THE OLD NURSE.
"It chanced, eternal God, that chance did guide."
"How are you getting on with your packing, Frida?" said Miss Drechsler,
as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where
her friend was sitting.
"Oh, very well," was the answer; "I have nearly finished. When did you
say the man would come for the trunks?"
"I expect him in about an hour. But see, here comes the post; look if
there is one for me from Miss Warden. I thought I would get one to tell
me if any of her friends would meet us at Dover."
Frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph,
bearing two letters in her hand.
"One for you, auntie" (she always now addressed Miss Drechsler by that
name), "and one for myself. Mine is from Ada Stanford, and yours, I am
sure, is the one you are expecting."
A few minutes of silence was broken by Frida exclaiming,--
"O auntie, Ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she
asks, as a great favour, that I would come to visit them before going to
the Wardens; and adds, 'If Miss Drechsler would accompany you, we would
be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose
your London visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a London physician as
soon as I can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not I should
go abroad again next winter. So in perhaps another month we may go to
London, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at
Miss Warden's.'"
"What do you think about it, auntie? Of course it is a great
disappointment to me not to go with you; but do I not owe it to the
Stanfords to go to them when I may be of use during Ada's
convalescence?"
Miss Drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had anticipated so
much pleasure in having Frida with her in London; but after a few
minutes' thought she said, "You are right, Frida: you must, I fear, go
first to the Stanfords. We cannot forget all that they have done for
you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, I think you
must yield to their wishes; but I must go at once to Miss Warden, who is
expecting me. You had better write at once and tell them we hope to be
at Dover in four days. They live, as you know, not so far from there. I
think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of
miles from Stanford Hall, where I doubt not they will meet you; but I
must write at once and let Miss Warden know that you cannot accompany
me, and the reason why, though I hope that erelong, if convenient to
her, you may join me there. Ah, Frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way:
but God directeth his steps.'"
And so it came to pass that Miss Drechsler arrived alone at Miss
Warden's, whilst Frida went to Stanford Hall.
When it became known in the Forest that the woodland child, as they
still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time,
there was great lamentation.
"How then are we to get on without you?" they said. "_Ach!_ shall we
have to do without the reading of the book again? True, Hans Hoerstel
reads it well enough; but what of that? He too has left us. _Ach!_ it is
plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who
live in the Forest, and some grand English gentleman will be getting our
woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more."
But Frida only laughed at these lamentations. "Why, what nonsense you
speak!" she said. "It is only for a little while that I am going away. I
hope to come back in about three months. And many of you can now read
the Bible for yourselves. And as to the grand gentleman, that is all
fancy; I want no grand gentleman for a husband. The only thing that
would detain me in England would be if any of my relations were to find
me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, I am sure none of
my friends in the Forest would grudge their child to her own people, and
they may be assured she would never forget them, and would not be long
in revisiting them."
"_Ach!_ if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her
mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said
simultaneously. "We would then say, 'Stay, woodland child, and be happy
with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor
wood-cutters and workers in the Forest, who will weary for a sight of
the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the Black Forest.'"
Very hearty was the welcome which awaited Frida at Stanford Hall. Ada
received her with open arms.
"Ah, Frida, how glad I am to see you once again; and how good of you to
give up the pleasure of a month in London to come to see and comfort
us!--You will see how quickly I will get well now, mother.--And erelong,
Frida, we shall take you to London ourselves, and father will show you
all the wonders there."
Frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how
delicate-looking Ada had become.
The girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since
last they met; and when dinner was over, and Frida went to see Ada as
she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, Ada roused
herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat."
"See, Frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it
quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your Forest friends.
How are Elsie and Wilhelm, and their little Gretchen and Hans? But,
indeed, I believe I know more about them than you do; for only two days
ago my father received a letter from Hans's music-teacher in Leipsic,
giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical
career for him."
"Oh, I am glad!" said Frida. "How pleased his parents will be, and how
grateful to Sir Richard Stanford for all he has done for him!"
And so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of Frida's visit to
Stanford Hall drew to a close. As time passed on, Ada's health rapidly
improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds
belonging to the Hall--Ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and Frida
walking by her side. But by-and-by Ada was able to walk, and together
the girls visited in some of the cottages near the Hall--Frida finding
out that Ada in her English home was conveying comfort and blessing to
many weary souls by reading to them from her English Bible the words of
life, even as she had done from her German one in the huts of the
wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the Black Forest.
"Have you heard, Ada," said Lady Stanford one morning at breakfast,
"that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque
cottage at the Glen is very ill? I wish you and Frida would go and see
her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will
give you. I understand she requires nourishing food; and try and
discover if there is anything else she requires."
"Certainly, mother," answered Ada; "we will go at once and see what can
be done for her.--That Glen is a lovely spot, Frida, and you have never
been there. What say you--shall we set off at once? The poor woman is
very old, and her memory is a good deal affected."
"I shall be pleased to go, Ada; but I have a letter from Miss
Drechsler, received this morning, which I must answer by the first post.
She tells me that her friend Miss Warden is in great distress about the
illness of a friend of hers. She wishes to know how soon I can join her
in London; and now that you are so well, Ada, I really think I ought to
go."
"Ah, well," said Ada with a laugh, "time enough to think of that, Frida.
We are not prepared to part with you yet; but seriously, mother talks of
carrying us all off to London by another fortnight, and that must
suffice you. But after you have written your letter we will set off to
the Glen."
It was a lovely walk that the girls took that summer day through green
lanes and flowery meadows, till they came to a beautiful glen
overshadowed with trees in their fresh summer foliage of greenery,
through which the sunbeams found their way and touched with golden light
the green velvety moss and pretty little woodland flowers which so
richly carpeted the ground.
"How beautiful it is here!" said Frida, "and yet how unlike the sombre
appearance of the trees in the dear Black Forest!"
"Ah," said Ada, "that Forest, where I do believe your heart still is,
Frida, always seemed to me to be so gloomy and dark, so unlike our
lovely English woods with their 'leafy tide of greenery.'"
As they spoke they neared the cottage where dwelt the old woman they
were going to see. It was thatch-covered and low, but up the walls grew
roses and ivy, which gave it a bower-like appearance.
"She is a strange old woman," said Ada, "who has only lately come here,
and no one seems to know much about her. A grandchild of fourteen or
fifteen years old lives with and takes care of her. Her memory is much
impaired, but she often talks as if she had friends who if they knew
where she lived and how ill-off she was would help her; but when
questioned as to their name, she shakes her head and says she can't
remember it, but if she could only see the young lady she would know
her. They fancy the friends she speaks of must have been the family with
whom she lived as nurse, for her grandchild says she used often to speak
of having had the charge of a little girl to whom she was evidently much
attached. But here we are, Frida, and yonder is little Maggie standing
at the door."
When they entered the room, Frida was amazed to see how small it was and
how dark; for the ivy, which from the outside looked so picturesque,
darkened the room considerably. Ada, who had seen the old woman before,
went forward to the bed where she lay and spoke some kind words to her.
The old woman seemed as if she hardly understood, and gave no answer.
"Ah, madam," said the grandchild, "she knows nothing to-day, and when
she speaks it is only nonsense."
Frida now came forward and laid her hand kindly on the poor woman,
addressing a few words of sympathy to her. The invalid raised her eyes
and looked around her, giving first of all a look of recognition to Ada,
and holding out her thin hand to her, but her eyes sought evidently to
distinguish the face of the stranger who had last spoken. "She knows,"
explained Maggie, "yours is a strange voice, and wishes to see you,
which she can't do, miss, for you are standing so much in the shade."
Frida moved so that the glimmer of light which entered the little room
fell on her face. As she did so, and the old woman caught a glimpse of
her, a look of joy lit up the faded face, and she said in a distinct
voice: "'Bless the Lord, O my soul;' my dear has come to see me. Oh, but
I am glad! It's a long time since I saw you, Miss Hilda--a long, long
time. I thought you were dead, or you would never have forgotten your
old nurse you loved so dearly; but now you've come, my lamb, and old
nurse can die in peace." And seizing Frida's hand, the old woman lay
back as if at rest, and said no more.
Frida was startled, and turning to her friend, said, "O Ada, whom does
she take me for? Can it be that she knew my mother, whose name was
Hilda, and that she takes me for her? Miss Drechsler says I am
strikingly like the picture I have of her. Perhaps she can tell me where
my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and
bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "Who was Hilda, and where
did she live? Perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead."
The old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "Dead, dead;
yes, every one I loved is dead. But not Miss Hilda; you are she, and you
have come to see your old nurse. But listen, Miss Hilda: there is the
master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master
waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things
and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. But through all
Frida distinctly heard the words, "Oh, if only you had never played on
that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. O Miss
Hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old
nurse's also? Oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!"
"Was his name Heinz?" asked Frida in a trembling voice.
"Oh yes, Heinz, Heinz. O Miss Hilda, Miss Hilda, why did you do it?" and
then the old woman burst out crying bitterly.
"O miss, can you sing?" said Maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets
grandmother like singing."
"Yes, I can," replied Frida.--"And you, I am sure, Ada, will help me. I
know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother."
Together the two young girls sang the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my soul."
As they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and
presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before
doing so were, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." Much moved in spirit, Frida
quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of
discovering the name and relations of her mother. She and Ada hastened
their return home to confide to Lady Stanford all that had passed. She
was much interested, and, as Sir Richard entered the room just then, she
repeated the story to him. He listened eagerly, and said he would at
once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so
saying he left the house.
He returned home cast down and discouraged. The woman had become quite
delirious, and the names of Hilda and Heinz were often on her lips, but
he could, of course, get nothing out of her. The grandchild could tell
nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had
been nurse, but her father, who was now in Canada, might know. Sir
Richard could write and ask him. She had his address, and sometimes got
letters from him. The doctor said he did not think that grandmother
would live over the night. The only thing that had quieted her was the
singing of the young lady whom she had called Miss Hilda, and who had
come to the cottage that day with Miss Stanford. Maybe if she could come
again and sing grandmother would be quieter.
On hearing this Frida rose, and said if Lady Stanford would allow her,
she would go and remain all night with the old woman, who she felt sure
must have been her mother's nurse. She often, she said, watched a night
by dying beds in the Black Forest, and had comforted some on their
death-beds by reading to them portions of God's Word.
The Stanfords could not refuse her request; and when Lady Stanford had
herself filled a basket with provisions for Frida herself and little
Maggie, the girl set off, accompanied by Sir Richard, who went with her
to the door of the cottage.
Finding the poor woman still delirious, Frida took off her cloak and
bonnet and prepared to spend the night with her, and sitting down beside
the bed she once more began to sing some sweet gospel hymns. In low and
gentle tones she sang of Jesus and His love, and again the sufferer's
restlessness and moaning ceased, and she seemed soothed.
Hours passed, and the early summer morn began to dawn, and still the old
woman lived on. Every now and then she muttered the name of Miss Hilda,
and once she seemed to be imploring her not to vex her mother; and more
than once she said the name of Heinz, and whenever she did so she became
more excited, and moaned out the words, "Woe's me! woe's me!" Frida
watched anxiously every word, in the hope that she might hear the name
of Hilda's mother or the place where they lived; but she watched in
vain. It was evident that though there was a look of returning
consciousness, life was fast ebbing. A glance upward seemed to indicate
that the dying woman's thoughts had turned heavenward. Frida opened her
Bible and read aloud the words of the "shepherd psalm," so precious to
many a dying soul, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow
of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me."
To her amazement the sick woman repeated the words, "_thou_ art with
me;" and as she finished the last word the soul fled, and Frida and
Maggie were alone with the dead. The story of Frida's birth was still
undisclosed, but God's word, as recorded in Holy Scripture, had again
brought peace to a dying soul. Neighbours came in, and Frida turned away
from the death-bed with a heart full of gratitude to the Lord that she
had been allowed with His own words to soothe and comfort the old
nurse, who she felt sure had tended and loved her own mother.
When she returned to the Hall, the Stanfords were truly grieved to hear
that the old woman was dead, and that there had been no further
revelation regarding Frida's relations. Lady Stanford and Ada had just
persuaded Frida to go to bed and rest awhile after her night of
watching, when the door opened, and the butler came in bearing a
telegram to Miss Heinz. Frida opened it with trembling hands, saw it was
from Miss Drechsler, and read the words, "Come at once; you are needed
here."
What could it mean? Was Miss Drechsler ill? It looked like it, for who
else would require her in London? Fatigue was forgotten; she could rest,
she said, in the train; she must go at once. In a couple of hours she
could start. Ada was disconsolate. Nevertheless, feeling the urgency of
the case, she assisted her friend to pack her boxes; and erelong Frida
was off, all unaware of what might be awaiting her in the great city.
But ere we can tell that, we must turn for a while to other scenes, and
write of others closely linked, although unknown to herself, with the
life and future of the child found in the Black Forest.