The Basket of Flowers, Christoph von Schmid [red white royal blue txt] 📗

a little anxiety when he saw the present. "I would much rather, my child," he said, "that you had not taken the basket to the young Countess, but it cannot be helped now. I fear that this valuable present will but rouse the jealousy of some of our neighbours, and, what would be still worse, that it may make you vain. Take care, my dear Mary, that you fall not into this great evil. No costly and beautiful garments so much adorn a young girl as modesty and good manners. It is the Bible that says the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is in the sight of God of great price."

 

CHAPTER III.

THE MISSING RING.

Shortly after Mary had left the Castle the Countess missed a valuable diamond ring. No one had been in the room where she had left it but Mary, and it is not surprising that suspicion fell upon the humble flower-girl. Calling Amelia to her, the Countess told her of her loss and of her suspicions, and bade her go to the cottage in order that she might induce Mary to restore the ring before the theft became known.

When Amelia arrived at Mary's home, the young girl was busily engaged trying on her beautiful dress. She was frightened to see the young Countess enter her little room, pale and trembling, and out of breath with her haste.

"Dear Mary," said Amelia, "what have you been doing? My mother's diamond ring, which she left lying in the room where you were, is lost. No one has been in the chamber but you. Do give it up at once, and no harm will be done."

The unexpected charge of theft stunned and frightened Mary. Earnestly she declared her innocence. She had never seen the ring, nor had she moved from the place where she stood when she entered the room. But Amelia found it impossible to believe her, and continued to urge her to give up the ring, which she said was worth a large sum of money. To be suspected of theft was bad enough, but to have her friend Amelia unwilling to believe her, made Mary burst into tears.

"Truly," she cried, "I have no ring. Never in all my life have I ventured to touch anything which did not belong to me, much less to steal. My dear father has always taught me better."

Her father, who had been at work in his garden, now came in to learn the young Countess's errand, and to him Amelia told the story. Shocked beyond measure at the charge, the old man was so overcome that he was obliged to sink into a chair.

"My dear child," he said to Mary solemnly, "to steal a ring of this price is a crime which in this country is punished with death. But this is not all. Your action is not only one for which you must account to men, but to that God who reads the heart and with whom all false denials amount to nothing. Have you forgotten His holy commandment, 'Thou shalt not steal?' Have you forgotten all the advice that I have given you? Were you tempted with the gold and the precious stones? Alas, do not deny the fact, but give back the ring to the Countess. It is the only return you can make for your crime."

"My father, oh, my father," cried Mary, weeping bitterly, "be sure, be very sure that I have not the ring. If I had even found such a ring on the road I could not have rested till I had restored it to its owner. Indeed, believe me, I have it not."

"Look at this dear young lady," said the old man, without replying to Mary's protestations, "her affection for you is so great that she wishes to save you from the hands of justice. Mary, be frank, and do not add falsehood to the crime of theft."

"My father," cried Mary, "well do you know that never in my life have I stolen even the smallest coin, and how should I take anything so valuable as the Countess's ring? I pray you, believe me; I have never in my life told you a lie."

"Mary," again said her father, "see my grey hairs. Do not bring them down with sorrow to the grave. Spare me so great an affliction. Before that God who made you, into whose presence there can come no thief, tell me if you have the ring?"

Thus adjured, Mary raised her eyes, and once more assured her father in the most solemn manner that she was innocent of the charge. The old man had put his daughter to a severe test, and now he was satisfied of her innocence.

"My child," he cried, "I do believe you. You would not dare to tell a lie in the presence of God and before this young Countess and your father. You are innocent, and therefore you may take comfort and fear nothing. There is nothing to fear on earth but sin. Prison and death are not to be compared to it. Whatever happens, we will put our trust in God. All will yet come right, for He says, 'I will make thy righteousness as the light and thy just dealings as the noonday.'"

Touched to the heart by the old man's faith, Amelia's suspicions also vanished. "Truly," she said, "when I hear you speak in this way, I believe that you have not the ring; but when I examine all the circumstances how can I help believing? My mother says she knows exactly the place where she laid it down. Not a living soul has been in the room but Mary, and as soon as she left the Castle my mother missed the ring. Who else, then, can have taken it?"

"It is impossible for me to say," replied Mary's father. "May God prepare us for a severe trial, but whatever happens," said he, turning his eyes to heaven, "I am ready. Give me but Thy grace, O Lord; it is all I ask."

"Truly," said Amelia, "I came here with a heavy heart. It will be for me the saddest birthday I have ever had. My mother has not yet spoken to any one of her loss but myself, but it will not be possible to keep the secret much longer. My father returns to the Castle at noon, and he will certainly ask her where the ring is. It was a gift to her on the day when I was born, and on every succeeding birthday she has worn it. Farewell," said Amelia, turning to Mary, "I will tell my mother that I consider you are innocent, but who will believe me?" Her eyes filled with tears, and she left the cottage with a sad heart.

After the young Countess had gone, Mary's father sat for a long time resting his head on his hand and with his eyes fixed on the ground. The tears fell down his wrinkled cheeks, and Mary, touched by his grief, threw herself at his knees and besought him to believe in her innocence.

The old man raised himself and looked for a long time in her eyes, and then said—

"Yes, Mary, you are innocent. That look, where integrity and truth are painted, cannot be the look of guilt."

"But, my father," asked Mary, "what will be the end of it? What will they do to us? I do not fear what they may do to me, but the idea that you may have to suffer on my account is intolerable."

"Have faith in God," answered her father. "Take courage. Not one hair of our heads can fall to the ground without His permission. All that happens to us is the will of God, and what more can we wish? Do not be frightened into saying anything but what is strictly true. If they threaten you, or if they hold out promises, do not depart a hair's-breadth from the truth. Keep your conscience free from offence, for a clear conscience is a soft pillow. Perhaps they will separate us, and I shall no longer be with you to console; but if this should happen cling more closely to your heavenly Father. He is a powerful protector to innocence, and no earthly power can deprive you of His strength."

Suddenly the door opened with a noise, and an officer entered, followed by two constables. Mary uttered a piercing shriek, and fell into her father's arms.

"Separate them," cried the officer angrily; "let her father also be put in custody. Set a watch on the house and garden. Make a strict search everywhere, and allow no one to enter until the sheriff has made an inventory."

Mary clung to her father with all her force, but the officers tore her from the old man's arms. In a fainting state she was carried off to prison.

The story of the lost ring had spread through the whole village of Eichbourg, and when Mary and her father were taken through the streets, the crowd pressed round them filled with curiosity. It was curious to notice how diverse were the opinions which were pronounced on the old man and his daughter. They had been kind to all, but there were some who repaid their kindness by rejoicing in their present affliction. Although they had accepted the old man's gifts, their jealousy and envy had been excited by the thought of his superior position.

"Now," they exclaimed maliciously, "we know how it is that James had always so many good things to give away. If this is what the old man and his daughter have been doing, it was easy to live in abundance and be better clothed than their honest neighbours."

It is true that most of the inhabitants of Eichbourg were sincerely sorry for James and his daughter, although many of them felt compelled to believe in Mary's guilt. Fathers and mothers were heard to say, "Who would have believed this thing of these good people? Truly it proves that the best of us are liable to fall." But there were others who were persuaded of Mary's innocence, and said, "Perhaps it is not so bad as it appears. May their innocence be brought out when the trial comes, and may God help them to escape the terrible fate which now hangs over them."

Groups of children, to whom Mary had given fruit and flowers, stood weeping as they saw their kind friend being carried off to prison.

 

CHAPTER IV.

MARY IN PRISON.

We have already said that Mary was in a faint when she was carried off to prison. When she recovered to realise her condition, she burst into passionate sobbing, but at length, clasping her hands together, she fell down on her knees in prayer. Overcome with terror at her surroundings, filled with sadness at the thought of being separated from her old father, and wearied with the excitement of the day, she threw herself upon her hard straw couch and fell into a heavy sleep.

When she awoke it was so dark that she could hardly distinguish a single object. At first she could not remember where she was. The story of the lost ring came back to her as a dream, and her first idea was that she was sleeping in her own little bed. Suddenly she felt that her hands were chained. Instantly all the sad reality of the past day flashed upon her mind, and, jumping from her bed, she cried out, "What can I do but raise my heart to God?"

Falling upon her knees, Mary then engaged in prayer. She prayed for herself, that she might be delivered, but especially she prayed for her dear father, that in the trouble which had now come upon him the Lord might support him. The thought of her father brought a torrent of tears from her eyes and stopped her prayer.

Suddenly the moon, which had been covered with thick clouds, now shone in a clear sky, and, its rays coming through