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
passing, 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 passed 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
God. 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
embarrassed 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 superstition?"
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
passed over Thoma's face.
"I may go home with you, may I not?" asked Anton.
Thoma stood still. She laid her hand on her heart, and said:
"I am done with this. I have settled it here. Don't say that it is
pride, don't say that I did not love you;--or, if it is a comfort, you
may think so. Anton, I am walking with you for the last time. I am
speaking to you for the last time. Anton, it must, it _must_, be all
over between us. I cannot, I will not----I will not go into a house
where I do not bring honor. I will learn to bear my lonely life. Seek
for yourself some other happiness. Farewell!"
"Thoma, you thrust from you him on whom you should lean."
"I thrust no one away from me, and I will lean on no one."
They had reached the house. She entered quickly, leaving Anton standing
alone outside, but he was not long by himself, for Tobias and Peter
came up to him. They welcomed him heartily; for of course he would
testify, as they would, that the stone did not hit Vetturi, but that he
had fallen down on the sharp-pointed paving stones in terror at
Landolin's strong voice. They were very careful not to say that Vetturi
had thrown a stone first.
They said how fortunate it was that a man so highly thought of as Anton
had seen it all plainly; and Tobias added, smirkingly, that it was well
that the engagement was broken off for the present; for, as son-in-law,
his testimony would not have full weight. He further begged Anton to
instruct his comrade Fidelis. "Go and call Fidelis," Tobias said to
Peter, who soon returned with him. The head-servant and the son now
urged Fidelis to let Anton convince him that he had been mistaken; but
Fidelis remained immovable, and repeated that he had no doubts in the
matter. He was sure that Anton's convictions were as honest as his own,
even though they differed from them ... but for his part, he could not
and would not say anything different from what he had seen. In court it
would appear who was right.
Anton returned home troubled. He said to himself: "Have I let Landolin
tell me what I saw? Shall I lose my heart to the daughter, and my
conscience to the father? It would be better if the marriage had not
been broken off, for then I could refuse to testify."