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.
[Illustration: "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.