IN THE RIVIERA.
"My God, 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,
Noble and right."
More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the
Black Forest. April sunshine 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 masses 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 sunshine, for, by God'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 God's Word has been
blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind
your friend Herr Mueller 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 Mueller 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 God 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 ingratitude!"
"O Adeline, hush! 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 God 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."
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 God's guidance, and you know it is written in
the Word of God 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 Muetterchen, 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
Mueller 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 Mueller to promise to hear you play? Ah! under the good God we owe
much to the 'woodland child.'"
And so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at Cannes and
Grasse, 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, Muetterchen," 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 God 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 God; 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 God 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, Fraeulein 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
"Fraeulein."
"Why, Hans--for I will not call thee Herr--to whom did you speak? There
is no Fraeulein here--just your old sister playmate Frida; never let me
hear you address me again by such a title. 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 title of Fraeulein Frida.
Ere Frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked God
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 God.