When Fred set out for Rexow he remembered this piece of advice, and determined to try whether it would really succeed. So off he set, the reins in his left hand, the whip under his left arm, and a large jug quite full of water in his right hand. Of course his progress was only at a foot's pace, for if he had gone fast he would have spilt the water, and as the sorrel was too old to care about going quickly everything went well till they reached the farm-yard at Rexow. Fred then wished to turn his gallant steed down the drive leading to the front-door, so he gave the sorrel a touch of the spurs in his ribs, and immediately the horse stopt as though rooted to the spot; whether it was only his way, or whether he was a sly dog and remembered what had happened at the parsonage-pond is more than I can tell. Now was the time for Fred to try his stratagem. He jerked the bit, used his spurs energetically, and dashed the jug of cold water between the horse's ears. "Ugh!" grunted the sorrel with a shake of the head, to show that he had no intention of moving on, but was quite contented to remain where he was, and then he sank down gently and quietly to the ground where he stretched himself out at full length. Fred was obliged to follow his example, for though he had sufficient presence of mind to free himself from the stirrups, still he could not help falling beside his horse.

The company assembled in Mrs. Nüssler's parlour had seen the whole dispute between Fred and the sorrel, and little Mrs. Behrens trembled for her sister's darling when she saw Fred raise himself in his stirrups, and fling the great kitchen-jug at his opponent, but when she saw the sorrel's gentle reproof, and her nephew lying on the soft but slightly cool "bed of honour" which Heaven had covered with a coating of mud, made by the rain and thaw, and which Joseph Nüssler had also aided to soften with his farm-carts, she could not help joining in the hearty fit of laughter with which the rest of the party had greeted Fred's down-fall. She then said to her husband: "It will do him a great deal of good!"--"Yes," said Bräsig, "and a cold in the head will do him no harm either. What business had he to treat the poor old beast so shockingly."

Fred approached like the half-moon, one side shining and brilliant, the other dark, and gloomy. "What a mess you've made of your clothes, my dear boy," cried his Aunt from the open window. "Don't come into the parlour in that state. Fortunately your box has arrived, so you can easily change your things."

This was done, and then Fred made his appearance in his grandest clothes: a blue cut-away coat and black cloth-trousers, and went about the room with all the airs and graces of a young squire, though inwardly he was fretting and fuming over Bräsig's pointed jests and Mrs. Behrens' remarks. Frank on the contrary was in high spirits, he talked and joked with the three little girls, got the twins to let him see their Christmas presents, and laughed, heartily when Lina and Mina showed him two great flannel-bags which uncle Bräsig had given them "to keep their extremities warm, and so prevent them having gout before their time." He had never before been in the society of girls younger than himself, and was so pleased with the innocent confidences made to him by these three little maids, that when supper-time came he seated himself beside the children, and when Mrs. Nüssler asked him to take his proper place near the head of the table, he begged to be allowed to remain where he was.

It was a merry supper-party, every one except Fred and Joseph took part in the conversation. Fred was cross and uncomfortable, and was angry with himself for not being able to talk and laugh like Frank. Joseph was also silent, it is true, but then he was always ready to laugh, and if Bräsig so much as opened his mouth, he prepared to join in the burst of laughter which was sure to follow. When the punch was placed on the table, Lina, as the steadiest of the two sisters, was chosen to dispense it to the company, and her father recovering speech for the time being, and determining to do his duty as host, said, or rather murmured: "Give Bräsig some punch, Lina."--The punch helped Fred also to find his tongue, though it did not improve his temper. He was displeased with Frank's way of behaving, and thought that though the little girls were quite children, they ought on this occasion to be treated like grown-up young ladies, and have a higher sort of conversation addressed to them, he therefore took up the same theme which he had found answer at the Rahnstädt ball when he was dancing the cotillion with the mayor's daughter, a lady of five and twenty. "Miss Hawermann," he began. The child looked at him in astonishment, and when he once more said: "Miss Hawermann," she burst out laughing, and said: "I'm not Miss, I'm only Louisa Hawermann!" And Frank could not help joining in her merriment.--Disagreeable as this was, Fred was too well aware that his behaviour was correct, to be much put out by the reception it met with, he therefore proceeded to describe the ball he had been at in Rahnstädt, and to repeat what he had said to the mayor's daughter, and what she had said to him, and as he did so he addressed the twins as well as Louisa, taking care to call them "Miss Nüssler" and "Miss Mina Nüssler." As every one at table was talking and laughing, he raised his voice higher and higher, till at last there was dead silence all round him, and every eye was fixed on him in astonishment. Joseph, who sat beside him, drew back a little, and stared at him in blank amazement, that any one man could pour forth such a stream of words. Bräsig peered round the corner at him from behind Joseph, and winked at Hawermann as much as to say: "Didn't I tell you, Charles, that he was a regular greyhound?"--Hawermann kept his eyes fixed on his plate, and looked angry. Mrs. Nüssler was anxious and ill at ease, feeling that as hostess it would hardly do for her to desire her guest to be quiet, and to choose a different style of conversation. The pastor shook his head gravely, while little Mrs. Behrens gave more decided tokens of disapprobation by burying her chin in her breast till her cap-ribbons were almost lost to view, and by flouncing up and down on her chair as if it were too hot for her; but when Fred began to describe the schottish, and told how the gentleman puts his arm round the lady's waist, she started up exclaiming: "Don't any of you speak! I'm his Aunt, and am therefore the nearest to him. Come here Fred."--And when Fred rose slowly, and approached her with an air of high-bred nonchalance, she seized him by the lappel of his coat, and pulling him towards the door, said: "Come, my dear boy, come away with me," and so left the room with him. They could all hear the murmur of Mrs. Behrens' voice as she lectured her nephew, her words flowed on uninterruptedly in spite of his protestations until she had finished what she wanted to say, when she reopened the door, and leading Fred into the room, pointed to his chair, and said: "Sit down there, and speak like a reasonable mortal."

Fred did as he was bid, that is to say, he obeyed the first command; the second was too hard for him. How was it possible to talk sensibly after having begun by talking sentimentally, and so make a flat ending to a well begun conversation.--Frank and the three children gradually resumed their former merry talk, while the older people spoke about graver subjects, and so the conversational coach rolled on smoothly, except when Bräsig drove it against a stone with a sudden jerk. Mrs. Behrens managed to act the part of moral policeman towards the offender while taking her full share in the conversation of the elders, and Fred sat silently fuming, and pouring punch, like oil, on the flames of his wrath, internally stigmatising Frank as a "sneak," and the little girls as "silly baggages," who understood nothing of the ways of polite society.

But notwithstanding the contempt he felt for the society of such mere children, he was seized with a certain feeling of jealousy, when he saw, as he imagined, that Frank liked talking to Louisa Hawermann best of all, he made up his mind to put an end to that state of things, and to try what he, Fred Triddelfitz could do, that is to say, when his aunt was not there.

Meanwhile it had grown very late without anyone having noticed how quickly time was flying, when suddenly a terrible form was seen standing in the parlour; it was dressed in warm patch-work garments, and blew a loud blast on the cow-horn it held in its hand, and then began to ring still more discordantly. It was Augustus Stowsand, a half-witted fellow who lived on the estate, and whom Joseph Nüssler, having no other use for him, had made night-watchman. The serving men and maids peeped in at the open door to see how he got on, and giggled, and pushed each other forward, and drew each other back. Everyone began to wish everyone else a happy new year, and then as soon as quiet was restored, the pastor made a little speech which began jestingly, and ended seriously. He reminded his auditors that every year they were nearer death than before, and that every year they might have the comfort of making new ties of friendship and love, and of drawing the old ones tighter. And when he looked round the room on the conclusion of his address, his little wife threw her arms about him; Mr. and Mrs. Nüssler drew closer to each other, Hawermann and Bräsig clasped hands; the twins embraced, and Frank stood by Louisa Hawermann's side. Fred was nowhere to be seen, his bad temper had conveyed him out of the room.--Thus ended the year 1839.

CHAPTER VIII.

Bräsig set out on his journey to the water-cure establishment[[11]] at Easter, and at the same time Mr. von Rambow and the three daughters arrived at Pümpelhagen.--"I fear that there's no chance of his ever getting better," said Hawermann to himself when he saw the squire, and Frank was of the same opinion, and as they sat together on the evening of the family's arrival, they talked sadly of what was surely coming, and the next day when Frank had, as was natural, gone to live with his uncle and cousins at the manor-house, Hawermann felt the old farm-house dull and empty without him, for he had grown to love his pupil.