And a day is long. And the nights, the nights! Good G.o.d, the nights, where was he during the nights?

Kate would have liked to have screamed aloud, but the landlady was watching her with such inquisitive eyes, that she pressed the nails of one hand into the palm of the other and controlled herself. But her voice was nothing but a whisper now: "Hasn't he been here at all for the last two days?"

"No, not at all. But wait a moment." Her love of a gossip was stronger than the reserve she had meant to show. Drawing near to the lady who had sunk down in a chair, and dragging a chair forward for herself, she began to chatter to her, giving her all the details: "It was Sunday--no, Sat.u.r.day that I began to notice there was something the matter with him. Ay, he's one of the dashing sort. He was quite mad."

"What do you mean? 'Mad' do you say?"

The landlady laughed. "Oh, I don't mean in that way at all, you mustn't take it so literally, ma'am. Well, he was--well, what am I to call it?--well, as they all are. Well, and in the evening he went away as usual--well, and then he did not come back again."

"And how--how was he?" The mother could only get the words out in jerks, she could no longer speak connectedly, a sudden terror had overwhelmed her, almost paralysing her tongue. "Did he--seem strange?"

As in a vision his livid face and the place in the sand near Schildhorn, where the wind was always blowing, appeared before her many a mother's son, many a mother's son--O G.o.d, O G.o.d, if he had made away with himself! She trembled as the leaves do in a storm, and broke down altogether.

The landlady guessed the mother's thoughts instinctively, and she a.s.sured her in a calm good-natured voice: "No, don't imagine that for a moment. He wasn't sad--and not exactly happy either--well, like--like--well, just in the right mood."

"And--oh, could you not give me a--a hint of--where--where he might be?"

The woman shook her head doubtfully. "Who could know that? You see, ma'am, there are so many temptations. But wait a moment." She shut her eyes tightly and pondered. "Some time ago such a pretty girl used to come here, she used to fetch him to go to the theatre, she said--well, it may have been true. She often came, very often--once a week at least. She was fair, really a pretty girl."

"Fair--quite light-coloured hair--a good deal of it and waved over the ears?"

"Yes, yes, it was done like that, combed over the ears, a large knot behind you could not help noticing it, it was so fair. And they were on very friendly terms with each other."

Fair hair--extremely fair. Ah, she had known it at once when she saw him at Schildhorn with that fair-haired girl. Everything seemed to be clear to her now. "You--do not know, I suppose--oh, do you happen to know her name?"

"He called her Frida."

"Frida?"

"Yes, Frida. I know that for certain. But she does not come here any more now. But perhaps he's got a letter from her. I'll look, just you wait." And the woman bent down, drew out the paper-basket from under the writing-table and began to rummage in it.

"He throws everything into the paper-basket, you see," she said in an explanatory tone of voice.

She had certainly never sought there. Kate looked on with staring eyes, whilst the woman turned over every sc.r.a.p of paper with practised ringers. All at once she cried out: "There, we've got it." And she placed some bits of paper triumphantly on the table. "Here's a letter from her. Do you see? I know the writing. Now we'll see."

Laying their heads together the two women tried to piece together the separate bits of the letter that had been torn up. But they were not successful, too much was wanting, they could only put a very few sentences together:

"not come any more-- "angry with me-- "soon come to you some evening-- "always your"

But wait, here was the signature. That had not been torn, here it stood large and connected at the bottom of the sheet of paper:

"always your"

"FRIDA LaMKE."

"Frida Lamke?" Kate gave a loud cry of surprise. Frida Lamke--no, she had never thought that--or were there perhaps two of the same name?

That fair-haired child that used to play in the garden in former years?

Why yes, yes, she had always had bold eyes.

"You know her, I suppose?" asked the landlady, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Kate did not answer. She stared at the carpet in deep thought. Was this worse--or was it not so bad? Could it not still be hindered now that she was on the track, or was everything lost? She did not know; her head was no longer clear enough for her to consider the matter from a sensible point of view, she could not even think any more. She only had the feeling that she must go to the Lamkes. Only go there, go there as quickly as possible. Jumping up she said hastily: "That's all right, quite all right--thanks. Oh, it's all right." And hastening past the disconcerted woman she hurried to the door and down the stairs.

Somebody happened to unlock the door from outside at that moment; thus she got out.

Now she was in the street. She had never stood in Friedrichstra.s.se so quite alone at that time of night before; her husband had always accompanied her, and if she happened to go to the theatre or a concert alone for once in a way, he had always fetched her himself or made Friedrich fetch her, at any rate. All at once she was seized with something that resembled fear, although the beautiful street was as light as day.

Such a quant.i.ty of men, such a quant.i.ty of women. They flowed past her like a stream, and she was carried with them. Figures surged round her like waves--rustling dresses that smelt strongly of scent, and gentlemen, men, young and old, old men and youths, some of whom were hardly more than boys. It was like a corso there--what were they all seeking? So this was Berlin's much-talked-of and amusing life at night?

It was awful, oh, unspeakably horrible.

Suddenly Kate saw everything from one point of view only. Hitherto she had been blind, as unsuspicious as a child. A policeman's helmet came into sight. She flew away as though somebody were in pursuit of her: the man could not see that she had grey hairs and that she was a lady. Perhaps he, too, looked upon her as one of those. Let her only get away, away.

She threw herself into a cab, she fell rather than got into it. She gave the driver her address in a trembling voice. A burning longing came over her all at once: home, only home. Home to her clean, well-regulated house, to those walls that surrounded her like a shelter. No, he must not come into her clean house any more, not carry his filth into those rooms.

She drove the whole way huddled up in a corner, her trembling eyelids closed convulsively; the road seemed endless to her to-day. How slowly the cab drove. Oh, what would Paul say? He would be getting anxious, she was so late.

All at once Kate longed to fly to her husband's arms and find shelter on his breast. She had quite forgotten she had wanted to go to the Lamkes straight away. Besides, how could she? It was almost midnight, and who knows, perhaps she would only find a mother there, who was just as unhappy as she? Lost children--alas, one does not know which is more terrible, a lost son or a lost daughter!

Kate cried bitterly. But when the tears stole from under her closed lids and ran down her cheeks, she became calmer. Now that she no longer saw the long procession in the street, did not see what went on there every night, her fear disappeared. Her courage rose again; and as it rose the knowledge came to her, that she was only a weak and timid woman, but he a robust youth, who was to be a man, a strong swimmer.

There was no need to lose all hope yet.

By the time the first pines in the quiet colony glided past to the right and left of her and the moonshine showed pure white on their branches, Kate had made up her mind. She would go to the Lamkes next day and speak to the mother, and she would not say anything to her husband about it beforehand. The same fear that now so often made her mute in his presence took possession of her once more: he would never feel as she felt. He would perhaps seize the boy with a rough hand, and that must not be. She was still there, and it was her duty to help the stumbling lad with gentle hand.

Kate went up to her husband quite quietly, so calmly that he did not notice anything. But when she took the road to the Lamkes next day, her heart trembled and beat as spasmodically as it had done before. She had fought against her fear and faint-heartedness the whole morning; now it was almost noon on that account, Paul had told her at breakfast that Wolfgang had not been to the office the day before and only for quite a short time the preceding day. "I don't know what's the matter with the boy," he had said. "I'm really too angry with him. But I suppose we ought to find out what's happened to him." "I'll do so," she had answered.

Her feet hardly carried her as she slowly crept along, but at last she almost ran: he had been her child for many, many years, and she shared the responsibility. She no longer asked herself how she was to begin the conversation with Frau Lamke, she hoped the right word would be given her when the time came.

So she groped her way down the dark steps to the cellar where the Lamkes lived, knocked at the door and walked in without waiting for an answer.

Frau Lamke was just washing the floor, the brush fell from her hand and she quickly let down the dress that she had turned up: Frau Schlieben? What did she want at her house? The pale woman with the innocent-looking face that had grown so thin gazed at the lady with the utmost astonishment.

"How do you do, Frau Lamke," said Kate, in quite a friendly voice.

"Is your daughter Frida at home? I want to speak to her."

"No, Frida isn't at home." The woman looked still more perturbed: what did the lady want with Frida? She had never troubled about her before. "Frida is at business."

"Is she? Do you know that for certain?"

There was something offensive in her way of questioning, but Frau Lamke did not notice anything in her innocence. "Frida is never back from business at this time of day, but she is due in less than half an hour. She has two hours off at dinner-time; in the evening she does not come in until about ten, as they only close at nine. But if you would like her to come to you after her dinner"--Frau Lamke was very curious, what could she want with Frida?--"she'll be pleased to do so."

"She'll be here in half an hour, you say?"

"Yes, certainly. She's always in a hurry to come home to her mother--and she's always hungry too."

"I will wait for her if I may," said Kate.

"Please sit down." Frau Lamke hastily wiped a chair with her ap.r.o.n: after all, it was an honour that Wolfgang's mother came to see Frida in the cellar. And in a voice full of cordial sympathy she said: "How is the young gentleman? if I may ask. Is he quite well?"

Kate did not answer her: that was really too great an impertinence, quite an unheard-of impertinence. How could she ask so boldly? But all at once she was filled with doubt: did she know anything about it? She looked into her innocent eyes. This woman had probably been deceived as she had been. She had not the heart to explain matters--poor mother! So she only nodded and said evasively: "Quite well, thanks."

They were silent, both feeling a certain embarra.s.sment. Frau Lamke peeled the potatoes for dinner and put them on, now and then casting a furtive look at the lady who sat waiting. Kate was pale and tried to hide her yawns; her agitation had been followed by a feeling of great exhaustion. For was she not waiting in vain? And this mother would also wait in vain to-day. The girl, that hypocrite, was not coming. Kate was seized with something akin to fury when she thought of the girl's fair hair. That was what had led her boy astray, that had bewitched him--perhaps he could not throw her off now. "Always your--your Frida Lamke"--she had sulked in that letter, he had probably wanted to draw back but--"if you don't come I shall come to you,"--oh, she would no doubt take care not to let him go, she held him fast.