Mrs. Nuessler took Frida home, and on the way there she dropped many a
word of comfort into her sad heart, and her words fell like rain upon a
dry and parched field. If hope did not spring up strongly in Frida's
heart, she was yet able to wait in patience, and to find rest in Mrs.
Nuessler's reiterated words: "Don't fret about it. Trust my brother
Charles, I am sure that he'll put it all right for you." When Frida
went into her room in the grey of the early morning she felt herself a
different creature from what she had been when she rushed out on the
previous evening. With the spark of hope that had been kindled in her
breast, love and faith had come back to her, and she went up to Sophie
Degel, who was seated in a large arm chair watching over her child, and
stroking her hair gently, said: "I am so much obliged to you, Sophie,
but I'm sure that you're tired; go to bed now."--"Oh, Madam," cried
Sophie starting up--no doubt from the midst of a dream about her lover,
"she has slept quietly all night; she only wakened once, and I gave her
some milk and then she went to sleep again."--"That's right," answered
Mrs. von Rambow, "but now go to bed." When the maid had left the room,
she bent over her little girl's crib and looked at her: no, no, the
baby was far too lovely for the sad fate of a penniless lady of rank;
the mother's thoughts this morning were quite changed from her
desponding forebodings of the evening. Her soul had been writhing in
anguish the night before, and out of that anguish hope had been born
anew in her heart. This child of pain now clasped her in its arms
kissed her and whispered the heavenly words: Faith--and--victory!
Mrs. von Rambow went to bed, and thought of all the people she had seen
that night. Caroline Kegel and Mrs. Nuessler, Mrs. Behrens and Louisa,
Hawermann and Braesig, she could recall their faces clearly, and could
understand their kindness and sympathy; but there was another person
she could not understand, and that was the old Jew. She remembered his
speaking expression, the dark heavy folds of his dressing gown, his
shadowy wrinkled face--a face such as she had never seen before--then
all seemed to grow more misty--when she thought of the last words the
Jew had said to her as he was going away, she seemed to see him growing
larger and larger, but more and more indistinct, and folding her hands
upon her breast, she fell asleep.
She slept and dreamt of the old Jew, but it was a happy dream; at last
she awoke thinking she heard a carriage drive into the yard. She
listened attentively, but body and mind longed for rest, her head sank
back on the pillow, and her happy dream returned to her and whispered
marvellous things in her ears.
She had not been mistaken after all, a carriage had really driven up to
the door, and her husband had come in it.--Since he had left home Alick
had been driving here, there and everywhere, like a man who goes about
the country to buy up eggs and poultry. He had knocked at every door
like a rag merchant. He had begged from men of business, he had made
his moan to friends with whom he had become acquainted at race
meetings, and who had won his money. No one was at home, and the few
whom he met accidentally, had forgotten their purses at home. As long
as we go about the world spending money, we have many friends, but when
we begin to show ourselves a little out at elbows our friends become
ashamed of knowing us. Alick was to learn this by bitter, bitter
experience. He had gone secretly to Schwerin, without his sisters'
knowledge; he had gone to the Jews who had formerly done business with
him with so much pleasure, but what could he mortgage in these bad
times?--He could see Frank's estates in the distance from the window of
his inn; but where was Frank?--He had done what he could, he had even
gone to his brother-in-law, Mr. von Breitenburg, with whom he had
always been on bad terms, had borne with the cool reception he got, and
had explained the difficulties of his position but without mentioning
his sisters' money, and his brother-in-law had stared at him and
turning his back upon him rudely, had said: "'Tu l'as voulu, George
Dandin!' And you really want me to throw my money into the quicksands
that have swallowed yours? My money that I have made by self-denial and
hard work? For, as you know, your sister didn't bring it to me when I
married her."--Alick was about to have reminded him of the money his
father had once borrowed from Moses for him, when his brother-in-law,
wheeled round suddenly and asked point blank: "Where are the L1950
you swindled your sisters out of?"--That was the last straw--his
brother-in-law knew that--he turned deadly pale, staggered out
of the room, and got into his carriage.--"Where?" asked the
coachman.--"Home."--"Where are we to spend the night?"--"At
home."--"The horses will never manage it, Sir."--"They must."--So he
went home, and when he had got out of the carriage, John went and stood
beside his horses: "Ah," he said, "the two horses next the carriage
were knocked up before with the long distances we went, and now the two
leaders are done for. None of them will be up to any work again."
Alick went upstairs to his room with a slow heavy step. It was full
daylight now, and he saw that his room looked the same as usual. He had
always felt so comfortable there before, and all his life he had been
so much ruled by custom. But his heart was changed, his mind and heart
were changed, so that custom had no longer its old influence over him.
He was anxious and restless, and opened the window that the fresh
morning air might cool his heated brow. He threw himself in the arm
chair before his writing table and pressed his head between his hands.
Then his eyes fell upon a letter. The handwriting was well known to
him, for he had often seen it before; he tore it open; yes, it was from
his sister. What was it his brother-in-law Breitenburg had said to him?
Yes, that was it. He looked out of the window, and saw the sun rising
behind the pine wood at Rexow. He looked at the letter again, it was
full of words of kindness; but what good did that do, he had no
money.--He looked out at the window once more, and saw the wheat field
lying before him. Ah, if the wheat were only ripe, if it were thrashed
out and were found to have borne twentyfold more than usual, ah,
then--no, no, even that could not save him.--He looked at the letter
again: kind words! Somehow the words looked graver and more earnest now
than they had done at first--he could not turn his eyes from them--he
read on to the end, and this was the last sentence: "that is the reason
why I wrote to Frida too, for my dear, dear brother if you have not put
out our money safely we poor women are ruined."--"Yes, ruined," he
exclaimed, "ruined!" and he started up and began to pace the room
rapidly. He went to the window and the face of nature was turned to him
in her full glory. Nature has often a soothing influence on the human
heart; but then the heart must be open to receive the message of the
sunshine, and the green earth and deep blue sky. Alick's heart was not
capable of thus receiving the divine message, his mind and thoughts
were too much under the dominion of small, miserably pitiful human
action. Gold! Gold! He could not coin the sunshine into Louis
d'ors.--He threw himself into his chair again; she, his wife knew all.
He had often lied to her, when he knew she could not find him out; but
he could not lie to her about this, for she knew the truth. He imagined
her coming to him with her child in her arms, and looking at him with
her clear grey eyes, as she asked: "How have we deserved this at your
hands?" Then he thought that his sisters would come with hollow cheeks
and white lips, and say: "Yes, Alick, dear Alick, we are ruined."--And
behind his three sisters, he imagined a grave stern figure appearing--a
figure not of this world--and he knew that it was his father, who
seemed to say to him: "You should have been a prop and support to my
ancient house, and instead of that you have pulled it down from
battlement to basement, and have razed it to the ground."--He could
bear it no longer, and sprang to his feet--the spirits he had called up
were gone--he strode up and down the room, but at length stood still
before the cabinet in which he kept his fire-arms.--He knew a good
place to do the deed. Nothing could be better for his purpose than Lake
Lauban which lay in the pine wood at Rexow. He had often been there
shooting with good old Slang, the forester, in the happy days that were
gone, and he could do it there without fear of disturbance. He took the
pistol out of the cabinet which Triddelfitz had brought him to shoot at
the labourers with. He tried it; yes, it was loaded. He went out of his
room, but as he crossed the landing he saw the door of Frida's room,
the room in which his wife and child were sleeping, and he started
back, staggering as if he had received a blow. The memory of all the
happiness his true hearted wife had brought into his home and the
thought of the noble woman the gentle girl he had married had become,
came over him, and sinking on his knees at her door, he burst into
silent weeping. Who knows but what these hot tears and that fervent
prayer to God may have saved him--we shall see that they did--for God
holds our hearts by a light invisible thread. Alick rose, his prayer
had not been for himself, but for others. He went out of doors, and
walked straight on towards the still, woodland lake. When he was safely
in the pine wood, he threw himself on the grass behind a bush, pulled
the pistol out of his pocket and laid it down by his side. He gazed at
the scene around him hungrily; he looked up once more at the sun, God's
beautiful sun; it was his last look, the thick darkness of night
would soon enclose him. The sunlight blinded him, so he took out his
pocket-handkerchief and covered his eyes with it, and now the last
terrible thoughts came into his mind. He murmured with a deep sigh: "I
must!"
"Good morning, Mr. von Rambow," said a kindly human voice beside
him.--Alick pulled the handkerchief off his face and threw it over the
pistol.--"You're up very early," said Zachariah Braesig, for it was he,
and as he spoke he sat down on the grass beside Alick, "but perhaps
you're going to fish too?" Laying his hand on the handkerchief and
pistol, he added: "Ah, I see you're going to practise pistol shooting."
And rising he asked, "do you see that mark on the pine?--Slang's going
to have the tree cut down--Now, I bet four pence that I hit it, and I
never bet more than that"--bang! and missed it; bang! missed it again,
and so on every time till he had fired off all the six shots the
revolver contained. "Who would have thought it? Missed them all! I've
lost my bet so, here's the four pence. It's a good-for-nothing thing,"
he exclaimed, throwing the revolver far into the lake, "and it's better
there, for children and young people might get hold of it and
imprudently shoot themselves dead with it."--Alick felt his thoughts in
a strange whirl. Between him and the firm determination he had come to
after much internal conflict and painful thought; between him and the
dark portal through which he had made up his mind to pass although
unsummoned, stood a common man, a mere clown as he had often called him
in his thoughts, and withal a man who was as self-satisfied and
impudent as a juggler at a fair. He sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
"Sir!"--"And you, Sir!" cried Braesig.--"What are you doing here?" asked
Alick.--"And what are you doing here?" retorted Braesig.--"You're a
meddlesome fool!" cried Alick.--"And you're much the greater fool of
the two!" cried uncle Braesig, "You were about to do the most horrible
of all deeds here, in your thoughtlessness. You have forgotten
everything: Your wife and your child. H'm! you thought it a small
thing to do, and then you'd be free. Am I not right? Who's the fool
now?"--Alick was leaning against a pine-tree, one of his hands pressed
upon his heart, and the other shading his eyes from the sun, while the
"clown" who had prevented him entering the gates of death stood before
him, fishing-rod in hand.--"Look you," continued uncle Braesig, "if you
had come here three minutes before I did"--these were the three minutes
he spent weeping and praying at his wife's door--"you would now have
been lying there with a hole through your head, a horrible example to
all, and when you appeared before the throne of God, our Lord God would
have said to you: You didn't know, Tom Fool, what your dear good wife
did for you to-night, and Mr. bailiff Hawermann, and Mrs. Nuessler, and
Mrs. Behrens, and Moses, and--and the others. If our Lord God had
enlightened you on this subject, do you know where you would have felt
yourself to be? In Hell!"--Alick had taken his hand down from his eyes,
and was staring hard at Braesig: "What? What are you saying?"--"That
L4650 have been got for you this very night, that Moses is raising the
money for you, and that your cousin Frank has come, and he will
probably do more than that for you. But you are a foolish sort of man;
you employ the greyhound Triddelfitz to get you a revolver to fire upon
your labourers, and after all you are about to use it against
yourself."--"Frank here? Frank, did you say?"--"Yes, he is here, but he
didn't come for your sake; he has come to turn Louisa Hawermann into
Mrs. von Rambow. However if you want to know to whom you owe gratitude
just now--Frank will probably do something besides--you must go to your
own sweet wife, and to Charles Hawermann; you may also go to Moses, and
be sure that you don't forget either Mrs. Nuessler or Mrs. Behrens. They
have all united in doing you a good turn this night."
I never wished to shoot myself and I do not know how a poor fellow
feels when he is drawn back from the gates of death by a chance such as
this. I think it must be as provoking as for a weary, way-worn
traveller to be shown a glass of sour beer--and uncle Braesig looked
uncommonly sour that morning--which he cannot get at. But very soon the
love of life returned, the dear love of life, and with it came the
thought of his young wife and little child, refreshing him as a glass
of cool wine drunk to the last drop: "Do tell me what has happened," he
said. Uncle Braesig then told him of the good things in store for him,
and Alick staggered forward from his resting place against the pine and
throwing his arms round the old man's neck, exclaimed: "Mr. Braesig!
Dear Mr. Braesig! Can it be true?"--"What do you mean? Do you think that
I would lie to you at such a solemn moment." Alick felt dizzy when he
thought of the black abyss which had lain before him, and into which he
had dared to gaze. He fell back a few steps. The sweet sounds he heard
in the air, and the fair earth around him, all that he had formerly
looked at, and listened to with indifference, now filled his heart with
a sense of harmonious beauty he had never hitherto imagined. He hid his
face in his hands and wept bitterly. Braesig looked at him
compassionately, and going up to him, put his arm round his shoulders
and shook him gently, saying: "We all have our times of bitterness
while we are in this world, and a great part of your misfortunes arise
from your own fault; but the fault doesn't lie entirely on your
shoulders, for what induced your lady mother to ride the devil of
pride, and make you lieutenant in a cavalry regiment? What use is a
lieutenancy to a farmer? It's much the same thing as if David Berger
the town musician, having blown away half the breath in his body in
playing the trumpet, were to wish to turn preacher and hold forth with
only a half allowance of breath; he'd break down to a certainty! But,"
here he drew the young man's arm within his own, "come away from this
place, and then you'll feel better."--"Yes, yes," cried Alick, "you're
right. All my misfortunes spring from the time I was in the army.
It was then that I first got into debt, and after that things grew
worse. But," he added after a short pause and coming to a sudden
standstill, "what am I to say to my wife?"--"Nothing at all," answered
Braesig.--"No," said Alick, "I have just sworn a solemn oath to myself
to tell her the exact truth from henceforth."--"You're right there,"
replied Braesig. "Surely you don't think that Mrs. von Rambow will ask
you--plump out--whether you didn't want to shoot yourself this morning?
If you should get into any difficulty in conversation with her when we
go in, I'll lie for you as much as is needful, and I'm sure that it
won't be counted against me, for it would be too horrible if the dear
good young lady were to go through life with the knowledge that the
husband, who ought to take care of her and her child, was once going to
have been cowardly enough to have forsaken them both. No," he said
decidedly, "she must never know it, nor must anyone know it except you
and me. Now listen, she must be still asleep, for it was very late
before she got to bed, and she must have been quite worn out."
When they reached Puempelhagen, they found Daniel Sadenwater at the
door. "Daniel," said Braesig, "will you go and get us some breakfast,
for," he added as soon as Daniel was gone, "you must eat to strengthen
yourself, what you have gone through this morning is enough to have
made you feel faint and weak." This time it is difficult to decide
whether Braesig was actuated by love of his neighbour, or love of
himself, for when the breakfast came Alick could eat nothing, while he
had the appetite of a ploughman.
Frida came into the room about ten o'clock: "What, you here, Mr.
Braesig, and you too, Alick."--"Yes, dear Frida, I came home this
morning," said the young man in a low weak voice. "And now, you won't
go away again, you'll remain here," said Frida determinately. "Ah
Alick, I have so much to tell you, and good news too. But how did Mr.
Braesig and you happen to meet." Uncle Braesig thought that the time had
now come for him to keep his promise about telling a lie: "I went out
early this morning to fish--I hope, Madam, that you won't mind my
having put my fishing tackle in your hall--and I met Mr. von Rambow,
who had gone out for a turn; we looked at his wheat field together
and he asked me to come to breakfast! Oh, Madam, what a capital
sausage your cook makes. You must have got the receipt from Mrs.
Nuessler."--"No," answered Frida slowly, and looking first at Braesig and
then at Alick, as though she thought it strange that Alick should have
invited the old bailiff to come back with him. "What do you think of
the wheat, Mr. bailiff Braesig?" H'm! thought Braesig, there'll be no end
to the lying if I don't look out, I must change the subject, so he
said, "Pardon me, Madam, but you always call me 'bailiff,' I used to be
that, but have now got an advancement, and am made assessor. Apopo,"
turning to Alick, "why have you never come for the money that is
waiting for you at the town-hall in Rahnstaedt?"--"What money is that?"
asked Alick. "Why, the two hundred and twenty five pounds that remain
of the three hundred you sent by Regel. The mayor wrote to tell you
about it last week."--"Ah," said Alick, "I've had so many letters
from the Rahnstaedt court of justice lately that I've ceased to open
them."--"I know all about it," cried Frida, "Mrs. Nuessler told me. I'll
go and fetch the letter."--"Young Mr. von Rambow," said Braesig drawing
himself up, "that was another mistake on your part, for we magistrates
are not only the punishers of humanity, but also its ben'factors."--"Do
tell me how the money got there."--"Here's the letter," said Frida,
giving it to her husband. Alick opened it with feelings that may easily
be imagined! His soul had longed for money during the last few weeks,
money, more money! And now an unlooked for sum was going to fall into
his hands; but what was it? "Oh God! Oh God!" he cried starting up and
beginning to pace the room with uneven steps and a troubled mien like
that of a sleep walker: "Neither is this true! Nothing true! In what
hands have I been? Deceived by all! Deceived by myself--and that was
the worst deception!" So saying he rushed out at the door. Frida would
have followed him, but Braesig held her back: "Leave him to me, dear
Lady," he entreated, "I know how to calm him."--He followed Alick to
the garden where he found him in a half maddened state, and said: "What
mischief are you hatching now, Sir?"--"Get out of my way!" cried Alick.
"No," answered Braesig, "there's no need of that. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself for distressing your wife so terribly."--"Why
didn't you let me put an end to myself?" cried Alick, "this is a
thousand times bitterer than death. Benefits and what benefits!--to
have to accept benefits at the hands of those one has formerly despised
and injured, on whom one has even brought shame and disgrace. Oh that I
had not to do it--but--if I am to live at all--I _must_. Oh, oh," he
cried, striking his forehead, "why should I live? Why should I live
with this arrow in my heart?" So he raged against himself and against
the world, and uncle Braesig stood quietly beside him, watching him. At
last he said: "Go on like that a little longer. I'm glad to see you so.
You're getting rid of all your old stuck-up folly, and that's good for
you. What?--you wouldn't have any friendship with honest middle-class
people? Wasn't it so? You were quite happy when any Mr. von something
or other came, or you could even put up with Pomuchelskopps, Slus'uhrs
and Davids, for you thought you could then keep everything snug and
secret. But that sort won't come again. However that's quite a
second'ry matter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for having dared
to wish that you had shot yourself before the very face of our Lord God
who saved you this morning. What? You are doubly a soo'cide!" Alick was
quite quiet now, but as pale as death. His head swam when he thought of
the abyss into which he had so nearly thrown himself, and Braesig
catching him in his arms, supported him to the bench on which both his
old father and his wife had sat in their hour of sorrow. When he was
sufficiently recovered, Zachariah Braesig took his arm again, and said:
"Come away. Come to your wife. That's the proper place for you just
now." And Alick followed him like a lamb. When they got back to the
morning room, Mrs. von Rambow put her arms round her husband, made him
lie down on the sofa and spoke so lovingly to him, that the tears came
into his eyes, and then the ice was broken by the warmth of the spring
sunshine her love spread around him, and his soul was free from the
bondage with which he had bound it--free, though not yet at peace!
Meanwhile Zachariah Braesig had gone to the window, where he amused
himself by drumming his favourite 'March of the old Dessauer,' and Fred
Triddelfitz, who was passing, came and asked: "Do you want me, Mr.
Braesig?"--"No," growled Braesig, "attend to your own business, and see
to the farming."
Soon afterwards a carriage drove up to the door, and Frank and
Hawermann got out of it.
About nine o'clock that morning Frank had gone with Hawermann to see
Moses, and had told him that he would pay the L4650 for his cousin
instead of the people who had promised to do it on the previous
evening. Moses nodded his approval several times, and said: "You are
good for the money, and so are the others; but you are rich, and it's
better that you should do it." When this matter was satisfactorily
arranged and Frank and Hawermann had walked a good way up the street,
the former said: "Will you sit down on this bench for a few minutes,
father, I forgot that I must settle one little point more particularly
with Moses." When he went into the Jew's office, he said: "Moses, my
future father-in-law, Mr. Hawermann, tells me that Pomuchelskopp
intends to sell Guerlitz ...."--"What do you say?" interrupted Moses.
"Hawermann--father-in-law? What's all this?"--"I am going to marry his
daughter." The old Jew rose from his chair with pain and difficulty,
and laying his withered hand upon the head of the young Christian and
nobleman said: "The God of Abraham bless you! You are marrying a good
girl." After a short pause Frank went on to say: "I want you to buy
Guerlitz for me, and to make all the necessary arrangements without
letting my name appear--I don't want anyone--especially Hawermann--to
know about it. I can pay up L15,000 at S. John's day."--"How much shall
I offer?"--"I leave it entirely in your hands; but send in your offer
to-day. I'll come back to-morrow, and then we can talk it over more
particularly."--"Very well," said Moses, "this is business, honest
business, so why should I not do it for you?" Frank went away.
When Alick saw his cousin and Hawermann getting out of the carriage, he
tried to put on a look of indifference, and to make it appear as if
nothing had happened, but his attempt was a signal failure. The storm
that had been raging in his soul had been too terrible to admit of
concealment, and the traces of it were so painfully visible that Frida
and Braesig put themselves forward to try and divert attention from him;
but he sprang to his feet and was about to rush up to Hawermann and
assure him of his repentance, when Frida putting her arms round him,
stopped him, and said: "Alick, dear Alick, not just now. To-morrow, the
day after, any day will do. You'll find Mr. Hawermann whenever you want
him." Then Hawermann took up his hat, and saying he had a message for
Fred Triddelfitz from his father, left the room. Frank went to Alick
and laying his hand upon his shoulder, said: "Come to another room,
Alick, I have a great deal to tell you." When they had been alone for
some time, Frank came back and asked Frida to join them. Shortly
afterwards Daniel Sadenwater crossed the yard in search of Hawermann,
and when he had gone to the others, passing close to Braesig on his way
there, uncle Braesig found it unpleasantly lonely in the morning room,
so he went into the garden, and seating himself in the arbour looked
down in the direction of the Rexow pine wood and lake Lauban. He
thought: "Strange!--What is life? What is human life?" after thinking
of a dozen or so different things small and great for half an hour, he
at last said aloud: "I wish I had something to eat, and that there was
a quiet place for me to refresh myself in!"
And his wish was soon afterwards granted, for Daniel Sadenwater came
and called him in, and when he was shown into the dining room he saw
Hawermann and Alick shaking hands warmly, while Frank came forward
rubbing his hands and glancing at the dinner table, said: "Ah Mr.
Braesig, ar'n't you hungry?" Frida, who had been looking at her husband
with a sweet smile, and happy face, turned to the old man, and said:
"Mr. bailiff--I mean to say Mr. assessor Braesig, when we first came to
Puempelhagen, you sat beside me at dinner, and now that we are going to
leave it, you must sit by me again."--"Going away? Why?"--"Yes, old
friend," answered Hawermann, "you generally know everything long before
other people, but we've stolen a march on you this time. Mr. von Rambow
and Frank have exchanged their properties; it's arranged that Mr. von
Rambow's to have Hohen-Selchow, and Frank, Puempelhagen."--"Nothing
could be better Charles, and as for your saying that I knew nothing
about it, I assure you that years ago, while he was still a member of
your household, I was quite aware how young Mr. von Rambow would turn
out." He then went to Frank and shook him heartily by the hand.
When dinner was over, there was much talk of the new arrangements to be
made, and everyone saw how much lighter Alick's heart was now that he
was no longer under a monetary obligation to anyone but his own cousin.
He was satisfied with all that was thought necessary for him to do, and
consented willingly to sign a bond that he would engage a thoroughly
good bailiff to manage his estate for him, for he knew that his doing
so was the best security he could give Frank that the money he had lent
him had not been thrown away.
Our story is fast coming to an end now.--In a week's time Moses had
completed the purchase of Guerlitz from Pomuchelskopp. It cost L19,300.
Frank set to work with a will, and went straight from Moses to Schulz,
the carpenter: "Mr. Schulz," he said, "can you keep a secret?"--"That I
can."--"Well,--Puempelhagen belongs to me now, and I want you to send
some of your people there to pull down the palings you put up round the
paddocks."--"Ah," answered Schulz, "I thought at the time that it
couldn't go on long."--"Then you understand," continued Frank, "and
there's another thing I had to tell you, I am to be put in possession
of Guerlitz at midsummer "--"Oh ho! Then Mr. Pomuchelskopp's going at
last."--"Yes. But now listen. I am going to build a house there for the
widows of the parish clergymen, and I want it to be exactly the same as
the parsonage, and to be as near the church-yard as it is. So make out
your plans tomorrow."--"I needn't do that, for I've two plans already,
one which I took from my own measurements, and the other from the
measurements Miss Hawermann took with her tape measure."--"All
right," said Frank with a smile, "build according to the last you
mentioned."--"But it wasn't right."--"That doesn't matter! I wish you
to follow Miss Hawermann's measurements. Order what wood you need
to-morrow, hire carters here in Rahnstaedt and engage a good master
builder to do the masonry; but above all things, hold your tongue. When
you want money you can apply to Moses."--And having said this he went
away. Old Schulz stood in the doorway looking after him and muttering:
"These nobles, these nobles!--What mad notions they have!--Tape
measure!--Apron strings!--But Pomuchelskopp: Out! out!--That's real
good news!"
Frank set off for Hohen-Selchow accompanied by Hawermann and Mr.
Bremer, the bailiff Alick had engaged. Alick then removed there bag and
baggage, and he was followed by the mayor of Rahnstaedt, who was to make
out the deed of exchange; Braesig went with him as assessor. It took
three weeks to complete the arrangements there and to take over the
Puempelhagen inventory, after that everything was settled
satisfactorily.
Meanwhile Mrs. Behrens was making preparations for the marriage. I will
say nothing descriptive of this wedding; it was solemnized quietly, and
so I will let it pass quietly from my book.
The day after the marriage, Louisa, Frank, Mrs. Behrens and Hawermann
got into a large carriage, and Braesig went on the box beside the
coachman, and so they set off for Puempelhagen. When they went through
Guerlitz they saw a house being built and a number of men busily working
at boards and planks and oaken posts, to say nothing of one great beam
which was lying on the ground ready to be used as a support to the
roof. Schulz, the carpenter, was hard at work in his shirt sleeves
directing his men, and seeing that they did as he desired. Frank made
the coachman stop, and called to the old man: "Is all going on well,
Mr. Schulz?"--"All's going on well."--"You may say what you like now,
Mr. Schulz."--"Here goes then," said Schulz, "but Miss Haw--, I mean to
say, Madam, what trouble you have given me to be sure! When I thought I
had it all right I found it would never do. I had to get another of
those great beams after all."--"What?" asked Louisa, looking at
Frank,--"Nothing, dear child," he answered, putting his arm round her
waist, "but that I have bought Guerlitz, and am having a house built for
the widows of Guerlitz clergymen, and it's to be as nearly as possible
the same as the parsonage."--"For me?" cried little old Mrs. Behrens,
and the tears that had been in her eyes, ever since she first caught
sight of the churchyard in which her husband was sleeping, now fell
down her cheeks, and seizing Frank's hand, she wept tears of joy over
it. Her tears of sadness were thus changed to those of heartfelt
happiness in like manner as with many another child of man.--"And I
thought," continued Frank with quiet kindness, "that my father-in-law
and Braesig would still live with you. I thought, father, that you would
perhaps undertake the management of this place for me, and that you and
Braesig would sometimes come and overlook my farming at Puempelhagen to
see that I am getting on all right."--"Whenever you like," cried Braesig
from the box. "Didn't I tell you, Charles, that he would turn out
well?"--And Hawermann's eyes sparkled with delight. To be able to
farm again! To lead an active, useful life once more! To do, and
live!----Louisa laid her head on Frank's shoulder, saying: "How dear
and good you are, Frank."--The carriage drove on, and they soon arrived
at Puempelhagen. There was no triumphal arch this time. But in every
heart there was an arch of gratitude to the Lord God of Heaven.
I have now come to the end of my story, and might stop here, but I know
so well what will happen. Many of my readers will want to know what has
become of the people about whom I have been writing since the year
1848, so I will tell them that.