"The members of the Casino had made it an variable rule never to question the judge's wife respecting her experiences in her work; and she herself never mentioned it unless she had need of another's help. It could easily be seen that she must have met with something difficult to-day; but her face brightened when the school-master began:
"The gentlemen will allow me to explain to Madame Pfann the starting-point and progress of our conversation. The physician had told us that Walderjörgli, since the day of the celebration, had been approaching his release. This suggested the assertion that the advantage of culture to the common people is questionable in every respect; that roughness keeps the people even physically stronger than culture. The judge replied that a child must become a youth, and then a man, and it is an idle question whether it would not have been happier if it had remained a child. The physician was just about to speak of the effect of culture in relation to diseases."
"Not exactly that," said the physician; "but I was going to say that the greater difficulty of regulating the peasant's diet is attributable to his degree of culture; and, again, the acute character of a disease that is already developed may often be broken up by timely remedies."
"I claim this also for intellectual and social discipline," cried the school-teacher. "The moderating power of culture will turn aside the violence of the passions, and ward off their tragical end. Obstinacy and unbending willfulness are not real strength."
"A quarrel about the people's beard," said a clergyman to a colleague, smiling, and handing him an open snuff-box. The school-master had heard a whisper, but had not understood what was said; so he continued, with a sharp sidelong glance at the disturbers:
"As sure as the means of healing from the apothecary help struggling nature in sickness, or put aside a hindrance to nature's work, just as certainly will the means of culture, which for centuries have been gathered together by science, mitigate and heal moral infirmity, and the outbreak of passion that leads to crime--yes, even crimes that are already committed."
Turning to the clergyman, he continued: "Religion is also a health-giving means of culture, but it is not the only one."
"Thanks," replied the clergyman, waving his hand, between the thumb and fore-finger of which he held a pinch of snuff. "But, most honored doctor, your culture-cure is a brewage of classic and scientific education, a teaspoonful every hour, to be well shaken before taken--probatum est."
Amidst general laughter his colleague added:
"Your plan of education would not even give the people new enjoyments. What do you propose to give them? They have not the coarseness that is necessary. Look there! Those boys who have been tiring themselves all the week at harvest work, on Sunday play ten-pins and throw the heavy balls."
The game of ten-pins was here interrupted, for the railroad train rushed past; and the boys, who had evidently been waiting for some one, hastened to the station, which could be seen from the Casino arbor, and the company exclaimed:
"The Hollanders! There comes Anton Armbruster with the raft-drivers." Powerful men descended from the cars; they carried cloaks rolled up tightly on the axes over their shoulders. They came into the inn garden, and soon sat drinking the foaming beer, surrounded by groups of friends and strangers. The voices of the raftsmen were loud, and their laughter sounded like logs rolled over one another. Anton sat with his father, who had awaited him here. He had regained his old, fresh appearance; but, from his manner, as well as from that of the miller, it was easy to see that something had happened that was not to the old man's liking. To be sure, he touched glasses with his son; but he put his down again without drinking.
The judge's wife walked up and down the garden with the hostess; but the latter soon went and said something to Anton. He rose and went toward the judge's wife, greeting her politely. She gave him her hand, and went with him toward the vacant promenade by the river side. There she first gave him the lieutenant's greeting, and then told him where she had been that day, and what she had experienced. She looked at him closely and added:
"Thoma is soon coming to see me. May I speak to her of you?"
"Oh, certainly."
"So you did not become engaged in Holland?"
"No, indeed! As long as Thoma does not marry, I too will remain single. It was very pleasant in Holland. They are very pleasant, hearty people, and they have got over the stupidity of thinking that we Germans want to take Holland. They listened to me attentively when I told of the war, and the eldest daughter of our business friend said to me that she could listen three days while I told about it."
"Did you like her?"
"Oh yes. She is a beautiful girl, and good-nature shines from her face; but nevertheless she was not Thoma. As I said, I have not changed. Look! There comes Peter of Reutershöfen with the wagon. Peter, what's the matter?"
"My mother is sick, and I have come for the doctor. There isn't much the matter, but father is so anxious."
"Are all the rest well?"
"Of course they are."
The doctor drove away with Peter, and the judge's wife asked him to send Thoma to her as soon as she could leave her mother.
Anton, too, soon went home with his father.
The physician on the plateau, and the raft-drivers in the valley, were overtaken by a severe thunderstorm that burst forth with wind and hail.
Two days and two nights it stormed in the valley and on the plateau, with only short intermissions. When the thunder-clouds are ensnared between close-set wooded mountains and sharply pointed rocks, they can find no outlet. They toss hither and thither; they break and then come together again; it thunders and lightens, rains and hails, till they have entirely disburdened themselves.
One could almost say that it was the same with the people here; when bad humor had fastened on these hard, sharp-pointed natures, the anger and quarreling had no end.
Landolin and Thoma sat by the mother's sick bed; sometimes together, sometimes alone. Their eyes flashed, but their thoughts were unspoken. The mother was constantly faint, for the air did not cool off during the two days and nights. On the third day, however, when the sun shone again, and a balmy, fresh air quickened everything anew, she said:
"I feel better. Thoma, it would do you good to go out, and the judge's kind wife has certainly something good to say to you. Go and see her. She sent you word by the doctor. Go, for my sake, and bring me back good news. You can go right away. You have nursed me as I hope some day your child may nurse you."
Peter had told them that Anton had returned from Holland, and that he had seen him talking earnestly with the judge's wife. And, although her mother did not say so, she secretly hoped to live to see their reconciliation.
Thoma prepared herself for the walk into the city. But she did not wish a stranger to mix in their affairs. She did not need outside help, and it would do no good.
When she went to her mother, in her Sunday dress, the mother said, taking her hand:
"Child, you look quite different, now you have fixed yourself up a little. Let me give you this advice. You are so gentle and so kind to me; be the same to others. Don't put on such a dark face. There, that's right. When you laugh you are quite another person. Say good-bye to your father; he is at the stable. The bay mare has a colt. That is a good sign. Go in God's name, and you will come home happy again. God keep you!"
As Thoma went past she called a hurried good-bye into the stable, and did not wait for an answer. On the road it seemed to her as if she must turn back: she ought not to leave her mother to the care of strangers; but she went forward, thinking over what she should say to the judge's wife.
Thoma often threw up her hands in distress, and looked sadly at the destruction which the hail had wrought in the fields; but she soon comforted herself. She knew that her father had them insured against hail. Now they should have something in return for the tax they had paid so many years. When she reached the beautiful pear-tree which before had looked like a nosegay, she stood still. The storm had shaken off almost all the pears, and they lay scattered on the ground. Thoma called a girl who was working in the potato field to come and pick them up. Then she went on her way.
Everything reminded her of her first and only walk with Anton, after their betrothal. Since then she had not been on this road. She avoided the spot where Vetturi had spoken to her; but where she had rested, and Anton had stroked her face with the lily of the valley, she paused awhile. There was no sound in the forest; not a bird sang, a sultry stillness brooded over moss and grass on which the sunbeams quivered, the path was strewn with dead and green branches, and the trees which had been tapped for resin were broken down. The way was not clear and open again till she reached the path through the meadow where the grass was still trodden down from the celebration. The water in the river was yellow, and ran in high, roaring waves almost to the upper arch of the bridge.
The hostess of the Sword Inn nodded to Thoma from the window. Thoma responded and hurried past.
The judge's wife was not at home, but the maid--saying that she would be back soon: she had only gone to the station; her brother was expected, and might perhaps come by the first train--opened the corner room, where Thoma was to wait.
An air full of rest and comfort, full of refreshing odors from blooming plants on tables and pedestals, surrounded Thoma; and her eyes wandered over the beautiful pictures and statues on which the sun shone so brightly. Everything was as still as the flowers and the pictures; even the clock over the writing-table, among the family pictures, moved its pendulum without making the least noise.
Thoma sat down in the corner. The river and the mountains of her home appeared strange to her; everything looked so different through these great panes of glass.
The judge's wife soon entered, with a fresh bouquet of field flowers in her hand. She welcomed Thoma heartily, and the tones of her voice were both gentle and firm.
"How beautiful it is at your house! How very beautiful!" Thoma said, her voice trembling.
"I am glad that it pleases you."
"Oh! and to think," Thoma went on, "that this lady who has such a beautiful home goes to the huts of the poor--goes to Cushion-Kate!"
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable with me. How is your mother?"
"Better, but not quite well yet."
"Do you bring me good news from your father?"
"My father says nothing to me. I learned from strangers that he went with you to see Cushion-Kate. His going there shows that you can do more with him than any one else. May I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"Did my father ask Cushion-Kate's forgiveness? And did he confess?"
"Confess? Your father is acquitted."
"Indeed! Then I have nothing more to say. I beg you to let what I have said be as if unheard."
"Dear Thoma, try and think that I am your mother's sister. Have confidence in me. I see that something weighs down your heart. I beg you disburden your soul."
"Yes, I will; even if it does no good, it must come out. Dear lady, I--I saw it with my own eyes. I saw how the stone from my father's hand hit Vetturi; and Vetturi no more picked up a stone than that picture on the wall picks up one. Then my father went and denied everything; and caused all the witnesses and the whole court to lie. O heavens! What have I said?"
"Be quiet. So you think then your father should have confessed?"
"Certainly, right out. I would have gone to our Grand Duke and kneeled before him; but justice would have been done. 'I did not mean to kill him, I did it in anger,'--that is honest and brings one to honor again. How often has my father spoken in anger and derision of this one and that one who pretends to be richer than he is and deceives people for money--for money! And what good has it done my father? He must beg from the lowest, for a good word or even for silence. Madam Pfann! last year on Whitsunday I was with my father at St. Blasius. There was a woman there who had painted her cheeks red, and put flour on her neck and forehead. There she sat, in broad daylight, and looked boldly at people, to see if they saw her beautiful red cheeks and white neck, while she herself knew that she was not young, but on the contrary, old and wrinkled."
"I understand. You think it is unworthy of your father."
"Unworthy?" repeated Thoma, for this expression, from a higher sphere of thought, affected her strangely; and the judge's wife continued: "Child, your thoughts at first were not so hard, but by degrees they have grown sharper, have become bitterer and more poignant; and that which should have softened you only made you more harsh. When your father was humble it revolted you, and when he was proud, likewise."
Thoma's eyes grew larger and larger. She was like a patient whom the physician tells exactly how he feels; and this amazement at another's knowledge becomes a preparation for, and the commencement of a cure.
The judge's wife laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Dear Thoma, in imprisonment a man can only do no evil; but at liberty he can do good. My child, your love of truth is good, beautiful, and excellent, but--how shall I say it?--it is not in place now----"
The good lady was sensible of a deep embarrassment, and her face reddened as though with shame. She, who was always urging straightforwardness, should she now shake this girl's strict truth?
But she recovered herself, and continued: "If your father did deny the truth, he is suffering a heavy punishment, because you also deny it."
"I?"
"Yes. You disown your child's heart. Don't tremble. You need not promise me anything, except that you will once again examine yourself earnestly and conscientiously. And your doing so will show itself in the matter for which in reality I sent for you. My brother may soon come, and I must arrange this with you quickly."
The judge's wife then told her about Anton; how much every one esteemed and loved him; and how honorably and beautifully he had expressed himself after his return from Holland. She showed Thoma her mistake--how she, from upright and honorable feeling--and this commendation did good--was acting wrongly, both toward her parents and her lover.
"You think," she added, "you think you cannot call your lover yours again, because you cannot bring him the same honor that he brings you."
"Oh, how do you know everything?"
"But you do not know, or have forgotten, that love does not calculate--so much have you, and so much have I. Collect yourself and build up your happiness for yourself and your lover, and your parents, and all who mean well and kindly by you, as I do. Hush! There's someone coming up stairs."
The door opened; the counselor entered, and the judge's wife embraced him.
"Welcome, dear Julius."
Thoma stood at one side, and the judge's wife introduced her brother, the government counselor. Thoma could not answer a word. A counselor is a brother, and is called "dear Julius!" A government counselor was to her a sort of executioner, who brought people to the block. And now, as this courteous gentleman put his eye-glass up, she was aware that this was the man who had prosecuted her father. Defiance and smiles alternated swiftly in her manner. "Would not I, too, have defended myself against this man with all means in my power?" She did not recover her speech until, after the introduction, the counselor let his eyeglass fall. As if in a dream, she heard him say:
"Your father made a master-stroke. He played for a high stake, but he won it. I wish him good fortune. Give him my greeting."
"So, even the judges do not look at it so severely!" Thoma thought.
The counselor opened the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, and said to his sister:
"I shall be glad to play a duet with you again."
Thoma prepared to go. The judge's wife accompanied her to the stairs, and begged her again not to delay making things happy and right once more. She should remember that we do not know how long we shall have our parents, and then repentance comes too late.
A sudden fear overcame Thoma that she had stayed here too long, and she hastened homeward. At the pear-tree the Galloping Cooper met her, and said that he had been sent to tell her to come home quickly; that her mother was very ill.
Not long after Thoma had gone, her mother called Landolin and said:
"Put your mind at ease and be cheerful again. You may be sure that Thoma will come home with pure happiness and blessing. Everything will be right again. She will come holding Anton's hand."
Landolin was silent. He was struck by his wife's glorified expression, and changed voice. She closed her eyes, but after a while she said, laughing:
"Walderjörgli! Nothing has pleased me so much for a long time as his greeting. When I am well again you must take me up to see him."
Landolin nodded. He could not tell his wife that the news had just come that Walderjörgli was dying.
Landolin went into the living-room and looked out of the window. He saw the agent of the Hail Insurance Company come out of the field with the bailiff and several of the town council. The agent was putting his note-book into his pocket. The men had evidently been looking at and estimating the damages done by the hail. They drew nearer to Landolin's house, and he greeted them pleasantly, but the agent nodded, and was passing by.
"Well! How is it?" asked Landolin. "Have you not looked at my fields and valued the damages? And why without me?"
The agent replied that Landolin was no longer insured; that Peter had discontinued in the spring.
Landolin drew back and shut the window. He probably did not want to show the people how this news of Peter's willfulness and indiscretion surprised him. He sat down on the bench, and pressing his hands between his knees, and biting his lips, he thought: "Now they are laughing at me; now they can rejoice in my trouble, and the more because it is plain to be seen that I am of no consequence in my own house."
He went into the yard, and asked for Peter. He was told that he had gone into the forest with the horses. He said to himself: "It is well that my anger has time to cool; there shall be no quarrel. They shan't have the satisfaction of rejoicing at our misunderstanding, but Peter must be made to own that he has been thoughtless."
Landolin seemed to have conquered his uneasiness; and again looked out of the window, and saw Peter coming with a great load of wood. He called to him to come into the living-room, after he had unhitched and unloaded, for he had something to say to him. It was long before Peter obeyed, and Landolin, whose anger was ready to boil over again, preached composure to himself. At length he came, and asked what his father wanted.
Landolin took a chair and said: "Sit down."
"I can stand."
"Don't speak so loud. Your mother is sick in the bedroom."
"I'm not speaking loud."
"Very well, then; come away with me to the porch."
They went out together, and Landolin said that he was only going to speak in kindness, and Peter must understand it so; that he had made a mistake in discontinuing the hail insurance, and it should be a warning to him. He should see that his father had, after all, done some things better than he, and that he ought to confess his mistake.
"Confession is not to be spoken of between us," replied Peter, defiantly.
Landolin felt a pain in his breast, as though he had been stabbed with a dagger. He groaned, and said:
"Only think how the people will ridicule us!"
"It would be well if that were all the ground they had. They do it at many other things. That's enough! I won't be found fault with."
"I didn't find fault with you."
"Very well. You can deny that too if you like. There are no witnesses."
"Peter, don't provoke me. I was only speaking to you in kindness."
"I didn't see any."
"Peter, don't force me to lay hands on you."
"Do it. Kill me, as you did Vetturi, and then deny it."
A cry sounded from the porch; but another, much shriller, rang from the living-room. Landolin rushed in. On the threshold of the chamber door lay his wife, a corpse.
She had evidently heard the quarrel; had wanted to make peace; and had dropped dead.
Peter too had come into the living-room; but Landolin motioned him away, and he obeyed.
They laid his wife on the bed again. Landolin sat beside her a long time; then he went out and said they must send a messenger for Thoma.
It was not long before Thoma came into the room. She sank down beside the body, and cried:
"O mother, mother! Now, I am all alone in the world--all alone!"
When she looked around for her father, he was no longer there.
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.
The rain had passed over and had come back again, and now seemed to make itself quite at home in the valley and on the height.
When Landolin followed his wife's coffin down the outer stairs, he caught, step by step, with his left hand at the wall of the house, as though he needed support. The school children, who were in the yard singing the funeral hymn, looked up at the changed man.
At the burial, at which one could hardly hear the words of the pastor, for the pattering of the rain on the open umbrellas, there was only a small attendance, although she was honored and loved by the whole neighborhood. For at the same hour that the bells were tolling here, they were also tolling on the mountain in Hoechenbrand, the highest village in the province, for the funeral of Walderjörgli.
For this reason Anton was not present. He had to lead the soldier's association, which had decided to go in a body and pay the last honors to the last Master of Justice.
Among the men with long black mantles, who carried Landolin's wife's coffin, relieving one another from time to time, was one who from the house to the open grave did not move from his post. It was Tobias. In the short time since he had been dismissed from the farm he had grown old fast; and the former crafty expression of his face had disappeared.
As the funeral procession left the church-yard, Cushion-Kate was seen kneeling on her son's grave. She had no umbrella, which even the poorest always has. She was kneeling on the ground, letting the rain pour down upon her red kerchief and her dress, and did not look up.
"I would like to go to her," said Thoma; "I should think she would accept a kind word from us now in our sorrow; but I am afraid she will rave and abuse us here by mother's new-made grave."
As Landolin and Thoma went past, Cushion-Kate's glance followed them, and she clenched her fist. Had she expected the mourners to go to her?
A man struggling with a river's death-bringing waves cries involuntarily for help, even though he is weary of life. Thus, tossed on the waves of sorrow and pain, of hate and revenge, the sad, gloomy soul hearkens for rescue--for a storm dispelling word.
"Why does no one help me?" Landolin had so often thought. Perhaps the poor bereaved woman there now asks, "Why does no one help me?"
Through his deep, dark grief for his wife's death, his child's love shone like a star that he had won back. He looked at Thoma, who walked beside him, and over his sorrow-worn face there flashed, as it were, a swift gleam of joy. He heard indeed what Thoma had said; but he could not think of strangers now.
At home, in the yard, in the living-room, in the chamber, it seemed as though all the lifeless things had been robbed of a nameless something, and as though they all were waiting for the dead to come back and greet them with her cheering smile!
Saying nothing, his eyes fastened upon the floor, Landolin was sitting in his chair, when the pastor soon after presented himself again at the house of mourning. He spoke words of comfort, but when he had gone Landolin said, "He goes away again. He lives for himself; no one lives for me any longer."
The regular stroke of the threshers awoke him from his reverie. These sounds were not new to him, but they startled him from his chair. To-day, the day of his wife's funeral, they still keep on threshing? But, to be sure, in this streaming rain, there is nothing else for the servants and day-laborers to do.
His wife's brother came; it was the first time he had shown himself since Thoma's betrothal. He did not say much; and not until Thoma came in, who in composed self-forgetfulness was attending to everything, were friendly words spoken. It was arranged that the so-called "Black Mass" should be said for the departed one in the village where she was born.
The uncle asked for Peter. He was called, and they sat down at the table. They ate, and when the uncle went away, Peter, who had scarcely spoken a word, accompanied him.
"Come up again, Peter," his father called after him; but he neither answered nor came back.
Peter's taciturnity from this day on became more marked.
When the candles were lit, Landolin said:
"This is her first night in the grave; I wish I lay beside her in the ground."
Thoma tried to comfort her father, but he said, looking at the light:
"You will see, Anton will come to-day when he gets back from Hoechenbrand. And if he does not come, do you know what I shall do? I'll go to him to-morrow. I haven't a day to lose. 'Twould be better if I were to go to-day; now."
"Father, it's raining as hard as it can pour. You must not go to-day; you are no longer young, and must not hurt yourself."
"Very well; I'll do as you say. Say good-night to Peter for me."
The whole house was silent. Landolin and Thoma slept, overcome by the fatigue of grief. But Peter tossed in his bed for a long time, and did not find rest until he had resolved that he would again give all honor and control of affairs to his father. He would do it, but would not say so; for he had become again, and more than ever, "the silent Peter."
The day awoke, but it did not seem like day; the rain had ceased, but thick clouds enwrapped mountain and valley in deep shade.
When Landolin was again alone with Thoma, he said:
"I'll not stay on the farm; I'll live with you at the mill. You will take good care of me, and the Dutchman is just the right comrade for me now. I'll not be useless or burdensome to you. Peter can take the farm and pay you your portion. I think he has an eye on one of Titus' daughters. I don't care. I've nothing against it. But I want to stay with you the few years I have left; and when I die, bury me beside your mother."
Thoma nodded silently; then she said: "I would like to let the judge's wife know how matters are between us now. She has been very good to us."
"That is very true; and we'll invite her to the wedding; and she must lead the bride in the mother's place. Your mother in heaven will rejoice in your happiness; she said so before, but she thought you would bring Anton home with you then."
The bells rang, and Thoma said it was time to go to church, where mass was to be said for her mother's soul. Landolin and his two children went to church. Peter's silence couldn't strike any one, for no one spoke a word.
When they came out of church, the clouds had disappeared, with the exception of some small flaky ones that crept over the mountains. "Thank God, the sun has come again," each one thought; and their sorrowful faces brightened.
In the yard Peter separated from his father and sister, and gave orders, in brief words, for every one to go into the field, to bind and stack the oats that were cut, and put them up to dry; then he went into the stable. Landolin soon came out and ordered a horse to be saddled; for he wanted to ride to the saw-mill to see Anton and his father.
"Yes, father; but you can't take the bay mare: its colt is only a few days old."
"Then let me have the black horse."
"Yes, father; but I really need him in the field, and----"
"And what?"
Peter shot a startled glance, perhaps also an evil one, at his father, when he spoke these words so sharply, but he repeated them still more sharply: "And what? Speak out. You could speak well enough a while ago."
Peter was evidently struggling with his anger, when he replied, in a calm tone:
"I don't know why, but the black horse isn't good for riding now. You can't ride him."
"I can't? I can ride the wildest horse!" cried Landolin, lifting his clenched hand; and going to the stall, he unfastened the horse.
Landolin had said these words with no double meaning, but because his pride was hurt by the hint that there was a horse which he was not able to ride. But Peter understood the words to have a different meaning; he thought his father had meant to say that he should be able to get the better of him again.
The black horse was saddled; Landolin unchained his dog and mounted.
Thoma had come out into the yard, and her father gave her his hand, saying, "If we were not in mourning you should fasten a sprig of rosemary on my coat with a red ribbon." The cows were just then let out to drink, and Landolin cried, "Thoma, you shall have the prize cow. May God keep you! Peter, give me your hand. I'll often come up from the saw-mill to see you."
He urged his horse forward, so that it reared and struck sparks from the paving-stones at the very spot where Vetturi had fallen.
Landolin mastered it with a strong hand. His son and daughter watched him from the gateway as he let the horse prance down the road; their father appeared again in all his old stateliness; and where the road bends into the forest toward the valley he turned around and lifted his hat in greeting.
As Thoma turned again toward the house an open carriage drove up from the other side, and in it sat the judge's wife with her brother the counselor. They stopped and got out. They had come to comfort the mourners, and the judge's wife heard, to her great joy, on what mission Landolin had gone.
While Landolin was riding to the valley, Peter had saddled the other horse for himself, had dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and now, wrapped in his mantle and noticed by no one, took the road to the city, across the bridge that was almost covered by the water.
At the Crown Inn he ordered a pint of beer without dismounting. Then he trotted up the opposite hill to the plateau where Titus lived.
Peter did not look around much, but once he stopped to observe a strange sight; for on the rocks by the roadside were a large number of hawks. There were evidently young ones among them, whom the old ones were talking to, and encouraging to fly. They tried it, and in their outcries there must have been great pride and happiness; the nest was so narrow, the air is so wide, and prey that can be caught and killed is flying everywhere. And when the young ones have learned to fly, they care no more for the old ones.
"Where are you going so soon?" Peter was asked. The questioner was Fidelis, his former servant, who was now in Titus' service.
"Glad I've met you. Is Titus at home, and----?"
He was probably about to say, "and his daughter too." But he kept that part of it back. Fidelis said "Yes;" and without wasting another word on him, Peter rode on.
Titus' farmhouse was not so isolated as Landolin's; there were several cottages near by. Titus had bought the houses and fields from----emigrants, and had added them to his farm. The gates were wide open, and things were going on merrily inside. A large hog had just been killed, and Titus' daughter stood beside it with her sleeves rolled up.
"There comes Peter of Reutershöfen," said the butcher, taking a knife from between his teeth. "What does he want so soon? His mother was only buried yesterday."
Peter called out welcome to Titus' daughter, and jumping nimbly from his horse, he held out his hand to her. But she said her hands were wet; she could not give him one; and she disappeared.
Peter went into the living-room, where Titus sat at a large table, figuring on some papers that lay before him.
"Oh, that's you!" he called out to Peter; "you're come just in time for butcher's soup. Sit down."
Peter did not use much ceremony, but told his wish. His mother was dead; his father had gone to see Anton to-day to straighten out matters for Thoma again; and was going to give up the farm and live with her at the saw-mill. "So," said Peter, in conclusion, "you know what I want. I need a wife."
"You go ahead quickly," replied Titus; "but I have no objection. Have you already spoken to Marianne?"
"Not exactly; but I guess it'll be all right."
"I think so too. Shall I call her?"
"Yes."
Titus sent a maid for his daughter; but she sent back, asking her father to "come to her for a few minutes."
"What does that mean?" said Titus. He was not used to have his children oppose any of his orders. "Excuse me," he said to Peter; and left the room.
Peter felt cornered: how would it be if he had to ride home dejected? Perhaps he had a suspicion of what was going on between Titus and his daughter; for she said:
"Father, do you want me to take Peter? Yesterday his mother was buried, and to-day he goes courting."
Titus declared that that was of no consequence, and when Marianne began to express a dislike, an aversion, to Peter, he interrupted her peremptorily.
"Peter is a substantial farmer. So there's nothing more to be said about it. You must take him. Put on another dress and make haste to come in."
He returned to Peter, and said, "The matter is arranged."
But Marianne said to the old maid-servant in her bedroom, "I take him because I must; but he shall pay for it. He shall find out who I am."
She entered the room. Peter held out his hand to her, simply saying that this was only for the present; that to-morrow or Sunday his father would come and ask for her hand in the usual form.
"Yes, your father," interrupted Titus. "Does he know that you are here?"
"It isn't necessary for my father to know; the farm has been in my hands for a long time, and I've only let him appear to be of some consequence before the world."
"Yes; but does your father know that I was one of those who said guilty?"
"No, he need never know it."
While they were speaking a man came with the message that Peter must come immediately to Anton's saw-mill, for Landolin was in great danger.
Just as the butcher's soup was served, and Peter's mouth was watering for it, he was obliged to leave.