"Are they going to drive us away?" asked Frida, rising, very quietly and proudly, from her chair.

"No, no! dear, gracious Frau," cried Korlin, throwing herself on the floor, and grasping her about the knees, while the tears started from her eyes, "no, no! There is no talk of that, and my old father says, if any one should propose such a thing, he would beat out his brains with a shovel. They only say there is no use in speaking to the Herr, he breaks up their talk too shortly. They want lo speak to you, because they have confidence in you."

"Where is Triddelsitz?"

"Dear heart! he is going round among them, but they won't listen to him, they say they have nothing to do with him, they want to speak to the gracious Frau."

"Come!" said Frida, and went down.

"What do you want, good people?" asked the young Frau, as she stepped outside the door, before which the laborers were a.s.sembled. The wheelwright, Fritz Flegel, stepped up, and said:

"Gracious Frau, we have only come to you because we are all agreed,--and we told the Herr so before; but nothing came of it. And the Herr answered us harshly, and we have no real confidence in Herr Triddelsitz, for he is so thoughtless, and doesn't know yet how things should be managed, and we thought you might help us, if you would be so kind. We are not dissatisfied because we want more, we are contented with what we get, and we get what belongs to us;--but never at the right time; and poor people like us cannot stand that."

"Yes," interrupted Pasel, "and last year, the famine year, the rye was all sold, and you see, gracious Frau, some of us get our pay in grain; and I was to have twelve bushels of rye, and live on it, and I got none, and they said we must be patient. Oh, patience! And all the potatoes bad! How can we live?"

"Gracious Frau," said an old white-haired man, "I will say nothing about the means of life, for we have never gone hungry; but for an old man like me to stand, all day long, bent over in the ditch, shoveling water,--and at evening I am too stiff to move, and cannot sleep at night for misery,--it isn't right. We didn't have such doing? when Herr Habermann was here; but now it is all commanding and commanding, and the commanders know nothing about the work."

"Yes, gracious Frau," said the wheelwright, stepping forward again, "and so we wanted to ask you if we couldn't have a regular inspector again, if Herr Habermann will not come, then some other; but one that would treat us kindly, and listen when we have something to say, and not snap us up, and scold us when we haven't deserved it, or knock our children about with sticks, as Herr Triddelsitz used to."

"That shall be put a stop to," cried Frida.

"Yes, gracious Frau, he has broken off that habit; about six months ago I had a very serious talk with him about it, and since then he is much better behaved, and more considerate. And if our gracious Herr would be considerate too, and think of his own profit, he would get a capable inspector, for he himself understands nothing about farming, and then he need not have a whole field of wheat beaten down by the wind, as it was last year, and the people would not talk about him so. And, gracious Frau, people talk a great deal, and they say the Herr must sell the estate, and will sell it to the Herr Pomuchelskopp; but we will never take him for our master."

"No!" cried one and another, "we will never take him." "A fellow who has been driven off by his own laborers!" "We can't put up with him!"

Blow after blow fell the words of the day-laborers upon Frida's heart.

The little love and respect which they professed for her husband, the knowledge of their embarra.s.sed situation, which was evident even to the common people, weighed heavily upon her, and it was with extreme difficulty that she controlled herself, and said:

"Be quiet, good people! The Herr must decide all these matters, when he comes home. Go quietly home, now, and don't come up to the house again in such a crowd. I will join in your pet.i.tion to the Herr, and I think I may safety promise you that there will be a change in the management by St. John's day,--in one way or another," she added with a sigh, and paused a moment, as if to reflect, or perhaps to swallow something that rose in her throat. "Yes, wait until St. John's Day, then there will be a change."

"That is all right then."

"That is good, so far."

"And we are very much obliged to you."

"Well, good-night, gracious Frau!"

So they went off.

Frida returned to her room. It was beginning to thunder and lighten, the wind blew in gusts over the court-yard, driving sand and straw against the window-panes. "Yes," she said, to herself, "it must be decided by St. John's Day, I have not promised too much, there must be a change of some kind. What will it be?" and before her eyes rose the dreary picture which David had so coa.r.s.ely drawn; she saw herself condemned to live in a rented house in a small town, with her husband and child, with no occupation, and no brighter prospects for the future. She heard the neighborhood gossip; they had seen better days.

She saw her husband rising in the morning, going into the town, coming home to dinner, smoking on the sofa in the afternoon, going out again, and going to bed at night. And so on, day after day, with nothing in the world to do. She saw herself burdened with household cares, comfortless, friendless; she saw herself upon her death-bed, and her child standing beside her. Her child; from henceforth a poor, forsaken child! A poor, n.o.ble young lady! It is a hard thing to occupy a station in which one must keep up appearances, without the requisite means. A poor young gentleman may fight it through, he can become a soldier; but a poor young lady? And though the Lord should look down from heaven, and endow her with all the loveliness of an angel, and her parents should do for her all of which human love is capable, the world would pa.s.s her by, and the young Herrs would say, "She is poor," and the burghers, "She is proud." So Frida saw her child, who lay meanwhile in peaceful child-sleep, undisturbed by the storm and tempest without, or by the storm and tempest in her mother's breast.

Korlin Kegel brought a light, and the young Frau reached after the letter which lay upon the table, as a person will do, when he wishes to prevent another from noticing that he is deeply moved. She looked at the address, it was to herself, from her sister-in-law, Albertine; she tore open the envelope, and another letter fell into her hand, addressed to her husband.

"Put this letter on your master's writing-table," she said to the girl.

Korlin went.

Her husband's sisters had often written to her, and their letters were generally such as ladies write to drive away ennui. Frida opened the letter; but ah! this was no letter born of ennui. Albertine wrote:--

"Dear Sister:

"I do not know that I am doing right. Bertha advises me to it, and Fidelia has twice taken away the paper from under my pen, she thinks it will only worry our dear brother Axel. But--I don't know, I cannot help myself,--necessity really compels us. We have already written twice to Axel, without getting an answer; he may be absent from home a good deal, in these hard times, and also very much occupied,--for these unhappy political troubles are beginning to reach us, as we have evidence enough in Schwerin,--and so I believe I am doing right in turning to you; you will give us an answer. You know that Axel borrowed the capital which our dear father left us, to invest it on the estate at Pumpelhagen; he promised us five percent, interest, instead of four and a half, which we got before,--it was not necessary, for we did well enough,--but he promised us the interest punctually, every quarter, and it is three quarters since he has sent us any. Dear Frida, we should certainly have said nothing about it, if we were not in the greatest embarra.s.sment. Added to this, our brother-in-law Breitenburg has been here, who knew nothing of Axel's having borrowed from us, and when he found it out, he spoke of Axel in the most dreadful way, and declared that we were three geese. He asked to see our security by mortgage, which we could not show him, because Axel has always delayed sending it; and then he said, right to our faces, we should never see our money again; it was notorious that Axel was so deeply in debt, through his bad management, that Pumpelhagen would be sold over his head. We know, to be sure, how to make allowance for our brother-in-law's speeches, for he was always unfriendly to our dear Axel,--and how could it be possible? Pumpelhagen sold? In our family for hundreds of years! The Grand-Duke would not allow it, and we told him as much,--Fidelia in her lively way,--then he took his hat and stick, and said in his coa.r.s.e way, 'Your brother Axel was always a fool, and now he has become a scoundrel,' whereupon Fidelia sprang up, and showed him the door. It was a frightful scene, and I never would have written you about it, if I had not a secret anxiety lest Axel and Breitenberg should encounter each other, and, like the brothers-in-law, Dannenberg and Malzahn, out of an exaggerated sense of honor, shoot each other, across a pocket-handkerchief. Caution Axel to avoid such a meeting, and, if it is possible, take care that he sends us our interest.

"We think of visiting you this summer; we have taken a childish pleasure in the thought of seeing you and the dear old place again, where we played as children, and dreamed as maidens, and--alas!--where we parted from our dear father. Yes, Frida, I rejoice in thinking of it all, and Bertha and Fidelia with me, for we live only in recollection; the present is dreary and comfortless. Only now and then some friend of our father's comes in, and tells us what is pa.s.sing in the world, and it is really touching for Bertha and me to see how our little Fidelia, with her natural vivacity, will throw aside her sewing and interest herself in everything. She is very much interested in the court. Now, farewell, dear Frida, pardon my gossip, and give the enclosed letter to Axel. I have written him very earnestly and trustingly; but have spared him, as much as possible, anything disagreeable. We shall see you in August.

"Yours,

"Albertine von Rambow.

"Schwerin, June 11, 1848."

Frida read the letter, but she did not read it through; when she came to the place, "Your brother Axel was always a fool, and now he has become a scoundrel," she threw the letter on the floor, and wrung her hands, then sprang to her feet, and walked up and down the room, crying, "That he is! that he is!" Her child lay sleeping before her; she threw herself down in the chair, and took up the letter again, and read over the terrible words, and the dark picture she had been making to herself of her child's future was gone like a shadow, and before her eyes another shone, in livid colors; on it stood the three sisters, and underneath was written: "Betrayed! betrayed by a brother!" And in the back-ground stood her husband; but, dimly seen, she could not tell what was truth and what was falsehood, and underneath was written: "Scoundrel!" Horrible! horrible! Now all was lost,--doubly lost! For it was not her own loss merely, it was the loss of one whom she had loved, dearer than her own soul. That was fearful! Oh, for help, to remove this glowing brand from the brow she had so often lovingly kissed! But how? Who could help her? Name after name shot through her head, but these names all seemed inscribed on a distant, inaccessible, rocky wall, where she could find no footing. She wrung her hands in distress, and the prospect grew darker and darker, when, all at once, there beamed upon her in her anguish and torment an old, friendly, woman's face. It was Frau Nussler's face, and she looked just as she had when she had kissed Frida's child.

The young Frau sprang up, exclaiming, "There is a heart! there is a human heart!" It thundered and lightened, and the rain poured in torrents; but the young Frau caught up a shawl, and rushed out into the storm.

"Gracious Frau! For G.o.d's sake!" cried Korlin Kegel, "in the rain? in the night?"

"Let me alone!"

"No, that I will not!" said the girl, as she followed her mistress.

"A human heart, a human heart," murmured the poor young Frau to herself; the rain beat in her face,--onward! onward!--she had the shawl in her hand, and never thought of it, her feet slipped in the muddy path, she did not know it, there was a voice in her ears crying ever, "Onward! onward!"

"If you must go, gracious Frau, then come along!" cried Korlin Kegel, taking the shawl and wrapping it about her head and shoulders, and encircling her waist with a strong arm. "Which way?"

"Frau Nussler," said the young Frau, and murmured again, "a human heart!" And a human heart was beating close beside her, and she never thought of it; nothing keeps hearts asunder like the words, "Command and obey." She had always been good to her people, and had received every kindness from her servants with acknowledgments; but at this moment she did not think of Korlin Kegel, her whole heart was absorbed in the thought that Axel must be saved from shame and dishonor; and the friendly face of Frau Nussler shone upon her through the rain and the darkness, like the nearest, and the only star. "Thither! thither!"

"Good heavens!" said Frau Nussler, going to the window, "Jochen, what a storm!"

"Yes, mother, what shall we do about it!"

"Dear heart!" said Frau Nussler, sitting down again, in her arm-chair, "suppose one were out in it! I should be frightened almost to death."

Frau Nussler went on knitting, and Jochen smoked, and everything was quiet and comfortable in the room, when Bauschan, under Jochen's chair, uttered a short bark, such as signifies, in canine language: "What is that?" Receiving no answer, he lay still, but all at once he started up, and went with his old stiff legs, to the door, and began to whine vehemently.

"Bauschan!" cried Frau Nussler, "What ails the old fellow? What do you want!"

"Mother," said Jochen, who knew Bauschan as well as Bauschan knew him, "Somebody is coming." And the door was thrown open, and a pale, female form tottered in and a strong girl supported her, and seated her on Frau Nussler's divan.

"Dear heart!" cried Frau Nussler, starting up, and seizing the young Frau's hands, "what is this? What does it mean? Good gracious! wet through and through!"

"Yes, indeed!" said Korlin.

"Jochen, what are you sitting there for? Run and call Mining! Tell Mining to come, and bid Durt to make camomile tea."

And Jochen also sprang up, and ran out, as fast as he could, and Frau Nussler took off the young Frau's shawl, and wiped the rain from her face and her fair hair, with her handkerchief, and Mining shot into the room like a pistol-ball, and was full of questions; but Frau Nussler cried, "Mining, there is no time for looking and questioning; bring some of your clothes and linen, quickly, into my bedroom." And when Mining was gone, she herself asked: