Chapter XIV: 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.