"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 embarra.s.sment, 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-gla.s.s 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 eyegla.s.s 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:

"Walderjorgli! 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 Walderjorgli 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 pa.s.sing 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."