Next evening Heidi came into the study carrying her book and said to Clara, ‘I’ll read to you a lot now, if you’d like me to.’ Clara thanked her, and Heidi began the little task she had taken on herself with enthusiasm. But all did not go smoothly, for the story she had chosen proved to be about a dying grandmother. It was too much for Heidi who burst into tears and sobbed, ‘Grannie is dead.’ Everything she read was so real to her that she was firmly convinced that it was Peter’s Grannie in the story.
‘Now I shall never see her again,’ she wept, ‘and she never had one of the nice white rolls.’
Clara had great difficulty in persuading her that the story was about quite another grandmother, and even when she began to understand that, she was not comforted for it had made her realize that Peter’s Grannie might really die, and her grandfather too, while she was so far away, and that if she did not go home for a long time, she might arrive to find everything changed and her loved ones gone for ever.
Miss Rottenmeier came into the room during this scene, and as Heidi went on crying, she looked at her very impatiently and said, ‘Adelheid, stop howling like that and listen to me. If I ever hear you making such a to‐do again while you’re reading to Clara, I’ll take the book away from you and you shan’t have it again.’
This threat had an immediate effect, for the book was Heidi’s greatest treasure. She turned quite pale, quickly dried her eyes, and stifled her sobs. She never wept again after that, no matter what she read, but the effort it cost her sometimes produced such queer grimaces that Clara was quite astonished. ‘I’ve never seen anything like the faces you’re making,’ she used to say. But at least Miss Rottenmeier did not notice anything, and once Heidi had got over one of her spells of sadness, everything would go smoothly for a time.
Her appetite did not improve, however, and she looked very thin and peaky. It quite upset Sebastian at mealtimes to see her refuse even the most delicious things. As he handed them to her, he would sometimes whisper, ‘Just try some of this, Miss, it’s so good. That’s not enough. Here, take another spoonful.’ But all in vain. She ate hardly anything. And when she was in bed and all the well‐loved scenes of home came before her eyes, she cried and cried, until her pillows were quite wet.
Time went by, but in the town Heidi scarcely knew whether it was winter or summer. The walls and houses, which were all she could see from the windows, always looked the same, and now she only went out‐of‐doors when Clara was feeling well enough for a drive. Even then they saw nothing but bricks and mortar, for Clara could not stand a long excursion and they only drove round the neighbouring streets, where they saw plenty of people and beautiful houses, but not a blade of grass or a flower or a tree, and no mountains. Heidi’s homesickness grew on her from day to day, till just reading the name of some well‐loved object was enough to bring tears to her eyes, though she would not let them fall.
Autumn and winter passed and the bright sunlight shining again on the white walls of the house opposite set Heidi guessing that soon Peter would be taking the goats up to pasture again, and that all the flowers would be in bloom and the mountains ablaze with light each evening. When she was in her own room, she used to sit with her hands over her eyes to shut out the town sunshine, and would stay like that, forcing back her overwhelming homesickness until Clara wanted her again.
12
The House is Haunted!
Strange things began to happen in that house in Frankfurt. Miss Rottenmeier had taken to wandering silently about it, deep in thought; and if she had to go from one room to another or along the passages after dark, she often looked over her shoulder or peered into corners, as if afraid that someone might creep out of the shadow, and pluck at her skirt. If she had to go upstairs to the richly furnished guest‐rooms or down to the great drawing‐room, in which footsteps echoed at the best of times and where old councillors in stiff white collars stared out from the portraits on the walls, she always made Tinette go with her — in case there should be anything to carry up or down. Strange to say, Tinette behaved in much the same way. If she had to go to those rooms, she got Sebastian to go with her, on the same pretext of helping to carry something. And Sebastian seemed also to feel the same way. If he was sent into any of the unused rooms, he called John the coachman and asked him to go too — in case he could not manage the job alone. And everyone did as they were asked and went along too, without any fuss, though their help was never really needed. It looked as if they all thought that they might want assistance themselves some time. Down in the kitchen things were no better. The old cook, who had been there a long time, stood by her saucepans, shaking her head and muttering, ‘That I should live to see such goings on.’
The reason for all this uneasiness was that for some time past the servants had been finding the front door wide open every morning when they came down, but there was never anything to show who had opened it. For the first day or two the house had been thoroughly searched to see whether anything had been stolen, for it was thought a burglar might have hidden himself during the day and made off with his booty during the night. However, nothing was missing. Then they double‐locked the front door and bolted it every night, but still they found it wide open in the morning, no matter how early the servants came down.
At last, Miss Rottenmeier persuaded John and Sebastian to spend a night downstairs in the room next to the drawing‐room, to see if they could discover the cause of the mystery. They were provided with weapons belonging to Mr Sesemann, and a bottle of wine to fortify them for whatever might happen.
When evening came they settled down and immediately opened the wine which soon made them talkative. then they grew sleepy and lolled back in their armchairs and fell into a doze. The clock striking twelve brought Sebastian to his senses and he said something to John but John was fast asleep and only settled himself more comfortably into his chair at each effort to rouse him. Sebastian, however, was wide awake now, and listening for unusual sounds. But none came, either from the house or from the street. In fact, the silence was so deep that he grew uneasy. He saw it was no use trying to wake John by calling to him so he shook him, but another hour passed before John was really awake and remembered what he was there for. He got to his feet then, with a fine show of courage, and said:
‘We’d better go and see what’s going on. Don’t be afraid. Just follow me.’
He pushed open the door, which had been left ajar, and went out into the passage. Almost at once the candle in his hand was blown out by a gust of wind from the front door which was standing wide open. He rushed back into the room at that, almost knocking Sebastian over, and slammed the door and locked it. Then he struck a match and lit the candle again. Sebastian did not know what had happened. John was portly enough to block his view completely and he had seen nothing. He had not even felt the draught. But John was white as a sheet and trembling like an aspen leaf.
‘What’s the matter? What was outside?’ Sebastian asked anxiously.
‘The front door was wide open,’ John told him, ‘and there was a white figure on the stairs which suddenly vanished.’
A cold shiver ran down Sebastian’s spine. They sat down close together and did not stir thereafter until it was broad daylight and they could hear people going by in the street. Then they went and shut the front door and then reported to Miss Rottenmeier. They found her already up and dressed, for she had been awake most of the night wondering what they would discover. As soon as she had heard their story, she sat down and wrote very emphatically to Mr Sesemann, telling him she was so paralysed with fright she could hardly hold a pen, and must beg him to come home at once as no one in the house could sleep easily in their beds for fear of what might happen next.