The Basket of Flowers by Christoph von Schmid (best thriller novels of all time .txt) 📖

man was anxious to see the completion of his idea, and allowed neither himself nor his daughter rest until he had stocked the garden with their favourite flowers, rose trees, tulip and lily roots, and various kinds of shrubbery.

Mary made a special study of cultivating some rare flowers, among which were some which had never before been seen in this part of the country. When the summer came, the garden showed such a burst of verdure and blossom, that the valley, which was overshadowed by dark trees, now assumed quite a smiling appearance. An orchard belonging to the farmer, which had also been taken in hand by James, soon bore evidence to his gardening skill in the shape of an abundant harvest of fruit. Indeed, it seemed as if the blessing of God was upon everything that James undertook.

Settled in a comfortable home, and occupied in his favourite calling, the old gardener began to forget the troubles of the past, and to regain the cheerful humour which had made his conversation such a delight in the past. Once more he began to reflect upon the lessons which the flowers taught, and day by day he taught to Mary some new lesson which he had learned from them.

One day a woman from the neighbouring village came to buy some flax from the farmer, and brought her little boy with her. While she was occupied in bargaining for the flax, her little child, finding the garden-gate open, had gone in and begun to plunder a full-blown rose bush, with the result that he scratched himself terribly with the sharp thorns. His mother and the farmer's wife, as well as James and his daughter, hearing his screams of pain, ran to him. The child, with his little hands all covered with blood, cried out against the naughty rose bush for having attracted him by its pretty flowers and then cruelly torn his hands.

The occasion was seized by James for drawing a lesson. "It is sometimes thus with us older children also," he said to Mary. "Like this rose tree, every pleasure in life has its thorns. We run towards them, and would fain seize them with both hands. Some are led away by a taste for the dance and theatre, others by a taste for strong drink, or still more shameful vices. But the thorns make themselves felt by and by, and then there comes lament for wasted youth, and a distaste for the pleasures once so eagerly sought. Do not let us be foolishly dazzled by the beauty of the world. The chief end which man has to care for is the saving of his soul, and it is folly to give ourselves up to the enjoyment of passion. Our unceasing effort should be to use all diligence to gain eternal life."

One day James was employed in placing young plants in a part of the garden, while Mary was weeding at a little distance from him. "This double labour, my child," said her father, "represents what should be the occupation of our life. Our heart is a garden which the good God has given to us to cultivate. It is necessary that we should constantly apply ourselves to cultivate the good and to extract the evil, which is too apt to take root. That we may fulfil faithfully these two duties, let us implore God's assistance and blessing, which makes the sun to shine out and the rain to fall, the plants to grow, and the fruit to ripen. Then will our hearts be delightful gardens. We shall then have heaven within ourselves." In this way the old man and his daughter passed through life, active and industrious in their calling, and mingling innocent pleasures and instructive conversation with their daily pursuits.

Three years passed swiftly away, and the happy days they had spent at Pine Cottage had almost blotted out the memory of their past misfortunes. It was now autumn time, and the chrysanthemums, the last ornaments of the garden, were glorious in red and yellow flowers. The leaves of the trees had become of varied tints, and everything showed that the garden was preparing for the winter's repose. James had lately begun to feel his strength failing, and the thought of his daughter's future gave him considerable uneasiness. He concealed his feelings from her for fear of distressing her, but Mary observed that her father's remarks upon the flowers were now mostly of a melancholy kind. One day she observed a rose-bud which had never blossomed. In attempting to gather it the leaves of the flower fell off in her hand. "It is the same with men," said her father, who had been watching her. "In youth we resemble the rose newly opened, but our life fades like the rose. Almost before it is matured, it passes away. Do not pride yourself, my dear child, upon the beauty of the body. It is vain and fragile. Aim rather at beauty of soul and true piety, which will never wither."

One day towards evening time the old man climbed a ladder to pluck some apples, while Mary stood below with a basket to hold them.

"How cold," said James, "this autumn wind is as it whistles over the stubble fields and plays with the yellow leaves and my white hairs. I am in my autumn, my dear child, as you will also be some day. Try to grow like this excellent apple tree, which produces beautiful fruit and in great abundance. Try to please the Master of the great garden which is called the world."

On another day Mary was sowing seed for the following spring. "The day will come," said her father, "when we shall be put in the ground, as you are putting these seeds. But let us console ourselves, my dear Mary. As soon as the corn is enfolded in the earth, it is animated. It springs from the earth in the form of a beautiful flower, and rises thus triumphantly from the place where it was buried. So also shall we rise one day from our tombs with splendour and magnificence. When you follow me to the tomb, my dear child, do not mourn for me, but think of the future. In the flowers which you will plant on my grave, try to see the image of the resurrection and immortal life."


CHAPTER X.

A FATHER'S LAST WORDS.


The winter had now set in with threatenings of severity. Already the mountain and valley round about the farm were covered with deep snow. The weakness which old James had been feeling for some time now culminated in a severe illness. Obtaining her father's consent, Mary asked a physician from a neighbouring village to visit him. The doctor came to see James and prescribed for him. Full of foreboding, Mary followed him to the door to ask him if he had any hope of her father's recovery. To this the physician replied that the old man was in no immediate danger, but that he suffered from a disease which would make his recovery as an old man very improbable. It was with difficulty that Mary bore up under the news, and, after the physician had gone, she had a fit of passionate sobbing. For the sake of her father, however, she wiped away her tears, and endeavoured to appear calm before she went to him.

During the succeeding days Mary attended her father with the utmost devotion and loving care. Rarely had he to make his requests known, for his daughter could read in his eyes all that he wanted. Mary spent whole nights by his bedside. If at any time she consented to be relieved for a little rest, it was but rarely that she could close her eyes. If her father coughed, she trembled with apprehension; if he made the least stir, she immediately approached him softly and on tiptoe to know how he was. She prepared and brought to him in the most delicate forms the food which best suited his condition. She arranged his pillows from time to time, read to him, and prayed for him continually. Even when he dozed for a little she would stand by his bed with her hands clasped and her tearful eyes raised to heaven.

Mary had a little money which she had saved from her hard-won earnings. To scrape together this small sum she had often spent half the night in sewing and knitting articles for sale. Now, in her father's illness, she made use of this little store to procure for him everything which she thought would be of any service. Good old James, although occasionally he felt himself a little stronger, was never deceived about his condition, but felt only too sure that he was on his deathbed. The thought had no power to disturb him, and he spoke to his daughter of his approaching death with the greatest serenity.

"Oh," said Mary, crying bitterly, "do not speak thus, my dear father. I cannot bear the thought. What will become of me? Alas, your poor Mary will no longer have any one upon the earth!"

"Do not cry, my dear child," said her father affectionately, holding out his hand to her. "You have a kind Father in heaven who will never forsake you, although your earthly father be taken away from you. I do not feel anxious about the manner in which you will gain a livelihood when I am dead, for the birds easily find their food, and you will find enough to nourish you. God provides for the smallest sparrow; will He not also provide for you? The thought that distresses me," he continued, "is that you will be left alone. Alas, my dear child, you have little idea of the wickedness that is in the world! There will be moments perhaps when you will feel inclined to do evil; moments when you will perhaps yourself be persuaded that sin is not so very wrong. Listen to the advice which I now give you, and let the last words of your dying father be for ever deeply impressed on your heart. Forbid every action, every speech, every thought for which you would have to blush if your father knew. Soon my eyes will be for ever closed, I shall not longer be here to watch over you, but remember you have in heaven a Father whose eye sees everything and reads the secrets of your heart."

After a little while, when he had recovered breath, he continued: "You would not wish by an act of disobedience to hurt the father whom you have on earth; how much more then should you fear to offend your Father which is in heaven? Look at me once more, Mary. Oh, if you ever feel the least inclination to do wrong, think of my pale face and of the tears which wet these sunken cheeks. Come to me, put your hand into mine which will soon fall into dust. Promise me never to forget my words. In the hour of temptation, imagine that you feel this cold hand which you now hold on the border of the grave. My poor child, you cannot see without weeping, my pale and hollow cheeks. But know that everything passes away in this world. There was a time when I had the bloom of health and the fresh colour which you now have. The time will come when you too will be stretched on the bed of death, pale and emaciated, as you now see me, if God does not sooner take you to Himself. The friends of my youth have disappeared like the flowers which have passed away with the spring, and for whose places you seek in vain, like the dew which sparkles for a moment