For weeks Anton lived among the wood-cutters in the forest, high up on
the mountain. He was one of the most diligent workers, from early
morning until nightfall; and he was rewarded by having in the log cabin
such a sound sleep as he could not have had in his father's house in
the valley. To be sure, the wood-cutters thought it strange that the
miller's only son should devote himself to such hard work and
privation; but they asked no questions, and days often passed without
Anton's speaking a word. But he thought the oftener: How does Thoma
live? She cannot, like me, find a new place for herself. She must stay
at home, where everything awakens bitter recollections. Is she asked,
as I am, by every one she meets, why our engagement has been broken
off? And, like me, is she at a loss to know how to answer? Not the
smallest lie escapes her lips, for she is honest and truthful. She
demands that her father should confess what he has done, and submit to
punishment. But, can her father confess what, perhaps, he has not done?
It was plain and clear to Anton that he could not give a full account
of the occurrence. And when he was called before the court, he gave his
testimony strictly in accordance with the truth; for that the stone had
not hit Vetturi, he had only heard from Landolin, as he stood at the
spring.
He wanted to go to Thoma, after the trial, and tell her this; but she
had thrust him from her so unmercifully and unlovingly that he could
not humble himself again.
Does she not love him? Did she never love him? The perfume of the
lily-of-the-valley, which was just beginning to bloom up on the
mountain, reminded him of a blissful hour.
Anton had gone down from the mountain to the trial; and after his
meeting with Cushion-Kate, troubled thoughts filled his mind as he went
on his way home. He said to himself that he would no longer hide in the
mountain-forest; it was nothing but a cowardly flight. As he
acknowledged this, the medal of honor on his breast trembled. Does
Anton Armbruster fly from anything? He looked around with a fearless
courage. He was himself again.
"How many years did he get?" asked his father when he reached home.
Anton had to tell him that Landolin was fully acquitted.
The calm, thoughtful miller struck his fist on the table and exclaimed:
"Well, that is----." He suddenly broke off, went to the window, and
looked out. He did not wish to have a second dispute with his son; and
Anton's composed manner seemed to him to say that he rejoiced in the
verdict, and built new hopes upon it.
"Father, I am going to stay at home now," said Anton.
"That is right," answered his father, without turning round, "and you
had better go to the river. We must send off a raft to-day."
"Father, have you nothing to say about the acquittal?"
"What difference does what I say make?"
"Much, father--it makes very much difference."
"Well, then, I will tell you. It would have been better for the cause
of justice, and for the hot-tempered Landolin himself, if he had been
punished for a few years. But, mark my words, he must now suffer much
more for his crime. He needs now to be acquitted by every one he meets.
If he had submitted to punishment he would be better off. He would have
paid his debt to justice, and everything would go on smoothly and
evenly. In two years he would regain his civil rights and his standing
in the community. It was only a misstep. But how is it now? And I
believe Landolin is not tough enough--how shall I say it--he is not man
enough to blot out the sense of his guilt from his own mind, and from
other people's. But, Anton, let this be the last time we dispute about
him. I don't deny that I have no place in my heart for him; but we two
need not, on that account, live in discord. It is time for you to go
now."
Anton went up the stream, and set himself busily to work, helping
to bind the logs and planks together into a raft. He who saw this
well-built man, handling the oar and boat-hook so energetically, and in
his quickly changing attitudes presenting such a picture of strong,
graceful manhood, would not have dreamed that he carried in his heart a
bitter sorrow.
As Thoma was estranged from her father, so Anton was estranged from
his. Thoma and the miller were of the same opinion, with only this
difference; that in Thoma deep respect for her father had changed
into the opposite feeling; whilst with the miller, a deeply hidden
hostility, or rather aversion toward the haughty Landolin had only come
to the surface.
The acquittal made no change in the miller's feelings, except,
possibly, to intensify them; and perhaps it was so also with Thoma.
Still Anton hoped that matters would change for the better; and he was
continually studying how he could bring it about.