzie, buy a large bunch, and very sweet. Sometimes Fritz buys violets that have no smell, and I do not care for them."
"All right; Aunt Lizzie will choose the very sweetest she can find. And now here is the desk, and while Aunt Lizzie is tying on her hat thou canst take out the money."
Violet opened her new possession, and with trembling, eager fingers, removed the little secret receptacle which held her newly-acquired money and drew out several silver coins.
She placed them on the counterpane and waited for her aunt to turn round.
"Aunt Lizzie, wilt thou do one more thing for Violet?"
"Certainly, anything. What is it, my little darling?" for the child's face was covered with a crimson blush which darkened in its distress to almost a purple hue. "Darling, what is it?"
"The cake, Aunt Lizzie, which father put by last night in the cupboard. May I have it?"
"Certainly." Then, seeing her increased confusion, she added thoughtfully, "Aunt Lizzie is too glad that Violet should care to have the cake. It was made for thee, dearest, and madame would be so disappointed if thou didst not eat some of it."
Violet did not speak. She lifted her eyes nervously to her aunt's face, and moved her hands restlessly to and fro on the counterpane.
"I suppose I had better cut a slice for thee, the dish is so heavy; and now I may give thee some milk, dearest. Thou hast had no breakfast."
"Please don't cut the cake, Aunt Lizzie."
"Well, here it is. I will put it on the table beside thee; and here is the milk."
Violet nodded her head with that silent acquiescence which so often with her took the place of words, and Aunt Lizzie went down the stairs perplexed and wondering. When she reached the little side streetshe found the flower-stall literally besieged with women and children purchasing bouquets and bunches of flowers, to give to their dear ones ere they started for the war—beautiful blue forget-me-nots, moss roses, lilies of the valley. It seemed this morning as if the poorest child in the town had a penny to spare for this purpose.
Aunt Lizzie could scarcely force her way to the back of the stall, where a basket of sweet purple violets not yet unpacked had caught her eye.
"No, no," cried the woman excitedly as Lizzie put down her hand to select a bunch; "these cannot be touched until the others on the counter are sold."
"Oh, it is for a little sick child. I promised I would bring her home the sweetest in thy shop; and she will pay thee well, too, poor little girl."
"Who is the child?" asked the woman, curiously looking up at the young wife's pleading face, a something in the eyes and the voice stirring up old recollections. "Is it little Violet who has sent thee for them?"
"Yes, yes, the same."
"Take then what thou wilt, and from where thou wilt. There are even better bunches in the little tub under the table—real sweet violets from the king's garden; but they are not too good for her."
Lizzie knelt down and selected the finest bunch she could find in the tub—deep purple violets with the dew still on them and their stalks bound up with soft green moss.
"Thanks a thousand times; these are real beauties," she said gratefully. "How much do I owe thee for them?" and she held out her hand, in the palm of which lay Violet's money.
"Nothing," said the woman quickly. "Go, take them to her; she is welcome to them."
"But Violet wished to pay; she will be grieved."
"Don't let her grieve, then. She has enough pain in her heart for this day, I warrant. If she says anything, tell her that I will call some day myself for my payment; and that will be one look at her sweet little face. There, take a bunch of those blue forget-me-nots beside thee, and don't stop to thank me. My hands are too full this morning for such needless waste of time;" and she turned away quickly to attend to her other customers.
Lizzie went back with her hands full of flowers and her eyes full of tears. How this little girl was beloved by all the town!—she a poor, sick, crippled child; and yet she seemed to have cords of love binding her to almost every heart in the town. Aunt Lizzie smiled as she said to herself, "For of such isthe kingdom of heaven;" and a vision full of comfort passed before her eyes of the Lord Jesus standing with outstretched arms waiting patiently to gather this little suffering lamb into his arms.
When she reached the house she paused a moment at the door, for she was anxious to give Violet time to eat some of the breakfast which she had left beside her, and, in the nervous state in which she had left her, she felt sure the little girl would not be able to do so if any one were beside her. So, leaning against the entrance door of the house with the flowers and money in her hand, she stood a little aside from the crowd, lost in a sorrowful reverie.
It was not until a figure had darkened the doorway for a full minute or so that she looked up and perceived the policeman standing in front of her.
"How goes it with the little girl upstairs?" he said, in a dry, matter-of-fact voice.
"Pretty well, thank you," she replied, wondering at the interruption.
"Does she sleep? can she eat? is she heart-broken?" He spoke abruptly, and Lizzie noticed with surprise that his lip was trembling beneath his thick frizzled mustache.
"She is making a brave fight," replied she warmly; "but the worst is to come."
"Yes, that is it," he said quickly. "Once he is gone there will be no keeping her. She will fade away, poor little flower, and be no more seen. Good-morning. It is well for her to-day that she has one kind heart to fly to."
He touched his hat with military punctilio as he departed, but his eyes, which looked straight before him out into the street, were full of tears.
"How does he know about her?" thought Aunt Lizzie wonderingly as she went slowly up the stairs; "and what a soft heart he must have beneath that hard and battered exterior."
When she opened the door of Violet's room she found the child sitting up in her bed with her face flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright. She had her desk open on the counterpane beside her, and immediately in front of her, resting on her knees, was the piece of cake which yesterday she had refused to allow her father to cut.
Her aunt went over to the bedside with her bunch of deep purple violets and the blue forget-me-nots and laid them on the coverlet. As she did so, Violet looked up and said, rather wearily,—
"Aunt Lizzie, canst thou help me?"
"Certainly; what is it?"
"It is so hard to print such a long word;" and shepointed with a nervous hesitation to the pink letters on the cake.
Her aunt saw it all now—the little scrap of paper covered with almost illegible letters, and the shy action of the child to hide the effort from her eyes.
"Couldst not thou hold my hand on the pencil and show me how?" she asked almost piteously. "Violet prints so badly."
"Of course I can. Wait but one moment until I take off my hat and cloak, and we will do it beautifully together. It is not, after all, so badly done," she added comfortingly as she took up the paper and examined it. "I can read the 'Auf' quite plainly, and the other letters can be easily improved."
In a little time the words were printed quite distinctly—"Auf wiedersehen" (To meet again). Violet drew a deep breath as they were finished, and lay back on her pillows; but after a time she roused herself up again and said,—
"Still one thing more, Aunt Lizzie. Violet wants to print her own name on the paper, all by herself. She must do it quite by herself alone; but thou canst print it first, and then Violet can do it afterwards ever so like."
Aunt Lizzie saw at once what the child wanted, and so one letter at a time was drawn by her on aseparate piece of paper, and Violet copied it painfully, until at last, with many shaky strokes and trembling uplines and places where there were no lines visible at all, the name "Violet" was printed in, crookedly enough, beneath the farewell words of love and hope.
"'To meet again'—those are lovely words, Aunt Lizzie, are they not?" and Violet smiled, for her task of love was finished.
Then with hands that trembled painfully she fastened the crumpled paper to the bunch of violets lying on the bed, and looked up at her aunt.
"I will not put these," she said simply, touching the blue flowers, which lay beside the other bunch on the counterpane. "Father will not forget his Violet; for thou seest I am his little Violet—am I not, Aunt Lizzie? and he would much rather have those. I know he would."
There was such questioning anxiety in her eyes that her aunt hastened to reassure her.
"The violets are far the best," she said with decision. "The forget-me-nots are a present from the flower-woman to thyself."
"Oh, how kind—how lovely!" she said, almost in a whisper, as she lifted the blue flowers to cover the fast-rising blushes which the painful excitement of the moment kept ever driving to her cheeks.—"AuntLizzie, what is that?" She started up with a bitter cry. "It is the drum, it is the drum, and Violet is not dressed."
Itwasthe drum. Her aunt went over to the window and looked out. Far, far away, down at the foot of the hill close by the church, she could see soldiers marching out of the Market-place and defiling into the square in front of the large fountain.
"Aunt Lizzie, is it the drum? Violet knows it is the drum, and she is not dressed to see father go by."
The cry grew to a shriek. Lizzie's face was deathly pale as she turned round, but she said quietly,—
"Do not fret, thou dear angel. Aunt Lizzie will put on thy dressing-gown and hold thee in her arms at the window."
"Quick, quick!" screamed Violet, snatching up the bunch of violets; "they are coming quite close; I hear them."
"They are still a long way off," said her aunt reassuringly; "it will take them nearly ten minutes to reach to the top of the hill."
"But my father—he will watch for me, he will look up for me; he will think I am not there."
"Hush! quiet a moment, or I cannot lift thee in my arms. Oh, what a little tiny thing thou art! Now where are the violets?"
"Here, here," cried the child, stretching out her hand; "now open the window quick! Aunt Lizzie, there he is; I see him. My father! my dear father!"
The band was playing a familiar martial air, the drums thundered and shook the air, the trumpet-blasts seemed to cut all hearts in sunder; the old men and children in the windows screamed and shrieked, while the women in the streets, rushing along wildly beside the soldiers, uttered loud cries and bitter lamentations; and yet above all was heard one voice, one little child's voice, uplifted high in its misery.
"My father! my father! look up, look at thy Violet; she is here at the window.—Aunt Lizzie, hold me tight. I cannot see. The ground is moving. My father, where is he? I saw him a moment ago."
"He is just approaching; he is now beneath thee in the street, darling. Lean out; Aunt Lizzie will not let thee fall."
"Father, father! farewell, farewell! come back to Violet."
She flung the violets, as she spoke, far out into the quivering air. They fell first upon the heads of the surging crowd beneath, and then upon the ground. The men were marching on, John had passed by, and Aunt Lizzie groaned as she saw that in another moment they must be trampled under foot; but while Violetstill cried aloud, "Farewell, farewell," some one in the crowd had pushed forward, stooped down hurriedly, and picked them up. It was the policeman; and with a quick onward rush he had overtaken John in his march and thrust the flowers into his hand.
John gave one glance at the little paper, which had unrolled itself in its fall and displayed its farewell message to his aching eyes.
He turned his head, waved the violets high above his shining helmet, and looked lingeringly back at the face so deathly pale at the open window.
"He sees thee, my darling; he is waving his hand to thee," cried her aunt with choking tears.
"Farewell, farewell, farewell—'To meet again,'" cried Violet with failing voice. "Dear father—'To meet again'—to—;" but the black moving mass had passed out of sight, the helmets had ceased to glitter, and Violet's head sank on Aunt Lizzie's shoulder with a sob.
The regiment had at length passed by, and the sound of the drums and trumpets had become almost inaudible, when Aunt Lizzie rose to lay her sobbing burden on the bed.
"So, my little loved one, we must rest now," she said softly; "and Aunt Lizzie will lie down beside Violet while she tries to sleep."
But at this moment a bell over her head rang with a somewhat sharp clang.
"What is that?" she said, pausing astonished with the child in her arms.
"Oh, it is nothing; only the basket-bell, Aunt Lizzie."
"The basket-bell? what is that, and where is it?"
"The bell is over Violet's chair, and the basket is in the street," replied the child wearily. "Lay me down, Aunt Lizzie, for Violet's head aches so."
Lizzie laid the child on the bed, and shook up the pillows. The bell rang again.
Aunt Lizzie crept over to the window quietly and looked about her curiously, till presently, catching sight of a red cord attached to Violet's chair, she imagined she had lit on the right object. She drew it up inch by inch, and by-and-by the little straw basket made its appearance at the window, and she lifted it in.
She hesitated a moment, then seeing Violet's eyes open she asked her softly,—
"Am I to open it, darling? or shall I give it to thee?"
"Do thou open it, Aunt Lizzie; Violet is too tired."
Her aunt drew out with some surprise a small package, most carefully fastened up and sealed. On the outside was printed in a clear strong hand,—"For little Violet, from a friend."
"This must be a present for thee, my child; something very precious it seems too."
"Oh, not now; put it away, Aunt Lizzie; Violet's head aches so."
"What! thou wilt not even look at it?" cried her aunt, whose own curiosity was now somewhat raised, and she carried the package over to the side of the bed; but Violet only pressed her head down into the pillows and waved the gift away with her hand.
"Aunt Lizzie, Aunt Lizzie, my head it aches so.Come and sit beside Violet; for her father, her good, dear father, is gone away, so far away; and what can she do—what can she do—what can she do?" There were sobs, but as yet no tears.
"Thou canst pray to the good God to keep him safe and well," said her aunt softly, as she laid the packet on the table; "that will do thee good."
But while she stooped down and comforted the child with kisses and loving words, there was a knock at the door, and she cried softly,—
"Oh, who comes now? the child is tired and must sleep."
But it was the doctor who opened the door and walked in. He had promised John, the night before, to look after little Violet in the first access of her trouble; and as he walked towards the bed, she gave him a little smile of welcome.
He sat down beside her, drawing his chair quite close up, and took the little girl's hand in his, looking earnestly at her for a few minutes without speaking.
Violet blushed one of those painful blushes so common to her now, which flooded all the poor pale face with vivid carmine.
"What is this?" said the doctor, turning his eyes slowly away from her and looking at the sealed package on the table close to him; "what have wehere? A present for Violet, 'from a friend.'" He took it up in his hand and examined it carefully. "Thou hast not opened it yet, I perceive."
"No; some other day," she said softly.
"Why some other day? why not now?" and the doctor held out the packet to her.
She stretched out her hand nervously; but it trembled so, and the parcel was so weighty for its size, that it fell from her grasp on the counterpane.
"There, there, that is enough; I will open it for thee." The doctor took it up and broke the seal, looking at it curiously as he did so. It had on it a little bird flying out of a cage, with the simple motto over it, "Free at last."
Inside the first paper was a layer of soft pink cotton wool.
"It must be something very precious," said the doctor, adjusting his glasses.
Violet rose a little on her elbow and looked also.
"Ho! I have a guess; but I can scarcely believe it possible."
"What?" she asked in a low voice, scarcely conscious even that she spoke, and with her eyes riveted on the parcel, from which the doctor was now slowly removing the pink wool.
"Oh, wonderful! I have guessed rightly. It is what I thought; and this is a gift for thee, Violet."
"But what is it? I cannot see it." She rose now entirely from her pillows. "O Aunt Lizzie, see—it is a watch!"
"A watch!" cried her aunt excitedly, who had been standing all this time by the bedside with her eyes full of tears; "is it possible?"
"A watch for me!—how beautiful!" Violet held it in her hand, gazing at it with those deep purple-coloured eyes which spoke so often to those she loved, even when the mouth was silent.
"Let me look at it again; it is quite a beauty." The doctor took it in his hand. It was a silver watch with a double case—a case which opened with a spring to show the face. The back was all chased with the ordinary criss-cross lines, only in the centre there was a small round space with a name carved on it; and on the opposite side there was a space also, filled in with a wreath of blue forget-me-nots in enamel.
"Oh, how strange! I have certainly seen this watch before. Let me try if I could read the name." The doctor rose, and going over to the window adjusted his glasses with great accuracy. "It is just as I thought—'Margaret.' And who is the friend who has given our little Violet this beautiful present?"
"I do not know," she said, shaking her head; "it came in the basket."
"In the basket?" said the doctor; "and there was no name?"
"None," replied Aunt Lizzie. "I drew it up myself, and took out the parcel; that is quite certain."
"Then I must tell no tales," said the good old man smiling; "only Violet, I know, will take great care of the present;" and turning back he replaced the watch in her hand.
"Yes," said she softly; but her eyes were full of question.
"It belonged once to a little sick girl whom I knew well, and who is now an angel in heaven," he said in a low voice.
"A little sick girl," repeated Violet, gazing at him with eyes widening and darkening.
"Yes; she died early this spring, just when the flowers were beginning to shoot up and the larks to sing. She just stretched out her wings like the little bird on this seal, and flew straight up to heaven."
"Her wings!" cried Violet with a gasp; "was she—;" she paused again, colouring painfully.
"Was she what? what is it, my poor little girlie?" asked the doctor kindly.
"Was she a little hunchback like me?"
"A what? what does the child say?" cried the doctor in evident distress.—"Yes, she was like thee; and I will tell thee why: Because she was one of the sweetest little maidens in the world;" and with a sudden tenderness he stroked back Violet's hair and kissed her on the forehead. "She was one of the Lord Jesus' own little lambs; and when she was very tired and very sad she told him all her trouble, and he loved her and comforted her."
"Yes," said Violet with a little trembling sigh, and enormous tears rising up and clouding her eyes.
"And now," he said, sitting down by the bedside and taking the child's hand, "we must feel Violet's pulse with this new watch and make it useful."
What a burning little hand it was, and how the poor heart was beating! There was no need to look at the minute hand, for the thread of life leaped on at a countless speed, and the doctor closed the cover with a snap.
"Violet is a good girl; she will take the medicine I shall send her presently."
She nodded her head, and as she did so the tears fell out of her eyes upon the linen sheet. She looked up swiftly, deprecatingly at her aunt.
"She has been such a good girl all the morning," said Aunt Lizzie; "she has been so brave, our Violet.She would not shed a tear to fret her father or make his heart ache. I think now we may let her cry a little; is it not so, sir?"
"Certainly; it will do her good to cry." The doctor's voice was husky, and he dropped his glasses quickly, so that they clicked against the buttons of his coat. "I shall send her up now at once a little draught, very small, and without a bad taste; let her take it the moment it comes; and try and keep the room and the house quiet. We must get her over this day and night somehow," he added as he reached the door. "Of all the patients I shall have to see this afternoon there is not one for whom my heart aches as it does for the little maiden yonder. The sorrows of this world will not trouble her long. Good-evening;" and going down the stairs, the doctor blew his nose sonorously and went out into the street.
The thoroughfare was almost deserted now. The women had gone back into their houses to weep and pray; and the men, what able-bodied men there were left, had resumed their daily toil. It seemed as if a great fire had died out of the heart of the town and left nothing but ashes behind it. Only the clank of the policeman's sword could be heard resounding through the empty street, clinking slowly against the stones of the pavement.
"Good-evening," said the doctor as they met presently face to face; "how goes it with thee, William? I suppose thy son is off with all the rest of the lads this morning."
"Yes, doctor."
"It has been a hard day for thee, no doubt."
"Yes, hard enough; though, the good God pardon me, I nearly lost sight of the poor lad, watching the girl up at the window yonder throwing the violets to her father. It was enough to make one's heartstrings crack."
"She reminds thee of thy little Margaret, no doubt," said the doctor kindly. "I have seen the likeness; and I have also seen the joy which thy kind heart has procured for her this afternoon, at perhaps the most critical moment of her life."
"God be praised!" said the policeman earnestly. "Can she, will she live, do you think, until he returns?"
"Heaven only knows," replied the doctor as he nodded his farewell. "It is well for those good friends who are already at rest."
The next morning Fritz and Ella came over quite early, before Violet was up, to see her. Her head ached still, and Aunt Lizzie had advised her to stay in bed until after her dinner. All night she had lain with the silver watch clasped in her hand, and all the morning too she had held it tightly pressed in towards her. "It had belonged once to a little girl who was now in heaven;" that had been the burden of her thoughts ever since she had heard its history. "This little sick child had stretched out her wings and flown straight up to God." The doctor had said so; and she remembered a day, long ago, when she had heard her father say to her mother that the doctor was the best and kindest man in all Edelsheim. And then poor Violet, burying her head deep down in the pillows, had said, in a low voice of entreaty, "O good Lord Jesus, give Violet wings, too, and take her soon to heaven."
Fritz was, for him, quite nervous when he first entered the room, and Ella kept as much in his shadow as possible. Every one in the house and in the street had been talking about Violet, and her great trouble since the departure of the regiment; and Fritz had come to look upon his little friend as a kind of curiosity, to be approached with an unusual degree of compassion and gentleness.
But the ruse of the old policeman, to distract her thoughts for a time, had succeeded almost beyond his hopes. She was quite like herself this morning, and stretched out her hand at once to her playfellows affectionately, and said with some excitement,—
"Fritz, look at my watch."
"Thy watch! Who gave it thee?"
"I do not know," she said, with a slow, sweet smile; "it came in the basket. It has got forget-me-nots on one side, and Margaret on the other; and the little girl it belonged to is in heaven."
"How dost thou know?"
"The doctor said so. She was very very sick, and when the flowers and the larks came, God gave her wings, and she flew right up there."
"Where?" asked Fritz.
"There; far away, over the roofs and over thesteeple, high, high; ever so high up, up, till at last she was with God."
"And who was she? what was her name?" questioned Fritz.
"I do not know," said Violet, shaking her head. "But, Fritz, I was wondering. I was thinking all last night that perhaps it was the same little sick girl who had the book. Thou rememberest, dost thou not? It came in the basket too."
"What book?"
"About the little hunchback," said Violet in a whisper.
"Oh!" cried Fritz, with quite a visible start; "yes; of course I remember the fairy-tale book. We thought at first it was the girl with the oranges; but she cannot be in heaven, because I saw her to-day."
"No, not a bit of that girl is in heaven," cried Ella joyously. "Fritz and I saw her to-day. Fritz climbed up the steps, and gave her hair a chuck; and she jumped round so fast that she fell over, and bumped down every step—bump, bump, bump—and all the oranges galloped after her. When she got to the bottom," screamed Ella, "she was sitting in the middle of her own basket, and her heels up in the air—so;" and Ella plumped down on her back on the floor, and elevated two of the stoutest legs imaginable.
"She bellowed after us that she would call the police," cried Fritz, continuing the story with much zest; "but I screamed back to her that the police would put her in prison for sticking pins in her oranges and sucking them, as I have seen her do hundreds of times. Then she flew into a worse rage, and said that she would run home and tell her father. So Ella and I laughed, for she would have a long way to run to tell her father—would she not, Violet?"
"Yes," she said quickly; but the smile which had risen at the children's story suddenly died out from her lips.
Fritz said, "Perhaps she would have to run all the way to Paris; and it would be nicer to pick up oranges out of the gutter than cannon balls, and be bursted all to pieces by powder."
Aunt Lizzie cried "Hush!" and rose from her chair by the stove; but the children did not hear her, and went on excitedly,—
"And do you know, there has been fighting already, and lots of people killed; but not in our regiment," added Fritz hastily, for he was alarmed at the sudden agony that came into Violet's face.
"I saw the picture," cried Ella at the tip-top of her voice. "I saw it in the shop window—a man climbing up a great steep rock with no head on him at all.It had just been banged off his body by a gun. And another man on his face, with only one leg. And dost thou know what Fritz said? If he had been there the French people would never have got into that town—not they, old blockheads as they are."
"What town?" asked Violet, almost in a whisper.
"Saarbrück, near the Rhine. But it was all a shabby trick of the French; so all the people say. And we will make them pay for it by-and-by; see if we won't. We will hunt them out of it again with cannons, and powders, and drums."
"Yes, with powders and drums!" shouted Ella.—"And dost thou know, Violet, Fritz wanted to go to the war with father, and beat a big drum all day with an apron on him; and he screamed so, father said 'Perhaps.' And all night Ella cried and cried, and never stopped; and in the morning father got out of his bed and kissed Ella, and said Fritz must stay at home and take care of me. And Fritz was in such a rage he tore Ella's night-cap in two, and flung it in the bread-oven."
"Come, now, we have had enough noise for one afternoon," said Aunt Lizzie quietly. "Suppose we all sit round the stove and let Violet rest; her head has ached all the morning, and she looks very tired."
"Oh no, Aunt Lizzie; let them stay," said Violetand she stretched out her hands to the children. "I have not seen Fritz for so many days, nor Ella either."
"Mother would not let us come," said Fritz bluntly. "She said thou wouldst be busy saying good-bye to thy father and crying, and it would be no use bothering."
"Yes, very busy crying," said Ella plaintively.
"And I am going to begin now and say my prayers," observed Fritz, whose eyes had suddenly rested on Violet's Bible lying on the table beside her bed. "Mother says Ella and I ought to pray every morning and every night for father to come home safe; and so I am going to begin to-night."
"And didst thou not always say thy prayers every morning and every night?" asked Aunt Lizzie in some surprise.
"Oh yes, I always say them," observed Fritz; "but I don't think about them; at least not much."
"He does not think about them one scrap," said Ella cheerfully; "he stares at the wall, and goes sound asleep; and sometimes he looks round at me, and begins to laugh; and sometimes he rattles his heels on the ground until mother comes up and smacks him."
Aunt Lizzie shook her head at this history; and Violet said in a very low voice,—
"O Fritz, is not Ella joking?"
"No," replied Fritz truthfully. "I don't much care for saying prayers. I like to ask God for things which I think he will give me, but it tires me to say the same thing so often. At least one month I used to pray every day for a lovely gray pony that was in the field, and I never got it. And, besides, every morning when I woke I used always to say to God, 'Good Lord God, make little Violet well;' and yet thou art still sick, and weaker and weaker. And then," continued Fritz, bending close down beside her, and speaking in a whisper, "once I prayed in the day, too, when I read that book about the little hunchback girl. I went straight home and asked God to give thee wings too; and yet thou hast never got them."
"Yes," said Ella in a very grave tone, having overheard the whisper, "he went straight home and locked the door, and would not let Ella in; and Ella banged and banged, and it was all no use. And then she put her eye to the keyhole, and Fritz was saying his prayers at the kitchen table; and Ella heard him say, 'Please, good Lord Jesus, put wings on Violet's hump, like the little girl in the story. Amen.'"
"Hush! we have had quite enough talking for one day," cried Aunt Lizzie again hurriedly, her face flushing crimson, as she gazed in anguish at the little sickgirl in the bed. "Away with thee, Ella! away with thee too, Fritz! I cannot have my little girl tired."
But Violet flung her arms round Fritz's neck affectionately, and cried out gratefully, "Thou dear, good Fritz!" Then putting her lips to his ear, she said in a low whisper, "The Lord Jesus does always hear when Fritz prays, and he will give me wings, and he will do all that Fritz asks him."
The next day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Evelina arrived from Gützberg. Violet had been told that she was coming, and that she was to be her own little maid and companion until her father returned to Edelsheim from the war. Aunt Lizzie, too, had promised that she would often come over and see her, and Fritz and Ella would meantime be her daily companions; and Madam Adler, too, had promised John that she would be constantly on the watch, coming to see that the child was well and happy.
"It will not be forverylong, will it?" she had said to her Aunt Lizzie, as she was being dressed that morning for the first time since the departure of the regiment.
"What will not be for long?"
"Until father comes home," replied Violet smiling. "I heard him tell thee so that night when the moon was shining through the window. Did not he, AuntLizzie?" The child's eyes deepened with prophetic joy as she gazed full into her aunt's face, waiting for a reply. It did not come at once, and she added with an ever-increasing smile, "And when the war is over I shall see him again, ever so soon. He will cry out, 'Where is my own little Violet?' and look up; and I will stretch out my arms—so—Aunt Lizzie; and then all the fighting will be over, and we shall never have to say good-bye any more."
Aunt Lizzie was drawing on Violet's stocking, and she bent her head very low to see that the seam was straight at the ankle. When she looked up again, the smile was still on Violet's lips, but her eyes were looking far away up into the blue sky, high, high up above the roofs and the steeple, to where the little sick girl, whose watch was beating so close to her heart now, had gone up to be with God.
When Evelina arrived, there was quite a little company gathered together to meet her—Aunt Lizzie, and Violet, and Fritz, and Ella, and Madam Adler, who had baked a special loaf for the supper, and who had also a curiosity to see the new girl, and form her own opinion as to her capabilities.
"What a huge box she has!" cried Fritz, who, full of interest, was kneeling on the cushioned window-sill, and could thus overlook the whole street. "Andanother box, too, stuck up beside the driver; and here she is herself, and two more boxes in her hand."
"Yes, two little, tiny baby boxes," shouted Ella, whose rosy face was spread out against the windowpane, "and two very black hands."
"Those are not her hands; those are her gloves, little donkey," cried Fritz contemptuously. "I saw her face; and she is ever so pretty.—She is indeed, Violet, ever, ever so pretty."
Violet nodded her head in her grave, peculiar way. It was a moment of intense excitement to her the advent of this new girl, the friend who was to be always with her until her father's return; but no one could hear the throbbing of the little girl's heart. And though her eyes darkened and the pupils grew wider and wider, no one knew the tumult going on within her breast.
As a rule, she took no interest in strangers. Like all invalids, she shrank from the entrance of those with whom she was not intimate; and those who knew and loved her pitied her distress when the crimson blushes, rushing in waves over her pale face, showed the nervous tremor of her heart.
But to form a really new friendship was a thing almost impossible to her. She loved those whom she had known all her life, with a tenacity far beyondthe usual love of children. She clung to them as all sick people cling to those who daily watch and tend them; and though Aunt Lizzie had sought in every way to inspire her with a feeling of confidence and interest in Evelina, she shrank from the thought of their first meeting. And now, as she heard the ascending footsteps, a sudden rush of unreasonable distrust and premature dislike seemed to fill her heart, and she turned her face quickly away towards the window, and held fast hold of Fritz's hand, who was standing with gaping mouth and eyes riveted on the doorway.
There was a little flutter in the room. Aunt Lizzie rose and moved towards the door; Madam Adler, too, went forward; Ella drew back a step or two from the stove; and Violet, still looking with straining eyes at the houses opposite, heard, as the door opened, a sweet voice saying, in reply to some question of her aunt's,—
"Yes, thank you very much; I have had a very good journey. It was almost stiflingly hot in the train, but the air is cooler now."
"And the children?" asked Aunt Lizzie.
"Oh, the little angels, they are as well as possible. They cried, of course, when I took leave of them; but the master is taking them out this afternoon for awalk in the gardens; and the little one is quite happy.—Ah, is that the little sick girl yonder?"
Violet turned her head quickly round and looked up.
"Oh, how white she is!"
Aunt Lizzie hurried forward and stood beside Violet's chair.
"Here, sweet one," she said, kissing her on the forehead, "this is Evelina of whom we have talked so much. Thou and she will be great friends by-and-by. She has come all the way from Gützberg to take care of thee; is it not so, my treasure?"
Violet nodded her head and smiled nervously, then stretched out her hand to take Evelina's, but there was no enthusiasm in the movement.
"Ah, the poor child, she is nervous, she is shy, but we shall soon be the best of friends," cried Evelina pleasantly; "one cannot expect the little one to take to me all at once.—And who is this lad who looks as if he would eat me with his eyes, eh?"
"I am Violet's own friend," replied Fritz, colouring purple, but placing his hand firmly on the back of Violet's chair.
"Ah, it is very pleasant for her to have such a good friend," observed Evelina, laughing and throwing back her head so that the little gold bells on her earstinkled;—"but by-and-by you must be my friend too; is it not so, eh?"
"Perhaps," said Fritz shortly, while poor Violet looked down at her pinafore and blushed because Fritz was somewhat uncivil in his reply.
"And who is this little cherub with the red cheeks? is she also a friend?" asked Evelina, as she sat down on the cushioned window-seat and tried to lift Ella on her knee; but the child wriggled somewhat roughly away from her, and a shower of wooden animals—ducks, pigs, and camels—which had been arrayed along the ledge overhead tumbled down in confusion over Evelina's hat, shoulders, and lap.
This created a general laugh, in which even Violet joined, and the first stiffness of the introduction was in this manner happily got over.
Evelina had a very pretty and pleasant face. There was certainly nothing to frighten one in it. Her hair, which seemed one mass of frizzly, golden threads, was brushed back from her face and pinned at the sides with somewhat large gold pins; she had eyes that seemed ever sparkling and smiling, rosy lips, and cheeks with dimples in them.
When she took off her hat and put on a very dainty white cap with crimped frillings of lace, and a snowy linen apron also edged with carefully-gofferedfrills, she looked so fair and sweet and happy, that Violet's eyes became riveted upon her, and she followed all her movements with an unconscious interest.
At last the moment came for Madam Adler to say good-bye, and Fritz and Ella as usual took a loving farewell of their little play-fellow.
As Fritz flung his arms round Violet's neck, he said in a whisper,—
"She is very pretty this Evelina, but—"
"What," cried Violet, a sudden distress coming into her eyes; "what is it, Fritz?"
"Nothing—I am not sure—I do not know; some other day I will tell thee;" and before she could drag his meaning from him he had marched across the room with head erect, and so he preceded his mother down the stairs.