The Basket of Flowers - Christoph von Schmid (if you liked this book .txt) 📗

the case, however, prove that she must have committed the theft, and, under these circumstances, you are aware that the penalty which the law requires is death. But your daughter is young, and, notwithstanding the serious nature of the crime, if she were to return the ring even now, a pardon might be granted to her. To persist so obstinately in denying her guilt will most certainly end in her death. Go to her, James; insist upon her returning the ring, and I give you my word that the penalty of death will not be visited upon her, but a mere trifling punishment substituted. As her father you have great power over her. If you cannot obtain a confession, most people will think that you have been an accomplice with your daughter in the crime. Once more, I repeat, if the ring is not found, I pity your case."

"My daughter has not stolen the ring," replied James sadly; "of that I am sure. That she will not therefore acknowledge her guilt, I know beforehand. But I will speak to her as you desire. I will employ every means to find it out, and if it be that she is to perish, notwithstanding her innocence, it is a comfort to know that I can see her once again before the terrible event."

Accompanied by an officer, the old man went to the prison where Mary was confined. The officer set a lamp upon a projection of the wall in a corner of the cell, on which also stood an earthen pitcher of water. Mary was lying on her straw bed, with her face turned towards the wall, partially asleep. The light of the lamp woke her from her troubled slumber, and, turning over and seeing her father, she uttered a cry of joy and raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains. Almost fainting, she threw herself upon her father's neck, and the old man sat down with her upon her bed and pressed her in his arms. For some time they both remained silent and mingled their tears together. At length James broke the silence and began to speak as the judge had instructed him.

She raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains.

"She raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains."
See page 44.

"Oh, my father," said Mary, in a reproachful voice, interrupting him, "surely you at least do not doubt my innocence. Alas," she continued, weeping bitterly, "is there no one who believes me innocent, no one, not even my father! Oh, my dear father, believe me that I am innocent."

"Calm yourself, my dear child; I believe you entirely. I am only doing now what I have been instructed to do by the judge."

There was a silence for a little while in the cell. The old man looked at his daughter and saw her cheeks pale and hollow with grief, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, and her hair hanging dishevelled about her.

"My dear child," he said, "God has suffered you to be tried very severely; but I fear lest there should be a worse trial to come, more painful sufferings than any you have yet undergone. Alas, perhaps even my dear child's head may fall by the hands of the executioner!"

"My father," said Mary soothingly, "I care but little for myself. But for you——"

"Fear nothing for me, my dear Mary," said her father, "I run no risk——"

"Oh," cried Mary, "thank God! If that is the case, a great load is taken off my heart. For myself, all is well. Be sure, my dear father, I fear not to die. I shall go to God; I shall find my Saviour. I shall also see my mother in heaven. That will be a great happiness."

Deeply moved at his daughter's words, the old man wept like a child.

"Well, God be praised," said he, clasping his aged hands together, "God be praised for your submissive spirit. It is very hard for a man stricken in years, for a tender father to lose his only child, the child of his love, his only consolation, the joy of his old age, and his last support, but," he continued, "may the will of the Lord be done."

"One word," said he, a moment afterwards; "Juliette has sworn falsely against you. On her oath she has declared that she saw the ring in your hands. If you perish, you will perish by her testimony. But you will pardon her, my Mary—is it not so? You do not take with you any feeling of hatred towards her. Alas, even upon this bed of straw, and loaded with chains, you are still more happy than she is, living in the Countess's palace and dressed in fine clothes, and with everything that her heart can desire. It is better to die innocent than to live dishonoured. Pardon her, my child, as thy Saviour pardoned His enemies on the cross. Do you pardon her?" the old man asked anxiously.

Mary assured her father that she did. And now the officer was heard coming to separate them.

"Well," said her father, "I commend you to God and His grace. If I should not see you again, if this is the last time that I am permitted to talk with you, my daughter, at least be sure that I will not be long in following you to heaven. You may depend upon it that I shall not long survive this parting."

The time was now up, and, warned by the officer, the old man prepared to take his departure. Mary clung to him with all her strength, but her father was obliged to disengage himself as gently as he could, and Mary fell insensible upon her bed.

As soon as James was brought before the judge, he raised his hands to heaven, and cried out, almost beside himself—

"My daughter is innocent!"

The judge was deeply moved.

"I am disposed," he said, "for my own part to believe it. Unfortunately, I must judge the case from the nature of the testimony, with impartiality and even to the utmost rigour of the law."

 

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.

She threw the basket at Mary's feet.

"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