The Basket of Flowers by Christoph von Schmid (top ebook reader TXT) 📖

linen, and saw in the circumstance 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 passionate 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 passed 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 coarsely, "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 passionately; 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 assist her on her journey. "Go, good girl," said they to her, "and may God 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 pass 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 God'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 God. 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.

Looking up she saw the beautiful face and figure of a woman.

"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. God 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 circumstances," 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 God 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 passionately, "Oh, noble 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, assure the Countess and Count and Amelia that my heart was full of respect and love and gratitude 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.

"God 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 circumstances.

"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.

"Two days ago we came to a hunting-lodge of the Prince in the forest, not far from this village. For twenty years at least this castle has not been visited, the only occupant being a gamekeeper. My father had gone on business, and had spent the whole day in the forest in company with two noblemen whose wives were staying at the castle. It had been a very warm day, and the evening was very fresh. The setting sun, the mountain covered with pines interspersed with picturesque rocks offered such a beautiful spectacle that I begged permission to take a walk. Accompanied by the gamekeeper's daughter I set out, and as we passed along we found the graveyard gate open, and the tombstones gilded by the light of the setting sun.

"Since my childhood I have always had a pleasure in reading inscriptions and epitaphs on tombstones. I am moved when one tells of a young man or woman carried off in the bloom of youth, and I feel a sort of melancholy pleasure if it concerns a person who had reached advanced age. The verses themselves, poor as they may be from a poetical point of view, stir serious feelings within me, and I never fail to carry away with me from a graveyard good thoughts and pious resolutions.

"Entering the graveyard with the gamekeeper's daughter, I began as usual to read the inscriptions. After a little while the girl said to me, 'Come, I will show you something very beautiful. It is the grave of an old man, who has neither tombstone nor epitaph, but it has been ornamented with taste and beauty by the tender piety of his daughter. See, you can just distinguish it through the thick leaves of these pines—the beautiful rose tree and the basket of flowers.'

"You can imagine, dear Mary, the shock I received, when at the first glance I recognised the basket of flowers which had never been out of my mind since that sad day when you left Eichbourg. If there had been any doubts in my mind as to it being the