Part 7 (2/2)
Then turning to the Gospel of Matthew, she read Christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, ”Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _I_ will give you rest.” Ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! Ere she closed the book, Mrs. Willoughby read the fourth verse of the Thirty-seventh Psalm: ”Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart.” Then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly Father, and rose quieted in spirit.
Ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two Bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in German, the other in English. The German Bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the English one to her mother. On the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, ”To my much-loved mother, from Hilda.” Ah, where was that daughter now? And if she still possessed the little brown German Bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her English Bible? Then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room.
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE RIVIERA.
”My G.o.d, 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, n.o.ble and right.”
More than four years had elapsed since Frida had left her home in the Black Forest. April suns.h.i.+ne 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 ma.s.ses 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 suns.h.i.+ne, for, by G.o.d'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 G.o.d's Word has been blessed to souls in the Forest. And, Adeline, have I told you how kind your friend Herr Muller 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 Muller 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 G.o.d 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 ingrat.i.tude!”
”O Adeline, hus.h.!.+ 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 G.o.d 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.”
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