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.