Little Frida Part 13

"And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone.

You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.--But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter."

"Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?"

"Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly.

"Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,--

"Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a pa.s.sing faintness; but I shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest."

And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too young to have said them); but I could read the Word of G.o.d to them, and they did the deed."

Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted?

Blessed book, G.o.d's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'"

Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with suns.h.i.+ne as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest.

"I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the Forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good G.o.d has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I must run and get the letters."

In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand.

"Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You said he had gone there, did you not?"

Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me.

But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some other subject."

She then read as if in a dream the following words:--

"DEAR FRIEND--if indeed I may still dare to address you thus--I write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my remembrance the picture of your daughter at Harcourt Manor with a _fac-simile_ of the necklace on. Added to this, I had heard that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the Black Forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known.

It is now with deep repentance that I confess to having concealed these facts (though I had no doubt as to whose child she was), because I knew that by disclosing the secret my right to succeed to the property of Harcourt Manor would be done away with. I felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and knew also the trouble and grief I was causing to you, whom (although you may find it difficult to believe) I really loved, and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. I now see that it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul a sin. Conscience remonstrated, and the words of the Bible, so early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached me; but I turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and deliberately chose the evil way. All these years I have experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but selfishness prevailed; and when I heard that Frida Heinz was coming to England, and that probably ere-long all might be disclosed, I resolved to leave my native land and begin a better life here. Ere I left I had reason to believe that she was unable to come to England, so even now I may be the first to reveal the secret of her existence. I do not know if even yet I would have gained strength to do this or not, had not G.o.d in His great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a sinner I was in His sight, and led me to seek forgiveness through the merits of Christ for all my past sins. _That_ I believe I have obtained, and now I crave a like forgiveness from you whom I have so cruelly wronged. Should you withhold it, I dare not complain; but I have hopes that you, who are a follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, will not do so. One more request, and I have done. Comfort, I beg of you, my mother when she has to bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she loves so dearly has acted. By this post I write also to her. I trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my repentance is sincere. REGINALD GOWER."

Mrs. Willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. To think that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken hence, was bitter indeed. But not long could any unforgiving feeling linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to forgive.

Of Mrs. Gower's feelings we can hardly write. The shame and grief she experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by the same post as that by which Mrs. Willoughby received hers, cannot be expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "This my son was dead, and is alive again." The prayers--believing prayers--of long years were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious one, united as they now were in Christ. It was for her friend she felt so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of Reginald was a deep grief to her. Could she, she queried, as she set out letter in hand to Harcourt Manor--could she ever forgive him? That question was soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. Ere then Mrs. Willoughby had been alone with her G.o.d in prayer, and had sought and obtained strength from her heart to say, "O Lord, as Thou hast blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins, so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which Reginald has caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." After two hours spent together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together than ever before; Mrs. Willoughby saying she would write to Reginald that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that without his intervention G.o.d had restored her grandchild to her arms.

In the meantime letters had reached Dr. Heinz telling that the search for the missing ones was at an end. His short holiday was drawing to a close, and erelong Frida was embraced by the brother of the father she had loved so much and mourned so deeply.

And ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage with Gertie Warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. And a few days after that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent--nay, at her special request--that she should accompany them on their marriage jaunt, and that that should include a visit to Miss Drechsler and a sight of her friends in the Black Forest.

Many were the presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby to Elsie, Wilhelm, and others who had been kind to her grandchild in the Forest.

"O grandmother," said Frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do you know that I have just heard that my kind friend the German pastor has returned to Dringenstadt and settled there. He was so very kind to me when I was a little child, I should like to take him some small special remembrance--a handsome writing-case, or something of that kind."

"Certainly, Frida," was the answer. "You shall choose anything you think suitable. I am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you to Miss Drechsler. And look here, Frida. As you say that Wilhelm and Elsie can read, I have got two beautifully-printed German Bibles, one for each of them, as a remembrance from Frida's grandmother, who, through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own soul. See, I have written on the first page the words, 'Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'"

It was settled that during Frida's absence Mrs. Gower should live at Harcourt Manor, and together Mrs. Willoughby and she bid adieu to Frida as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his bride at Dover, from whence they were to start for the Continent. Tears were in Frida's eyes--tears of grat.i.tude--as she thought of the goodness of G.o.d in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations since she had crossed the Channel rather more than a year before.

Frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at Miss Drechsler's, promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen her friends in the Forest.

"Ah, Frida," said Miss Drechsler, when they were seated in the evening in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? Do you not remember the first time when Pastor Langen brought you here a shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?"

Ere Frida could reply, the door opened, and Pastor Langen entered, and Miss Drechsler introduced him to his _protege_.

"Frida Heinz! Is it possible? I must indeed be getting _ein Alter_ if this be the little girl who was found in the Black Forest."

He listened with interest whilst Miss Drechsler told him the history of her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of Frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no longer, but exclaimed,--

"_Lobe Herrn_, He is good, very good, and answers prayer."

And ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave thanks to G.o.d.

On the next day it was settled that Frida should go to the Forest and see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her.

CHAPTER XVIII.

OLD SCENES.

"G.o.d's world is steeped in beauty, G.o.d's world is bathed in light."

It was in the leafy month of June that Frida found herself once more treading the Forest paths. The smaller trees were clothed in their bright, fresh, green lining--

"Greenness s.h.i.+ning, not a colour, But a tender, living light;"

and to them the dark, gloomy pines acted as a n.o.ble background, and once again the song of birds was heard, and the gentle tinkle, tinkle of the forest streams.

Memory was very busy at work as the girl--nay, woman now--trod those familiar scenes. Yonder was the very tree under which Wilhelm found her, a lonely little one, waiting in vain for the father she would see no more on earth.

There in the distance were the lonely huts of the wood-cutters who had so lovingly cared for the orphan child. And as she drew nearer the hut of the Horstels, she recognized many a spot where she and Hans had played together as happy children, to whom the sighing of the wind amid the tall pines had seemed the most beautiful music in the world.

As she recalled all these things, her heart filled with love to G.o.d, who had cared for and protected her when her earthly friends had cast her off. The language of her heart might have been expressed in the words of the hymn so often sung in Scottish churches:--

"When all Thy mercies, O my G.o.d!

My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise."

Words cannot depict the joy of Elsie and Wilhelm at the sight of their dear woodland child. They had already heard of her having found her English relations, and heartily they rejoiced at the good news, although well they knew that they would seldom see the child they loved so well.

Many were the questions asked on both sides. Frida, on her part, had to describe Harcourt Manor and her gentle grandmother and her father's brother, Dr. Heinz, and his beautiful bride. She told also of the full-sized picture (which hung on the walls of Harcourt Manor) of her mother, which had been the means of the discovery of her birth, from her extraordinary likeness to it.

When the many useful presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby were displayed, the grat.i.tude of those poor people knew no bounds, and even the little girl looked delighted at the bright-coloured, warm frocks and cloaks for winter wear which had been sent for her. Hans was by no means forgotten: some useful books fell to his share when he returned home in a few weeks from Leipsic for a short holiday.

It was with difficulty that Frida tore herself away from those kind friends, and went to the Dorf to see her friends there, and take them the gifts she had brought for them also. It was late ere she reached Dringenstadt, and there, seated by Miss Drechsler, related to her the doings of the day.