“You are not well, mother,” said the son. “It was imprudent in me to allow you to exert yourself in this way.”
“Let us sit down on this stone,” answered she. “I shall soon be better. Do not look so anxiously at me. Indeed, I am not sick.”
He spread his light summer coat on the stone and carefully seated her. She lifted her veil and raised her eyes to the large red-roofed mansion, whose dark outlines drew themselves dimly on the dusky background of the pine forest. Was he still alive, he whose life-hope she had wrecked, he who had once driven her out into the night with all but a curse upon his lips? How would he receive her, if she were to return? Ah, she knew him, and she trembled at the very thought of meeting him. But was not the guilt hers? Could she depart from this valley, could she die in peace, without having thrown herself at his feet and implored his forgiveness? And there, on the opposite side of the valley, lay the home of him who had been the cause of all her misery. What had been his fate, and did he still remember those long happy summer days, ah! so long, long ago? She had dared to ask no questions of the people with whom she lived, but now a sudden weakness had overtaken her, and she felt that to-day must decide her fate; she could no longer bear this torture of uncertainty. Thomas remained standing at her side and looked at her with anxiety and wonder. He knew that she had concealed many things from him, but whatever her reasons might be, he was confident that they were just and weighty. It was not for him to question her about what he might have no right to know. He felt as if he had never loved her as in this moment, when she seemed to be most in need of him, and an overwhelming tenderness took possession of his heart. He suddenly stooped down, took her pale, thin face between his hands and kissed her. The long pent-up emotion burst forth in a flood of tears; she buried her face in her lap and wept long and silently. Then the church-bells began to peal down in the valley, and the slow mighty sound floated calmly and solemnly up to them. How many long-forgotten memories of childhood and youth did they not wake in her bosom—memories of the time when the merry Glitter-Brita, decked with her shining brooches, wended her way to the church among the gayly-dressed lads and maidens of the parish?
A cluster of white-stemmed birches threw its shadow over the stone where the penitent mother was sitting, and the tall grass on both sides of the path nearly hid her from sight. Presently the church-folk began to appear, and Brita raised her head and drew her veil down over her face. No one passed without greeting the strangers, and the women and maidens, according to old fashion, stopped and courtesied. At last, there came an old white-haired man, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged woman. His whole figure was bent forward, and he often stopped and drew his breath heavily.
“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, ill a hoarse, broken voice, as he passed before them, “age is gaining on me fast. I can’t move about any more as of old. But to church I must this day. God help me! I have done much wrong and need to pray for forgiveness.”
“You had better sit down and rest, father,” said the woman. “Here is a stone, and the fine lady, I am sure, will allow a weak old man to sit down beside her.”
Thomas rose and made a sign to the old man to take his seat.
“O yes, yes,” he went on murmuring, as if talking to himself. “Much wrong—much forgiveness. God help us all—miserable sinners. He who hateth not father and mother—and daughter is not worthy of me. O, yes—yes—God comfort us all. Help me up, Grimhild. I think I can move on again, now.”
Thomas, of course, did not understand a word of what he said, but seeing that he wished to rise, he willingly offered his assistance, supported his arm and raised him.
“Thanks to you, young man,” said the peasant. “And may God reward your kindness.”