Landolin

CHAPTER XXXIX

It was a source of vexation to Landolin that the people of rank of the Casino did not notice him; and as their wagon went slowly up the hill, he said to his wife, with unaccustomed tenderness:

"We'll not concern ourselves at all about the world, but be happy in having each other and being together again. Nobody cares for a man as his own family does."

His wife looked at him in astonishment, and her careworn face shone in the clear moonlight. She was not used to such affection from Landolin, and she had never known that he felt any need of sympathy.

"Is Thoma ill?" he asked, after a little while.

"No, only frightened, and angry about Anton. She goes around for days without speaking a word; but she works busily, and eats and drinks as usual. To be sure, she doesn't sleep as she should. I made her sleep with me; but she would not lie in your bed, and I had to give her mine."

"Everything will come around all right now," said Landolin. For his part, he thought it strange that his wife, contrary to her usual habit, had so much to say; but he wanted to hear more, so he asked:

"Has the prize cow a bull calf?"

"Yes; coal black, with a white star on its forehead, and stout hoofs. Didn't Peter tell you that we were going to raise it?"

As for Peter, who sat on the front seat driving, his sides shook. He was evidently laughing.

Landolin, who had striven against the temptation, at last yielded, and asked:

"How does Cushion-Kate get along?"

His wife did not answer, and Landolin repeated impatiently, "Don't you hear me? Didn't you hear what I said? I asked how Cushion-Kate was getting along."

"Don't scream so! You have changed very much."

"It's you, not I, that have changed. Why don't you give me an answer?"

"Because I have none to give. Last night Cushion-Kate was not at home. Early this morning she came back, and lit a fire for the first time in many days. She must have been at the grave yesterday, for the pastor found her red kerchief there, and sent it to her. Since then she has disappeared again; and her goat cries terribly, for it has had no fodder. The poor animal-"

"What do I care for the goat! I don't know how it is-either everybody is crazy or I am crazy myself. Is this my forest? Are those my fields? To whom do these horses and this wagon belong? Say, am I crazy?"

"If you go on in this way, you'll make both me and yourself so. For God's sake, don't torment us both! What do you want with Cushion-Kate just now?"

His wife had scarcely uttered these words, when Cushion-Kate rushed out of the forest, and grasped the horse's reins.

"Let go!" cried Peter. "Let go! or I'll drive over you."

"Hold still!" said Landolin. "Kate! I mean well by you."

"But I don't mean well by you. They didn't cut off your head. They didn't hang you. You shall hang yourself. There is your forest, with thousands and thousands of trees. They all wait for you to hang yourself on them."

"Oh, Kate! come here to me," besought his wife. But Kate continued to pour terrible execrations.

"Give her a cut with the whip," cried Landolin; "give it to me; I'll strike her."

"No, father, I'll fix it," said Peter; and springing down quickly, he pushed Kate to one side; then, mounting again, he drove rapidly up the hill.

Landolin's wife looked back, and drawing a long breath, said: "Thank God! she has sat down on those stones. Some one has come up the hill, and is speaking to her."

CHAPTER XL

When they reached home, Peter cracked his whip loudly, and drove through the open gate to the house. A strange servant brought a chair; Peter helped his mother out, then turned to assist his father, who said:

"Never mind! I'm still able-"

He stood again on his own ground. No sound of welcome was heard, save the barking of the chained dog.

The bright moon lit up the square yard, which was neatly paved, and entirely changed in appearance.

"Who made these changes?" asked Landolin.

"Thoma had them made," replied her mother.

Landolin understood it. She desired for her own sake, and perhaps for his, that the place where the murder was committed should be no longer recognizable.

"Again I say, God keep you, and I bid you most heartily welcome," said his wife, in a tone full of emotion. "May the years that are still granted to you pass in peace!"

"There, there, that will do," responded Landolin. He went to the dog and unfastened his chain. The dog leaped up against his old master, and ran round and round about him, wild with joy.

"That's a good dog," said Landolin. "Be quiet. You know me, don't you? They said my hands were covered with blood; but you don't smell anything wrong, do you? The only faithful thing in the world is a dog."

The tears on his wife's cheeks glittered in the moonlight, and he said, turning toward her,

"Go in first!"

"No, you go first, you are the master. It was just such a night as this when we came home for the first time after our marriage; then you went first into the house. It seems like a wedding again."

She held out her hand for him. He gave it to her, and hand in hand they went up the steps. As he entered the room, she sprinkled him with holy water from the basin that stood at the door.

There was no one in the room but an old servant.

"Where is Thoma?" asked Landolin.

"She is in her bedroom."

"Tell her to come here; that I have got home."

"I called to her through the closed door, but she did not answer."

Landolin seated himself in the great arm-chair, and his wife gave thanks to God that her husband sat there once more. She had often doubted that he ever would again. Landolin looked at her, and it seemed to him that she reeled to and fro, and that the room and furniture were all in motion. He straightened himself with an effort, went out on the porch, and knocked at Thoma's door. Nothing moved.

"Thoma, I am here, your father."

The door was unbolted and Thoma stood before him. In a constrained voice she said: "Welcome, father!"

"Have you nothing more to say to me?"

"You never liked people to talk much."

Landolin took his daughter's hand, which she had not offered him.

"My child, do you no longer love me?"

"I should never ask a child such a question."

"My child, I am a poor man; as poor as a beggar. Do you understand me?"

Thoma shook her head, and her father continued:

"I have sinned against you all, especially against you; but now I beg you to forgive me. Don't let me perish." His heart beat so fast that he could not speak another word. As Thoma still remained silent, he turned quickly away, and went with tottering steps to the living-room. He listened to hear if Thoma would not follow him; but he heard nothing.

He looked at the table in the living-room, and asked:

"Is that a new table?"

"No, but Thoma had it planed because the holes were there."

Landolin remembered having stuck the fork in the table.

Steps were now heard. It was not Thoma, but the pastor, who came. His words were kind and comforting, but Landolin stared at him blankly. True, he saw him, but he heard him not; his thoughts were with his daughter, who was so terribly changed. It was not until the pastor mentioned Cushion-Kate, and said that she had grown wild and uncontrollable, and talked most blasphemously, that Landolin paid any attention to what he said. And when the pastor added that it seemed as if Cushion-Kate had gone crazy, he cried:

"There are insane asylums for such people. She should be put into one. The town can pay for it."

"That's not so easily done; the district physician will have to order it."

Thoma had unexpectedly appeared, and brought in the supper, which she had had prepared. The pastor started to leave, but upon Thoma's and her mother's entreaties he remained. They needed a man of peace to bring quiet and concord. The meal-time passed cheerfully, and Landolin ate ravenously. During a pause, he asked: "Herr Pastor, is neither the young bailiff nor any of the councilmen at home? It would be no more than proper for them to call. They must have known that I was coming."

The pastor seemed to find no answer, and Landolin's wife spared him embarrassment by reminding her husband that he had said that he would no longer concern himself about other people.

When the pastor took his leave, Landolin accompanied him respectfully. Pausing before the house, the pastor said in a low tone:

"Give me half."

"Half of what?"

"When you were in prison, did you not vow a hundred times that when you were released you would give liberally to the poor and the church? Give me half, or a third, or a fourth."

"Herr Pastor, you're joking. It is too soon for me to joke with you."

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me," said the pastor. As he turned away, Landolin looked after him scornfully.

He went to the well and drank of the water that poured swiftly from it. As he wiped his mouth, he said to his wife who was looking out of the window:

"Nothing in the world quenches my thirst so, and makes me feel so well and fresh as water from our own well."

"Come in, it is bed-time."

CHAPTER XLI

Landolin strove to think of something else than that which, against his will, forced itself upon him; and asked his wife after they had got to their room:

"Is there nothing new? Hasn't anything happened all this long time?"

"No; at least not much. The old Dobel-Farmer was so badly hurt, unloading a wagon-load of wood, that he died. Perhaps you heard of it. The government has bought the Dieslinger farm for a forest. The owner of the Syringa farm is married again. In Heidlingen they have a new minister. The former one tried to make his church Old-Catholic, as they call it; and the Improvement Society, as they call it, has laid out a new road near our forest. The superintendent, the good old General, has often been here, and asked after you."

Thus his wife went on.

"Who came to see you oftenest while I was away?"

"My brother. But there were a good many other people who came to condole with me. I wouldn't listen to their pity, so after awhile they stopped coming."

"Didn't the miller ever come to see you?"

"No; not once."

"That's just like a Dutchman. He won't go unless he's pushed. To-morrow I'll straighten matters between Anton and Thoma. I'll go and see the miller."

"Don't do that. Don't try to hitch up so fast. You understand what I mean. You know when a man wants to turn a wagon round, or back his horses, he can't do it on a gallop."

"Aha!" thought Landolin, "she's trying to be smart. Everybody thinks they're smarter than I am."

As Landolin was silent, his wife continued: "Now, you go to sleep. I'm sleepy."

The quiet did not last long, for Landolin tossed back and forth on his bed, and sighed and groaned.

"What is the matter? Aren't you tired?"

"Oh, wife, I can't make it real that I am not alone; and that the sword no longer hangs over my head. I see the counselor's glittering eye-glass on its black ribbon all the time. Indeed, you haven't your old husband any more. You have another-and I can't abide the fellow, he's so soft-hearted. I wish you would often remind me not to care for what other people think. They have forgotten me, and I'll do what I can to forget them. Only you must be very patient with me; but don't give up to me, and don't let me be so soft-hearted."

The strong man wept bitter tears in the depth of the night, and called out, almost with a curse:

"May my eyes run out if I ever weep again, as long as we two live together! I make this promise to you, and to myself. Others cannot embitter my life, if I do not embitter it myself. Yes, yes! Self-defense! Self-defense!"

His wife lighted a candle, and tried to comfort the self-tormented man. He said, at length:

"One thing more. Cushion-Kate called after me, that I must make away with myself-I won't do that, for your sake."

His wife stroked his hand, wet with freshly-fallen tears.

"I won't give people the satisfaction of thinking we need sympathy. Leave the candle burning; and then, if I wake up again, I shall know I am no longer in prison. Good-night, we'll go to sleep now."

He slept until late in the day. His wife rose gently and went about her work, carefully avoiding the least noise that might wake her husband. She blessed every moment that brought him sleep and exhilarating strength and health.

CHAPTER XLII

Thoma was still in the harvest field when Landolin came into the living-room. His wife sat down beside him, and he said:

"You can't think how different food tastes when one has to eat it alone, in prison."

"Don't let your thoughts run back to that all the time."

"Has any one been here to see me?"

"No. But remember what you said last night."

Yes, that was easily said; but Landolin could not help thinking of the people outside, and how it could be possible that they were not at least curious to look at him again.

He looked out of the window. Heavily laden grain-wagons passed by, but no farmer, no servant, so much as gave a glance toward his house. The new bailiff came up the road, steadying the wagon with his pitchfork. He had evidently seen Landolin from a distance; for, not far from the house, he walked to the other side of the wagon, where he could not be seen.

Landolin drew back into the room, and seating himself in the great arm-chair he drummed awhile on its arms, then went into the bedroom and pulled on his high boots.

"You're not going out?" said his wife. He looked at her in astonishment. This questioning, this observation of all he did or left undone, was distasteful to him. He was about to say so to his wife, but checked himself, and explained that in prison he had worn slippers, and he felt like putting on his boots again, and going out.

The cracking of a whip was heard in the yard.

It was Peter on the saddle horse, driving the four-horse grain-wagon. Landolin went out, and met Thoma with sunburnt face following the wagon. For a while she looked at her father in silence, as though she could find nothing to say. Her look was severe and gloomy.

"Good morning, Thoma."

"Good morning, father," she replied. A milder frame of mind seemed to gain predominance as she looked on her father's care-worn face, but she threw back her head as if to shake off the gentle feeling. Now that father and daughter met in the clear light of day, they seemed unfamiliar-yes, almost strange in appearance to each other. To Thoma her father appeared smaller in size than she remembered him; and the self-confident, defiant expression of his face had become uncertain and timorous.

On the other hand Thoma had grown stronger, prouder, more erect in her carriage; her eyebrows seemed to have sunk lower; and between them deep, narrow wrinkles had been traced. These are furrows from which a bitter harvest springs.

"Good morning, master," was the greeting of the head-servant Tobias, in a confidential tone. "You will find everything, the stock and the fields, in good condition."

Landolin only nodded. So Peter had not yet dismissed the head-servant; perhaps he will not do it.

Landolin spoke to the servant who had been taken in Fidelis' place; and asked him, condescendingly, from what district he came, and in whose service he had previously been. The servant answered respectfully, and Landolin was reassured. Peter had evidently not announced that he was now to be master, and Landolin was almost grateful for this deference, which in reality was simply what was due to him. He went through the stables, and found everything well cared for. A maid, who was singing as she filled the racks with fresh clover for the cows, did not stop her song when she saw him. He looked at her in astonishment, and asked at length, "Why do you not speak to me?"

"Because I've hired out to the Gerlach farmer, and the other two maids are going too."

"Why?"

"Peter has dismissed us; but we would have gone anyway."

Landolin went into the yard again, and while he unfastened the dog's chain and patted him, he said,

"You'll not forsake me, will you?" He pushed the dog's jaws apart, to look into his mouth. "You must be happy! they have broken out my teeth. I can bite no more, and people are no longer afraid of me. Come; hold still, while I put a spiked collar round your neck. I must have something of the kind for myself."

He went in and sat down in his arm-chair. The dog lay on the floor beside him. Strange! The chair is not so easy as it used to be-the seat is hard, the back too straight! But, notwithstanding this, Landolin forced himself to stay quietly at home. He felt sure that somebody or other would call, if only as they were passing. He frequently looked toward the door; but it did not open, and no one came.

Finally, when evening drew near, he went out of doors.

CHAPTER XLIII

Only a few months ago a strong man had crossed this threshold. He was now changed, and the world was changed, particularly his own household. During his absence he had constantly thought how merry it was at home. And yet there was nothing merrier there than quiet, uninterrupted work; and he himself had always been a stern, morose man, before whom every one in the house, save Thoma, trembled. To be sure Thoma had always been light-hearted, and perhaps that was why he thought the whole household merry.

With downcast gaze Landolin went up the road. His present frame of mind was the most injurious a man could be in, and highly improper for a farmer. He was irritable, and, as is always the case with irritable people, he was weak and helpless, and trusted to external causes to bring him new energy and incitement.

As he raised his eyes he saw, at some distance, a woman with a red kerchief approaching him. Is that "Cushion-Kate?" Should he turn back?

He called the dog nearer to him; but it was not "Cushion-Kate;" it was a stranger.

See! There comes the "Galloping-Cooper." He was walking faster than usual, and as he hurried by he said "Good evening" carelessly, and without waiting for a response. Landolin stood still, looked back after him, and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at the beggarly man, who once, if he wanted to borrow a log of wood for barrel staves, could not find submissive words enough. "Not another chip shall you have from me," said Landolin to himself as he walked on. He had now reached the bailiff's farm. The watch-dog rushed out at Racker; but as soon as he saw the spiked collar he fled. Racker started in pursuit of the coward; but Landolin called him back. The bailiff, who was sitting astride a block of wood, mending a scythe, must certainly have heard him, but he did not look up; and not until Landolin stood in front of him and spoke, did he stop hammering. Then, running his fingers along the edge of the scythe, to see if there were any notches left, he said:

"Back again, eh?"

"As you see. Down! Racker." The dog had been standing perfectly still beside him; and it seemed as though he visited upon the dog a fit of anger which something else had provoked. It galled him that the bailiff should speak so disrespectfully, neither offering to shake hands, nor rising; but he said with a forced smile:

"I only came to tell you, and you may announce it generally, that I shall not be a candidate for councilman for this district at the election; and that I resign my office of judge of the orphans' court."

"All right. I'll attend to it."

Landolin stared at the young bailiff. Is that the way to speak to him? Must he put up with that? And not dare to get angry and give blow for blow? Yes, Landolin; you are no longer feared. Curb your passions, and learn to rule yourself.

After a long pause, during which Landolin struggled against his indignation, he said abruptly:

"Good by."

"Good by," was the dry answer.

Landolin walked away, and the bailiff went on hammering his scythe. But the strokes fell faster and faster; for he thought exultingly that he had treated Landolin as he deserved, for having brought scandal and dishonor upon the whole district. Had not Landolin acted as though he could still lay claim to something? "Now, I think, he'll know what his standing is."

But Landolin only knew that the whole world was hostile to him, and begrudged him his life.

"Good evening, Mr. Ex-bailiff." Thus he was suddenly accosted.

He looked up and saw a rough-looking young man of sinewy make standing before him, and taking off his hat. Disordered, bristly hair fell over his forehead into the unquiet, black eyes, that wandered restlessly here and there.

"Who are you?"

"The ex-bailiff does not remember me? I am Engelbert, the shepherd of Gerlachseck. I have been waiting for you."