CHAPTER VI.
A PAINFUL MEETING.
Not for a long time had the judge been so perplexed as he was over Mary's case.
"For three days," he said, "it has been before us, and we have not made the least advance towards the solution of the mystery. If I could see any possibility of the ring having been taken by any one else, I should certainly believe this girl innocent, but the evidence is so clear against her, that it is impossible to believe anything else."
The Countess was again examined and questioned thoroughly; the minutest circumstances being inquired into. Juliette was also examined again.
A whole day was spent by the judge in going over their testimony, and weighing against it the words that Mary had uttered in her examination. It was late at night when the judge sent to the prison for Mary's father to be brought to his house.
"James," said he kindly, "I am known perhaps as a strict man, but I do not think that you can reproach me with ever having intentionally injured any one. I do not need to tell you that I do not desire the death of your daughter. All the details of the case, however, prove that she must have committed the theft, and, under these circumstances, you are aware that the penalty which the law requires is death. But your daughter is young, and, notwithstanding the serious nature of the crime, if she were to return the ring even now, a pardon might be granted to her. To persist so obstinately in denying her guilt will most certainly end in her death. Go to her, James; insist upon her returning the ring, and I give you my word that the penalty of death will not be visited upon her, but a mere trifling punishment substituted. As her father you have great power over her. If you cannot obtain a confession, most people will think that you have been an accomplice with your daughter in the crime. Once more, I repeat, if the ring is not found, I pity your case."
"My daughter has not stolen the ring," replied James sadly; "of that I am sure. That she will not therefore acknowledge her guilt, I know beforehand. But I will speak to her as you desire. I will employ every means to find it out, and if it be that she is to perish, notwithstanding her innocence, it is a comfort to know that I can see her once again before the terrible event."
Accompanied by an officer, the old man went to the prison where Mary was confined. The officer set a lamp upon a projection of the wall in a corner of the cell, on which also stood an earthen pitcher of water. Mary was lying on her straw bed, with her face turned towards the wall, partially asleep. The light of the lamp woke her from her troubled slumber, and, turning over and seeing her father, she uttered a cry of joy and raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains. Almost fainting, she threw herself upon her father's neck, and the old man sat down with her upon her bed and pressed her in his arms. For some time they both remained silent and mingled their tears together. At length James broke the silence and began to speak as the judge had instructed him.
She raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains.
"She raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains."See page 44.
"Oh, my father," said Mary, in a reproachful voice, interrupting him, "surely you at least do not doubt my innocence. Alas," she continued, weeping bitterly, "is there no one who believes me innocent, no one, not even my father! Oh, my dear father, believe me that I am innocent."
"Calm yourself, my dear child; I believe you entirely. I am only doing now what I have been instructed to do by the judge."
There was a silence for a little while in the cell. The old man looked at his daughter and saw her cheeks pale and hollow with grief, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, and her hair hanging dishevelled about her.
"My dear child," he said, "God has suffered you to be tried very severely; but I fear lest there should be a worse trial to come, more painful sufferings than any you have yet undergone. Alas, perhaps even my dear child's head may fall by the hands of the executioner!"
"My father," said Mary soothingly, "I care but little for myself. But for you——"
"Fear nothing for me, my dear Mary," said her father, "I run no risk——"
"Oh," cried Mary, "thank God! If that is the case, a great load is taken off my heart. For myself, all is well. Be sure, my dear father, I fear not to die. I shall go to God; I shall find my Saviour. I shall also see my mother in heaven. That will be a great happiness."
Deeply moved at his daughter's words, the old man wept like a child.
"Well, God be praised," said he, clasping his aged hands together, "God be praised for your submissive spirit. It is very hard for a man stricken in years, for a tender father to lose his only child, the child of his love, his only consolation, the joy of his old age, and his last support, but," he continued, "may the will of the Lord be done."
"One word," said he, a moment afterwards; "Juliette has sworn falsely against you. On her oath she has declared that she saw the ring in your hands. If you perish, you will perish by her testimony. But you will pardon her, my Mary—is it not so? You do not take with you any feeling of hatred towards her. Alas, even upon this bed of straw, and loaded with chains, you are still more happy than she is, living in the Countess's palace and dressed in fine clothes, and with everything that her heart can desire. It is better to die innocent than to live dishonoured. Pardon her, my child, as thy Saviour pardoned His enemies on the cross. Do you pardon her?" the old man asked anxiously.
Mary assured her father that she did. And now the officer was heard coming to separate them.
"Well," said her father, "I commend you to God and His grace. If I should not see you again, if this is the last time that I am permitted to talk with you, my daughter, at least be sure that I will not be long in following you to heaven. You may depend upon it that I shall not long survive this parting."
The time was now up, and, warned by the officer, the old man prepared to take his departure. Mary clung to him with all her strength, but her father was obliged to disengage himself as gently as he could, and Mary fell insensible upon her bed.
As soon as James was brought before the judge, he raised his hands to heaven, and cried out, almost beside himself—
"My daughter is innocent!"
The judge was deeply moved.
"I am disposed," he said, "for my own part to believe it. Unfortunately, I must judge the case from the nature of the testimony, with impartiality and even to the utmost rigour of the law."
CHAPTER VII.
SENTENCED.
In the village of Eichbourg the case of Mary and the missing ring were the only subjects of conversation, and many were the speculations as to what the result of the case would be. At the period when Mary lived, the crime of theft was always visited with severe punishment, and in many cases the sentence of death was carried out when the theft was of a much less valuable article than the Countess's ring.
The Count himself wished for nothing so much as to find Mary innocent. In his anxiety to give her the advantage of any doubt there might be, he himself read all the testimony and conversed with the judge for hours at a time, but, after all had been done, he was unable to persuade himself of Mary's innocence. Amelia and her mother were, as may be imagined, in deep distress, and begged with tears that Mary's life might be spared. As for the old man, Mary's father, he spent his days and nights in unceasing prayer that God would be pleased to prove to the world the innocence of his daughter.
All this time the preparations for the execution were being rapidly pushed forward, and whenever Mary heard an officer enter her cell, she thought it was to announce to her that her hour had come to die.
But if Mary was thus distressed at the preparations for the execution, there was another person for whom the thought had infinite terror. Amelia's maid, Juliette, for the first time realised the crime of which she had been guilty, and when she saw the executioner at his work, horror seemed to deprive her of her reason. When she sat down to eat she could not swallow a bite, and her spirits became so low that she was an object of general remark. When she retired to rest, her sleep was disturbed by ghastly dreams, in which she saw Mary's head severed from her body. But in spite of the remorse which gnawed her day and night, the heart of the unhappy woman was hardened against the idea of confessing her falsehood, and so Mary remained guilty in the eyes of the law.
After much anxious deliberation the judge pronounced sentence upon Mary. In consideration of her extreme youth and the unblemished character which, up till now, she had enjoyed, the sentence of death was not to be carried out; but instead, Mary and her father were to be banished from the country, and all their furniture and possessions were to be sold to make up, as far as possible, for the value of the ring, and to pay the expenses of the trial.
Next morning at break of day the sentence was carried into execution, and Mary and her father were conducted from the prison. Their road lay past the Castle gate, and just then Juliette came out. Since the publication of the news that the sentence of death was not to be carried out, this wicked girl had recovered her spirits, and once more allowed all her evil feelings against Mary to revive. So far from being sorry for the banishment that was now inflicted upon Mary, she rejoiced in the thought that Mary could no longer be feared as a rival in her mistress's favour. After the trial was over, the Countess, seeing Mary's basket of flowers on the sideboard, had said to Juliette, "Take away that basket, that I may never have it before my eyes. The recollections which it arouses in me are so painful that I cannot endure the sight of it."
Now, as Mary and her father were passing the Castle gate, Juliette called out to them, "Stop a minute. Here is your fine present; my mistress would keep nothing from such people as you. Your glory has passed away with the flowers for which you were paid so well." So saying, she threw the basket at Mary's feet, re-entered the Castle, and banged the door with great violence after her. Mary took the basket in silence, and, with tears in her eyes, continued her way, while her father dragged his aged limbs alongside of her.
She threw the basket at Mary's feet.
"She threw the basket at Mary's feet."See page 52.
Many a time on the journey Mary turned back to look, with tear-dimmed eyes, towards the cottage where they had spent so many happy years, until the roof of the Castle and even the church steeple disappeared from her sight. At last they came to the limits of the country beyond which their exile was to be; and, having conducted them thus far, the officer left them. They were now in the heart of a forest, and the old man, though overwhelmed with grief and anxiety for the future, seated himself upon the grass under the shade of an oak tree and comforted his daughter.
"Come, my child," said he, taking Mary's hands in his own and raising them to heaven, "before we go on let us thank God who has taken us out of the gloomy prison, and allowed us to enjoy once more the sight of heaven and the freshness of the air; who has saved our lives, and who has returned you, my dear daughter, to your father's arms." The old man then fell upon his knees, and out of a thankful heart commended himself and his daughter to the protection of their heavenly Father.
With the prayer of faith, which was thus offered up, feelings of joy and courage began to fill their hearts. And now it was seen that God's providence had not left them. An old huntsman—Anthony by name—with whom James had been in service when he accompanied the Count on his travels, had set out before daybreak to hunt a stag, and now came upon James and his daughter seated under the oak.
"God bless you, James," said Anthony. "It does me good to hear your voice. Is it then true that they have banished you? Truly it is hard to see a man obliged, in his old age, to quit his country."
"As far as the reach of heaven extends," answered James, "the earth is the Lord's, and His kindness is extended to all. Our country—our real country—is in heaven."
"Tell me," said the huntsman, with sympathy in his face, "if they have banished you just as you are, without food or clothing necessary for the journey."
"He who clothes the flowers of the field will know how to provide for us also!"
"That is so; but you are provided at least with money?" insisted Anthony, whose kind heart was filled with sympathy and indignation.
"We have a good conscience," replied the old man, "and with that we are richer than if the stone upon which I sit was gold. My father was a basket-maker. He taught me his trade besides that of gardening, in order that, during the dark winter months, I might have a useful occupation. This has done more for me, and has been better for my prosperity, than if he had left me a fortune. A good conscience, health of body, and an honourable trade, are the best and surest fortunes we can have on earth."
"God be praised," answered the huntsman, "that you bear your misfortunes so well. I am forced to confess that you are right, and that you have still a good resource in gardening. But I cannot see where you expect to get employment."
"Far from here," answered James; "in places where we are not known. Wherever, in short, God will conduct us."
"James," said the huntsman, "take this stout stick in your hand. I have used it to assist me in climbing up the mountains, but I can easily get another. And here," he added, drawing from his pocket a little leather purse, "is some money that I received in payment for some wood in the village where I passed the night."
"I gladly accept the cane," replied James, "and I will cherish it in remembrance of a generous man; but it is impossible for me to accept the money, as it is payment for wood that belongs to the Count."
"Good old James," the huntsman replied, "if that is your fear, you may take the money with an easy mind. Some years ago a poor old man, who had lost his cow, could not pay for the wood which he had bought from the Count. I advanced him the sum, which he paid to the Count, and thought no more about it. Now he has got out of his difficulties, and yesterday, when I had forgotten all about it, he returned it to me with hearty thanks. So you see it is truly a present which God sends you."
"I accept it," said James, "with thanks, and may God return it to you. See, Mary," he said, turning to his daughter, "with what goodness God provides for us at the very commencement of our banishment, here almost before we have passed the limits of the country, and sends us our good old friend who has given us money. Courage, my daughter; our heavenly Father will watch over us." The huntsman then took leave of them with tears in his eyes.
"Farewell, honest James," said he, "farewell, my good Mary," extending his hands to both. "I always thought you innocent, and I still think so. Do not despair. Do not surrender your honesty because you are suspected. Yes, yes; whosoever does well and has confidence in God, may be assured of His protection. May God be with you."
Hand in hand Mary and her father now continued their way through the forest, not knowing at what spot they would rest, and without a friend in the world but God.
CHAPTER VIII.
FINDING NEW FRIENDS.
Although their hearts were thus sustained by faith in God, the journey on which Mary and her father now started was a long and painful one. For days they were unable to find a lodging, and the little money with which they had started was at last exhausted, and they had no prospect of earning more. Although it was sorely against their will, they were at last compelled to ask for bread at the hands of charity. Here again they were made to feel the humiliation of their position; for in going from door to door, seeking for help which they so sorely needed, they met with scarcely anything but rebuffs, and sometimes indeed with abuse. Often their meal consisted only of a small piece of dry bread, washed down by water from the nearest fountain. A luxury would occasionally come their way in the shape of a little soup or some vegetables, and here and there, some scraps of meat or pastry, given to them by some kind-hearted housekeeper. After days spent in this way, they were thankful at night to be allowed to sleep in a barn.
Up till now Mary's father had borne up with wonderful courage. One day, however, the distance which they had travelled was longer than usual, and the road which stretched before them seemed endless, unbroken by the sight of any village or human habitation. Suddenly the old man began to feel very weak. His limbs tottered under him, and he fell, pale and speechless, on a heap of dry leaves at the foot of a hill covered with pine trees.
In great alarm for her father's safety, and overwhelmed with grief, Mary ran hither and thither trying to find water, but in vain. Thinking that her voice might be heard by some one in the neighbourhood she cried for help, but the echo alone answered her. As far as she could see, in every direction the country was without human habitation. Almost worn out with fatigue, she at last climbed to the top of the hill in order that she might more readily discover any dwelling-place where help might be obtained. It was then that she saw just behind the hill a small farmhouse surrounded by green meadows, and shut in on every side by forest. Hastily running down the hill, she arrived at the cottage out of breath, and with tears in her eyes asked assistance for her old father. The farmer and his wife were kind-hearted people, and were deeply touched at the sight of Mary's agony.
"Put the horse in the little waggon," said the farmer's wife to her husband, "and we will bring this sick old man here."
When the horse was harnessed the farmer's wife put two mattresses, an earthen pitcher of water, and a bottle of vinegar into the waggon. But when Mary heard that the waggon would require to go round the hill, and could not reach her father within half an hour, she took the water and vinegar in her hand, and went by the short road across the hill in order that she might the sooner minister to her father's needs. Greatly to her joy, she found that her father had recovered a little and was now sitting at the foot of a pine tree. The old man was greatly relieved to see his daughter, whose absence had caused him deep anxiety.
In a short time the waggon arrived with the farmer and his wife. Placing James in the waggon they carried him to their home, where they gave him a clean little room, and a closet and a kitchen which were then unoccupied.
The old man's illness had been caused solely by insufficient food, want of rest, and the fatigue of the journey. With great kindness, the good farmer and his wife, who were poor people, sacrificed some of their usual luxuries in order that they might have more money to spend on the things which James required to restore him to his usual health. For instance, they had been in the habit of taking a trip every year to a fair in a neighbouring village; but when the time came round they agreed to remain at home that they might save the cost of the journey, and spend the money thus saved in procuring some delicacies to tempt the old man's appetite. At this fresh proof of their kindness, Mary thanked them with tears of gratitude in her eyes.
"Oh," said she, "truly there are kind people everywhere, and in the most unlikely places we find compassionate hearts."
During the days when the old man was gradually recovering, Mary watched constantly at his bedside. But with the habit of industry which she had practised, she filled up these hours with working for the farmer's wife by knitting or sewing, and as may be imagined, this anxiety to help her benefactors, added to her modest and winning manner, gave great pleasure to the kind-hearted peasants.
By and by the care which had been bestowed upon James, and the nourishing food which he had got, began to tell upon him, and soon he was so far restored as to be able to get up out of bed. As soon as he felt returning strength, he was desirous of doing something. Resuming their old habits, Mary gathered for him branches of willow and hazel, and with these her father made a pretty little basket, which he offered to the farmer's wife as a small token of gratitude.
When he felt himself quite recovered, he said to his hosts—
"We have been long enough a burden to you. It is time we should go and seek our fortunes elsewhere."
"Why should you leave us, my good James?" said the farmer, taking the old man by the hand. "I hope we have not offended you in any way? The year is now far advanced; the winter is at the door. If you have any hardship again you will certainly be sick."
James warmly assured them that the only motive he had for desiring to leave them was the fear that he and his daughter were burdensome.
"If that is all," said the farmer heartily, "pray do not distress yourself further. The spare room which you occupy prevents you from being burdensome to us in the smallest degree, and you gain enough to supply your wants."
"Yes, that is true," added the farmer's wife. "Mary alone earns enough with her needle to support you; and as for you, James, if you wish to exercise your trade of basket-maker, you will have your hands full. Not long since I took your pretty basket with me to the market, and all the countrywomen who saw it wished to have one like it. If you like I will procure customers, and I promise that you will not soon be in want of work."
The old man and his daughter were only too glad to remain with their kind-hearted friends, who expressed themselves as thoroughly pleased with the new arrangement.
CHAPTER IX.
A NEW HOME.
James and his daughter were now settled down in a place which they could call home; they furnished their rooms in a simple style, with nothing more than they needed for everyday wants. It gave Mary great pleasure in again being able to prepare her father's meals, and to look after his comforts in every way; and together they led a life of quiet happiness. The good friends with whom they lived had a large garden attached to the house, but as the farmer and his wife had their time too much taken up in the field to give much care to the garden, it was of little or no use to them. James saw that it could be made a profitable source of income by devoting it to the growing of flowers and fruit, and when he proposed to put this plan into execution the farmer's consent was willingly granted.
During the autumn time, James had made his preparations, and when the warmth of spring had melted the winter snows, he began his work, assisted by Mary; and together they laboured from morning to night. The garden was divided into beds planted with all sorts of vegetables and flowers, and bordered with gravel walks. The old 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 on the flowers and is gone."
The next day James, feeling that his end was near, felt it his duty and delight, though weak in body, to continue his advice to his daughter.
"I have seen the world," said he, "as well as other people, in the day when I accompanied the young Count on his travels. If there was anything in the large cities superb or magnificent, I went there. I spent whole weeks in pleasure. If there was a brilliant assembly or a lively conversation, I saw and heard as well as my young master. I shared in the most exquisite meals, and of the scarcest wines, and always had more than I wished for. But all these worldly pleasures left me with an empty heart. I assure you solemnly, my dear Mary, that a few moments of peaceful thought and fervent prayer in our arbour in Eichbourg, or under this roof that covers us now, gave me more real joy than all the vain pleasures of the world. Seek then your happiness in a life of service of our blessed Saviour. You will find Him and He will bless you.
"Too well you know, my child, that I have not been without misfortune in this life. When I lost your dear mother my heart was for a long time like a dry and barren garden, whose soil, burned by the sun, cracks open, and seems to sigh for rain. In this way I languished, thirsting for consolation, and at last I found it in the Lord. Oh, my dear daughter, there will be days in your life when your heart also will be like dry and barren ground; but let it not dishearten you. As the thirsty ground calls not for rain in vain, but God sends the refreshing showers, so if you seek your consolation from God, He will refresh your heart as the sweet rain refreshes the thirsty parched earth. Let your confidence in your heavenly Father be unshaken. Firmly believe that there is nothing He will not do for those He loves. Sometimes He may lead us by paths of grief, but be sure that these paths lead to unmingled happiness. Do you recollect, my good Mary, all the grief you felt when, after our painful walk, I fell down with fatigue in the middle of the road? Now you can see that this accident was the means which God made use of to procure for us the comforts which we have enjoyed for three years with the good people of this house. Had I not taken ill that day then we should not have come before their door, or their hearts would not have been touched with compassion for us. All the pleasures which we have enjoyed here, all the good which we may have been enabled to do, are so many benefits which sprang from the sickness which at first so sorely distressed you.
"But you will always find, my dear Mary, that in the troubles of life there are proofs of the Divine goodness, to those who will look for them. If the liberal hand of the Lord has scattered with flowers the mountains and valleys, forests and river-banks, and even the muddy marshes, to give us everywhere the opportunity of admiring the tenderness and beauty of nature, He has also imprinted on all the events of our life the evident traces of His great wisdom, and all His passionate love to man in order that the attentive man may learn by them to love and adore Him.
"In all our life, we have never had to suffer more than when you were accused of a theft, when you were chained and likely to be doomed to death. We were weeping together in prison and lamenting our affliction. Well, even this trial has been a source of great good to us. Looking back upon it we can see that, when the young Countess favoured you above other young girls, honoured you by admitting you to her company, made you a present of a beautiful gown, and expressed a wish that you should always be near her, there was a danger that these great advantages of life would render you vain and trifling, fond of the things of this world, and apt to forget God. Doubtless the Lord consulted our highest interests when He changed our condition, and banished us from happiness into despair. In the misery of our state, in prison and in poverty of circumstances, we have been enabled to live nearer to Him. He has brought us far from the corrupt influences of large towns into this lonely country where He has prepared for us a better home. Here you are like a flower flourishing in solitude, where, if it has not the admiration of man, it has nothing to fear from his hand.
"The good and faithful God who has done all these things for us will give a still more happy turn to your life. For I firmly believe that He has answered my prayer, that He will one day show to the world your innocence. When that time shall come I shall be no more, but I can die in peace without seeing it, for I am convinced of your innocence. Yes, my daughter, the pain which you have suffered will yet be the means of leading you to much happiness on earth, though this kind of happiness is the least, and you will see that God's great design in afflicting us was to sanctify our hearts, and to prepare us for that home to which we can arrive only through tribulation and suffering.
"Believing this, let not your heart be troubled that you are in misfortune. Believe firmly that God's tenderness watches over you, that His care will be sufficient for you in whatever place He chooses to take you. In whatever painful situation you may be placed, say, 'It is the best place for me. Notwithstanding all that, I am safe, for He has brought me here.'"
CHAPTER XI.
MARY'S GREAT LOSS.
When at last Mary could no longer hide from herself the seriousness of her father's illness, she went to the minister of the parish in which Pine Cottage was situated and asked him to come and visit him. The minister, who was a kind-hearted and godly man, gladly availed himself of the opportunity. Besides conversing with James on spiritual matters, he was of great comfort to Mary by the kindly affection with which he treated her. One afternoon when the old man's weakness was sensibly increased, James requested Mary to leave the room for a moment that he might have private conversation with the minister. After a little while, he called her in again, and said—
"My dear child, I have settled all my worldly affairs, and am now ready to depart and be with Christ."
Mary was deeply distressed, and had great difficulty in keeping back her tears, for she saw that the end was rapidly approaching. But out of consideration for her father, and after a great effort, she recovered herself, and remained calm.
The rest of the day was spent by James in silent prayer, and next day he received the Lord's Supper at the hands of the minister, by partaking of the bread and wine which are the symbols of the body and blood of Christ. Faith in the power of God, love to Christ who had redeemed him, and hope of eternal life, had made his venerable countenance radiant with happiness.
Mary remained on her knees beside his bed, weeping and praying. The farmer and his wife and their household looked on in wonder at the rapture of the aged saint, and tears of sympathy were in every eye because of Mary's grief.
It gave the old man pleasure to have Mary read to him in her sweet and clear voice. During the latter part of his illness he desired to hear nothing else than the last words and prayer of Jesus. One night, after all the household had gone to bed, Mary was sitting beside her father. The moon was shining so brightly into the room that the light of the candle was scarcely seen.
"Mary," said the dying man, "read me once again that beautiful prayer of our Saviour."
Mary began to read. "Now," said the old man, "give me the book." Mary gave him the book, and carried the light nearer to him. "This will be the last prayer," said her father, "that I shall make for you," as he marked the passage with his finger, then in a trembling voice he uttered the following prayer: "O Father, I have not long to remain in this world. I am going—I dare hope it—I am going to Thee, my heavenly Father. Oh, preserve this my child from sin, for Thy Name's sake. While I have lived on the earth, I have endeavoured in Thy name to preserve her from it. But, O Lord, I am now going to Thee. I do not ask Thee to take her to Thyself, but only to preserve her from harm. Let Thy holy truth preserve her. Thy word is truth. Grant, O heavenly Father, that the child whom Thou hast given me may at last be admitted to the place where I hope to go. Through Jesus Christ my Saviour. Amen."
Mary repeated, as well as her sobs would allow her, her father'sAmen. "Yes," continued the old man, "yes, my daughter, in the kingdom which Jesus had from the beginning of the world, we shall see Him, and we shall see each other." He again lay down on his pillow to rest a little. His hands continued to hold the New Testament, which he had bought with his first money saved from the purchase of food after he left Eichbourg.
"Dear daughter," he said, some minutes afterwards, "I am grateful for all the affection and tenderness which you have shown me since my illness commenced. Trust in your heavenly Father, Mary, and you will receive of Him your reward. Poor and forsaken as I am, I can give you nothing, when I leave you, but my blessing and this book. Live in the ways of righteousness, and this blessing will not be without effect. The blessing of a father with the confidence of the Lord is better for a virtuous child than the richest inheritance. This book, which I wish you to take in remembrance of your father, cost me, it is true, but a few shillings, but if it be faithfully read and its precepts put in practice, I shall have left you the richest treasure. If I had left you as many pieces of gold as the spring produces leaves and flowers, with all that money you could not buy anything so valuable as this book. It is the Word of God. Read it every day, no matter how much work presses upon you; read at least one passage. Preserve it and meditate upon it in your heart during the day."
About three o'clock the next morning James said, in a faint voice, "I feel very ill. Open the window a little." Mary opened it. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was brilliant with stars, and presented a magnificent sight.
"See how beautiful the sky is!" said the dying man. "What are the flowers of earth whose beauty I have so often admired compared with these stars, whose glory suffers no fading? It is there I am going. What joy! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."
With these words James fell back upon his pillow, and passed peacefully away. Mary had never seen any one die before, and she thought her father had only fainted. In her fright she awoke all the family. They ran to her father's bed, and there she heard them say to each other that he was dead. Abandoning herself to her grief, she threw herself upon her father's body, embraced it, and wept passionately.
"Oh, my father, my good father," said she, "how shall I discharge all my obligations to you? Alas, I cannot now. I can only thank you for all the words, for all good advice I received from your dear lips, now sealed in death. Your hand, which is now cold and stiff, I kiss with gratitude, and remember that that hand has bestowed upon me many benefits, and has all my life laboured for my good. Oh, if I could at this moment follow you into the heavenly kingdom, how gladly would I do so. Oh, let me die the death of the righteous. My only consolation now is that I shall one day enter upon the happiness and everlasting life of heaven."
During this heart-rending scene the farmer's family had been much affected. At last they prevailed upon Mary to lie down and rest, hoping that sleep would ease her grief. During the following day nothing would induce her to leave her father's body. Before the coffin lid was nailed down, Mary took one more look at her father. "Alas," said she, "it is the last time that I shall ever look upon your dear face! How beautiful it was when you smiled, and it shone with the glory into which you were so shortly to enter. Farewell, farewell, my father," said she, sobbing aloud, "may your body rest peacefully in the earth now, while angels of God are, as I hope, bearing your soul to eternal rest."
When the funeral took place, Mary, dressed in mourning which one of the girls of the village had kindly given her, followed close to the body of her father. She was as pale as death, and every one pitied the poor girl who now was without a relative in the world. As Mary's father was a stranger at Erlenbrunn, they dug a grave for him in a corner of the cemetery beside the wall. Two large pine trees shaded the humble grave. The minister who had attended James during his illness spoke of James's patience and of the resignation with which he had borne all his misfortunes, and the good example he had set for those who knew him. With tender words he consoled Mary, who was overwhelmed with grief. In the name of her father, the minister thanked the farmer and his wife for all their kindness to Mary and her father. He begged of them to be father and mother to her who had no longer any parents.