“That fellow looks as if he were brooding over some evil,” he thought, looking after him.
Douglas had taken the expelled workman into his service, so one of the laborers said, and when his father heard this he laughed, and said, “That’s just like the hypocrite—he will brew something nice for me.”
He was firmly convinced that Douglas had given his case into the hands of the law; indeed, he found a certain satisfaction in the thought that he would be judged “unjustly,” of course, and as from one day to the other the summons never came, he explained, scornfully,
“The noble lord is fond of respites.”
But Douglas seemed willing totally to ignore the ignominy he had suffered; he did not even demand the capital lent on mortgage.
Paul’s soul was overflowing with gratitude, and the less he found means to show it the deeper he felt the shame—the more his unrest haunted him.
So one night he again stood motionless at the garden fence of Helenenthal.
Early autumn mists lay on the ground, and the withering grass quivered lightly.
The White House disappeared in the shadows of the night, and only from one of the windows there shone a dull, dark-red light.
“There she is, watching near her sick mother,” Paul thought. And as he found no other means to call her he began to whistle. Twice, three times, he stopped to listen. Nobody came, and anxiety rose within him.