"The farmer works like a hired man," said the servants and day-laborers
on Landolin's farm.
It was true that Landolin was the first up in the morning, and the last
abed at night; and that he took hold of the work in the field he had
never done before. His appetite was good, and he slept all night
without tossing about. He never left the farm, neither week-days nor
Sunday; and he did what cost him a great effort: he said in the
presence of the servants that Peter should now have the control of
everything; for in the few years he had left, he wanted to see with his
own eyes how Peter would carry things on after they should be closed
forever.
His speech was milder, and his manner less haughty.
He seemed grateful that a heavy storm had passed over his house without
breaking; for his wife was out of danger. To be sure, she was yet
ailing, and had to keep her room; but she seemed to revive when she saw
that her husband had discovered the best mode of living; that is--to be
independent of the world's opinion, and to keep his own life straight.
She did not know that he had discovered what a treasure he had in his
wife, and he did not tell her; for he could not express himself on the
subject.
There were but two persons in the house whom he shunned. One of them
noticed it, and the other did not. Landolin avoided being in the same
field, or at the same work anywhere, with Thoma; for he felt as though
he were under a ban whenever she looked at him: and even when he was
not looking at her, he thought he could feel her eyes following every
motion he made. He could not imagine what more she wanted of him, since
she had forbidden his making any effort to arrange matters with Anton.
Since his coming home, and especially since the celebration, Landolin
was in the habit of shutting his eyes when he thought he was unnoticed;
and even when looking at anyone they winked incessantly, as though they
were tired and only kept open by force. A glance that Thoma gave him
made him conscious of this habit for the first time, and also apprised
him that she knew its cause.
The other person whom Landolin avoided was Tobias; for Peter persisted
in saying that Tobias must be sent away. And although Landolin was by
no means soft-hearted, especially toward servants, whom, at the best,
he considered rascals; yet the thought of this dismissal was painful to
him. He could not forget how much Tobias had helped him to his
acquittal.
Outside of the house there were two persons whom they would all have
been glad to forget entirely. One was Anton. They heard nothing from
him directly; for he had gone, with a large raft, down the Rhine to
Holland. But all the people who came to the house--and gradually many
began coming--expressed their regret that Anton was not to be his
son-in-law; and their inquiries as to the cause were unceasing.
Whoever could have observed her closely must have seen that Thoma's
eyebrows had sunk a degree lower since Anton went away. He had once
told her that his father had often urged him to go to Rotterdam with a
raft some time, and get acquainted with the daughters of his business
friends there, and look around for a wife. There was already a Dutch
woman in the neighborhood--a comfortable, clear-complexioned, good
woman, also married to a miller; and Thoma fancied that Anton could be
happy with such an honest, careful wife.
The second person whom they would have liked to forget was
Cushion-Kate. She lived quietly, and scarcely spoke with any one; but
every night she might have been seen with her lantern, at her son's
grave. Whenever she met one of Landolin's family, she stopped and
stared at them. She never returned their greeting, and always went out
of her way to avoid Landolin himself.
Landolin's wife and Thoma had both taken great pains, personally and
through friends, to help Cushion-Kate, but she refused everything.
"I will not be bought off by the murderer Landolin," was her invariable
answer. She gathered grain in every field except Landolin's. Once, when
crossing the bridge, on her way to the mill with her gleanings, she met
him on horseback. She sprang before the horse, and cried: "Get off and
drown yourself, you murderer! Ride on! Drive on! Whether you ride or
drive, you carry your hell around with you! Get off and drown
yourself!"
"Are you done? Then step out of my way," said Landolin, calmly. But as
the old woman still clung to the horse's bridle, he cried angrily:
"Let go, or I'll let you feel my whip or set Racker at you!"
The dog understood his master's words. He set his paws on the woman's
shoulders, and snapped at her red kerchief. She stepped back. Landolin
made Racker drop the kerchief, and then rode on without a look at the
old woman, who picked up her sack of wheat again. At home he did not
mention the occurrence.