"Landolin," began the judge's wife anew, "if we could rely upon it that
people would lay penance upon themselves, and do good where they had
done evil, or when a bad accident had happened to them--if we knew that
surely, we should need no courts and no punishment in the world.
Landolin, there is a way in which you can free yourself and your whole
house from unhappiness."
"Does this look like an unhappy house?"
"It does not look so, but it is so, Landolin. Outside, there sits a
poor woman, whose only son is dead. In field and forest this woman
has only the one little spot of earth in which her son rests, where
grows----"
"The woman is nothing to me."
"Your mouth only says that; the soul within you speaks quite
differently. If you had been found guilty you would have had to support
this desolate widow."
She was startled when she was suddenly interrupted by a laugh from
Landolin. To be sure, it was a forced one, but a laugh nevertheless.
She looked at him inquiringly, and he cried:
"I see you understand all about law."
"We are not talking of law. The poor woman has no legal claim. What you
do you will do voluntarily, and it is that that is beautiful. Landolin,
you will give the money that I desire; but that is not enough for me:
you must also give the right thoughts with it."
"I have no money, and no right thoughts."
"Yes, you have; you have both. You will have them, and the more you
give the more you will have. I vouch for you, you will yet make the
poor woman's days happy and peaceful."
"Oho!" cried Landolin, "so that the world shall say, 'He feels, after
all, that he is guilty, and is trying to cover it over with
generosity.'"
"What difference does what the world says make to you?"
A violent struggle must have taken place in Landolin's soul, and it
showed itself in his manner. He walked restlessly up and down the room.
He clenched his hands; he opened them again. At length he stood still
before the judge's wife and said:
"Madam, even should you succeed with me, seven angels could not tear a
wicked woman from her wickedness. 'Tis easier to drag a fox from his
hole with the bare hand. Perhaps you do not know that Cushion-Kate has
always had a hardened disposition. Perhaps she cannot help it. Her
mother stood at the church door with a straw wreath on her head before
Cushion-Kate was born. No, Madam Pfann, with me--you have seen--I let
myself be persuaded; but who knows----"
"Just leave that to me. Oh, dear Landolin, you'll make my life
more happy if you'll obey me; and every morsel you eat, every moment
you sleep, will be doubly blessed to you. Come now with me to
Cushion-Kate."
"I go to Cushion-Kate! If she wants anything of me she may come to me.
I wouldn't like to tell you of all she tries to do to me on highway and
byway."
"And for that very reason go to her with me now. I know very well what
that is--Landolin to Cushion-Kate;--but do not ask yourself now if you
are doing too much--if you are lowering yourself. Come with me! Give me
your hand. Come!"
"Very well. I will go with you."
It was quiet in the road; no one was to be seen while Landolin walked
along with the judge's wife. She frequently looked at her companion, as
if in fear that he might suddenly turn and run away; but he kept step
with her, and only where the road and the meadow path met he stopped
and said:
"I should never have believed it if any one had told me that I should
do this. But I do it for your sake; and Cushion-Kate may curse and
insult me as she will. I will say nothing in return."
"She will change for the better," said the judge's wife, confidently.