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 coarsely 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, noble 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 pass 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 embarrassment. 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 coarse 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 passing 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.