CHAPTER XIII.
AGAIN A WANDERER.
The months sped on, and now the anniversary of her father's birthdayarrived. Until then it had always been to Mary a day of great joy, butthis time, when the day dawned, she was bathed in tears. Previously shehad had the pleasure and excitement of preparing something which sheknew would please her father, but now, alas, this delightful occupationwas rendered useless!
The country people round about their home used to beg flowers from herfor the purpose of decorating the graves of their friends. It hadalways been a pleasure to Mary to give her flowers for this purpose,and she now determined to decorate her father's tomb in the samemanner. Taking from a cupboard the beautiful basket which had been thefirst cause of all her unhappiness, she filled it with choice flowersof all colours, artistically interspersed with fresh green leaves, andcarried it to Erlenbrunn before the hour of divine service, and laid iton her father's tomb, watering it at the same time with tears thatcould not be repressed.
"Oh, best and dearest of fathers," said she, "you have strewed withflowers the path of life for me. Let me at least ornament your gravewith them."
Mary left the basket on the grave, and went back to the misery of PineFarm. She had no fear that any one would dare to steal either thebasket or the flowers. Many of the country people who saw her offeringwere 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 froma large meadow just beyond the forest. The farmer's wife had a largepiece of fine linen spread out on the grass a few steps from the house,and in the evening this was found to have disappeared. Unfortunatelythe young farmer's wife had heard the story of Mary and the ring fromher 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 girlwhom she had always disliked.
When Mary was returning from her work in the evening with a rake on hershoulder and a pitcher in her hand, along with the other servants, thispassionate woman came out of the kitchen and met her with a torrent ofabuse, and ordered her to give up the linen immediately. At first Marywas too stunned to reply, but when she understood the charge, sheanswered meekly that it was impossible she could have taken the linen,as she had passed the whole day in the hay-field with the otherservants; that a stranger might easily have taken advantage of a momentwhen there was no one in the kitchen to commit the theft. Thisconjecture turned out to be the true one, but the farmer's wife was notto be turned from her conviction.
"Thief," she cried coarsely, "do you think I am ignorant of the theftof the ring, and what difficulty you had to escape the executioner'ssword? Begone as soon as possible. There is no room in my house forcreatures like you."
"It is too late," said her husband, "to send Mary away now. Let her supwith us, as she has worked all day in the great heat. Let her butremain 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 unjustaccusation. She immediately made her simple preparations for herdeparture, wrapping up all that she had in a clean napkin. When she hadput the little bundle under her arm, thanked the servants of Pine Farmfor their kindness to her and protested once more her innocence, sheasked permission to take leave of her friends, the old farmer and hiswife.
"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 willgive me great pleasure. It is evident death does not mean to rid me ofthem for some time."
The good old people, who had heard the altercation, wept when Mary cameto 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, goodgirl," 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 littlebundle under her arm, and began to climb up the mountain, following thenarrow road to the woods. She wished before leaving the neighbourhoodto visit her father's grave once more. When she came out of the forestthe village clock struck seven, and before she arrived at the graveyardit was nearly dark; but she was not afraid, and went up to her father'sgrave, where she sat down and gave way to a burst of grief. The fullmoon was shining through the trees, illumining with a silver light theroses on the grave and the basket of flowers. The soft evening breezemurmured among the branches, making the rose trees planted on herfather's grave tremble.
"Oh, my father," cried Mary, "would that you were still here, that Imight pour my trouble into your ears! But yet I know that it is betterthat you are gone, and I thank the Lord that you did not live towitness this last affliction. You are now happy, and beyond the reachof grief. Oh, that I were with you! Alas, never have I been so much tobe pitied as now. When the moon shone into the prison which confined meyou were then alive; when I was driven from the home which I loved somuch you were left me. I had in you a good father and protector andfaithful 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 drivenfrom, and now I shall no longer have the consolation of coming here toweep 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 willconsent to receive me."
She looked around. Against the wall, near her father's tomb, was agravestone, very old and covered with moss. As the inscription had beeneffaced by time, it was left there to be used as a seat. "I will sitdown on this stone," said she, "and pass the night by my father'sgrave. It is perhaps the last time I shall ever be here. To-morrow atdaybreak, if it be God's will, I shall continue my journey, goingwherever His hand may direct me."
Blumenkörbchen. English Page 13
