The summer night was mild and clear. A Saturday evening in harvest-time
has a peculiar quiet, a premonition of the full day of rest after the
six days' unceasing work.
At all the farm-houses, far and wide, the people sat on the out-door
benches and talked of the harvest; of how much was already stored
away, and of how much was still standing in the fields. Then they
talked of their neighbors far and near, and of course of Landolin
also. They spoke pityingly of his misfortune, but with a certain quiet
self-congratulation that they themselves were free and happy. It was
almost like breathing, upon the mountain, air purified and freshened by
a thunder-storm in the valley.
Soon with weary steps they sought their beds; for in the morning young
and old were going to the celebration in the city.
Landolin and his wife were sitting on the bench before his house. Thoma
sat at one side on an old tree-stump, where the men often mended their
scythes.
These three had so much to say, and yet spoke so little!
"So to-morrow is the fifteenth of July," said Landolin. Thoma looked
around, but turned quickly away, and again seemed buried in her own
thoughts.
The dedication of the flag was to take place the following day. One
might imagine that years had already passed since the day when Anton,
with his two companions, came to ask Thoma to be maid of honor. Thoma
was unselfish enough not to think first of the pleasure and distinction
she would lose, but she sighed sadly when she thought how dreary and
sorrowful the day would be for Anton.
"What do you think, Thoma," asked Landolin; "shall I go to the
celebration, or not?"
"I have no opinion as to what you should do, or not do."
"Will you go with me?" said he, turning to his wife.
"I would like to, but I'm not well. I'm so chilly, I think I'll go
right to bed."
Thoma wanted to go into the house too, but her mother refused, and
insisted that she should remain with her father.
Her mother went in, and Thoma felt that she now ought to talk with her
father; but she couldn't think of a word to say. Every pleasant word
appeared to her to be a lie, and the bitterness of her fate lay in the
fact that there was a lie to contend with. It distressed her to pass
her father by, at home and in the field, in silence, or with only a
cold greeting, and now to sit so speechless, and force him to think of
their trouble; but she could not do otherwise.
Landolin said that her mother was more ill than she was willing to
admit, and that it was evidently hard for her to keep up. Thoma tried
to quiet his fears; but her words sounded as hard as stone, when he
said, "But that is a matter where the doctor can help us."
"And I know something that no doctor can prescribe, which would make
your mother strong and well again."
Landolin had to wait long before Thoma asked what it could be, and he
explained that the joy which her wedding with Anton would give her
mother was the remedy. Thoma said, in a hollow voice,
"That can never be, no more than"--she stopped suddenly.
"Well! No more than what?"
Thoma gave no answer, and Landolin knew that she would have said--"No
more than Vetturi can live again."
A well-known voice suddenly broke in upon the silence which followed.
"Good evening to you both!"
Anton stood before them. Landolin arose and held out his hand. Thoma
kept her seat, and wrapping both arms in her apron, said only "Good
evening."
Landolin made room for Anton beside him, and told Thoma to come and sit
on the bench too. But she replied, "I am quite comfortable where I am;
besides, I must go in to mother. She is not at all well."
"You will stay here," said Landolin, in his old commanding voice. Then
he explained to Anton that he would have liked to go to see his father,
but--and it was hard for him to say this--he did not wish to be
obtrusive; and so he waited for people to come to see him. He thanked
Anton for his favorable testimony at the trial, and said, that he was
glad that he had kept his conscience so clear.
"When I saw you standing there so resolutely, and heard you speak so
firmly, I loved you twice as much as before," he added.
Anton understood what it meant for the proud and arrogant Landolin to
speak in this manner.
Hesitatingly, at first, and then in well-considered words, Anton
explained that he had come to beg father and daughter to go with him to
the celebration; that would show the whole world at one stroke that
everything was all right again, and everybody would congratulate them
anew.
No word, no motion showed that Thoma had heard him. Anton continued in
a tremulous tone:
"Thoma, dear Thoma! You sit there as though you were frozen, but I know
that deep in your heart, love for me is still burning. Thoma, for this
once throw away your pride."
"Pride?" said Thoma, in a low voice.
Anton did not hear her, for he went on: "Thoma, you turned me away. I
too am proud, but not with you. I have come back again. Show yourself
as good and loving as you really are. Give me one single word--one kind
word."
Thoma arose.
"I thank you, Anton. I thank you a thousand times; but I cannot. Good
night; I thank you."
"No! You shall stay here, and I will go," cried Landolin, as Thoma
turned toward the house.
"Anton, for my part, I am----But settle matters alone between
yourselves."
He hastened into the house. Anton and Thoma were alone.
"You need not speak, Thoma. Give me a kiss, and that will say
everything."
"I cannot. Anton, 'tis hard for me to talk. I would far rather be dumb,
and unable to speak. Anton, it's good and kind of you to come. But tell
me,--you are honest--tell me, does your father feel toward my father as
you do? Is it not true,--you can't say yes?--you are here against his
will. Your father"----
"My father honors and loves you."
"I believe that. But, Anton, I can never be happy again, nor bring
happiness to others. I beg of you strike our house from your mind. One
blow will be enough to destroy it."
"Oh! Your house still stands firm. Thoma, you were right. On that day I
did not know what I saw or what I heard; but now that is all past.
Thoma, I know you. Your heart is honest, and I cannot blame you for it,
though it gives you much sorrow. Thoma, you cannot appear to be happy
before the world, because you are not happy. Say, do I not understand
you?"
She nodded, suppressed sobs were heard, and Anton continued:
"Darling Thoma! I tell you, you can and must be happy; and that without
telling a lie."
"I can't rejoice in stolen goods." Thoma forced herself to say.
"I understand. I know what you mean. But your honor and my honor are
not stolen. I beg of you, be good, be kind. I beg the wicked Thoma to
trouble my good Thoma no longer. You exaggerate----.
"Perhaps so. There--you may take my hand for the last time."
"I will not take it for the last time."
"Then I say good night; thank you a thousand times!"
Anton tried to throw his arm around her, but she tore herself away, and
hastened into the house.
He waited awhile to see if she would not relent; but as all continued
silent, a spirit of defiance awoke within him, and he went away without
turning around, though he sometimes paused and listened to hear if any
one were following or calling him. At length he disappeared in the
forest.