"Your friend?" His father gave a short angry laugh. "Friend--very well, but it's rather early for you to have such a friend. I forbid you to have friends of such doubtful, such more than doubtful character."

"She isn't doubtful." Wolfgang's eyes sparkled. How right Frau Lamke was when she said the other day to him when he went to see them again: "Although I'm very pleased to see you, don't come too often, Wolfgang.

Frida is only a poor girl, and such a one gets talked about at once."

No, there was nothing doubtful about her. The son looked his father full in the face, pale with fury. "She's as respectable a girl as any.

How can you speak of her like that? How d----" He faltered, he was in such a fury that his voice failed.

"Dare--only say it straight out, dare." The man had more control over himself now, he had become quieter, for what he saw in his boy's face seemed to him to be honest indignation. No, he was not quite ruined yet, he had only been led astray, such women prefer to hang on to quite young people. And he said persuasively, meaning well: "Get away from the whole thing as quickly as possible. You'll save yourself much unpleasantness. I'll help you with it."

"Thanks." The young fellow stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and stood there with an arrogant expression on his face.

His soft mood had disappeared long ago, it had flown as soon as he took the first step into the room; now he was in the mood not to stand anything whatever. They had insulted Frida.

"Where does she live?" his father asked.

"You would like to know that, I daresay." His son laughed scornfully; it gave him a certain satisfaction to withhold her address, they were so curious. They should never find it out. It was not at all necessary to tell them. He threw his head back insolently, and did not answer.

O G.o.d, what had happened to the boy! Kate stared at him quite terrified. He had changed completely, had become quite a different being. But then came the memory--she had loved him so much once--and the pain of knowing that she had lost him entirely and for ever.

"Wolfgang, don't be like that, I beseech you. You know we have your welfare at heart, Wolfgang."

He measured her with an inexplicable look. And then he looked past her into s.p.a.ce.

"It would be better if I were out of it all!" he jerked out suddenly, spontaneously. It was meant to sound defiant, but the defiance was swallowed up in the sudden recognition of a painful truth.

CHAPTER XVI

They had agreed that Wolfgang should not live at the villa with them any longer. True, he was still very young, but the time for independence had come, his parents realised. Two prettily furnished rooms were taken in the neighbourhood of the office--Wolfgang was to take a much more active part in the business now--otherwise he would be left to himself. This coming home so late at night, this responsible control--no, it would not do for Kate to worry herself to death. Paul Schlieben had taken this step resignedly.

And it seemed as though the days at the Schliebens' villa were really to be quieter, more peaceful. It was winter, and the snow was such a soft protecting cover for many a buried hope.

Wolfgang used to come and visit them, but not too often; besides, he saw his father every day at the office. It never seemed to enter his head that his mother would have liked to see him more frequently. She did not let him perceive it. Was she perhaps to beg him to come more frequently? No, she had already begged much too much--for many years, almost eighteen years--and she told herself bitterly that it had been lost labour.

When he came to them, they were on quite friendly terms with each other; his mother still continued to see that his clothes were the best that could be bought, his shirts as well got up as they could be, and that he had fine cambric night shirts and high collars. That he frequently did not look as he ought to have done was not her fault; nor was it perhaps the fault of his clothes, but rather on account of his tired expression, his weary eyes and the indifferent way in which he carried himself. He let himself go, he looked dissipated.

But the husband and wife did not speak about it to each other. If he could only serve his time as a soldier, thought Paul Schlieben to himself. He hoped the restraint and the severe regulations in force in the army would regulate his whole life; what they, his parents, had not been able to effect with all their care, the drill would be able to do.

Wolfgang was to appear before the commissioners in April. At present, during the winter, he certainly kept to the office hours more regularly and more conscientiously, but oh, how wretched he often looked in the morning. Terribly pale, positively ashen. "Dissipation." The father settled that with a shake of his head, but he said nothing to his son about it; why should he? An unpleasant scene would be the only result, which would not lead to anything, and would probably do more harm. For they no longer met on common ground.

And thus things went on without any special disturbance, but all three suffered nevertheless; the son too.

Frida thought she noticed that Wolfgang was often depressed.

Sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of "something to laugh at." But he did not join in her laughter, did not even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. She could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was amusing.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

"Hm, moderately."

"Are you ill?" she asked, quite frightened.

"No."

"Well, what's the matter with you then?"

Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked so forbidding that she did not question him any more, but only pressed his hand and a.s.sured him she was amusing herself splendidly.

Gradually these invitations to the theatre, which had mostly ended so pleasantly in a little intimate talk in some cafe or other, ceased.

Frida saw her friend very rarely at all now; he no longer fetched her from business, and did not turn up at her home.

"Who knows?" said Frau Lamke, "perhaps he'll soon get engaged. He has probably somebody in his mind's eye."

Frida pouted. She was put out that Wolfgang never came. What could be the matter with him? She commenced to spy on him; but not only out of curiosity.

And somebody else made inquiries about his doings too--that was his mother. At least, she tried to find out what he was doing. But she only discovered that he had once been seen in a small theatre with a pretty person, a blonde, whose hair was done in a very conspicuous manner. Oh, that was the one at Schildhorn. She still saw that fair hair gleam in the dusk--that was the one who was doing all the mischief.

The mother made inquiries about her son's doings with a sagacity that would have done credit to a policeman. Had her husband had any idea of how often--at any time of the day or evening--his wife wandered round the house where Wolfgang had his rooms, he would have opposed it most strenuously. Her burning desire to hear from Wolfgang, to know something about him, made Kate forget her own dignity. When she knew he was absent she had gone up to his rooms more than once, nominally to bring him this or that; but when she found herself alone there--she knew how to get rid of his garrulous landlady--she would rush about in both his rooms inspecting everything, would examine the things on his writing-table, even turn over every bit of paper. She was never conscious of what she was doing as long as she was there, but on going down the stairs again she felt how she had humiliated herself; she turned scarlet and felt demeaned in her own eyes, and promised herself faithfully never, never to do it again. And still she did it again. It was torture to her, and yet she could not leave it off.

It was a cold day in winter--already evening, not late according to Berlin notions, but still time for closing the shops, and the theatres and concerts had commenced long ago--and Kate was still sitting in her son's rooms. He had not been to the villa to see her for a week--why not? A great anxiety had suddenly taken possession of her that day, she had felt obliged to go to him. Her husband imagined she had gone to see one of Hauptmann's pieces played for the first time--and she could also go there later on, for surely Wolfgang must soon come home now. In answer to her letter of inquiry he had written that he had a cold, and stopped at home in the evenings. Well, she certainly did not want him to come out to her and catch fresh cold, but it was surely natural that she should go to see him. She made excuses to herself.

And so she waited and waited. The time pa.s.sed very slowly. She had come towards seven o'clock, now it was already nine. She had carefully inspected both rooms a good many times, had stood at the window looking down absently at the throng in the streets, had sat down, got up and sat down again. Now she walked up and down restlessly, anxiously. The landlady had already come in several times and found something to do; her inquisitive scrutinising glances would have annoyed Kate at any other time, but now she took no notice of them. She could not make up her mind to go yet--if he were ill why did he not come home? Her anxiety increased. Something weighed on her mind like a premonition of coming evil. She would really have to ask the landlady now--it was already ten o'clock--if he always came home so late in spite of his cold. She rang for the woman.

She came, inwardly much annoyed. Why had Frau Schlieben not confided in her long ago? Hm, she would have to wait now, the stuck-up person.

"I suppose my son always comes home late?" Kate inquired. Her voice sounded quite calm, she must not let such a woman notice how anxious she really was.

"Hm," said the landlady, "sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't."

"I'm only surprised that he conies so late as he has a cold."

"Oh, has the young gentleman a cold?"

What, the woman with whom Wolfgang had lived almost three months knew so little about him? And she had promised to take such exceedingly good care of him. "You must give him a hot bottle at night. This room is cold." Kate shivered and rubbed her hands. "And bring him a gla.s.s of hot milk with some Ems salts in it before he gets up."

The landlady heard the reproach in her voice at once, although nothing further was said, and became still more annoyed. "Hm, if he doesn't come home at all, I can't give him a hot bottle at night or hot milk in the morning."

"What--does not come home at all?" Kate thought she could not have understood aright. She stared at the woman. "Does not come home at all?"

The woman nodded: "I can tell you, ma'am, it's no joke letting furnished rooms, you have to put up with a good deal. Such a young gentleman--oh my!" She laughed half-angrily, half-amused. "I once had one who remained away eight days--it was about the first of the month.

I was terrified about my rent--I had to go to the police."

"Where was he then? Where was he then?" Kate's voice quivered.

The woman laughed. "Well, then he turned up again." She saw the mother's terror, and her good-nature gained the victory over her malice. "He'll be sure to come again, ma'am," she said consolingly.

"They all come again. Don't fear. And Herr Schlieben has only been two days away as yet."

Two days away--two days? It was two days since he had written, in reply to her letter, that he had a cold and must remain at home. Kate gazed around her as though she had lost her senses, her eyes looked quite dazed. Where had he been the whole of those two days? Not there and not at home--oh, he had not been to see her for a whole week. But he must have been at the office or Paul would have mentioned it. But where was he all the rest of the time? That was only a couple of hours.