When, on the morning after her husband's arrest she said this for the first time, and was about handing Thoma the keys, Peter called out:

"Mother, give me the keys; I am the son of the house, and I must take the reins now."

If the stove had spoken they could not have been more astonished.

Peter, whom they had all looked upon as a dull, idle fellow, who did only what he was told, and never undertook anything of himself--Peter of a sudden gave notice of what he was and what he wanted, and even his voice, generally heavy and drawling, became somewhat commanding and energetic. In reality a transformation had begun in Peter. He ceased to be taciturn and became almost talkative. His natural effort to aid his father had called forth a latent energy, which no one, least of all himself, had ever suspected, and which once aroused, continually grew in strength. Other awakenings a.s.sisted in changing his trouble into a joyous sense of courage; yes, almost of presumption. It was not only at home, but in the whole neighborhood that people saw with astonishment how his father's absence had changed him. The head-servant, Tobias, smiled as he went about his work at the thought that he had had a hand in helping Peter into the saddle. And, indeed, Peter was, literally, much on horseback, riding everywhere on the bay mare, to tell the people who were at the house congratulating Thoma at the time of the accident, what they had seen. Some of them thought they knew all about it; and some, on the other hand, declared they had seen nothing; for they did not want the trouble of testifying in court.

Wherever Peter went the people said, "No one knew that you were such a smart fellow. Thoma used to be the only one talked about, just as though there were no such person as you." Peter smiled craftily when he heard this; he put on a grieved, troubled look, and shook his head, but was nevertheless pleased to hear people add, "Your father rather put you down."

Peter was not una.s.suming; quite the reverse, for he looked upon all men as his debtors. They had allowed him to grow up in simplicity and honesty for three and twenty years without revealing to him how sweet knavery tastes. But now, he was finding out for himself.

"Look! Look! There comes Peter of Reutershofen!" was heard up and down the mountain side.

"What Peter?"

"Landolin's Peter."

"Yes, people did not know what kind of a fellow he was; they thought he couldn't count three; and now he turns out to be one of the sharpest fellows possible."

It was true; he had not been exactly a blockhead; but dull and unsympathetic. And what had he now become?

It may, perhaps, seem unnatural, but nevertheless it was a thoroughly logical development; he had become an accomplished hypocrite.

Once, at a fair, when Peter had taken an electric shock, a strange something ran through his frame. He had very much the same feeling the first time that Tobias said to him, "We must act as though we had seen everything so, and seem thoroughly honest about it, and then we shall be able to make other people think so."

Peter discovered that hypocrisy was sweet to the taste; and that it was no new thing for the world to feast on it.

Wherever he went people condoled with him over his misfortune, even when he was quite sure they were glad of it.

However, he paid them in the same coin by pretending to be excessively amiable. This helped to make him energetic; for the secret pleasure and delight of making a laughing stock of others, animated him anew every morning. He and Tobias made themselves merry over the trick they were playing on the people, and on having succeeded in persuading a few simple-minded persons, as well as some rascals, to testify as they wished. Tobias gave his pupil this advice:

"Now, you see, sharp people get along best in this world. They are never cheated nor plagued. If you want anything of them, and knock at their door, they pretend not to be at home. 'There is no one at home; and I'm asleep,' as the old peasant woman called out to the beggar that knocked at her door on a Sunday afternoon."

Only once was Peter worsted. He went to see Anton, and told him he thought he had been very wise in breaking off with Thoma so promptly; for now, as he was no longer related to them, he could be a witness for his father.

Peter was not a little astonished to hear Anton answer that it was Thoma who had broken off the match, and that it was hardly possible for them to make it up again.

What? Will Anton refuse to tell him the truth? Is he so sly as to try to keep up a false show before his brother even?

Anton's bright face darkened when he heard Peter's words. He saw clearly through his scheme, and astonished him by replying that he would tell no one how he would testify; that he had taken counsel with his conscience, and would do as he thought right.

Notwithstanding this, Peter, with honest mien, confided to many persons, under strict injunction of secrecy, the testimony that Anton would give; and in this way persuaded some of them, for they thought: "Whatever Anton Armbruster says is certainly true."

It was with dismay that Thoma heard--for Peter made no secret of his preparations--what corruption he was spreading over the whole neighborhood; but she could do nothing to prevent it, and had to keep silent when her mother praised the good, kind people.

So the time drew near for Landolin to appear before the court for which he had been selected as juryman.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The days, the weeks, came and went; the crops in the field grew steadily; and the work went on in its usual good order, under the direction of Tobias and Peter. They had hired a new servant in place of Fidelis, who had left their service of his own accord, and had been engaged by t.i.tus.

The pine trees had put on their yearly growth; rye and early barley were ready for harvest; and the hay was already cut and put away. Thoma was the most active in all this work; but she spoke with no one, and looked up astonished when the men and maid-servants sang as they went about their tasks. Her face said plainly: "They can sing, they have no father in prison."

It was a bright summer morning. The farmer's wife was up before day, for she wanted to see Tobias and Peter before they drove to the city.

After the servants who remained at home had eaten their breakfast, and the dishes had been cleared away, she still sat at the table, in the so-called "Herrgott's Corner." Her hands were folded on the table before her. She gazed at them wearily and sadly.

On a bench, beside the large stove in which there was no fire to-day, sat Thoma at her spinning. Nothing could be heard but the low whirring of the wheel, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Thoma," at length began her mother, "you're right in not going to the field to-day. My feet feel as though they had given way. Say, is to-day Wednesday or Thursday? I don't know any more----"

"To-day is Thursday, the tenth of July, mother."

"And he is in court, on trial for his life. Look and see what saint's day this is."

"The calendar is hanging right behind you."

The farmer's wife seemed not to care to turn or look around. She rubbed her hands hastily over her head, as though to keep her hair from rising on end, and said, as if speaking her thoughts aloud:

"So many people! I see them all, one after another, just as they were when I was a little child, and they beheaded Laurian, on the city-green."

"Mother! Don't talk so. We must control our feelings, whichever way things turn out."

"What! Can it turn out any other way?"

"Who knows? That is what the trial is for."

"Surely there must be compa.s.sionate and just men there, who will have pity. There are many who rejoice in our misfortune, but there are more who mean well by us. Your Anton will testify for your father, and will pledge his medal of honor for him."

"More than that," added Thoma; but she did not explain what she meant.

Will Anton persist in saying that he saw what her father told him he did? Does he really believe that he saw it in that way? or will he ruin his own life in order to save another's? She compressed her lips tightly. She thought she must scream out for pain.

But her mother seemed to find it necessary to express her thoughts; and again she murmured, half aloud:

"What are the servants talking about, to-day? I am ashamed to go among them, and I dare not say a word, for fear they will answer me with insult and abuse. I hear that people from all over the valley have gone to the city to-day, to see Landolin sitting on the prisoner's seat.

Yes, there he sits, and has to let the gentlemen of the court say everything they can think of right in his face. And everybody rejoices in it, and yet they themselves are--G.o.d forgive me! Yes, so it is, if anything is wrong with oneself, one tries to find something wrong with one's neighbor. There stands your arm-chair. Who knows if you will ever sit in it again, and rest your strong arms and good hands! When will the door open again and you come in? Hush! Listen Thoma! Don't you hear something? There is some one at the door! I hear some one breathing. It might be Cushion-Kate, or is it----Open the door!"

Even Thoma could not shake off her fear; but summoning her courage, she opened the door, and, with a sigh of relief, cried, "It is Racker."

"Come here," said her mother to the dog, coaxingly. "Do you know what is the matter with your master to-day? Will he ever see you, and lay his hand on your head again? Yes, yes; look at me pitifully! If men were as pitiful as you----"

"You're right, mother," said Thoma at length. "See, mother, everybody on his way to the field to-day, fills his pitcher at our well, as if there was water nowhere else. They look toward our house as though they took pleasure in our misfortune. I wish I could poison the well, so they would all die! I wish I could poison the whole world!"

The mother longed to soothe her daughter, but dared not try. She was thankful that Thoma at least spoke, instead of staring silently before her. And now that Thoma had once broken her silence, she continued: