Thoma had often looked into the cold, stony face of death; she did not
force herself where misery and sickness were, but she never refused a
call. But how different it was now, when she knelt beside her mother's
dead body! It seemed incomprehensible that the good, faithful mother,
who was always so ready for every call, could not answer any moan of
sorrow or cry for help. That is the bitterness of death. Thoma had
really only learned to know her mother since trouble had broken in upon
the house. In the days before that, she, like her father, had paid
little attention to her quiet, modest, busy mother, although she had
never refused her childlike respect.
"Mother! Dear, dear, good mother!" cried Thoma; but that is the
bitterness of death--it gives no answer.
Thoughts about everything ran through Thoma's soul in confusion; things
long past, and of to-day. The judge's wife lives down there in the
beautiful room with her pictures and flowers; she is probably now
playing duets with her brother; but out there sits Cushion-Kate. Will
she be glad that death has entered Landolin's house? No, that she
cannot! Down by the saw-mill sits Anton, and thinks of his beloved; and
she now bends her head, as though her longing were fulfilled; as though
Anton were by her side, and she could lay her heavy head on his breast.
With what happy reconciling thoughts Thoma had returned home! And
now----?
"Where is Peter? Where is father? Why is he away? How did it happen so
suddenly?" Thoma no longer remembered what she had called out to her
father.
Now she hears steps in the upper chamber; that is her father's step.
"Why does he not come? Why is he not here?" Now she hears a fall.
It seemed to Thoma hard-hearted to leave the dead; but she went,
nevertheless. She wanted to comfort the living, and tell him what was
in her soul. She went up the stairs; the door was locked. She knocked;
no one answered. She called out, "Father! father!" It was the first
time in many days that she had spoken that word.
Landolin raised himself up from the floor and listened. This cry from
his child seemed to revive him; but he answered:
"You said that you were alone. I too will be alone. I am alone. For you
I am no longer in the world."
"Father, open the door! My heart is breaking."
The door opened, and Thoma fell on her father's neck, and could not
speak for sobbing. But at length she said:
"Father, I wanted to ask your forgiveness."
"Not you, I--I wanted to come to you. Don't speak; let me talk. Thoma,
you were right; I did do it. I killed Vetturi, and then denied it."
Thoma sank on her knees and covered her father's hard, rough hand with
tears and kisses. The moon shone into the room; and when Thoma looked
up and saw her father's face, it seemed to her as if glorified; it was
no longer the face of the hard, indomitable man.
"I shall say it to no one but you, and no one but you has a right to
hear it from me. I have forgiveness to ask from no one but you; and no
one but you can help me bear my burden, the few years yet till I am
with your mother," said Landolin. And the strong man sobbed and cried
as though his heart were broken.
"Thoma, you thought it, and never said it to me, and never pretended to
be friendly to me before the world; but he, he threw it in my face: and
I did not die, but it killed your mother."
He told of the quarrel with Peter, and its consequences.
"Father," began Thoma, "you cannot wish that Peter should be ruined; he
is your child. We cannot excuse to him what he has done; but we can
help him. And the best help, the only help is, that we two, whom it has
hurt, should forgive him."
"You are right, child. You are brave-hearted. We will do it. We will
strive to keep things from ruin. We will stand by Peter; he must not
utterly sink. I know how a man sinks. Come, let us go to him."
Father and daughter went hand in hand to Peter's room; he was not
there. They went to the stable, and there he sat on the fodder bin,
beside the new-born colt.
If his dead mother had come to life and walked toward him, Peter would
not have been more astonished than now, when he saw his father and
Thoma coming hand in hand.
"Peter," said the father, "I forgive you everything as I pray to God to
be forgiven myself. And do not fret your heart out. You are not to
blame for your mother's death; she was very sick; the doctor
acknowledged it to me. Do speak! Do say one word!"
"All right," said Peter; "all right. I thank you."
"Will you not go with us?"
"No! I will stay here. I am best off here. I wish I were a horse; such
a creature has the best time, after all."
"Oh come, dear brother!"
"I am not your dear brother; let me alone."
Father and daughter went into the living-room, and there the father
related what his sainted wife--he sobbed aloud when he spoke this
word--had said while Thoma was gone; and Thoma told about the judge's
wife, and about Anton.
All night long father and daughter sat by the body. At daybreak
Landolin said, "Your mother can never see the day again."
The father now tried to rest; and Thoma too went to her room, but she
could not sleep.