This cupboard was the place where he had stowed away whatever reminded him of all the chief events of his life, and they had become relics the sight of which did him good when he was down-hearted. They were not preserved in crystal vessels or in embroidered cases, but were simply placed on the shelf, and kept there to be looked at whenever he wanted to see them. When he felt low and sad it did him good to take out these relics, and to live over again in thought the happy days of which they reminded him, and he never closed the cupboard-door without gaining strength and courage, or without thanking G.o.d silently for his many blessings. There lay the Bible his father had given him when he was a boy; the beautiful gla.s.s vase his old college-friend had sent him; the pocket-book his Regina had worked for him during their engagement; the sh.e.l.l which a sailor had sent him in token of his grat.i.tude for having been shown the way to become a better man; the pieces of paper on which Louisa, Mina and Lina had written their Christmas and New Year's-day messages of affection, as also some of their earlier bits of handiwork; the withered myrtle wreath his wife had worn on her wedding-day; the large pictorial Bible with the silver-clasps that Hawermann had given him on his seventieth birthday, and the silver-mounted meerschaum that Brasig had given him on the same occasion, and down below on the lowest shelf were three pairs of shoes, the shoes that Louisa, Regina and he had worn when they first entered the parsonage.

Old shoes are not beautiful in themselves, but the memories attached to these made them beautiful in his eyes, so he took them out of the cupboard, and laid them down by his side, and then placing his first Bible on his knee, he opened it at our Lord's Sermon on the Mount, and began to read. No one saw him, but that was not necessary, and his Regina knew it when it was all over. He grew very tired, and resting his head in the corner of the great chair fell asleep like a little child.

And so they found him when they came back. Mrs. Behrens seated herself on the arm of his chair, clasped him in her arms, closed his eyes, and then resting her head against his, wept silently. Louisa knelt at his feet, and laying her folded hands on his knee, looked with tearful eyes at the two quiet faces that were so dear to her. Then Mrs. Behrens rose, and folding down the leaf of the Bible, drew it softly out of her husband's hand, and Louisa also rose and threw her arms round her foster-mother's neck. They both wept long and pa.s.sionately, till at last when it was growing dusk Mrs. Behrens replaced the shoes in the cupboard, saying as she did so: "I bless the day when we came to this house together," and while laying Louisa's little shoes beside them, she added: "and I bless the day when the child came to us." She then closed the cupboard-door.

The good old clergyman was buried three days later in the piece of ground he had long ago sought out for his last resting-place, and any one standing by the grave, which was lighted by the earliest rays of the morning-sun, might easily see into the parlour in the parsonage-house.

The people who had been at the funeral were all gone home, and Hawermann had also been obliged to go, but uncle Brasig, who had spent the day at the parsonage helping his friends in every possible way, had announced his intention of remaining for the night. Seeing the two women standing arm in arm at the window buried in sad thought, he slipped quietly upstairs to his bed-room, and going to the window looked sorrowfully down into the church-yard, where the newly made grave showed distinctly against the white snow surrounding it. He thought of the good man who lay there, who had so often helped him with kindness and advice, and he swore to himself that he would be a faithful friend to Mrs. Behrens.--Down-stairs the two sad-hearted women were gazing at the same grave, and silently vowing to show each other all the love and tenderness that he who was gone from them had been wont to bestow. Little Mrs. Behrens thanked G.o.d and her husband for the comforter she had in her adopted daughter whom she held in her arms, and whose smooth hair she stroked, as she kissed her lovingly. Louisa prayed that G.o.d would bless the lessons she had learnt from her foster-father, and would give her strength to be a good and faithful daughter to the kind woman who had been as a mother to her. New-made graves may be likened to flower-beds in which the gardener puts his rarest and most beautiful plants; but alas, ill-weeds sometimes take root there also.

Two people were standing in one of the windows at Gurlitz manor on the same evening, and gazing out in the dusk, but not towards the church-yard and parsonage; no, they were looking covetously at the glebe-lands, and Pomuchelskopp said to his Henny that they were sure to fall into their hands soon, for he would be the first to propose to take a lease of them when the new clergyman came to the parish.--"Muchel," answered his wife, "the Pumpelhagen people will never stand that; they'll take very good care not to let the land slip through their fingers."--"Through _their_ fingers did you say, Henny?

Why, don't you know that their very fate is in my hands?"--"That's quite true as far as it goes, but perhaps a young clergyman may come who would like to farm his own glebe."--"Chuck, Chuck, you're not as clever as you used to be. We have to choose the new parson, and we'll choose a methodist. Those clergymen who are never to be seen without a Bible and hymn-book are the kind we want, for they have no time to farm."--"You ar'n't the only patron, remember. Pumpelhagen, Rexow, and Warnitz have votes as well as you."--"But, my Chick, don't you know that Warnitz and Rexow have no chance if they vote against Pumpelhagen.

If the Pumpelhagen people and mine only vote together ....."--"Don't trust to your people, Kopp, they've no particular love for you. Mrs.

Behrens will be against you, and all the villagers will do her bidding to a man."--"I shall get rid of her as soon as possible. She must leave the village at once. There's no house in the neighbourhood for a parson's widow to live in, and _I_'m not going to build one. No, no, Mrs. Behrens must go away, and the sooner the better in my opinion."--"What a fool you are, Kopp! Don't you know that she has a right to remain at the parsonage until the new clergyman is elected?"

And with that Henny walked away.--"Chuck," Pomuchelskopp called after her, "I'll manage it, dear Chuck."

Many an evil weed flourished upon that quiet grave, and covetous hands were stretched out to seize the place left vacant by the good old man, but harm always comes sooner or later to him who with greedy joy uses the misfortunes of the widow and orphan for his own advantage, and makes capital for himself of his neighbour's necessities.

CHAPTER XI.

Brasig remained a week at the parsonage, and did everything that was necessary to be done at such a time. He made the inventary, wrote a large bundle of letters announcing the sad news of Mr. Behrens' death, and took them to the post-office himself in spite of snow, cold and gout, settled accounts with the Rahnstadt tradesmen, and was now seated at the breakfast-table with Mrs. Behrens and Louisa on the Monday after the funeral, taking his last meal before leaving them, when a carriage stopped at the door, and Frank von Rambow getting out of it entered the room with joyful impetuosity. But on seeing the deep mourning worn by both the women, he stood still and exclaimed: "What has happened? Where is Mr. Behrens?"--The widow rose from her arm-chair, and going to the young man shook hands with him, and said with difficulty: "My pastor is gone. He has gone home, and wished to be remembered to all, to all ...." Here she broke down, and covering her face with her pocket-handkerchief, continued: "To all he loved, and you were one of those."--Louisa now went and shook hands with him, but without speaking. When he entered the room the blood had rushed to her face, but she had had time to regain self-command. Brasig then welcomed the new-comer, and began to talk of this or that to change the current of his friends' thoughts, which had gone back to the time when they first knew of their bereavement; but Frank did not hear a word that he said, and stood as motionless as if he had been struck by lightning, the news he had just heard had shattered his joyful antic.i.p.ations so completely.

He had been at the agricultural school at Eldena for the last two years, where he had worked hard, and had learnt all that was needed to make him a good farmer; the practical part of his business he had been taught by Hawermann, and so now that he was of age he was fitted to take possession of his estate, and even to take a wife if he felt inclined. The prudent advice of Mr. Behrens had prevented him hurrying on to such a consummation too quickly. His disposition was neither cold nor calculating, and his heart beat as warmly in his breast as that of any other young man who was very much in love, but he had been obliged to think for himself while so young that he had grown cautious, and had accustomed himself to think twice before doing anything of importance--some people said that he was too cautious--but it is a fault on the right side. In this instance he was right to consider well the step he proposed taking, for it was the most important of his life.

He had buried the sweet dream of happiness deep in his heart in the same way as the kernel of the acorn is hidden by its hard sh.e.l.l; he had not pleased himself with building up images of ideal bliss, but had waited patiently till the proper time came for the seed to sprout out of which was to grow the stately tree under whose shade he and his Louisa might sit in peace. Whenever he had longed to go and see her, he struggled against the temptation, for he did not wish to speak to her then, he wanted to leave her free, and to give her plenty of time to make up her mind unhara.s.sed by opposition. And when his heart bled at the thought that he must not see her, he used to strengthen himself by saying: "Be still. This is no game of chance. I must learn to be worthy of her. And then if I win her, success will be all the sweeter."

He was now of age and was able to take his place in the world as a man.

The time was come where pride and honour no longer stood in the way and he might tell his love to her whom he deemed the n.o.blest, sweetest girl on the face of the earth. The seed had begun to sprout, the tender green shoot was showing above the soil, and the time was come to tend it that it might grow into a tree; not only was it time to do so, it was his duty. So at last yielding to the dictates of his warm heart, and putting aside all further deliberation, he got into a carriage and set out for Gurlitz parsonage.

Now that he had arrived there, the song of joy his heart had been singing on the journey was hushed, and he stood between the two black-robed women feeling more sorrowful than he had ever done before.

The object of his journey must remain unknown, for his own feelings, respect for the grief he saw in his friends, and his own sorrow for the true and good man who had pa.s.sed away from them, all combined to keep him silent, at the cost of much pain to himself.--Love is selfish and cares nothing for the feelings of others is a common saying, and often a true one. It has a world of its own, and goes it own way as though the fate of others were nothing to it; but when it comes from G.o.d, its course is determined by the eternal laws of right and goodness, and its influence on sad hearts is sweet and calm as the light of the evening star.

Such was the character of Frank's love, it could neither hurt nor annoy the people with whom he had to do, on the contrary it comforted and did good to all. He said nothing of the errand that had brought him to Gurlitz, and when he took leave of his friends he felt like the traveller, who, towards the end of a long and toilsome journey, sees a church-spire rising in the distance and walks on cheerily, thinking that his destination will soon be reached, but who is undeceived by the sight of the first houses of the village, and finds that he has yet further to go.

It was a beautiful winter-day when Frank set out to walk from the parsonage to Pumpelhagen, letting the carriage follow slowly. Brasig went with him. The young man was busily engaged with his own thoughts, while Brasig was not at all inclined to be silent so that they were by no means suitable companions. Brasig might certainly have held his tongue and have kept all the stories that came into his head to himself, but it was one of his peculiarities never to see when he was not wanted. He could not help seeing at last that he received no answer to his remarks, and then he stood still, curiously enough, nearly on the same spot where Alick had given him to understand that he did not want his company any further, and asked: "Perhaps my presence is disagreeable to you. It was just about this very place that your cousin Mr. von Rambow told me that he did not wish me to walk with him, if that is the case with you, I can easily leave you alone."--"Dear Mr. Brasig," said Frank; taking the old man's hand, "don't be angry with me, but I can't help thinking about the death of the good old clergyman, and the sad change that has taken place in the parsonage."--"If that is it," answered Brasig pressing his hand, "I quite understand, and only think the better of you for it. I have always told Mrs. Behrens and little Louisa that you are one of the cultivated farmers such as one meets with in books, for you have a deal of humanity in you and yet you are quite able to keep order amongst those confounded farm-lads; I tell Rudolph that he can't do better than follow your ensample."--He then went on to tell Frank about Rudolph and Mina, G.o.dfrey and Lina, and from them he pa.s.sed to other people living in the parish; Frank forced himself to listen attentively, so that by the time they reached Pumpelhagen he knew all that had been going on during his absence, even to the doings of Pomuchelskopp and his Henny.--"Well," said Brasig in conclusion as they entered the court-yard at Pumpelhagen, "you're going to see your cousin, I suppose, and I'm going to Hawermann, but there is one request that I want to make you; let what I have told you about Pomuchelskopp and his projections remain a secret between us, and you may trust me to have my eye upon him and to put a spoke in his wheel whenever I can."

But Frank did not go to the manor-house, he hastened to the bailiff's quicker than Brasig could follow, rushed into the parlour where he had spent so many quiet hours alone with Hawermann, and fell upon his neck.

The old man's eyes were moist, and the cheeks of the youth were flushed, as if age had given his best gift, the dew of his blessing, and the young heart on receiving it were revived and strengthened.--It should always be so.--Frank then went up to Fred Triddelfitz, and holding out his hand, said: "How d'ye do, Fred."--But Fred was proud, with a true middle-cla.s.s pride; and he had also a desire for revenge which was born on the evening he had been caught in the field-ditch near the parsonage, so he said quietly: "How d'ye do, Mr. von Rambow."--"What's the matter, Fred?" asked Frank turning him round, and letting him stand as if Fred were some inexplicable note of interrogation to which he must find an answer, then shaking hands with the two old gentlemen, he went to his cousin's house.--"Charles," said Brasig, seating himself by the table on which dinner was laid, "that young Mr. von Rambow is really a most capital fellow. Ah, what a splendid roast of pork! It's an age since I saw roast pork."

Alick welcomed his cousin heartily, for he was really pleased to see him. He and Frank were the last male descendants of their race. Frida, who had only met Frank once before, on the occasion of her marriage, was glad to renew her acquaintance with him, and did all in her power to make his visit a pleasant one. When Hawermann was crossing the yard after dinner, on his return from seeing Brasig part of the way home, she sent out, and invited him to come to coffee, because she knew that Frank would like it. Then it came out that Frank had gone to the bailiff's before appearing at the manor-house, which made Alick rather angry; he frowned with displeasure and Frida saw that his manner changed and became haughty. That would not have mattered much, however, if he had not been so foolish and unjust as to revenge Frank's mistake, if mistake it were, on Hawermann by the coldness of his demeanour.

The company were therefore not on such easy terms as they might have been, and every friendly word which Hawermann and Frank exchanged added to Alick's wrath; he grew stiffer and colder every moment, so that in spite of the sunshine of Mrs. von Rambow's kindness, the conversation was in danger of dying away, when suddenly Hawermann jumped up, looked out at the window and then hastened from the room.--Alick's face flushed with anger: "What very extraordinary conduct! Most improper!"

he said. "My bailiff seems to think that he may dispense with the commonest rules of politeness."--"Something of great importance must have happened," answered Frida going to the window. "What can he be saying to that labourer?"--"It's Regel," said Frank who had also gone to the window.--"Regel? Regel?" asked Alick starting up. "That's the messenger I sent to Rostock yesterday with three hundred pounds in gold, he surely can't have got back already."--"What can it be," cried Frank, "I never saw the old man so excited. Look, he has seized hold of the labourer," and with that he rushed out of the house, followed by Alick.

When they reached the yard, they saw that the old bailiff had caught the strong young labourer by the collar, and was shaking him so violently that his hat fell off and rolled into the snow: "That's a lie," he exclaimed, "a mean, wicked lie! Mr. von Rambow," he said, "this fellow says that he has lost the money!"--"No, it was taken away from me," cried the labourer who was deadly pale.--Alick also changed colour. He had long owed the three hundred pounds to some people in Rostock, and had put off paying the debt till he could put it off no longer; Pomuchelskopp had lent him the money to pay it--and now it was gone.--"It's a lie!" cried Hawermann. "I know the fellow. He isn't one to allow the money to be taken from him by force. He could and would keep any ten men at bay who only wanted to steal a little tobacco from him," and he shook the man again.--"Wait!" said Frank, separating them.

"Let the man explain the whole affair quietly. What's all this about the money?"--"They took it away from me," said Regel. "When I got to Gallin wood on the other side of Rahnstadt this morning, two men came up to me, and one of them asked me to give him a light for his pipe. I refused, and so the other caught me by the waist and knocked me down. They then took the black parcel out of my pocket and ran away with it into Gallin wood, and I ran after them but couldn't catch them."--"But," interrupted Alick, "how does it happen that you just reached Gallin wood this morning, it's only a couple of miles on the other side of Rahnstadt. Didn't I tell you plainly to get a pa.s.sport from the mayor of Rahnstadt, and to walk all night so as to be able to pay over the money in Rostock at twelve o'clock to-day?"--(If the money were not paid at that hour proceedings were to be inst.i.tuted against him.)--"Yes, Sir," said the labourer, "and I did get the pa.s.sport.

Here it is," pulling it out of the lining of his hat, "but I really couldn't walk a whole winter's night, so I remained with my friends in Rahnstadt, and thought that I'd be sure to get to Rostock in time."--"Christian Dasel," cried Hawermann, who had grown quite calm again, his previous excitement having been caused by the conviction that the labourer was telling him a lie.--"Mr. von Rambow," he asked, as soon as Christian came, "will you not send for a magistrate?" and when Alick had consented, he said: "Christian, harness two of the carriage horses into the dog-cart, and go for the mayor of Rahnstadt; I'll have a letter for you to take by the time you're ready to start.

Now, Regel, come with me, and I'll put you in a quiet place where you'll have time to come to your senses," he then took the labourer away to his house and locked him up in one of the rooms.

When Alick went back to the house with his cousin, he had a good opportunity for consulting him about his affairs, but he did not do it although he knew that Frank was both able and willing to help him. It is a true saying that the real spendthrift turns for help much more readily to a hard-hearted usurer than to his friends and relations.--He is too proud to confess his debts and sins, but not too proud to humble himself by begging and borrowing from disreputable Jews. Such conduct however cannot, in the true sense of the word, be said to arise from pride, but from a miserable insensate cowardice, a fear of the kind and sensible advice of friends and relations.

Alick was silent, and Walked restlessly up and down the room while his wife and cousin talked over what had occurred. He felt himself to be in a very disagreeable position, for unless the money was paid, his creditor, perhaps all his creditors, would go to law with him. He could bear it no longer, and though it was rapidly growing dark, ordered his horse, and went out for what he called a ride--in reality it was to see Mr. Pomuchelskopp.

Pomuchelskopp listened sympathetically to Mr. von Rambow's story, and loudly bewailed the wickedness of mankind, adding that in his opinion when Mr. von Rambow went to the expense of having a bailiff, that bailiff ought to be able to choose a trustworthy man to send on an errand of such importance. He did not want to say more at present, but still he must confess that he thought Hawermann always acted too much on his own judgment; for instance with regard to the glebe lands; he had persuaded the late squire to rent the fields for his own benefit, and he, Pomuchelskopp would prove clearly that the lease of the glebe had been injurious to the interests of Pumpelhagen. He then went on to tell Alick a long winded tale, which he could not understand, because he was a very poor arithmetician, and besides that, could think of nothing but his lost money at the moment. He therefore said "yes" to everything his companion told him, and at last forced himself to ask Pomuchelskopp to lend him another three hundred pounds. Pomuchelskopp at first looked doubtful, scratched his ear, and then said, "yes" in his turn, but only on condition that Alick should not rent the glebe from the new clergyman.--Mr. von Rambow might have turned restive at this condition being annexed to the bargain, but Pomuchelskopp showed once more by figures that Pumpelhagen and Gurlitz would both gain by the arrangement. Alick only half heard what was said to him, and at length agreed to give a written consent to the plan proposed; his debts were pressing, and he must rid himself of the worst claims at any cost.

He was just the kind of man who would cut the throat of his only milch cow in hopes of making money by the sale of its skin.

Everything was settled now. Alick signed the paper given him.

Pomuchelskopp packed up the parcel of three hundred pounds and sent his own groom with it to the Rahnstadt post office. This was much the wisest thing to do, for thus no one at Pumpelhagen got to know anything of the affair. Alick told himself two things so often during his ride home that he ended by believing them: the first was, that the loss of the money was entirely Hawermann's fault; and the second was, that he was glad to have got rid of the glebe lands on such terms.

CHAPTER XII.

In the meantime the mayor of Rahnstadt, who was chief-magistrate in Alick's district, had arrived at Pumpelhagen, bringing Slus'uhr with him as clerk. The mayor had made good use of his time; before starting he had sent a detective to all the public houses and shops which farm-labourers were wont to frequent, to find out whether the labourer Regel from Pumpelhagen had been there, and thus he had discovered enough to a.s.sist him in his enquiry. Regel had come to his office about four o'clock on the previous afternoon, had got a pa.s.sport from him, and had showed him the parcel of money, which was sewed up in a piece of black wax-cloth, and he had seen that the seal on the packet was still intact. The man--who was of a very talkative disposition--had told him, he was to walk all night, and that considering the time of year was a good deal to require of any one, but still the fellow was very strong and healthy looking; there was no fear of its being too dark for a traveller to see his way, the snow covering the ground made it so light; he had advised the man to set out at once, but he had not started till nearly midnight. Regel had gone into a public house, and had bought a gla.s.s of schnaps; at nine o'clock he was seen standing in front of a shop drinking brandy, giving himself airs, and talking of the money he was carrying, he even went so far as to show the parcel to one of the shopmen. Where he had gone next the mayor did not yet know, but looked upon it as an undoubted fact that the man had got very drunk, and asked Alick and Hawermann whether he was in the habit of drinking.--"I don't know," answered Alick, "my bailiff can answer that question better than I."--The squire's tone was so peculiar that Hawermann looked at him enquiringly, and seemed as though about to say something, but changing his mind he merely said to the mayor, that he had never noticed anything of the kind in the man, nor yet had he ever heard of his being drunk; he had little to say against any of the Pumpelhagen labourers in that respect, and least of all against Regel.--"That may be," said the mayor, "but the man was drunk for all that. Once is the first time, as we say--he was certainly drunk when he came to my office. Will you send for his wife."

His wife came. She was a young and nice-looking woman; but a very few years ago she had been the prettiest girl in the village, neat, trim, and frank, like every Mecklenburg country-maiden, now children and housework had stolen away all the roses from her cheeks, and had made her thin and angular--married women soon grow old in our country-districts. She also looked sad and anxious. Hawermann was very sorry for her, so he went to her, and said: "Don't be afraid, Dame Regel. Tell the truth, and all will be well."--"Lawk a daisy! Mr.

Hawermann, what is it? What's the matter? What has my husband done?"--"Tell me, Dame Regel, does your husband often drink more brandy than is good for him?" asked the mayor.--"No, Sir, he was never known to have done such a thing in his life. He never drinks brandy, we have none in the house; the only time he ever tastes it, is during the harvest when he gets it from the farm the same as the other men."--"Had he not had some brandy yesterday before he left home?" asked the mayor again.--"No, Sir. He had his dinner, and then went away about half-past two. No, Sir .... but stop. I didn't see it, but still .... I remember now! Yesterday evening when I looked into the cupboard, I found the brandy-bottle empty."--"But I thought you told me you had no brandy in the house?" asked the mayor.--"Neither we have; that was the remains of the brandy used at the funeral; we buried our eldest little girl last Friday, and some of the brandy was left. Ah, how miserable he was! How very miserable he was!"--"You think that your husband drank it?"--"Yes, Sir, who else could have done it?"

The case was made out so far, and Dame Regel was allowed to go.--"We've got out the story of the brandy," whispered Slus'uhr to Alick, winking and blinking slyly at the mayor, "I only hope that we'll make out as much about the missing money."--"Take down the examination, clerk,"

said the mayor quietly, pointing to a seat. "Let the labourer Regel be sent for, and put upon oath."--"Mr. Mayor," cried Alick, springing to his feet, "I don't understand what the brandy has got to do with my money. The fellow has stolen it!"--"That's just what I want to find out," replied the mayor calmly. "Has he stolen it, or has he been acting for some one else, or was he in a condition to carry out either of these actions," and going up to the young squire, he said kindly but decidedly: "Mr. von Rambow, a man who had made up his mind to steal three hundred pounds wouldn't go and get drunk first. And then I must remind you that it is my duty as a magistrate to look after the interests of the accused, as much as after yours."

Regel was now brought into the room. He was deadly pale, but had lost all the nervousness he had shown in the morning when the old bailiff was questioning him, and looked as stern and hard as if his figure had been hewn out of granite. He confessed that he had drunk all the brandy that had been left in the cupboard at home; that he had had more at Rahnstadt; that he had been still in the wine-shop at nine o'clock; that he had spent the night with his friends, and had set out on his journey again about six in the morning; but he remained true to his first story, and maintained that two men had taken the money from him by force in Gallin wood. Whilst this last part of the deposition was being taken down, the door opened, and Dame Regel, rushing up to her husband, threw herself into his arms. In Mecklenburg courts of justice strict formality is not considered necessary, so there are no police to prevent the occurrence of incidents of this kind.--"Joe! Joe! Have you made your wife and children miserable for ever?"--"Oh, Molly, Molly, I didn't do it. My hands are clean. Did you ever know me steal?"--"Tell these gentlemen the whole truth, Joe."--The labourer hesitated, turned dusky red and then pale again, looking shyly and uncertainly at his wife: "Mary, did I ever take what was not my own?"--Dame Regel let her hands fall from his shoulders: "No, Joe, you never did that. You never did that. But you have told lies; you have often told me a lie." She hid her face in her ap.r.o.n, and went out; Hawermann followed her. The labourer was removed.

The mayor had not disturbed the meeting between the husband and wife, it was against rules, but it might furnish him with a clue, and show the truth. Alick started, and began to walk rapidly up and down the room when he heard Dame Regel say: "You have told lies, you have often told me a lie." His conscience reproached him, he hardly knew why on this evening of all others, but he felt that he too had never stolen anything, and that he too had _lied_. But like every man who is not upright in heart, the moment his conscience p.r.i.c.ked him, he lied to himself again, and denied the accusation his conscience had brought against him. He and the labourer were very different; he had only told a _fib_ for his wife's sake, to save her uneasiness, while the labourer had _lied_ for his own sake.

Ah, Mr. von Rambow, if you remain as you are, the devil will yet reap a goodly harvest in your soul!

Slus'uhr, having finished, slipped up to Alick, and whispered: "Yes, Mr. von Rambow, the man who lies will also steal."--Alick shivered at the words; partly because of the turmoil in his own heart, and partly because he knew how very like stealing Slus'uhr's business was; he was not merely astonished, he was horrified at the impudence of the man. He would not have been so startled however, if he had only heard the stories people told of the attorney.

Nothing more could be done for the moment, as all the witnesses, including the labourer's friends, were in Rahnstadt, the mayor therefore ordered that the prisoner should remain at Pumpelhagen that night, locked up in some secure place, and that he should be brought to Rahnstadt on the next day.--"Then let him be put in the front-cellar of the manor-house," said Alick to Hawermann who had come back.--"Wouldn't it be better, Sir, to leave him in the room where I put him before, in the farm-house, as the window is barred with iron ....."--"No,"

answered Alick sharply, "the cellar-windows are also grated, and I wish to prevent his having the opportunity of speaking to his friends which he might have at the farm."--"I'm a light sleeper, Mr. von Rambow, and if you want to make sure, a trustworthy man might guard the door."--"I have already told you what I desire you to do. The matter is far too important for me to trust to your light sleep, or to the guard that a comrade of that rascal would keep."--Hawermann looked at him in surprise, said, "as you will," and left the room.

It was about ten o'clock in the evening, supper had long been on the table, Mary Moller had groaned and moaned over everything being spoilt, and Frida was rather cross because of having to wait so long for news, and because of the supper; the only thing that kept her patient was talking to Frank. At length the gentlemen came back, and Frida went to the mayor, and asked: "He didn't steal the money, did he? I hope not."--"No, Madam," answered the mayor calmly and decidedly, "the labourer didn't steal the money; it was stolen from him, or he lost it."--"Thank G.o.d!" she said from the bottom of her heart, "I'm so glad that the man isn't a thief. I should hate the thought of there being dishonest people in the village."--"Surely you don't imagine that our people are better than those in other places. They're the same everywhere," said Alick.--"Mr. von Rambow," said Hawermann, who had come to supper, "our people are perfectly honest; I have been here long enough to be convinced of that. There hasn't been a single case of theft known in all the years that I've been at Pumpelhagen."--"Ah!

That's what you've always told me, and now--yes now, you see that my foolish credulity has made me lose three hundred pounds. If you really know the people so well, what induced you to recommend me to use that man of all others as my messenger?"--Hawermann stared at him: "It seems to me," he said, "that you want to make out that the loss of the money is my fault, but I cannot acknowledge that to be the case. It is true,"

he went on, his face reddening with anger, "that I advised you to send Regel to Rostock, but my only reason for doing so, was that you have always. .h.i.therto used him as a messenger in your money transactions; he has been more than ten times at Gurlitz for you, and attorney Slus'uhr can bear witness to how often you have sent to him by that man."--Frida looked quickly at Slus'uhr when she heard this, and the attorney returned her gaze; neither of them spoke, and different as their thoughts were, it seemed that each could read the other's soul. Frida saw in the sly sinister expression of the attorney's eyes, that he was a man who would not scruple to use his power over her husband to the uttermost, while the attorney on his side read in the clear thoughtful eyes of the lady of the house, that she was the person he had to fear most in the prosecution of his designs. Alick stifled a hasty answer to what the bailiff had said, when he saw the old man's grave determined face, and Frida's look of enquiry. Slus'uhr was also silent, but watched anxiously lest his prey should escape him. Thus Frank and the mayor were the only people at table who were unaware that Hawermann's words had touched a sore subject, and they were the only ones who were able to keep up a conversation. The party separated as soon as supper was over; the mayor spent the night at the manor-house.

Everyone at Pumpelhagen was sound asleep with the exception of two pairs of married people. These were Mr. and Mrs. von Rambow, and the labourer and his wife. Alick and Frida were sitting at their own fire side, he longing to tell his wife all that weighed upon him and made him miserable; to tell the whole truth for once. But he could not. She entreating him to confide in her now that she knew so much, now that she knew of his money difficulties; she said that she would economise, but begged him to give up all transactions with Pomuchelskopp and Slus'uhr, and to consult Hawermann who would be able to advise him what to do. Alick always did things by halves; he never told a downright lie, and yet he did not tell the truth. He did not deny his present need of three hundred pounds, but said that no one could help his means being straightened after having met with so considerable a loss. He had not had time to consider what was best to be done, and could not yet see what he should sell to meet the claim--but he never said that he had already sold some fine wheat and had got the money for it too.

He a.s.sured her that his business relations with Pomuchelskopp and Slus'uhr--he never spoke of David--could do him no harm; it was an old story now with both of them--he did not tell her of his new dealings with Pomuchelskopp--and he had found both very civil in their treatment of him, "but," he said in conclusion, "you know it would never do for me to talk to Hawermann about money matters, it wouldn't be fitting."--Alick's untruths were more a suppression of the truth than direct falsehoods, and indeed when putting his arm round his wife's waist, he a.s.sured her that his affairs would soon be in good order; he was merely saying what he, for the moment, fully believed.--Frida was sad at heart when she left him.

The other husband and wife were not in a warm room like these; the labourer was confined in a cold cellar, while his wife knelt at the window of his prison unheeding the cold drizzling November rain which was wetting her to the skin, they were not sitting side by side, but were separated by an iron grating.--"Joe," she whispered through the grating, "tell the truth."--"They stole it from me," was the answer.--"Who stole it, Joe?"--"How can I tell?" he said, and it was the truth; he did not know the name of the woman who had taken the black pocket-book out of his waistcoat pocket in the full light of day, when he was reeling along the Gallin road only half conscious of what he was doing after his potations of the night before, to say nothing of the two gills of brandy he had taken that morning on an empty stomach.

He could not tell the truth; how could he acknowledge that he, a young strong man, had allowed a woman to steal three hundred pounds from him on the public road? He could not do it even to save his life.--"You're telling me a lie, Joe! If you can't tell me the truth, won't you tell it to our old bailiff?"--It was impossible, he could not tell him of all people; especially when he remembered how solemnly he had once promised Hawermann that he would never again tell a lie. He could not do it.--"Bring me my file, Mary, and any silver you have"--"What do you mean, Joe?"--"I'm going to run away."--"Oh, Joe, Joe, will you really leave me and the babies all alone?"--"I must go, Molly. I'll never get on here now."--"Only tell the truth, Joe, and all will be well."--"If you don't bring me the file and some money, I'll kill myself to-night."--There was much entreaty of her husband here also, as upstairs in the sitting-room, but the truth remained unspoken, and this wife left her husband with as sad a heart as the other had done.

Next morning there was great excitement at Pumpelhagen when it became known that the labourer had escaped. The mayor made arrangements for his apprehension, and then drove home with the attorney. Alick was furious, no one knew exactly with whom, but probably with himself, for it was by his orders that Regel had been locked up in the cellar.

Pomuchelskopp arrived at breakfast time to ask what had really happened, for, as he said, he had only heard a vague rumour of what had taken place. Frank received him coldly and stiffly; Alick on the contrary welcomed him warmly. Pomuchelskopp told many stories of the shameful way in which the magistrates were befriending the common people, and of the extreme kindness the mayor of Rahnstadt had always shown any rogues he had to deal with. He told of thefts which had been perpetrated on himself or his friends, and ended by saying that he believed with Hawermann that the labourer had not committed the theft, "I mean," he said in conclusion, "that he didn't do it for himself; but was employed by some one else; no labourer would dare to steal such a large sum as three hundred pounds; the deed would become known too soon. And so, Mr. von Rambow, I advise you to keep your eye on those who may have a.s.sisted the labourer in his flight, or who even take his part."--Alick's mind was so restless and upset by anger and anxiety that it was ready to receive the seeds of suspicion which Pomuchelskopp was trying to sow. He walked up and down the room, thinking: Yes, Pomuchelskopp was right, he was well up to things of the kind and therefore was sure to know best; but who was it who had helped Regel to escape? He knew no one. Who had taken Regel's part? Why Hawermann, to be sure, when he said so decidedly that the man must have lost the money. But when he first heard what had happened he had seized the fellow by the collar? That might have been all pretence though. And why did he want to have the man put into the room next his own? Perhaps that he might speak to him; perhaps that he might help him to run away?