Little Frida Part 7

"We hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.--Is it not so, Laura?" she said, addressing herself to Mrs. Gower, who now stood beside them.

"Yes, indeed," was the reply; "I am thankful to have my boy home again.

Lilyfield is a dull place without him."

"Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." And as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears.

But Reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "Farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there.

But he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "Why, Reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "Oh, look out, Gower; you are spoiling the game! It was a shame to miss that ball."

Thus admonished, Reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. But no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the Black Forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend Mrs. Willoughby.

Oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from Sir Richard Stanford!

He had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("True," he said to himself, "I never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my n.o.ble mother and my friend Mrs. Willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. Dishonest, cruel, unjust--he, Reginald Gower; was it possible? Ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting.

"Well, Reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner.

"Oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him.

A silence succeeded, broken at last by Reginald.

"Mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in Mrs. Willoughby's face since I last saw her? And tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? And is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for I think it is said she married) survives her? If that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother."

"Reginald," Mrs. Gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if I thought that there was the least chance that either Mrs. Willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, I would rejoice with all my heart, and do all I could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. And so I am sure would you."

A flush of crimson rose to Reginald's brow at these words. Then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. But then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? No! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the Black Forest, if she was still to be found.

So once more Reginald Gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "At a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of Italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter pa.s.sed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. And as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? Only--and here she sighed--ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and that the Word of G.o.d, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path!

That evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. The master of Harcourt Manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. What could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. Anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven.

Did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed?

"No, no, _n.o.blesse oblige_;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored.

Such was the state of mind in which the master of Harcourt Manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician Heinz. But some months before Reginald Gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, Mr. Willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind.

His wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "Has not Reginald Gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband.

A shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "Oh, I think he looks well enough! Of course five years must have made him look older. But Reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be."

"Well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother."

"Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than Reginald Gower."

Mrs. Willoughby sighed. Well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child.

Dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there.

The day had been a trying one to Mrs. Willoughby. Not often nowadays had they parties at Harcourt Manor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her G.o.d. She sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. The likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. Oh to see or hear of her once more! Poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! Only one could comfort her, and that was the G.o.d she had learned to love. She put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the very _fac-simile_ of the one which little Frida possessed, and which G.o.d had used and blessed in the Black Forest. Turning to the Hundred and third Psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him."

Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _I_ will give you rest." Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit.

Ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "To my much-loved mother, from Hilda." Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room.

CHAPTER XI.

IN THE RIVIERA.

"My G.o.d, I thank Thee who hast made The earth so bright, So full of splendour and of joy, Beauty, and light; So many glorious things are here, n.o.ble and right."

More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April suns.h.i.+ne was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at Cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the Mediterranean there.

Some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the Villa des Rosiers, where they were living. A lovely scene was before their eyes. In front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of St. Marguerite and St. Honorat, and to the west were the beautiful Estrelle Mountains. Around them bloomed ma.s.ses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in the garden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground.

The two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene.

Then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "Is it not lovely, Adeline? The whole of nature seems to be rejoicing."

"Yes, indeed," answered her companion. "And I am sure I owe much to the glorious suns.h.i.+ne, for, by G.o.d's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. I am quite well now, and the doctor says I may safely winter in England next season. Won't it be delightful, Frida, to be back in dear old England once more?"

"Ah! you forget, Adeline, that I do not know the land of your birth, though I quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. I do often long to see it, and fancy if I were once there I might meet with some of my own people. But then again, how could I, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the Forest entirely? It is long since I have heard of them. Do you know that I left my little Bible with them? I had taught Elsie and Hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as I used to do to the wood-cutters on Sunday evenings. It is wonderful how G.o.d's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Muller has been about Hans? He got him to go twice a week to Dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin.

He says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtain a good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer."

"Yes, Frida," replied her friend; "I know more about all that than you do. Herr Muller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with Hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'"

A silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless Mediterranean at their feet.

Then Frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "Adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and G.o.d will reward them. This morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to England; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as I liked. Oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, Adeline, I have refused it."

"Refused it, Frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up.

"You don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! Are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the Forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? Frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingrat.i.tude!"

"O Adeline, hus.h.!.+ do not pain me by such words. Listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. Your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me."

"Well, let me hear," said Adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. Is it your intention really to go back to the Forest and live there?"

"Not exactly that, Adeline. I have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to England to tell them what I thought was my duty to do. And this is what has been settled. If you still wish it, as your parents do, I shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to Baden-Baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. From there I propose returning to my friends in the Forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. After that I shall live with Miss Drechsler. Her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in Dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. And, Adeline, that situation she has offered to me."

"Well, Frida," interrupted her friend, "did not I wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?"

"O Adeline dear, hush, I pray of you, and let me finish my story. You _know_ that it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not really _need_ me. You have your parents and friends.

Miss Drechsler is alone, and I can never forget all she has done for me.

Then I am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. I intend giving lessons in violin-playing at Dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. Miss Drechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure I will soon get more, as the new villas near Dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. And then, Adeline, living there I shall be near enough to the Forest to carry on the work which I believe G.o.d has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. And at Miss Drechsler's I mean to live, as long as she requires me, _unless_ I am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. I believe I am right in the decision I have come to. So once again I pray of you, dear Adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. You know how much I love you all, and how grateful I am to you.

Only think how ignorant I would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if I had been their own child. Oh, I can never, never forget all that you have done for me!"

Adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "Well, Frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, I can say no more. Only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us."