The hostess of the "Sword"--it so happens that every one speaks of the hostess and not of the host, and her husband seems to be quite satisfied with it--this wise woman, according to a plan of her own, had changed and enlarged the old inn until it was twice as large as before. For, as soon as a spot had been fixed upon for a railway station, she had a new building added on the side toward the river, with a large summer hall and verandas, where the people of rank in the village could hold their summer gatherings in the open air. The corner room of the house, on the town side, she arranged especially for betrothal festivities. There was a great mirror, in which people could survey themselves at full length--to be sure not always an advantage. There were colored prints of young lovers, of marriages, of christenings, and of golden weddings.
At the table sat the miller and Landolin's wife, and waited long for the farmer. The miller was annoyed, and Landolin's wife did not know what to say, for she could not deny that her husband probably kept the miller waiting intentionally, in order to show him who was the more important.
The miller had an earnest, good-natured face, and a thoughtfulness in every word and gesture. He had a high regard for the farmer's wife, and expressed it to her. She looked down, abashed, for she was not used to being praised, and became silent. The miller, too, ceased talking, and whistled gently to himself.
At length Landolin's step was heard, and following him came Thoma and Anton. Landolin shook hands with the miller.
"I have been waiting a long time," the miller said.
Landolin did not consider it necessary to excuse himself; he thought people must be satisfied with all he did, and the way in which he did it.
The miller poured out some of the wine which stood on the table, and, after touching glasses, Landolin said:
"We have really nothing more to arrange. You know what division Peter must make when he takes the estate. The money I have promised I will pay down the day before the wedding. The five acres of forest which I have bought, which border on your land, and are properly no part of my farm, I now give to Thoma to be hers in her own right. You have no one but your son, so there is nothing more to be said. Of course, you will not marry again?"
The miller smiled sadly, and said at length:
"Then give your hands to one another in God's name, and may happiness and blessing be yours for all time."
The lovers clasped each other's hands firmly, and so did the fathers and mother.
The betrothed drank from the same glass; and it was a good omen that Thoma did not take from his hand the glass, which Anton held out to her, but drank whilst he held it.
Landolin might have spoken, but he remained silent. It is not necessary for him to speak. Is he not Landolin? He even looked suspiciously at the miller. He did not esteem him highly, for every one praised his good nature, and Landolin was inclined to consider good nature as one kind of rascality.
"Father-in-law," said Anton, "whenever you come to our house you will find joy there, for as surely as our brook will never flow up the mountain side, so surely will Thoma's thoughts never turn toward her old home in discontent."
Landolin opened his eyes at this speech; but his only answer was a tap on the shoulder. The miller said, with a trembling voice:
"Yes, yes; 'twill be beautiful to have a young woman in our house once more."
"Thoma will hold you in all honor," said the farmer's wife. "She honors her parents, and that makes sound housewives."
Landolin shrugged his shoulders slightly, when the miller continued:
"I'm very sure, Landolin, that your daughter is not so hot-tempered as you and your side of the house have always been."
Landolin smiled, well pleased that people should think him hot-tempered, for this made them fear and respect him.
As Landolin still remained silent, the miller felt called upon to speak.
"I can well understand that it must be hard for you to let your daughter leave your house; we found it so when our only daughter was married. My wife--it is from her that Anton gets his ready speech--said that when the daughter who sang as she went up and down the stairs is gone, then it seems that all the cheerfulness of the house has flown away like a bird."
At these stupid, soft-hearted words, Landolin gave the miller a disdainful look. But he did not notice this, and went on in a voice too low for the lovers to hear:
"I needn't praise Anton to you any more. He belongs to you as well as to me. He is well educated; the military authorities wished to keep him in the army. They said he would be made an officer, but that is not for one of us. It will not be long before your daughter is the wife of the bailiff. My wife, thank God, lived to see him come home from the war with the great medal of honor. I'm sure you are glad of it too. A man with that medal is worth much, I do not mean in money, but wherever he goes he is esteemed and respected, and needn't stand back for anybody, no matter who he is."
"We needn't do that, either," said Landolin, looking at the miller arrogantly. He laughed aloud when the miller added:
"The judge's wife put it well when she said, 'Wherever he goes he has the honorable recognition of the highest rank in the whole kingdom.'"
"Hoho!" cried Landolin, so loudly that even the lovers started. There was nothing more said; for, as the fair was over, the miller's relatives and the brother of Landolin's wife came in. The farmer's wife greeted her brother affectionately; and Landolin shook hands with him, and bade him welcome. He and his brother-in-law were enemies, as the brother-in-law sided with Titus; but to-day it was only proper that he should be invited to the family festival.
They sat down together to the feast, when the miller remarked that next Sunday he would go with the lovers to visit the patriarch Walderjörgli, in the forest, and announce to him their betrothal. Landolin's face reddened to the roots of his hair, and he exclaimed:
"I don't care anything for the patriarch. I don't care anything for old customs; and, as for me, Walderjörgli, with his long beard, is no saint; he's not down in my calendar."
"He is a relative of my wife," replied the miller, "and you know very well of how much importance he is."
"Just as much as there is in my glass," answered Landolin, after he had drained it.
His wife, fearing a quarrel, declared she had great respect for Walderjörgli, and begged her husband to say nothing against him. Thoma joined her, and laid her hand on her father's shoulder, imploring him not to stir up a dispute unnecessarily.
Landolin smiled on his child; poured a fresh glass of wine, and drank to the lovers' health.
Anton and Thoma now started to go, but Landolin cried excitedly:
"Hold on! Wait a moment, Anton! You mustn't ask for the marriage to take place before Candlemas. Give me your hand on it."
"I have no hand to give. I have already given it to Thoma," replied Anton, laughing, as he went away with his betrothed.
"How many friends you have!" said Thoma; for they were often stopped on their way through the crowded fair grounds, especially by Anton's old comrades. "I wish we were alone," she added impatiently.
"Yes, love," answered Anton, "if we choose the day of the fair for our betrothal, and show ourselves then for the first time together, we must expect these congratulations, and I am glad to have them. Isn't it delightful to have so many people rejoice with us in our happiness? It adds to their enjoyment without taking from ours."
"Do you really believe they rejoice?" asked Thoma.
The conversation was interrupted by the handless beggar, who came up to thank Thoma again, and tell her how astonished he was at such a gift. He said he had been her father's substitute (for at that time substitutes in the military service were still allowed).
Anton encouraged him to tell where he had lost his hand. It was on a circular saw, in a mill on the other side of the valley. Anton told him to come the next day, and perhaps he could give him work. While he was speaking the judge's wife approached, and congratulated them heartily. Thoma looked at her in surprise when she said:
"You are the new generation; preserve the honesty of the old, and add to it the progressiveness of the present. I shall write to my son of your betrothal."
Anton shook hands twice with the judge's wife.
"I beg you will give the lieutenant my most respectful greetings."
It was still difficult for the lovers to disengage themselves from the crowd, for a group of Anton's comrades surrounded them, saying:
"At your wedding we are going to march in front of you with the flag of the Club and the regimental music."
Anton thanked them, and said he would be much pleased.
He had scarcely got out of the throng, when a teamster in a blue jacket, who was walking beside a four-horse wagon, called out, "Captain Anton Armbruster! Hallo!" and came up to him and said:
"How are you? So you've got her, have you? Is that she? Is that Thoma?"
"Yes."
"Then I wish you happiness and blessing. How tall and beautiful she is! Let me shake hands with you."
Thoma gave her hand with reluctance, and the teamster continued jokingly:
"Get him to tell you what he did one night when we were before Paris. We were lying by the camp-fire, roasted on one side, frozen on the other. Anton, who was asleep, called out, 'Thoma! Thoma!' He wouldn't own up to it afterwards, but I heard it plain enough. Well, good-by; may God keep you both. Get up," he called to his horses, and drove on.
At last the lovers made their way out of the crowd to the quiet meadow-path, where, for a time, they walked hand in hand, then stood still. Any one who saw them must have thought they were speaking loving words to each other. The youth's voice was full of tenderness, but he spoke not of love, or, at least, not of love for his betrothed. He began hesitatingly: "Let me tell you something, darling."
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"Just think of our being here together, and having each other, and belonging to each other, and only a little while ago I was so far away in France. There, in the field, on the march, or in the camp, thousands upon thousands of us, we were like one man, no one for himself, no one thinking of what he was at home. The brotherhood was all; and now, each lives for himself alone."
"You are not alone, we are together."
"Yes, indeed. But you were going to ask me something."
"Oh, yes! How did it happen that you called my name in your sleep?"
"I'll tell you. Do you remember my passing your house when I was on my way to the army as a recruit?"
"Certainly I remember it."
"Did you notice that I took a roundabout way over the mountain, so as to pass it?"
"I didn't notice it then, but afterward I thought of it. When you gave me your hand in farewell you looked at me with your fiery eyes, that are so piercing."
"Yes, I wanted then to tell you how much I loved you, but I wouldn't do it, for your sake. I said to myself, 'You had better say nothing, and so save her from heart-ache and anxiety while you are in the war, and from life-long grief if you should be killed.' It was hard for me to keep silent, but after I had gone I was glad of it. And, do you remember? you had a wild-rose in your mouth by the stem, and the rose-leaves lay on your lips, just where I wanted to put a kiss; and at your throat was a corn-flower as blue as your eyes."
"Oh, you flatterer! But go on, go on; what else?"
Anton drew her to him and kissed her, then continued:
"There! Shall I go on? Well, you took the two flowers in your hand, and I saw you would like to give them to me, and I wanted to have them, but even that I wouldn't ask. Often and often by day and by night, in the field and on the watch, I thought of you, as the song says: and once, when the teamster lay beside me, I spoke your name in my sleep."
"Oh, you are so dear and so good and so sweet," cried Thoma, "I'm afraid I'm not gentle enough for you. In our home everything is rough, we are not so----. But you'll see I can be different."
Her eyes moistened while she spoke, and the whole expression of her face changed to one of humility and tenderness.
"I will not have you different," cried Anton, "you shall remain as you are, for just as you are you please me best. Oh, Heaven! who in the world would believe that Landolin's Thoma of Reutershöfen could be as gentle as a dove."
"I gentle?" she exclaimed, laughingly, "I a dove? All right then, catch me!" she cried, joyously clapping her hands and running quickly into the forest, whither Anton followed her.
They came within the border of the wood which belonged to Landolin. On the side where the sun is most searching and powerful, the bark of the mighty pine-trees was torn open, and the resin was dropping into the tubs which were set for it.
"It's a pity for the beautiful trees," said Anton; "your father mustn't tap such trees as these hereafter; they are good for lumber. He must leave them to me."
Thoma begged him to be very careful how he dealt with her father, for he would not bear opposition.
"I don't know," she added, "it seems to me father is very----very irritable to-day. I don't know why."
"But I know. He is vexed because he has to give you up. You'll see, I shall be so too in a thousand weeks. But a man must be a grandfather before----"
"Oh you!" interrupted Thoma, coloring.
They kept on deeper into the forest, away from the path, and sat down on the soft, yielding moss at the foot of a far-branching pine.
"We have had enough kissing, let me rest a little now, I'm tired," said Thoma, as she leaned against the tree. She smiled when Anton hastily made his coat into a pillow for her head.
Lilies of the valley blossomed at their feet. Anton plucked one, and with it stroked Thoma's cheek and forehead, gently singing the while all manner of nursery songs, and magic charms.
I wish thee a night of repose,A canopy of the wild rose,Young May-bells to pillow thy head,Sleep soft in thy flowery bed.
I wish thee a night of repose,
A canopy of the wild rose,
Young May-bells to pillow thy head,
Sleep soft in thy flowery bed.
And where two lovers sit thus together, in the depth of the forest, there streams from the mists arising heavenward, and from the murmuring and rustling in the tree-tops, that same subtle enchantment and delight which resounds in song, and is portrayed in fairy tales, where trees and grass and wild beasts speak.
"Hark; there's a finch," said Anton. "Do you remember the story about the finch?"
"No; tell it to me."
"Once a young man went through a field to visit his sweetheart, and the finch called out: 'Wip! Wip!' (wife, wife.) 'That's just what I want,' said the young man. As he was on his way home again the finch cried: 'Bethink you well. Bethink you well.' Now we, dear Thoma, have bethought ourselves well. Fly on, finch, we don't need your help. 'Wip! Wip!'"
"How tender you are!" said Thoma, smiling; then she shut her eyes, and soon she was fast asleep. As Anton looked at her she seemed to become more beautiful, but she must have gone to sleep with some willful impulse in her mind, for her face had a strained expression.
From a little stone near by, some lizards looked with their bright, knowing eyes at the slumberer and her guard. They shuffled noiselessly away, and presently others came to see the wonder. Dragon-flies in green and gold came flying through the air, brushed against each other, and sped away. A gay butterfly lighted on Thoma's forehead, just at the parting of her hair, and rested there like a diadem. On the highest twig of the tree, a green finch perched. He turned his head, saw the sleeping girl, and flew swiftly away. A cuckoo alighted from his flight, and sounded his cry. Thoma awoke, and looked around bewildered.
"Good morning, my darling," said Anton, "you have been my betrothed ever since yesterday."
"Have I slept very long?" asked she.
"No, not very, but surely you dreamt something strange. What was it?"
"I never tell dreams; I don't believe in them. Come, let us go home."
And so they started homeward.
At the edge of the wood they saw "Cushion Kate," with her red kerchief round her head, standing by a young man who sat by the roadside. She offered him a pretzel, but he refused it.
"See," said Thoma, "that's 'Cushion Kate' with her Vetturi. She spoils the good-for-nothing fellow. He used to be a servant of ours, but we found that he had been stealing oats, nobody knows how long. So, of course, father sent him away."
"The poor creature looks almost starved."
"He's not only poor, but he's a rascal. Father doesn't want to prosecute him, so the fellow keeps bothering him for his wages."
When they came up, the lad arose quickly. He was of slight build, and his bluish-black hair fell in disorder over his forehead. The dark, weary eyes had a frightened look. He took off a torn straw hat, and bowed several times to Anton. He seemed to be trying to say something.
"Your name is Vetturi, isn't it?" asked Anton. "Come here. Is there anything you want?"
"I won't take alms like a beggar, I'd rather strike my mouth against a stone," replied Vetturi in a hoarse voice; and turning to his mother as though she had contradicted him, said: "Mother, you shan't take anything."
Then in an entirely different tone he said to Thoma: "May I wish you joy?"
"No, you may not. Nobody who speaks so disrespectfully of my father shall wish me joy. Own up to stealing the oats. If you do, I will go to father and get him to forgive you."
"I won't do it."
"Then abuse me, not my father. My father might, perhaps, have given up to you, but I won't let him as long as you keep on lying."
"But I can wish you joy, Anton," cried Cushion Kate; "I hope your wife will be like your mother. She was a good woman; there isn't her like in the whole country. I was in your house when you came into the world. You are just eight days older than my oldest daughter would be now. Now, get your father-in-law to take my Vetturi again, and straighten everything out. We are poor people. We don't want to quarrel with such a powerful farmer as he is, but he must not squeeze us until the blood runs out from under our nails."
"Come along," cried Thoma, taking hold of Anton's arm, "don't let her talk to you so."
She walked away. Anton did not follow her, but said to Vetturi that he would employ him as a wood-cutter up in the forest.
"My Vetturi cannot do that," interrupted the mother. "He cannot work up there from Monday morning to Saturday night, and have no decent food, and no decent bed."
"Come! come!" urged Thoma from a distance. Anton obeyed, and Vetturi called after them all kinds of imprecations against Landolin.
With a frown Thoma said to Anton, in a reproachful tone:
"That Vetturi is no comrade of yours, and why do you stop and talk with him? I do not like it in you. You are not proud enough. Such people should not speak to us unless they are spoken to."
Anton looked at her with astonishment. There was a sharpness in her words and voice which surprised him. She noticed it, perhaps, for she gave him a bewitching smile, and continued:
"See, I am proud of you, and you must be proud of yourself. Such a man as you are! People ought to take off their hats when they speak to you. I wouldn't say good-day to a rascal, and you ought not to either. Perhaps you think I'm angry. Don't think that for an instant. It's only that I have no patience with a liar. Whatever a man does, if he confesses it, you feel like helping him; but a liar, a hypocrite----"
"But, Thoma dear," interrupted Anton, "lying belongs to badness; a man who is bad enough to steal, must be bad enough to lie."
"I understand everything at once. You need not always explain a thing to me twice. I could see a liar or a hypocrite perishing before my eyes and not help him until he----"
"Oho! You're getting excited."
"Yes, I always do when I'm on this subject. But enough of this. What are the cottagers to us! See there, it was there by the pear-tree that you said good-by to me, when you went to the war. See, it is the finest tree of all. It looks like a great nosegay."
"And before the flowers become fruit you will be mine."
Anton asked about their neighbor's daughter, Thoma's old playmate. Sadly she told him how she had broken with her only friend. Anger and shame reddened her cheeks as she related to him how her old playmate had, on her wedding day, worn a wreath which she had no right to wear. Thoma's lips quivered when she said:
"They say that Cushion Kate's mother was forced to stand at the church door with a straw wreath on her head, and a straw girdle round her waist. That was hard, but just. But for the girl to lie so, before God and man; to accept an honor to which she had no right. To know it herself and yet be so bold----. There, that is just like Vetturi. I have no patience nor friendship with a liar, whether rich or poor, man or woman. He who will not take the responsibility of his own acts may go to perdition. Indeed, it is not necessary to tell him so, for he has already gone there. You laugh? You are right! Such an honorable man as you are doesn't need to be lectured. Now I don't need my playmate nor anything else while I have you and father. No princess could be happier than I."
They went on hand in hand. When they reached the farm-house, her mother, who had come straight home, called to them from the window to wait until everything should be ready for the visitors, who would soon be there with their congratulations.
So the two seated themselves in the garden back of the house, on the terrace beyond the cherry-tree, and the blossoms on the tree were not richer than the happy thoughts of the young couple.
While they were here under the cherry-tree, Cushion Kate was sitting by her son; he said:
"Mother, I must get away from here. I will go to Alsace, into a factory."
"And you will leave me alone," complained the mother for the hundredth time; and for the hundredth time related, as though it were a comfort, that Vetturi's grandfather had been one of the Reutershöfen family; and though he received his portion as a younger son, neither he nor his descendants had ever been able to get along. Vetturi let his mother talk, but still insisted that he would go.
"Mother, I'm a burden to you. It makes me ashamed."
"You're not a burden to me, and you shouldn't be ashamed to stay with your mother. What have I left in the world if you go away? I shall never want to get up again. I shall never want to make the fire. If you go away you must take me along."
"We'll see, mother. But first, I will have my pay from Landolin; this very day I will have it."
With these words he tore himself away, and hurried to the farm-house.
Just as the farmer's wife had expected, many people returning from the fair, and many too who had not been there, came to offer their good wishes upon Thoma's betrothal. She made them welcome, and invited them to eat and drink.
When Landolin reached home his greeting to the guests was cool and careless, and he did not look at all like the father of a girl who had just been happily betrothed to her lover.
People said afterward that they knew then from his manner what he was likely to do. But who knows whether they were really so wise?
Landolin said to his wife:
"Stop feeding these people. Start them off. Don't be so friendly and talkative with the herd. It's impudence for them to come to me with good wishes. I don't want their good wishes."
He then went across the yard and stood awhile by the dog. Yes, he even spoke to him. "You're right, you should have been with me. Such fellows don't deserve a word. They ought to have a dog set on them."
Then Vetturi rushed into the yard, bareheaded, and called out: "Farmer! for the last time I say, I want my pay, my money."
"What? You want anything from me! March out of this yard at once. Off with you! What? You're standing there yet? Once for all, go, or I'll make you!"
"I won't go."
"Shall I untie the dog and set him on you?"
"You needn't untie the dog. You're a dog yourself."
"I'm what?"
"What I just said."
"Vetturi, you know I have a hand like iron. Go! Go, or I'll knock you down so you'll never move again."
"Do it! Kill me! You man-skinner, you----"
A stone was thrown; there was a shriek; a moan was heard that even hushed the barking of the dog. Vetturi fell down, groaned once, and then lay motionless.
Anton and Thoma had come to the open gate. They stood there as if rooted to the spot.
"For God's sake! What has happened?" Anton cried, and hastened to the prostrate form. But Thoma stood still, and fixed her gaze on her father, who was tearing open his vest, and loosening his collar.
Controlling herself with a violent effort, Thoma went up to her father, who was staring into his open hands.
"Father! What have you done?" cried she. He looked at her. There was a terrible change in his face. Is this the look of a man at the moment that he has killed another?
Thoma laid her hand on his shoulder. He shook it off and said: "Let me alone." He was afraid of her, and she of him.
At this moment it came to pass that father and daughter lost each other.
"He's dead! His skull is broken!" called the hostler, Fidelis, who, with Anton, had lifted Vetturi up.
With eyes cast on the ground, Thoma went to the house. Landolin left the yard, and went to the spring on the other side of the road.
The people in the house, who had come to give their congratulations, hastened out. With lamentation and mourning they carried Vetturi home to his mother.
Landolin's yard was suddenly still and forsaken; only a little pool of blood, near the heap of paving-stones, showed what had happened there. The sparrows and chickens had gathered round. The head-servant Tobias drove them off, and quickly swept everything away. He then threw the stone and the broom into the drain.
When Anton returned Landolin was still at the spring, holding his hands under its broad stream of water.
"How is it?" he asked, turning round.
"He is dead; he gives no sign of life," replied Anton.
Landolin shook the water from his hands fiercely, and shaking his head slowly, said:
"You saw it, Anton? You had just come up. The stone didn't touch him; he fell down at the sound of my voice."
Before Anton could reply, Landolin asked: "Was his mother at home?"
"Yes, she had just come in, and it was terrible when she threw herself on her son's body and cried out: 'Vetturi! open your eyes, Vetturi! Open your mouth, here is some brandy! Drink, do drink!'"
"I, too, must drink something," replied Landolin; and placing his lips to the trough, he drank long. Indeed, it was plain that he purposely allowed the water to splash into his face, and as he slowly wiped it dry, he said:
"Go to Thoma, now! I'll soon follow you."
Anton obeyed. He found Thoma standing near the porch by the flowers, picking off the dead leaves of the rosemary, the yellow jessamine, and the carnations. She did not look round.
"Thoma, here I am; don't you see me?" cried he.
"Yes, I see you," answered Thoma. Her voice and her face, which she now turned toward Anton, were changed; and her eyes, which before had been so fearless, now wandered uneasily here and there.
"I see you," she continued, "I see the flowers, I see the trees and the sky. Everything pretends to be alive, but everything is dead."
"Thoma, you are always so strong and resolute. Control yourself. I know it is sad and distressing, but for the sake of a person who is dead----"
"It is not only that a person has been killed; he, you, I, my father, all, all have received a deathblow."
"Thoma, don't excite yourself so, you are always so sensible. You know I have been in the war, and have seen many----"
"Yes, yes, it is true; you too have killed men. When he was still alive you were so tender-hearted toward him, and now that he is dead you are so hard. Say, am I still in my right mind?"
"You are, if you will only control yourself."
"I'll try, thank you. Do you think that my father, that any one of us, can ever be happy again for a single minute?"
"Certainly! Your father has done nothing."
"Who then has? Is Vetturi not dead?"
"He is dead, but he was hurt by falling on the paving-stones. Yes, he was."
"Anton!" cried Thoma, intensely excited, "Anton, you're not saying that yourself, some one else is speaking through you. Did my father tell you that?"
Anton trembled, and Thoma continued: "Anton, for my sake you are speaking falsely. You lie! There he stands, and has such true eyes, so honest, and yet will lie. How can I now believe your Yes before the altar? Anton, you're telling a lie."
With tremulous voice, Anton replied:
"Thoma, I'm--I'm a soldier." His hand touched the medal of honor upon his breast.
"Take that off," cried Thoma. "Go! go away! Even you can tell a lie. Go! go!"
"Thoma! I forgive you. In affliction one turns against his dearest friend----"
"You're no more my dearest friend. I'll not have your forgiveness. Go away forever and ever. I have no part in you, and you shall have no part in me."
She rushed away and locked herself in her bedroom. Anton stood for a time benumbed, then knocked at her door, and spoke lovingly to her. She made no answer. He threatened to break open the door unless she gave some sign. Then the bolt was drawn; the door opened a little way; and at his feet fell the engagement ring. The door was again closed and bolted; Anton picked up the ring and went away.
Landolin turned away from the spring and went into the yard. He stopped a moment at the dog's kennel, and said to himself: "Chained! Chained!"
Did he feel, and did he wish to say that henceforth he himself was in chains?
He unfastened the dog, and it followed him into the living-room. No one was there. Landolin sat down in the easy chair, nervously grasped its arms, and moved his hands over them as if to convince himself that they were still there. Then he pulled up the loose tops of his boots, as though making ready for a walk. He arose, but went only as far as the table, which he repeatedly rubbed with his hands, as though trying to wipe something off. With a peremptory voice he called to have the supper brought. It was soon ready. His wife sat down beside him. She said nothing; she seemed comforted, even delighted, that her husband was willing to eat; and she forced herself to eat with him.
Landolin told the maid to call Thoma and Anton to supper. The maid returned with the answer that Anton had gone away, and that Thoma sent word that she was not coming. At this, Landolin seized his fork, and struck it through the cloth, deep into the hard table. His wife arose, her lips tightly compressed, and looked with dismay at the sacred family table, as though she expected to see it shed blood after her husband's terrible blow.
The fork was still sticking in the table, when a carriage drew up to the door, and the District Judge and his clerk entered. The farmer's wife had the courage to draw the fork quickly out.
Landolin held out his hand in welcome, but the District Judge appeared not to notice it. Landolin with a steady voice thanked the judge for coming so soon to find out the facts of the unhappy affair.
"Pray be seated, your honor; and you, too, Mr. Clerk," he said, ingratiatingly; then poured out three glasses of wine, and taking one in his hand, touched the other two, as a sign to the gentlemen to drink. But the District Judge said curtly: "No, thank you," and did not take the glass. He leaned back in his chair while the clerk spread a paper on the table.
"Sit down," he said to Landolin; but the latter replied: "I'm comfortable standing," and laid his hand upon the back of the chair which stood in front of him. He drummed on it with his fingers, and controlling himself with a violent effort, said:
"Will you ask me questions, or shall I tell it in my own way?"
"You may go on."
"Your honor, that wine there is pure, for I brought it myself from the vat at Kaiserstuhl; but I think the wine at the Sword is not pure. When I drink during the day, and talk at the same time, it sets me beside myself; but the fright at the accident has brought me to my senses."
"So you were drunk at the time of the----of the accident."
Landolin started. "This is not a man who has come to gossip with me. It is a judge, and a judge over me. Stop! How can being drunk help?" These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, and he replied, almost smiling:
"Thank heaven, I am never so drunk as not to know what I am doing. I can stand a good deal."
He bestowed a confidential smile on the judge, but when he saw the unchanging gravity of his countenance, he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and went on determinedly:
"I can prove that the good-for-nothing fellow got no harm from me."
"Have you got that down?" said the judge to the clerk; and he replied: "Yes, I am taking it in short-hand."
The chair under Landolin's hand moved, for he was dismayed to find that his disconnected expressions were all written down. He now waited for questions to be put to him, and after a little while the judge began:
"Have you not had a violent quarrel, once before to-day, with one-handed Wenzel of Altenkirchen?"
"Have you found that out already?"
"Yes. Tell me how it happened."
"How it happened? The story is soon told. More than thirteen years ago Wenzel was my substitute in the army. My father knew him well. He was a boatman. You can ask Walderjörgli if he wasn't. Our families are the oldest in the country----"
"But what has that to do with Wenzel?"
"Oh yes! Well! My father gave both Wenzel and his mother a great deal of money and clothes, and now Wenzel still tries to bleed me."
"Did you not threaten to lay him out cold if he spoke to you before other people again?"
"Maybe I did, and maybe I didn't. A man sometimes says such a thing when he's angry; but I did not say it in earnest. Have I all at once become a man who is ready to kill any one that crosses his path? Am I an unknown adventurer?"
Landolin waited in vain for an answer, for the judge came back to the main point and asked:
"Were there any witnesses to the affair with Vetturi?"
"Yes, to be sure! My future son-in-law, Anton Armbruster, whom you know, and my daughter."
The District Judge desired them both to be called. He was told that Anton had gone away.
Thoma soon entered, and the judge arose and set a chair for her opposite to him.
Thoma sat down and folded her hands. She did not look up. "As you are Landolin's daughter you may refuse to testify," said the judge in a kindly tone. Thoma wearily raised her head.
"Father! What can I say?"
"What you saw."
She looked steadily into her father's face. She saw that he forced his eyes to remain open, but the eyelids trembled as though they must close before her glance. She turned away with a relentless movement of her head, and laying her clenched hand upon the table, said:
"Your honor----I say--I--I refuse to testify."
Landolin groaned. He knew what was going on in his daughter's mind. She rose and left the room without a look or a word for any one. They all gazed after her in silence.
The judge now asked Landolin if any of the servants had seen the affair. Landolin answered hesitatingly that he did not know; he had not looked around; but that Tobias and Fidelis were at home. It was with alarm that he perceived that his fate was in the hands of others.
The judge asked for his son Peter. Landolin shrugged his shoulders. Nobody cared whether Peter was at home or not. He was an obstinate, insignificant boy.
Nevertheless, though no one knew it, at this hour Peter had become an important personage.
No one dreamed that the little sliding window, between the living-room and the kitchen, was half-open, and that Peter lurked behind it. When he heard his father's answer, he quickly pulled off his boots, sprang noiselessly down the steps to the barn where Tobias was, and said:
"We now know how it happened. The stone did not hit Vetturi. Do you hear? And you too?" turning to the hostler Fidelis. Tobias nodded understandingly. Fidelis, on the other hand, made no answer.
There was no time to say anything more, for the two servants were called into the house. Before Tobias left the yard he threw a stone down near the gate.
Tobias was first reprimanded for having swept away the marks of blood. He took it all quietly, and said, in a firm voice, that he had plainly seen that Vetturi, who was always shaky, had not been hit by the stone, but had fallen down himself on the paving-stones. When the head-servant began speaking, Landolin had closed his eyes, but he now looked up triumphantly. His elbow rested on the chair; he held his hand over his mouth, and pressed his lips tightly together when Tobias concluded with:
"The stone that Vetturi threw, lies down there yet, scarcely a step from where the master stood."
Landolin raised himself to his full height. "That's the thing! Self-defense! I must justify myself on that ground." Landolin grasped the arm of the chair, as a drowning man, battling with the waves, grasps the rope thrown out to save him; and, just so, his soul clung to the thought of self-defense.
Fidelis said quite as positively that he had seen his master pick up a paving-stone with both hands, lean back, draw a long breath, and throw it. It had struck Vetturi on the head, and he had not seen Vetturi throw anything.
Landolin started up with an angry exclamation. He was told to be silent. The judge arose and said, evidently with forced calmness, that he was sorry, but, in order to prevent any tampering with the witnesses, he was compelled to place Landolin in confinement for the present.
The chair moved violently, and Landolin cried:
"Your honor, I am Landolin of Reutershöfen; this is my house; out there are my fields, my meadows, my forests. I am no adventurer, and I sha'n't run away for a beggar who is nothing to me."
The judge shrugged his shoulders, and said that they would probably be able to release him in a few days.
As the clerk folded his papers together, he cast a longing look at the poured-out wine; but he had to content himself with licking the ink-spots from his fingers.
"May I not send my husband a bed?" asked the farmer's wife. This was the first word she had spoken. The judge replied with a compassionate smile that it was not necessary.
Landolin took her hand, and, for the first time in many years, said in an affectionate tone:
"Dear Johanna." Her face was illuminated as though a miracle had been worked; and Landolin continued: "Don't worry. Nothing will happen to me."
"Can't he take me with him?" asked his wife of the judge.
"I am sorry that it is impossible."
She was about to send a maid-servant for Thoma, but Landolin prevented it, and said to the judge:
"I am ready to go now."
When Landolin had taken his seat in the carriage, a guard, who had been standing before the house, sprang upon the box with the coachman. The farmer's wife brought her husband's cloak, and he wrapped himself in it, for he was shivering, although the air was mild. He pulled his hat down to hide his face, and besides, it was night.
The carriage rolled away. The barking of the dog, and the rumbling of the wheels over the plateau could long be heard. At last it died away, and all was still.