THE DISCOVERY.
"All was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow."
One day shortly after Dr. Heinz's visit, Mrs. Gower came to Harcourt
Manor accompanied by Miss Drechsler, who had arrived from London the
night before to remain with her for a couple of days.
"You will not likely see Mrs. Willoughby," she said as they neared the
manor-house, "as she seldom leaves her husband's room; but if you do not
object to waiting a few minutes in the drawing-room whilst I go to see
her, I would be so much obliged to you, as I am desirous of knowing how
Mr. Willoughby is to-day. He seemed so low when I last saw him."
"Oh, certainly," answered Miss Drechsler. "Don't trouble about me; I can
easily wait. And don't hurry, please; I am sure to get some book to
while away the time."
They parted in the hall, Mrs. Gower turning off to the sick-room, while
Miss Drechsler was ushered by the butler into the drawing-room. The room
was a very fine one, large and lofty. It had been little used for some
weeks, and the venetian blinds were down, obscuring the light and
shutting out the summer sunshine.
At first Miss Drechsler could hardly distinguish anything in the room,
coming into it as she did from a blaze of light; but as her eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, she made out first one object and then another
clearly, and rising from the place where she had been seated, she began
to look around her, turning to the pictures, which she had heard were
considered very fine. She looked attentively at some of them. Then her
eyes rested on a full-sized portrait of a beautiful girl, and with a
start of astonishment Miss Drechsler uttered the word, "Frida! and with
her curious necklace on, too. What does it mean?" she queried.
In a moment the whole truth flashed on her mind. That, she felt sure,
must be a picture of Frida's mother, and she must have been the missing
child of Harcourt Manor.
She sat down a moment, feeling almost stunned by the discovery she had
made. What a secret she had to disclose! Oh, if Mrs. Gower would only
come back quickly, that she might share it with her! Oh, if Frida had
only been with her, and she could have presented her to her grandparents
as the child of their lost daughter!
At last the door opened, and her friend appeared, but much agitated.
"Excuse me, dear Miss Drechsler, for having kept you so long waiting;
but I found Mr. Willoughby much worse, and I must ask you kindly to
allow me to remain here for a short time longer. Perhaps you would like
to take a stroll about the beautiful grounds, and--"
But Miss Drechsler could no longer keep silence. "O dear friend, do not
distress yourself about me! Listen to me for a moment. I have made such
a discovery. I know all about Mrs. Willoughby's daughter; but, alas, she
is dead! She died some years ago; but her only child, the very image of
that picture on the wall yonder, is living, and is now residing within a
few hours of London. She is my _protege_, my dearly-loved young
violinist, Frida Heinz, the child I have told you of found in the Black
Forest!"
"Is it possible?" replied Mrs. Gower. "What a discovery you have made!
thank God for it. Can she be got at once, I wonder, ere the spirit of
her grandfather passes away? Oh, this is indeed an answer to prayer! The
cry of the poor man's heart for days has been, 'Oh, if God has indeed
forgiven me, as I fully believe He has, I pray He may allow me to know
ere I go hence if my child, or any child of hers, is alive to come and
comfort my dear wife in the sorrow that is awaiting her!'"
"A telegram must be sent at once to Stanford Hall, where she is now
living," said Miss Drechsler; "and another to Miss Warden, asking her to
send off Frida, after she arrives at her house, at once to Harcourt
Manor."
And without loss of time the telegram was dispatched which summoned
Frida to London, and from thence to the manor-house.
The first sense of surprise having passed, Mrs. Gower's thoughts
involuntarily turned to Reginald. How would he like this discovery? But
again the mother's partiality, which already had too often blinded her
to his faults, suggested the impossibility that he would receive the
news with aught but pleasure, though there might be a momentary feeling
of disappointment as regarded his future prospects. But now she must
return to the sick-room, and try to see her friend for a minute or two
alone, and tell her the glad tidings; also, if possible, let her hear
the particulars of the story from the lips of Miss Drechsler herself.
It was no easy matter now, under any pretence, to get Mrs. Willoughby to
leave her husband's side even for a moment. The doctors had just told
her that at most her husband had not more than two days to live, perhaps
not so long, and every moment was precious; but Mrs. Grower's words,
spoken with calm deliberation, "Dear friend, you must see me in another
room for a few minutes about a matter of vital importance," had their
effect. And she rose, and after leaving a few orders with the nurse, and
telling her husband she would return immediately, she quietly followed
Mrs. Gower into another room.
She listened as if in a dream to the story which Miss Drechsler told.
Incident after incident proved that the child found in the Forest was
indeed her grand-daughter; and as she heard that her own child, her
loved Hilda, was indeed dead, the mother's tears fell fast.
The necklace which Frida still possessed, the same as that worn by the
girl in the picture, the small portrait which had been found in her bag
the night that Wilhelm Hoerstel had discovered her in the Black Forest,
all confirmed the idea that she was indeed the grandchild of the Manor;
but it was not until Mrs. Willoughby heard the story of the "brown
German Bible" that she sobbed out the words, "Oh, thank God, thank God,
she is the child of my darling Hilda. Now, dear friend, this discovery
must be communicated by me to my husband, and he will know that his last
prayer for me has been granted."
Mr. Willoughby was quite conscious, and evidently understood the fact
that at last a child of his daughter's had been found. As regarded the
death of the mother, he merely whispered the words, "I shall see her
soon;" then said, "I thank thee, O my Father, that Thou hast answered
prayer, and that now my sweet wife will not be left alone.--Give my fond
love to the girl, wife, for I feel my eyes shall not see her. That is my
punishment for so long cherishing an unforgiving spirit."
And if God could act as a man, such might have been the case; but our
God is fully and for ever a promise-keeping God, and He has declared,
"If any man confess his sins, He is faithful and just to forgive him,
and to cleanse him from all iniquity." And so it came to pass that ere
the spirit of Mr. Willoughby passed away, he had pressed more than one
kiss on the lips of his grandchild, and whispered the words, "Full
forgiveness through Christ--what a God we have! Comfort your
grandmother, my child, and keep near to Jesus in your life. God bless
the kind friends who have protected and loved you when you were
homeless.--And now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace.--Farewell,
loved and faithful wife, who, by the reading to me God's word of life,
hast led my soul to Christ." One deep-drawn breath, and his spirit fled,
and his wife and grandchild were left alone to comfort each other.
* * * * *
"And now, Frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those
friends who were so kind to you in the Forest," said Mrs. Willoughby
some days after Mr. Willoughby's funeral. "Ah, how little we thought
that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling Hilda was
dead! When I look upon you, Frida, it almost seems as if all these long
years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated
beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone.
You are wonderfully like her, and I believe that during the last four
hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband
thought that Hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said
the words, 'I fully forgive, as I hope to be forgiven.' But comfort
yourself, Frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to
console each other.--But now tell me what I asked you to do, and also if
you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter."
"Not exactly," replied Frida. "Still, one or two people were struck with
my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could
not recall. Miss Drechsler was one of those, and now she says she
wonders she did not remember that it was Miss Willoughby, although she
had only seen her twice at the Wardens', and then amongst a number of
people. And then a young man, a Mr. Gower (the same name as your
friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the Stanfords' concert,
told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he
had seen. I wonder if he could be any relation to your Mrs. Gower?"
"Was his name Reginald?" Mrs. Willoughby asked hurriedly.
"Yes. Sir Richard Stanford used to call him Reginald Gower; but I seldom
saw him. But, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as Frida
spoke, Mrs. Willoughby's face had blanched. Was it possible, she asked
herself, that Reginald Gower had known, or at least suspected, the
existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from
his friends? A terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked
the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. She felt she must betray
herself, and so answered Frida's question by saying,--
"Oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but I shall lie on
the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. Now tell me about the Forest."
And Frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told
of her childhood's life in the Forest, and the kindness shown to her by
Elsie and Wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of Hans and the little blind
Anna so early called to glory. "And, O grandmother, all the wood-cutters
and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned
to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from
her pocket the little brown German Bible, her mother's parting legacy to
her child. "It was no words of mine that opened their eyes (I was too
young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and
they did the deed."
Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her
lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those
words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English
ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted?
Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can
make us 'wise unto salvation.'"
Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing
every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with
sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest.
"I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the
Forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good God has been to me
in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a
brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I
must run and get the letters."
In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand.
"Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one
for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from
Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You
said he had gone there, did you not?"
Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American
letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of
course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me.
But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery
of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some
other subject."
She then read as if in a dream the following words:--
"DEAR FRIEND--if indeed I may still dare to address you thus--I
write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to
you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some
years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a
child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living
with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays
charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir
Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen
somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the
fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the
girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my
remembrance the picture of your daughter at Harcourt Manor with
a _fac-simile_ of the necklace on. Added to this, I had heard
that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the Black
Forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known.
It is now with deep repentance that I confess to having
concealed these facts (though I had no doubt as to whose child
she was), because I knew that by disclosing the secret my right
to succeed to the property of Harcourt Manor would be done away
with. I felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and
knew also the trouble and grief I was causing to you, whom
(although you may find it difficult to believe) I really loved,
and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. I now see that
it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul
a sin. Conscience remonstrated, and the words of the Bible, so
early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached
me; but I turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and
deliberately chose the evil way. All these years I have
experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but
selfishness prevailed; and when I heard that Frida Heinz was
coming to England, and that probably ere-long all might be
disclosed, I resolved to leave my native land and begin a better
life here. Ere I left I had reason to believe that she was
unable to come to England, so even now I may be the first to
reveal the secret of her existence. I do not know if even yet I
would have gained strength to do this or not, had not God in His
great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when
it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a
sinner I was in His sight, and led me to seek forgiveness
through the merits of Christ for all my past sins. _That_ I
believe I have obtained, and now I crave a like forgiveness from
you whom I have so cruelly wronged. Should you withhold it, I
dare not complain; but I have hopes that you, who are a follower
of our Lord Jesus Christ, will not do so. One more request, and
I have done. Comfort, I beg of you, my mother when she has to
bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she
loves so dearly has acted. By this post I write also to her. I
trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my
repentance is sincere. REGINALD GOWER."
Mrs. Willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. To think
that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had
befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and
the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so
long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened
her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken
hence, was bitter indeed. But not long could any unforgiving feeling
linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to
forgive.
Of Mrs. Gower's feelings we can hardly write. The shame and grief she
experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by
the same post as that by which Mrs. Willoughby received hers, cannot be
expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "This my son was
dead, and is alive again." The prayers--believing prayers--of long years
were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious
one, united as they now were in Christ. It was for her friend she felt
so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of Reginald was
a deep grief to her. Could she, she queried, as she set out letter in
hand to Harcourt Manor--could she ever forgive him? That question was
soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. Ere then
Mrs. Willoughby had been alone with her God in prayer, and had sought
and obtained strength from her heart to say, "O Lord, as Thou hast
blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins,
so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which Reginald has
caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." After two hours spent
together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together
than ever before; Mrs. Willoughby saying she would write to Reginald
that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that
without his intervention God had restored her grandchild to her arms.
In the meantime letters had reached Dr. Heinz telling that the search
for the missing ones was at an end. His short holiday was drawing to a
close, and erelong Frida was embraced by the brother of the father she
had loved so much and mourned so deeply.
And ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage
with Gertie Warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. And a few days after
that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent--nay, at
her special request--that she should accompany them on their marriage
jaunt, and that that should include a visit to Miss Drechsler and a
sight of her friends in the Black Forest.
Many were the presents sent by Mrs. Willoughby to Elsie, Wilhelm, and
others who had been kind to her grandchild in the Forest.
"O grandmother," said Frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do
you know that I have just heard that my kind friend the German pastor
has returned to Dringenstadt and settled there. He was so very kind to
me when I was a little child, I should like to take him some small
special remembrance--a handsome writing-case, or something of that
kind."
"Certainly, Frida," was the answer. "You shall choose anything you think
suitable. I am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in
person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you
to Miss Drechsler. And look here, Frida. As you say that Wilhelm and
Elsie can read, I have got two beautifully-printed German Bibles, one
for each of them, as a remembrance from Frida's grandmother, who,
through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own
soul. See, I have written on the first page the words, 'Search the
scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they
which testify of me.'"
It was settled that during Frida's absence Mrs. Gower should live at
Harcourt Manor, and together Mrs. Willoughby and she bid adieu to Frida
as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his
bride at Dover, from whence they were to start for the Continent. Tears
were in Frida's eyes--tears of gratitude--as she thought of the goodness
of God in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations
since she had crossed the Channel rather more than a year before.
Frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip
with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at Miss Drechsler's,
promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen
her friends in the Forest.
"Ah, Frida," said Miss Drechsler, when they were seated in the evening
in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? Do
you not remember the first time when Pastor Langen brought you here a
shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?"
Ere Frida could reply, the door opened, and Pastor Langen entered, and
Miss Drechsler introduced him to his _protege_.
"Frida Heinz! Is it possible? I must indeed be getting _ein Alter_ if
this be the little girl who was found in the Black Forest."
He listened with interest whilst Miss Drechsler told him the history of
her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of
Frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in
which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no
longer, but exclaimed,--
"_Lobe Herrn_, He is good, very good, and answers prayer."
And ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave
thanks to God.
On the next day it was settled that Frida should go to the Forest and
see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her.