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.

CHAPTER XX.

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 cla.s.s. 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 pa.s.s 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--_they_ could 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 c.o.c.k 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 c.o.c.k crows--thou wilt deny"----In prison one does not hear the c.o.c.k 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.

CHAPTER XXI.

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 pa.s.sing, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d. 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 embarra.s.sed 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 superst.i.tion?"

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 pa.s.sed over Thoma's face.