Little Frida Part 8

Frida smiled. "That would be charming, Adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. Only say you really think I am right in the matter. I have not forgotten to ask G.o.d's guidance, and you know it is written in the Word of G.o.d which we both love so well, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' But come; we must go now and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the Cap d'Antibes."

And in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation.

In the meantime Frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the Forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded.

"Ah," said Elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now I shall be able to show her my little Gretchen, and she will, I know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little Annchen, and she will read to us again, Wilhelm, out of the little brown book which I have taken great care of for her."

"Ay," put in Hans, "and Mutterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and I will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, I know, be glad to hear that through Sir Richard Stanford and Herr Muller I am to become a pupil in the Conservatorium of Leipsic. I can hardly believe it is true."

"Ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to Frida herself.

Was it not she who told Sir Richard about your love of music, and got Herr Muller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good G.o.d we owe much to the 'woodland child.'"

And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and Gra.s.se, Frida found herself once more an inmate of Miss Drechsler's pretty little house at Dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the Forest.

"Ah, Mutterchen," she said as she threw herself into Elsie's arms, "here I am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.--And Hans, why, Hans, you look a man now; and oh, I am so pleased you are to go to Leipsic! You must bring down your violin now and then to Miss Drechsler's, and let us play together. I am sure you will be a great musician some day, Hans."

The young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "If I do turn that, I shall owe it all to you, Frida."

But the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "Now, Mutter, let me see little Gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child--the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land.

"What a darling she looks, Elsie! Oh, I am glad G.o.d has sent you this little treasure! She will cheer you when Hans has gone away and her father is all day in the Forest."

"Yes," said Elsie, "she is indeed a gift from G.o.d; and you, Frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and Anna, the 'way of life.' And O Frida, thou must go down to the Dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. And now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them."

"Forgotten them! O Elsie, how could they think so? Could I ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the Black Forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? I must go at once and ask them what I have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. Don't you know, Mutter, that I have given up the going to England to live with Miss Drechsler at Dringenstadt, in order that I may often see my dear friends in the Forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"--and here the girl looked sad--"any of my own friends find me out and claim me."

"Hast had any clue to them, Frida?" asked Elsie.

"Alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet I have seen a great number of people during these few years. And I have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one Englishman, whom I met at the Stanfords', who said I reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the Stanfords. But, Elsie, though I am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. But G.o.d knows best, and I am not going to waste my life in useless longings. I have got five pupils in Dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week I begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.--Don't you envy me, Hans?"

"That is what I do, Fraulein Frida," said Hans. Somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the old familiar name of Frida seemed too familiar to use. Frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "Fraulein."

"Why, Hans--for I will not call thee Herr--to whom did you speak? There is no Fraulein here--just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a t.i.tle. Art thou not my brother Hans, the son of my dear friends Elsie and Wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered Hans's new-born shyness.

And to the end of their lives Frida and Hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that Hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff t.i.tle of Fraulein Frida.

Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked G.o.d for past mercies, and it was Elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that Frida might still be used in the Forest to lead many to the knowledge of Christ Jesus through the reading of the Word of G.o.d.

CHAPTER XII.

IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS.

"There are lonely hearts to cherish While the days are going by, There are weary souls who perish While the days are going by.

If a smile we can renew, As our journey we pursue, Oh, the good we all may do While the days are pa.s.sing by!"

The London season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm.

On one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the West End crescents.

There was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two at least of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits.

In conversation with one of these--a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years--stood Reginald Gower. "Will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones.

"Gertie? No, I think not; she has a particular engagement this morning.

I don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party.

So, Mr. Gower, you and Arthur Barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and Cousin Mary."

Ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. She carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party.

"Are you going slumming to-day, Gertie? What a shame! And the sun so bright, and yet a cool air--just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt Mary."

"Give her my love then," replied Gertie, "and tell her I hope to ride over one of those days and see her. No, I cannot possibly go with you to-day, as I have an engagement elsewhere."

"An engagement in the slums! Who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Lily dear, and my cousin also; but I had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before I knew anything of this riding party, and I am sure I am right not to disappoint them.--And, Mr. Gower, I know your mother at least would not think I was wrong."

"That is true, Miss Warden. My mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. But could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?"

But she shook her head, and a.s.suring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "O Lily, do find out if it is true that Aunt Mary's old governess, Miss Drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the Black Forest. I do so want to know all about her. We must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask Dr. Heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, Mr. Gower, for I know you dearly love music."

Had Lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed Reginald Gower's face at her words.

Was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path?

He had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. The circ.u.mstance of the likeness to the picture in Harcourt Manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, had _almost_ (but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), not _altogether_, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on Mrs. Willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to care for Gertie Warden, her devoted Christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin.

True, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pa.s.s, and he found that his love was returned, _then_ he would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow.

Lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which Lily Warden made to a Dr. Heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a Christian man and pleasant friend. What if he should gain the affection of Gertie? Heinz! something in the name haunted him. Surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. And now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the Wardens, but also of their aunt Mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay.

No wonder that during the ride Lily Warden thought Mr. Gower strangely preoccupied and silent. She attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished Gertie would never think of Reginald Gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up.

Through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, Reginald saw only one face, and it was not that of Gertie Warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the Stanfords at Baden-Baden.

Oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! And in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. The reason of his so doing would be evident to many. And what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? Surely the words of the Bible he heeded so little were true, "The way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out.

As soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in Miss Warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the Thames, Lily said, "O Aunt Mary, is it true what Gertie has heard--that Miss Drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? Gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel Dr. Heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully Gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with Dr. Heinz himself."

"Yes, Lily dear, I am glad to say it is all true. I expect both Miss Drechsler and her young _protege_ next week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the Stanfords at Stanford Hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist--in fact, I believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their own daughter.--By the way, Mr. Gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend Miss Drechsler is coming to me, and I hope she will spend a day with me when she is here."

"I am sure she will be delighted to do so, Miss Warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist.

Reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how Gertie had got on with her slumming. "Not to-day," he said; "I find I must go home. I don't doubt your sister has been well employed--more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that Lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "Quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the b.u.t.terflies live and ours. Confess it now," he said laughingly; but Lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,--