The days, the weeks, came and went; the crops in the field grew
steadily; and the work went on in its usual good order, under the
direction of Tobias and Peter. They had hired a new servant in place of
Fidelis, who had left their service of his own accord, and had been
engaged by Titus.
The pine trees had put on their yearly growth; rye and early barley
were ready for harvest; and the hay was already cut and put away. Thoma
was the most active in all this work; but she spoke with no one, and
looked up astonished when the men and maid-servants sang as they went
about their tasks. Her face said plainly: "They can sing, they have no
father in prison."
It was a bright summer morning. The farmer's wife was up before day,
for she wanted to see Tobias and Peter before they drove to the city.
After the servants who remained at home had eaten their breakfast, and
the dishes had been cleared away, she still sat at the table, in the
so-called "Herrgott's Corner." Her hands were folded on the table
before her. She gazed at them wearily and sadly.
On a bench, beside the large stove in which there was no fire to-day,
sat Thoma at her spinning. Nothing could be heard but the low whirring
of the wheel, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
"Thoma," at length began her mother, "you're right in not going to the
field to-day. My feet feel as though they had given way. Say, is to-day
Wednesday or Thursday? I don't know any more----"
"To-day is Thursday, the tenth of July, mother."
"And he is in court, on trial for his life. Look and see what saint's
day this is."
"The calendar is hanging right behind you."
The farmer's wife seemed not to care to turn or look around. She rubbed
her hands hastily over her head, as though to keep her hair from rising
on end, and said, as if speaking her thoughts aloud:
"So many people! I see them all, one after another, just as they
were when I was a little child, and they beheaded Laurian, on the
city-green."
"Mother! Don't talk so. We must control our feelings, whichever way
things turn out."
"What! Can it turn out any other way?"
"Who knows? That is what the trial is for."
"Surely there must be compassionate and just men there, who will have
pity. There are many who rejoice in our misfortune, but there are more
who mean well by us. Your Anton will testify for your father, and will
pledge his medal of honor for him."
"More than that," added Thoma; but she did not explain what she meant.
Will Anton persist in saying that he saw what her father told him he
did? Does he really believe that he saw it in that way? or will he ruin
his own life in order to save another's? She compressed her lips
tightly. She thought she must scream out for pain.
But her mother seemed to find it necessary to express her thoughts; and
again she murmured, half aloud:
"What are the servants talking about, to-day? I am ashamed to go among
them, and I dare not say a word, for fear they will answer me with
insult and abuse. I hear that people from all over the valley have gone
to the city to-day, to see Landolin sitting on the prisoner's seat.
Yes, there he sits, and has to let the gentlemen of the court say
everything they can think of right in his face. And everybody rejoices
in it, and yet they themselves are--God forgive me! Yes, so it is, if
anything is wrong with oneself, one tries to find something wrong with
one's neighbor. There stands your arm-chair. Who knows if you will ever
sit in it again, and rest your strong arms and good hands! When will
the door open again and you come in? Hush! Listen Thoma! Don't you hear
something? There is some one at the door! I hear some one breathing. It
might be Cushion-Kate, or is it----Open the door!"
Even Thoma could not shake off her fear; but summoning her courage, she
opened the door, and, with a sigh of relief, cried, "It is Racker."
"Come here," said her mother to the dog, coaxingly. "Do you know what
is the matter with your master to-day? Will he ever see you, and lay
his hand on your head again? Yes, yes; look at me pitifully! If men
were as pitiful as you----"
"You're right, mother," said Thoma at length. "See, mother, everybody
on his way to the field to-day, fills his pitcher at our well, as if
there was water nowhere else. They look toward our house as though they
took pleasure in our misfortune. I wish I could poison the well, so
they would all die! I wish I could poison the whole world!"
The mother longed to soothe her daughter, but dared not try. She was
thankful that Thoma at least spoke, instead of staring silently before
her. And now that Thoma had once broken her silence, she continued:
"Mother, I want to go to the city."
"You, too, will leave me?"
Thoma explained that she would soon return. She only wished to
telegraph to Peter, to report to her the verdict as soon as it should
be rendered, and she would leave word at the telegraph office for the
messenger, the "Galloping Cooper's" brother, to wait all night for the
message.
Her mother took up her prayer-book, and said: "Well, you may go; but
don't hurry too much."
"Come along," Thoma called to the dog, and, with him, hastened out of
doors.