David and Slus'uhr came back. They dunned him in the most shameless manner, and when he told them that Pomuchelskopp was too hard up to help him, they refused to listen, and only demanded their money the more fiercely.

Alick rode from one place to another, knocking at this door and at that, but all in vain, he could not raise the money. And when at last he came home worn out and despairing, he read in his wife's quiet eyes that she knew all, though she kept silence, her lips firmly closed, reminding him of a beautiful book containing words of comfort which was now closed to him for ever, for he had lost the key which would have unlocked it. Since the time she had learnt the great wrong she had done Hawermann on the day he had been turned off with ignominy, a wrong she had done him from love to her husband, she had never again spoken to Alick of his money difficulties. She could not help him, and she would not tempt him to tell her what was false either about himself or others. His restless manner and anxious expression showed that he was even more unhappy than usual, and when she went to bed that night and saw her sleeping child, her heart softened and she remembered that he was her baby's father, so bursting into tears, she determined to speak to him gently on the next morning about his difficulties, and to show herself ready and willing to bear her share of his burden.

But next morning Alick ran down-stairs whistling and singing, called Triddelfitz and gave him his orders, and then calling Christian Degel told him to get the carriage ready and to put up clothes enough to last him for several days. When he met his wife in the door-way he looked so bright and happy that the words she had been prepared to speak died unuttered. "Are you going anywhere?" she asked.--"Yes, I have to go away on business. I shall probably go to Schwerin also, have you any message for my sisters?" She told him to give them her love, and soon afterwards Alick bade her farewell, and getting into the carriage, drove off towards Schwerin. He had again told his wife but half the truth, his only business was in Schwerin, at his sisters' house. He had suddenly remembered during the night that his sisters had money. His father had left them a small house and garden and rather more than two thousand pounds. The money was put out at 4½ per cent interest, and on this income, small as it was, they managed to live. Their father had not been able to do more for them, and had trusted that the married sisters, and especially Alick, would help them now and then. It was this money Alick had thought of in the middle of the night; it was just what he wanted; it would tide him over his difficulties, and he could pay his sisters a reasonable percentage on it as well as strangers. He determined to give them five per cent instead of the 4½ they had had before, and he would himself be free from those rapacious money lenders, and at small cost to himself considering the greatness of the benefit to be obtained. It was this thought that had cheered him.

When, on reaching Schwerin, the young squire had explained his necessities to his sisters, and had told them of his grievous losses that year, the poor women were filled with pity for him and comforted him to the best of their ability. When Albertine who was much the wisest of the three sisters and who had the charge of their money affairs, began to speak hesitatingly about good security, the other two, especially Fidelia, fell upon her and accused her of hardheartedness; their brother required the money, and in that he was only like very many other farmers; their brother was their pride and their only support, their father had himself said so when he was dying, and when Alick promised that the estate should be security for the money, Albertine gave way and rejoiced with her sisters that they were able to be of use to their brother. Alick was fortunate in being able to draw the money at once, although, of course, he met with a considerable loss on the transaction. However he had made up his mind that such must be the case, and had determined that he would take the loss upon his own shoulders and that his sisters should not suffer, indeed they would gain by lending him their money, for was he not going to give them five per cent for it.

He came home punctually in the second week of January 1847, and a few days later, when David and Slus'uhr returned to press him for the money, he paid it down, took possession of his bills and bowed them out of the room.

"What's the meaning of all this?" asked Slus'uhr when they were seated in the carriage. "Why, hang it!" said David. "He has got money after all. Did you notice that he had a lot more bank notes than what he gave us?"--"Yes, who the devil did he get them from?"--"I say, let's ask Zebedee." Now Zebedee was a poor relation of David, who always used to take him with him as coachman, but his real occupation was spying upon the owner of any estate in which his master was interested. "Zebedee, have you seen or heard where he went lately?"--"The coachman told me he had been to Schwerin."--"To Schwerin? What was he doing in Schwerin?"--"He got the money there," replied Zebedee. "In Schwerin? Didn't I always tell my father that these aristocrats uphold each other through thick and thin? He must have got it from his rich cousin."--"Ah," muttered Slus'uhr taking the packet of bank notes out of his pocket and thrusting it under David's nose: "just smell that," he said. "These notes wer'n't got from a nobleman! They smell of garlic, so he must have got them from one of you d--d Jews. But, it's all the same where they were got. We must go and tell Pomuchelskopp. Ha, ha, ha! How the little rascal will dance with rage!"

And he was right enough there! Pomuchelskopp was neither to hold nor to bind when he heard that his plot had failed: "I told you so, I told you so. I knew that the right time hadn't come yet. Oh, Henny, Henny, it's all your fault, you made me do it."--"You're a fool!" said Henny leaving the room.--"Come now, don't be angry!" said Slus'uhr. "It'll do you no good you know. Tell him that you expect him to pay up the twelve hundred pound mortgage at midsummer."--"No, no," Pomuchelskopp whimpered, "that's the only foot-hold I've got on the estate, and if he pays it, I shall have lost the game. You're sure that he has more money," he continued, addressing David.--"Yes, a large roll of notes, and a small one also."--"Well," said Slus'uhr, "you may have your will, like the dog in the pond, but this much I'll maintain, he must be a greater fool than I take him for if he doesn't smell a fox now; if he doesn't see that you're trying to ruin him, and if he has got an inkling of that, it doesn't matter whether you dun him for the money now or a couple of years hence."--"But, but," exclaimed the honest old law-giver, stamping and puffing about the room like a steam-engine, "even though he may have guessed something of what is going on, it doesn't si'nify much, for he can't do without me. I am the only friend who can help him."--"Well then, don't help him. Midsummer is the best time to make him pay up, for he has no money coming in at that time."--"Hasn't he though? He'll have the price of the wool and the rape."--"Hang it, man, you forget that he has to pay off the interest of a lot of money, and besides that, you may be sure that he always spends his income before he gets it."--"I can't do it, I tell you, I can't do it. I can't draw back the foot I've planted on his land for anything," repeated Pomuchelskopp, and he was not to be persuaded to change his mind.

"It's a great pity," said the attorney as he was driving home, "when a man hasn't courage to carry out his intentions and so stops short in the middle. Mark my words, our work at Pümpelhagen is finished. I wish I had to do business with the old woman, she'd have gone through with it."--"She's a fearfully clever woman," said David.--"It's no good talking," grumbled Slus'uhr, "our milch cow at Pümpelhagen has gone dry. We'd have got on all right if you hadn't been such an idiot, David. Why couldn't you have made your father foreclose his mortgage? If you had done that, we'd both have made a pot of money."--"Good heavens!" cried David. "He won't do it, I tell you. He goes to see old Hawermann, and they sit for hours together talking. When I say to him 'foreclose', he tells me to attend to my own business and he'll attend to his."--"Then he must be in his second childhood, and a man who knows so little how to act for his own advantage ought to be put under guardians, who will act for him."--"Well, d'ye know--I've thought of that several times; but you see--it's so--so--and then you see; my father's far too sharp for that to be tried."

CHAPTER IV.

By the help of the remainder of his sisters' money, Alick got through the spring and half of the summer of 1847 pretty well, and when that supply was at an end, he sold off his wool rather than apply to his friendly old neighbour for help. He was sure that Pomuchelskopp had a great deal to do with his troubles somehow or other, and the suspicion grew stronger within him, that he had been shorn like a sheep for the benefit of the man who had pretended to be a true friend and neighbour to him, but how or why it was done was a mystery to him. His manner to Pomuchelskopp grew much colder than before, whenever they chanced to meet. He visited him no longer, and he slipped out into the fields through the garden when he happened to see his former friend coming to call upon him. Frida silently rejoiced in the change. We should also have rejoiced in it if he had only acted wisely and thoughtfully, and if he had striven with quiet courage to set himself free from his entanglements, but instead of that he acted foolishly. Persuading himself that he could not bear the presence of the man he now hated and despised, he went so far as to refuse to shake hands with him, when Pomuchelskopp greeted him warmly at a patriotic meeting in Rahnstädt, and not contented with that, spoke of him in such insulting terms that everyone present soon knew pretty well how Pomuchelskopp had been employing his money. Though Alick's conduct on this occasion was honest, it was very foolish. He owed Pomuchelskopp twelve hundred pounds, and had not the wherewithal to pay him. If he knew the squire of Gürlitz as well as he said he did, he must have been aware of the danger of such conduct. Pomuchelskopp could stand a few hard words as well as anybody, but the scene at the meeting was a little bit too much for him, and means of revenge lay too close at hand for him not to make use of it. He made no reply, but rising, went to attorney Slus'uhr and said: "Let Mr. von Rambow know that if he does not pay me my twelve hundred pounds by S. Antony's day I shall foreclose. I know now where I am. I shan't have another chance, and so I'll do the best I can now."--"If Moses would only foreclose too!" cried Slus'uhr; and this pious wish was to be fulfilled also, but later.