RETRIBUTION
MARY ACCOMPANIED THE COUNT'S family to the capital. One morning, during their residence there, she was told that an old clergyman wished to see her. When she went to the drawing room to receive him, he told her that he had come from a person, dangerously ill, who earnestly desired to speak with her—that he believed this person was dying, but that she would not give her name, or tell what she wanted, to anyone but to Mary herself, and he requested her to see the sick woman. This proposal surprised Mary not a little, and she thought it her duty to ask the Countess what she ought to do. The Countess knew the clergyman who had come on this errand.
She knew him to be a truly good old man, and therefore she at once decided that Mary ought to accompany him. At the same time, she sent an old servant with her, to see her safely home after her visit to the invalid was over.
Mary followed her reverend guide into streets which she had never seen before; then they passed through some narrow dirty lanes, and at length reached a wretched part of the town, where the houses were of the most miserable description. The clergyman stopped before a very high house, and preceding Mary, led the way through a long passage, and up five flights of stairs, the two last of which were in such a dilapidated state that Mary shuddered as she ascended them. They reached a miserable door, rent, broken, and patched with pieces of wood.
The clergyman then stopped and said, "She is here, but before you go in I am sure you will require this," and he poured on Mary's handkerchief a little eau de cologne, bidding her keep it to her face to prevent infection.
They then entered the garret, which was the most miserable place that Mary had ever seen. It was dark and dirty; the panes of the small window were broken and stuffed with rags. The furniture consisted of a miserable bed, with bedding more dirty and miserable still; a broken chair, and a pitcher of water without a handle.
But the most frightful object was the poor creature stretched on the bed. Her voice was hollow and rough, and she was so emaciated that it seemed as if a skeleton were speaking. Mary did not at first recognize this wretched being, and it was with difficulty that she could be brought to believe that it was indeed Margaret—Margaret once as bright and blooming as a spring flower.
The wretched woman, now lying on her death bed, had been struck with remorse, and having heard that Mary had accompanied the Count's family to town, she earnestly desired to see her, to entreat her forgiveness for the affair of the ring. But anxious as she was to see her, she would not allow the good clergyman who visited her to tell Mary her name; for judging of Mary by herself, she feared that she would keep up a revengeful spirit and would refuse to come to her.
Mary felt deeply, too deeply for words, and it was some time before she recovered her composure sufficiently to speak. Then she earnestly assured Margaret that she had pardoned her, that she had long pardoned her, that she did not feel the slightest resentment towards her. She tried to explain to her that she forgave her, as she prayed that God would forgive her own sins, and that she earnestly desired her salvation both from sin and suffering; and she implored her to seek from God, in earnest prayer, that true repentance which is His gift. She reminded her of the returning prodigal; she talked with her long and affectionately, but without making much impression. Despair seemed to have seized on Margaret, and all Mary could say, she could not succeed in giving her hope.
After Margaret had been dismissed from the castle, she had made her way to the town; and here, unprotected by any principle, without friends, and without money, she had sunk deeper and deeper into sin and misery, till she had become the wretched object she was.
The good old minister, in his district visitations, had found her out, and, touched by her bitter remorse, had offered to bring Mary to her bedside.
Mary sat with her a long time, and did all in her power to soothe her till, at length, fearing the Countess would be surprised by her long absence, she was obliged to leave her, with every assurance of her kind feeling towards her, and her perfect forgiveness of all that Margaret had done against her. When she returned to the palace of the Count, she pleaded earnestly with the Countess on behalf of Margaret. The Countess kindly sent, at Mary's intercession, a supply of clean linen, of nourishing food, and of all that the unfortunate woman required; but it was too late for any kindness to save her. She died at the age of twenty-three, a melancholy example of the misery that sin never fails to bring along with it. We cannot add that there was any hope in her death.