The Basket of Flowers Part 6

"My dear Mary," said the old minister, "it is impossible for you to think of remaining longer at Pine Farm. They expect you to do more than a strong man could accomplish. Still, I do not advise you to leave immediately. Although your father gave you an excellent education, and taught you all that it was necessary for a village housekeeper to know, my advice would be to remain where you are for the present; to work as faithfully as you can, and to wait patiently until the Lord delivers you from your present hard circ.u.mstances. I will endeavour to get you a place in an honest Christian family. Have confidence in G.o.d; pray constantly, bear with this trial, and G.o.d will arrange all." Mary thanked the good old minister and promised to follow his advice.

Mary's favourite place of meditation was her father's tomb, where she had planted a rose tree. "Alas," said she, "if I could remain here always, I would water you with my tears!" The rose tree was already green, and the buds began to open their purple cups. "My father was right," said Mary, "when he compared human life to the rose tree. It offers nothing but thorns; but wait a little and the season will come when it shall be decked anew in foliage and robed in the most beautiful flowers. For me, this is now the time of thorns; but G.o.d help me not to be cast down! I believe your word, best of fathers. Perhaps I may see in my life the truth of your favourite maxim--'Patience produces roses.'"

Thus poor Mary consoled herself in her distress.

"Thou art, O Lord, my only trust, When friends are mingled with the dust, And all my loves are gone.

When earth has nothing to bestow, And every flower is dead below, I look to Thee alone."

CHAPTER XIII.

AGAIN A WANDERER.

The months sped on, and now the anniversary of her father's birthday arrived. Until then it had always been to Mary a day of great joy, but this time, when the day dawned, she was bathed in tears. Previously she had had the pleasure and excitement of preparing something which she knew would please her father, but now, alas, this delightful occupation was rendered useless!

The country people round about their home used to beg flowers from her for the purpose of decorating the graves of their friends. It had always been a pleasure to Mary to give her flowers for this purpose, and she now determined to decorate her father's tomb in the same manner. Taking from a cupboard the beautiful basket which had been the first cause of all her unhappiness, she filled it with choice flowers of all colours, artistically interspersed with fresh green leaves, and carried it to Erlenbrunn before the hour of divine service, and laid it on her father's tomb, watering it at the same time with tears that could not be repressed.

"Oh, best and dearest of fathers," said she, "you have strewed with flowers the path of life for me. Let me at least ornament your grave with them."

Mary left the basket on the grave, and went back to the misery of Pine Farm. She had no fear that any one would dare to steal either the basket or the flowers. Many of the country people who saw her offering were moved to tears, and, blessing the old gardener's pious daughter, they prayed for her prosperity.

The next day the labourers at the farm were busy taking in the hay from a large meadow just beyond the forest. The farmer's wife had a large piece of fine linen spread out on the gra.s.s a few steps from the house, and in the evening this was found to have disappeared. Unfortunately the young farmer's wife had heard the story of Mary and the ring from her husband, to whom it had been told by his father and mother.

Instantly then she connected Mary with the disappearance of the linen, and saw in the circ.u.mstance a means of venting her spite upon the girl whom she had always disliked.

When Mary was returning from her work in the evening with a rake on her shoulder and a pitcher in her hand, along with the other servants, this pa.s.sionate woman came out of the kitchen and met her with a torrent of abuse, and ordered her to give up the linen immediately. At first Mary was too stunned to reply, but when she understood the charge, she answered meekly that it was impossible she could have taken the linen, as she had pa.s.sed the whole day in the hay-field with the other servants; that a stranger might easily have taken advantage of a moment when there was no one in the kitchen to commit the theft. This conjecture turned out to be the true one, but the farmer's wife was not to be turned from her conviction.

"Thief," she cried coa.r.s.ely, "do you think I am ignorant of the theft of the ring, and what difficulty you had to escape the executioner's sword? Begone as soon as possible. There is no room in my house for creatures like you."

"It is too late," said her husband, "to send Mary away now. Let her sup with us, as she has worked all day in the great heat. Let her but remain this one night."

"Not even one hour," cried his wife pa.s.sionately; and her husband, seeing that advice would only irritate her more, remained silent.

Mary made no further attempt to defend herself against the unjust accusation. She immediately made her simple preparations for her departure, wrapping up all that she had in a clean napkin. When she had put the little bundle under her arm, thanked the servants of Pine Farm for their kindness to her and protested once more her innocence, she asked permission to take leave of her friends, the old farmer and his wife.

"You may do that," said the young farmer's wife, with a scornful smile; "indeed, if you wish to take with you these two old people, it will give me great pleasure. It is evident death does not mean to rid me of them for some time."

The good old people, who had heard the altercation, wept when Mary came to bid them good-bye. However, they consoled her as well as they could, and gave her a little money to a.s.sist her on her journey. "Go, good girl," said they to her, "and may G.o.d take care of you."

It was towards the close of the day when Mary set out with her little bundle under her arm, and began to climb up the mountain, following the narrow road to the woods. She wished before leaving the neighbourhood to visit her father's grave once more. When she came out of the forest the village clock struck seven, and before she arrived at the graveyard it was nearly dark; but she was not afraid, and went up to her father's grave, where she sat down and gave way to a burst of grief. The full moon was shining through the trees, illumining with a silver light the roses on the grave and the basket of flowers. The soft evening breeze murmured among the branches, making the rose trees planted on her father's grave tremble.

"Oh, my father," cried Mary, "would that you were still here, that I might pour my trouble into your ears! But yet I know that it is better that you are gone, and I thank the Lord that you did not live to witness this last affliction. You are now happy, and beyond the reach of grief. Oh, that I were with you! Alas, never have I been so much to be pitied as now. When the moon shone into the prison which confined me you were then alive; when I was driven from the home which I loved so much you were left me. I had in you a good father and protector and faithful friend. Now I have no one. Poor, forsaken, suspected of crime, I am alone in the world, a stranger, not knowing where to lay my head.

The only little corner that remained to me on the earth I am driven from, and now I shall no longer have the consolation of coming here to weep by your grave!" At these words the tears rushed forth afresh.

"Alas," said she, "I dare not at this hour beg a lodging for the night.

Indeed, if I tell why I was turned out of doors, no one perhaps will consent to receive me."

She looked around. Against the wall, near her father's tomb, was a gravestone, very old and covered with moss. As the inscription had been effaced by time, it was left there to be used as a seat. "I will sit down on this stone," said she, "and pa.s.s the night by my father's grave. It is perhaps the last time I shall ever be here. To-morrow at daybreak, if it be G.o.d's will, I shall continue my journey, going wherever His hand may direct me."

CHAPTER XIV.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Mary sat down on the stone near the wall shaded by the thick foliage of a tree which covered her with its dark branches. Here she poured out her soul in fervent prayer to G.o.d. Suddenly she heard a sweet voice calling her familiarly by her name, "Mary, Mary!"

The late hour of night and the solitude of the graveyard and her loneliness made Mary start with fear. Looking up she saw the beautiful face and figure of a woman, dressed in a long flowing robe. Frightened and trembling, Mary was about to fly.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Looking up she saw the beautiful face and figure of a woman."

_See page 104._]

"Dear Mary," said the lady, with tenderness in her voice, "do not be alarmed; I am not a spirit, but a human being like yourself. G.o.d has heard your fervent prayers, and I have come to help you. Look at me; is it possible you do not know me?"

The moon was shining brightly upon her face, and with an exclamation of surprise, Mary cried out, "Is it you, the Countess Amelia? Oh, how did you get here--here in so lonely a place at this hour of the night, so far from your home?"

The Countess raised Mary gently from the ground, pressed her to her heart, and kissed her tenderly.

"Dear Mary," said she, "we have done you great injustice. You have been ill rewarded for the pleasure which you gave me with the basket of flowers, but at last your innocence has been made known. Can you ever forgive my parents and me? We are ready to make amends as far as it lies in our power. Forgive us, dear Mary."

Mary was distressed at these words, and begged the Countess not to talk of forgiveness. "Considering the circ.u.mstances," she said, "you showed great indulgence towards me, and it never entered my mind to nourish the least resentment towards you. I had grateful thoughts of all your kindness, and my only sorrow was that you and your dear parents should regard me as ungrateful enough to be guilty of stealing your ring. My great desire was that you might one day be convinced of my innocence, and G.o.d has granted this desire. May His name be praised!"

The Countess pressed Mary to her heart, and bathed her face in tears.

Afterwards she looked at James's grave and, clasping her hands, she cried out pa.s.sionately, "Oh, n.o.ble man, whose body lies here, whom I learned to love in my tender youth, whose affectionate counsels I have often received, and whose fervent prayers I have so often listened to, why cannot I see your face to ask pardon for all the injustice done you? Oh, if we had only taken more precaution, if we had placed more confidence in an old servant who had always shown unimpeachable honesty and faithfulness, perhaps thou hadst still been living with us!"

"Believe me, good Countess," said Mary, "my father was far from feeling the least resentment towards you. He prayed for you daily, as he was accustomed to do when he lived at Eichbourg, and at the hour of his death he blessed you all.

"'Mary,' said he to me, a little before he died, 'I feel confident that those whom we once served will one day recognise your innocence, and recall you from exile. When that day comes, a.s.sure the Countess and Count and Amelia that my heart was full of respect and love and grat.i.tude towards them till my last breath.' These, my dear Countess, were his last words."

The tears of the good Amelia flowed copiously. "Come, Mary," said she, "and sit down here with me on the stone. We are safe here in the sanctuary of the Lord. Let me tell you of all the strange events that have happened."

CHAPTER XV.

THE YOUNG COUNTESS'S STORY.

Having made Mary sit down beside her, the young Countess began her story.

"G.o.d is surely with you, dear Mary," said she, "and has taken you under His protection. I see now that He has guided my steps here in order that I might find you for whom we have sought so long. Simple as are the events which I am about to relate to you, we can see in them a chain of truly providential circ.u.mstances.

"From the time that your innocence was discovered I had no more rest.

You and your father were always pressing on my mind, wandering without home and friends. Believe me, my dear Mary, I have shed many bitter tears on your account. My parents were also deeply distressed at the injustice they had unwittingly done you, and sought for you everywhere; but, as you know, without being able to obtain any trace of you.