AGAIN A WANDERER.
The months sped on, and now the anniversary of her father's birthday
arrived. Until then it had always been to Mary a day of great joy, but
this time, when the day dawned, she was bathed in tears. Previously she
had had the pleasure and excitement of preparing something which she
knew would please her father, but now, alas, this delightful occupation
was rendered useless!
The country people round about their home used to beg flowers from her
for the purpose of decorating the graves of their friends. It had
always been a pleasure to Mary to give her flowers for this purpose,
and she now determined to decorate her father's tomb in the same
manner. Taking from a cupboard the beautiful basket which had been the
first cause of all her unhappiness, she filled it with choice flowers
of all colours, artistically interspersed with fresh green leaves, and
carried it to Erlenbrunn before the hour of divine service, and laid it
on her father's tomb, watering it at the same time with tears that
could not be repressed.
"Oh, best and dearest of fathers," said she, "you have strewed with
flowers the path of life for me. Let me at least ornament your grave
with them."
Mary left the basket on the grave, and went back to the misery of Pine
Farm. She had no fear that any one would dare to steal either the
basket or the flowers. Many of the country people who saw her offering
were moved to tears, and, blessing the old gardener's pious daughter,
they prayed for her prosperity.
The next day the labourers at the farm were busy taking in the hay from
a large meadow just beyond the forest. The farmer's wife had a large
piece of fine linen spread out on the grass a few steps from the house,
and in the evening this was found to have disappeared. Unfortunately
the young farmer's wife had heard the story of Mary and the ring from
her husband, to whom it had been told by his father and mother.
Instantly then she connected Mary with the disappearance of the linen,
and saw in the circumstance a means of venting her spite upon the girl
whom she had always disliked.
When Mary was returning from her work in the evening with a rake on her
shoulder and a pitcher in her hand, along with the other servants, this
passionate woman came out of the kitchen and met her with a torrent of
abuse, and ordered her to give up the linen immediately. At first Mary
was too stunned to reply, but when she understood the charge, she
answered meekly that it was impossible she could have taken the linen,
as she had passed the whole day in the hay-field with the other
servants; that a stranger might easily have taken advantage of a moment
when there was no one in the kitchen to commit the theft. This
conjecture turned out to be the true one, but the farmer's wife was not
to be turned from her conviction.
"Thief," she cried coarsely, "do you think I am ignorant of the theft
of the ring, and what difficulty you had to escape the executioner's
sword? Begone as soon as possible. There is no room in my house for
creatures like you."
"It is too late," said her husband, "to send Mary away now. Let her sup
with us, as she has worked all day in the great heat. Let her but
remain this one night."
"Not even one hour," cried his wife passionately; and her husband,
seeing that advice would only irritate her more, remained silent.
Mary made no further attempt to defend herself against the unjust
accusation. She immediately made her simple preparations for her
departure, wrapping up all that she had in a clean napkin. When she had
put the little bundle under her arm, thanked the servants of Pine Farm
for their kindness to her and protested once more her innocence, she
asked permission to take leave of her friends, the old farmer and his
wife.
"You may do that," said the young farmer's wife, with a scornful smile;
"indeed, if you wish to take with you these two old people, it will
give me great pleasure. It is evident death does not mean to rid me of
them for some time."
The good old people, who had heard the altercation, wept when Mary came
to bid them good-bye. However, they consoled her as well as they could,
and gave her a little money to assist her on her journey. "Go, good
girl," said they to her, "and may God take care of you."
It was towards the close of the day when Mary set out with her little
bundle under her arm, and began to climb up the mountain, following the
narrow road to the woods. She wished before leaving the neighbourhood
to visit her father's grave once more. When she came out of the forest
the village clock struck seven, and before she arrived at the graveyard
it was nearly dark; but she was not afraid, and went up to her father's
grave, where she sat down and gave way to a burst of grief. The full
moon was shining through the trees, illumining with a silver light the
roses on the grave and the basket of flowers. The soft evening breeze
murmured among the branches, making the rose trees planted on her
father's grave tremble.
"Oh, my father," cried Mary, "would that you were still here, that I
might pour my trouble into your ears! But yet I know that it is better
that you are gone, and I thank the Lord that you did not live to
witness this last affliction. You are now happy, and beyond the reach
of grief. Oh, that I were with you! Alas, never have I been so much to
be pitied as now. When the moon shone into the prison which confined me
you were then alive; when I was driven from the home which I loved so
much you were left me. I had in you a good father and protector and
faithful friend. Now I have no one. Poor, forsaken, suspected of crime,
I am alone in the world, a stranger, not knowing where to lay my head.
The only little corner that remained to me on the earth I am driven
from, and now I shall no longer have the consolation of coming here to
weep by your grave!" At these words the tears rushed forth afresh.
"Alas," said she, "I dare not at this hour beg a lodging for the night.
Indeed, if I tell why I was turned out of doors, no one perhaps will
consent to receive me."
She looked around. Against the wall, near her father's tomb, was a
gravestone, very old and covered with moss. As the inscription had been
effaced by time, it was left there to be used as a seat. "I will sit
down on this stone," said she, "and pass the night by my father's
grave. It is perhaps the last time I shall ever be here. To-morrow at
daybreak, if it be God's will, I shall continue my journey, going
wherever His hand may direct me."