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."