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Basket of Flowers, The

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. <ANTIMG src="images/004.jpg" alt="She threw the basket at Mary's feet." width-obs="355" height-obs="550"> "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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