THE VIOLIN-TEACHER AND THE CONCERT.
"There in an arched and lofty room
She stands in fair white dress,
Where grace and colour and sweet sound
Combine and cluster all around,
And rarest taste express."
Three years had passed since all that was mortal of the blind child was
laid to rest in the quiet God's acre near where the body of Frida's
father lay. After the funeral of little Anna, Frida at her own request
returned to the Forest with her friends, anxious to help and comfort
Elsie, who she knew would sorely miss the blind child, who had been such
a comfort and companion to her when both Wilhelm and Hans were busy at
work in the woods; but after remaining with them for a few months, she
again returned for a part of each year to Dringenstadt, and made rapid
progress under Miss Drechsler's tuition with her education, and
especially with her music.
The third summer after little Anna's death, Frida was again spending
some weeks in the Forest. It was early summer when she returned there.
Birds and insects were busy in the Forest, and the wood-cutters were
hard at work loading the carts with the piles of wood which the
large-eyed, strong, patient-looking oxen conveyed to the town. Loud
sounded the crack of the carters' whips as they urged on the slow-paced
oxen. Often in those days Frida, accompanied by Elsie (who had now no
little child to detain her at home), would take Wilhelm's and Hans's
simple dinner with them to carry to them where they worked.
One day Frida left Elsie talking to her husband and boy, and strolled a
little way further into the Forest, gathering the flowers that grew at
the foot of the trees, and admiring the soft, velvety moss that here and
there covered the ground, when suddenly she was startled by the sounds
of footsteps quite near her, and looking hastily round, saw to her
amazement the figure of the young violinist from whom she had lately
taken lessons.
"Fraeulein Heinz," he said, as he caught sight of the fair young girl as
she stood, flowers in hand, "I rejoice to meet you, for I came in search
of you. Pupils of mine in the town of Baden-Baden, many miles from here,
where I often reside, are about to have an amateur concert, and they
have asked me to bring any pupil with me whom I may think capable of
assisting them. They are English milords, and are anxious to assist
local musical talent; and I have thought of you, Fraeulein, as a
performer on the violin, and I went to-day to Miss Drechsler to ask her
to give you leave to go."
"And what did she say?" asked the child eagerly. "How could I go so far
away?" And she stopped suddenly; but the glance she gave at her dress
told the young violinist the direction of her thoughts.
"Ah!" he said, "Fraeulein Drechsler will settle all that. She wishes you
to go, and says she will herself accompany you and also bring you back
to your friends."
"Oh! then," said Frida, "I would like very much to go; but I must ask
Wilhelm and Elsie if they can spare me. But, Herr Mueller, do you think I
can play well enough?"
The violinist smiled as he thought how little the girl before him
realized the musical genius which she possessed, and which already,
young as she was, made her a performer of no ordinary skill.
"Ah yes, Fraeulein," he said, "I think you will do. But you know, as the
concert is not for a month yet, you can come to Dringenstadt and can
have a few more lessons ere then."
"Come with me, then, and let me introduce you to my friends;" and she
led him up to the spot where Wilhelm, Elsie, and Hans stood.
They looked surprised, but when they heard her request they could not
refuse it. To have their little woodland child play at a concert seemed
to them an honour of no small magnitude. Hans in his eagerness pressed
to her side, saying, "O Frida, I am so glad, for you do play so
beautifully."
"As for that matter, so do you, Hans," she replied, for the boy had the
musical talent so often found even in German peasants, and taught by
Frida could really play with taste on the violin.
"O Herr Mueller," she said, turning to him, "I wish some day you could
hear Hans play; I am sure you would like it. If only he could get
lessons! I know he would excel in it."
"Is that so?" said the violinist; "then we must get that good Fraeulein
Drechsler to have him down to Dringenstadt, and I will hear him play;
and then if we find there is real talent, I might recommend him to the
society for helping those who have a turn for music, but are not able to
pay for instruction."
Hans's eyes danced with delight at the idea, but in the meantime he knew
his duty was to help his father as much as he could in his work as a
wood-cutter. "But then some day," he thought, "who knows but I might be
able to devote my time to music, and so it would all be brought about
through the kindness of little Frida."
Frida was a happy girl when a few days after the violinist's visit to
the Forest she set out for Dringenstadt, to live for a month with
Fraeulein Drechsler, and with her go on to Baden-Baden. A few more
lessons were got from Herr Mueller, the selection of music she was to
perform gone through again and again, and all was ready to start the
next day.
When Frida went to her room that evening, great was her amazement to see
laid out on her bed a prettily-made plain black delaine morning dress,
neatly finished off at neck and wrists with a pure white frill; and
beside it a simple white muslin one for evening wear, with a white silk
sash to match. These Miss Drechsler told her were a present from
herself. Frida's young heart was filled with gratitude to the kind
friend who was so thoughtful of her wants; and she wondered if a day
would ever come when she would be able in any way to repay the
kindnesses of the friends whom God had raised up for her.
In the meantime Herr Mueller had told the Stanfords, in whose house the
concert was to be held, about the young girl violinist whose services he
had secured. They were much interested in her, and were prepared to give
a hearty welcome, not to her only, but to her friend Miss Drechsler,
whom they had already met.
Sir Richard Stanford, who was the head of an old family in the south of
England, had with his wife come abroad for the health of their young and
only daughter. Sir Richard and Lady Stanford were Christians, and
interested themselves in the natives of the place where they were
living, and themselves having highly-cultivated musical tastes, they
took pleasure in helping on any of the poorer people there in whom they
recognized the like talent.
"Father," said his young daughter Adeline, as she lay one warm day on a
couch under a shady tree in the garden of their lovely villa at
Baden-Baden, "suppose we have a concert in our villa some evening; and
let us try and find out some good amateur performers, and also engage
two or three really good professionals to play, so that some of the
poorer players who have not opportunities of hearing them may do so, and
be benefited thereby."
Anxious in any reasonable way to please their daughter, a girl not much
older than Frida, Sir Richard and Lady Stanford agreed to carry out her
suggestion; and calling their friend Herr Mueller to their assistance,
the private concert was arranged for, and our friend the child of the
Black Forest invited to play at it.
* * * * *
The day fixed for the concert had come round, and Adeline Stanford, who
was more than usually well, flitted here and there, making preparations
for the evening. The concert-room had been beautifully decorated, and
the supper-table tastefully arranged. Very pretty did Ada (as she was
called) look. Her finely-cut features and graceful appearance all
proclaimed her high birth, and the innate purity and unselfishness of
her spirit were stamped on her face. Adeline Stanford was a truly
Christian girl whose great desire was to make those around her happy.
One thing she had often longed for was to have a companion of her own
age to live with her and be as a sister to her. Her parents often tried
to get such a one, but as yet difficulties had arisen which prevented
their doing so. The very morning of the concert, Ada had said, "O
mother, how pleasant it would be, when we are travelling about and
seeing so many beautiful places, to have some young girl with us who
would share our pleasure with us and help to cheer you and father when I
have one of my bad days and am fit for nothing." Then she added with a
smile, "Not that I would like it only for your sakes, but for my own as
well. It would be nice to have a sister companion to share my lessons
and duties with me, and bear with my grumbles when I am ill."
Adeline's grumbles were so seldom heard that her parents could not help
smiling at her words, though they acknowledged that her wish was a
natural one; but then, where was the suitable girl to be found?
"Ah! here we are at last," said Miss Drechsler, as she and Frida drove
up to the door of the villa where the Stanfords lived. "How lovely it
all is!" said Frida, who had been in ecstasies ever since she arrived in
Baden.
Everything was so new to her--not since her father's death had she been
in a large town; and her admiration as they drove along the streets
between the rows of beautiful trees was manifested by exclamations of
delight.
Once or twice something in the appearance of the shops struck her as
familiar. "Surely," she said, "I have seen these before, but where I
cannot tell. Ah! look at that large toy-shop. I know I have been there,
and some one who was with me bought me a cart to play with. I think it
must have been mamma, for I recollect that the purse she had in her hand
was like one that I often got from her to play with. Oh, I am sure I
have lived here before with father and mother!"
As they neared the villa, the "woodland child" became more silent, and
pressed closer to her friend's side.
"Ah! here they come," exclaimed Adeline Stanford, as followed by her
father and mother she ran downstairs to welcome the strangers. Miss
Drechsler they had seen before, but the appearance of the girl from the
Black Forest struck them much. They had expected to see a peasant child
(for Herr Mueller had told them nothing of her history nor spoken of
her appearance), and when Frida had removed her hat and stood beside
them in the drawing-room, they were astonished to see no country child,
but a singularly beautiful, graceful girl, of refined appearance and
lady-like manners. Her slight shyness soon vanished through Ada's
unaffected pleasant ways, and erelong the two girls were talking to each
other with all the frankness of youth, and long ere the hour for the
concert came they were fast friends.
[Illustration: "Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage
together." _See page 61._]
Ada was herself a good pianist, and could play fairly well on the
violin, and she found that Herr Mueller had arranged that she and the
girl from the Forest should perform together.
"Come, Frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together; we must
be sure we have it perfect."
"Oh, how well you play!" she said when they had finished. "Has Herr
Mueller been your only teacher?"
"Latterly he has," was the answer; "but when I was quite little I was
well taught by my father."
"Your father!" said Adeline; "does he play well? He cannot have had many
advantages if he has to work in the woods all day."
"Work in the woods! why, he never did that." Then she added, "Oh! I see
you think Wilhelm Hoerstel is my father; but that is not the case. My own
dear father is dead, and Wilhelm found me left alone in the Black
Forest."
"Found in the Black Forest alone!" said Ada. Here was indeed a romance
to take the fancy of an imaginative, impulsive girl like Adeline
Stanford; and leaving Frida with her story unfinished, she darted off to
her parents to tell them what she had heard. They also were much
interested in her story, for they had been much astonished at the
appearance of the girl from the Forest; and telling Ada that she had
better go back to Frida, they turned to Miss Drechsler and asked her to
tell them all she knew of the child's history.
She did so, mentioning also her brown Bible and the way in which God was
using its words amongst the wood-cutters in the Forest.
* * * * *
The concert was over, but Sir Richard, Lady Stanford, and Miss Drechsler
lingered awhile (after the girls had gone to bed), talking over the
events of the evening.
"How beautifully your young friend played!" said Lady Stanford; "her
musical talent is wonderful, but the girl herself is the greatest wonder
of all. She cannot be the child of common people, she is so like a lady
and so graceful. And, Miss Drechsler, can you tell us how she comes to
be possessed of such a lovely mosaic necklace as she wore to-night?
Perhaps it belongs to yourself, and you have lent it to her for the
occasion."
"No, indeed," was the answer; "it is not mine. It evidently belonged to
the child's mother, and was on her neck the night she was found in the
Forest."
"Then," said Sir Richard, "it is just possible it may be the means of
leading to the discovery of the girl's parentage, for the pattern is an
uncommon one. She is a striking-looking child, and it is strange that
her face haunts me with the idea that I have seen it somewhere before;
but that is impossible, as the girl tells me she has never been in
England, and I can never have met her here."
"It is curious," said Miss Drechsler; "but I also have the feeling that
I have seen some one whom she greatly resembles when I was in England
living in Gloucestershire with the Wardens."
"'Tis strange," said Lady Stanford, "that you should see a likeness to
some one whom you have seen and yet cannot name, the more so that the
face is not a common one."
"She is certainly a remarkable child," continued Miss Drechsler, "and a
really good one. She has a great love for her Bible, and I think tries
to live up to its precepts."
That evening Sir Richard and his wife talked together of the possibility
of by-and-by taking Frida into their house as companion to Ada,
specially whilst they were travelling about; and perhaps afterwards
taking her with them to England and continuing her education there, so
that if her relations were not found she might when old enough obtain a
situation as governess, or in some way turn her musical talents to
account.
The day after the concert, Frida returned with Miss Drechsler to
Dringenstadt, to remain a few days with her before returning to her
Forest home.
As they were leaving the Stanfords, and Frida had just sprung into the
carriage which was to convey them to the station, a young man who had
been present at the concert, and was a friend of the Stanfords, came
forward and asked leave to shake hands with her, and congratulated her
on her violin-playing. He was a good-looking young man of perhaps
three-and-twenty years, with the easy manners of a well-born gentleman.
After saying farewell, he turned into the house with the Stanfords, and
began to talk about the "fair violinist," as he termed her. "Remarkably
pretty girl," he said; "reminds me strongly of some one I have seen.
Surely she cannot be (as I overheard a young lady say last night) just a
wood-cutter's child."
"No, she is not that," replied Sir Richard, and then he told the young
man something of her history, asking him if he had observed the strange
antique necklace which the girl wore.
"No," he answered, "I did not. Could you describe it to me?" As Sir
Richard did so a close observer must have seen a look of pained surprise
cross the young man's face, and he visibly changed colour. "Curious," he
said as he rose hastily. "It would be interesting to know how it came
into her possession; perhaps it was stolen, who knows?" And so saying,
he shook hands and departed.
Reginald Gower was the only child of an old English family of fallen
fortune. Rumour said he was of extravagant habits, but that he expected
some day to inherit a fine property and large fortune from a distant
relative.
There were good traits in Reginald's character: he had a kind heart, and
was a most loving son to his widowed mother, who doted on him; but a
love of ease and a selfish regard to his own comfort marred his whole
character, and above all things an increasing disregard of God and the
Holy Scriptures was pervading more and more his whole life.
As he walked away from Sir Richard's house, his thoughts were occupied
with the story he had just heard of the child found in the Black Forest.
He was quite aware of the fact that the girl's face forcibly reminded
him of the picture of a beautiful girl that hung in the drawing-room of
a manor-house near his own home in Gloucestershire. He knew that the
owner of that face had been disinherited (though the only child of the
house) on account of her marriage, which was contrary to the wishes of
her parents, and that now they did not know whether she were dead or
alive; though surely he had lately heard a report that, after years of
bitter indignation at her, they had softened, and were desirous of
finding out where she was, if still alive. And then what impressed him
most was the curious coincidence (he called it) that round the neck of
the girl in the picture was just such another mosaic necklace as the
Stanfords had described the one to be which the young violinist wore.
Was it possible, he asked himself, that she could be the child of the
daughter of the manor of whom his mother had often told him? and if so,
ought he to tell them of his suspicions--the more so that he had heard
from his mother that the lady of the manor was failing in health, and
longing, as she had long done, to see and forgive her child? If he were
right in his surmises that this "woodland girl," as he had heard her
called, was the daughter of the child of the manor, then even if the
mother was dead, the young violinist would be received with open arms by
both the grand-parents, and would (and here arose the difficulty in the
young man's mind) inherit the estates and wealth which would have
devolved on her mother, all of which, but for the existence of this
woodland child, he, Reginald Gower, would have inherited as heir-at-law.
"Well, there is no call on you to say anything about the matter, at all
events at present," whispered the evil spirit in the young man's heart.
"You may be mistaken. Why ruin your whole future prospects for a fancy?
Likenesses are so deceptive; and as to the necklace, pooh! that is
nonsense--there are hundreds of mosaic necklaces. Let the matter alone,
and go your way. 'Eat, drink, and be merry.'"
All very well; but why just then of all times in the world did the words
of the Bible, taught him long ago by the mother he loved, come so
vividly to his remembrance--"Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with
thy God;" and those words, heard more distinctly still, which his mother
had taught him to call "the royal law of love"--"As ye would that men
should do to you, do ye even so to them"?
Good and bad spirits seemed fighting within him for the mastery; but
alas, alas! the selfish spirit so common to humanity won the day, and
Reginald Gower turned from the low, soft voice of the Holy Spirit
pleading within him, and resolutely determined to be silent regarding
his meeting with the child found in the Black Forest, and the strange
circumstance of her likeness to the picture and her possession of the
mosaic necklace.
Once again the god of self, who has so many votaries in this world, had
gained a great triumph, and the prince of this world got a more sure
seat in the heart of the young man. But all unknown to him there was one
"climbing for him the silver, shining stair that leads to God's great
treasure-house," and claiming for her fatherless boy "the priceless boon
of the new heart."
Was such a prayer ever offered in vain or unanswered by Him who hath
said, "If ye ask anything according to my will, I will do it. Ask, and
ye shall receive"?