CHAPTER LXVII
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.
CHAPTER LXVIII
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.
CHAPTER LXIX
The wild water rushes from mountain to valley. It flows and splashes through all the ditches. Even through the middle of the road a small brook has torn its way. It is all so merry, and to-morrow it will not be there.
In the fields men work busily; every year they cut the grass and grain. The forest trees grow many years, but at last the axe fells or the storm uproots them. Only the earth, in which men are buried, remains.
Down in the rapids, not far from the Devil's-kettle, lies an uprooted pine. No one can pull it out. In the summer-time the ground caves in; in winter the ice is too slippery. So this tree had stood many, many years by the whirlpool, and had forced its roots into the rocky bed. The water sprinkled upon it from the falls had nourished it so richly; and now it is done with decaying-. "What a pity for the fine, valuable tree!" was really Landolin's last thought.
The black horse neighed loudly, then looked back at his master, who held the reins so loose. Landolin straightened himself in the saddle and tightened his hold on the bridle. See, there comes Cushion-Kate, with a bundle of dry twigs. Landolin nodded approvingly at his own resolution.
"Wait; I'm coming," he cried to Cushion-Kate. She stopped and threw down the bundle of wood. Landolin sprang from his horse, and holding it by the bridle, he said:
"Kate, my wife is dead."
"I suppose so; they buried her."
"I want to talk kindly to you. Who knows how long either you or I shall live?" And in deep contrition he went on, in a low tone: "You have lost your son, and I am almost persecuted to death by my son. I suffer-"
A devilish laugh interrupted him. The dog snuffed around the old woman. Landolin called him away, and continued:
"I would like to do something for you."
"Then hang yourself!" cried Cushion-Kate. Hastening to her bundle of twigs, she unfastened the string.
"There, there you have it! Hang yourself on the tree there. That's the only thing you can do for me. I want to see you hanging."
Landolin mounted his horse again, and rode away. He did not look around. He did not see how Cushion-Kate, with the cord in her hand, hastened after him through the forest.
Landolin reached the valley. The stream has risen above its bed, but there is the bridge, and just across is Anton's saw-mill.
The horse stepped gayly into the water that scarcely reached its knee. The dog waded by its side, and often looked up at his master, as though begging him to turn back. But Landolin rode on and on, and did not look around when it splashed so strangely behind him. He reached the bridge over which the water was already rushing. Just then something like a noose wound itself about his neck. He looked round. Cushion-Kate was clinging beside him to the horse. A struggle, a wrench, splash! and Cushion-Kate's red kerchief appeared for a moment; then nothing more was to be seen. Only the dog swam through the roaring waters, down to the mill, and there sprang on land.
CHAPTER LXX
The judge's wife and her brother were just about entering their carriage to return home, when a messenger came from Anton to say that Thoma and Peter must come immediately to the mill. The messenger told them that Anton had rescued the ex-bailiff from the water with great danger to his own life, and that the horse was drowned.
"But my father! Is he alive?" asked Thoma.
The messenger said that when he left they were trying to restore him, and he seemed to show signs of life.
The carriage was quickly turned round, for her guests wished to accompany Thoma. Word was sent to the field for Peter to follow at once.
They drove down into the valley as quickly as the roads, torn and damaged by the water, would allow. In the stream was a boat, and Anton called from it:
"He is alive!"
The boat had to be taken far up the stream, in order that the current might drive it to the other shore. Floating pieces of rafts and forest trees with roots and branches made the journey across long and difficult.
"Give me an oar-I've seen how it's done," begged Thoma. Anton did so; but the oar soon escaped from her hand and floated away.
"Be brave and strong, as you always are," was all that Anton said to her.
When they reached the shore she hastily begged her friends to let her go alone to her father. She could not say that she wished to keep her father from seeing the counselor, although he was so kind and friendly.
Thoma hastened to her father. The old miller was with him, and fortunately the physician also. The dog, on whose head Landolin's hand was resting, stood by the bed. The miller was unfastening the spiked collar, so that Landolin should not prick himself.
The physician motioned to Thoma to be quiet and keep at a distance, and she heard her father moan out:
"Where is she? Kate! Kate! Rope round the neck!"
Thoma could control herself no longer, but ran forward, kneeled at her father's bed and caught his hand.
"'Tis good that you are here. That's right," said Landolin. "Come here, Anton: I have brought her for you, and-the forest is yours, and the prize cow, and-"
He seemed to find no more words; he closed his eyes, but he breathed calmly, and the physician made a sign of encouragement.
Just then the door opened. Landolin opened his eyes, and the judge's wife entered.
"Oh, that's good!" cried Landolin, but suddenly perceiving the counselor, he raised himself up, and screamed:
"Keep off, glass eye! Keep off! Thoma! Anton!"
He breathed his last. When Peter came he found only his father's dead body.
On the day of Landolin's funeral, Cushion-Kate's body floated to the shore. She had a rope tightly clasped in her hand.
* * * * *
To-day Peter is master at the farm, but he is only called so; for he is, they say, not master of a penny. He married Titus' daughter, and she is said to be sharp-tongued; some even say a shrew.
Anton Armbruster is Burgomaster of Rothenkirch; and Thoma wears her honors with becoming dignity.