All was still in the yard. The moonbeams shone upon the house and barns, and glistened on the spring, the splashing of which could still be heard.
Under the broad eaves sat the head-servant and Peter. Tobias, in delight, clapped his hands together, and rubbed his knees. He had not only testified so as to help his master, but what, if possible, pleased him more, he had succeeded in cheating the judge, and making a laughing-stock of him. It was rare fun for him. He whispered to Peter:
"Only be sharp! You're smarter, slyer, than anybody guesses. You mustn't go after Fidelis hammer and tongs; that will only make the matter worse. He's a stiff-backed soldier of the new Prussian pattern. Just keep your head on your shoulders. By degrees, we'll teach him what he saw. If you turn him off now, then----Hold on! I've got it! Now listen to me."
He stopped a moment; put his hands together, as though he had a bird caged in them; chuckled to himself; and not until Peter questioned him did he say:
"Listen! Before taking the oath, they ask, 'Are you in the employ of the accused?' And if one answers 'Yes,' his testimony doesn't amount to much, good or bad. So we must keep Fidelis, do you understand! Hush! Who's knocking?"
Tobias opened the gate and greeted the pastor, whom he told that Landolin had already been taken away, and that his wife was in the house. The pastor went to the living-room, where he found the farmer's wife with an open prayer-book in her hand. He commended her for this, and said that he would have been there earlier, but had returned from the fair only an hour before, and had gone to "Cushion Kate's" first. He strove to comfort her, reminding her that man must bow to the will of Heaven.
The clergyman, a tall, hard-featured man, was the youngest son of a rich farmer. He was brusque in his intercourse with his people, but mingled little with them--election-time excepted--for he knew this conduct pleased the farmers best. In summertime the pastor was all day long by the brook in the valley, fishing. In the winter-time he stayed at home, and no one knew what he did.
"Oh, sir!" said the farmer's wife, mournfully, "people don't know how much they love each other until something like this happens." She blushed like a young girl, and continued: "Children live for themselves; but married people----it seems to me that I have done wrong in not letting my husband see how much----"
Her emotion would not allow her to continue. The pastor consoled her by saying that she had always been an honest woman, and a good wife; that God would ward off this evil from her; and that this misfortune would redound to her lasting welfare. He was astonished that this woman, whom people generally considered shallow, could show such deep affection.
"How does Thoma bear it?" he asked.
"I will call her," she answered.
She went out and soon returned with Thoma, who looked so careworn, that for a moment the pastor could say nothing. He soon, however, endeavored to comfort her.
"Herr Pastor," began Thoma, "what do you think about it? I don't know. I think I must go to Cushion-Kate's."
"Wait till to-morrow morning," interrupted her mother.
"No, I think I must go to-day."
"Yes! do so," said the pastor approvingly, "I have just come from her house. She did not show by word or sign that she heard what I said. She sits motionless on the floor beside her dead boy. Come, you can go a part of the way with me."
Thoma and the pastor walked side by side. The pastor could not speak of Anton, for this was no time for congratulations.
The moon had disappeared, and dark clouds covered the sky.
"It will rain to-morrow, thank God. It is much needed," was all that the pastor said during the walk. At the meadow-path which leads to Cushion-Kate's house, he asked if he should go there with her, but she declined and went alone. She had to pass the house of the "Galloping Cooper," and there, in the shadow of a pile of barrel staves, she heard old Jochen say to the people who sat with him on the bench before the house,
"Oh yes! It's Landolin! They've got him now, and he won't get away. He'll have to pay for it, but not as his father used to pay for his tricks. Here, on my right thumb is still the scar where Landolin bit me in a fight we had. His father paid smart money for it. Yes; in old times the common people only had bones that the farmers' sons might break them. When Landolin stepped into the dancing-room, the floor trembled, and so did the heart of everybody there. Now, he's getting paid back."
"Will his head be cut off?" asked a child's voice.
"He deserves it; but they don't behead people any more."
All this fell on Thoma like a thunderbolt. She stood as though on fire. Her fresh life seemed all burned away and turned to ashes. She pressed her cold hands to her burning face, and fled homeward, unseen.
When she had almost reached the house, she started back in terror, as though a ghost had waylaid her; but it was only the dog who rubbed himself affectionately against her. Thoma was angry with herself for being so easily frightened. "That must not be, and certainly not now." The dog leaped before her, barking. He had evidently been driven home.
When she came in, her mother resting her hand on her open prayer-book, asked how Cushion-Kate was doing.
Thoma acknowledged that she had not been to see her, but did not tell the reason.
Her mother begged Thoma to stay with her during the night. Thoma sat by the bed until she had gone to sleep, and then went to her own room, for she knew that she would disturb her mother's rest.
It was late at night, when Thoma threw open the window of the room in which she should have been asleep. Her cheeks glowed; but her lover, who on this mild spring night, should have been talking with and caressing her, came not. From the forest came the song of a nightingale, and from the hill behind another answered, in rivalry. Thoma did not hear them. She was struggling with a demon that night.
Thoma was a well-bred farmer's daughter. To be sure she had not had much training. She had been one of the best scholars in the public school, and at home she was taught to be diligent and honest; and this she was. She was proud and imperious like her father, who had indulged her from her childhood, and, as her mother cared nothing for the outside world, had been her companion on all sorts of pleasure excursions. He delighted in her decision of character, and above all else had encouraged her pride.
A daughter of a neighboring farmer had been Thoma's playmate, but in reality, her father was her only confidant. It might do for poor people to fall in love, but Thoma, as became a rich farmer's daughter, had made up her mind to marry only a rich and influential man of the same class. Anton, to be sure, was of somewhat lower rank, but still he was of a good family; and, though not rich, he was sought after by all the daughters of the country side.
Even a princess is glad to be loved; and certainly no princess was ever more deeply loved, or received truer homage than Anton gave Thoma.
And now how had it all turned out!
The pride which Landolin had fostered in his child until it had grown all too powerful, was now turned against him, and against the whole world.
Thoma clenched her hands. She did not want to be pardoned, or receive anything as a gift, not even from her lover. "He shall not come and say, or even hint by his manner--'The honor of your family is lost; you are the daughter of a murderer; but still I will be good and true to you.' No--it is over."
As she thought of her father, her hands tightened convulsively. How could he have done such a thing! Common people, servants and beggars may now look into her life, discuss it, and pass judgment upon it. They may be respectful or not as they please. They will act as though she should be thankful to them for greeting her.
With a rapidity which knows no distance, Thoma's thoughts hastened from farm-house to farm-house, where the daughters were condemning or pitying her--her--Thoma; or they were sleeping--theycould sleep peacefully, but Thoma could not sleep.
As when the poison from an adder's fang permeates the body of a strong, vigorous man; rushes through his veins, maddens him, urging him on, and at the same time making him powerless; seeks outlet where there is none; stifles his cry for help; destroys his life--so it was with Thoma, when on this night she clenched her hands in silent desperation. A concentration of thought, a subtlety of which she never dreamed, possessed her. She struggled against it as against a bitter enemy, but in vain.
Imprisonment, the penitentiary, capital punishment--these are things for the poor; but not for the rich and influential. Thus Thoma had always thought; or rather, scarcely giving it a thought, she had considered it a matter of course. But now--if her father confesses what he has done, eternal disgrace will be the consequence. Should he not confess, eternal falsehood, hypocrisy, constant trembling, a cowardly shunning of every glance, and a forced smile when criminals are mentioned.
Thoma groaned, stricken to the heart, and then her thoughts became pitiful; "Oh, my father! He is sitting sleepless and alone in prison. This one day must seem to him like many years; like a whole life-time. Who can help him? Who? Who can bring the dead to life, or wipe away sin from the soul?"
Thoma looked up at the stars. "They stand still, and twinkle and glitter over millions of sleepers; over millions of watchers in sickness, sorrow, and distress, and no one of them is more unhappy than I--"
Tears filled her eyes. She forced them back impatiently. She must not allow herself to become faint-hearted, nor to lament. She would have no pity from any one, for any one!----Proud, proud! "But where is my pride? 'Tis gone. Over yonder lies a corpse, a murdered man!"
It seemed to Thoma that she could plainly see Vetturi, standing before her with his bleeding head. She screamed aloud, but the terrible picture did not vanish. She threw herself on the pillows, then raised her head to listen. The cock crew. Her eyes closed tremulously, and, as she lay there but half awake, fragments of the verse from the Bible ran through her mind: "The cock crows--thou wilt deny"----In prison one does not hear the cock crow.
Thoma buried her face deeper in the pillows. It was raining gently, and she fell asleep.
The Thoma who awoke was a different girl from the Thoma of the betrothal morning. She soon heard this from strangers. Her former playmate, with whom she had quarrelled, came and told her how changed she was, and that they must be friends again. Thoma soon showed her, however, that she had not grown more lenient with the change, and would accept no pity. She repulsed the disgraced girl coldly and sharply.
The prison at the county-town stands high up on the mountain; the sound of the bells in the village on the plateau reaches it from far away. Landolin knew they were tolling for a funeral. He thought of home, where they were burying Vetturi. He tried to imagine all that was passing, but he could not.
Round Cushion-Kate's little house stood a crowd of people, mostly women, for their husbands did not think it worth while to lose a day's work for an insignificant person like Vetturi.
The district physician left the house, followed by the bailiff and the clerk of the borough, who put on his hat as he came out of doors. Then came the pastor. The sobs and weeping became louder and louder, and almost drowned the tolling of the bells.
The procession was formed. Cushion-Kate followed the bier with her red kerchief tied under her chin, and pulled far down over her forehead, so that her face could scarcely be seen; and reaching from her shoulders to her feet hung the large black woolen cloak which the borough furnished to mourners. Her eyes were fastened on the ground as she walked.
As the procession passed Landolin's house, she shook her bony fist toward it, from under the black cloak.
The house was closed. No window was thrown open.
Anton, who walked in the procession next to the village clerk, could not see that Thoma joined the last persons of the little train, and knelt in the churchyard, hidden by a hedge.
The pastor spoke a few touching words of comfort. He exhorted the poor bereaved mother to bear no malice in her soul--to leave punishment to God. He repeated that he who thinks of revenge and retaliation does more harm to his own soul than to him whom he seeks to punish.
Cushion-Kate's moans changed to rebellious mutterings. But almost as many eyes rested upon Anton as upon Cushion-Kate herself; and overcome by his emotion, he suddenly burst into loud weeping.
The procession broke up, and the people scattered in different directions. Anton started away. He walked slowly, as though undecided what to do; and then turning as with a sudden presentiment, he saw Thoma, who was rising from her knees. She stood still. She seemed to be embarrassed at his seeing her. He turned back, and holding out his hand, said,--
"One must not say good day, in the churchyard; or perhaps you do not share the superstition?"
She neither answered, nor gave him her hand.
"May I walk with you? See, they are looking at us. Be calm!"
She walked by his side without raising her eyes.
"I'm waiting patiently for you to speak," said Anton in a low tone.
She looked into his face with her great eyes, but their glance was changed.
"Is your father here?" she asked at length; her voice too was changed.
"No, he is at home," replied Anton. "Shall he come and see you?"
She shook her head silently, and Anton continued:
"Unfortunately your father quarreled with every one yesterday; with the one-armed man, and with my father. He thought your father had already returned from town, and so he did not come now. Your father must make the first visit."
Thoma cast a bitter, wounded glance at Anton, who said in a soothing tone, almost gaily indeed, that Thoma's father had been so fierce with all the world because he had had to give up his daughter. A sad smile passed over Thoma's face.
"I may go home with you, may I not?" asked Anton.
Thoma stood still. She laid her hand on her heart, and said:
"I am done with this. I have settled it here. Don't say that it is pride, don't say that I did not love you;--or, if it is a comfort, you may think so. Anton, I am walking with you for the last time. I am speaking to you for the last time. Anton, it must, itmust, be all over between us. I cannot, I will not----I will not go into a house where I do not bring honor. I will learn to bear my lonely life. Seek for yourself some other happiness. Farewell!"
"Thoma, you thrust from you him on whom you should lean."
"I thrust no one away from me, and I will lean on no one."
They had reached the house. She entered quickly, leaving Anton standing alone outside, but he was not long by himself, for Tobias and Peter came up to him. They welcomed him heartily; for of course he would testify, as they would, that the stone did not hit Vetturi, but that he had fallen down on the sharp-pointed paving stones in terror at Landolin's strong voice. They were very careful not to say that Vetturi had thrown a stone first.
They said how fortunate it was that a man so highly thought of as Anton had seen it all plainly; and Tobias added, smirkingly, that it was well that the engagement was broken off for the present; for, as son-in-law, his testimony would not have full weight. He further begged Anton to instruct his comrade Fidelis. "Go and call Fidelis," Tobias said to Peter, who soon returned with him. The head-servant and the son now urged Fidelis to let Anton convince him that he had been mistaken; but Fidelis remained immovable, and repeated that he had no doubts in the matter. He was sure that Anton's convictions were as honest as his own, even though they differed from them ... but for his part, he could not and would not say anything different from what he had seen. In court it would appear who was right.
Anton returned home troubled. He said to himself: "Have I let Landolin tell me what I saw? Shall I lose my heart to the daughter, and my conscience to the father? It would be better if the marriage had not been broken off, for then I could refuse to testify."
The farmer's wife had often visited her husband in the presence of the examining magistrate. Peter had several times accompanied his mother, but Thoma did not come. Her father was too high-spirited to inquire for her, or ask why she staid away. Perhaps she disapproved of his obstinacy in staying in prison; perhaps she approved of his pride, for Landolin had told the judge, "I will not go out with a halter round my neck, for people to make sport of me; one to pull it tight, so as to choke me a little, and another to graciously loosen it. I will only go as a free man. And didn't you say that I am to appear in court next week?"
So he staid in prison, and was not obliged to see any one but his wife, his son, the examining magistrate, and his attorney. But one pair of eyes he saw, that looked more friendly at him than the eyes of a child or a sister. The district judge's wife had obtained permission to visit the prisoners.
And the hearts must indeed have been hard that were not gladdened when that lady entered the cell, while the guards waited at the open door.
Madame Pfann--for by this simple title did the judge's wife allow herself to be called--Madame Pfann was exceedingly happy in her marriage. Although her husband could not forbear occasionally laughing at her missionary zeal, nevertheless he willingly allowed her her own way in everything. He delighted in the many successes she achieved, but above all other things, in the unwavering faithfulness with which she fulfilled the duty she had taken upon herself.
They had an only son, who in July, 1870, entered the army as a volunteer, was promoted to a lieutenancy on the field of battle, and had remained in the service. Madame Pfann had not waited for some great event before she set herself to work. Years before she had commenced the work of philanthropy, and carried it out with a zeal that was universally acknowledged. She was the daughter of a plain professor in the gymnasium at the capital; and she took pleasure in saying that she owed her capacity for her work to her father's simple and noble character.
She was aware that people called her conduct eccentric and sentimental; but she cared nothing for that.
An old-time saying tells us that on the path of heroic deeds a man has to battle with giants and monsters. Madame Pfann had had to battle with a great and noble intellect. She remembered Goethe's cynical words, that finally the world would be bereft of all beauty, and each one would be only his neighbor's benevolent brother.
Veneration for our great poet was an heir-loom in her girlhood's home. Fierce was the conflict before she overcame the mighty coercion of the master mind, but she gained at last that liberty which shakes off the fetters of an undue veneration. She was convinced that even a Goethe cannot give precepts for all time. Our age has made the unity of human interests its law, and no longer tolerates a mere æsthetically selfish life. Yes, out of a life devoted to the common welfare, springs a new beauty of being.
Madame Pfann often met with rudeness and thoughtlessness where she least expected it, so that her experiences were sometimes painful; but she remained steadfast.
In her visits to the prisons, she refused to interfere in the least degree with the course of the law. She only desired to comfort the prisoners; to make them at peace with themselves; and above all things she wished to help their friends who were left destitute at home. Here, too, she had sorry experiences. Rascals imposed upon her, and amused themselves in sending her on fruitless missions, and would even give her directions whose baseness she could not suspect.
She knew that baseness and uncleanness existed, and yet clung to her faith in greatness, nobility, and purity.
In the course of time she settled upon a regular method of talking with the prisoners. She sought to learn of their early life, but she found that they distrusted her motive, suspecting that she was seeking to discover some crime which they might have committed, and she had to contend with their cunning, which led them to tell her falsehoods.
Often, however, she succeeded in bringing the most hardened to better thoughts and feelings, so that they spoke with tremulous voice of the paradise of youthful innocence.
When Madame Pfann visited Landolin in prison, she found her task easier than usual, for she had long known him and his family. He quickly gave her to understand that he did not value her visit very highly, as she honored the commonest prisoner in the same way.
He listened attentively for her answer, and was not surprised when she replied, with a smile:
"I cannot double myself when I visit you; but I will come oftener if you like."
It now happened, as it often had before with prisoners, that Landolin looked for her visit as a diversion, and that was something gained.
"Has Titus been here, and taken a look at the tower where I shut am up? Or perhaps he has not wanted to see me. I'll say beforehand I won't see him," said Landolin, angrily.
Madame Pfann saw that his thoughts were occupied with his rival, so she said that no one should rejoice in another's misfortune, for every one has his own secret sorrow.
"Has he? Has anything happened to him?" asked Landolin, eagerly.
The lady said: "No!" and then turned the conversation to his childhood. He related his boyish pranks, and laughed heartily over them; but still he censured his father for having yielded to him in everything, except once when he wanted to marry the Galloping Cooper's sister, for whom he had had a fancy. He even complained of his wife for having always yielded to him. He said he was the most grateful of men when any one kept him from his wild pranks, even though at first he rebelled against the restraint. Then he stopped short. He was afraid he had betrayed himself, and protested solemnly that he was innocent of Vetturi's death.
Madame Pfann asked, "Would you like me to have some flowering plants brought here?"
Landolin laughed aloud and said: "I don't want anything with me except my dog."
She promised to see that he should have it. She soon found that it really was a very deep grief and trouble, that Thoma did not come to see him.
Madame Pfann went to Reutershöfen, and listened patiently to his wife's lament that her life was changed since her husband's hat hung no longer on its accustomed nail. When Thoma came in after a long delay, the kind-hearted lady was touched by her appearance, and told her that she could well imagine her grief, in having been plunged in one day from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow.
Thoma trembled. She had never before placed the two events so close together. Madame Pfann felt the awkwardness of her remark, and endeavored to reassure her by saying that she had no doubt that she could adjust the difficulty with Anton, for he had great confidence in her. Thoma soon became more composed, but she was still silent.
Madame Pfann urged her strongly to lighten her father's imprisonment by visiting him.
"You mean it well, I know," replied Thoma, "you are very good, but I cannot; I cannot go down the road, and up the prison stairs, and I should be no comfort to my father, quite the contrary. It is better as it is."
"It is not better, only more comfortable, more easy for you; you will not conquer yourself."
Thoma was silent.
Madame Pfann arranged for Tobias to take the dog to its master.
She then went to see Cushion-Kate, who called out:
"You went to Landolin's first. I'll not let you into my house."
She bolted the door and Madame Pfann went quietly homeward.
"The house is changed when the husband's hat no longer hangs on its accustomed nail," the farmer's wife often said. Her thoughts were not many, but those she had she liked to repeat like a pater noster.
When, on the morning after her husband's arrest she said this for the first time, and was about handing Thoma the keys, Peter called out:
"Mother, give me the keys; I am the son of the house, and I must take the reins now."
If the stove had spoken they could not have been more astonished. Peter, whom they had all looked upon as a dull, idle fellow, who did only what he was told, and never undertook anything of himself--Peter of a sudden gave notice of what he was and what he wanted, and even his voice, generally heavy and drawling, became somewhat commanding and energetic. In reality a transformation had begun in Peter. He ceased to be taciturn and became almost talkative. His natural effort to aid his father had called forth a latent energy, which no one, least of all himself, had ever suspected, and which once aroused, continually grew in strength. Other awakenings assisted in changing his trouble into a joyous sense of courage; yes, almost of presumption. It was not only at home, but in the whole neighborhood that people saw with astonishment how his father's absence had changed him. The head-servant, Tobias, smiled as he went about his work at the thought that he had had a hand in helping Peter into the saddle. And, indeed, Peter was, literally, much on horseback, riding everywhere on the bay mare, to tell the people who were at the house congratulating Thoma at the time of the accident, what they had seen. Some of them thought they knew all about it; and some, on the other hand, declared they had seen nothing; for they did not want the trouble of testifying in court.
Wherever Peter went the people said, "No one knew that you were such a smart fellow. Thoma used to be the only one talked about, just as though there were no such person as you." Peter smiled craftily when he heard this; he put on a grieved, troubled look, and shook his head, but was nevertheless pleased to hear people add, "Your father rather put you down."
Peter was not unassuming; quite the reverse, for he looked upon all men as his debtors. They had allowed him to grow up in simplicity and honesty for three and twenty years without revealing to him how sweet knavery tastes. But now, he was finding out for himself.
"Look! Look! There comes Peter of Reutershöfen!" was heard up and down the mountain side.
"What Peter?"
"Landolin's Peter."
"Yes, people did not know what kind of a fellow he was; they thought he couldn't count three; and now he turns out to be one of the sharpest fellows possible."
It was true; he had not been exactly a blockhead; but dull and unsympathetic. And what had he now become?
It may, perhaps, seem unnatural, but nevertheless it was a thoroughly logical development; he had become an accomplished hypocrite.
Once, at a fair, when Peter had taken an electric shock, a strange something ran through his frame. He had very much the same feeling the first time that Tobias said to him, "We must act as though we had seen everything so, and seem thoroughly honest about it, and then we shall be able to make other people think so."
Peter discovered that hypocrisy was sweet to the taste; and that it was no new thing for the world to feast on it.
Wherever he went people condoled with him over his misfortune, even when he was quite sure they were glad of it.
However, he paid them in the same coin by pretending to be excessively amiable. This helped to make him energetic; for the secret pleasure and delight of making a laughing stock of others, animated him anew every morning. He and Tobias made themselves merry over the trick they were playing on the people, and on having succeeded in persuading a few simple-minded persons, as well as some rascals, to testify as they wished. Tobias gave his pupil this advice:
"Now, you see, sharp people get along best in this world. They are never cheated nor plagued. If you want anything of them, and knock at their door, they pretend not to be at home. 'There is no one at home; and I'm asleep,' as the old peasant woman called out to the beggar that knocked at her door on a Sunday afternoon."
Only once was Peter worsted. He went to see Anton, and told him he thought he had been very wise in breaking off with Thoma so promptly; for now, as he was no longer related to them, he could be a witness for his father.
Peter was not a little astonished to hear Anton answer that it was Thoma who had broken off the match, and that it was hardly possible for them to make it up again.
What? Will Anton refuse to tell him the truth? Is he so sly as to try to keep up a false show before his brother even?
Anton's bright face darkened when he heard Peter's words. He saw clearly through his scheme, and astonished him by replying that he would tell no one how he would testify; that he had taken counsel with his conscience, and would do as he thought right.
Notwithstanding this, Peter, with honest mien, confided to many persons, under strict injunction of secrecy, the testimony that Anton would give; and in this way persuaded some of them, for they thought: "Whatever Anton Armbruster says is certainly true."
It was with dismay that Thoma heard--for Peter made no secret of his preparations--what corruption he was spreading over the whole neighborhood; but she could do nothing to prevent it, and had to keep silent when her mother praised the good, kind people.
So the time drew near for Landolin to appear before the court for which he had been selected as juryman.
The days, the weeks, came and went; the crops in the field grew steadily; and the work went on in its usual good order, under the direction of Tobias and Peter. They had hired a new servant in place of Fidelis, who had left their service of his own accord, and had been engaged by Titus.
The pine trees had put on their yearly growth; rye and early barley were ready for harvest; and the hay was already cut and put away. Thoma was the most active in all this work; but she spoke with no one, and looked up astonished when the men and maid-servants sang as they went about their tasks. Her face said plainly: "They can sing, they have no father in prison."
It was a bright summer morning. The farmer's wife was up before day, for she wanted to see Tobias and Peter before they drove to the city.
After the servants who remained at home had eaten their breakfast, and the dishes had been cleared away, she still sat at the table, in the so-called "Herrgott's Corner." Her hands were folded on the table before her. She gazed at them wearily and sadly.
On a bench, beside the large stove in which there was no fire to-day, sat Thoma at her spinning. Nothing could be heard but the low whirring of the wheel, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
"Thoma," at length began her mother, "you're right in not going to the field to-day. My feet feel as though they had given way. Say, is to-day Wednesday or Thursday? I don't know any more----"
"To-day is Thursday, the tenth of July, mother."
"And he is in court, on trial for his life. Look and see what saint's day this is."
"The calendar is hanging right behind you."
The farmer's wife seemed not to care to turn or look around. She rubbed her hands hastily over her head, as though to keep her hair from rising on end, and said, as if speaking her thoughts aloud:
"So many people! I see them all, one after another, just as they were when I was a little child, and they beheaded Laurian, on the city-green."
"Mother! Don't talk so. We must control our feelings, whichever way things turn out."
"What! Can it turn out any other way?"
"Who knows? That is what the trial is for."
"Surely there must be compassionate and just men there, who will have pity. There are many who rejoice in our misfortune, but there are more who mean well by us. Your Anton will testify for your father, and will pledge his medal of honor for him."
"More than that," added Thoma; but she did not explain what she meant.
Will Anton persist in saying that he saw what her father told him he did? Does he really believe that he saw it in that way? or will he ruin his own life in order to save another's? She compressed her lips tightly. She thought she must scream out for pain.
But her mother seemed to find it necessary to express her thoughts; and again she murmured, half aloud:
"What are the servants talking about, to-day? I am ashamed to go among them, and I dare not say a word, for fear they will answer me with insult and abuse. I hear that people from all over the valley have gone to the city to-day, to see Landolin sitting on the prisoner's seat. Yes, there he sits, and has to let the gentlemen of the court say everything they can think of right in his face. And everybody rejoices in it, and yet they themselves are--God forgive me! Yes, so it is, if anything is wrong with oneself, one tries to find something wrong with one's neighbor. There stands your arm-chair. Who knows if you will ever sit in it again, and rest your strong arms and good hands! When will the door open again and you come in? Hush! Listen Thoma! Don't you hear something? There is some one at the door! I hear some one breathing. It might be Cushion-Kate, or is it----Open the door!"
Even Thoma could not shake off her fear; but summoning her courage, she opened the door, and, with a sigh of relief, cried, "It is Racker."
"Come here," said her mother to the dog, coaxingly. "Do you know what is the matter with your master to-day? Will he ever see you, and lay his hand on your head again? Yes, yes; look at me pitifully! If men were as pitiful as you----"
"You're right, mother," said Thoma at length. "See, mother, everybody on his way to the field to-day, fills his pitcher at our well, as if there was water nowhere else. They look toward our house as though they took pleasure in our misfortune. I wish I could poison the well, so they would all die! I wish I could poison the whole world!"
The mother longed to soothe her daughter, but dared not try. She was thankful that Thoma at least spoke, instead of staring silently before her. And now that Thoma had once broken her silence, she continued:
"Mother, I want to go to the city."
"You, too, will leave me?"
Thoma explained that she would soon return. She only wished to telegraph to Peter, to report to her the verdict as soon as it should be rendered, and she would leave word at the telegraph office for the messenger, the "Galloping Cooper's" brother, to wait all night for the message.
Her mother took up her prayer-book, and said: "Well, you may go; but don't hurry too much."
"Come along," Thoma called to the dog, and, with him, hastened out of doors.
At the edge of the forest stands a pine tree, with its top bent down. Some say that it was struck by lightning; others say a raven has lighted there so often that his weight and the clutching of his claws have broken it. But the strong-rooted pine grows on.
Is Landolin's house such a tree; struck by lightning, and bowed down by dark sorrow? And will it flourish again?
Thoma stood in the road, and looked around, as though for the first time she saw that the heavens were blue, and the trees and fields were green. She had to exert herself to remember for what and where she was going.
"Oh, yes," sighed she, and started away.
A narrow foot-path led over the hill, down into the valley, to the city. To be sure she must pass Cushion-Kate's house; but why shouldn't she? Nevertheless, Thoma, who before had been so strong and brave, could not overcome a certain terror; as though, like the children in the fairy-tale, she must pass a frightful dragon, lying in wait for her at the mouth of his rocky cave.
To be sure Thoma is much stronger than the poor old woman, but, for all that, it is hard enough to be obliged to conquer the crouching foe. "Or, may it not be possible to help the poor woman, who must suffer even more than we do? In the midst of her bitter trouble, may we not save her the necessity of working for her daily bread?"
Just as I thought! There is Cushion-Kate sitting at the stone door-sill; both hands pressed to her temples, and her head bent down, so that the red kerchief almost touches her knee.
Did the poor creature know that this was the day of the trial? She seemed to be asleep, and Thoma, holding her breath, walked noiselessly along. But when she had come nearly opposite to her, the old woman suddenly raised her head. Her eyes glittered, and she called out:
"You! you! To-day is the day of payment."
"May I not say a kind word to you?"
"Kind? To me? You? Go away or----"
She pulled out a pocket-knife, opened it, and cried: "I too, can murder! You are his child; and he was mine. Go!"
As Thoma turned tremblingly away, the open knife, which the old woman had thrown at her, fell at her side. She hurried down the hill; and, until she reached the forest, she could hear loud moans and screams behind her.
Cushion-Kate had been in the beginning a gay-hearted little woman enough. A patch-work tailor's daughter, a patch-work tailor's wife, one could almost say that her life was a patch-work of little gay-colored scraps like her cushions. She was one of those placid, grateful people who are thankful for the smallest gift of Providence, and who never wonder why they too cannot live in abundance, like the rich farmers. After she had drunk her chicory coffee, she went about her work, singing like a thrush. And who knows but she put the same ease with which she carried the burden of life into her cushions; for it was acknowledged that they were the softest in all the country side. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her sad birth. Now, a heavy affliction had come upon her. Her last and only treasure was taken away; and suddenly fear, bitterness and hate, and all the spirits of evil took possession of her. Suddenly, as though she had awakened from a sleep in a paradise of innocence, she perceived how miserable her life was; and she hated every one who lived in prosperity, and had children to rejoice in. Above all others, she hated the murderer of her child, and his family. Her only thought and wish were that he and they should suffer and be brought to ruin.
The poor old woman carried a heavy burden of sorrow and hate. Her life had been darkened, and she only wished to stay until she had avenged herself on Landolin. This was why she had been so sullen and morose since her son's death.
Hate, anger and misery grew within her, and transformed her happy, kind heart into a sad and wicked one.
In the summer garden of the Sword Inn, the linden trees were in full bloom. The bees came, sipped, and flew away without asking for the reckoning. But to make up for this, the finches sang without pay; and the swallows circled round, as though dancing a figure in the air, and sometimes shot after a honey-laden bee.
Everything rejoiced in its own way. It was a morning so full of freshness, so full of enjoyment and exuberant life, one could hardly believe that misery still existed in the world.
A horseman trotted up to the garden fence, stopped, dismounted, and gave his horse to the servant, telling him to take it home and say to his wife that if any one asked for him she might send him here; that he would, however, soon be at home.
"Good morning, doctor," called the hostess, from the veranda. "You have come just at the right time. We have this moment tapped a keg of beer."
The physician had already heard that refreshing, enticing sound, that deep thud when the spigot is driven into the keg, and that clear sound when the bung is drawn.
The hostess brought him the first glass. He held it up to let the sun shine through the clear amber liquid, and then drank it with evident enjoyment.
"I had to go out before day this morning, all the way to Hochenbraud," said the doctor, as he drained the glass; then said, "Give me another, for my twins." As he drank the second glass, he told the hostess that he had that morning assisted at the advent of a pair of twins into the world; two fine, healthy boys.
"It is curious that something very extraordinary is always happening to Walderjörgli. His first great grandchildren are twins. It is a blessing that this strong, upright race should go on growing. They are honest-hearted men of the old primitive German type."
"They are shrewd, too," interposed the hostess. The physician went on to say that the primitive Germans must have been crafty rascals, for savages are always cunning.
"But where is our host?"
"Of course he has gone to the trial. There is an actual pilgrimage to-day. As early as half-past three this morning we had sold a whole keg of beer. The witnesses went on the express-train. There were men and women from Berstingen, from Bieringen, from Zusmarsleiten, from everywhere, who had nothing to do with the trial, but went from curiosity. They wanted to see Landolin brought before the court. The station-master says that when a man is on trial for his life the people throng to see his distress. He thinks that people will spare neither pains nor money to gratify their desire to see the misfortunes of others. But the district-forester says that the people go more because they long for something new to break in upon the monotony of every-day life."
The cautious hostess gave this as a report, and not as an opinion of her own.
As soon as the physician said: "Both are true," she cried:
"I am glad to hear you say so. It is pleasant when one gives medicine to have the doctor come and say: 'that was right. I should have prescribed that myself.' But I should like to ask you----"
"What is it?"
"Do you think it possible for Landolin to be acquitted?"
"With God and a jury all things are possible."
"Yes; but then, who killed Vetturi? For he is dead!"
"That question is not on the list."
The hostess went on to tell how Landolin's head-servant, Tobias, had been talking that morning with every one, and cunningly instructing them what to say. How he had said, with a laugh, that the life of such a person as Vetturi was not of enough value to have a man like the ex-bailiff imprisoned an hour for it. Tobias wanted to pay for what they all drank; but--and as she told the story, the hostess' face became a flaming red--she had declared that each person must order her to take pay from Tobias for him; then it would be known what was to be thought of him and what might follow later. Some of them seemed to be frightened at this hint.
The doctor laughed and replied that the rich farmer thought money would do everything; and his son Peter, instigated by his father of course, had offered to sell him their fine horse at a third of its value. They wanted him to testify that Vetturi, who had suffered from severe illness ever since his childhood, was weak and easily injured; so that a fall on level ground might have killed him.
"I am sorry for Thoma," began the hostess. "She was such a stately, fresh-hearted girl; and how well she and the miller, Anton, were suited to one another. He, too, was here this morning. He is one of the witnesses, but he staid in the garden, and kept looking at the medal of honor on his breast. Do you think the trial will be finished in one day?"
The physician could give no opinion, and the hostess continued:
"Our dear good Madame Pfann was going to Landolin's house to spend this sad day with his wife and Thoma. I advised her not to go now. They will need her soon enough.
"I don't believe there is another pure soul like hers in the world. Why, she finds something pure hidden even in a man like Landolin. Our Madame Pfann is a woman such as they had in the time of the Apostles."
"Bravo!" cried the doctor, "I have seen a rare wonder: one woman unreservedly praising another."
"Yes; who can know the judge's wife and not praise her? But she seeks neither praise nor thanks from anybody."
"She needs none. He to whom nature has given the blessing of such a good heart is the possessor of all human good."
The telegraph messenger came into the garden, and handed the physician a dispatch.
"I've got it now," cried the physician, when he had read it. "When does the next express train leave?"
"In seven minutes."
The physician explained to her that the defendant had called for his oral opinion. He left word for his wife that he was called away, and hastened to the station, where he met Thoma, just coming in.
"Are you going too?" asked he.
"No; I just want to send word to my brother to telegraph me the decision as soon as it is announced."
"I will attend to that for you."
The train sped away. Thoma asked the telegraph messenger, who was a brother of the "Galloping Cooper," to wait all night and bring her the dispatch as soon as received.
Thoma walked homeward. From the hill she could see the train in the distance. It sped by hamlets and villages, through newly-mown meadows, past fields where potatoes were being gathered in little heaps. The passengers talked together about the flood which had done such great damage in Switzerland; of the political questions of the day; of the conflict with Rome. The physician heard it all as in a dream. It troubled him that he had after all to testify in Landolin's case. How could the defence hope for any advantage from his testimony?
The train stopped at the county-town. One of the court officers was waiting for him with a carriage, and took him to the court-house. The air within was damp and sultry.