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."
"For me?"
"You'll surely take me into service now."
"Where do you come from?"
"From down there."
The vagrant made a motion toward the plain. "I had three years. If my master had been good to me, and had not prosecuted me----"
"So you are just out of the Penitentiary?"
The man nodded, and smiled in a confidential way.
"And why should I, in particular, take you?"
"Well, just because it is so. Of course, after this, your servants will have an easy time. You'll get a new set throughout, and you'd better have me to watch the rest."
The veins swelled on Landolin's forehead, but he concealed his annoyance, laughed aloud, and called out in a commanding tone:
"March! How dare you speak to me so? Off with you, or----"
"Oho! So you want to murder another man. You can't finish me as quickly as you did Vetturi."
He put on his hat and clenched his fists.
Without speaking another word, Landolin went on, while the vagrant called after him with threats and insult.
The evening bells began ringing. Landolin nodded, as if greeting the sound, or as though he felt they were calling him. He took a roundabout way, so as not to pass through the church-yard where Vetturi's grave was.
The church stood open. Landolin took off his hat, ordered the dog to lie down and wait for him, and was just putting his foot on the threshold, when Cushion-Kate came out. She gave him a look that made him blench; then she caught the heavy church-door, and dashed it to with such force that it fairly groaned. And louder yet the terrible woman cried:
"For you the church is closed. Raise your hand! Here, at the church door, kill me! You are equal to anything. You are rejected by God, cast out by men. You----"
The dog had sprung up. His master quieted him, and the old woman went away.
Landolin opened the door and entered the church. All was silent within, save the pendulum's measured tick, far up in the tower. A bird had flown through the open window. It fluttered about, affrighted, until it found the opening again, and Landolin was alone in the vast edifice, where the ever-burning lamp alone shed its light. No prayer escaped his lips. Rather, in imagination he gathered in the whole congregation, men and women, one by one, to their places. In imagination he took hold of each one, looked him in the face, and shook him--but what good did that do? They still hated him. Cast out, as a dead body, by the stream! Cast out. All the empty benches repeated Cushion-Kate's words.
Hate of the God of whose compassion he had been taught in his childhood, grew within him. It is not true, and if it were, what good does it do for God to be pitiful, if he does not force men to be pitiful too?
A sudden terror seized him, as though the roof were falling, and he left the church and went home.
"Has no one been here?" he asked his wife when he reached home. She said, "No;" but he did not answer her question as to where he had been and with whom he had spoken. His wife's curiosity and idle questioning were disagreeable to him. She saw that he did not value her love and care, but she was patient. For she thought she was not wise and clever enough for him, and resolved to be very careful in everything she did or said. But in the goodness of her heart, the very next moment, she tried to talk to him and cheer him, and that annoyed him. For it showed that the past was still in her thoughts; and that he did not like. She took special pains with his supper, and said: "Eat heartily, now that you are at home again."
"It does no good to wish that," he replied, "if it doesn't taste good of itself."
He waited and waited for a kind word from Thoma, but her strict and cruel truthfulness forbade her to give him one. She was dissatisfied that her father, in his weariness, and the humility which he had gained by a violent effort, should be so indulgent with Peter. Day after day she saw him taking upon himself the sole control of affairs, and her father permitting it. Yes, he even worked like a servant, and seemed to take satisfaction in being tyrannized over by his son. Everything was transformed and changed.