Little Frida Part 10

"Alas!" he said, "I grieve to say I can tell you nothing. I have not heard for several years from my brother, and at times I fear he must be dead. My poor brother, how I loved him! for, Mrs. Willoughby, a gentler or more kind-hearted man never lived. You may be sure, however much your daughter was to blame in marrying any one against her parents' wishes, she found in my brother a truly loving, kind husband."

"Thank G.o.d for that!" she replied. "But now tell me, was there a child?

Gertie spoke as if you knew there was one."

"Certainly there was. In the last letter I had from my brother, he spoke of the great comfort their little girl (who was the image of her mother) was to them--his little Frida he called her, and at that time she was three or four years old. Oh yes, there was a child. Would that I could give you more particulars! but I cannot; only I must mention that he said, 'I am far from strong, and my beloved wife is very delicate.'"

"Ah," said the mother, "she was never robust; and who knows what a life of hards.h.i.+p she may have had to live! O Hilda, Hilda! Dr. Heinz, is there no means by which we may find out their whereabouts? I have lately had some advertis.e.m.e.nts put into various papers, praying them to let us know where they are; but no answer has come, and now I am losing all hope."

"Would that I could comfort you!" he said; "but I also fear much that we have lost the clue to their whereabouts. I will not cease to do all I can to trace them; but, dear Mrs. Willoughby, we believe that there is One who knows all, whose eyes are everywhere, and we can trust them to Him. If I should in any way hear of our friends, you may be sure I shall not be long of communicating with you. In the meantime it has been a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of one whom my dear Gertrude has often spoken to me of as her kindest of friends."

Then Dr. Heinz told of the work in which he was engaged amongst the poor, sorrowful, and also too often sinful ones, in the East End of London.

Before Dr. Heinz left, Mrs. Willoughby showed him the little brown English Bible which her daughter had given to her not long before her marriage, and told him about the German one, which looked exactly the same outwardly, which she had given to her daughter.

"Strange," said Dr. Heinz, as he held the little brown book in his hand, "that in the last letter I ever received from my brother, he told me of the blessing which he had got through reading G.o.d's Word in a brown Bible belonging to his wife, adding that she also had obtained blessing through reading it."

"Praise G.o.d!" said Mrs. Willoughby; "then my prayers have been answered, that Hilda, like her mother, might be brought to the knowledge of G.o.d. Now I know that if we meet no more on earth we shall meet one day in heaven.--I thank Thee, O my G.o.d!"

It was with a heart full of emotion that Dr. Heinz found himself leaving Mrs. Willoughby's house. Oh, how he longed that he could hear tidings of his brother and his wife, and so be able to convey comfort to the heart of the sorrowful lady he had just left!

As he was walking along, lost in thought, he came suddenly face to face with Reginald Gower, whom he had lately met several times at the Wardens', and to whom he suspected the news of his engagement to Gertrude Warden would bring no pleasure; but from the greeting which Reginald gave him he could not tell whether or not he knew of the circ.u.mstance.

He accosted him with the words: "What are you doing, doctor, in this part of the town? I thought it was only in the narrow, dirty slums, and not in the fas.h.i.+onable part of the west of London, that you were to be found; and that it was only the sick and sorrowful, not the gay, merry inhabitants of Belgravia that you visited."

"Do you think then," replied Dr. Heinz, "that the sick, sad, and sorrowful are only to be found in the narrow, dark streets of London?

What if I were to tell you that although there is not poverty, there are sorrowful, sad, unsatisfied hearts to be found in as great numbers in these fas.h.i.+onable squares and terraces as in the places you speak of; and that the votaries of fas.h.i.+on, whom you style gay and merry, are too often the most wretched of mankind, and that beneath the robes of silk and satin of fas.h.i.+onable life there beats many a breaking heart? You see that splendid square I have just left. Well, in one of the handsomest houses there dwells one of the sweetest Christian ladies I have ever met. She has everything that wealth and the love of friends can give her, yet I believe she is slowly dying of a broken heart, longing to know if a dearly-loved daughter, who made a marriage which her parents did not approve of, years ago, is still alive; and no one can tell her whether she or any child of hers still survives. I know all the circ.u.mstances, and would give a great deal to be able to help her. He would be a man to be envied who could go to that sweet mother, Mrs.

Willoughby, and say, I can tell you all about your daughter, or, if she is not alive, of her child. O Reginald Gower, never say that there are not sad hearts in the west part of London, though you may see only the smiling face and dry eyes. You remember the words of the gifted poetess,--

'Go weep with those who weep, you say, Ye fools! I bid you pa.s.s them by, Go, weep with those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry.'

But I must go. Have you not a word of congratulation for me, Reginald?"

"Why?" was the amazed reply; "and for what?"

"Oh," said Dr. Heinz, somewhat taken aback, "do you not know that I am engaged to be married to Gertrude Warden?"

"You are?" was the reply, with a look of amazement that Dr. Heinz could not fail to notice; "well, I rather think you are a lucky fellow.

But"--and a look of deep sorrow crossed his face as he spoke--"I do believe you are worthy of her. Tell her I said so. And would you mind saying good-bye to her and her sister from me, as I may not be able to see them before starting for America, which I shall probably do in a week; and should you again see the Mrs. Willoughby you have been speaking of, and whom I know well, please tell her I could not get to say farewell to her, as my going off is a sudden idea. Good-bye, Dr.

Heinz. May you and Miss Gertrude Warden be as happy as you both deserve to be;" and without another word he turned away.

Dr. Heinz looked after him for a moment, then shook his head somewhat sadly, saying to himself, "There goes a fine fellow, if only he had learned of Him 'who pleased not himself.' Reginald is a spoiled character, by reason of self-pleasing. I must ask Gertrude how he comes to know Mrs. Willoughby, and why he is going off so suddenly to America, although I may have my suspicions as to the reason for his so doing."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE OLD NURSE.

"It chanced, eternal G.o.d, that chance did guide."

"How are you getting on with your packing, Frida?" said Miss Drechsler, as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where her friend was sitting.

"Oh, very well," was the answer; "I have nearly finished. When did you say the man would come for the trunks?"

"I expect him in about an hour. But see, here comes the post; look if there is one for me from Miss Warden. I thought I would get one to tell me if any of her friends would meet us at Dover."

Frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph, bearing two letters in her hand.

"One for you, auntie" (she always now addressed Miss Drechsler by that name), "and one for myself. Mine is from Ada Stanford, and yours, I am sure, is the one you are expecting."

A few minutes of silence was broken by Frida exclaiming,--

"O auntie, Ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she asks, as a great favour, that I would come to visit them before going to the Wardens; and adds, 'If Miss Drechsler would accompany you, we would be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose your London visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a London physician as soon as I can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not I should go abroad again next winter. So in perhaps another month we may go to London, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at Miss Warden's.'"

"What do you think about it, auntie? Of course it is a great disappointment to me not to go with you; but do I not owe it to the Stanfords to go to them when I may be of use during Ada's convalescence?"

Miss Drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had antic.i.p.ated so much pleasure in having Frida with her in London; but after a few minutes' thought she said, "You are right, Frida: you must, I fear, go first to the Stanfords. We cannot forget all that they have done for you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, I think you must yield to their wishes; but I must go at once to Miss Warden, who is expecting me. You had better write at once and tell them we hope to be at Dover in four days. They live, as you know, not so far from there. I think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of miles from Stanford Hall, where I doubt not they will meet you; but I must write at once and let Miss Warden know that you cannot accompany me, and the reason why, though I hope that erelong, if convenient to her, you may join me there. Ah, Frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way: but G.o.d directeth his steps.'"

And so it came to pa.s.s that Miss Drechsler arrived alone at Miss Warden's, whilst Frida went to Stanford Hall.

When it became known in the Forest that the woodland child, as they still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time, there was great lamentation.

"How then are we to get on without you?" they said. "_Ach!_ shall we have to do without the reading of the book again? True, Hans Horstel reads it well enough; but what of that? He too has left us. _Ach!_ it is plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who live in the Forest, and some grand English gentleman will be getting our woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more."

But Frida only laughed at these lamentations. "Why, what nonsense you speak!" she said. "It is only for a little while that I am going away. I hope to come back in about three months. And many of you can now read the Bible for yourselves. And as to the grand gentleman, that is all fancy; I want no grand gentleman for a husband. The only thing that would detain me in England would be if any of my relations were to find me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, I am sure none of my friends in the Forest would grudge their child to her own people, and they may be a.s.sured she would never forget them, and would not be long in revisiting them."

"_Ach!_ if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said simultaneously. "We would then say, 'Stay, woodland child, and be happy with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor wood-cutters and workers in the Forest, who will weary for a sight of the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the Black Forest.'"

Very hearty was the welcome which awaited Frida at Stanford Hall. Ada received her with open arms.

"Ah, Frida, how glad I am to see you once again; and how good of you to give up the pleasure of a month in London to come to see and comfort us!--You will see how quickly I will get well now, mother.--And erelong, Frida, we shall take you to London ourselves, and father will show you all the wonders there."

Frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how delicate-looking Ada had become.

The girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since last they met; and when dinner was over, and Frida went to see Ada as she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, Ada roused herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat."

"See, Frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your Forest friends.

How are Elsie and Wilhelm, and their little Gretchen and Hans? But, indeed, I believe I know more about them than you do; for only two days ago my father received a letter from Hans's music-teacher in Leipsic, giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical career for him."

"Oh, I am glad!" said Frida. "How pleased his parents will be, and how grateful to Sir Richard Stanford for all he has done for him!"

And so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of Frida's visit to Stanford Hall drew to a close. As time pa.s.sed on, Ada's health rapidly improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds belonging to the Hall--Ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and Frida walking by her side. But by-and-by Ada was able to walk, and together the girls visited in some of the cottages near the Hall--Frida finding out that Ada in her English home was conveying comfort and blessing to many weary souls by reading to them from her English Bible the words of life, even as she had done from her German one in the huts of the wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the Black Forest.

"Have you heard, Ada," said Lady Stanford one morning at breakfast, "that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque cottage at the Glen is very ill? I wish you and Frida would go and see her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will give you. I understand she requires nouris.h.i.+ng food; and try and discover if there is anything else she requires."

"Certainly, mother," answered Ada; "we will go at once and see what can be done for her.--That Glen is a lovely spot, Frida, and you have never been there. What say you--shall we set off at once? The poor woman is very old, and her memory is a good deal affected."