That was his father's step on the stairs. He shook the door-handle.

Let him shake it. Wolfgang had locked himself in.

"Open at once!"

Ah, now he was to have a whipping. Wolfgang wiped his tears away hastily, gnashed his teeth and closed his lips tightly.

"Well, are you soon going to do it?" The handle was shaken louder and louder.

Then he went and opened it. His father stepped in. Not with the stick the boy expected to see in his hand, but with anger and grief written on his brow.

"Come down at once. You have hurt your poor, good--much too good--mother very much. Come to her and ask her pardon. Show her that you are sorry; do you hear? Come."

The boy did not move. He stared past his father into s.p.a.ce with an unutterably unhappy, but at the same time obstinate expression on his face.

"You are to come--don't you hear? Your mother is waiting."

"I'm not coming," Wolfgang muttered; he hardly opened his lips at all.

"What?" The man stared at the boy without speaking, quite dismayed at so much audacity.

The boy returned his look, straight and bold. His young face was so pale that his dark eyes appeared still darker, a dense black.

"Bad eyes," said the man to himself. And suddenly a suspicion took possession of him, a suspicion that was old and long forgotten, but still had slumbered in the recesses of his heart in spite of everything and had now all at once been roused again, and he seized hold of the boy, gripped hold of his chest so tightly that he made no further resistance.

"Boy! Rascal! Have you no heart? She who has done so much for you, she, she is waiting for you and you, you won't come? On your knees, I say. Go on in front--ask her pardon. At once." And he seized the boy, who showed no emotion whatever, by the scruff of his neck instead of by his chest, and shoved him along in front of him down the stairs and into the room where Kate was sitting buried in her grief, her eyes red with weeping.

"Here's somebody who wants to beg your pardon," said the man, pushing the boy down in front of her.

Wolfgang would have liked to cry out: "No, I won't beg her pardon, and especially not now"--and then all at once he felt so sorry for her.

Oh, she was just as unhappy as he--they did not suit each other, that was it. This knowledge came to him all at once, and it deepened his glance and sharpened the features of his young face so much that he looked old beyond his years.

He jerked out with a sob: "Beg your pardon." He did not hear himself how much agony was expressed in his voice, he hardly felt either that her arms lifted him up, that he lay on her breast for some moments and she stroked his hair away from his burning brow. It was as if he were half unconscious; he only felt a great emptiness and a vague misery.

As in a dream he heard his father say: "There, that's right. Now go and work. And be a better boy." And his mother's soft voice: "Yes, he's sure to be that." He went upstairs as though he were walking in his sleep. He was to work now--why? What was the object? Everything was so immaterial to him. It was immaterial whether these people praised or blamed him--what did it matter to him what they did? On the whole he did not like being there any longer, he did not want to stay there any more--no, no! He shook himself as though with loathing.

Then he stood a long time on one spot, staring into s.p.a.ce. And gradually a large, an immeasurable expanse appeared before his staring eyes--cornfields and heather in bloom, heather in which the sun sets, quiet waters near which a lonely bird is calling, and over all the solemn, beautiful sound of bells. He must go there. He stretched out his arms longingly, the eyes that were swollen with weeping flashed.

If they were to keep him with them, keep hold of him! No, they could not hold him. He must go there.

He crept nearer to the window as though drawn there. It was high up, too high for a jump, but he would get down nevertheless. He could not go down the stairs of course, they would hear him--but like this, ah, like this.

Kneeling on the window-sill he groped about with his feet to find the water-pipe that ran down the whole side of the house close to the window. Ah, he felt it. Then he slid down from the sill, only hanging on to it by the tips of his fingers, dangled in the air for a few moments, then got the water-pipe between his knees, let go of the window-sill altogether, grasped hold of the pipe and slid down it quickly and noiselessly.

He looked round timidly: n.o.body had seen him. There was n.o.body in the street, and there were only a few people walking in the distance.

He bent his head and crept past the windows on the ground-floor--now he was in the garden behind the bushes--now over the hedge his trousers slit, that did not matter--now he looked back at the house with a feeling of wild triumph. He stood in the waste field, in which no houses had been built as yet, stood there hidden behind an elderberry-bush, of which he had planted the first shoot years before as a child. He did not feel the slightest regret. He rushed away into the sheltering wood like a wild animal that hears shots.

He ran and ran, ran even when it was not necessary to run any more.

He did not stop until complete exhaustion forced him to do so. He had run straight across the wood without following any path; now he no longer knew where he was. But he was far away, so much was certain. He had not got so far into the wood on his robber expeditions with his play-fellows, and, in his walks, had never gone into the parts where there were no paths whatever and where it was quite lonely. He could rest a little now in peace.

He threw himself on the ground, where the sand showed nothing but fine gra.s.s and some bracken in small hollows. Trees in which there was not the slightest motion towered above him all around, like slender pillars that seemed to support the heavens.

He lay there for some time on his back, and let his blood, which was coursing through his veins like mad, cool down. He thought he could hear his heart throb quite distinctly, although he could not account for it--oh, it was pounding and stabbing so unpleasantly in his breast; he had never felt it do like that before. But he had never run like that before, at any rate since his illness. He had to fight for air, he thought he was going to choke. But at last he was able to breathe again more comfortably; now he had not to distend his nostrils and pant for breath any more. He could enjoy the feeling of ease and comfort that gradually came over him now.

It was not yet dusk when he set out again, but still the light began to show that it was October. There was a sweet softness, something extremely gentle and glorified about the sunshine that fell through the red branches of the pines, which also softened the wild runaway. He went in a dream--whither? He did not know, he did not think of it either, he only walked on and on, in pursuit of a longing that drew him on irresistibly, that fluttered in front of him and cooed and called like a dove seeking her nest. And the dove's wings were stronger than the wings of an eagle.

There were no people where the longing flew. It was so peaceful and quiet there. Not even his foot made any noise as it sank into the moss and short gra.s.s. The pines stood in the glow of the setting sun like slender lighted candles. No autumn leaves lay on the ground in which the wind might have rustled; the air swept noiselessly over the smooth pine-needles and the colourless cones that had dropped down from the tree-tops.

Wolfgang had never known it was so beautiful there. He looked round with amazed delight. It had never seemed so beautiful before. But it was not like this, of course, where the villas were and the roads. His eyes glanced curiously now to the right, now to the left and then in front of him into the twilight of the wood. There, where the last gold of the setting sun did not cling to the cleft bark like red blood and the light did not penetrate, there was a soft mysterious dusk, in which the mossy dark-green stems gleamed nevertheless. And there was a perfume there, so moist and cool, so pungent and fresh, that the boy drew a deep breath as though a weight had been lifted from his chest and a new strength ran through his veins.

The memory of all he had gone through during the day came back to Wolfgang now in the deep calm. He pressed his hands to his hot forehead--ah, now he noticed he had not even a cap on. But what did that matter? He was free, free! He hurried on, shouting with glee, and then he got terrified at the sound of his own loud voice: hush, be quiet! Let him only not be shut up again, let him be free, free!

He did not feel any more longing now. He was filled with a great repose, with a boundless happiness. His eyes sparkled--he opened them wide--he could not stare enough at the world, it was as though he saw it for the first time to-day. He ran up to the trunks that seemed to be supporting the heavens, and threw both arms round them; he pressed his face against the resinous bark. Was it not soft? Did it not cling to his glowing cheek like a caressing hand?

He threw himself down on the moss and stretched his limbs and tossed from side to side in high glee, and then jumped up again--he did not like being there, after all--he must look about, enjoy his liberty.

A single red stripe over the wood that was turning blue still showed where the sun had been, when he became conscious of his actual whereabouts for the first time. Here the former high-road from Spandau to Potsdam had been; ruddy brown and yellow chestnuts formed an avenue through the desolate country. The sand lay a foot deep in the ruts that were seldom used now. Ah, from here you came to Potsdam or Spandau, according to the road you took--alas, could you not already hear c.o.c.ks crowing and a noise as of wheels turning slowly?

Deciding quickly, the boy turned off from the old high-road to the left, crept through a bent barbed wire fence, that was to protect a clearing which had lately been replanted, bounded like a stag over the small plants that were hardly a hand's-breadth high, and looked out for a cover.

He did not require any, n.o.body came there. He walked more slowly between the small trees; he took care not to tread on them, stooped down and examined them, measured them out by steps as a farmer does his furrows.

And all at once it was evening. A mist had crept over the earth, light and hardly visible at first, then it had risen and increased in size, had slipped across the piece of clearing on the night wind that was coming up, and had hung on to each gnarl like the beckoning veils of spectres.

But Wolfgang was not afraid; he did not feel any terror.

What could happen to him there, where the distant whistle of a train was only heard at intervals, and where the wind carried the smoke it had torn away from the locomotive like a light cloud that rapidly vanishes?

Just as if you were on the prairie, on the steppes, the boy thought to himself, where there are no longer any huts and only the camp fires send their little bit of smoke up as a token. A certain love of adventure was mingled with the bliss of being free. He had always wished to camp out. Of course he would not be able to light a fire and cook by it; he had nothing to do it with. But he did not feel hungry.

There was only one thing he needed now, to sleep long and soundly.

He lay down without hesitating. The ground was already cool, but his clothes were thick and prevented the cold from penetrating. He made a sort of pillow for his head, and lay with his face turned towards the evening sky. Pale stars gradually appeared on it, and smiled down at him.

He had thought he would fall asleep at once, he felt tired out, but he lay a long time with open eyes. An inexplicable sensation kept him awake: this was too beautiful, too beautiful, it was like a splendid dream. Golden eyes protected him, a velvety mantle enveloped him, a mother rocked him gently.

Longing, defiance, pain, fury, everything that hurt had disappeared.

Only happiness remained in this infinite peace.

CHAPTER XII

Frida Lmke had now been confirmed. She wore a dress that almost touched the ground, and when she saw Wolfgang Schlieben for the first time after a long interval, her greeting was no longer the familiar nod of childhood. But she stopped when she came up to her former play-fellow.

"Hallo, Wolfgang," she said, laughing, and at the same time a little condescendingly--she felt so infinitely superior to him--"well, how are you getting along?"

"All right." He put on a bold air which did not exactly suit the look in his eyes.