CHAPTER LXIII
The judge's wife was not at home, but the maid-saying that she would be back soon: she had only gone to the station; her brother was expected, and might perhaps come by the first train-opened the corner room, where Thoma was to wait.
An air full of rest and comfort, full of refreshing odors from blooming plants on tables and pedestals, surrounded Thoma; and her eyes wandered over the beautiful pictures and statues on which the sun shone so brightly. Everything was as still as the flowers and the pictures; even the clock over the writing-table, among the family pictures, moved its pendulum without making the least noise.
Thoma sat down in the corner. The river and the mountains of her home appeared strange to her; everything looked so different through these great panes of glass.
The judge's wife soon entered, with a fresh bouquet of field flowers in her hand. She welcomed Thoma heartily, and the tones of her voice were both gentle and firm.
"How beautiful it is at your house! How very beautiful!" Thoma said, her voice trembling.
"I am glad that it pleases you."
"Oh! and to think," Thoma went on, "that this lady who has such a beautiful home goes to the huts of the poor-goes to Cushion-Kate!"
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable with me. How is your mother?"
"Better, but not quite well yet."
"Do you bring me good news from your father?"
"My father says nothing to me. I learned from strangers that he went with you to see Cushion-Kate. His going there shows that you can do more with him than any one else. May I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"Did my father ask Cushion-Kate's forgiveness? And did he confess?"
"Confess? Your father is acquitted."
"Indeed! Then I have nothing more to say. I beg you to let what I have said be as if unheard."
"Dear Thoma, try and think that I am your mother's sister. Have confidence in me. I see that something weighs down your heart. I beg you disburden your soul."
"Yes, I will; even if it does no good, it must come out. Dear lady, I-I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the stone from my father's hand hit Vetturi; and Vetturi no more picked up a stone than that picture on the wall picks up one. Then my father went and denied everything; and caused all the witnesses and the whole court to lie. O heavens! What have I said?"
"Be quiet. So you think then your father should have confessed?"
"Certainly, right out. I would have gone to our Grand Duke and kneeled before him; but justice would have been done. 'I did not mean to kill him, I did it in anger,'-that is honest and brings one to honor again. How often has my father spoken in anger and derision of this one and that one who pretends to be richer than he is and deceives people for money-for money! And what good has it done my father? He must beg from the lowest, for a good word or even for silence. Madam Pfann! last year on Whitsunday I was with my father at St. Blasius. There was a woman there who had painted her cheeks red, and put flour on her neck and forehead. There she sat, in broad daylight, and looked boldly at people, to see if they saw her beautiful red cheeks and white neck, while she herself knew that she was not young, but on the contrary, old and wrinkled."
"I understand. You think it is unworthy of your father."
"Unworthy?" repeated Thoma, for this expression, from a higher sphere of thought, affected her strangely; and the judge's wife continued: "Child, your thoughts at first were not so hard, but by degrees they have grown sharper, have become bitterer and more poignant; and that which should have softened you only made you more harsh. When your father was humble it revolted you, and when he was proud, likewise."
Thoma's eyes grew larger and larger. She was like a patient whom the physician tells exactly how he feels; and this amazement at another's knowledge becomes a preparation for, and the commencement of a cure.
The judge's wife laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Dear Thoma, in imprisonment a man can only do no evil; but at liberty he can do good. My child, your love of truth is good, beautiful, and excellent, but-how shall I say it? – it is not in place now-"
The good lady was sensible of a deep embarrassment, and her face reddened as though with shame. She, who was always urging straightforwardness, should she now shake this girl's strict truth?
But she recovered herself, and continued: "If your father did deny the truth, he is suffering a heavy punishment, because you also deny it."
"I?"
"Yes. You disown your child's heart. Don't tremble. You need not promise me anything, except that you will once again examine yourself earnestly and conscientiously. And your doing so will show itself in the matter for which in reality I sent for you. My brother may soon come, and I must arrange this with you quickly."
The judge's wife then told her about Anton; how much every one esteemed and loved him; and how honorably and beautifully he had expressed himself after his return from Holland. She showed Thoma her mistake-how she, from upright and honorable feeling-and this commendation did good-was acting wrongly, both toward her parents and her lover.
"You think," she added, "you think you cannot call your lover yours again, because you cannot bring him the same honor that he brings you."
"Oh, how do you know everything?"
"But you do not know, or have forgotten, that love does not calculate-so much have you, and so much have I. Collect yourself and build up your happiness for yourself and your lover, and your parents, and all who mean well and kindly by you, as I do. Hush! There's someone coming up stairs."
The door opened; the counselor entered, and the judge's wife embraced him.
"Welcome, dear Julius."
Thoma stood at one side, and the judge's wife introduced her brother, the government counselor. Thoma could not answer a word. A counselor is a brother, and is called "dear Julius!" A government counselor was to her a sort of executioner, who brought people to the block. And now, as this courteous gentleman put his eye-glass up, she was aware that this was the man who had prosecuted her father. Defiance and smiles alternated swiftly in her manner. "Would not I, too, have defended myself against this man with all means in my power?" She did not recover her speech until, after the introduction, the counselor let his eyeglass fall. As if in a dream, she heard him say:
"Your father made a master-stroke. He played for a high stake, but he won it. I wish him good fortune. Give him my greeting."
"So, even the judges do not look at it so severely!" Thoma thought.
The counselor opened the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, and said to his sister:
"I shall be glad to play a duet with you again."
Thoma prepared to go. The judge's wife accompanied her to the stairs, and begged her again not to delay making things happy and right once more. She should remember that we do not know how long we shall have our parents, and then repentance comes too late.
A sudden fear overcame Thoma that she had stayed here too long, and she hastened homeward. At the pear-tree the Galloping Cooper met her, and said that he had been sent to tell her to come home quickly; that her mother was very ill.
CHAPTER LXIV
Not long after Thoma had gone, her mother called Landolin and said:
"Put your mind at ease and be cheerful again. You may be sure that Thoma will come home with pure happiness and blessing. Everything will be right again. She will come holding Anton's hand."
Landolin was silent. He was struck by his wife's glorified expression, and changed voice. She closed her eyes, but after a while she said, laughing:
"Walderjörgli! Nothing has pleased me so much for a long time as his greeting. When I am well again you must take me up to see him."
Landolin nodded. He could not tell his wife that the news had just come that Walderjörgli was dying.
Landolin went into the living-room and looked out of the window. He saw the agent of the Hail Insurance Company come out of the field with the bailiff and several of the town council. The agent was putting his note-book into his pocket. The men had evidently been looking at and estimating the damages done by the hail. They drew nearer to Landolin's house, and he greeted them pleasantly, but the agent nodded, and was passing by.
"Well! How is it?" asked Landolin. "Have you not looked at my fields and valued the damages? And why without me?"
The agent replied that Landolin was no longer insured; that Peter had discontinued in the spring.
Landolin drew back and shut the window. He probably did not want to show the people how this news of Peter's willfulness and indiscretion surprised him. He sat down on the bench, and pressing his hands between his knees, and biting his lips, he thought: "Now they are laughing at me; now they can rejoice in my trouble, and the more because it is plain to be seen that I am of no consequence in my own house."
He went into the yard, and asked for Peter. He was told that he had gone into the forest with the horses. He said to himself: "It is well that my anger has time to cool; there shall be no quarrel. They shan't have the satisfaction of rejoicing at our misunderstanding, but Peter must be made to own that he has been thoughtless."
Landolin seemed to have conquered his uneasiness; and again looked out of the window, and saw Peter coming with a great load of wood. He called to him to come into the living-room, after he had unhitched and unloaded, for he had something to say to him. It was long before Peter obeyed, and Landolin, whose anger was ready to boil over again, preached composure to himself. At length he came, and asked what his father wanted.
Landolin took a chair and said: "Sit down."
"I can stand."
"Don't speak so loud. Your mother is sick in the bedroom."
"I'm not speaking loud."
"Very well, then; come away with me to the porch."
They went out together, and Landolin said that he was only going to speak in kindness, and Peter must understand it so; that he had made a mistake in discontinuing the hail insurance, and it should be a warning to him. He should see that his father had, after all, done some things better than he, and that he ought to confess his mistake.
"Confession is not to be spoken of between us," replied Peter, defiantly.
Landolin felt a pain in his breast, as though he had been stabbed with a dagger. He groaned, and said:
"Only think how the people will ridicule us!"
"It would be well if that were all the ground they had. They do it at many other things. That's enough! I won't be found fault with."
"I didn't find fault with you."
"Very well. You can deny that too if you like. There are no witnesses."
"Peter, don't provoke me. I was only speaking to you in kindness."
"I didn't see any."
"Peter, don't force me to lay hands on you."
"Do it. Kill me, as you did Vetturi, and then deny it."
A cry sounded from the porch; but another, much shriller, rang from the living-room. Landolin rushed in. On the threshold of the chamber door lay his wife, a corpse.
She had evidently heard the quarrel; had wanted to make peace; and had dropped dead.
Peter too had come into the living-room; but Landolin motioned him away, and he obeyed.
They laid his wife on the bed again. Landolin sat beside her a long time; then he went out and said they must send a messenger for Thoma.
It was not long before Thoma came into the room. She sank down beside the body, and cried:
"O mother, mother! Now, I am all alone in the world-all alone!"
When she looked around for her father, he was no longer there.
CHAPTER LXV
Thoma had often looked into the cold, stony face of death; she did not force herself where misery and sickness were, but she never refused a call. But how different it was now, when she knelt beside her mother's dead body! It seemed incomprehensible that the good, faithful mother, who was always so ready for every call, could not answer any moan of sorrow or cry for help. That is the bitterness of death. Thoma had really only learned to know her mother since trouble had broken in upon the house. In the days before that, she, like her father, had paid little attention to her quiet, modest, busy mother, although she had never refused her childlike respect.
"Mother! Dear, dear, good mother!" cried Thoma; but that is the bitterness of death-it gives no answer.
Thoughts about everything ran through Thoma's soul in confusion; things long past, and of to-day. The judge's wife lives down there in the beautiful room with her pictures and flowers; she is probably now playing duets with her brother; but out there sits Cushion-Kate. Will she be glad that death has entered Landolin's house? No, that she cannot! Down by the saw-mill sits Anton, and thinks of his beloved; and she now bends her head, as though her longing were fulfilled; as though Anton were by her side, and she could lay her heavy head on his breast.
With what happy reconciling thoughts Thoma had returned home! And now-?
"Where is Peter? Where is father? Why is he away? How did it happen so suddenly?" Thoma no longer remembered what she had called out to her father.
Now she hears steps in the upper chamber; that is her father's step. "Why does he not come? Why is he not here?" Now she hears a fall.
It seemed to Thoma hard-hearted to leave the dead; but she went, nevertheless. She wanted to comfort the living, and tell him what was in her soul. She went up the stairs; the door was locked. She knocked; no one answered. She called out, "Father! father!" It was the first time in many days that she had spoken that word.
Landolin raised himself up from the floor and listened. This cry from his child seemed to revive him; but he answered:
"You said that you were alone. I too will be alone. I am alone. For you I am no longer in the world."
"Father, open the door! My heart is breaking."
The door opened, and Thoma fell on her father's neck, and could not speak for sobbing. But at length she said:
"Father, I wanted to ask your forgiveness."
"Not you, I-I wanted to come to you. Don't speak; let me talk. Thoma, you were right; I did do it. I killed Vetturi, and then denied it."
Thoma sank on her knees and covered her father's hard, rough hand with tears and kisses. The moon shone into the room; and when Thoma looked up and saw her father's face, it seemed to her as if glorified; it was no longer the face of the hard, indomitable man.
"I shall say it to no one but you, and no one but you has a right to hear it from me. I have forgiveness to ask from no one but you; and no one but you can help me bear my burden, the few years yet till I am with your mother," said Landolin. And the strong man sobbed and cried as though his heart were broken.
"Thoma, you thought it, and never said it to me, and never pretended to be friendly to me before the world; but he, he threw it in my face: and I did not die, but it killed your mother."
He told of the quarrel with Peter, and its consequences.
"Father," began Thoma, "you cannot wish that Peter should be ruined; he is your child. We cannot excuse to him what he has done; but we can help him. And the best help, the only help is, that we two, whom it has hurt, should forgive him."
"You are right, child. You are brave-hearted. We will do it. We will strive to keep things from ruin. We will stand by Peter; he must not utterly sink. I know how a man sinks. Come, let us go to him."
Father and daughter went hand in hand to Peter's room; he was not there. They went to the stable, and there he sat on the fodder bin, beside the new-born colt.
If his dead mother had come to life and walked toward him, Peter would not have been more astonished than now, when he saw his father and Thoma coming hand in hand.
"Peter," said the father, "I forgive you everything as I pray to God to be forgiven myself. And do not fret your heart out. You are not to blame for your mother's death; she was very sick; the doctor acknowledged it to me. Do speak! Do say one word!"
"All right," said Peter; "all right. I thank you."
"Will you not go with us?"
"No! I will stay here. I am best off here. I wish I were a horse; such a creature has the best time, after all."
"Oh come, dear brother!"
"I am not your dear brother; let me alone."
Father and daughter went into the living-room, and there the father related what his sainted wife-he sobbed aloud when he spoke this word-had said while Thoma was gone; and Thoma told about the judge's wife, and about Anton.
All night long father and daughter sat by the body. At daybreak Landolin said, "Your mother can never see the day again."
The father now tried to rest; and Thoma too went to her room, but she could not sleep.
CHAPTER LXVI
The rain had passed over and had come back again, and now seemed to make itself quite at home in the valley and on the height.
When Landolin followed his wife's coffin down the outer stairs, he caught, step by step, with his left hand at the wall of the house, as though he needed support. The school children, who were in the yard singing the funeral hymn, looked up at the changed man.
At the burial, at which one could hardly hear the words of the pastor, for the pattering of the rain on the open umbrellas, there was only a small attendance, although she was honored and loved by the whole neighborhood. For at the same hour that the bells were tolling here, they were also tolling on the mountain in Hoechenbrand, the highest village in the province, for the funeral of Walderjörgli.
For this reason Anton was not present. He had to lead the soldier's association, which had decided to go in a body and pay the last honors to the last Master of Justice.
Among the men with long black mantles, who carried Landolin's wife's coffin, relieving one another from time to time, was one who from the house to the open grave did not move from his post. It was Tobias. In the short time since he had been dismissed from the farm he had grown old fast; and the former crafty expression of his face had disappeared.
As the funeral procession left the church-yard, Cushion-Kate was seen kneeling on her son's grave. She had no umbrella, which even the poorest always has. She was kneeling on the ground, letting the rain pour down upon her red kerchief and her dress, and did not look up.
"I would like to go to her," said Thoma; "I should think she would accept a kind word from us now in our sorrow; but I am afraid she will rave and abuse us here by mother's new-made grave."
As Landolin and Thoma went past, Cushion-Kate's glance followed them, and she clenched her fist. Had she expected the mourners to go to her?
A man struggling with a river's death-bringing waves cries involuntarily for help, even though he is weary of life. Thus, tossed on the waves of sorrow and pain, of hate and revenge, the sad, gloomy soul hearkens for rescue-for a storm dispelling word.
"Why does no one help me?" Landolin had so often thought. Perhaps the poor bereaved woman there now asks, "Why does no one help me?"
Through his deep, dark grief for his wife's death, his child's love shone like a star that he had won back. H