CHAPTER XXXI
The counselor's eye-glass glistened and glittered, but his speech was plain and quiet. He seemed studiously to avoid any approach to vehemence. He began with a strong statement of the unruliness and presumption which characterized the servants of the present day; and of their frequent dishonesty in the present instance. The jury nodded assent. He was sorry to say that the guilt of the accused was very plain. The pretext of self-defense he materially weakened, by showing carefully and clearly that the defendant had only hit upon the subterfuge as a last resort, when he could find no other. It was more than strange that the stone thrown by Landolin, which was bloody and easy distinguishable from others, had so soon been made away with; while the one said to have been thrown by Vetturi had been found, where no doubt it had been placed for that very purpose.
At these words Landolin shook his head violently. The counselor paused for a moment, then continued composedly, that, as only justice should be done, he would recommend a verdict of guilty of manslaughter, with mitigating circumstances.
When he had finished, Landolin leaned forward to speak to his lawyer, who rose and proceeded with persuasive eloquence to set forth the perfect innocence of the accused. When he depicted Landolin's uprightness and influence, Landolin cast down his eyes. It made a strong impression when the lawyer raising his voice cried: "Gentlemen of jury! The accused was chosen as a juryman for this session of the court. He should be sitting among you, and not here; and I expect from your straightforward honesty he will soon be with you, shoulder to shoulder; for he belongs with you. The one of you that feels himself exempt from outbursts of anger which, against his will, might result in an unhappy accident; the one that feels himself free from all natural faults, let him throw the stone; the stony word, guilty. By the authority of the accused, I refuse 'mitigating circumstances.' That is merely disguising the deadly missile. I call for the verdict 'Not guilty.'"
A murmur ran through the mass of spectators, so that the presiding judge threatened to clear the court-room if such disturbance were heard again. In the profound silence that followed he gathered up the pros and cons, and laid them in the scales before the jury. When he had finished he asked Landolin if he had anything to say.
Landolin arose and bowed. He moistened his dry lips, and began:
"Your honors! Gentlemen of the jury! I-I am guilty!" Again a murmur ran through the room; but the judge did not repeat his warning. He was himself too much astonished at the words; and even Landolin's lawyer involuntarily threw up his arms in despair. The counselor's eye-glass sparkled more brightly than before, and his face had a triumphant expression. When silence was restored, Landolin continued:
"Yes, I am guilty. I deserve punishment, just punishment; but not for that of which I stand here accused. I deserve punishment because I was so soft-hearted and compassionate that I did not prosecute the miserable fellow for his theft.
"Gentlemen of the jury! You twelve men! It is terribly hard that such men as you should be taken from the harvest-field to sit here through a long, hot day! And why? Because of a miserable servant-man, whose life is not worth twelve hours' time, of twelve honorable men like you. I will not speak of myself, of my having to stand here. I only say I should not have been so tender-hearted. Through that I have become guilty of making servants ungovernable. For that, I deserve punishment, for nothing else. Should I have quietly allowed him to kill me? And is it likely that I, who forebore so long with him, sought to kill him? Was I likely to place my wife, and my children, my honor, my house, and my lands in peril for such a one as he? I will not abuse him; he is dead." Landolin's voice trembled. He seemed unable to continue. His counsel whispered to him: "Don't stop there. Say again that you are guilty." And Landolin cried again: "I am guilty in not having prosecuted the thief. Of that I am guilty, of nothing more."
Landolin sat down, and covered his face with both hands. He seemed to be weeping.
The judge handed the foreman of the jury the list of points for their consideration. They all arose, and Landolin was led to the room set apart for the accused. On the way out his son pressed his hand; they could neither speak a word.
"Keeper," asked Peter, "can I go with my father?"
"Certainly."
"But I want to be alone," interrupted Landolin sharply, and the door closed behind him.
"He would have let Thoma in, but he does not want me," said Peter to himself; and as other evil thoughts linked themselves to this one, he grated his teeth.
CHAPTER XXXII
The court-room and the long corridor were filled with people, eagerly discussing the expected verdict. Some thought it well-advised, others thought it fool-hardy, that the accused and his lawyer had declined to accept a verdict with "mitigating circumstances." They all agreed, however, that Landolin's speech was a surprise, such as they would probably never live to see again. There were some even who tried to set a money value on it, and asserted that they wouldn't have missed hearing the speech for such or such a sum. No one had dreamed that Landolin was such an orator and actor.
During this time, Landolin stood at the open window of the prisoner's room, grasping the iron grating with both hands. The keeper brought wine. Landolin did not drink it, but he poured some on his hands, and washed them with it; then turned again and started out into the starlit night.
Although he felt the triumph that he had gained by his last words, his knees were weary as if he had climbed over a high mountain, and now, as it seemed to him, he was compelled to walk over a grave, yonder by his home-
A meteor shot across the heavens. Ah! if one could only believe that that is a good sign!
The prisoner's room, and that in which the jury was locked till they should agree upon a verdict, were only separated by one thick wall. Have they been there long, or only a short time? From the towers of the city twelve o'clock was tolled. "Twelve strokes of the bell! The voices of twelve men!" said Landolin to himself. Yonder, through the black night, comes a monster with two red eyes, ever nearer and nearer. Landolin knows very well that it is a locomotive, but nevertheless he starts back from the window in terror, and sits down in a chair. Hark! A bell rings. It is not outside; it is here. The jury are ready. A heavy trampling is now heard in the corridor, followed by an unbroken silence. Landolin is sent for. With a firm step he mounts the stairs to the prisoner's dock. He stands still; for he is saying to himself: "They shall never say they saw me break down." He looks at the twelve men, but their faces seem to him to be swimming in a sea. Now, as though emerging from the waves, they rise. The foreman, Titus, lays his right hand on his heart, in his left a sheet of paper trembles and rustles.
Titus first reads the points that have been submitted to them. Oh, how long that lasts! Why this repetition? Why not immediately say, Guilty; or, Not Guilty? Now Titus draws a deep breath, and says:
"The accused is pronounced not guilty, by six voices against six."
A blow is heard to fall on the statute book which lies on the counselor's table. His glistening eyeglass falls down, and twirls around on its broad, black ribbon, as if astonished.
The judges hold a whispered consultation; and the president rises, and after reading the passages of the law bearing upon the case, says:
"The accused is not guilty. Landolin! you are free."
Landolin sees gathering about him his lawyer, his son, Tobias, and several jurymen and old friends. He sits on the bench, nods silently, and tears that he cannot keep back roll down his cheek.
"Father, don't weep; rejoice!" cried Peter. But in a moment a different cry is heard. The spectators had crowded noisily out of the building, and announced the verdict to the many people waiting in the corridor, on the stairs, and in front of the court-house. And now one could hear loud cries of "the murderer's released!" then yells, whistles, and threatening exclamations from the keepers and guards.
"Wait until the mob has scattered," said the host of the Ritter, who was one of the jury, "you will put up with me. I have ordered a good meal to be prepared for you and your guests."
Landolin had regained his self-command, and answered in a clear voice: "Yes; serve as good a meal as you can, and invite all the jurymen. The other six are not my enemies. I-I will never have another enemy in the world."
"Father, I would like to give Titus a special invitation."
"Do so. Didn't I say that for the few years I have yet to live, I will be nobody's enemy?"
"And I will send a telegram to mother."
"Do so, and say that I am all right."
The electric spark flashes over the wire, knocks at the station of the little town where the stationmaster is still awake, and soon the brother of the "Galloping Cooper" ascends the hill.
CHAPTER XXXIII
On this still summer night a current of fresh air streams through the valley and over the hilltops. The ripe blades of wheat sway to and fro as they draw their last breaths. All nature is silent, save the river which rushes through the valley. The men are all resting from the hard work of the harvest, to begin again with renewed strength at the first glimmer of the morning sunshine.
Up the white mountain road moves a man who often presses his hand to his breast pocket, as if to convince himself that he had not lost the dispatch.
In Landolin's house a light is still burning. Thoma sits at the table, and stares at the candle. Her features are changed by bitterness and pain, and the lips that once so sweetly smiled, so warmly kissed, are tightly compressed. Will those lips ever smile again; ever kiss again?
Her mother reclines at the open window, and looks out into the night.
"Mother," said Thoma, "you must go to sleep. It is past midnight; and the doctor thought that the trial would scarcely be finished in one day."
The mother barely turned her head, and then looked out again. Is Cushion-Kate awake, too, thought she.
Yes, she was awake, but she could not afford a light. Perhaps, at the same moment, she was thinking of Landolin's wife. "She has not deserved such misery; but neither have I; and I have no one else; nothing but this gnawing sorrow."
Suddenly Cushion-Kate straightened herself. She heard footsteps.
"Have you brought anything for me?" she asked the frightened messenger.
"No! nothing for you."
"For whom then?"
"For Landolin's Thoma," he answered, pulling out the blue envelope.
"Do you know what is in it?" asked Cushion-Kate.
"I'm not supposed to know."
"But you do know. Say, is Landolin sentenced to death?"
"I'll lose my place if you tell anybody."
"I swear to you by all the stars I'll tell no one. I have no one to tell. I beg of you, have pity!"
"Landolin is acquitted."
"Acquitted? And my son is dead! Ye stars above, fall down and crush the world. But no: you are fooling me. Don't do that!"
"You have sworn that you would not tell," said the messenger, and hastened away. But Cushion-Kate threw herself on the ground, and wept and sobbed.
In the meantime the messenger had reached Landolin's house.
"Do you bring good news?" his wife called from the window.
"I think so."
Thoma hastened down the stairs with the light, and returned quickly with the open dispatch in her hand, and cried out:
"Father is acquitted. Not guilty by the court."
The mother sank on her knees. It was long before she could speak a word. At length she said, half smiling, half weeping:
"He will sit there at the table, there on the bench, once more! He will eat and drink there again! Wait, Cooper! I'll bring you something. You must be tired."
Thoma drew her mother into a chair, and then brought food and drink.
"Yes; eat and drink," said the mother. "Why are you so silent, Thoma? Why are you not happy? Eat your fill, Cooper, and take the rest with you. Oh, if I could only give food and drink to the whole world! Oh, if I could only awaken the dead, I would eat only half enough all the rest of my life! He should have the best of everything. Praise and thanks be to God! my husband is free; it is so good of him to send word that he is well. Yes, no one understands his good heart as well as-Cooper, go to Cushion-Kate, and tell her that I will come to see her to-morrow morning. As long as I live I will divide with her as though she were my sister. Tell her to be calm, and thank God with me. It would not have done her any good if the verdict had been different. Go, Cooper; go now."
The Cooper went to Cushion-Kate's. The house was open, but she was not to be found.
In Landolin's house his wife said, "Now we will go to sleep. Thank God that your father can sleep again in peace. You'll see he will bring Anton home with him to-morrow, and everything will be all right again. Dear Anton certainly helped your father a great deal with his testimony. He is so kind and good. God be praised and thanked, everything will be all right again."
"Everything all right again?" said Thoma; but her mother did not catch the questioning tone in which she spoke.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Cushion-Kate had hurried through the village to the pastor's house near the church. She rang the bell violently. The pastor looked out, and asked, "Who is ringing? Have you come for me to take the sacrament to a dying person?"
"Pastor," shrieked Cushion-Kate, "tell me, is there a God in heaven? Is there justice?"
"Who are you that dare blaspheme so? All good spirits praise the Lord our God. Who are you?"
"The mother, the mother whose son was murdered; and the murderer is acquitted."
"Is it you, Cushion-Kate? Wait; I will open the door." The pastor opened it, but Cushion-Kate was no longer there. He went to the churchyard, to Vetturi's grave. There he found her red kerchief, but she had disappeared.
In mad haste, as though driven by invisible demons, Cushion-Kate ran through fields and forest, down to the river. There she stood, on a projecting rock, under which the water boiled and bubbled as though imprisoned. The whirlpool is called the "Devil's Kettle." Cushion-Kate leaned forward, and was about to throw herself in; but when her hands touched her head, and she became aware that her kerchief was missing, her self-control returned, and sitting down she said as she looked up to the sky:
"Mother, I feel it again. I, under your heart, and you, with a straw wreath round your head, and a straw girdle round your waist, – that was the world's justice to the poor unfortunate. Mother, you are now in the presence of eternal justice. Don't let Him turn you away! And Thou, on Thy throne in Heaven, answer me. Tell me, why is my son dead? Why hast Thou let the man that killed him go free, and live in happiness? Thou hast given me nothing in all the world; and I ask for nothing but that Thou shouldst punish him, and all those who acquitted him. Let no tree grow in their forest, nor corn in their fields. Torment them; or if Thou in Heaven above wilt not help me, then he, the other one, from below, shall! Yes, come from the water, come from the rocks; come, devil, and help me! Make a witch of me. I'll be a witch. Take my poor soul, but help me!"
A night-owl rose silently from out the darkness. Cushion-Kate beckoned to it, as though it were a messenger from him whom she had called. The owl flew past; a train of cars rushed by on the other side of the river. Cushion-Kate shrieked, but her cry was drowned in the clatter of the cars. She sank down-she slept. When the day awoke and shone in her face, she turned over with a groan, and slept on with her face to the ground.
"Wake up! How came you here?" called a man's voice.
Cushion-Kate opened her eyes, and drawing her hands over her forehead, she moaned out, "Vetturi!"
"No; it is I, Anton Armbruster. See, here is some gin. Come, drink!"
Cushion-Kate drank eagerly, then asked:
"Do you know that he is acquitted?"
"Yes; I have just come from the trial."
"Oh, yes," cried Cushion-Kate, and she struck Anton on the breast with her bony fist. "Yes, you too are-. They say you testified that he did not do it."
"Kate, you have a strong hand. You hurt me, but I forgive you. Kate, I did not testify falsely. I said honestly that I saw nothing that happened plainly."
"And why was he acquitted?"
"Because six men said not guilty. Come, raise yourself up. There!"
The old woman rose to her feet. She held her left hand to her head, and her dishevelled grey hair fluttered in the morning wind. She looked around in bewilderment, and seemed unable to collect her thoughts.
"Some one has stolen my kerchief from my head," she said at length. "Stop; it must be lying on his grave. Yes, he is in his grave, and the man who brought him to his death is free-I understand it all. I am not crazed. I know you. You are Anton; and your mother, in heaven, kept your tongue from lying. Thank God, you no longer belong to that family. They must go to ruin-all of them. The haughty Thoma, too. Great God," she cried, clasping her hands, "forgive me! Thou art a patient creditor, but a sure payer. You need not lead me, Anton; I can go alone-alone."
When Anton offered to accompany her, she motioned him back, and went through the woods, over the hill, to the village, gathering dry twigs on her way.
For a long time Anton stood gazing after her. He would so liked to have hastened to Thoma, but he overcame the impulse, and wandered homeward.
CHAPTER XXXV
For weeks Anton lived among the wood-cutters in the forest, high up on the mountain. He was one of the most diligent workers, from early morning until nightfall; and he was rewarded by having in the log cabin such a sound sleep as he could not have had in his father's house in the valley. To be sure, the wood-cutters thought it strange that the miller's only son should devote himself to such hard work and privation; but they asked no questions, and days often passed without Anton's speaking a word. But he thought the oftener: How does Thoma live? She cannot, like me, find a new place for herself. She must stay at home, where everything awakens bitter recollections. Is she asked, as I am, by every one she meets, why our engagement has been broken off? And, like me, is she at a loss to know how to answer? Not the smallest lie escapes her lips, for she is honest and truthful. She demands that her father should confess what he has done, and submit to punishment. But, can her father confess what, perhaps, he has not done?
It was plain and clear to Anton that he could not give a full account of the occurrence. And when he was called before the court, he gave his testimony strictly in accordance with the truth; for that the stone had not hit Vetturi, he had only heard from Landolin, as he stood at the spring.
He wanted to go to Thoma, after the trial, and tell her this; but she had thrust him from her so unmercifully and unlovingly that he could not humble himself again.
Does she not love him? Did she never love him? The perfume of the lily-of-the-valley, which was just beginning to bloom up on the mountain, reminded him of a blissful hour.
Anton had gone down from the mountain to the trial; and after his meeting with Cushion-Kate, troubled thoughts filled his mind as he went on his way home. He said to himself that he would no longer hide in the mountain-forest; it was nothing but a cowardly flight. As he acknowledged this, the medal of honor on his breast trembled. Does Anton Armbruster fly from anything? He looked around with a fearless courage. He was himself again.
"How many years did he get?" asked his father when he reached home. Anton had to tell him that Landolin was fully acquitted.
The calm, thoughtful miller struck his fist on the table and exclaimed: "Well, that is-." He suddenly broke off, went to the window, and looked out. He did not wish to have a second dispute with his son; and Anton's composed manner seemed to him to say that he rejoiced in the verdict, and built new hopes upon it.
"Father, I am going to stay at home now," said Anton.
"That is right," answered his father, without turning round, "and you had better go to the river. We must send off a raft to-day."
"Father, have you nothing to say about the acquittal?"
"What difference does what I say make?"
"Much, father-it makes very much difference."
"Well, then, I will tell you. It would have been better for the cause of justice, and for the hot-tempered Landolin himself, if he had been punished for a few years. But, mark my words, he must now suffer much more for his crime. He needs now to be acquitted by every one he meets. If he had submitted to punishment he would be better off. He would have paid his debt to justice, and everything would go on smoothly and evenly. In two years he would regain his civil rights and his standing in the community. It was only a misstep. But how is it now? And I believe Landolin is not tough enough-how shall I say it-he is not man enough to blot out the sense of his guilt from his own mind, and from other people's. But, Anton, let this be the last time we dispute about him. I don't deny that I have no place in my heart for him; but we two need not, on that account, live in discord. It is time for you to go now."
Anton went up the stream, and set himself busily to work, helping to bind the logs and planks together into a raft. He who saw this well-built man, handling the oar and boat-hook so energetically, and in his quickly changing attitudes presenting such a picture of strong, graceful manhood, would not have dreamed that he carried in his heart a bitter sorrow.
As Thoma was estranged from her father, so Anton was estranged from his. Thoma and the miller were of the same opinion, with only this difference; that in Thoma deep respect for her father had changed into the opposite feeling; whilst with the miller, a deeply hidden hostility, or rather aversion toward the haughty Landolin had only come to the surface.
The acquittal made no change in the miller's feelings, except, possibly, to intensify them; and perhaps it was so also with Thoma. Still Anton hoped that matters would change for the better; and he was continually studying how he could bring it about.