The Basket of Flowers Part 5

During the succeeding days Mary attended her father with the utmost devotion and loving care. Rarely had he to make his requests known, for his daughter could read in his eyes all that he wanted. Mary spent whole nights by his bedside. If at any time she consented to be relieved for a little rest, it was but rarely that she could close her eyes. If her father coughed, she trembled with apprehension; if he made the least stir, she immediately approached him softly and on tiptoe to know how he was. She prepared and brought to him in the most delicate forms the food which best suited his condition. She arranged his pillows from time to time, read to him, and prayed for him continually.

Even when he dozed for a little she would stand by his bed with her hands clasped and her tearful eyes raised to heaven.

Mary had a little money which she had saved from her hard-won earnings.

To sc.r.a.pe together this small sum she had often spent half the night in sewing and knitting articles for sale. Now, in her father's illness, she made use of this little store to procure for him everything which she thought would be of any service. Good old James, although occasionally he felt himself a little stronger, was never deceived about his condition, but felt only too sure that he was on his deathbed. The thought had no power to disturb him, and he spoke to his daughter of his approaching death with the greatest serenity.

"Oh," said Mary, crying bitterly, "do not speak thus, my dear father. I cannot bear the thought. What will become of me? Alas, your poor Mary will no longer have any one upon the earth!"

"Do not cry, my dear child," said her father affectionately, holding out his hand to her. "You have a kind Father in heaven who will never forsake you, although your earthly father be taken away from you. I do not feel anxious about the manner in which you will gain a livelihood when I am dead, for the birds easily find their food, and you will find enough to nourish you. G.o.d provides for the smallest sparrow; will He not also provide for you? The thought that distresses me," he continued, "is that you will be left alone. Alas, my dear child, you have little idea of the wickedness that is in the world! There will be moments perhaps when you will feel inclined to do evil; moments when you will perhaps yourself be persuaded that sin is not so very wrong.

Listen to the advice which I now give you, and let the last words of your dying father be for ever deeply impressed on your heart. Forbid every action, every speech, every thought for which you would have to blush if your father knew. Soon my eyes will be for ever closed, I shall not longer be here to watch over you, but remember you have in heaven a Father whose eye sees everything and reads the secrets of your heart."

After a little while, when he had recovered breath, he continued: "You would not wish by an act of disobedience to hurt the father whom you have on earth; how much more then should you fear to offend your Father which is in heaven? Look at me once more, Mary. Oh, if you ever feel the least inclination to do wrong, think of my pale face and of the tears which wet these sunken cheeks. Come to me, put your hand into mine which will soon fall into dust. Promise me never to forget my words. In the hour of temptation, imagine that you feel this cold hand which you now hold on the border of the grave. My poor child, you cannot see without weeping, my pale and hollow cheeks. But know that everything pa.s.ses away in this world. There was a time when I had the bloom of health and the fresh colour which you now have. The time will come when you too will be stretched on the bed of death, pale and emaciated, as you now see me, if G.o.d does not sooner take you to Himself. The friends of my youth have disappeared like the flowers which have pa.s.sed away with the spring, and for whose places you seek in vain, like the dew which sparkles for a moment on the flowers and is gone."

The next day James, feeling that his end was near, felt it his duty and delight, though weak in body, to continue his advice to his daughter.

"I have seen the world," said he, "as well as other people, in the day when I accompanied the young Count on his travels. If there was anything in the large cities superb or magnificent, I went there. I spent whole weeks in pleasure. If there was a brilliant a.s.sembly or a lively conversation, I saw and heard as well as my young master. I shared in the most exquisite meals, and of the scarcest wines, and always had more than I wished for. But all these worldly pleasures left me with an empty heart. I a.s.sure you solemnly, my dear Mary, that a few moments of peaceful thought and fervent prayer in our arbour in Eichbourg, or under this roof that covers us now, gave me more real joy than all the vain pleasures of the world. Seek then your happiness in a life of service of our blessed Saviour. You will find Him and He will bless you.

"Too well you know, my child, that I have not been without misfortune in this life. When I lost your dear mother my heart was for a long time like a dry and barren garden, whose soil, burned by the sun, cracks open, and seems to sigh for rain. In this way I languished, thirsting for consolation, and at last I found it in the Lord. Oh, my dear daughter, there will be days in your life when your heart also will be like dry and barren ground; but let it not dishearten you. As the thirsty ground calls not for rain in vain, but G.o.d sends the refres.h.i.+ng showers, so if you seek your consolation from G.o.d, He will refresh your heart as the sweet rain refreshes the thirsty parched earth. Let your confidence in your heavenly Father be unshaken. Firmly believe that there is nothing He will not do for those He loves. Sometimes He may lead us by paths of grief, but be sure that these paths lead to unmingled happiness. Do you recollect, my good Mary, all the grief you felt when, after our painful walk, I fell down with fatigue in the middle of the road? Now you can see that this accident was the means which G.o.d made use of to procure for us the comforts which we have enjoyed for three years with the good people of this house. Had I not taken ill that day then we should not have come before their door, or their hearts would not have been touched with compa.s.sion for us. All the pleasures which we have enjoyed here, all the good which we may have been enabled to do, are so many benefits which sprang from the sickness which at first so sorely distressed you.

"But you will always find, my dear Mary, that in the troubles of life there are proofs of the Divine goodness, to those who will look for them. If the liberal hand of the Lord has scattered with flowers the mountains and valleys, forests and river-banks, and even the muddy marshes, to give us everywhere the opportunity of admiring the tenderness and beauty of nature, He has also imprinted on all the events of our life the evident traces of His great wisdom, and all His pa.s.sionate love to man in order that the attentive man may learn by them to love and adore Him.

"In all our life, we have never had to suffer more than when you were accused of a theft, when you were chained and likely to be doomed to death. We were weeping together in prison and lamenting our affliction.

Well, even this trial has been a source of great good to us. Looking back upon it we can see that, when the young Countess favoured you above other young girls, honoured you by admitting you to her company, made you a present of a beautiful gown, and expressed a wish that you should always be near her, there was a danger that these great advantages of life would render you vain and trifling, fond of the things of this world, and apt to forget G.o.d. Doubtless the Lord consulted our highest interests when He changed our condition, and banished us from happiness into despair. In the misery of our state, in prison and in poverty of circ.u.mstances, we have been enabled to live nearer to Him. He has brought us far from the corrupt influences of large towns into this lonely country where He has prepared for us a better home. Here you are like a flower flouris.h.i.+ng in solitude, where, if it has not the admiration of man, it has nothing to fear from his hand.

"The good and faithful G.o.d who has done all these things for us will give a still more happy turn to your life. For I firmly believe that He has answered my prayer, that He will one day show to the world your innocence. When that time shall come I shall be no more, but I can die in peace without seeing it, for I am convinced of your innocence. Yes, my daughter, the pain which you have suffered will yet be the means of leading you to much happiness on earth, though this kind of happiness is the least, and you will see that G.o.d's great design in afflicting us was to sanctify our hearts, and to prepare us for that home to which we can arrive only through tribulation and suffering.

"Believing this, let not your heart be troubled that you are in misfortune. Believe firmly that G.o.d's tenderness watches over you, that His care will be sufficient for you in whatever place He chooses to take you. In whatever painful situation you may be placed, say, 'It is the best place for me. Notwithstanding all that, I am safe, for He has brought me here.'"

CHAPTER XI.

MARY'S GREAT LOSS.

When at last Mary could no longer hide from herself the seriousness of her father's illness, she went to the minister of the parish in which Pine Cottage was situated and asked him to come and visit him. The minister, who was a kind-hearted and G.o.dly man, gladly availed himself of the opportunity. Besides conversing with James on spiritual matters, he was of great comfort to Mary by the kindly affection with which he treated her. One afternoon when the old man's weakness was sensibly increased, James requested Mary to leave the room for a moment that he might have private conversation with the minister. After a little while, he called her in again, and said--

"My dear child, I have settled all my worldly affairs, and am now ready to depart and be with Christ."

Mary was deeply distressed, and had great difficulty in keeping back her tears, for she saw that the end was rapidly approaching. But out of consideration for her father, and after a great effort, she recovered herself, and remained calm.

The rest of the day was spent by James in silent prayer, and next day he received the Lord's Supper at the hands of the minister, by partaking of the bread and wine which are the symbols of the body and blood of Christ. Faith in the power of G.o.d, love to Christ who had redeemed him, and hope of eternal life, had made his venerable countenance radiant with happiness.

Mary remained on her knees beside his bed, weeping and praying. The farmer and his wife and their household looked on in wonder at the rapture of the aged saint, and tears of sympathy were in every eye because of Mary's grief.

It gave the old man pleasure to have Mary read to him in her sweet and clear voice. During the latter part of his illness he desired to hear nothing else than the last words and prayer of Jesus. One night, after all the household had gone to bed, Mary was sitting beside her father.

The moon was s.h.i.+ning so brightly into the room that the light of the candle was scarcely seen.

"Mary," said the dying man, "read me once again that beautiful prayer of our Saviour."

Mary began to read. "Now," said the old man, "give me the book." Mary gave him the book, and carried the light nearer to him. "This will be the last prayer," said her father, "that I shall make for you," as he marked the pa.s.sage with his finger, then in a trembling voice he uttered the following prayer: "O Father, I have not long to remain in this world. I am going--I dare hope it--I am going to Thee, my heavenly Father. Oh, preserve this my child from sin, for Thy Name's sake. While I have lived on the earth, I have endeavoured in Thy name to preserve her from it. But, O Lord, I am now going to Thee. I do not ask Thee to take her to Thyself, but only to preserve her from harm. Let Thy holy truth preserve her. Thy word is truth. Grant, O heavenly Father, that the child whom Thou hast given me may at last be admitted to the place where I hope to go. Through Jesus Christ my Saviour. Amen."

Mary repeated, as well as her sobs would allow her, her father's _Amen_. "Yes," continued the old man, "yes, my daughter, in the kingdom which Jesus had from the beginning of the world, we shall see Him, and we shall see each other." He again lay down on his pillow to rest a little. His hands continued to hold the New Testament, which he had bought with his first money saved from the purchase of food after he left Eichbourg.

"Dear daughter," he said, some minutes afterwards, "I am grateful for all the affection and tenderness which you have shown me since my illness commenced. Trust in your heavenly Father, Mary, and you will receive of Him your reward. Poor and forsaken as I am, I can give you nothing, when I leave you, but my blessing and this book. Live in the ways of righteousness, and this blessing will not be without effect.

The blessing of a father with the confidence of the Lord is better for a virtuous child than the richest inheritance. This book, which I wish you to take in remembrance of your father, cost me, it is true, but a few s.h.i.+llings, but if it be faithfully read and its precepts put in practice, I shall have left you the richest treasure. If I had left you as many pieces of gold as the spring produces leaves and flowers, with all that money you could not buy anything so valuable as this book. It is the Word of G.o.d. Read it every day, no matter how much work presses upon you; read at least one pa.s.sage. Preserve it and meditate upon it in your heart during the day."

About three o'clock the next morning James said, in a faint voice, "I feel very ill. Open the window a little." Mary opened it. The moon had disappeared, but the sky was brilliant with stars, and presented a magnificent sight.

"See how beautiful the sky is!" said the dying man. "What are the flowers of earth whose beauty I have so often admired compared with these stars, whose glory suffers no fading? It is there I am going.

What joy! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."

With these words James fell back upon his pillow, and pa.s.sed peacefully away. Mary had never seen any one die before, and she thought her father had only fainted. In her fright she awoke all the family. They ran to her father's bed, and there she heard them say to each other that he was dead. Abandoning herself to her grief, she threw herself upon her father's body, embraced it, and wept pa.s.sionately.

"Oh, my father, my good father," said she, "how shall I discharge all my obligations to you? Alas, I cannot now. I can only thank you for all the words, for all good advice I received from your dear lips, now sealed in death. Your hand, which is now cold and stiff, I kiss with grat.i.tude, and remember that that hand has bestowed upon me many benefits, and has all my life laboured for my good. Oh, if I could at this moment follow you into the heavenly kingdom, how gladly would I do so. Oh, let me die the death of the righteous. My only consolation now is that I shall one day enter upon the happiness and everlasting life of heaven."

During this heart-rending scene the farmer's family had been much affected. At last they prevailed upon Mary to lie down and rest, hoping that sleep would ease her grief. During the following day nothing would induce her to leave her father's body. Before the coffin lid was nailed down, Mary took one more look at her father. "Alas," said she, "it is the last time that I shall ever look upon your dear face! How beautiful it was when you smiled, and it shone with the glory into which you were so shortly to enter. Farewell, farewell, my father," said she, sobbing aloud, "may your body rest peacefully in the earth now, while angels of G.o.d are, as I hope, bearing your soul to eternal rest."

When the funeral took place, Mary, dressed in mourning which one of the girls of the village had kindly given her, followed close to the body of her father. She was as pale as death, and every one pitied the poor girl who now was without a relative in the world. As Mary's father was a stranger at Erlenbrunn, they dug a grave for him in a corner of the cemetery beside the wall. Two large pine trees shaded the humble grave.

The minister who had attended James during his illness spoke of James's patience and of the resignation with which he had borne all his misfortunes, and the good example he had set for those who knew him.

With tender words he consoled Mary, who was overwhelmed with grief. In the name of her father, the minister thanked the farmer and his wife for all their kindness to Mary and her father. He begged of them to be father and mother to her who had no longer any parents.

CHAPTER XII.

CHANGES AT PINE FARM.

After her father's death, Mary was no longer the bright happy girl she had been before. Even her favourite flowers seemed to have lost all their beauty, and the pine trees near the farm looked as though they were clothed in mourning. From time to time she attended the church at Erlenbrunn; and when here she never failed to visit her father's grave.

On every opportunity she went to this sacred spot to weep for her departed parent, and she never left the grave without having made fresh resolutions to ignore the pleasures of the world, and to live only to G.o.d. As time went on her grief gradually moderated, but she soon had new trials to undergo.

Great changes took place in Pine Farm. The good farmer had given the farm to his only son, an amiable, good-tempered young man, but unhappy in his choice of a wife, whom he had married a short time before. She was a handsome woman, and possessed of considerable means; but she was vain to a degree, and cared for nothing but money. Pride and greed had gradually imprinted on her features an expression of harshness so striking that, with all her beauty, her looks were repellent. She was violently opposed to religion, and was thus without any restraint on her conduct. By every means in her power she sought to make the lives of her husband's parents miserable. If she knew that anything would give them pleasure, she delighted in doing the contrary, and when she gave them the food which was their due, according to the contract they had made with their son, it was always with a bad grace, and in a grudging spirit.

The good old man and his wife lived the greater part of their time in a little back room, seldom appearing outside. As for their son, he led a miserable life; for his wife overwhelmed him with constant abuse, and was constantly reminding him of the money she had brought him. Being of a peaceable disposition, and averse to quarrelling and disputing, he bore his sufferings in silence. His wife would never quietly allow him to visit his parents, for fear, as she said, he would give them something secretly. In the evening, after he had finished his work, he used to try to find an opportunity to visit them, when he would complain to them of his hard lot.

"Well," said his father, "so it is. You suffered yourself to be dazzled by the thought of her gold, and to be fascinated by her good looks. I yielded too easily to your wishes, and thus we are punished. We should have taken the advice of old James, who was an experienced man and never approved of this match when it was talked of. I well remember every word he said on the subject, and I have thought of it many a time. Do you remember," said he to his wife, "our having said that ten thousand florins make a handsome sum. 'A handsome sum!' said James, 'no; for the flowers you see in your garden are a thousand times more beautiful. Perhaps you mean to say it is a large and heavy sum. I will acknowledge that. He must have good shoulders to bear it without being bowed down to the earth, and without becoming a poor wretch, unable to lift his head to heaven. Why then do you wish for so much money? You have never wanted anything; you have always had more than sufficient.

Believe me, too much money produces pride. Rain is a useful and necessary thing, but when too much falls there is danger of it destroying the most healthy plants of the garden.'

"These were exactly the old friend's words we have lost," said the farmer, "and I think I still hear him. And you, my son, once said to him of your wife, 'She has a charming person, and is beautiful and fresh as a rose.' 'Flowers,' answered James, 'have not beauty only; they are good and pretty at the same time. They make so many rich presents. The bee sucks in pure wax and delicious honey. Without piety, a beautiful face is merely a rose upon paper, a miserable trifle without life or perfume. It produces neither wax nor honey.' Such were the reflections that James frankly made before us. We would not listen to him--now we know how to appreciate his advice. That which appeared then to us so great a happiness is now to us the height of misfortune.

May G.o.d give us grace to bear our misfortunes with patience!" Thus the old couple and their son used to talk together.

Poor Mary had much to suffer also. The back room which she and her father had occupied was given up to the old couple, and, although there were two empty rooms in the farmhouse, the young farmer's wife, who disliked Mary, gave her the most miserable apartment in the house; beside which, she ill-treated her in every possible way, and loaded her with abuse and fault-finding from morning to night. According to her, Mary did not work enough and did not know how to do anything as it ought to be done. In short, she made it very plain to the poor orphan that she was despised and considered troublesome.

The old man and his wife were keenly conscious of the miserable life that Mary led, but they were not in a position to interfere. They had enough to do with their own griefs.

Mary thought often of going away from Pine Farm, but where to go was the question. After some consideration she asked the minister's advice.