MARY HOMELESS AGAIN
TIME WORE ON, FOR EVEN THE SADDEST days have an end, and the 25th of July came round, the anniversary of James's birthday. In all former years, this day had been a kind of fête to Mary, a day when she was accustomed to bring a gift to her dear father of the finest flowers in her garden, and sometimes she added to this some little piece of work which she prepared for him as a pleasant surprise. Oh, how she wished that he were still beside her to smile on her offerings!
Poor Mary! this anniversary was now a day of peculiar suffering. She could do nothing for her dear father now; he was gone forever from her cares on earth. But the peasants at Erlenbrünnen had a custom of ornamenting the tombs of those they loved with garlands, and Mary, on that melancholy day took a fancy to carry her former offering of flowers to her father's grave. She took the basket, the cause and the memorial of all her suffering, and having filled it with the finest flowers she could procure, she carried it to the churchyard, and laid it on her father's grave. "I cannot raise a tombstone to my beloved father," said she; "I have nothing to put over his grave but this basket, the only beautiful thing I possess."
She left it on the grave, and no one ventured to remove it. The simple villagers who saw it sympathized with the poor orphan and considered her gift as sacred.
The day after this most melancholy anniversary, as the workpeople of the farm were returning as usual from their work in the fields, where they had been busy making hay, they found their mistress in one of her most fearful fits of passion. A piece of linen that had been laid out to bleach had disappeared from the washing-green, and she was furious.
She had heard the story of the ring; for honest James, truthful in all things, had told the whole history to the old farmer and his wife. They had told their son, and he had imprudently confided it to his wife. In consequence of this, her suspicions instantly fell upon Mary.
When the poor weary girl appeared in the evening with her rake on her shoulder, worn out by her day's labor, she was met by the furious woman, who demanded, with a torrent of abuse, where she had put the linen which she had undoubtedly stolen. Mary meekly answered that it was impossible that she could have taken the linen, since she had been the whole day in the hay field with the other workpeople, and had not been a moment alone. But she reminded her mistress that as all the people on the farm were busy with the hay, any stranger or wandering beggar might have easily stolen the linen unobserved.
This had really been the case, but the angry woman refused to listen to reason. She exclaimed in a fury, "Thief that you are! You have escaped from justice before. If you had had your due, you would have been hanged long ago. Get out of my sight, you wretch! You shall not spend another night under my roof."
Here her husband ventured to interpose. "There is no proof that the girl is guilty," said he. "You will surely not send her away so late, my dear; it is already getting dark. Do allow her to have her supper, since she has worked so hard for us all day, and let her stay for this night at least."
"Not for an hour!" replied the fury; "and hold you your tongue," said she, turning upon her husband, "or I will stop your mouth for you in a way you will not like."
The poor weak man was silent. Having once been foolish enough to yield to his wife, he could not regain his authority. The man who is weak enough to let his wife rule at first becomes in time her slave and is degraded in the eyes of others and in his own. If a man is foolish enough to marry an unprincipled woman who does not know her duty, he at least ought to do his—to take the authority which God has given him, to be master from the first, and to restrain the wife who is committed to his care and guidance.
The farmer's son had not spirit enough to do this. He had never restrained his wife. He had allowed her to ill treat his own parents, and it was not likely that she would yield to him now. Poor Mary knew her master's weakness; she felt that his intercession would be of no avail, so she at once prepared to depart. She tied up her few possessions in a small bundle, which was not a heavy one, and she then asked her mistress to allow her to delay a few minutes, that she might bid farewell to the kind old couple.
"Oh, go and see them if you like," said she scornfully; "you seem to suit each other mighty well. I only wish you would take them with you, for Death seems to have forgotten them, or to think them not worth coming for."
The good old people had heard all that had passed and were waiting to receive Mary. They expected that she would come to bid them good-bye, and they consoled her as well as they could. They had little to give, but they gave her all they had—a few florins for her expenses till she could find work.
"Dear child," said they, "we would keep you with us if we dared. You know we cannot, but God will be with you and bless you. He was with your father, and He will not forsake you. Happiness is in store for you yet."
Mary, with her little bundle in her hand, left the farm and took the road which led to the churchyard. She wished to visit her father's grave once more. It was getting dark as she reached the church, but she did not feel the slightest fear at going thus among the tombs. She fell prostrate on the grave and wept bitterly. All was silent, except the gentle rustling of the evening breeze among the leaves.
"O my father, my father!" said poor Mary. "How I miss you now! The last time we were cast out homeless I felt cheerful, because you were with me. What shall I do? Where shall I go now? I have never been so wretched. Even in prison, though you were not with me, I hoped to see you again. I knew you were thinking of me, suffering with me, praying for me, watching for the moment to come to me. O that I had you again! But no; it is wrong to wish this. I ought rather to be thankful that you have been spared from seeing this miserable day. Where shall I go? I do not know even where to seek shelter for the night. If I go to any house in the village, they will ask why I have left the farm, and when they hear the reason they will not take me in. O God, have mercy on me! Take me out of this world, or give me strength to bear and to suffer with patience." She looked sadly round her, and she saw near her an old tombstone covered with moss, a little raised above the damp earth. "I will sit down on this stone," said she, "and wait for the daylight. God will protect me. I will then go to another village where my story is not known and ask for work. Perhaps this may be the last time that I shall be able to sit by my father's grave."
Mourner, who sitt'st in the churchyard lone,
Scanning the lines on that marble stone,
Plucking the weeds from thy loved one's bed,
Planting the myrtle and rose instead,
Look up from the tomb with thy tearful eye—
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.
Stranger, and far from thy native land,
Whom no man takes with a brother's hand;
Table and hearthstone are glowing free,
Casements are sparkling, but not for thee;
There is One can tell of a home on high—
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.