THE STOLEN RING
IMMEDIATELY AFTER MARY LEFT THE castle the Countess missed a diamond ring, which she remembered having put down on her worktable, in the room where Mary was left alone for a few minutes. As no one had been in that room but Mary, suspicion naturally fell on her. The young Countess was deeply grieved at this, and entreated her mother to conceal the loss for a time, and to allow her to go herself to the cottage, and persuade Mary to return the ring, if she had really been tempted to take it, and so to save her from exposure and disgrace.
Mary had just folded up the new dress and put it away in her drawer, when she heard a hasty step in the garden, and the young Countess appeared, quite out of breath, with anxiety and distress pictured in her face.
"O Mary!" exclaimed she, "my mother has lost a diamond ring. No one was in the room when she left it but you. They suspect you—they accuse you of having taken it. Is it possible you can have done so? If you have been tempted to do it, dear Mary, give it back to me. I will excuse you to mamma. No one shall ever know anything of it; only give me back the ring."
Mary, completely taken by surprise, could at first scarcely comprehend Amelia's words. "What can you mean, my dear young lady?" said she. "I have no ring. I saw no ring in the room where I was. I touched nothing. I never even moved from the place where I was sitting."
"Mary, Mary," said Amelia earnestly, "I implore you to tell me the truth. You do not know what a serious matter this is. The stone in that ring alone cost more than a thousand crowns. If you had known this, you would not have touched it, I am sure. Perhaps you thought it was only a trifle of no consequence. O dear Mary, if you have touched it, do confess it, and it will be forgiven, as an act of childish thoughtlessness."
Mary at length comprehended the full horror of the suspicion which had fallen upon her. Pale as death, and trembling all over, her feelings were too deep for tears. "Indeed, my lady," said she, "I know nothing whatever of your ring. I have never in my life even ventured to touch what was not mine. How can you suppose that I would take even a trifle? My father early taught me not to take even a pin that belonged to another."
At this moment James entered the room. He had seen the Countess Amelia pass hastily through the garden alone. This unusual visit, her look of agitation and haste, had made him suspect that something was wrong. He hastened to the cottage. "What has happened?" said he, as he entered.
At the answer to his question, the good old man became so agitated that he was forced to lean against the table for support. "Mary, my dear child," said he, "remember that the theft of a ring of this value is, by the laws of this country, punishable with death. But this is not the worst. Think of God's commandment, 'Thou shalt not steal.' A crime, such as theft, brings upon the offender not only punishment by human laws, but, what is much more dreadful, the anger of the Almighty and Omniscient God, who sees the heart, and cannot be deceived by lies or excuses of any kind. If you have so far forgotten God, my poor child, as to be guilty of the crime of which you are accused, if you have suffered yourself to be tempted by the glitter of gold and jewels, do not now increase your sin by denying it. Confess your guilt, and restore the ring. This is now the only means of averting a part at least of the consequences of your crime. Alas that I should ever have to speak so to you!"
These words redoubled Mary's agony. "O my father, my father," said she, "can you believe me guilty? Need I assure you that I have never seen the ring? You surely know that if I had even found a ring of this value on the road, I could not have rested till I had restored it to its owner. Indeed, indeed, I have not the ring."
"I hope you are telling the truth, Mary," said James in a severe tone. "This young lady seems unwilling to accuse you, but the evidence is strong. She has kindly come here to try to save you from disgrace. She deserves that you should be sincere with her. O Mary, be candid, tell the whole truth."
"O my father," said Mary, "you know that I never stole a farthing in my life. I have never even gathered an apple from a tree that was not yours, or pulled a flower in a neighbor garden without permission. I have never even seen the ring. This is the simple truth. Have I ever told you a lie in my life, my dear father? You know I have not; how can you doubt me now?"
James still persevered. He was anxious to try his daughter to the uttermost. "My child," said he, "do not bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Spare me the agony of seeing you persist in sin. I ask you solemnly, as in the presence of God, who sees your heart, before whom you must one day appear, tell me if you have the ring. I implore you to consider well, and to speak the truth."
Mary raised her eyes, now bathed in tears, and clasping her hands, she said solemnly, "God is my witness that I have not the ring. He sees my heart. In His presence I say to you, I am speaking the very truth. I have not the ring—I have not even seen it."
"Well," said her father, "I do believe you, my child. You have not stolen the ring. I know that if you had you could not deny it so solemnly. I feel that you are speaking the truth. And since this is the case, since you are innocent, dear Mary, I feel uneasy no longer. Be calm, my dear, dear child; fear nothing. There is only one evil to be feared in this world, and that is sin. Prison and death are nothing compared to a guilty conscience.
"If we are destined to suffer unjustly, if all the world forsake us, God will not forsake us. In Him we shall find a friend, a comforter, and sooner or later He will make manifest our innocence."
The Countess Amelia's tears were flowing fast at these words. She wiped them hastily away, and said, "When I hear your pious words, when I see Mary's look of innocence, I believe you are speaking truth-I believe that you have never seen this unfortunate ring. But when I remember all the circumstances of the case, I know not what to think. Where can it be?
"Mamma remembers distinctly laying it on the worktable, near the window, in the room where Mary was left alone. No one else was there, except mamma, Mary, and me. Mary herself will remember that I never went near the side of the room where the table stood. There is no entrance to that room without passing through mamma's, which she had never left when she missed the ring. Instead of ringing for her maid to look for it, mamma herself searched every part of the room carefully, more than once. She admitted no one, not even me, until she was quite sure that the ring was not to be found in the room."
"I cannot explain this," said Mary's father. "It is a mystery to me as well as to you. God has sent us severe trial, but it is well. His will be done." The good old man raised his eyes to heaven, and said, "O Lord, we are Thine, do with us as Thou wilt; only grant us, we pray Thee, grace and strength to bear the trials that it may please Thee to send."
"Alas!" said Amelia, weeping bitterly, "what can be done? How shall I go home without the ring? I can do nothing to help you.
"Mamma has not yet told any one of the loss, but she cannot conceal it long. Papa will be home before dinner. If mamma has not on that ring, he will observe it immediately. He gave it to her at my birth, and she has always been accustomed to wear it on my birthday. He will miss it-he will insist on knowing where it is. Mamma must tell all. I do believe you innocent, dear Mary. I will assure them of it; but how shall I make them believe me?"
The amiable Amelia left the cottage with a sad heart and tearful eyes. Mary scarcely moved to bid her farewell; she could not speak, she seemed frozen with grief. James sat down by the table, and leaning his head on his hands, was engaged in silent prayer. Long they sat thus-how long they knew not. How terrible is that silent, speechless sorrow!
At length Mary rose and throwing herself at her father's feet, she found relief in a flood of tears. "O my dear father," said she, "believe me truthful. I am not to blame. O speak to me! Let me hear you tell me again that you believe me innocent."
Her father raised her fondly, and fixing his eyes on her open, truthful face, he said, "Yes, my child; I do believe you innocent. It is impossible that crime could assume that look of candor and truth."
"But, my dear father," said Mary, "what will be the end of all this? What will become of us? Oh, if this danger threatened me only, I could bear it better. But I cannot bear that you should suffer on my account."
"Trust in God, my dear Mary," said James, "and do not fear. The very hairs of our heads are all numbered. Nothing can happen to us without the permission of God. Therefore nothing can happen that will not work for our good, and what more can we desire? Do not then be terrified; however you may be questioned, tell boldly the whole truth, and exactly the truth. Whatever they may promise, however they may threaten you, do not deviate a hairbreadth from the truth; keep your conscience clear: a conscience at ease is a pillow on which we may sleep soundly, even in a dungeon. They will probably separate us, my child. Your father will not be permitted to be with you in your sorrow. Cling, therefore, all the closer to your Father who is in heaven, from whom they cannot separate you. Remember that no human power can separate us from the love of Christ."
James had scarcely finished speaking when the officers of justice entered. Mary uttered a piercing cry and clung to her father.
"Separate them!" said the principal officer, in an angry tone; "bind the girl's hands and take her to prison; the father must also be confined for the present in some place whence he may be forthcoming when he is wanted. Let a guard be placed on the house and garden, and let no one enter without my permission. All the premises must be strictly searched."
His orders were obeyed. Poor Mary was torn from her father's arms, and her hands were tied. She fainted, and they carried her off, unconscious of what they did, while her father was led after, strictly guarded.
As they passed in this way through the streets of the village, crowds gathered to look at them, and many were the remarks that were made on all sides on their conduct. Good and charitable as James and Mary had been, they still had enemies who rejoiced in their fall. Mary, though gentle and amiable to all, had never mingled much with her neighbors in the village. Busy among her flowers, with a taste refined by her father's instructions, she disliked the coarse and silly gossip of the village women, who in their turn hated her for a superiority to them which they could not help feeling, even while they would not acknowledge it.
"So this is the end of Miss Mary's pride and fine airs!" said one of these evil speakers; "her father and she always seemed to think themselves better than anyone else. I always wondered how he could afford to buy all those fine flowers that she presented to the young Countess. No one but the young Countess was good enough for her, forsooth! But if this is the way they could afford to buy those rare flower roots, and make all those fine presents, I do not see that they have much to boast of."
All the inhabitants of Eichbourg, however, were not of this spirit. Some there were who had truly esteemed James, and who felt real pity for him and his daughter. Yet they, too, were now disposed to believe them guilty, so natural is it to the wicked human heart to believe evil rather than good of others.
"Poor human nature!" said some of these people; "who can one be sure of? One would never have thought James and Mary would be guilty of such a thing."
"Who knows," said another, more disposed to think the best, "whether they have not been unjustly accused? If so, may God make their innocence manifest. And if they are guilty, may God grant them repentance, and support them under what they have to suffer. May God keep us from sin by His grace! For without His restraining grace we too might have fallen in the same way."
The children of the village mourned truly. They all loved Mary. Some of them were gathered in little groups, weeping as she passed. "It is wicked to put good James and Mary into prison," said they; "they are good people; they cannot have done anything wicked. Who will give us fruit and flowers now, and talk to us so pleasantly as Mary did?"
Many voices were raised to attest Mary's goodness-many had received little kindnesses from her. The children were all agreed on the subject. "The officers were bad, naughty men," they decided, "who had no right to take good James and Mary to prison."
And this was all! Kind and blameless as their lives had been, not one honest voice was raised in remonstrance against the injustice; not one bystander in all that crowd was bold enough to step forward to say a friendly word of encouragement and comfort!
Such is the way of the world; so little is human approbation to be valued or depended on; so quickly does even unjust suspicion blight the character. There is but one Friend for the unfortunate who is unjustly accused, and that is "the Friend who sticketh closer than a brother."