The mother slept in her chamber. Thoma sat at the table in the living-room before a large, handsomely-bound book, filled with beautiful pictures. It was an illustrated history of the last war, which Anton had given her. Many book-marks lay between the leaves, at the places where the battles in which Anton had taken part were described. There were many soldiers in the pictures, but Anton's face was not distinguishable. She had heard that he was not at the celebration to-day. It was on her account. What could she do for him? There seemed to be nothing that she could do. Thoma had intended to read, but she could not bring herself to it; and to-day it horrified her to see in the pictures the men murdering each other, and shell tearing them to pieces.
For a long time she stared before her into the empty air. She was weary after the harvest work. Her head sank forward on the open book, and she fell asleep.
A cry awoke her; for her mother was calling,
"Landolin! For God's sake! don't do it! Stop!"
Thoma hastened to her mother, who looked at her wildly, as though she scarcely knew who and where she was.
"Is it you?" she asked at length. "Where is your father?"
"At the celebration."
"He must come home. Has not Peter found him yet? Where is he staying so long? Oh, Thoma! The eye-glass on the little black ribbon! He kneeled down on Titus, and tried to choke him! The farmer must come home, home!" she cried, weeping. She was in a fever. Thoma succeeded in quieting and undressing her. With chattering teeth she begged that a messenger should be sent for her husband, and Thoma obeyed her request.
Boys and girls rode past the house in the decorated wagons, singing,--the people on foot talked and laughed,--while in the house the farmer's wife lay in a fever. But at last, with burning cheeks, she fell asleep.
Thoma had ordered the messenger she sent for her father to go for the physician at the same time. The messenger found the doctor, but not the farmer.
It was late at night when Landolin crossed the bridge on his way home. He hit against the railing, and cried, "Oho!" as though it were some one blocking his way.
"Are you drunk?" he said, laying his finger on his nose; then laughed and went on.
The meadow was empty; not a soul was there. Landolin crossed it with a steady step, and ascending the speaker's stand--
"All you people there together, may the devil catch you all! Hutadi! Hutadi!" he cried, in a terribly strong voice. He seemed to expect that some one would come and fight with him; but no one came; so he descended from the stand, and went up the mountain road.
A sober Landolin struggled with a tipsy one.
"Fie! shame on you, Landolin!" he said to himself, "what a fellow you are--Fie upon you! A man like you drunk on the open road, before everybody--Let me alone, Titus! I don't want anything to do with you--I'm not drunk. And if I am--no--. The cursed wine at the Sword--at that time--Go away--away!--If you don't go, Vetturi, you shall--There, there you lie--"
He bent over to pick up a stone, and fell down.
Getting up again, he said to himself, as he would to an unruly horse: "Keep quiet, quiet! So, so!" And then he cried angrily: "If I only had a horse! At home there are twelve, fourteen horses and one colt--Who's coming behind me? Who is it? If you have any courage, come on! 'Tisn't fair to hit from behind. Come in front of me! Come, and I'll fight with you!"
From the steep hillside a stone rolled into the road, loosened by who knows what animal's flying foot? Landolin clenched both hands in his hair, that rose on end with fright, and cried:
"Are you throwing stones? That's it, self-defense! self-defense! Just wait!"
He stopped and said, "Don't drive yourself crazy, or they'll put you in an asylum."
A railroad train rushed through the valley. The locomotive's red lights appeared like the flaming eyes of a snorting monster. Landolin stared at it, and in doing so he became calmer, for ghosts cannot haunt a locomotive's track. The sweat of fear ran down his face, and with loudly beating heart he hastened up the road. At length he breathed more freely; he took off his hat; a refreshing breeze blew over the plateau: he saw his house, and said:
"The light is still burning; they are waiting for me; supper is on the table. Control yourself; you are Landolin of Reutershöfen. You have a wife called Johanna, a daughter called Thoma, and a son called Peter. I care nothing for the hammering in my temples. I am not drunk--tipsy: three times three are nine--and one more is ten. You lie when you say I am drunk. I can walk straight. So, there is the well. Oh well, you are happy; you can stay at home, and yet be full all the time. Ha! ha! Hush! don't try to make jokes. Hush!"
Again he stood at the well, and cooled his hands and face, then went into the yard, and without stopping to speak to the dog, passed up the steps and into the living-room, where he found the doctor sitting at the table, writing.
"What is it? There's nothing the matter?"
"Your wife is sick."
"It is not serious?"
"I don't know yet. At any rate you must keep quiet. You may go in; but don't talk much, and come right away again."
The walls, the tables, the chairs, seemed to reel; but his step was firm as he went to his wife's side and said:
"Walderjörgli sent his greeting to you; he charged me with it twice."
He had sufficient self-control to say all this with a steady voice, and his wife replied:
"I know it already; the doctor told me that Walderjörgli was there. Where he is, everything goes right. Thank him. Good-night."
Landolin threw himself into the great chair out in the living-room, and cried:
"Oh, what misery it is to come home and find your wife sick, and no joy, no welcome, nothing!"
He looked at Thoma, who, without moving or making a sound, stood leaning against the bedroom door.
To what a pass has it come when, in the midst of such misery, the father thinks of himself alone!
Landolin arose wearily and whispered to Thoma:
"You've noticed that I'm tipsy? Yes, I am; and if you do not treat me affectionately, as you used to, I will be so every day,--then you'll see what will come of it!"
"I cannot keep you from doing what you choose, either to yourself or to us."
"Bring me something to drink. I'm very thirsty," ordered Landolin. Thoma went, and returned with a bottle.
"That is nothing but water! But never mind; you're right. You're sharp."
For the first time in many days, father and daughter laughed together, but their laughter soon died away.
"The farmer works like a hired man," said the servants and day-laborers on Landolin's farm.
It was true that Landolin was the first up in the morning, and the last abed at night; and that he took hold of the work in the field he had never done before. His appetite was good, and he slept all night without tossing about. He never left the farm, neither week-days nor Sunday; and he did what cost him a great effort: he said in the presence of the servants that Peter should now have the control of everything; for in the few years he had left, he wanted to see with his own eyes how Peter would carry things on after they should be closed forever.
His speech was milder, and his manner less haughty.
He seemed grateful that a heavy storm had passed over his house without breaking; for his wife was out of danger. To be sure, she was yet ailing, and had to keep her room; but she seemed to revive when she saw that her husband had discovered the best mode of living; that is--to be independent of the world's opinion, and to keep his own life straight. She did not know that he had discovered what a treasure he had in his wife, and he did not tell her; for he could not express himself on the subject.
There were but two persons in the house whom he shunned. One of them noticed it, and the other did not. Landolin avoided being in the same field, or at the same work anywhere, with Thoma; for he felt as though he were under a ban whenever she looked at him: and even when he was not looking at her, he thought he could feel her eyes following every motion he made. He could not imagine what more she wanted of him, since she had forbidden his making any effort to arrange matters with Anton. Since his coming home, and especially since the celebration, Landolin was in the habit of shutting his eyes when he thought he was unnoticed; and even when looking at anyone they winked incessantly, as though they were tired and only kept open by force. A glance that Thoma gave him made him conscious of this habit for the first time, and also apprised him that she knew its cause.
The other person whom Landolin avoided was Tobias; for Peter persisted in saying that Tobias must be sent away. And although Landolin was by no means soft-hearted, especially toward servants, whom, at the best, he considered rascals; yet the thought of this dismissal was painful to him. He could not forget how much Tobias had helped him to his acquittal.
Outside of the house there were two persons whom they would all have been glad to forget entirely. One was Anton. They heard nothing from him directly; for he had gone, with a large raft, down the Rhine to Holland. But all the people who came to the house--and gradually many began coming--expressed their regret that Anton was not to be his son-in-law; and their inquiries as to the cause were unceasing.
Whoever could have observed her closely must have seen that Thoma's eyebrows had sunk a degree lower since Anton went away. He had once told her that his father had often urged him to go to Rotterdam with a raft some time, and get acquainted with the daughters of his business friends there, and look around for a wife. There was already a Dutch woman in the neighborhood--a comfortable, clear-complexioned, good woman, also married to a miller; and Thoma fancied that Anton could be happy with such an honest, careful wife.
The second person whom they would have liked to forget was Cushion-Kate. She lived quietly, and scarcely spoke with any one; but every night she might have been seen with her lantern, at her son's grave. Whenever she met one of Landolin's family, she stopped and stared at them. She never returned their greeting, and always went out of her way to avoid Landolin himself.
Landolin's wife and Thoma had both taken great pains, personally and through friends, to help Cushion-Kate, but she refused everything.
"I will not be bought off by the murderer Landolin," was her invariable answer. She gathered grain in every field except Landolin's. Once, when crossing the bridge, on her way to the mill with her gleanings, she met him on horseback. She sprang before the horse, and cried: "Get off and drown yourself, you murderer! Ride on! Drive on! Whether you ride or drive, you carry your hell around with you! Get off and drown yourself!"
"Are you done? Then step out of my way," said Landolin, calmly. But as the old woman still clung to the horse's bridle, he cried angrily:
"Let go, or I'll let you feel my whip or set Racker at you!"
The dog understood his master's words. He set his paws on the woman's shoulders, and snapped at her red kerchief. She stepped back. Landolin made Racker drop the kerchief, and then rode on without a look at the old woman, who picked up her sack of wheat again. At home he did not mention the occurrence.
It is unfortunate, as every one knows, when two horses hitched to the same wagon fail to pull evenly together. But no one can suppose that it is from malicious intention, and either horse might complain that it was all the fault of the other, and that it was only from a surly delight in obstinacy that he didn't put himself to the harness, and so pull the wagon along. But with two persons it is quite different; especially with those who have before pulled so well together as Peter and Tobias. The latter had of course noticed Peter's imperiousness and malignity; but he did not understand it, nor ask the reason for it, for he really gave the matter very little thought. This was no time for bickering and contentions as to which should outrank the other. Tobias thought to himself, "Only wait till after the harvest; then we'll have threshing-time." Peter likewise thought, "Only wait till the harvest is over; then I'll draw my hand over the measure and level it off." Tobias smilingly allowed Peter to give orders; he even scarcely looked up when Peter countermanded those which he had himself given to the servants and day-laborers. It is harvest-time; stormy weather would be injurious now, but a storm between people working together would be still worse.
Tobias gave the servants to understand that he was glad to let the little boy Peter sit in the saddle and manage the whip; for, thanks to his care, the wagon would move on safely.
Matters continued in this way during the whole harvest-time. Peter and Tobias stood opposite one another like two men that, with axes raised, ready to strike each other, wait a moment to draw their breath. When will the blow fall?
Landolin pretended to see or hear nothing that was taking place between the head-servant and his son. He had not had a confidential talk with Tobias since the evening after the trial. But Tobias was not concerned about it. A man does not say to the forest behind his house, "It's right for you to stay there and keep on growing;" and it was just as easy to imagine the mountains moving away with the forest as to think of Tobias leaving the farm, especially since he had helped, so cleverly and well, to have his master acquitted.
But Tobias often looked at his master to see if he would not say a word of reproof to Peter for his overbearing manner.
When Landolin could no longer avoid doing so, he said, shaking his finger and winking confidentially: "Let him alone. A horse that pulls so hard at first will soon let up."
But Peter did not let up. The principal part of the harvest was over. They were about to take the grain that had been threshed out on rainy days to market. This had been for many years Tobias's undisputed right, but Peter now declared that he would do it alone.
"It's not necessary for me to answer you," replied Tobias. "You are not the master. The farmer and I will show you who is master."
He called Landolin, and made his complaint to him. Landolin took a grain of wheat out of a sack that had just been filled; bit it in two; looked at the white meal, and nodded without giving a reply. But Tobias pressed him for an answer, and demanded to know whether he was in the farmer's service or in Peter's.
"Peter and I are now one and the same," said Landolin, at length, swallowing the grain of wheat, the first that had ripened since spring. He decided that it would be wisest to side with his son. Tobias could do him no more harm, and one need not be better than all the rest of the world; ingratitude is the world's wages. But still he did not want to appear ungrateful; so he said, when he had swallowed the wheat, "Be wise, Tobias."
"Wise? Who is master--you or Peter?"
"Peter," Landolin forced himself to say; and then turned away. It may be that Tobias is treated unjustly; it may be. But Landolin must look out for himself first. He thought he had burden enough of his own, without bearing other people's.
He went up the steps and stood on the porch.
Peter was triumphant.
"Did you hear that? Now listen to something more. You may go to-day, or to-morrow, or at this minute; the sooner you go, the better."
Tobias looked toward the stables, toward the barns, and toward the mountains to see if they were not shaking. "So I'm sent away--dismissed? I--by you?"
"Yes, yes, by the little boy you so willingly let play at being master, just for fun. I've calculated what is still coming to you."
"What is coming to me? And what price have you set on what I have done for you? For you, you acquitted man up there!--and for you, you----"
"If you want a witness fee, I'll give you four marks more," said Peter, with a sneer. "We're not afraid of you. Go and say that you gave false testimony, and see what you'll get by that. Father! don't speak--not a word; he has to deal with me."
"Well, it serves me right: I might have known it would be so. The stones that lay here then are now firmly bedded in the pavement; but, Peter, mark my words: Stones will fly through the air at you, till you are dead and buried. I am an innocent child in comparison with you. You will suffer for this."
"Prophesy, if you like. You know from experience what a good prophet you are. You understand what I mean."
Tobias groaned like a goaded bull; he pulled at his clothes; he evidently wanted to rush upon Peter: but Peter stood still and lit a fresh pipe. Tobias clenched his hands upon his breast, and, without another word, went to his room.
The wind whistled over the stubble, and when they awoke in the morning, the first snow lay high upon the crest of the mountain. The powerful autumn sun soon melted it, and laughing rills ran down through all the little channels to the river in the valley.
It was St. Ægidius Sunday, shortly before church time, when Tobias went to the farmer's wife, who was sitting in the living-room, and said:
"Mistress, I've come to say good-bye to you, and thank you for all your kindness through these many years. You know I've been dismissed." The farmer's wife nodded. "By Peter," continued Tobias, "by Peter, not by the farmer; that I see plainly enough, though he did give his consent. But he isn't of any account any more. For your sake, Mistress, I wish the house no evil as long as you live. I've deserved to have this happen to me; it serves me quite right. Why did I lie, and say before the court that Vetturi threw a stone at the Master? Why, the shaky fellow couldn't have lifted one of those paving-stones. It serves me right; and Peter is smart. He carries things with a high hand. He knows that I can't say this to anybody but you, and you knew it before. Wherever else I'd say it, they'd laugh at me, and despise me into the bargain. Now good-bye, and I hope you'll see many happy years yet."
A cold shudder crept over the farmer's wife. Her hands trembled and her head moved from one side of the great chair to the other. But at length she controlled herself and said:
"I beg you, for my sake, don't say this to any one else. Give me your hand on it."
Tobias hesitated, but he could not withstand her imploring look. So he grasped her cold hand.
"Where are you going when you leave here?" asked she.
"You are the first that's asked me that. What do the others care for a dismissed servant, even though he has served them so many years? I'm going to my brother, the teamster's."
"Take him my greeting. And you shall soon come back again--I'll fix that."
"No, I think not. I'll not come back again. I've laid by something, and perhaps I can get another place. I won't go to Titus, but perhaps Anton will take me when he comes home. So again farewell."
"Farewell, and keep up a brave heart."
The farmer's wife looked through the window as Tobias, with his brother's help, lifted his great chest into the wagon. It looked almost like a coffin. She stepped back from the window, and called a maid to help her to her bed.
Landolin and Thoma were frightened when they were summoned to her bedside. She lay with her back to them, and without turning around she said, "Don't be frightened; I'll soon be all right again." Landolin knew in a moment that Tobias had been doing mischief here, so he said:
"I shouldn't have let the rascally fellow come up to see you alone. Before my eyes he wouldn't have dared to pour his stupid spite into your--into your good heart."
Such an affectionate word caused his wife to turn over and grasp her husband's hand. Holding her hand in one of his, and stroking it gently with the other, Landolin continued:
"Yes, one only finds an unfaithful man out when it's too late. When a servant is discharged, his hidden meanness shows itself. Tobias has the impudence to say that he invented a lie for my sake. It's infamous how malicious the greatest simpleton can yet be. But, thank God, what he says won't make any difference with you."
His wife looked at him with glistening eyes; and casting a sidelong glance at Thoma, Landolin continued:
"I must beg Peter's pardon; I didn't know him. He's smart; smarter than--than I knew. We send Tobias away, and that is the best proof that we, thank God, have nothing to hide. But I've talked enough. Not another angry word shall escape my lips. You know I'm going to confession to-day?"
The farmer's wife lay perfectly quiet. She felt chilly, but she begged the family to go to church; for the bells were just ringing.
Landolin went, and not without great self-satisfaction. To be sure, it was not a difficult matter to deceive his confiding wife; but Thoma had received a hit at the same time. She deserved it for her obstinate hard-heartedness; for of course she must know in what direction the praise of Peter led.
Thoma stayed with her mother, who prayed quietly.
Up the same road over which Landolin had passed the night after the celebration, now came, on this clear autumn Sunday, the judge's wife. A scoffer, who knew her thoughts, might have said to her: Not the intoxication of wine alone makes a man talk to himself, and changes his view of everything; and, worse still, the recovery from an over-indulgence in exciting thought is, perhaps, even bitterer.
This might have been said, and still the lady would not have stopped in her walk. Obeying a voice from within and not from without, she felt that she ought no longer delay in an effort to establish peace and quietness in Landolin's house, and peace between them and Cushion-Kate. She knew right well, for she had often enough experienced it, that a man sets little value on unsolicited help; yes, even frequently refuses it. But she also knew that her advice, even when repulsed, had had effect, and worked for good; and, above all things, she felt herself within the circle of the duties that spring from the union of man to man. As in war the wounded is no enemy, so in peace the sufferer is no stranger.
So the lady went up the hill. The church bells were ringing for the noon-day service; but in her ears rang the sound of a bell whose metal was not yet molten, and for which, who knows when a tower will be built!
The lady's thoughts by no means hovered in the so-called "higher regions"--quite the reverse. She thought of the nearest and most every-day subjects.
As she stood by the road, she saw a four-horse spring-wagon coming down the hill on a trot. A cow, grazing by the wayside, sprang, frightened, into the middle of the road, and ran along before the wagon, terrified, and with difficulty; at last the coachman rose in his seat, and hit her with his long whip, so that she turned aside, stood awhile, staring after the dust-enveloped monster with the four horses, and then went on grazing.
Smilingly the lady thought that this might be given as an example to the villagers. Turn aside, and you will be free from fear of what comes rolling behind you, threatening destruction.
But one must not give country-folk an illustration from their own immediate surroundings. Clergymen understand this; or perhaps hold by tradition that only strange, powerful figures have any effect. This is why they so like to speak of the storm-tossed ship on the sea, of the palmy oases in the desert; when neither they, nor their hearers, have ever seen either.
Engaged in these thoughts, Madam Pfann had reached the plateau, and came in sight of Landolin's house. The shingled roof glittered in the mid-day sun, and the tree on the east side was standing full of nuts.
Although Landolin, who was sitting on the bench before the house, saw the lady coming, he did not move, but kept on cracking nuts in his hand, and shelling out the kernels. Not until she had drawn very near did he rise and say:
"Good-day, Madam. Will you not rest here a little while?"
"Yes; I was just coming to see you."
"May I ask what news you bring me?"
"Properly speaking, none. Or perhaps--I hope----
"Well! what is it?"
"I would like to talk with you in the house; not here."
"My wife, I'm sorry to say, is sick. It's nothing serious, but she might wake up."
"Then take me to the upper room."
"If you wish, why not? But are you not afraid to be alone with a murderer?"
"You must not say that word again; and no one else must. I hope to root out even the thought of it from every mind."
"You'll have to use witchcraft," thought Landolin; but nevertheless he wondered what the lady had to say.
When the two rose, Peter came from behind the nut-tree. It was strange, one met Peter everywhere. It seemed as though he had come out of the wall, or through the steps. Without paying any attention to the fact that his sudden appearance must be surprising, Peter said, very submissively:
"Madam does us great honor in coming to see us. Great folks know what is the proper thing to do. They are the best, after all."
Landolin opened his eyes wide at hearing Peter talk thus. "Where has the boy learned it all?" The lady, too, looked at him in astonishment; but Peter went on composedly:
"Madam, my father keeps no secrets from me. May I not know what news you bring us?"
With these words Peter fixed his eyes sternly upon his father, that he might not be able to give the lady the slightest sign, even with his eye. But the judge's wife helped him out, for she replied:
"What I wish or bring is for your father alone; but I am heartily glad that you and your father are in such unison. A child that is not good to his parents never prospers in this world."
Peter chuckled. It is delicious how every one dissembles. Of course the lady knows how he and his father stand toward one another, and yet she plays the hypocrite. He laughed again and again until his father said to him:
"Send something for the lady to eat and drink to the upper room; but don't wake your mother."
As Landolin and Madam Pfann went up the stairs, Landolin stepped as lightly as the lady.
In the upper room, where Thoma's outfit was stored, the air was close. The judge's wife quickly opened the window, and then turned to Landolin, and looked at him with the clear, friendly glance before which harshness and obduracy seemed always to disappear. Wherever she came, she diffused peace and calmness and noble graciousness.
A maid-servant brought food and drink.
Landolin went to the doors to see that no one was listening, and then said, with a modest politeness that was quite new for him:
"Pray be seated on the sofa; and permit me now to ask what you have to tell me?"
"Mr. Ex-Bailiff," began the lady.
"Please say simply Landolin, without the Mr. or ex-bailiff."
"Well then, Landolin, a while ago you said a word which I will not repeat. You said it in derision, in anger and vexation. Landolin, you are acquitted, but I wish that you would acquit yourself, and that you can do to-day, to me, by my help."
"Madam, I went to confession to-day, to the priest, at church."
"Very well. I don't mix myself in church affairs; but I see in your eyes, I see in your heart, that you have a feeling like one who strives to hide a secret sorrow, and thinks that it is not seen. You do not feel yourself free, and clear, and at ease."
The veins in Landolin's forehead swelled in anger, but the lady looked steadily into his face as though he were a wild animal that could be tamed by a firm, unwavering look. His eyelids rose and fell quickly, his tightly compressed lips quivered, and his hand that lay on the table clenched nervously.
"I know what you want to say," said the lady, quickly; "you have a right to do so: only say right out that I must leave your house; that I had no right to force myself into your home, or into your heart. Only say it, and I will go."
"No, stay. You are a brave woman, I must say. I should not have thought it possible, never,--a woman! Speak without fear. From such a woman as you I will hear anything. I think there can be but one such as you in the world."
The lady blushed, and for hardly longer than a thought takes the flattery disconcerted her, and seemed to turn her from her course.
Landolin perceived this momentary confusion, and smiled triumphantly. "After all, she's only a woman, and, like every woman, can be bought with dress and praise!"
Controlling herself quickly, the lady resumed, with a tone that came from her inmost soul:
"Landolin, men are put in the world together that one may help another----"
"I see nothing of it. Nobody troubles himself about his neighbors," interrupted Landolin.
Did you ever do otherwise yourself? Did you formerly concern yourself about others? the lady wanted to say; but she was quick-witted enough to suppress that, and replied instead:
"You have a right to be bitter against the world."
Landolin looked at her in astonishment. He felt something of that mild art of healing which does not try to soften sorrow by denying it and covering it over, but by recognizing it in its reality and importance.
"Thank you," said Landolin, "but I have taken advantage of that right. The world is nothing to me, and I am nothing to the world."
"May I ask a question?"
"Why not?"
"Then tell me if the misfortune, or accident, in this poor fellow's case had happened, not to you, but to Titus, to the Oberbauer, or to Tobelurban, would Landolin of Reutershöfen have acted differently toward him?"
Landolin shrugged his shoulders and whistled softly. He followed her through the first, second, even the third thought, but at the fourth he stopped, and, like a balking horse, was not to be moved from the spot. With an encouraging smile the lady said:
"I will answer for you. 'Yes, Madam Pfann; I should have acted toward the others just as they have acted toward me.'"
Landolin nodded.
"You are sharp; you cut one through and through."
"Very well; then do not be so timid and afraid."
"I afraid? Of what?"
"Of your own thoughts. Within Landolin there are two Landolins, and one of them wants to cast out the other. And now I want to say, don't turn away the only one who can help you."
"Nobody can help me."
"Yes, yes, there is one, and he is a strong man; only he does not know it now. And do you know what his name is? Landolin of Reutershöfen. You alone can help yourself, and then you will have no one else to thank."
"Yes; but how?"
"Take a drink first, and give me one, and then listen."
"Landolin," began the judge's wife anew, "if we could rely upon it that people would lay penance upon themselves, and do good where they had done evil, or when a bad accident had happened to them--if we knew that surely, we should need no courts and no punishment in the world. Landolin, there is a way in which you can free yourself and your whole house from unhappiness."
"Does this look like an unhappy house?"
"It does not look so, but it is so, Landolin. Outside, there sits a poor woman, whose only son is dead. In field and forest this woman has only the one little spot of earth in which her son rests, where grows----"
"The woman is nothing to me."
"Your mouth only says that; the soul within you speaks quite differently. If you had been found guilty you would have had to support this desolate widow."
She was startled when she was suddenly interrupted by a laugh from Landolin. To be sure, it was a forced one, but a laugh nevertheless. She looked at him inquiringly, and he cried:
"I see you understand all about law."
"We are not talking of law. The poor woman has no legal claim. What you do you will do voluntarily, and it is that that is beautiful. Landolin, you will give the money that I desire; but that is not enough for me: you must also give the right thoughts with it."
"I have no money, and no right thoughts."
"Yes, you have; you have both. You will have them, and the more you give the more you will have. I vouch for you, you will yet make the poor woman's days happy and peaceful."
"Oho!" cried Landolin, "so that the world shall say, 'He feels, after all, that he is guilty, and is trying to cover it over with generosity.'"
"What difference does what the world says make to you?"
A violent struggle must have taken place in Landolin's soul, and it showed itself in his manner. He walked restlessly up and down the room. He clenched his hands; he opened them again. At length he stood still before the judge's wife and said:
"Madam, even should you succeed with me, seven angels could not tear a wicked woman from her wickedness. 'Tis easier to drag a fox from his hole with the bare hand. Perhaps you do not know that Cushion-Kate has always had a hardened disposition. Perhaps she cannot help it. Her mother stood at the church door with a straw wreath on her head before Cushion-Kate was born. No, Madam Pfann, with me--you have seen--I let myself be persuaded; but who knows----"
"Just leave that to me. Oh, dear Landolin, you'll make my life more happy if you'll obey me; and every morsel you eat, every moment you sleep, will be doubly blessed to you. Come now with me to Cushion-Kate."
"I go to Cushion-Kate! If she wants anything of me she may come to me. I wouldn't like to tell you of all she tries to do to me on highway and byway."
"And for that very reason go to her with me now. I know very well what that is--Landolin to Cushion-Kate;--but do not ask yourself now if you are doing too much--if you are lowering yourself. Come with me! Give me your hand. Come!"
"Very well. I will go with you."
It was quiet in the road; no one was to be seen while Landolin walked along with the judge's wife. She frequently looked at her companion, as if in fear that he might suddenly turn and run away; but he kept step with her, and only where the road and the meadow path met he stopped and said:
"I should never have believed it if any one had told me that I should do this. But I do it for your sake; and Cushion-Kate may curse and insult me as she will. I will say nothing in return."
"She will change for the better," said the judge's wife, confidently.
In the little house past which led the meadow path, Cushion-Kate sat at the table this Sunday afternoon. Before her lay the hymn-book, but it was not open. The old woman had rested her elbow on the table, and her left cheek lay on her bony hand; she was gazing out of the window before which the black elderberries glistened, and a young starling sang.
For a long time she looked before her without moving, and a bitter smile passed over her hard features as she muttered:
"He dares to go to the Lord's Table before the whole congregation. O Thou above! forgive me that I quarrel with Thee so. But even Thou art not as Thou wast in old times. Landolin should have stood before the church door in a penitent's dress. Yes, mother; you had to stand there with a straw wreath on your head, and thought that you must sink into the ground in shame; and you cursed the whole world; and I beneath your heart learned it then--there is nothing but sorrow and distress in my blood. O God, I pray for only one thing; let me not die before I have seen how this ends with Landolin. I cannot wait till the next world; I will not----"
She took her hand from her cheek and listened; voices, steps, drew nearer; the wooden bolt of the house door was pushed back, and the room door opened.
"Sit still, Kate," said the judge's wife; and behind her stood Landolin. The old woman opened her mouth, but she could not bring out a word. The judge's wife laid her hand on her shoulder, and said, "Kate! Here is the ex-bailiff; he wants to bring you rest and kindness, and everything that is beautiful and right. Now I beg you, take heart, and lighten your soul and his; he wants to take care of you as though you were his own mother."
"His mother! I was a mother; I am called so no longer. Had there been, not twelve men, but twelve mothers, in court, they would have hanged him, and the ravens would have eaten his eyes and his fat cheeks."
The judge's wife was struck dumb by this raving; but Cushion-Kate now turned to Landolin:
"They say that you spoke for yourself in court; do you now need some one else to speak for you?"
Controlling himself with a violent effort, Landolin said that he was heartily sorry that so great a sorrow had come upon Cushion-Kate; that he could not bring the dead to life, but he promised her that she should live as though she were a rich farmer's wife. With a shrill cry Cushion-Kate screamed:
"And I say to you, fie upon all your gold and goods! Only because the good lady is there do I not spit in your face. I have found out in weary nights that every sinner can be forgiven except one--except the liar, and that is what you are. You must go to ruin, you must have no rest by day or night, and all that is yours must go to ruin too. Come with me! Come to my Vetturi's grave; kneel down there; call the congregation together and confess--But true, you never go through the churchyard. But take heed! You must soon go, when one of your family dies----"
"That is enough," cried Landolin. "Come with me, Madam Pfann, or I shall go alone; I cannot stand this any longer."
He turned away; Madam Pfann cast one more beseeching glance at Cushion-Kate, but she laughed scornfully.
Landolin and the judge's wife walked silently together to where the footpath joins the road; there they stood still, and taking his hand, she said:
"Farewell! I thank you for having been so good to me; and you may be sure it will do you good too. You have done all a man could, and may now rest easy. We have not gained what I hoped, but your soul must feel easier and freer."
"Yes; but I should like to ask a favor----"
"Only tell it," said the judge's wife, encouragingly, as Landolin paused hesitatingly.
"Well, Madam, when I think of it fairly, I cannot blame Cushion-Kate so much, that she is so frantic and raves against me; I am innocent, but still it happened. I don't believe in witchcraft and prophecy; but the way she spoke of death in my family frightened me. Now what was I going to say? I forget. Oh! this. Cushion-Kate may cherish a hate toward me; but my daughter--yes, I will tell you how deaf and dumb she is toward me. It is hard that a stranger should come between father and child; but I think----"
"So do I. You may depend on it I will speak to Thoma, and I shall succeed better than we did over there. I will ask her to come and see me."
With hearty thanks, Landolin and the lady parted. She walked on a while as if lost in thought, and forgetful of the way; but she soon began, as usual, to pick flowers and grasses and pretty sprigs, and arrange them in a beautiful bouquet.
In the garden of the Sword Inn her husband met her, and she soon sat pleasantly conversing with the people of rank in their separate arbor.