.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49460
   :PG.Title: Dividing Waters
   :PG.Released: 2015-07-16
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \I. \A. \R. Wylie
   :DC.Title: Dividing Waters
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1911
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===============
DIVIDING WATERS
===============

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      DIVIDING WATERS

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      BY

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      \I. \A. \R. WYLIE

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      AUTHOR OF
      "THE RAJAH'S PEOPLE," "MY GERMAN YEAR"

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      SECOND EDITION

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      MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
      49 RUPERT STREET
      LONDON, \W.

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      *Published* 1911

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      *Copyright* 1911 *in the United States of America by \I. \A. \R. Wylie*

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   CONTENTS

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   BOOK I

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CHAP.

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I.  `The Mistakes of Providence`_
II.  `"Wanderlust"`_
III.  `An Experiment`_
IV.  `Outward Bound`_
V.  `Among the Heathen`_
VI.  `A Letter Home`_
VII.  `A Duet`_
VIII.  `The Awakening`_
IX.  `Renunciation`_
X.  `Youth and the Barrier`_
XI.  `Wolff makes his Debut in Delford`_
XII.  `Nora Forsakes Her Country`_


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   BOOK II

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I.  `The New Home`_
II.  `—And the New Life`_
III.  `A Meeting`_
IV.  `A Visitor Arrives in Karlsburg`_
V.  `The Cub as Lion`_
VI.  `In Which the Rev. John Receives a Shock`_
VII.  `Wolff Sells a Horse and Nora Loses a Friend`_
VIII.  `Rising Shadows`_
IX.  `Arnold Receives His Explanation`_
X.  `Nemesis`_
XI.  `The Fetish`_
XII.  `War-Clouds`_
XIII.  `Ultimatum`_
XIV.  `The Code of Honour`_
XV.  `The Sea Between`_


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   BOOK III

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   THE BRIDGE

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I.  `Home`_
II.  `Exiled`_
III.  `Revelation`_
IV.  `The Bridge Across`_





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.. _`THE MISTAKES OF PROVIDENCE`:

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   DIVIDING WATERS

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   BOOK I

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE MISTAKES OF PROVIDENCE

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The family Ingestre sat in conclave.  That they sat
together at all at any time other than a meal-time
was in itself sufficient proof that the subject of their
debate was unusually serious: their faces and attitudes
added conclusive evidence.

The Reverend John Ingestre occupied his chair of
state at the head of the long table.  He was a
middle-sized man, with narrow, sloping shoulders, which were
at that particular moment drawn up into an
uncomfortable hunch.  When he spoke he pulled at his
thin beard and glanced at his wife surreptitiously over
his spectacles, as though seeking her advice or
support—actions which gave his whole person an air of
harassed nervousness.

Mrs. Ingestre did not return her husband's signals.
She lay quietly on the sofa by the window, her hand
half shading her face, and seemed absorbed in her
own thoughts.  Only once during the Rev. John's
long and detailed statement did she give any sign
of having heard.  Then she shifted her position so
that her grave scrutiny rested on the two younger
members of the family.  Perhaps she hoped to learn
from their expressions what they were innerly
experiencing, and therein no doubt she must have
been successful, for their positions alone were
expressive of much.

The boy—or young man, for he was at that
uncertain age when boyhood and manhood meet—had
his hands plunged in his pockets; his long legs were
stretched out in front of him, his chin rested on his
chest.  Supreme and energiless despondency seemed
to be imprinted in the very creases of his Norfolk
coat.

The girl had her place at the table.  Though she
sat perfectly still, never turning her eyes from her
father's face, there was something in her rigid attitude
which suggested irritation and impatience.  Her hands
lay in her lap; only a close observer would have seen
that they were not folded, but clenched, so that the
knuckles stood out white.

"So you see, my dear children," the Rev. John
said at last, coming to his peroration, "I felt it my
duty to lay the case before you exactly as it stands.
For a long time I hoped that it would not be necessary
for me to do so—that a merciful Providence would
spare me the pain of inflicting upon you so sharp a
wound.  Well, it has been ruled otherwise, and I only
pray that you share with me my one consolation—the
knowledge that it is the will of a Higher Power, and
therefore all for the best."

He stopped and waited.  In spite of the catastrophe
which he had just announced, there was a trace of
meek satisfaction in his manner, of which he seemed
gradually to become conscious, for he turned to his
wife with a note of apology in his thin voice:

"My dear, I have explained the matter correctly,
I hope?"

"Quite correctly, I should think."

Mrs. Ingestre's hand sank from her face.  It was a
finely shaped hand, and whiter, if possible, than the
dress she wore.  Everything about her was beautiful
and fragile—painfully fragile.  The very atmosphere
around her seemed laden with the perfume of a refined
and nobly borne suffering.

"It seems to me there is no possible mistake,"
said the young man, getting up roughly.  "We
are ruined—that is the long and the short of the
matter."

For a moment no one made any attempt to deny
his angry statement.  Then the Rev. John shook his
head.

"You speak too strongly, my dear Miles," he
corrected.  "We are not what one would call ruined.
I have still my stipend.  There is no idea of—eh—starving,
or anything of that sort; but the superfluous
luxuries must be done away with, and—eh—one or
two sacrifices must be brought."

He coughed, and looked at his daughter.  Mrs. Ingestre
looked at her also, and the pale, pain-worn
face became illumined with tenderness and pity.

"Sacrifices," the Rev. John repeated regretfully.
"Such, I fear, must be the payment for our misfortunes."

Nora Ingestre relaxed from her stiff attitude of
self-restraint.  The expression of her face said clearly
enough: "The sermon is at an end, and the plate
being handed round.  How much am I expected to
put in?"

"It was of your career I was thinking, my dear
Miles," the Rev. John answered.  "I am quite
aware that your whole future depends on your
remaining in the Army, therefore we have decided
that—that sacrifices must be brought for you."

He hesitated again, and threw another glance at
his wife's pale face.

"Nora, I am sure you see the necessity of what I say?"

His daughter started, as though he had awakened
her from a reverie.

"Yes, I do," she said, with an abrupt energy.  "We
must all help each other as much as we can.  I shall
just work like a nigger."

"Eh—yes," said her father doubtfully.  "I am
sure you will.  Of course, we shall have to dismiss
some of the servants, and your mother will need—eh—more
assistance than hitherto—and I know, dear
Nora——"  He coughed, and left the sentence
unfinished.

Whether it was his manner or her mother's face
which aroused her to closer attention, Nora Ingestre
herself could not have said.  She became suddenly
aware that all three were looking at her, and that she
was expected to say something.

"I don't quite understand," she said.  "It is only
natural that I should help all I can, only——"

It was her turn to stop short.  She too had risen
to her feet, and quite unconsciously she drew herself
upright like a person preparing for attack from some
as yet unknown quarter.  Like her father, she was
not above the middle height, but she had her mother's
graceful, well-proportioned build, which made her
seem taller than she really was, and added to that a
peculiar resolute dignity that was all her own.  It
was, perhaps, to this latter attribute that she owed
the unacknowledged respect in which she was held
both by her father and brother.  For it is a set rule
that we must admire most what is in direct contrast
to ourselves; and it had never been in the Rev. John's
power either to carry himself erect, or to give himself
anything but the appearance of a meek and rather
nervous man.  It was owing to this inherent respect
that he hesitated at the present moment.  Perhaps
he realised at the bottom of his heart that it was not
an altogether fair proceeding to load his mistaken
monetary speculations on the shoulders of a
disinterested Providence, and that his family might
have other, if secret, views as to the real responsibility.
At any rate, he was not sufficiently convinced of his
own absolute innocence to meet his daughter's
grave, questioning eyes with either firmness or
equanimity.

"My dear," he said, "we want you at home."  And
therewith he considered he had put the case
both concisely and gently.  But Nora continued to
look at him, and he grew irritated because she did
not seem able to understand.

"Surely you can see that—that there are certain
things for which we have neither the time nor the
money?" he said, drumming on the table with his
thin fingers.

A deep wave of colour mounted Nora Ingestre's
cheeks.  She did not speak, however, until it had
died away again, leaving her unusually pale.

"You mean—I must give up—everything?" she
asked in a low voice.

"If by 'everything' you mean your musical
studies—yes," her father returned impatiently.  The next
minute he relented, and, leaning forward, took her
passive hand in his.  "But surely it is not
'everything,'" he said.  "Surely your home and your people
are more to you than even this favourite pursuit?  I
know it is hard for you—it is indeed hard for us all;
but if we kept our promise and sent you to London
other things would have to pay for it—the dear old
house, the garden, Miles's career.  You see how it is?
You know there is nothing for your real good that I
would withhold from you if I could help it, dear
child."

He waited, expecting her to throw herself into his
arms in generous self-reproach at her own hesitation;
but she said nothing, and there was a long,
uncomfortable silence.

"And then time will not hang heavy on your
hands," he went on, with forced cheerfulness.  "Your
mother will need you and I shall need you—good little
amanuensis that you are!  Is it not something to
you that we all need you so much?"

"Yes," she said.

The monosyllable encouraged him, though it would
have encouraged no one else.

"And, of course, in between whiles you will be
able to keep up your music," he added, patting her
hand.

This time there was not even a monosyllable to
reassure him.  Nora Ingestre stood motionless at her
father's side, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her fine,
resolute features set, and almost expressionless.

Miles swung impatiently on his heel.

"I can't think what you are making all this fuss
about," he said.  "You ought to be jolly glad that
we can keep on the old place, and that you have such
a decent home.  I know lots of girls who would give
their eyes to be in your shoes."

"Have I been making a fuss?"

She spoke perfectly quietly, without changing her
position, but her question seemed to cause Miles fresh
annoyance.

"I call it a fuss to stand there and say nothing,"
he said, with sound masculine logic.  "And anyhow—what
does it matter whether you can tinkle a few
tunes on the old tin-kettle or not?"

"That is something you do not understand," she
blazed out.  It was as though he had unwittingly
set fire to some hidden powder-mine in her character.
She was breathing quickly and brokenly, and every
line in her face betrayed a painfully repressed feeling
which threatened to break out into passionate expression.

Mrs. Ingestre rose from her couch.  When she
stood upright she seemed to dominate them all, to
command silence and respect, by the very dignity of
her bearing.

"I think this has all lasted long enough," she said.
"What is done cannot be undone.  We must face
matters as best we can.  As your father says, it is
the will of Providence, and as such we must accept
it.  Only"—she turned to Miles, and from the faintest
possible inflection of irony her tone deepened to
reproof—"there are some things you do not
understand, dear boy, and which you had better leave to
wiser heads.  Perhaps I understand better.  At any
rate, I should like to speak to Nora alone."

Thus she virtually dismissed the masculine members
of the family.  Miles shrugged his shoulders, and
went out into the garden whistling.  The Rev. John
rose, and gathered up the business papers which he
had brought in with him.

"I am sure that your mother will show it is all for
the best," he said weakly.

At the door he turned and looked back over his
spectacles.

"Remember always what we have both tried to
impress upon you—it is the will of Providence," he
said.  "We must not kick against the pricks."

He then went out, leaving the two women alone.





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.. _`"WANDERLUST"`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   "WANDERLUST"

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For some minutes mother and daughter did not speak.
Nora had turned her back, and was gazing out on to
the pleasant country garden with eyes that saw
neither the flowers nor the evening shadows which
lengthened out over the lawn.  She was still too
profoundly occupied in the effort to appear indifferent,
to cover over that one slip of feeling, to notice what
was going on about her.  She hated herself for having
shown what she felt, she hated herself for feeling as
she did; but no amount of hatred or self-condemnation
would retrieve the one or change the other, and
when she at last turned, aroused by the prolonged
silence, the signals of anger and resentment still
burned in her cheeks and eyes.

"Oh, I am a wretch," she cried impetuously.
"Dearest, don't look so grave and distressed.  It
isn't your fault that you have such a disagreeable
daughter.  There, I ought to be a help and comfort,
and instead——"

"An old woman does not need so much help and
comfort as a young one," Mrs. Ingestre interrupted
gently.  "Just at present I am not suffering
one-tenth of what you are suffering.  And, dear Nora,
don't treat me like some frail old wreck that must
be shielded at all costs from the rough winds.  Don't
stand there and swallow up everything you are feeling
because you are afraid of hurting me.  It will only
rankle all the worse.  I would rather have your full
confidence, however painful it may be.  Come here
and sit down beside me.  Tell me everything you are
thinking and feeling, honest Injun!"

The "honest Injun" brought a smile to Nora's
eyes.  Like everything else that she said or did,
Mrs. Ingestre stamped the schoolboy phrase with an exotic,
indefinable charm that was all her own.  Yet beneath
the half-gay appeal there lay a note of command,
and Nora drew nearer awkwardly and hesitatingly,
bereft for the moment of her youthful assurance and
thrust back to the school days which at the age of
nineteen are not so far away.  She took the white
outstretched hand and stood with bent head, frowning
at the carpet.  Suddenly she knelt down and buried
her face in her mother's lap.

"I feel like a trapped rabbit," she murmured
indistinctly.

A very faint smile touched Mrs. Ingestre's lips.

"A trapped rabbit, Nora?  And who has trapped
you, pray?"

"You have, and you know it.  You always do!"

"Really, dear, it would have to be a very old and
shortsighted rabbit to allow me to trap it, and you
are neither.  You must explain."

Nora lifted her face.  She was laughing, but she
was also very near crying.

"I mean—that is how you make me feel," she
said.  "I can defy other people when they want to
do any soul-exploring on my territory.  I just shut
my mouth and my heart, and leave them out in the
cold.  But you are different.  You mesmerise me till
I not only have to tell you what I am feeling, but
I positively *want* to—even though it is the most
disgraceful, most disreputable feeling possible."

"And just now——?"

"It was a thought."

"What sort of a thought?"

"A dreadful one."

"Couldn't you tell me?"

"Of course I can—I must—but——"

"Well?"

"Do you want to know exactly?"

"Word for word."

"I was thinking what a duffer father is—was, I mean."

A complete silence.  Mrs. Ingestre stroked her
daughter's hand and stared sightlessly into the
deepening shadows.  The smile had died from her lips.

"Go on," she said at last.

"I don't think there is anything else.  I always
think that when father talks about Providence
and—and that sort of thing.  I feel sometimes that if
Providence took human shape and was in the room
at the time I should wink—I am not sure I don't
wink inside me, anyhow."

She waited, and then, as Mrs. Ingestre said nothing,
she went on disconsolately:

"I know I am awful, darling.  I wonder if other
people have shocking ideas too, or whether I am the
wicked exception?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Ingestre said.  "One
can't help one's thoughts, you know."

"No, one can't; can one?  The more one sits on
them, the more uproarious they get.  Are you cross?"

"No."

"Do you—ever have thoughts like that?"

"Nora, I am not feeling in the least like a trapped
rabbit, if that's what you mean."

Nora laughed outright.  Her youth and buoyant
spirits won the upper hand for the moment, but for
no longer.  The actual subject of their conversation
interposed itself between her humour and herself.

"Why did father try and make money in Mexico?"
she demanded suddenly and sharply.  "We were
rich enough before, and now we are so poor that we
have to give up everything that makes life worth
living, in order to live."

"My dear child, do you really think that?"

"No, I don't *think* that.  If I thought, I daresay I
should see that, as the world goes, I am a very lucky
girl.  But I *feel*—awful!  And the feelings always
count most with me."

Mrs. Ingestre nodded to herself.

"They count most with all normal people," she
said; "and those who govern their lives by their heads
are not, as a rule, either the happiest or the cleverest.
Still, Nora, is it such a sacrifice?"

"Yes."

"Is the music so dear to you that it is the only
thing which makes life worth living?"

Nora did not answer, and with a firm, gentle hand
Mrs. Ingestre tilted her daughter's head backwards,
so that she could look straight into the overcast grey
eyes.  A very faint smile played about the corners of
her own mouth.

"Nora, you know, a few months ago, when we
promised to send you up to London to begin your
studies, we were comparatively rich people.  Rich
people can afford luxuries, and our pet luxury was to
imagine that our little girl was a genius who was
going to show the world great things.  We meant to
give you every chance—we would have seen that
our ship lacked nothing to make its first passage in
public waters a success.  Well, we are poor now, and
the first luxury which we must part with is that
fond hope.  You and I must face the fact—you are
a sweet musician, not a genius."

"Mother, you knew that all the time—as well as I did."

A pale rose sprang to Mrs. Ingestre's cheeks.  Quite
unconsciously she avoided her daughter's challenging
eyes.

"Mother, why did you pretend to think
otherwise?" Nora went on.  "Did you believe me so
silly as to imagine myself anything more than an
amateur?  Why, of course I knew.  I had only to
compare myself with others."

"And yet you let us think and talk about you as a
genius!" Mrs. Ingestre interposed.

Nora nodded defiantly.

"I was a humbug," she declared.  "I wanted to
go to London.  It seemed the only way."

"Wasn't that a rather disreputable way?"

"Not more disreputable than yours.  I remember,
when father complained about the useless expense
you told him it was a sin against Providence not to
encourage Genius.  It was then I first made the
discovery that when you are most serious you are
really laughing—at father and me and every one."

"Nora!  Nora!"  The tone of mild reproof died
away Mother and daughter looked each other in
the eyes and laughed.  When she had done laughing,
Mrs. Ingestre bent down and kissed the girl lightly
on the forehead.

"You pry too deep to be an altogether very respectful
person," she said; "but since you have pryed, I
must make the best of it and confess.  I knew your
father would not understand my ideas, so I too
humbugged a little—just a very little.  I wanted you to
go to London, and afterwards into the world.  It
was the only way."

"And now this is the end of it all!"

Nora Ingestre rose and stood by her mother's side.
Her voice rang with all the protest and despair of
which youth is so capable—very real protest and
very real despair, whole-hearted and intense, as is
the way with youth.

"It wasn't the music," she went on.  "I loved it,
of course, but I wanted to see the world and people
more than anything else.  I wanted the world so
badly, mother.  I felt like a caged animal that sees
the forests and the plains through its prison bars.  I
wanted to get out and be free.  Oh, you can't
understand—you can't!"

Mrs. Ingestre stirred suddenly, as though a wound
had been touched with rough fingers.

"I do understand," she said.  But Nora was too
young, above all, too absorbed in her own griefs, to
hear all that was hidden in her mother's words.

"At any rate, no one else would understand," she
went on.  "Father wouldn't, Miles wouldn't, and the
whole village wouldn't.  They would all say I was a
New Woman, or unwomanly, or something—why, I
don't know.  I don't care whether I have a vote or
not.  I can cook and I can sew; I love children.
All that sort of thing is womanly, isn't it?  Isn't it
womanly to want to live, and to know what life means?
Nobody thinks it strange that Miles, though he has
no talent for anything except loafing, should travel,
should live away from home and get to know other
people.  It is all for his development!  But I am not
to develop, it seems.  Perhaps development isn't
womanly.  Perhaps the only right thing for me to
do is to look after the flowers and worry the cook
and bore myself through my days with tea-parties
and tennis-parties and occasional match-making
dances, until somebody asks me to be his wife,
and I marry him to save myself from turning into a
vegetable!"

She stopped, breathless with her fierce torrent of
sarcasm and bitterness.  Her cheeks were flushed, her
hands clenched; there were tears in her bright eyes.
Mrs. Ingestre rose and followed her daughter to the
window, whither she had wandered in her restless
energy.

"How long have you been thinking all this, Nora?"
she asked.

"Ever since I left school and Miles went to Sandhurst.
Until then it all seemed fair enough.  He had
been to school and I had been to school.  But after
that, just when I was beginning to learn because I
loved it, just when I was beginning to see things and
understand them—then I was brought home—here—and
there was an end to it."

Mrs. Ingestre put her arm about her daughter's
shoulders.

"And then you remembered that you were
musical?" she said.

"And you discovered that I was a genius!" came
the retort.

Mrs. Ingestre laughed quietly.

"I see that we must not throw stones at each other,
or our glass houses will suffer," she said.  "And, after
all, it does not matter why either of us wanted it, or
how we managed.  You were to go to London and
see a little of the world——"

"Don't talk about it, mother!"

"Only a little, perhaps, but more than your whole
future promises you now, poor child.  Now you will
have to stop here and vegetate."

Nora turned and clasped her mother in a tumultuous
embrace.

"What a brute I must seem!" she exclaimed.
"And yet I *do* love you, dearest.  I believe I love
you more than most daughters do their mothers, and
I don't believe that I am really more selfish—only, I
can't hide what I feel, and I feel such a lot.  Are you
hurt?"

Mrs. Ingestre shook her head.

"It is an old woman's privilege to pretend that she
has a reason to feel bitter," she said, "but I am not
in the least bitter, because, you see, I understand.
I understood even before you said anything, and so
I made up my mind that you should be given an
alternative——"

"An alternative, mother?"

"——To staying here; and Captain Arnold."

A sudden silence fell on both.  Mrs. Ingestre, under
cover of the twilight, observed her daughter sharply.
She saw that though Nora's face had grown grave
it showed no sign of any profound feeling, and she
took the quiet, undisturbed colour as an answer to a
question which even she had never ventured to ask.

"And so," she went on after a moment, "I wrote
to my old friend, Fräulein Müller, about you, and she
answered two or three days ago, and said she knew
of an excellent position as companion to a lady in
Karlsburg.  She thought it would suit you admirably.
You would be treated as one of the family, and have
plenty of time to go on with your own studies.  Would
you like it?"

The proposal came so suddenly, and yet in such a
matter-of-fact tone, that Nora caught her breath and
looked up at her mother in blank surprise.

"You mean," she began slowly, "that I should go
and live in a German family?"

"Yes."

"With a lot of fat, greasy, gobbling Germans?"

"Do you know any Germans?"

"No—at least there was our German music-master
at school, and *he* was fat and greasy, and I am sure
he must have gobbled.  He must have done.  They
all do."

"You used to say he played like an angel," Mrs. Ingestre
interposed.

"So he did.  But I hated him all the same.  I
hate all Germans."

Her tone rang with a sort of school-girl obstinacy.
Her attitude, with lifted chin and straight shoulders,
was eloquent with national arrogance and scorn.

Mrs. Ingestre turned away.

"I shall write to Fräulein Müller and tell her to
make all arrangements," she said.  "I think, if
everything proves suitable, that you had better go
to Karlsburg."

"Mother!  You haven't even given me the choice!"

"I do not think it wise to do so," Mrs. Ingestre
answered gravely.  "You are right, Nora; you must
see the world.  You must go away from here, not
just for the sake of the music, the change, and
excitement, but in order that your heart may grow wider,
in order to learn to love the good that lies outside
your own little sphere.  There are great things, great
people outside Delford, Nora—yes, and outside
England.  You must learn to know them."

The girl's face flushed crimson.

"At the bottom we all despise foreigners and
foreign ways," she said in self-defence.  "Father
does, Miles does, the Squire does.  And they have all
travelled; they have seen for themselves."

"They have travelled with their eyes open and
their hearts closed," Mrs. Ingestre answered.

"How do you know, mother?  You have never
been out of England."

Mrs. Ingestre shook her head.  A rather melancholy
smile passed over her wan features.

"No," she said; "I have never been out of England,
but I have been often, very often, ill, and during the
long hours I have travelled great distances, and I
have begun to think that God cannot surely have
reserved all the virtues for us English.  I fancy even
the poor benighted Germans must have their share
of heaven."

Nora laughed outright.

"I expect they have, now I come to think of it,"
she admitted gaily.  "Mother, you are a much better
Christian than father, though you won't call every
one 'dearly beloved,' and you are yards better
than I am.  I can't help it—I despise all foreigners,
especially——"

She stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Ingestre smiled.

"Still, you will try Karlsburg.  It will be an
experience for you, and you will hear good music.
The family is a very old one, and perhaps the
members, being of noble birth, may gobble less than
the others."

"All Germans are of noble birth," Nora observed
scornfully.

"So much the better for them," Mrs. Ingestre
returned.  "Are you willing to try?  You know the
alternative."

"May I think it over, mother?"

"Yes, you may think over it, if you like.  It is,
after all, only a question of your willingness."

"That means you have made up your mind?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Ingestre saw the strong young face set into
lines of defiance.  She went back to the sofa and
lay down with a sigh.

"Little Nora," she said, almost under her breath,
"you know it is not my custom to preach.  You
won't think, therefore, that I am just 'talking' when
I tell you: years ago I would have given
anything—anything—to have had this chance."

For the first time in their long interview the girl
stopped listening to the self-pitying confusion of her
thoughts.  The elder woman's voice had penetrated
her youthful egoism, and she turned with that curious
tugging at the heart which we experience when we
have unexpectedly heard a smothered cry of pain
break from lips usually composed in lines of peace
and apparent content.

"Mother!" Nora exclaimed.  The room was now
in almost complete shadow.  She came closer and
bent over the quiet face.  The atmosphere was heavy
with the scent of roses, and it flashed through Nora's
mind as she stood there that her mother was like a
rose—pale and faded, but still beautiful, still breathing
a wonderful perfume of purity and sweetness.

"Mother!" she repeated, strangely awe-struck.

Mrs. Ingestre opened her eyes and smiled.

"I am very tired," she said.  "I think I could
sleep a little.  Go and think it over.  I want you to
be willing."

Nora bent and kissed her.

"If you wish it, I am willing," she said with
impulsive, whole-hearted surrender.  She crept out on
tiptoe, and for a few minutes all was quiet in the
great shadowy room.  Then the door opened again,
and the Rev. John entered and peered round
short-sightedly.  He saw that his wife's eyes were closed,
and, since it is not kind to waken a weary invalid, he
merely knocked some books off the table and coughed.
Truth to tell, it annoyed him that his wife should
have chosen that identical moment to rest.  He
wanted to talk to her, but since in spite of all his
indirect efforts she remained quiet, he went out
again, a disconsolate victim of his own gentle
consideration.

But Mrs. Ingestre had not been asleep.  Her eyes
were shut, but the eyes of her mental vision were
open.  They were watching sunlit panoramas of long
rivers with mountain banks and frowning ruins,
glorious, heaven-inspiring cathedral spires and great
cities.  The ears of her imagination had not heard the
Rev. John's clumsy movements.  They were listening
to the song of the ocean, the confusion of a strange
tongue, the rich *crescendo* of a wonderful music.

Mrs. Ingestre had left the room and the vicarage
and the village far behind, and was travelling swiftly
through a world which she had never seen and—since
for her life was near its close—would never see.  And
as she travelled, the same thought repeated itself to
her with stern persistency:

"Whatever it costs you, she must go.  You must
not, dare not keep her."





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.. _`AN EXPERIMENT`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   AN EXPERIMENT

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Breakfast with the Ingestres was a movable and
unsociable feast.  The various members of the family
came down when it suited them, the only punishment
being the inevitable one of cold eggs and bitter tea,
and conversation was restricted to the barest
necessities.  The Rev. John was usually engrossed in
parochial letters, Mrs. Ingestre was never present at
all, and Miles only at such a time when it pleased him.
Thus Nora, choosing on the morning following the
momentous interview to be an early riser, found
little difficulty in making her escape.  The
Rev. John was more absorbed than usual in his post,
since it contained not only letters dealing with his
cure of souls, but also some disagreeable business
facts which he swallowed with his tea in melancholy
gulps.

Nora kissed him lightly on the high forehead as
she ran toward the open French window.  Rather to
her surprise, the customary caress seemed to arouse
her father from his reflections.  He looked up and
blinked, like a man who is trying to remember some
important matter.

"My dear," he said, before Nora had reached
the lawn, "is it really true that you want to go
abroad?  Your mother was talking to me about it
last night."

"We were thinking about it," Nora admitted,
fidgeting nervously with the blind-cord.  "Mother
said she thought it would be good for me."

"But, my dear child, what shall we do without
you?" her father complained.

Nora made an almost imperceptible movement of
impatience.  She knew of what her father was thinking,
and it did not move her to any great degree
of sympathy.

"You will manage all right," she said.  "Mr. Clerk
will help you with your letters."  And then,
to cut the conversation short, she went out into the
garden and along the gravel pathway towards the
road.

The sun shone gloriously.  All the charm of an
English summer morning lay in the air, and Nora
drew in great breaths with a joyous, unconscious
triumph in her own fresh youth and health.  The
garden was the one place in the village which she
really loved.  The ugly, modern red-brick church,
the straggling "square," with its peppermint
bull's-eye monument to some past "glorious victory," in
which the inhabitants of Delford were dimly supposed
to have had their honourable share, the stuffy
cottages, interspersed here and there by an ivy-overgrown
residence of some big-wig of the neighbourhood—these
features were unaccountably connected in
Nora's mind with her father's sermons, the drone of
the organ, and the dull piety of Sundays.  But the
garden was all her mother's.  Nora believed that
within its peaceful limits the forgotten and despised
fairies of ancient lore took refuge from the
matter-of-fact bigots who formed Delford's most respectable
community.  She had even christened a certain
rose-corner the "Fairy Castle," and it amused her riotous
young fancy to imagine an indignant and horrified
Queen Mab scampering across the lawn in disorganised
flight, before the approach of the enemy in the form
of Mrs. Clerk, the curate's wife, or Mrs. Chester of
the Manor.  The garden was, as it were, Mrs. Ingestre's
self-created Eden in the drab-coloured land of the
Philistines, and even the Rev. John was an intruder
and disturber of its poetic peace.  Nora felt all this,
and in a dim, unformed way understood why her
mother's roses were different to the roses in other
and richer gardens, why the very atmosphere had its
own peculiar perfume, the silence its own peculiar
mystery.  She felt that her mother had translated
herself into the flowers, and that the depths of her
quiet, unfathomable heart were revealed in their beauty
and sweetness.  She felt that if she could have read
their language, the very daisies on the lawn would
have lifted the veil which hung between her and the
woman who seemed to her the most perfect on earth.
For, in spite of their close and tender relationship,
Mrs. Ingestre's inner life was for her daughter a sort
of Holy of Holies, into which no human being had ever
ventured.

Thus, once beyond the reach of her father's voice,
Nora lingered willingly between the rose beds, making
mental comments on the progress of the various
favourites and for the moment forgetting the matter
which was weighing heavily on her mind.  At the
gate opening out on to the road, however, she pulled
herself sharply together, with a sudden gravity on her
young face.  Either the church steeple visible above
the trees, or the sight of an inquisitive face peering
through the blinds of the house opposite, reminded
her that the frontier of Eden was reached, and that
the dull atmosphere of respectability was about to
encompass her.  She went quickly through the village.
Most of the villagers touched their caps as she passed,
and Mrs. Clerk, early bird of charity that she was,
attempted to waylay her, to discuss the desirability
of procuring parish relief for bedridden old Jones,
and, incidentally, of course, to discover how far the
pleasantly lugubrious reports respecting the Ingestres'
disabled fortunes were founded on fact.  Nora,
however, avoided her enemy with the assistance of an
absent-minded smile and increased speed, and managed
to reach her destination without further interruption.

Her destination was a stile which led out on to a
narrow pathway over the fields.  She was fond of
the spot, partly because if you turned your back to
the east it was quite possible to forget that such
things as Delford or the church or the peppermint
bull's-eye monument existed, partly because westwards
the limitless stretch of undulating fields seemed to
suggest freedom and the great world beyond, of which
Nora thought so much.  On this particular morning
it was not the view which attracted her, as her rather
unusual conduct testified.  She arranged her ruffled
brown hair, stooped, and tightened a shoelace, undid
the second shoelace and retied it with methodical
precision.  Then some one said "Good morning,
Nora," and she sprang upright with her cheeks red
with surprise or exertion, or anything else the beholder
chose to suppose.

"Good morning, Robert," she said.

The new-comer took the friendly, outstretched hand.

"I was coming to pay a disgracefully early morning
call," he said.  "I am awfully glad we have met."

"I knew you would come over the fields this
way," she said.  "I came because I wanted to see you."

He flushed crimson with pleasure.

"That was decent of you, Nora.  You are not
always so kind."

"This is an exceptional occasion," she answered
gravely.

She perched herself on the stile and sat there gazing
thoughtfully in front of her.  In that moment she
made a sweet and pleasing picture of English girlhood.
The sunlight played through the trees on to her hair,
picking out the shining red-gold threads, and touching
with warmer glow the softly tinted skin.  The
clean-cut, patrician features, dark-arched eyebrows, and
proud, rather full lips seemed to contrast strangely
with the extreme simplicity of her flowered muslin
frock.  And indeed she came of another race of
women than that of which Delford and its inhabitants
were accustomed—something finer, more delicate,
more keenly tempered.  It was almost impossible to
think of her as the Rev. John's daughter—quite
impossible as Miles Ingestre's sister.  One could only
understand the small, aristocratic features when one
remembered that Mrs. Ingestre was her mother.
Captain Arnold remembered the fact keenly that
moment.

"I declare you are Mrs. Ingestre's miniature!"
he exclaimed.  "This morning, one would positively
think she had been made twenty years younger, and
perched up there as a surprise-packet."

Nora turned on him with a pleased smile.

"This is a nice compliment," she said; "but I
have no time for such things just now.  Any moment
Mrs. Clerk might scurry round the corner, and then
my reputation would be gone for ever.  She would
probably tell every one that I had come out to meet
you on purpose."

"Which is true, by the way, isn't it?" he inquired,
smiling.

"Yes, quite true; only my reason is respectable—not
the sort of reason that Mrs. Clerk would put down
to my credit."

He came closer and, leaning his elbows on the
cross-bars of the stile, looked up into her face.

"I hope it is a nice reason," he said.

"No," she answered, "it is a serious reason, and
not in the least nice.  I expect you have already
heard something about it, haven't you?"

He hesitated.

"Of course—I have heard rumours," he said.  "As
a rule I ignore such things, but I could not
altogether ignore this; it concerned you and yours too
closely."

"Besides, it is true," she added.

"True, Nora?"

"Yes, quite true.  We are ruined."

"My dear girl!"

"At least, comparatively ruined," she corrected.

For a moment he was silent, apparently intent on
the study of his own strong square hands linked
together in front of him.

"How did it happen?" he asked at last.

"I don't know," she answered impatiently.
"Father bought some shares that aren't any good.
I suppose he wanted to make money."  Her tone was
unconsciously scornful.

"We all want to do that," Arnold observed in defence.

The strongly arched eyebrows went up a degree.

"At any rate," she said, "it is frightfully rough on
mother.  Her life was hard enough before—what
with ill-health and that sort of thing.  Now it will
be ten times worse."  She clenched her hands in a
sudden passionate protest.  "I can't help it," she
went on, "it seems to me all wrong.  She is the best,
the cleverest woman I have ever met.  She ought to
be the wife of a genius or a great, good man—not
father's wife.  Father ought to have married
Mrs. Clerk.  Why did she marry him?  It is wicked, but
it is the thought which comes into my mind every
time I see them together.  And now, when I think
that she will have to scrape and save as well
I——"  She stopped short and looked at her companion
defiantly.  "I suppose you are very shocked," she
said.  "That comes of always feeling as though you
were one of the family.  I have to say just what is
passing in my mind."

"I am glad you have so much confidence in me,"
Arnold answered seriously.  "All the same, I do not
think that you are just to your father.  He is a
thoroughly good man.  Many people would think
Mrs. Ingestre very lucky."

"Perhaps they *do* think so," Nora said, with
indifference.  "That is because no one about here is
capable of understanding her.  In any case, it's no
good talking about it.  This latest trouble is quite
enough."

"I suppose Miles will be able to stay in the Army?"
Arnold asked.

"Oh, yes, that's settled."

"What about your studies?  They will have to be
given up, of course?"

"Why 'of course'?" she flashed out.

"Because there won't be enough money for them,"
he explained in a matter-of-fact tone.  "For my
part," he went on, "I shall be glad.  I dreaded the
thought of coming home on leave and finding you
gone.  It would have been sickening."

"It will be still more 'sickening' now," she said,
rather revengefully.  "I am going away for a long
time, and to a place a long way off."

"Nora!  In Heaven's name where and why?"

She laughed at his astonished, troubled face.

"To Karlsburg, in Germany—as a companion."

"To Germany!  Why do you want to go there?"

"Because I do not want to vegetate here."

"Nora, you will hate it.  You will be ill with
home-sickness.  You don't know what it will be like.
It is not as though you will be among your own
country-people.  You will hate their manners, their customs,
their ways, and they will treat you like a servant.
Little Nora, I can't bear the thought of it."

He spoke earnestly, almost incoherently.

Nora shook her head.

"There is no other alternative," she said.

"There is one other alternative, Nora.  Will you
be my wife?"

He had taken her hand, and she did not attempt
to draw it back.  Nor had she changed colour.  Her
clear eyes studied his thin, rather gaunt face, and
passed on with frank criticism to his tall figure,
loosely built and rather stooping, in the grey Norfolk
suit.

"Nora," he said sternly, "I have asked you a
question.  You do not need to look at me like that.
I am not different to what I usually am."

"But I am looking at you in a different light,"
she said.

He seemed to think that she was laughing at him,
or that she had not taken him seriously.  A deep
flush mounted his sun-burnt cheeks.

"Nora, I am very much in earnest," he said, his
grasp on her hand tightening.  "Though you are a
child you must have felt long ago that I cared for you
as something more than my little comrade.  I love
you, and I have loved you a long time.  Will you be
my wife?"

She shook her head gravely and regretfully.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I do not love you."

"Are you sure?  How can you tell?  You know
nothing of love."

"No," she agreed.  "That is the very reason I
will not marry you."

He let her hand go and stood looking at her with
his lips tightly compressed, as though on a storm of
protest.

"Would you mind if I was quite honest?" she
went on.  "I would rather tell you everything, even
if it makes you think me bad and heartless."

"I shall never think that of you," he said painfully.

"Well, then, I did know you cared for me," she
continued.  "I was always ashamed of myself for
knowing.  It seemed conceited of me to imagine
that a grown-up man should want such a child as I
am—still, I couldn't help it.  I felt it.  It seems one
does feel that sort of thing.  It is like electricity in
the air.  Anyhow, it did not worry me very much.
I made up my mind that one of these days I would
marry you.  It seemed so probable and natural that
I should.  We had known each other since I was a
baby and you a school-boy; our families were
connected; we lived in the same neighbourhood; we saw
each other at regular intervals; we never quarrelled—or
hardly ever; we knew each other's faults better
than most people do who marry.  Everything seemed
to point in the same direction.  But I was such a
school-girl.  I felt that there was heaps of time for
me to grow to love you—or perhaps find out that I
loved you already.  You see, I wasn't sure.  I liked
to be with you; but then, I like to be with any one
who is jolly and amusing, so that wasn't a sure test.
Yesterday I knew that there was no time left me.  I
guessed that I should have to decide between you and
Karlsburg.  It sounds horrid, but it is the truth.
And I could not decide—I simply could not.  Then
I thought—perhaps if you *asked* me, perhaps if you
told me about *your* love, it would awaken some sort
of an answer in me—I should feel some sort of signal
such as I should imagine a woman would feel if the
being with whom she is destined to spend her life,
and perhaps more, stood at her side and held her
hand.  So I came out here, so that you would ask
me to be your wife.  Are you angry?"

He shook his head, frowning straight before him.

"No."

"It may sound heartless," she went on; "I did
not mean it to be.  I thought it would be better if
everything was spoken out clearly between us.  I
knew you loved me, and I cared for you—I cared for
you enough to be glad if I found I loved you.  For
my own sake I should have been glad.  I know my
life would be safe in your hands—that you are all an
English gentleman need be, but——"

"Now comes the 'but,' he said, with bitterness.

"It is no good," she said.  "I can't pretend, can
I?  When you took my hand, when you spoke, I
felt nothing—absolutely nothing, or, perhaps, only
a little more critical than usual.  I noticed, for
instance, that you stoop.  It had never struck me
before.  I tell you that because it shows you just
how I feel."

"Thank you," he said.

She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be angry," she pleaded.  "I *do* care for you."

"Then, if you care for me, couldn't you give me a
chance—won't you trust yourself to me, Nora?
Love will come little by little."

He had taken her hand again, and she felt that he
trembled with restrained feeling.

"I have an idea that love never comes little by
little," she said.

They were a long time silent.  Arnold had buried
his face on his arms on the cross-bars.  Presently he
looked up, and met her sorrowful gaze with pale
composure.

"So it is to be Karlsburg?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so."

"Nora, I shan't give up hope."

"It wouldn't be fair of me to say 'don't.'"

"Still, when you come back?" ...

"I can't promise anything," she said, but her eyes
were full of pity and kindness.  "I am so sorry,
Robert."

"That's all right, dear.  You can't help it."  He
pressed her hand a last time.  "I won't come on now.
You understand—I would rather be alone.  Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

She watched him till he was out of sight.  A tear
rolled down her cheek.  She rubbed it quickly and
impatiently away.  Then she sprang down and went
home.  She felt shaken and vaguely regretful, and
was filled with the one desire to be with her
mother.

Mrs. Ingestre was in the garden when Nora reached
the vicarage.  She was looking paler than usual, but
she greeted her daughter with the customary grave,
affectionate smile.

"You are out early to-day," she said.

Nora came and slipped her arm through her mother's.

"I have something serious to tell you," she said.
"Robert has asked me to be his wife."

She spoke quickly, breathlessly, as though
disburdening her heart of an uncomfortable load.
Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, but waited quietly for what
was to come.  She held a bunch of roses, and if Nora
had been less self-absorbed, she would have seen that
the white hand trembled.

"I wanted him to propose to me," Nora went on
with her confession.  "I wanted to find out if I
cared—I wanted to care, but—I don't—not enough.
So I said 'No.'  I am glad it is over."

Mrs. Ingestre pressed the arm resting on her own.

"And I am glad that you have said 'no,'" she
said.  "I should always have been afraid if it had
been 'yes' that Karlsburg and vegetation had given
the casting vote.  It is dangerous to treat marriage
as an escape loop-hole.  Sometimes it means the
tragedy of a lifetime."

They talked of other things, as people do who have
touched on a subject too near the heart's innermost
and untrodden places, but Mrs. Ingestre had
unconsciously lifted a corner of the veil.  The words "a
tragedy of a lifetime" remained ineffaceable, and,
though they had been untouched with self-pity or
bitterness, Nora believed she understood.

From that moment she saw in her mother's face,
words, and acts a new meaning—the revelation of a
harsh punishment nobly and patiently accepted.





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   CHAPTER IV


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   OUTWARD BOUND

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After the final decision, events moved swiftly in
Nora Ingestre's life.  It was almost as though
Mrs. Ingestre was afraid delay might develop imperceptibly
into a gradual surrender to the protests of her husband
and the scoffing criticisms of her son.  The former
treated Nora's journey as a sort of soul-contaminating
emigration into the land of the Moabites—a matter
full of spiritual danger for her, and, incidentally,
of annoyance for him.  During the six weeks that
passed in correspondence between Delford and
Karlsburg and in busy preparations, he varied the table
conversation with anxious appeals to a watchful, if
occasionally inexplicable Providence on behalf of his
dearest child and a fretful review of his own crippled
condition without her assistance.

"God forbid that I should criticise my fellow-creatures,"
was his usual introductory sentence, "but
foreigners are not as we.  They have ways and customs
which I cannot believe are well-pleasing in His sight.
Do not, my child, be led astray by the creeping
influence of example; do not surrender the proud and
glorious tenets of your country because you see many,
less fortunate, following other paths than those you
have been taught to tread.  They may seem fair, but
remember the end is not here.  Be careful that a
light and frivolous conception of a terrible God does
not taint your blood.  I shall think of you always,
dear child, but most of all on Sundays, in our beloved
church, when I shall pray that you too are joining in
the universal praise in some suitable place of worship."

After which he was wont to remark that his sermon
was not yet copied out, and on Nora having offered
to perform the task, only too thankful that her soul's
condition should cease to be made the subject for an
after-dinner's conversation, he would draw her to
him and kiss her.

"What shall I do without my right hand?" he
usually added, with a grave and melancholy shake of
the head.

It was then Miles's turn to take up the ball and
keep it rolling after his own methods and ideas.
References to fat Germans and to people who chose to
associate with that sort of foreign bounder rather
than stay at home with decent English people were
plentiful, and became tiresome even in their
variations.  But alike to her brother's pungent sarcasm
and her father's periods Nora bore the same
determined front.  She was on her mother's side, blindly
and devotedly, and in spite of the fact that at the
bottom of her heart she shared the prejudices of the
masculine element in her family.  She had the firm
conviction that her mother was right, and felt,
moreover, that anything—even Karlsburg—was better
than the dreary Puritan monotony of her present life.

As for Mrs. Ingestre, she said little, but went on
quietly with the necessary arrangements and ignored
the constant, if indirect, attacks of her husband and
son.  Neither ventured to criticise her plans to her
face.  Miles lived in a wholesome shamefaced awe of
his mother's dignity and keener insight into his own
weaknesses; the Rev. John had his private reasons
for caution.  He had, in fact, waged one battle royal
with his wife, and had been momentarily forced to
realise that for twenty-five years he had been living
with a master who had acted willingly as his slave.
Not that the awakening was more than momentary.
When he first recovered from the shock of finding
himself confronted by an iron wall of opposition, he
had dozed back into the old delusion that he was sent
with a divine mission to be the guide and support to
a frail and helpless woman.  But there were a few
words uttered in the course of a short and painful
interview which the Rev. John could not forget.
They rankled in his mind as the proof of the injustice,
ingratitude, and perversity of the best of women.

"We look at things from a different standpoint,"
Mrs. Ingestre had said wearily.  "You regard the
world and all that it has to offer in beauty and
happiness as something to be hated and avoided.  You do
hate the world.  You boast of the fact.  I am different.
I believe that I was put into the world to enjoy it to
the uttermost power of my capability, that every
day in which I had not seen or done something new
or experienced some fresh wonder was a day wasted.
I believed all this in spite of my home and upbringing.
I simply waited for the time when I should be allowed
to live as I understood living.  I married you—and
then too late I saw that your ideas and mine clashed.
It was a mistake, John, but in all justice you must
admit it was a mistake which you have never had to
feel.  I have done my best to smother my wishes
and instincts because I realised that it was not your
fault that I had seen more in you than was really
there.  I have stood by you loyally—I felt it was my
duty to do so even at the cost of my own individuality.
*I* had made a mistake.  But it was a mistake none
the less, John, and it is one for which Nora shall not
suffer.  My responsibility to her is greater than it is
to you.  She is my daughter.  She shall live as her
character requires—as my character required.  She
shall not be stunted and dwarfed in her growth.  This
is the first time I have ever opposed you.  I do so
because I must."

And, strangely enough, the Rev. John had found
nothing to say.  He prayed very earnestly for his
wife against the hydra-headed monster of worldliness
and vanity which he firmly believed had taken hold
upon her soul, but from that moment his protest
confined itself to an increased gravity in her presence
and the indirect reproach of his after-dinner orations.

Thus time slipped past, and almost before she
knew it the day of departure dawned for Nora.  In
the fresh autumnal air and bright sunshine she forgot
the pangs of the previous night, when she had wept a
few tears of regret and vague remorse.  In the darkness
she had reproached herself to the point of believing
that to desert her father and the copying of his sermons
was a piece of unfilial selfishness.  Even Robert
Arnold appeared to her in a new light—that light
which our "good-night" thoughts, first cousins to
"last" thoughts, cast about those dear to us.  He
seemed very dear to her at midnight.  A dozen
episodes, grave and gay, in their common life recurred
to her, also illuminated by the same tender regret.
A year's parting from him caused her almost intolerable
heartache, the more so because she had repulsed him
and the love after which she began to hunger.  "If
he will only wait, I am sure I shall grow to love him,"
she confided to her damp pillow, more than half
convinced that the love had come already, startled to
life by the fear of loss and separation.

But the morning sunshine is a spritely, cold-hearted
magician.  As the shaky old four-wheeled cab, glorified
in the village by the name of "the brougham," rolled
over the uneven cobbles, she found herself nodding a
cheerful, almost triumphant, farewell to the church
and the monument.  They were in her eyes the
symbols of a life she was leaving behind her, like the
gates of a not intolerable prison.  She was quite sorry
that Mrs. Clerk failed to be on her usual watchful
guard at the window.  Certainly, if the village was
a sort of prison, Mrs. Clerk was its spiritual gaoler,
and Nora would have dearly loved to flourish her
dawning freedom in the disapproving face of her
natural enemy.  But Mrs. Clerk was nowhere to be
seen, and Nora's flashing glance encountered only
her mother's grave, thoughtful eyes.

Against all advice, Mrs. Ingestre had determined
to accompany her daughter up to London.  Perhaps
she feared her husband's last exhortations, perhaps
she was urged by a secret heart-hunger.  Yet her
whole face brightened with warm sympathy as she
read in Nora's smile and heightened colour the proud,
bold joy of youth plunging for the first time into the
full tide of life.

"You are glad to go?" she asked in a low voice
that was without the faintest tone of reproach.

Nora nodded.

"I am excited," she said.  "I feel like a pioneer
setting out on the discovery of new worlds.  And so
I am.  What does it matter that millions of people
have been where I am going?  *I* have never been
before.  It is all new to me."

Her father sighed in pained disapproval.

"Let us hope that your adventures in foreign lands
will not cost you too dear, Nora," he said.  "May
they bring you back to your home contented and
grateful for its blessed peace."

Mrs. Ingestre leant forward and laid her hand on
Nora's.  The movement might have been made in
confirmation of her husband's words—it might also
have had another meaning.  It might have meant,
taken in conjunction with the almost youthful flash
in the dark eyes: "Be of good cheer!  The world
and life are before you.  Grasp both in spite of every
one.  They are worth fighting for!"

And Nora's clasp responded.  Her spirits were at
their highest pitch.  She was afraid of nothing; the
long journey, the foreign country, and its despised
inhabitants had no terrors for her.  Youth and
morning sunshine swept her forward on a wave of
impetuous joy.  She even found it in her heart to be
thankful for the "blows of Providence," though for
other reasons than those of her piously resigned
parent.  "After all, now I shall be able to fight my
own battles," was her proud thought.

The day in London cast the first shadow over her
courage.  They arrived in the metropolis at midday,
and as the boat-train left at eight o'clock in the evening
there was a whole afternoon to be spent wandering
about the busy streets—a pleasant occupation if you
understand how to go about it.  But this was one
thing that the Rev. John did not understand.  He
belonged to the class of people for whom London is
a great black, smutty monster, replete with all the
vices and crimes of Babylon, and his passage through
its heart was a veritable penance.  His sincerely
Puritan temperament—for, to do him justice, he was
but half a hypocrite and only that much unconsciously,
like the rest of us—found "sermons in stones," and
in everything else from the wicked luxury of the lady
lounging in her victoria to the ragged profligacy of
the beggar.  Sermons he delivered, therefore, and
Nora, trudging wearily at his side, with all her eyes
on the ignored shop windows, listened in sullen
defiance.  She loved London with the almost passionate
love which is given to no other city in the world.
She loved the fogs, its dirt, its stern, relentless bustle;
she felt a sort of vague kinship with its vagabonds,
its grandees, its very policemen, and her father's
criticisms goaded her to distraction.  Yet once, as
they dragged themselves into an A.B.C. for tea, she
saw her mother's face, and her anger died down,
yielding to the first cold touch of home-sickness.
There was something written on the pale, worn face
which she could not read but which filled her with
vague pain.  Visited by what unshed years of
regret, longing, and unavailing remorse had those
quiet eyes watched the tide of life flow past them?
Nora did not know.  In an instinctive, almost
childish, sympathy she slipped her hand into
Mrs. Ingestre's.

"Dear, dear mother!" she said, "I wish I
could make you happy—really happy."

The Rev. John had gone to order the buns and tea
which were to form the *pièces de résistance* of their
evening meal.  Mrs. Ingestre looked down into the
young, earnest face.  Her own face relaxed an instant
from its own usual serenity.  It was as though a
sudden gust of wind had passed over a lake, ruffling
its smooth, peaceful surface.

"Be happy," she said almost imperatively.
"Whatever else happens, remember that you have
the right to happiness.  And to be happy you must
open your heart wide—you must welcome all that is
good, even if it is not the good you have been taught
to know.  Don't let Delford or—or even us make your
standard.  Keep the past and those that love you,
but don't let them hem you—don't let them stand
between you and the future.  Show your new world
a big, generous, open heart, and it will open a heart
as big and generous to you.  Be arrogant and petty,
and everything about you will reflect yourself.  Oh,
Nora, I am not preaching; a narrow heart is a curse
to others and to itself."

There was a peculiar emphasis in her words, a note
in her voice so like despair that it rang long afterwards
in Nora's memory.  It cast a deeper shadow over
her sinking spirits, and as she walked by her mother's
side towards the station which was to mark their
first long parting, the hot, burning tears welled up in
her eyes and only by a strong effort were kept back
from overflow.  Since that morning, with its brilliant
sunshine, its youth and hope, all had changed within
her and without.  The sunshine had yielded to cold,
dark shadows, youth and hope lagged wearily,
overcome by the growing tide of home-love.  "Dear old
England!" Nora whispered to herself.  "Dear old
England!"  And the very shop windows, casting
bright golden patches on the thickening fog, seemed
to have a special light of their own.  The faces of the
passers-by were dear to her because they were English
faces and because she was going to a strange country,
where she would see them no more.  Even the
red-brick church and "the monument" became hallowed
in her memory.  In that moment of youthful grief
she would have given worlds to know that she was
going home, that there were to be no partings, that
she was to live her life in the dull peace to which she
had waved a joyous farewell that very morning.

They entered the great station.  The bustle and
confusion brought her no relief—rather, it increased
the sense of helplessness which was growing stronger
and stronger.  For a moment she lost sight of her
father and mother, and it was then she felt for the
first time all the poignancy of the loneliness which
was, in less than a quarter of an hour, to become an
irreparable reality.  She turned, dazedly seeking a
familiar face, and in the same instant a firm, warm
hand clasped hers.

"Nora—little girl!"

It was Arnold who stood beside her.  She recognised
his strong, gaunt face with a sudden, joyous start
which brought the colour to her cheeks.  Had she
unconsciously been longing for him?  Had the heartache
been a little because she had not seen him, because
ever since that decisive morning he had kept away
from her, taking her dismissal as final?  Was it final?
These were things he at least might have asked as he
felt the quick response of her touch and saw the
light flash back into her tear-filled eyes.  But Nora
thought of nothing—asked no questions.  She clung
to his arm like a tired, lost child.

"Oh, I am so glad," she said, almost incoherent
with relief, "so glad!"

"I couldn't keep away," he said, himself shaken by
her sudden self-abandonment.  "I did my best, but
in the end I had to come.  I could not let you go so
far from me without a God-speed.  And something
seemed to tell me that you would be glad to see me."

"I am!" she cried.  "Of course I am!"

They reached Mrs. Ingestre and her husband, who
were busy with the luggage registration.  A shadow
seemed to pass over the latter's face as she saw the
two together, but she greeted Arnold with her usual
serene courtesy.

"Miles has come too," she said.

Miles was, indeed, very much *en évidence*.  He had
made himself what he called "smart" for the occasion,
and an extraordinary high collar and a flagrantly red
tie certainly put him beyond all danger of being
overlooked.  His face was a trifle flushed—perhaps
with the hurry of his arrival—and his manner jocose.

"You look as though you might flood the station
any minute," he told Nora.  "I bet anything you'd
give your bottom dollar to be out of it."

"Don't, Miles!" she answered gently.  "Of course
I am sorry to leave you all.  It is only natural."

Her eyes met Arnold's, and perhaps they said more
than she knew.  He came back to her side.

"Let us go and find a comfortable corner for you,"
he suggested.

She followed him passively, and they walked along
the platform to the end of the train, where the crowd
of passengers was less dense.

"Dear little Nora!" he said, looking down at her
with infinite pity and tenderness.  The tears rushed
again to her eyes.  She fought them down
courageously, but her voice shook as she answered:

"It is so hard to go," she said, "much harder
than I thought this morning.  I have only just realised
how dear everything—everybody is to me."

"Nora, that is what I hoped.  You are so young—you
do not know your own heart.  Now perhaps
you can tell better—if there is any chance for me."

She saw the pleading in his face, and she made no
answer.  Her throat hurt her and she was no longer
so sure.  She did care for him, and if she had felt no
thrill of passion at his touch, his presence seemed to
envelop her in a warm, comforting glow of protecting
tenderness infinitely precious.

"Nora," he went on, "even now it is not too late.
My dearest, what are you waiting for?  What are
you expecting to find?  I believe I could make you
happy—my love is so great."

She threw up her head with the determined gesture
he knew so well.

"I must go," she said.  "It would be weak and
cowardly to turn back at the last minute.  Only——"

"You will come back soon?"

She nodded, her lips trembling.

"I feel I must," she said.

"And you will write to me?"

The Rev. John bustled up to them.  He was flustered
and nervous, as people are to whom a journey
of any sort is an event full of dangerous possibilities.

"You must get in at once," he said fussily.  "The
train is just off.  There, God bless you, my dear child!
Remember all I have said.  And if you are not happy,
or the people not nice, let us know at once."

Mrs. Ingestre clasped her daughter in a short, almost
passionate embrace.

"Be happy!" she said again; and the words were
a blessing.

The carriage door slammed to; somewhere from
the rear they heard the guard's shrill whistle, and
gradually the train began to glide forward, leaving
behind the little group of dearly loved faces.

Arnold walked at the carriage side.

"You will write to me often?" he pleaded.

"Yes, yes, I will write."

"Tell me everything—everything you think and
feel.  Oh, Nora, it is so hard to let you go!  But I
have taken fresh hope.  I believe you will come
back soon—I believe it will all come right for us both."

The train was gathering speed.  He had to run to
keep pace with her carriage.

"Nora, after all—you do care a little, don't you?"

She nodded.  She was so tired, so heart-sick, that
had it been possible she would have sprung out and
put her hand in his in weary, thankful surrender.
But it was too late.  She could only look at him,
and again her eyes told more than she perhaps would
have said.  He stood still, hat in hand, and waved
to her, and the last she saw of him was a face full of
hope and gratitude.

"When you send for me, I shall come," he said.

The train glided into the suffocating darkness of a
tunnel, and when they once more emerged the station
was far behind, and they were travelling faster and
faster into the night.  The lights of London, of home,
of England swept past in blurred lines of fire.

Nora Ingestre watched them, fighting bravely; but
when they had disappeared she covered her eyes
with her hand and wept the silent, bitter tears of a
first exile.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AMONG THE HEATHEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   AMONG THE HEATHEN

.. vspace:: 2

"Karlsburg!  *Alles aussteigen*—Karlsburg!"

Nora sprang up, roughly aroused from a half-doze
by the stentorian tones and a general move in her
compartment.  The fat German who had occupied
the corner seat opposite her, and who had spent the
journey in doing his best to justify her scorn and
contempt for all foreigners, was heaving great masses
of untidy luggage out of the window and shouting
furiously for a *Gepäckträger*.  In this performance he
trod more than once on Nora's toes, thus arousing
her so effectually that she made haste to convey herself
and her belongings out into the narrow corridor
congested with passengers and baggage.  After a
brief energetic scramble down the appalling staircase
which separates the continental traveller from the
platform, she landed safely and drew a sigh of relief.
"Here I am at last!" she thought, comforted by
the knowledge that the worst was over.  The "worst"
in connection with separations is the first twenty-four
hours, the first night-fall, and the first awaking to
changed surroundings and circumstances.  After that,
the human capacity for adjustment mercifully begins
to display itself, and the first poignancy of grief is
over—at any rate for those who have courage and
youth to help them.  And Nora had both.  As she
stood that morning on the deck of the Flushing boat,
watching the pale, low outline of land, she had already
felt the first glow of returning vigour.  The keen
sea-air had blown colour into her cheeks; the tears which
had threatened to assert themselves so often the night
before had dried at their source, and she had flung
herself into the confusion of exchange from the boat
to the waiting train with a pleased realisation of her
own independence.  Then had come the long and
glorious panorama along the Rhine, the frowning
castles, the majestic spires of the great Dom, the new
types of men and women hurrying backwards and
forwards about the busy platforms.

During the long hours Nora's watchful, eager eyes
never closed.  This, then, was the new world to which
she was to open her heart; these, then, the people
whose qualities of goodness she was to learn to
honour.  The first task was easy enough—it was,
indeed, a beautiful world.  But the people?  They
were of another type than that to which she was
accustomed, and Nora, imbued with the pleasant
insular conviction that all English people are tall
and handsome, found them so far little to her taste.
In truth, a firmly rooted prejudice is not to be
overcome in a moment, or even by the wisest precept,
and not all Mrs. Ingestre's eloquence could crush
back the half-conscious superiority which her daughter
experienced in that stuffy second-class coupé.  Her
fellow-passengers, be it confessed, were stout and
inelegant, and they obviously preferred the window
closed—points which were alone quite sufficient to
stamp them as belonging to an inferior class.  But the
chief point was Nora's own nationality.  The mere fact
that she was English would have kept her in
countenance even when confronted with the whole Imperial
family, and, indeed, throughout the journey, with its
difficulties, its various encounters with idiotic foreign
porters who refuse to understand the English language,
no matter how loud it is shouted, she was sustained
by a calm and inborn knowledge of her racial superiority.
Thus she felt no sense of loneliness or helplessness
until the voice shouting "Karlsburg" had hurried
her out on to the crowded, bustling platform.  There
for the first time she felt her own insignificance, her
own strangeness.  She was really in a foreign country
at last, and with all her superiority she stood there
a forlorn handful of pretty, despairing girlhood,
waiting for the first jabbering, gesticulating savage
to rescue her from her perplexity.

"*Ach, liebes Kind, da bist du!  Willkommen!*"

The eager, kindly voice and the cordial embrace
were equally sudden and somewhat overwhelming.
Steadying her hat from the effects of the shock, Nora
turned to find herself held by a short, stout little
woman, very out of breath, very excited, who was
smiling and nodding at her as though at an old and
very dear acquaintance.

"Ach! you do not know me?" she interrogated,
adding in the same gasp, "But how should you?  I
am ze old Fräulein Müller—you haf heard of her?
Long ago she did teach ze muzzer, and now here is ze
daughter—her muzzer every bit of her.  *Ach, du
lieber Gott im Himmel*!  But I must not so much talk.
Give ze man your *Gepäckschein, liebes Kind*."

Half overcome by the torrent of words, Nora
produced the document which she supposed answered to
the name of Gepäckschein.  In the interval, whilst
Fräulein Müller was apparently pouring volumes of
mingled explanation and abuse over the head of an
equally flustered porter, Nora had opportunity to
study her rescuer.  Fräulein Müller, she imagined,
was well over the fifties and, on account of her
stoutness, looked her age, but her face was as lively as it
was plain, and the rotund figure in its dowdy brown
dress cut after the manner of a long-forgotten fashion
seemed to be bubbling over with seething sprightliness.
Nora had a quick eye, and her critical faculties, at
home usually dormant, were on the alert.  "How
badly the Germans dress!" she thought.  "What
dreadful boots—and that dress!  I suppose it is her
best, and it was probably quite expensive.  Whatever
could have made any one choose a colour like that?"

Her observations were cut short by her unconscious
victim grasping her by the arm and hurrying her up
and down dark flights of steps, the whole way
continuing her explanations, peppered with gasps and
exclamatory German outbreaks.

"Ze portermans are ze stupidest race on ze earth,"
she panted, "but I haf told him—I haf his number—it
is zirty-one—please try and remember, *liebes Kind*—zat
he must your *Koffers* bring at once.  Ze Frau
Baronin's carriage is not big enoff to take more zan
us two and your rugs.  *Ach, je*!  Ze many steps are
not for one so short in ze breaths as I!"

They were out of the station at last—Nora had
delivered up her ticket with the feeling that the last
link between her and home was gone—and were
greeted by a simply dressed footman, who conducted
them to a brougham promptly summed up by Nora
as shabby.

Fräulein Müller dropped back into the cushions
with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Now all is well," she said.  "I shall drive wiz
you to the Frau Baronin's house and see you safe in.
She ask me to fetch you, as I knew I could easy find
you.  *Ach, sie ist die Liebenswürdigkeit selber, die,
Frau Baronin!*"

"You are her great friend?" Nora suggested,
seeking something to say.

Fräulein Müller threw up her plump hands in the
straining brown kid gloves and laughed.

"Nee, nee, *liebes Kind*, how should zat be?  I am
Fräulein Müller—old Fräulein Müller—and she is the
Baronin von Arnim."

Perhaps Nora's look showed that the all-apparent
distinction was not clear, for her companion went on
with a soft chuckle:

"Zat is somezing you vill understand wiz ze time,
my dear.  Ze Baronin is von great person and I am
von nobody.  Zat is all.  I am proud zat I haf brought
a so nice English girl—and glad to haf been able to
give ze daughter of my dear pupil so nice a place.  I
am sure you will be very happy."

Nora's arched brows contracted for a minute.
Something in Fräulein Müller's tone or words ruffled
her—she was not quite sure why.  The little woman
was so obviously and naïvely impressed with the
glories of Nora's new position and with the greatness
and splendour of the "Baronin," of whom she spoke
with almost bated breath, that Nora's self-importance
was somewhat wounded.  Besides which, she regarded
both matters as decidedly "unproven."  The "Baronin,"
she felt sure, was a snobbish person, probably
very stout and ponderous, and as for her splendour
and greatness, it remained yet to be seen.  Armorial
bearings with a seven-pearled crown—after all, Nora
knew very well that everybody was a count or a baron
in Germany—and a bone-shaking brougham with a
shabby footman proved nothing at all.  Thus Nora
expressed neither gratitude nor gratification, and her
manner was perhaps more chilly than she intended,
for her companion subsided into an abrupt silence,
which lasted until the carriage drew up and the door
was opened by the despised attendant.

"Now you are here!" she cried, springing out
with surprising agility.  "I vill come no further—my
leetle *étage* is just round the corner.  In a day or
two I vill venture to pay respects on the Baronin and
see how all goes wiz you.  Until then—*lebewohl*!"

Much to Nora's relief, she was not embraced a
second time.  A warm squeeze of the hand, which
seemed, somehow, to express a slight "hurtness,"
and the stumpy little figure disappeared into
the darkness, leaving Nora to face her destiny
alone.

It was now dusk, and she had only time to take in
the dim outline of a small, square house before the
footman led her up the steps to the already opened
door.  A flood of light greeted her as she entered the
hall, and seemed to intensify its unfurnished coldness.
Little as she had expected, the barren white walls
and carpetless stone floor cast a chill over her
courage which not even the beaming smile of a
pleasant-faced but far from stylish parlourmaid could
wholly dispel.

"*Die gnädige Frau wartet im Salon*," she said, and
proceeded to conduct the way farther down the
passage, switching off the electric light carefully as
she went.

In spite of everything, Nora's heart beat faster
with anticipation and an inevitable nervousness.
The great moment had arrived which was to decide
the future.  "As long as she is fat and comfortable
like Fräulein Müller, I daresay it won't be so bad,"
she told herself, but prepared for the worst.  A
minute later and she was ushered into a room so
utterly at variance with what had gone before and
her own expectations that she stood still on the
threshold with a little inward gasp of surprise.

The softly shaded light revealed to her quick young
eyes an elegance, if not luxury, whose details she
had no time to gather.  She received only an
impression of warm, delicate colours, soft stuffs, rich,
sound-deadening carpets and the touch of an indefinable
personality, whose charm seemed to linger on
every drapery.  From the ugly stone wall to this
had been no more than a step, but that step divided
one world from another, and Nora stood hesitating
seeking in the shadows the personality whose influence
she felt already like a living force.  She had no more
than an instant to wait.  Then a tall, slight figure
rose out of one of the chairs drawn out of the circle
of light and came to meet her.

"You are very welcome, Miss Ingestre," a voice
said, and her hand was taken and she was led farther
into the room.  "I would have met you myself, but
I had no method of recognising you, and the *gute*
Fräulein Müller seemed so sure that she would be able
to find her old pupil's daughter."

The voice was low, the English almost perfect,
though a little slow, as though from want of practice,
the touch of the hand firm and cool.  Somehow, in
that moment poor Nora felt painfully aware that she
was dirty and untidy from the journey and, above
all, that she was terribly young and awkward.  Yet
her natural frankness stood her in good stead.  She
looked up, smiling.

"Fräulein Müller picked me out at once," she said.
"I must be very like my mother, otherwise I cannot
think how she found me."

"In any case, the great thing is that you are found,"
Frau von Arnim said.  "Come and sit down here.
You see, we have a real English tea waiting for you."

Nora obeyed willingly, and whilst the white, delicate
hands were busy with the cups standing on the low
tray, she had opportunity to study the woman upon
whom the weal or woe of perhaps a whole long year
depended.  "She is not as beautiful as my mother,"
Nora thought, but the criticism was no disparagement.
If Frau von Arnim was not actually beautiful, she
at least bore on every feature marked refinement,
and the expression of the whole face, pale and slightly
haughty though it was, had a certain indefinable
fascination which held Nora's attention riveted.  She
was dressed elegantly, moreover, in some dark colour
which suited the brown hair and the slow hazel eyes
which, Nora felt positive, had in one quiet glance
taken in every detail of her appearance.

"We are so very glad that you have come," Frau
von Arnim went on.  "My daughter and I love
everything that is English, but, alas, nice English
people are *raræ aves* in Karlsburg.  We have only the
scum of all nations, and I cannot tell you how pleased
we were when your mother decided to entrust you to
our care."

The tone of the words was delicate and kind, suggesting
a conferred favour on Nora's side which somehow
had the reverse effect.  In her youthful and insular
arrogance Nora had felt that the "German family"
which boasted of her services was to be congratulated,
and that the real and only question of importance
was whether she liked *them*.  Now she found herself
wondering what this serene and graceful woman was
thinking of *her*.

"I'm afraid I'm not a bit a glory to my nation,"
she said, with sincere schoolgirlish humility.  "I wish
I was."

Frau von Arnim laughed.

"We like you very much already," she said.  "Besides,
you could not help being nice with such a
charming mother."

Nora started with pleased surprise, and whatever
had been unconsciously antagonistic in her melted
into an impulsive gratitude which spoke out of the
heightened colour and bright, frank eyes.

"Do you know my mother, then?" she asked.

"No, only by her letters.  But letters betray far
more than the writers think.  I often feel when I
meet some reserved, unfathomable person who interests
me, that if he would only write me the shortest
note I should know more of him than after hours of
conversation.  And Mrs. Ingestre and I have exchanged
many long letters.  We feel almost as though
she were an old friend; don't we, Hildegarde?"

This sudden appeal to a third person revealed to
Nora the fact that they were not alone.  Frau von
Arnim rose, smiling at her bewilderment, and took
her by the hand.

"You must think us very rude, strange people,"
she said, "but my daughter has been listening and
watching all this time.  You see, it is for her sake
that we wanted you to come and live with us, and
she had a whim that she would like to see you without
being seen.  Invalids may have whims and be
pardoned, may they not?"

Whilst she had been speaking she had led Nora to
the far end of the room.  There, lying on a sofa
drawn well into the shadow, Nora now perceived a
girl of about her own age, whose thin, white face was
turned to greet her with a mingling of apology and
that pathetic humility which goes with physical
weakness.

"Do not be angry," she said, holding out a feeble
hand.  "I am so afraid of strangers.  I felt I should
like to see you first—before you saw me.  I do not
know why—it was just a whim, and, as mother says,
when one is ill one may perhaps be forgiven."

"Of course," Nora said gently.  To herself she was
thinking how beautiful suffering can be.  The face
lifted to hers—the alabaster complexion, the great
dark eyes and fine aristocratic features framed in a
bright halo of disordered hair—seemed to her almost
unearthly in its spiritualised loveliness.  And then
there was the expression, so void of all vanity, so
eloquent with the appeal: "You are so strong, so
beautiful in your youth and strength.  Be pitiful to me!"

Governed by some secret impulse, Nora looked up
and found that Frau von Arnim was watching her
intently.  A veil had been lifted from the proud
patrician eyes, revealing depths of pain and grief
which spoke to Nora much as the younger eyes had
spoken, save with the greater poignancy of experience:
"You are strong, and life offers you what it will always
withhold from my child.  Be pitiful!"

And then prejudice, reserve, her own griefs, were
swept out of Nora's hot young heart on a wave of
sympathy.  She still held the thin hand clasped in
her own.  She clasped it tighter, and her answer to
the unspoken appeal came swift and unpremeditated.

"I hope you will like me," she said.  "I am so
glad I have come."

Hildegarde Arnim's pale face flushed with pleasure.

"I *do* like you," she said.  "I do hope you will be
happy with us."

And then, to their mutual surprise, the two girls
kissed each other.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LETTER HOME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   A LETTER HOME

.. vspace:: 2

"I never realised before now how true it is that all
men are brothers," Nora Ingestre wrote home to her
mother at the end of her first week in Karlsburg.
"I used to believe that we English were really the
only people who counted, the really only nice people,
and the rest were sort of outsiders on quite another
level.  And now all my ideas are turned topsy-turvy.
I keep on saying to myself, 'Why, she is just like an
Englishwoman,' or 'How English he looks!' and then
I have to admit that the simple reason why I think
they look English is because they look nice, and it
seems there are nice people all the world over.  Of
course there are differences—one notices them
especially among the poorer classes—and so far, I can only
judge the men from a distance; but if I met the
*Gnädige Frau*, as she is called, in any drawing-room,
I should think, 'Well, with one exception, she is the
most charming woman I have ever met,' and never
have so much as guessed that she could belong to any
country but my own.  Hildegarde is a dear, too.
Although she has known me such a short time, she treats
me almost as though I were her sister—in fact, I am
a sort of *enfant gâté* in the house, everybody, from
Freda, the sturdy little housemaid, upwards, doing
their best to show their goodwill to the '*kleine englische
Dame*.'  (You see, I am picking up German fast!)
Both the *Gnädige Frau* and Hildegarde know English
well and seem to enjoy talking, though one half of the
day is dedicated to my first German efforts, which, I
am sure, have the most comical results.  But no one
ever laughs at you.  Even Johann, the coachman,
keeps quite a straight face when I call him '*du*'—a
disgraceful piece of endearment which seems to haunt
me every time I open my mouth.  That reminds me
to tell you that yesterday we went for a lovely drive
in the Wild Park, the private property of the Grand
Duke.  Driving is the only outdoor enjoyment which
is left for poor Hildegarde, and it is terribly hard on
her, because she loves riding and driving and tennis,
and all that sort of thing.  It seems she had a bad
accident whilst out riding two years ago with her
cousin, who is a captain in the Artillery here, and
since then she has always been ill.  She never
complains, and is always so sweet and patient that it
makes one despise oneself for not being an angel
outright, but I know that she has her struggles.
Yesterday, for instance, Johann was giving the horse a
breathing space in a lovely *allée*—oh, you would have
enjoyed it, darling!  It was just like a glorious bit
of England, with great oak trees on either side and
lots of deer and—there, now!  I have lost myself!
Where was I?—Oh, yes, in the *allée*, when an officer
galloped past and saluted.  I hardly saw his face,
but he certainly looked very smart in his dark-blue
uniform, and he sat his horse as though he were part
of it.  He turned out to be Herr von Arnim, the
cousin in question, and I would not have thought
any more about him had it not been for a glimpse I
caught of Hildegarde's face.  She is always pale, but
just at that moment she looked almost ghastly, and
her lips were tight-pressed together, as though she
were in pain.  Somehow, I knew it was not physical,
so I did not dare say anything, but I have wondered
since whether it was the memory of all the splendid
gallops she used to have and will never have again,
or whether—but there!  I must not let my fancy run
away with me.  Anyhow, I am quite anxious to see
the 'Herr Baron' again.  Perhaps I shall to-morrow
at the *Gnädige Frau's* 'At Home'—at least, I suppose
it is an 'At Home' or a German equivalent—a function
which fills me with the profoundest awe and alarm.
Imagine me, dearest, with my knowledge of the
German language, in a crowd of natives!  What will
happen to me, I wonder?  If I am lucky, the earth
will open and swallow me up before I say something
dreadful by mistake.

.. vspace:: 2

"*September* 15.—You see, I am writing my letter
in diary form, so that you get all the details—which
is what you want; is it not, dearest?  And, indeed,
there are so many details that I do not know where
to begin.  At any rate, the 'At Home' is over, which
is a comfort, for it was even more exciting than I had
expected.  The crowd was awful—there were so many
people that one could hardly breathe, and I was so
frightened of some one speaking to me that I had to
keep on repeating to myself, 'Remember you are
English!  Remember you are English!' in order to
prevent a disorderly and undignified flight.
Fortunately there was too much confusion for anybody
to notice my insignificant person, and at last I managed
to hide myself in an obscure alcove, where I could see
and not be seen.  On the whole it was the most mixed
'At Home' I have ever seen, and I am sure it would
have shocked Mrs. Chester beyond words, You know
how much she thinks of clothes and all that sort of
thing.  Well, here, apparently, no one thinks anything
of them at all.  Some of the biggest 'aristocrats'—they
were nearly all 'aristocrats,' as I found out
afterwards—were dressed in fashions which must
have been in vogue when I was born, and nobody
seemed to think it in the least funny.  Of course,
there were well-dressed people and a few young officers
in uniform, who brightened matters up with a little
colour, but I had no time to take in more than a
general impression, for just as I was settling down to
enjoy myself, some one spoke to me.  Fortunately it
was in English, or I have no doubt I should have
fainted; as it was, I looked up and found a man in
a pale-blue uniform standing beside me with his heels
clapped together, evidently waiting for me to say
something.  I supposed he had introduced himself,
for I had heard him say 'Bauer' in a rather grating
voice, but I felt very far from friendly.  You know
how I am, mother.  I take violent likes and dislikes,
and I cannot hide either the one or the other.  And
almost in the same instant that I saw this man's face
I disliked him.  I cannot tell you why.  He was
good-looking enough and his manners were polished,
but there was something in his face, in the way he looked
at me, which made me angry—and afraid.  It sounds
absurd to talk of being afraid at a harmless German
'At Home,' but if I believed in omens I should say
that the man is destined to bring me misfortune and
that the instant I saw him I knew it.  Please don't
laugh—I am only trying to explain to you how intense
the feeling was, and to make my subsequent behaviour
seem less foolish.  I fancy I was not friendly in my
answers or in my looks, but he sat down beside me
and went on talking.  It does not matter what he
said.  He spoke English well, and seemed to 'listen
to himself' with a good deal of satisfaction, all the
time never taking his eyes off my face.  Somehow,
though everything he said was polite enough, I felt
that he looked upon me as a kind of 'dependent'
with whom he could amuse himself as he pleased;
and that made my blood boil.  I prayed for some one
to come and fetch me away, and just then Frau von
Arnim passed close to where I was sitting.  I heard
her ask after me and say something about music (I
had promised to play), and suddenly I felt ashamed.
I wondered what she would think of me if she found
me sitting in a secluded corner with a man whom I
had never seen before and to whom I had never been
properly introduced.  After all, she does not know
me well enough to understand—well, that I am not
that sort, and the idea that she might think badly of
me with an appearance of reason was more than
could bear.  There is a small door in the alcove
leading out into the hall, and just when my uninvited
companion was in the middle of a sentence I got up
and went out without a word of explanation.  I am
afraid it was neither a very dignified nor sensible
proceeding, and it certainly landed me into worse
difficulties, since the next thing I knew after my
stormy exit was that I had collided violently with a
man standing in the hall.  Of course, my fragment
of German forsook me, and I gasped, 'I beg your
pardon!' in English, to which my victim answered,
'I beg *your* pardon!' also in English, but with the
faintest possible accent.  After that I recovered
enough from the shock to draw back and assume as
much dignity as I could under the circumstances.
My victim was a tall, broad-shouldered man—of
course in uniform-and though it was already twilight
in the hall I could see that he had a pleasant,
sun-burnt face and bright eyes, which at that moment
looked very much amused.  I suppose my attempt
at dignity *was* rather a failure.  'I hope I did not
hurt you?' he asked, and when I had reassured him
on that point he suggested that he should introduce
himself, as there was no one there to do it for him.
Whereupon he clicked his spurs together and said,
'Von Arnim.  Miss Ingestre, I think?'  I asked
him how he knew my name, and he said, as a Prussian
officer it was his duty to know everything, and that
he had heard so much about Miss Ingestre that it
was impossible not to recognise her.  And then we
stood looking at each other, I feeling horribly awkward,
he evidently still very much amused.  Then he
proposed to take me back into the drawing-room,
but that was the last thing I wanted, and I said so in
my usual rude way, which seemed to amuse him still
more.

"'But why not?' he asked.  (I give you the
conversation in full.)

"'Because they wanted me to play.'  (It was the
first excuse I could think of.)

"'Is that kind?  You are depriving my aunt's
guests of a great treat.'

"'How do you know?'

"'Military instinct.'

I could not help laughing at him.

"'Your military instinct is all wrong,' I said.  'At
any rate, I don't want to go back.'

"I don't know why, but I fancy he suspected there
was something more in the matter than I had explained.
At any rate, he grew suddenly quite grave.

"'You see, I have taken you prisoner of war,' he
said, 'and it is my duty to keep you in sight.  At
the same time, I wish to make your captivity as
agreeable as possible.  Suppose I persuade my aunt
not to worry you to play, and suppose I see that no
one else worries you—will you come back?'

"I said 'Yes' in a lamb-like fashion altogether new
to me, and after he had hung up his sword he opened
the door and bowed me in.  I saw my first partner
staring at us, but I felt curiously at my ease, not
any more strange and helpless.  And Herr von Arnim
was so nice.  After he had paid his respects all round
he came back and brought me some tea and talked
to me about the opera, to which we are going to-morrow
evening.  I forgot to tell you about it, didn't
I?  It is the Walküre, and I am bubbling over with
excitement, as Frau von Arnim has given me her seat
at the opera so that I can always go with Hildegarde.
She is good to me.  Sometimes I think she must be
very rich, and then there are things which make me
doubtful—the old pill-box brougham, for instance.
But perhaps that is just German style—or lack of
it.  I must stop now, or I shan't have stamps enough
to post this letter.  Indeed, I do not know why I
have given you all these details.  They are very
unimportant—but somehow they seemed important
when I was writing.  Good-night, dearest!

"*September* 16.—It is nearly twelve o'clock, and
the *Gnädige Frau* told me I should hurry straight
to bed and make up for the lost beauty-sleep, but I
simply can't!  I feel I must sit down and tell you
all about it whilst I am still bubbling over with it all
and the *Feuerzauber* and the *Liebesmotif* and all the
other glories are making symphonies of my poor
brains.  Oh, mother darling! how you would have
enjoyed it!  That is always my first thought when
I hear or see something beautiful, and
to-night—to-night I feel as though I had been let into a new
world.  Do you remember that glorious evening
when you took me to hear *Traviata* in Covent Garden?
Of course I loved it—but this was so absolutely
different.  It was like drinking some noble wine after
sugared buns and milk.  The music didn't try to
please you—it just swept you away with it on great
wings of sound till you stood above all Creation and
looked into the deepest secrets of life.  Your own
heart opened and grew, everything mean and petty
was left far, far beneath.  I felt suddenly that I
understood things I had never even thought of
before—myself and the whole world.  Of course, that is
over now.  I am just like a wingless angel stumbling
over the old earthly obstacles, but I shall never forget
the hours when I was allowed to fly above them all.
Oh dear, does this sound very silly?  It is so hard to
explain.  I feel as though this evening had wrought
some great change in me, as though I had grown wiser,
or at any rate older.  Perhaps it is only a feeling
which will pass, and I shall awake to-morrow to find
myself the old Nora.  Surely one evening cannot
bring a lasting change!

"I must not forget to tell you that I met Herr
von Arnim again.  He came up to speak to Hildegarde
after the first act, and I was glad to find that my first
impression of him was correct.  If I had gone by my
old prejudices and by Lieutenant Bauer I should
have always believed that German officers were
frightful boors, but Herr von Arnim seems just like
an English gentleman, a little stiff and ceremonious
at first, perhaps, but not in the least conceited or
self-conscious.  Of course he talks English excellently—he
told me he was working it up for some examination
or other, so perhaps he thought I was a good
subject to practise on.  At any rate, he was very
attentive, and stayed with us until long after the
bell had rung, so that he had to hurry to get back to
his place in time.  There were quite a number of
officers present, and some of the uniforms are very
smart, but I like the Artillery best—dark blue with
a black velvet collar.  It looks elegant and business-like
at the same time.  Certainly it suits Herr von
Arnim.  He is not exactly a handsome man, but
well-built, with a strong, sunburnt face, a small fair
moustache and very straight-looking eyes with those
little lines at the corners which you always say indicate
a well-developed sense of humour.  Altogether, good
looks and nice manners seem to run in the Arnim
family.  He brought us some chocolates in the second
pause, and was very amusing.  Hildegarde seems
fond of him and he of her in a cousinly sort of way.
He is so kind and attentive to her—almost as though
it were his fault that she is a cripple.  I wonder—oh
dear!  I have just heard the clock outside strike
one, and I am so sleepy I do not know how I shall
ever get into bed.  I meant only to tell you about
the music, and instead I have been wandering on
about Wolff von Arnim!  Good-night, my darling.
Though I am so happy I am always thinking of you
and wishing you were here to make me enjoy it all
double.  Sometimes I am very 'mother-sick,' but I
fight against it because I know you want me to be
happy, and it seems ungrateful to lament.  Love to
father and Miles and ever so much to you, dearest.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Your devoted daughter,
      "NORA.

.. vspace:: 1

"P.S.—I have written a little note to Robert
telling him about my arrival.  He asked me to, and
I couldn't refuse, could I?  He seems so genuinely
fond of me, and I—oh dear!  I only wish I knew!

"P.SS.—They are giving the second evening of the
*Ring* next Sunday.  Herr von Arnim says that a great
many people think it even grander than the Walküre
and the *Götterdämmerung* (Sunday fortnight) grandest
of all.  Hildegarde is going to both, if she is strong
enough, and he says I *must* come too.  I told him
that I knew father would strongly disapprove, and
he said quite solemnly, and with a funny little German
accent, that he thought an 'English Sunday the
invention of the deevil,' which made me laugh.  I
wonder if it would be wrong to go?  I know what
father would say, but somehow, when I come to
think over it, I *can't* feel horrified at the idea.  I
can't believe that it is wrong to listen to such grand,
beautiful music—even on Sunday; as Herr von Arnim
said, 'I am sure *der liebe Gott* would rather see you
good and happy enjoying the wonders He has made
than bored and bad-tempered, wishing that Sunday
was well over.'  What do you think, mother?  Let
me know soon.  I will not do anything you do not
like.

"P.SSS.—I think we had better keep to our first
arrangement that my letters should be quite private.
You see, I tell you everything, and father might not
always understand.

"P.SSSS.—What a lot of postscripts!  I am sure
I must be very feminine, after all.  I quite forgot to
tell you that Fräulein Müller called the other day.
She was very nervous and flustered, and treats the
'Frau Baronin' as though she were a sort of deity
to be propitiated at all costs.  She also asked me to
tea.  I went, but I won't go again if I can help it.
I was never so near suffocating in my life.  All the
windows were double and had not been opened, I
should imagine, since August, so that the August
air was unpleasantly intermingled with the fumes of
a furiously energetic stove, against which I had the
honour of sitting for four mortal hours.  But she
was so friendly and kind that it seems horrid to
complain, only—Heaven preserve me from being poor
and living in a German flat!"

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Ingestre read the letter carefully.  She then
tore it up and answered the same day:

"As regards your question—do what your conscience
tells you, Nora.  You are old enough to judge, and I
have perfect confidence in you.  Be true and good,
and I too think that God will not blame you if you
rule your life according to the opinions He has given
you rather than the arbitrary laws which we have
made.  Do what seems honestly right to you and
you cannot do wrong—at least, not in His sight."

This letter was shown to the Rev. John, her husband,
but of the scene that followed, where righteous
indignation and quiet resolve fought out a bitter struggle,
Nora heard nothing.  She only knew that the letter
had been safely posted, and that once again her
mother had forced open the doors of liberty.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DUET`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DUET

.. vspace:: 2

"Meine Herrn, to the Moltke of the future, the
pride of the regiment, *er lebe—hoch—hoch—hoch*!"

The little group of officers gathered round the
mess-table responded to the toast with an enthusiasm
that was half bantering, half sincere.  There followed
a general clinking of glasses, the pleasant popping of
champagne corks, and a chorus of more or less
intelligible congratulations, against which the recipient
stood his ground with laughing good-nature, his hands
spread out before his face as though to hide natural
blushes of embarrassment.

"Spare me, children!" he explained as the tumult
gradually subsided.  "Do you not know that great
men are always modest?  Your adulation throws me
into the deepest possible confusion, from which I can
only sufficiently extricate myself to promise you——"

"Another bottle!" a forward young ensign suggested.

"Not at all," with a wave of the hand, "nothing
so basely material—but my fatherly patronage when
I am head of the Staff, as of course I shall be within
a few years.  Work hard, my sons, and who knows?
One of you may actually become my adjutant!"

Amidst derisive laughter he drained his glass, and
then turned quickly, his attention having been arrested
by a slight touch upon the shoulder.  Unobserved in
the general confusion, a tall, slightly built man,
wearing the uniform of an officer in the Red Dragoons,
had entered the mess-room and, leaning on his sword-hilt
in an attitude of weary impatience, had taken up
his place behind the last speaker.  He now held out
his hand.

"Congratulate you, Arnim," he said.  "I heard
the racket outside as I was passing, and came in for
enlightenment as to the cause.  Seleneck has just
told me.  Permit me to drink your health."  He
had taken the glass which a neighbour had proffered
him and raised it slightly.  "May you continue as
you have begun!" he added.

"Many thanks," was the brief answer.

There was a moment's silence.  The new-comer
sipped at his share of the German champagne and
then put down the glass with a faint contracting of
the features which suggested a smothered grimace.

"You must let me order up a bottle of Cliquot,"
he said.  "A great occasion should be worthily
celebrated."

Arnim shook his head.

"Again—many thanks.  I have had enough, and
it is of no use cultivating expensive tastes.  But you
perhaps...?"

"If you have no objection."  The dragoon beckoned
an orderly, and, having given his instructions, seated
himself at the table and drew out a cigarette-case.

"This means Berlin for you," he said.  "When
do your orders date from?"

"From next summer.  I shall still have some
months with the regiment."

"So?  That's tiresome.  The sooner one gets away
from this God-forsaken hole the better.  By the way,
there will be quite a little party of us with you.
Seleneck tells me he is expecting a *Kommando* at the
Turnschule, and I am moving heaven and earth to
get ditto.  You, lucky dog, are freed for ever from
this treadmill existence."

The young Artillery captain glanced sharply at the
speaker's good-looking face, and a close observer
would have noticed that his brows had contracted.

"The way out is open to every one," he observed
curtly.

The other laughed and chose to misunderstand him.

"Only to the workers, my dear fellow.  And I
confess that work has no fascination for me.  I am
not ambitious enough, and on the whole I suppose
one form of drudgery is as bad as another.  You
like that sort of thing, and I envy you, but I fear I
have no powers of emulation."

There was something grim in Arnim's subsequent
silence which might have drawn the dragoon's
attention had it been allowed to last.  At that moment,
however, an elderly-looking officer detached himself
from the group by the window and came to where
the two men were seated.

"I'm off home," he said.  "Are you coming my
way, Arnim?"

Arnim rose with an alacrity which suggested relief.

"Yes, as far as the Kaiser Strasse.  You will
excuse me, Bauer?  I must tell the good news at
home, or I shall never be forgiven."

The dragoon bowed.

"Of course.  By the way," he added, as Arnim
slipped into the overcoat which the orderly had
brought him, "that is a pretty little English girl
your aunt has picked up.  I met her the last time I
was at the house.  What's her name?"

"You are probably referring to Miss Ingestre."

"Ingestre?  Well, she's a pretty little piece of
goods, anyhow—though not particularly friendly."  He
threw back his head and laughed, as though at
some amusing reminiscence.  "Imagine: I had just
settled myself down to a comfortable *tête-à-tête*, when
she got up and bolted—straight out of the room like
a young fury.  I was rather taken aback until I
consoled myself with the reflection that all English
people are mad—even the pretty ones."

During his recital a sudden light of comprehension
flashed over Arnim's face.  He half smiled, but the
smile was indefinably sarcastic.

"No doubt Miss Ingestre had her good reasons
for interrupting your comfortable *tête-à-tête*," he
observed.  "Though English people may suffer
from madness, there is usually method in it."

"No doubt she had her good reasons for her return
five minutes later," was the retort.  "There was
method in that madness, at any rate."

The two men looked each other straight in the
eyes.  Arnim's hand rested on his sword-hilt, and
the smile had died away from his lips.

"Perhaps I ought to remind you that Miss Ingestre
is my aunt's guest, and therefore under my protection,"
he said slowly.

"The reminder is quite unnecessary," the dragoon
returned with perfect sang-froid.  "I meant no offence
either to you or Miss Ingestre; and poaching is,
anyhow, not one of my vices."

Arnim hesitated an instant, then, with a curt
bow, he slipped his arm through that of the officer
standing beside him.

"Come, Seleneck," he said, "I have wasted time
enough."

The two men made their way out of the Casino
into the street.  A sharp east wind greeted them,
and Wolff von Arnim drew a deep breath of relief.

"I need fresh air," he said.  "A man like Bauer
stifles me, sickens me.  I cannot imagine why he
always seeks my society.  He must know that I
have no liking for him.  Does he wish to pick a
quarrel?"

The elder man shook his head.

"You are a harsh judge, Wolff," he said.  "As
far as I know, Bauer is a harmless fellow enough.  It
is true that he swaggers a good deal with his money
and is rather pushing in circles where he is not wanted,
but for the rest—I have heard nothing to his discredit."

"That may be," was the quick answer.  "There
are dishonourable men who act honourably out of
caution, and honourable men who act dishonourably
out of rashness.  I do not want to be unjust, but I
cannot help putting Bauer in the former category.
My instinct warns me against him—and not only
my instinct.  A man who talks about duty as a
drudgery and is content to get through life without
success and with as little effort as possible is a useless
drone.  In our calling he is worse than that—a
parasite."

Seleneck sighed.

"Oh, you ambitious, successful fellows!" he said
with a lugubrious tug at his moustache.  "You talk
as scornfully of 'getting through life without success'
as though it were a crime.  Look at me—grey hairs
already, a family man, and still nothing more than a
blundering old captain, who will be thankful it he is
allowed at the end to retire with a major's pension.
*I* am one of your drones—a parasite, if you like, and
certainly a failure, but Heaven knows it is not my
wish."

"You are no more a failure than the best of us,"
Wolff von Arnim answered vigorously.  "I know
you, *alter Kerl*, and I know you have given your best
strength, your best thought to your calling; I know
'duty' is the Alpha and Omega of your life—no
one could ask more of you."

"I have done my best," was the simple answer.
"It hasn't come to much, but still, it was my best.
You, Wolff, will go much farther."

They were passing under the light of a street lamp
as he spoke, and Arnim glanced at his companion's
face.  There was perhaps something written on the
plain yet honest and soldierly features which touched
him, for his own relaxed, and the softened expression
made him seem almost boyish.

"If I do my duty as well as you have done, I shall
be very proud," he said earnestly.

They walked on in silence, each absorbed in his
own thoughts, and then Seleneck came to a standstill.

"Our ways end here," he said.  "I suppose you
are going to Frau von Arnim's?"

"Yes; I must let her know my good luck.  She
will be very glad."

"And the little cousin—will she be 'very glad'?"

Arnim met the quizzical not unkindly glance with
an almost imperceptible change of countenance.

"I suppose so.  Why shouldn't she?"

"She will miss you."

Arnim did not answer, nor did he show any sign of
continuing on his way.  He seemed suddenly caught
in a painful train of thought, from which his companion
made no effort to arouse him.

"Poor little soul!" he said at last, half to himself.
"It is terribly hard luck on her.  No one loved life
as she did, and now"—his brows contracted—"sometimes
I feel as though I were to blame," he added
abruptly.

"What nonsense!" Seleneck retorted.  "Are you
responsible because a horse shies and a girl has the
misfortune to be thrown?"

"Perhaps not; but the feeling of responsibility is
not so easily shaken off.  I never see her—or her
mother—without cursing the impulse that made me
take her out that day."

"It might just as well have happened any other
day and with any one else," Seleneck retorted
cold-bloodedly.

"Of course.  Only one cannot reason like that
with one's conscience.  At any rate, there is nothing
I would not do to make her happy—to atone to her.
Besides," he added hastily, as though he had said
something he regretted, "I am very fond of her."

The elder man tapped him on the shoulder.

"*Alter Junge*," he said pointedly, "I can trust
your career to your brains, but I am not so sure that
I can trust your life to your heart.  Take care that
you do not end up as Field-Marshal with Disappointment
as your adjutant.  *Lebewohl*."

With an abrupt salute he turned and strode off
into the gathering twilight, leaving Arnim to put
what interpretation he chose to the warning.  That
the warning had not been without effect was clear.
Arnim went up the steps of the square-built house
with a slowness that suggested reluctance, and the
features beneath the dark-blue cap, hitherto alight
with energy and enthusiasm, had suddenly become
graver and older.

He found Frau von Arnim in her private sitting-room,
writing letters.  She turned with a pleased
smile as he entered, and held out a hand which he
kissed affectionately.  The bond between them was
indeed an unusually close one, and dated from Wolff's
first boyhood, when as a pathetically small cadet he
had wept long-controlled and bitter tears on her kind
shoulder and confided to her all the wrongs with which
his elder comrades darkened his life.  From that
time he had been a constant Sunday guest at her
table, had been Hildegarde's playfellow throughout
the long Sunday afternoons, and had returned to the
grim Cadettenhaus at nightfall laden with contraband
of the sort dearest to a boy's heart.  Afterwards, as
ensign and young lieutenant, he had still looked up
to her with the old confidence, and to this very hour
there had been no passage in his life, wise or foolish,
of which she was not cognisant.  She had been mother,
father, and comrade to him, and it was more by instinct
than from any sense of duty that he had come to her
first with his good news.

"I have been appointed to the Staff in Berlin," he
said.  "The order arrived this afternoon.  It's all a
step in the right direction, isn't it?  At any rate, I
shall be out of the routine and able to do head-work
to my heart's—I mean head's content."

Frau von Arnim laughed and pressed the strong
hand which still held hers.

"It is splendid, Wolff," she said.  "I knew that the
day would come when we should be proud of *unsren
Junge*.  Who knows?  Perhaps as an old, old woman
I shall be able to hobble along on a stately General's
arm—that is, of course, if he will be seen with such an
old wreck.  But"—her face overshadowed
somewhat—"when shall we have to part with you?"

"Not for some months," he said, seating himself
beside her, "and then I think you had better pack up
your goods and chattels and come too.  I shall never
be able to exist without you to keep me in order and
Hildegarde to cheer me up."

"I have never noticed that you wanted much
keeping in order," Frau von Arnim said with a grave
smile.  "And as for the other matter, it is to you
that Hildegarde owes much of her cheeriness.  She
will miss you terribly."

A silence fell between them which neither noticed,
though it lasted some minutes.  Overhead some one
began to play the "Liebeslied" from the *Walküre*.

Wolff looked up and found that his aunt's eyes were
fixed on him.

"Hildegarde?" he asked, and for the first time he
felt conscious of a lack of candour.

Frau von Arnim shook her head.

"Poor Hildegarde never plays," she reminded him
gently.  "It is Nora—Miss Ingestre.  You remember
her?"

"Yes," he said slowly.  "She is not easily
forgotten."  After a moment's hesitation he added, "I
never knew English people could be so charming.
Those I have met on my travels have either been
badly mannered boors or arrogant pokers.  Miss
Ingestre is either an exception or a revelation."

The room was in part darkness, as Frau von Arnim
loved it best.  A small lamp burned on her table, and
by its light she could study his face unobserved.

"She has won all hearts—even to the coachman,
who has a prejudice against foreigners," she said in
a lighter tone, "and Hildegarde has become another
person since her arrival.  I do not know what we
should do without her.  When she first came she was,
of course, baked in her insular prejudices, but she is
so open-minded and broad-hearted that they have
fallen away almost miraculously.  We have not had
to suffer—as is so often the case—from volleys of
Anglo-Saxon criticisms."

"She seems musical, too," Wolff said, who was
still listening with close attention to the unseen
player.

"She is musical; so much so that I am having
her properly trained at the Conservatorium," his
aunt answered with enthusiasm.  "When she has
got out of certain English mannerisms she will do
well.  It is already a delight to listen to her."

A tide of warm colour darkened Wolff's face as he
glanced quickly at Frau von Arnim's profile.

"I wonder what little pleasure—or perhaps necessity—you
have denied yourself to perform that act of
kindness?" he said.

"Neither the one nor the other, *lieber Junge*.  If I
deny myself one pleasure to give myself another, it
can hardly be counted as a denial, can it?  Besides,
I believe her people are very badly off, and it is a
shame that her talent should suffer for it.  There!
I am sure you want to go upstairs.  Run along, and
let me write my letters."

Wolff laughed at the old command, which dated
back to the time when he had worried her with his
boy's escapades.

"I'll just glance in and tell Hildegarde my good
luck," he said, a little awkwardly.  "I promised her
I would let her know as soon as the news came."

"Do, dear Wolff."

She turned back to her letters, and Arnim, taking
advantage of her permission, hurried out of the room
and upstairs.

Hildegarde's little boudoir was an inner room,
divided off from the neighbouring apartment by a
heavy Liberty curtain.  Governed by he knew not
what instinct or desire, he stepped softly across and,
drawing the hangings a little on one side, remained
a quiet, unobserved spectator of the peaceful scene.

Nora had left the *Walküre* and had plunged into the
first act of *Tristan und Isolde*.  She played it with
inexperience and after her own ideas, which were
perhaps not the most correct, but the face alone,
with its youth, its eagerness, its enthusiasm, must
have disarmed the most captious critic.  And Wolff
von Arnim was by no means captious at that moment.
Though he was listening, he hardly realised what she
was playing, too absorbed in the pure pleasure which
the whole picture gave him to think of details.  He
knew, for instance, that her dress was simple and
pretty, but he could not tell afterwards whether it
was blue or green or pink, or of no colour at all; he
knew that he had never before found so much charm
in a woman's face, but he would have been hard put
to to describe exactly wherein that charm lay, or
whether her features were regular or otherwise.  He
simply received an impression—one that he found
difficult to forget.

A lamp had been placed on the top of the piano,
and by its light the bright, wide-open eyes and eager
fingers were finding their way through the difficult
score.  The rest of the room had been left in shadow.
Arnim knew where his cousin was lying, but he did
not look in her direction—perhaps he did not even
think of her, so far did she lie outside the picture on
which his whole interest was centred; and when the
music died into silence, her voice startled him by its
very unexpectedness.

"Wolff, won't you come in now?" she said.

Was there pain or annoyance in her tone?  Arnim
could not be certain.  The knowledge that she had
seen him standing there was sufficiently disconcerting.
When we are unobserved, we unconsciously drop the
masks which the instinct of self-preservation forces
us to assume in the presence even of our dearest,
and our faces betray emotions or thoughts which we
have, perhaps, not even acknowledged to ourselves.
As he advanced into the room, Arnim wondered
uncomfortably how much the invalid's quick eyes
had seen and if there was, indeed, anything in his
looks or action which could have wounded her.

"You must think my manners very bad," he said
in English as he greeted Nora, "but I knew if I came
in you would stop playing, and that would have
disappointed me and annoyed Hildegarde.  You see,
I know my cousin's little foibles, and one is that she
does not like being interrupted in anything.  Is that
not so, Hildegarde?"

"You are a privileged person," she answered with
a gentle smile on her pale face.  "Still, I am glad
you let Nora—Miss Ingestre—finish.  She plays well,
don't you think?"

"Splendidly—considering," was the answer.

Nora looked up.

"Considering?  That sounds a doubtful compliment."

"I mean, English people as a rule have not much
understanding for dramatic music."

"Yes, they have!" Nora blazed out impulsively.

"Have they?"

Still seething with injured patriotism, she met the
laughter in his eyes with defiance.  Then her sense of
humour got the better of her.

"No, they haven't," she admitted frankly.

"There, now you are honest!  Have you tried
*Tristan* for the first time?"

Nora nodded.  She had gone back to the piano and
was turning over the leaves of the score with nervous
fingers.  For some reason which she never attempted
to fathom, Wolff von Arnim's entries into her life,
seldom and fleeting as they had been hitherto, had
always brought with them a subtle, indescribable
change in herself and in her surroundings.  There
were times when she was almost afraid of him and
welcomed his departure.  Then, again, when he was
gone she was sorry that she had been so foolish, and
looked forward to their next meeting.

"I have tried to read the first act before," she
said, "but it is so hard.  I can make so little out of
it.  I am sure it all sounds poor and confused compared
to the real thing."

"Your piano score is inadequate," he said, coming
to her side.  "The duet arrangement is much better.
Hildegarde and I used to play it together for hours."

Nora looked at him with wide-open eyes of wonder.

"Can you play?" she asked, very much as though
he had boasted of his flying abilities, so that he laughed
with boyish amusement.

"I play like a great many of us do," he said,
"sufficiently well to amuse myself.  I have a piano in my
quarters which I ill-treat at regular intervals.  Do
you remember how angry you used to get because I
thumped so?"

He had turned to the girl lying on the sofa, but she
avoided his frank gaze.

"Yes," she said.  "It is not so long ago, Wolff."  And
then, almost as though she were afraid of having
betrayed some deeper feeling, she added quickly,
"Couldn't you two try over the old duets together?
I should so like to hear them, and I am too tired to
talk."

"Would you like to, Miss Ingestre?"

"Very much—only you will find me dreadfully
slow and stupid."

He hunted amongst an old bundle of music, and
having found the required piece, he arranged it on
the piano and prepared himself for the task with
great gravity.

"You must let me have the bass," he said; "then
I can thump without being so much noticed.  I have
a decided military touch.  Hildegarde says I treat
the notes as though they were recruits."

Nora played her part without nervousness, at first
because she was convinced of her own superiority
and afterwards because he inspired her.  His guidance
was sure and firm, and when he corrected, it was not
as a master but as a comrade seeking to give advice
as to a common task.  Her shyness and uneasiness
with him passed away.  Every bar seemed to make
him less of a stranger, and once in a long rest she
found herself watching the powerful, carefully kept
hands on the keyboard with a curious pleasure, as
though they typified the man himself—strong, clean,
and honest.

Thus they played through the whole of the first
act, and when the last chord had been struck there
was a long silence.  It was as though both were
listening to the echo of all that had gone before, and
it was with an effort that Nora roused herself to speak.

"How well you play!" she said under her breath.
"And how grand—how wonderful it is!"

He turned and looked at her.

"Did you understand it?"

"Not all.  I feel that there are many more wonders
to fathom which are yet too deep for me.  But I
understand enough to know that they are there—and
to be glad."

"It is the noblest—most perfect expression of love
and of the human heart that was ever written or
composed," he said.

She looked up at him, and their eyes met gravely
and steadily for a moment, in which the world was
forgotten.

"Thank you very much," a quiet voice said from
the background.

Arnim turned quickly, so quickly that it was almost
a start.

"Now for your criticism, Hildegarde!" he cried
gaily.  "I assure you, we are both trembling."

Hildegarde shook her head.

"I cannot criticise," she said.  "You played so
well together, much better than when I was able to
take my part."  She hesitated.  "One could hardly
believe that you had never practised together before,"
she added slowly.

Nora rose and closed the piano.  Without knowing
why, the words pained her and the brief silence that
followed seemed oppressive.

Arnim followed her example.

"I have been here a disgraceful time!" he
exclaimed, looking at his watch.  "And there!  I
have never even told you what I really came about.
I have been passed into the General Staff.  What
do you think of that?  Are you not proud to have
such a cousin?"

His tone was gay, half teasing, but there was no
response from the quiet figure on the sofa.  Nora's
eyes, rendered suddenly sharp, saw that the pale lips
were compressed as though in pain.

"Of course, Wolff, I am so glad.  It is splendid
for you.  How long will you be there—in Berlin, I
mean?"

"A long time, I expect, unless there is a war."

Then, as though by some intuition he knew what
was passing in her mind, he came to her side and took
her hand affectionately between his own.

"You and the mother will have to come too," he
said.  "I have just been telling her that I cannot
get on without you.  Imagine my lonely state!  It's
bad enough here, now that I have no one to ride out
with me.  Old Bruno is eating off his head in
anticipation of the day when you will gallop him through
the woods again."

Hildegarde shook her head, but his words, spoken
hastily and almost at random, had brought the soft
colour to her cheeks.

"I shall never ride again," she said.

She looked at her cousin and then to Nora, and her
own wistful face became suddenly overshadowed.

"But then," she went on with a quick, almost
inaudible sigh, "that is no reason why Bruno should
eat his head off, as you say.  It is true I cannot ride
him any more, but Miss Ingestre can, and it would
do her good.  Wouldn't it, Nora?"

Was there an appeal in her voice which both heard
and understood?  Arnim said nothing.  He did not
take his eyes from his cousin's face.

"It is really very good of you," Nora said quickly,
"but I think I had better not.  You see, I love it
so, and it is best not to encourage impossible tastes.
Besides, I have no habit."

Warned, perhaps, by her own involuntary start of
pleasure, by Arnim's silence and Hildegarde's voice,
she had sought wildly for any reasonable excuse,
and unwittingly chosen the one most likely to arouse
the generous impulses in both her companions.

"Whilst you are here you must enjoy everything
you can get," Arnim said, smiling at her.  "And who
knows what Fate has in store for you?"

"And the habit is no difficulty," Hildegarde chimed
in.  "You can have mine.  We are about the same
size, and it could easily be made to fit you.  Do,
dear!"

She was now all enthusiasm for her own plan, and
Nora, glancing at Arnim's face, saw that it had become
eager with pleasure.

"Do!" he begged.  "I should so like to show
you all the woods about here.  Or—can you not
trust yourself to me?"

A second time their eyes met.

"Of course I should trust you," Nora said quickly,
"and there is nothing I should love more."

"Then that is settled.  You must let me know the
first day which suits you.  Good-bye, *gnädiges Fräulein*.
Good-bye, Hildegarde.  I am sending my orderly
round with some books I have found.  I think you
will like them."

"Thank you, Wolff."

Then he was gone.  They heard the door bang
downstairs, and the cheery clatter of his sword upon
the stone steps.

Nora came to the sofa and knelt down.

"How good you are to me!" she said.  "You
are always thinking of my pleasure, of things which
you know I like, and, after all, it ought to be just
the other way round."

"I am very fond of you," Hildegarde answered in
a low voice.  "Though I know you so short a time,
you are the only friend I really care for.  It made me
bitter to see other girls enjoy their life—but you are
different.  I don't think I should grudge you—anything."

Her voice broke suddenly.  She turned her face to
the wall, and there was a long silence.  Nora still
knelt by the sofa.  Her eyes were fixed thoughtfully
in front of her, and there was an expression on her
young face of wonder, almost of fear.  Something
new had come into her life.  There was a change in
herself of which she was vaguely conscious.  What
was it?  What had brought it?  Was it possible
that in a mere glance something had passed out of
her, something been received?  She sprang restlessly
to her feet, and as she did so a smothered, shaken sob
broke upon the stillness.  In an instant she had
forgotten herself and her own troubled thoughts.  She
bent over the quivering figure and tried to draw
away the hands that hid the tear-stained face.

"Hildegarde—you are crying?  What is it?  What
have I done?"

"Nothing—nothing.  It is only—I am so silly and
weak—and the music——"  She broke off and looked
up into Nora's face with a pathetic, twisted smile.  And
then, seeming to yield to a passionate impulse, she
flung her thin arms about her companion's neck.
"Oh, Nora, you are so pretty and good!  Every one
*must* love you—and I love you so!"

The words were an appeal, a confession, a cry
breaking from an over-burdened heart.  Nora drew
the fair head against her shoulder, pitying and
comforting a grief which she as yet but partly understood.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE AWAKENING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE AWAKENING

.. vspace:: 2

Frau von Arnim sat at the round breakfast-table
before a pile of open letters, which she took in turn,
considered, and laid aside.  Her expression was
grave, and in the full morning light which poured in
through the window opposite she looked older, wearier
than even those who knew her best would have thought
possible.  The world of Karlsburg was accustomed to
regard the Oberhofmarshall's widow as a woman of
whom it would be safe to prophesy, "Age shall not
wither her," for, as far as her envious contemporaries
could see, the years had drifted past and brought no
change to the serene, proud face.  Perhaps they would
have admitted, on reflection, that their memories
could not reach back to the time when Frau von Arnim
had been a girl—that, as far as they knew, she had
always been the same, always serene and proud,
never youthful in the true sense of the word.  And
therein lay the paradoxical explanation for what was
called her "eternal youth."  Magda von Arnim had
never been really young.  The storms had broken too
early on her life and had frozen the overflowing spirits
of her girlhood into strength of reserve, patience,
and dignity.  But she had not allowed them to
embitter the sources of her humanity, and thus she
retained in her later years what is best in
youth—generosity, sympathy, a warm and understanding
heart.

Frau von Arnim put aside her last letter, and with
her fine white hand shading her eyes remained in an
attitude of deep thought, until the door of the
breakfast-room opened.

"Hildegarde!" she exclaimed, and then, quickly,
painfully, "Why, how stupid of me!  It is Nora, of
course.  Good morning, dear child.  I must have
been indulging in what you call a day-dream, for
when you came in I thought it was really poor little
Hildegarde grown well and strong again."  She held
Nora at arm's length.  "I do not think the resemblance
will ever cease to startle me.  The riding-habit
makes you look so alike—though really you are
quite, quite different."

She tried to laugh, but the hurried tone, the sudden
colour that had rushed to the usually pale cheeks
betrayed to Nora the painful impression she had
caused.  They hurried her to a decision that had
already presented itself to her before as something
inevitable, something she must do if she were to be
just and loyal.  Time after time she had shrunk back
as before some hard sacrifice, and now she felt she
could shrink back no longer.

"*Gnädige Frau*, I wanted to tell you—if you don't
mind, I will give up the riding.  After to-day I don't
think I will go again.  I think it better not."

"But—why?"

It was now Nora's turn to crimson with embarrassment.
She was herself hardly clear as to her reasons.
The night before she had played the second act of
*Tristan und Isolde* with Wolff von Arnim, and when
it was at an end they had found Hildegarde lying in
a sleep from which they could not at first awaken
her, so close was it allied to another and graver state.
And Wolff von Arnim had had a strange misery in
his eyes.  Such was the only explanation she knew
of.  She knew, too, that she could not give it.
Nevertheless, she held her ground desperately.

"Because I believe it hurts you, and if not you,
at least Hildegarde," she said at last.  "She cries
sometimes when she thinks I shall not find out, and
though she never owns to it, I know it is because I
enjoy things she used to have and cannot have.  And,
besides, it isn't fair, it isn't right.  You have both
been so good to me.  You have treated me just as
though I were a daughter of the house, and I have
done nothing to deserve it.  I have only caused
Hildegarde pain, and that is what I do not want
to do."

Frau von Arnim took her by the hand and drew
her closer.  A faint, rather whimsical smile played
about the fine mouth.

"Dear Nora, the fact that you are the daughter of
the house proves that you deserve the best we can
give you.  Neither Hildegarde nor I are given to
adopting relations promiscuously.  And as for the
other matter, anybody suffering as Hildegarde does
is bound to have her moments of bitterness and
regret—perhaps envy.  Thank God they are not
many.  In the first months I have known the sight of
a child playing in the street bring the tears to her
eyes, and it is only natural that you, with your health
and strength, should remind her of what she has lost.
And there is another thing"—her manner became
grave, almost emphatic—"a useless sacrifice is no
sacrifice at all; it is simply flying in the face of a
Providence who has given to one happiness, another
sorrow.  It will not make Hildegarde happy if you
stay at home—on the contrary, she will blame
herself—and you will deprive my nephew of a pleasure.
There!  After that little lecture you must have your
breakfast and read your letters.  You have only
half an hour before you start, and my nephew suffers
from military punctuality in its most aggravated
form."

Nora obediently made a pretence of partaking of
the frugal rolls and coffee.  As a matter of fact, the
prospect before her, but above all the two letters
lying on her plate, had successfully driven away her
appetite.  The one envelope was addressed in her
father's spider-like hand, the other writing set her
heart beating with uneasiness.  At the first opportunity
she opened her father's bulky envelope and hurried
over its contents.  Sandwiched in between rhetorical
outbursts of solemn advice, she extracted the facts
that her mother was unusually out of health, that
he was consequently distracted with worry and
over-burdened with work, that Miles had obtained
sick-leave and was enjoying a long rest in the bosom of
the family, that the neighbours, Mrs. Clerk in
particular, were both surprised and shocked at her, Nora's,
continued absence.  "Home is not home without
you," the Rev. John had written pathetically.  Then
at the end of the letter had come the sting.  There
was a certain paragraph which Nora read twice over
with heightened colour and a pained line between the
brows.

"Dear child, you tell me that you are going out
riding with a certain Herr von Arnim, your
protectress's nephew.  Apart from the fact that an
indulgence in pleasure which your family can no
longer afford seems to me in itself unfitting, I feel
that there is more besides in the matter to cause me
grave anxiety on your behalf.  Herr von Arnim's
name occurs constantly in your letters; he appears
to use his musical talent as an excuse to pay you
constant attention; you meet him at the theatre—which
place, I must say in passing, you attend with
what I fear must be a wholly demoralising frequency;
he lends you books, he instructs you in the German
language.  Now, my dear child, I myself have never
met a German officer, but from various accounts I
understand that they are men of a disorderly mode
of life who would not hesitate to compromise a young,
inexperienced girl.  Knowing, of course, that your
affections do not come into question as regards a
foreigner, I warn you not to allow yourself to become
this man's plaything.  As his aunt's dependent, he
may no doubt think that you are fit game for his
amusement.  Remember that you are an English
girl, and show him that as such you are too proud
to play a degrading rôle, and that you will have none
of his attentions.  Ah, Nora, I would that I were with
you to watch over you!  Oh that you were in a
certain good man's keeping!"

Nora dropped the letter.  Her cheeks burned with
indignation.  It was in this light, then, that her
father judged Wolff von Arnim's grave, almost formal,
courtesy, their innocent, straightforward friendship
together!  And yet, beneath the indignation, new
fears and doubts stirred to life.  She did not attempt
to analyse them.  Impatiently, as though seeking to
escape from all self-interrogation, she picked up the
second letter and tore it open.  It was from Arnold.
Like the man, the handwriting was bold and clear,
the sentences abrupt, sincere, and unpolished.  In a
few lines he thanked her for her last letter, outlined
the small events of his own life.  He then plunged
into the immediate future.

"Unexpectedly, I have been granted a year's leave
to travel in Central Africa," he had written.  "You
can understand that I shall be only too glad to get
out of England and to have some active work outside
the usual military grind.  I leave Southampton in
two days' time, so that you will not have time to
answer this.  In any case, I do not want you to
hurry.  I reach Aden on the 10th.  That will give
you time to consider what I am going to say.  Hitherto
I have been silent as to the matter that lies nearest
my heart, but now I am going so far from you I must
speak, Nora.  I believe that one day you will become
my wife.  I believe that it is so destined, and I believe
you know it as well as I do.  Our parting at Victoria
convinced me, or at least it gave me the greatest
possible hope.  I believe that if I had jumped into
the carriage beside you and taken you in my arms,
you would have yielded.  I was a fool to have
hesitated, but perhaps it is best that you should decide
in cold blood.  You know what I have to offer you—an
honest, clean devotion, not the growth of a moment's
passion, but of years.  I know you and I love and
understand you—even to your faults.  You know
me, and whether you love me or not, you at least
know that I am a man who never changes, who will
be twenty years hence what he is to-day.  Is this to
be despised?  Is not reciprocal trust and
understanding worth more than a shortlived passion?
Nora, do not count it against me if I cannot write to
you eloquently, if I am poor in all the outward
elegancies of speech and manner.  I have no metaphors
to describe my love to you; no doubt I shall always
fail in those graceful nothings which you seem to
appreciate so much.  I can only speak and act as a
straightforward Englishman who offers a woman his
honest love.  For the second—but not the last time,
if needs must be—will you be my wife?  Consider well,
dearest, and if you can, let me go into my exile with
the blessed knowledge that in a short time—for I
shall not wait a year—I may come and fetch you
home.  Nora..."

Hoofs clattered impatiently in the street outside.
The Arnims' little maid opened the door and grinned
with mysterious friendliness.

"*Der Herr Hauptmann ist unten und wartet*," she
said.  "*Gnädiges Fräulein mochten sofort kommen!*"

She spoke in a tone of command which her intense
respect for "*den Herrn Hauptmann*" more than
justified.  Was not her "Schatz" in the Herr
Hauptmann's battery, and did not he say every Sunday,
when they walked out together, that the whole Army
did not contain a finer officer or a more "*famoser
Kerl*"?

"*Ich komme gleich*," Nora answered.  She thrust
the half-read letter into the pocket of her loose-fitting
coat and ran downstairs.  All the way she was thinking
of Robert Arnold with a strange mingling of affection
and pity.  She thought how good and honest he was,
and of the life of a woman who entrusted herself
to his care—and then abruptly he passed out of her
mind like a shadow dispersed by a broad, full ray of
sunshine.  Wolff von Arnim stood in the hall.  His
face was lifted to greet her, his hand outstretched.
She took it.  She tried to say something banal,
something that would have broken the spell that had
fallen upon her.  Her lips refused to frame the words,
and he too did not speak.  Side by side they went out
into the cold morning air.  The orderly stood waiting
with the two horses.  Arnim motioned him on one
side, and with sure strength and gentleness lifted
Nora into the saddle.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked; and then,
with a sudden change of tone, "Why, what is the
matter?  Did I hurt you?  You are so pale."

Nora shook her head.

"It is nothing—nothing.  I am quite all right.  I
lost my breath—that is all.  You lifted me as though
I were a mere feather."

She tried to laugh, but instead bit her lip and
looked down into his face with a curious bewilderment.
He had not hurt her, and yet some sensation that was
near akin to pain had passed like an electric current
right to the centre of her being.

"I am quite all right," she said again, and nodded
as though to reassure him.  "Please do not be so
alarmed."

To herself she thought, "What is the matter with
me?  What has happened?"

These were the questions she asked herself incessantly
as they walked their horses through the empty
streets.  She found no answer.  Everything in her
that had hitherto been was no more.  All the old
landmarks in her character, her confidence, her courage,
her inexhaustible fund of life were gone, leaving
behind them a revolution of unknown emotions whose
sudden upheaval she could neither explain nor control.
Her world had changed, but as yet it was a chaos
where she could find no firm land, no sure place of
refuge.

They left the town behind them and walked their
horses through the long *allées* of stately trees.  Almost
without their knowledge their conversation, broken
and curiously strained as it was, dropped into silence.
The deadened thud of their horses' hoofs upon the
soft turf was the only sound that broke the morning
stillness, and the mists hanging low upon the earth,
as yet undisturbed by the rising winter sun, intensified
the almost ghostly forest loneliness.  It was a
loneliness that pierced like a cold wind through Nora's
troubled soul.  Though they had ridden the same
way before, at the same hour, surrounded by the
same grey shadows, she had never felt as she felt
now—that they, alone of the whole world, were alive
and that they were together.  The clang of the park
gates behind them had been like a voice whose warning,
jarring tones echoed after them in the stillness, "Now
you are alone—now you are alone!"  What was
there in this loneliness and silence?  Why did it
suffocate, oppress her so that she would have been
thankful if a sudden breeze had stirred the fallen
leaves to sound and apparent life?  Why had she
herself no power to break the silence with her own
voice?  She glanced quickly at the man beside her.
Did he also feel something of what she was experiencing
that he had become so silent?  Usually a fresh,
vigorous gaiety had laughed out of his eyes to meet
her.  To-day he did not seem to know that she had
looked at him, or even that she was there.  His gaze
was set resolutely ahead, his lips beneath the short
fair moustache were compressed in stern, thoughtful
lines which changed the whole character of his face,
making him older, graver.  Believing herself
unobserved, even forgotten, Nora did not look away.  She
saw Arnim in a new light, as the worker, the soldier,
the man of action and iron purpose.  Every line of
the broad-shouldered figure in the grey *Litewka*
suggested power and energy, and the features, thrown
into shadow by his officer's cap, were stamped with
the same virile characteristics translated into intellect
and will.

"What a man you are!" was the thought that
flashed through Nora's mind, and even in that moment
he turned towards her.

"It seems we are not the only ones out this morning,"
he said quietly.  "There is a rider coming towards
us—Bauer, if I am not mistaken.  Let us draw a
little on one side."

She followed his guidance, at the same time looking
in the direction which he had indicated.  The mists
were thinning, and she caught the flash of a pale-blue
uniform, and a moment later recognised the man
himself.

"Yes, it is Lieutenant Bauer," she said.

The new-comer drew in his horse to a walk and
passed them at the salute.  Nora caught a glimpse
of his face and saw there was an expression of cynical
amusement which aroused in her all the old instinctive
aversion.  She stiffened in her saddle and the angry
blood rushed to her cheeks.

"I am glad he is not in your regiment," she said
impulsively.

"Why, Miss Ingestre?"

"Because I dislike him," she answered.

He did not smile at her blunt reasoning—rather,
the unusual gravity in his eyes deepened.

"I have no right to criticise a comrade," he said;
"only I want you to remember that in a great army
such as ours there must always be exceptions, men
who have forced their way for the sake of position—idlers,
cads, and nonentities.  There are not many,
thank God, and they are soon weeded out, but I
want you to believe that they are the exceptions."

"I do believe it," she said gently.

"Thank you."  He waited a moment and then
added, "It is a great deal to me that you should
think well of us."

"I could not well do otherwise," she answered.

"I am a foreigner."  The simple pronoun betrayed
him, but Nora did not notice the change.  She was
gazing ahead, her brows knitted.

"That does not seem to make much difference,"
she said.  "I used to think it would—only a few
weeks ago.  I must have been very young then.  I
am very young now, but not so young.  One can
learn more in an hour than in a lifetime."

"It all depends on the hour," he said, smiling.

"No—I think each hour has the same possibilities.
It all depends on oneself.  If one has opened one's
heart——"  She left the sentence unfinished, her
thoughts reverting suddenly to her mother, and for
a moment the man beside her was forgotten.  But
not for more than a moment.  Then, with a shock,
the consciousness of his presence aroused her, and
she looked up at him.  It was only his profile which
she saw, but some subtle change in the bold outline
and a still subtler change in herself quickened the
beating of her heart.  As once before that morning,
she suffered an inexplicable thrill of pain and wondered
at herself and at the silence again closing in about
them.  It was a silence which had its source more in
themselves than in their surrounding world, for
when the thud of galloping hoofs broke through the
deadening wall of mist they did not hear it, or heard
it unconsciously and without recognition.  Only when
it grew to a threatening thunder did it arouse Arnim
from his lethargy.  He turned in his saddle, and the
next instant caught Nora's horse sharply to one side.

"It is Bauer again!" he said.  "Take care!"  He
had acted not an instant too soon.  The shadow
which he had seen growing out against the grey wall
behind them became sharply outlined, and like a
whirlwind swept past them, escaping the haunch of
Nora's horse by a hair's-breadth.  The frightened
animal shied, wrenching the reins from Arnim's
grasp, and swerved across the narrow roadway.
Whether she lost her nerve or whether in that moment
she did not care Nora could not have said.  The
horse broke into a gallop, and she made no effort to
check its dangerous speed.  The rapid, exhilarating
motion lifted her out of herself, the fresh, keen air
stung colour to her cheeks and awoke in her a flash
of her old fearless life.

"*Ruhe!  Ruhe!*" she heard a voice say in her
ear.  "*Ruhe!*"

But she paid no heed to the warning.  Quiet!
That was what she most feared.  It was from that
ominous silence she was flying, and from the moment
when it would reveal the mystery of her own heart.
Rather than that silence, that revelation, better to
gallop on and on until exhaustion numbed sensibility,
hushed every stirring, unfathomed desire into a
torpor of indifference!  She felt at first no fear.  The
power to check her wild course had long since passed
out of her hands, but she neither knew nor cared.
She saw the forest rush by in a blurred, bewildering
mist, and far behind heard the muffled thunder of
horse's hoofs in hot pursuit.  But she saw and heard
as in some fantastic dream whose end lay in the
weaving hands of an implacable Destiny.  In that
same dream a shadow crept up to her side, drew
nearer till they were abreast; a grip of iron fell upon
her bridle hand.  Then for the first time she awoke
and understood.  And with understanding came fear.
Her own grip upon the straining reins relaxed.  She
reeled weakly in the saddle, thinking, "This is indeed
the end."  But the shock for which she dimly waited
did not come.  Instead, miraculously supported, she
saw the mists clear and trees and earth and sky slip
back to their places before her eyes.  The world, which
for one moment had seemed to be rushing to its
destruction, stood motionless, and Nora found herself in
the saddle, held there by the strength she would have
recognised, so it seemed to her, even if it had caught
her up out of the midst of death.  Arnim's face was
bent close to hers, and its expression filled her with
pity and a joy wonderful and inexplicable.

"*Wie haben Sie mir das anthun können?*" he
stammered, and then, in broken, passionate English,
"How could you?  If anything had happened—do
you not know what it would have meant to me?"  With
a hard effort he regained his self-possession and
let her go.  "You frightened me terribly," he said.
"I—I am sorry."

"You have saved my life," she answered.  "It is
I who have to be sorry—that I frightened you."

She was smiling with a calm strangely in contrast
to his painful but half-mastered agitation.  The
suspense of the last minutes was still visible in his
white face, and the hand which he raised mechanically
to his cap shook.

"It was Bauer's fault," he said.  "He rode like a
madman.  I shall call him to account.  We seem
fated to cross each other."

"Then why call him to account—since it is Fate?
After all, nothing has happened."

Had, indeed, nothing happened?  She avoided his
eyes, and the colour died from her cheeks.

"Let us go home," he said abruptly.

They walked their panting horses back the way
they had come.  As before, neither spoke.  To all
appearances nothing had changed between them, and
yet the change was there.  The sunlight had broken
through the mists, the oppressive silence was gone,
and life stirred in the long grasses, peered with
wondering, timid eyes from amidst the shadows, where
deer and squirrel and all the peaceful forest world
watched and waited until the intruders had passed
on and left them to their quiet.  And in Nora's heart
also the sun had risen.  The chaos had resolved itself
into calm; and though so long as the man with the
pale, troubled face rode at her side she could give no
account even to herself of the mysterious happiness
which had come so suddenly and so strangely, she
was yet content to wait and enjoy her present peace
without question.

Thus they passed out of the gates and through the
busy streets, Arnim riding close to her side, as though
to shield her from every possible danger.  But the
silence between them remained unbroken.  It was
the strangest thing of all that, though throughout
they had scarcely spoken, more had passed between
them than in all the hours of the gay and serious
comradeship they had spent together.

At the door of the Arnims' house Wolff dismounted
and helped Nora to the ground.  And as they stood
for a moment hand in hand, he looked at her for the
first time full in the eyes.

"I cannot thank God enough that you are safe,"
he said.

She heard in his low voice the last vibrations of the
storm, and the thought that it was *her* danger which
had shaken this man from his strong self-control
overwhelmed her so that she could bring no answer
over her lips.  She turned and ran into the house,
into her own room, where she stood with her hands
clasped before her burning face, triumphant,
intoxicated, swept away on a whirlwind of unmeasured
happiness.

It is the privilege—the greatest privilege perhaps—of
youth to be swept away on whirlwinds beyond the
reach of doubt and fear, and Nora was very young.
Over the new world which had risen like an island
paradise out of the chaos of the old, she saw a light
spread out in ever-widening circles till it enveloped
her whole life.  For Nora the child was dead, the
woman in her had awakened because she loved for
the first time and knew that she was loved.

It was a moment of supreme happiness, and, as
such moments needs must be if our poor mortal hearts
are to be kept working, shortlived.  Even as her
eager, listening ears caught the last echo of horses'
hoofs outside, some one knocked at the door.

"Fräulein Nora, please come at once," a servant's
voice called.  "The Fräulein Hildegarde has been
taken very ill, and she is asking for you."

"I am coming," Nora answered mechanically.

Her hands had fallen to her side.  The whirlwind
had dropped her, as is the way with whirlwinds, and
she stood there pale and for the moment paralysed
by the shock and an undefined foreboding.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RENUNCIATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   RENUNCIATION

.. vspace:: 2

Frau von Arnim was waiting at the door of Hildegarde's
bedroom.  In the half-light Nora saw only
the dim outline of the usually grave and composed
face, but the hand that took hers betrayed more than
the brightest searchlight could have done.  It was
icy cold, steady, but with something desperate in its
clasp.

"Nora, are you accustomed to people who are very ill?"

"My mother is often ill," Nora answered, and the
fear at her heart seemed to pass into her very blood.
"But surely Hildegarde—it is not serious?"

Frau von Arnim shook her head.

"I do not know," she said.  "She fainted suddenly,
and since then she has been in a feverish state which
I do not understand.  Poor little Hildegarde!"

She spoke half to herself, quietly, almost coldly.
Only Nora, strung to that pitch of sensitiveness where
the very atmosphere seems to vibrate in sympathy,
knew all the stifled pain, the infinite mother-tenderness
which the elder woman cloaked behind a stern reserve.
And because the best of human hearts is a complicated
thing answering at once to a dozen cross-influences,
Nora's pity was intensified by the swift realisation
that even her wonderful new happiness might be
struck down in an hour, a minute, as this woman's
had been.

"Let me look after her," she pleaded.  "I can be
such a good nurse.  I understand illness—and I love
Hildegarde."

Something like a smile relaxed Frau von Arnim's set
features.  The words had been so girlish in their
enthusiasm and self-confidence.

"I know," she said, "and Hildegarde loves you.
She has been asking after you ever since she recovered
consciousness.  Let us go in."

She opened the door softly and led the way into
the silent room.  The blinds had been drawn down,
and the great four-posted bed loomed up grim and
immense at the far end, seeming to swallow up the
frail, motionless figure in its shadow.

Nora tiptoed across the heavy carpet.

"Hildegarde," she whispered, "are you better?"

The closed eyes opened full and looked at her.

"Yes, I am better.  It is nothing.  I fainted—only
a little time after you had gone—and since then
I have not been well."  She stopped, her gaze, curiously
intense and steadfast, still fixed on Nora's face.
Her sentences had come in jerks in a rough, dry voice.
She now stretched out her hand and caught Nora's arm.

"You enjoyed your ride?" she whispered.  "Nothing
happened?"

Troubled by the steady eyes and the feverish clasp,
which seemed to burn through to her very bone,
Nora answered hastily and with a forced carelessness.

"Nothing very much.  Bruno bolted with me in
the woods, and I do not know what might have
happened if Herr von Arnim had not come to my
rescue.  It was all my fault."

Hildegarde turned her flushed face a little on one
side.

"I knew something had happened," she said almost
to herself.  "It all came over me when I fainted.  I
knew everything."

Nora made no answer.  She was thankful for the
half-light, thankful that the large, dark eyes had
closed as though in utter weariness.  They had
frightened her just as the conclusive "I know
everything" had done by their infallible mysterious
knowledge.  "And even if you do know everything,"
she thought, "why should I mind?—why should I
be afraid?"  Nevertheless, fear was hammering at
her heart as she turned away.  Frau von Arnim took
her by the hand.

"She seems asleep," she whispered.  "Let us
leave her until the doctor comes.  Then we shall
know better what to do."

It was as though she had become suddenly anxious
to get Nora away from the sick girl's bedside, and
Nora yielded without protest.  She felt that
Hildegarde's need of her had passed; that she had indeed
only waited to ask that one question, "Did anything
happen?" before sinking into a feverish stupor.
Silent, and strangely sick at heart, Nora followed
Frau von Arnim from the room into the passage.
There the elder woman took the troubled young face
between her hands and kissed it.

"Hildegarde loves you," she said gravely.  "I
perhaps know best how much; but she has lost a
great deal that makes life worth living, Nora, and
sometimes bitterness rises above every other feeling.
When that happens you must have pity and understanding.
You must try and imagine what it would
be like if you lost health and strength——"  She
stopped short, but Nora, struggling with the hard,
painful lump in her throat, did not notice the break.
She saw only in the sad eyes the same appeal that
had met her on the first evening, "Be pitiful!" and,
obeying an irresistible impulse, she put her arms
about Frau von Arnim's neck in an outburst of
conflicting feeling.

"I do understand!" she cried brokenly.  "And
I am so dreadfully sorry.  I would do anything to
help her—to make her happy!"

"I know you would, dear Nora; but that is not
in your power or mine.  She must learn happiness
out of herself, as soon or late we all must do.  We
can only wait and be patient."

They said no more, but they kept together, as
people do who find an instinctive consolation in each
other's presence.  An hour later the doctor arrived.
He pronounced high fever, apparently without any
direct cause, and ordered quiet and close watching.

"So far, it seems nothing serious," he said, with a
thoughtful shake of the head, "but she is delicate
and over-sensitive.  Every mental excitement will
work inevitably upon her health.  She must be spared
all trouble and irritation."

According to his suggestion, Frau von Arnim and
Nora shared the task of watching in the sick-room.
There was nothing for them to do, for Hildegarde lay
inert and silent, apparently unconscious of their
presence, and the hours slipped heavily past.  At ten
o'clock Nora took up her post.  She had slept a little,
and the dark rings beneath Frau von Arnim's eyes
caused her to say gently:

"You must rest as long as you can.  I am not
tired.  I could watch all night."

Frau von Arnim shook her head.

"I will come again at twelve," she said, with a
faint smile.  "Youth must have its sleep, and I
shall be too anxious to be away long."

The door closed softly, and Nora was left to her
lonely vigil.  She stood for a moment in the centre
of the room, overcome by a sudden uneasiness and
fear.  She had watched before, but never before had
the silence seemed so intense, the room so full of
moving shadows.  Except for the reflection from the
log fire and the thin ray of a shaded night-light, the
apartment was in darkness, but to Nora's excited
imagination the darkness was alive and only the
outstretched figure beneath the canopy dead.  The
illusion was so strong that she crept closer, listening
with beating heart.  There was no sound.  For one
sickening moment it seemed as though her fear had
become a reality—then a stifled sigh broke upon the
stillness.  Hildegarde stirred restlessly, and again
there was silence, but no longer the same, no longer
so oppressive.  Death was as yet far off, and, relieved
and comforted, Nora drew an arm-chair into the
circle of firelight.  From where she sat she could
observe every movement of her charge without herself
changing position, and for some time she watched
anxiously, self-forgetful in the fulfilment of her duty.
But then the fascination of the glowing logs drew her
eyes away, and almost without her knowledge her
thoughts slipped their leash and escaped from the
gloomy room with its atmosphere of pain, out into
the forest, back to the moment when life had broken
out into full sunshine and happiness such as she had
never known, and love incomparable, irresistible,
swept down upon her and bore her with them into a
new paradise.  Who shall blame her if she saw in the
bright flames not Hildegarde's pale, suffering face,
but the features of the man who had wrought in her
the great miracle which occurs once, surely, in every
woman's life?  Who shall blame her if a half-read
letter and its writer were forgotten, or, if remembered,
only with a tender pity such as all good women must
feel for honest failure?  And in that pity there was
mingled a certain wonder at herself that she could
ever have supposed her feeling for Robert Arnold to
be love.  What was the childish regret at parting,
the casual affection for an old comrade, blown to a
warmer glow by the first harsh winds of exile, compared
to this—this wonderful Thing which in an instant
had revealed to her the possibility of a union where
the loneliness, conscious or unconscious, surrounding
each individual life is bridged and the barriers between
mind and mind, heart and heart, are burnt down by
the flames of a pure and noble passion?  Poor Arnold!
It was well for him that he could not know what was
passing in Nora's mind nor see her face as she gazed
into the fire.  He might then have wished that his
letter, with its bold self-confidence, had never been
written.  For the glow upon the young features was
not all fire-shine, the starlight in the dreamy eyes
not all reflected gleams from the burning logs upon
the hearth.  Both had their birth within, where the
greatest of all human happiness had been kindled—but
not by Arnold's hand.

Thus half an hour, and then an hour, slipped past.
Lulled by her thoughts and the absolute quiet about
her, Nora sank into a doze.  The firelight faded into
the distance, and half-dreaming, half-waking, she
drifted into a chaotic world of fancies and realities.
She dreamed at last that some one called her by
name.  She did not answer, and the call grew louder,
more persistent.  It seemed to drag her against her
will back to full sensibility, and with a violent start
Nora's eyes opened, and she knew that the voice had
not been part of her dreams, but that Hildegarde
was calling her with monotonous reiteration.

"Nora!  Nora!"

"Yes, I am here.  What is it?"

Nora drew softly to the bedside and took the
outstretched hand in hers.  It burnt, as though the
feverish sparkle in the wide-opened eyes was but a
signal of an inner devouring fire, and there was
something, too, in the feeble smile which hurt Nora by
reason of its very piteousness.

"I ought not to have disturbed you," Hildegarde
said in a dry whisper.  "It was selfish of me, but you
looked so happy that I thought you could spare me
a moment.  I have been so frightened."

"Frightened, dear?  Of what?"

"I do not know—of myself, I think."

She turned her fair head restlessly on the pillow,
as though seeking to retrace some thought, and then
once more she lifted her eyes to Nora.  They seemed
unnaturally large in the half-darkness, and their
expression strangely penetrating.  Nevertheless, when
she spoke again Nora felt that they sought rather to
convey a message than to question.

"Nora, you will laugh at me—I want to know,
have I been talking—in my sleep, I mean?"

"No."

"I am glad."  Again the same half-pleading,
half-frightened smile played about the colourless lips.
"I have been having such mad dreams—not bad
dreams—only so—so untrue, so unreal.  I should
not have liked you to know them.  You might have
thought——"  She stopped, and her clasp tightened.

"You know how I love you, don't you, Nora?"

"Yes, I think so—more than I deserve."

"Not as much, but still, very dearly.  That was
what I wanted to tell you.  It seems foolish—in the
middle of the night like this; but I was so afraid you
would not understand.  You do, though, don't you?"

"Of course."  Nora spoke soothingly, but with a
dim knowledge that she had not wholly understood.
There was, indeed, a message in those broken
sentences, but one to which she had no key.

"You have been good to me," Hildegarde went on
rapidly.  "Though you possess all that makes life
worth living, you have not jarred on me with your
wealth.  You have not tried to comfort me with the
truism that there are others more suffering than
I—such a poor sort of comfort, isn't it?  As though it
made me happy to think that more suffering was
possible—inevitable!  When I am ill, I like to think
that I am the exception—that the great law of life is
happiness.  And you are life and happiness personified,
Nora, and so I love you.  I love you so that I grudge
you nothing—shall never grudge you anything.  That
is—what—I want—you to understand!"  The last
words came like a sigh, and there was a long silence.
The earnest eyes had closed, and she seemed to sleep.
Nora knelt down by the bedside, still holding the thin
white hand between her own, and so remained until,
overcome by weariness, her head sank on to the
coverlet.  Half an hour passed, and then suddenly a
rough movement startled her from her dreams.  Again
she heard her name called, this time desperately,
wildly, as though the caller stood at the brink of some
hideous chasm.

"Nora!  Nora!"

Nora made no answer.  She stumbled to her feet
and stood half-paralysed, looking at the features
which in an instant had undergone so terrible a change.
Hildegarde sat bolt upright.  Her hair was disordered,
her eyes, gleaming out of the ashy face, were fixed
on the darkness behind Nora with a terrible entreaty
in their depths.

"Nora!  Nora! what have you done?"

Nora recovered herself with an effort.  Usually
strong of nerve, there was something in the voice, in
the words, which terrified her.

"Hildegarde, what do you mean?  What is the matter?"

"Oh, Nora, Nora, what have you done?"

The voice had sunk to a moan so piteous, so wretched,
that Nora forgot the cold fear which for a moment
held her paralysed.  She tried to press the frail figure
gently back among the pillows.

"Dear, I don't know what you mean.  But you
must lie quiet.  To-morrow you can tell me
everything——"

Hildegarde pushed her back and put her hand
wildly to her head.

"Of course, you can't help it.  You don't even
know.  How should you?  A cripple—you would
never even think of it.  Nobody would—they would
laugh at me or pity me.  Wolff pities me now—but
not then.  Oh, Wolff!  Wolff!"

The name burst from the dry lips in a low cry of
pain.  Hitherto she had spoken in English; she
went on in German, but so clearly and with such vivid
meaning in tone and gesture that Nora, cowering at
the foot of the bed, felt that she would have
understood had it been in some dead, unknown language.

"Wolff, how good you are to me!  Shall we gallop
over there to the bridge?  How splendid it is to be
alive, isn't it?  Yes, of course I shall keep the supper
waltz for you, if you really want it.  We always have
such fun together.  Look!  There is the Kaiser on
the brown horse!  And Wolff is leading the battery
with Seleneck!  How splendid he looks!  Oh, Wolff!
Wolff!"

Again the old cry, vibrating with all the unspoken
love and pride and happiness which the short,
disjointed sentences had but indicated!  They had
painted for the dazed, heart-stricken listener vivid
pictures from the past—the long, joyous gallops over
the open country, the brilliant ballroom, the parade,
all the laughter, the music, the lights, and chivalresque
clash of arms—but in that one name a life had been
revealed, the inner life of a girl ripening to a pure
and loving woman.

The tears burned Nora's eyes.  Every word that
fell from the delirious lips struck a deeper, more fatal
blow at her own happiness, yet she could not have fled,
could not have stopped her ears against their message.

"You must work hard, Wolff," the voice went on,
sunk to a sudden gentleness.  "Perhaps one day you
will do something wonderful—something that will help
to make us the greatest country in the world.  How
proud we shall be of you!  I am proud already!
Steady, Bruno!  How wild you are this morning!
One last gallop!  Oh, Wolff, don't look like that!
It is nothing—nothing at all!  Only my back hurts.
Am I not too heavy?  You are so strong."  And
then, with a smothered exclamation of anguish:
"Wolff, the doctor says I shall never ride again!"

A long, unbroken silence.  The young, suffering
face had grown grey and pinched.  There were lines
about the mouth which made it look like that of an
old woman.  A log fell with a crash into the fireplace.
The voice went on, toneless, expressionless:

"How the light shines on her face!  She is so
pretty, and she can walk and ride.  She is not half
dead, like I am.  No wonder he stands and watches
her!  Wolff, why do you stand there?  Why do you
look like that?  Won't you come and sit by me?
No, no, why should you?  It is better so.  You play
well together.  *Tristan und Isolde*—I wonder if it is
Fate.  They have gone out riding.  I am glad.  I
wished it.  When one is a cripple one must conquer
oneself.  I can see them riding through the park
gates.  They look splendid together—so handsome
and young and strong.  Now they are galloping.
Oh, my God, my God!  Nora, what are you doing?
Something has happened!  Oh, Wolff, Wolff!  I
know—I know you love her!"

The voice, which had risen from note to note as
though urged by some frightful inner tumult of fear,
now sank to silence.  Hildegarde fell back among the
pillows.  With that final tragic recognition her mind
seemed once more to be shrouded in oblivion.  The
look of agony passed from her features.  She was
young again, young and beautiful and at peace.

Nora stumbled.  She would have fallen at the
bedside had not a hand, seeming to stretch out of the
darkness, caught her and held her.  It was Frau von
Arnim.  How long she had been there Nora could
not tell.  She felt herself being drawn gently but
firmly away.

"Go to your room, Nora.  Lie down and sleep.  I
should never have left you.  Poor child!"

In the midst of her grief the tones of deep, generous
pity awoke in Nora's heart a strange awe and wonder.
She did not dare meet Frau von Arnim's eyes.  It
was as though she knew she would see there a tragedy
greater than her own, a pain too sacred for words of
comfort.  She crept from the room, leaving mother
and daughter alone.

"Nora, Nora, what have you done?"

The words followed her; they rang in her ears as
she flung herself down by her table, burying her face
in her arms in a passion of despair.

"What have I done?" she asked again and again.
And all that was generous and chivalrous in her
answered:

"She loved you, and you have stolen her one
happiness from her.  You are a thief.  You have
done the cruellest, meanest thing of your life."

Justice protested:

"How could you have known?  You did not
even know that *you* loved, or were loved—not till
this morning."

Then the memory of that morning, that short-lived
happiness already crumbled and in ruins, swept over
her and bore down the last barriers of her self-control.
Poor Nora!  She sobbed as only youth can sob face
to face with its first great grief, desperately,
unrestrainedly, believing that for her at least life and
hope were at an end.  Another less passionate, less
governed by emotion would have reasoned, "It is not
your fault.  You need not suffer!"  Nora only saw
that, wittingly or unwittingly, she had helped to
heap sorrow upon sorrow for a being who had shown
her only kindness and love.  She had brought fresh
misfortune where she should have brought consolation;
she had dared to love where she had no right to love;
she had kindled a love in return which could only
mean pain—perhaps worse—to those who had given
her their whole trust and affection.  She had done
wrong, and for her there was only one
punishment—atonement by renunciation.

The grey winter dawn crept into the little bedroom,
and Nora still sat at her table.  She was no longer
crying.  Her eyes were wide open and tearless.  Only
an occasional shudder, a rough, uneven sigh, told of
the storm that had passed over her.  As the light
grew stronger she took up a crumpled letter and read
it through, very slowly, as though each word cost
her an effort.  When she had finished she copied an
address on to an envelope and began to write to Robert
Arnold.  Her hand shook so that she had to tear
up the first sheet and begin afresh, and even then the
words were scarcely legible.  Once her courage almost
failed her, but she pulled herself back to her task
with a pathetic tightening of the lips.

"I know now that I do not love you," she wrote.
"I know, because I have been taught what love really
is; but if you will take me with the little I have to
give, I will be your wife."

And with that she believed that she had raised an
insurmountable barrier between herself and the love
which fate had made sinful.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`YOUTH AND THE BARRIER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   YOUTH AND THE BARRIER

.. vspace:: 2

It was Hildegarde's birthday.  The November
sunshine had come out to do her honour, and in every
corner of her room rich masses of winter flowers
rejoiced in the cold brightness which flooded in through
the open window.  Hildegarde herself lay on the
sofa, where the light fell strongest.  The two long
weeks in which she had hung between life and death
had wrought curiously little change in her, and what
change there was lay rather in her expression than
in her features.  Her cheeks were colourless, but she
had always been pale, and the ethereal delicacy which
had become a very part of herself, and which seemed
to surround her with an atmosphere of peaceful
sanctity, was more spiritual than physical.  Nora,
who stood beside her, watching the sunlight as it made
a halo of the fair hair, could not think of her as a
suffering human being.  It was surely a spirit that
lay there, with the bunch of violets clasped in the
white hands—a spirit far removed from all earthly
conflict, upheld by some inner strength and softened
by a grave, serene wisdom.  And yet, Nora knew, it
was only an heroic "seeming."  She knew what
pictures passed before the quiet eyes, what emotions
lay hidden in the steady-beating heart, what pain
the gentle lips held back from utterance.  Admiration,
pity, and love struggled in Nora's soul with the
realisation of her own loss and the total ruin of her own
happiness.  "But I have done right," she repeated
to herself, with a kind of desperate defiance, "and
one day, if you are happy, it will be because I also
brought my sacrifice in silence."  It was her one
consolation—a childish one enough, perhaps—the
conviction that she had done right.  It was the one thing
which upheld her when she thought of the letter
speeding to its destination and of the fate she had
chosen for herself.  But it had not prevented the
change with which grief and struggle mark the faces
of the youngest and the bravest.

Down below in the street the two quiet listeners
heard the tramp of marching feet which stopped
beneath their window, and presently a knock at the
door heralded a strange apparition.  A burly under-officer
in full dress stood saluting on the threshold.

"The regiment brings *Gnädiges Fräulein* its best
wishes for her birthday," he thundered, as though a
dozen luckless recruits stood before him.  "The
regiment wishes *Gnädiges Fräulein* health and happiness,
and hopes that she will approve of the selection
which has been made."  He advanced with jingling
spurs and held out a sheet of paper, which Hildegarde
accepted with a gentle smile of thanks.

"It is a nice programme, isn't it?" she said, as
she handed the list to Nora.  "All my favourites."

"It was the Herr Hauptmann who told us what
*Gnädiges Fräulein* liked," the gruff soldier said, still
in an attitude of rigid military correctness.  "The
Herr Hauptmann will be here himself before long.
He commanded me to tell *Gnädiges Fräulein*."

"Thank you, Huber—and thank the regiment for
its good wishes.  Afterwards—when the concert is
over—well, you know what is waiting for you and your
men in the kitchen."

He bowed stiffly over her extended hand.

"*Danke, Gnädiges Fräulein*."  He strode back to
the door, and then turned and hesitated, his
weather-beaten face a shade redder.

"The regiment will lose the Herr Hauptmann
soon," he said abruptly.

"Yes, Huber.  And then what will you do?"

"Go too, *Gnädiges Fräulein*.  I have served my
country many years, and when the Herr Hauptmann
leaves the regiment I have had enough.  One gets
old and stiff, and the time comes when one must
take off the helmet."

"That is true, Huber."

Still he hesitated.

"And *Gnädiges Fräulein*——?"

"I, Huber?"

"*Gnädiges Fräulein* will go with the Herr Hauptmann?"

A deep wave of colour mounted the pale cheeks.

"It is possible we may go to Berlin for a few
months."

"*Ja*, *ja*, for a few months!" He laughed, and
his laugh was like the rumble of distant thunder.
"It is well, *Gnädiges Fräulein*; it is well."  Then
suddenly he stiffened, growled an "*Empfehle mich
gehorsamst*," and was gone.

Hildegarde bowed her head over the violets and
there was a long silence.  Then she too laughed so
naturally and gaily that Nora forgot herself and
looked at her in wondering surprise.

"He is such a strange old fellow," Hildegarde
explained.  "Wolff calls him his nurse.  Once in
the manoeuvres he saved Wolff's life, and ever since
then he has attached himself to the family, and looks
upon us all more or less as his children.  He is never
disrespectful, and so we allow him his little
idiosyncrasies.  One of his pet ideas is that Wolff should
marry me."

Nora repressed a start.  What strange thing was
this that Hildegarde should speak so lightly, so
carelessly, of the tragic loss overshadowing both their
lives?

"I think it would quite break his heart if we
disappointed him," Hildegarde added quietly.  "Is it
not amusing?"

"Amusing?"  Nora's hand gripped the back of
the sofa.  "I do not see why it should be amusing—it
is natural.  Of course"—she struggled to overcome
the roughness in her voice—"every one sees how
much your—your cousin cares for you."

Again the same easy laugh answered her.

"Why, Nora, you are as bad as our military
matchmaker!  Of course, Wolff is fond of me just as I
am of him.  We are like brother and sister; but
marriage—that is quite another matter.  I am afraid
I could never bring myself to marry a man whose
heart-affairs I have known ever since he was an absurd
little cadet."

Nora pushed the hair from her forehead.  She felt
as though the ground had suddenly been torn from
under her feet.  Every resolution, every principle,
the very spirit of sacrifice to which she had clung,
had been shaken by those few simple words.  Had
she dreamed, then, that night when delirium had
broken open the innermost sanctuary of Hildegarde's
heart?  Had it all been a wild fancy, and was this
the truth?  Or——  She looked full into the face
raised to hers.  There was a quiet merriment in the
steady eyes—a merriment which yielded gradually
to concern, but there was no sign of pain, no trace of
struggle.  It was impossible to believe that those
eyes held their secret, or that the smiling lips had
once uttered a cry of the greatest human agony.
Yes, it was impossible, and if impossible, why,
then——  Nora could think no further.  She turned and walked
mechanically to the window.  The military band
had begun the wedding-march out of *Lohengrin*, but
for her it was no more than a confused sound beating
against her brains.  She heard the house-gate click,
and saw a well-known figure slowly mount the steps,
but she could not rouse herself to speak or think.
She stood stunned and helpless, knowing nothing of
the pitying eyes that watched her.  In those moments
a faint change had come over Hildegarde von Arnim's
features.  The smile had died, and in its place had
come a grave peace—a peace such as is given sometimes
with renunciation.  Then her eyes closed and she
seemed to sleep, but her hands held fast to the purple
violets, and the sunlight falling upon the quiet face
revealed a line that is also renunciation's heritage.

Meanwhile Wolff von Arnim had entered the state
drawing-room, whither the little housemaid,
overwhelmed by the plumes and glittering epaulettes,
had considered fit to conduct him.  It was the one
spot in the whole house which Frau von Arnim had
not been able to stamp with her own grace and elegance.
The very chairs seemed to have entered into a
conspiracy to appear stiff, and stood in comfortless
symmetrical order, and the fire smouldering upon the
hearth could do nothing against the chill atmosphere
of an unloved and seldom inhabited dwelling-room.

Arnim went straight to the window.  It was as
though his surroundings pressed upon him with an
intolerable burden, and he remained staring sightlessly
out into the grey morning until the quiet opening
of a door told him that he was no longer alone.  Even
then he did not at once turn.  Only the slight
convulsive tightening of the hand upon the sword-hilt
betrayed that he had heard, and Frau von Arnim had
almost reached his side before he swung round to
greet her.

"Aunt Magda!" he exclaimed.

She gave him her hand, and he bent over it—remained
so long with his head bowed that it seemed
a conscious prolongation of the time before their
eyes must meet.

"I hardly expected you this afternoon," she said
gently, "certainly not in such *grande tenue*.  Are
you on special duty?"

He did not answer at once.  He stood looking at
her with a curiously absent expression.

"I came to ask after Hildegarde," he said.  "Is
she better?"

"Yes, much better—still very weak, of course.  A
fever like that is not quickly forgotten."

She had slipped her arm through his and led him
to the sofa before the fire.

"The violets you sent are most beautiful," she
went on.  "They gave Hildegarde so much pleasure.
She asked me to thank you for them."

He sat down beside her and for a moment was silent,
gazing into the fire.

"Aunt Magda," he then began abruptly, "you
have never told me what it was that caused Hildegarde's
illness—nor even what was the matter with
her.  I—I want to know."

A faint, rather weary smile passed over Frau von
Arnim's lips.

"Illness with Hildegarde is never far off, *lieber
Junge*," she said.  "She is like an ungarrisoned
castle exposed to the attack of every enemy.  The
least thing—something which leaves you and me
unharmed—throws her off her balance no one knows
how or why."

"And she was once so strong!" he said, half to
himself.  "Nothing could tire her, and she was
never ill—never."

"Wolff, there is no good in remembering what was
and can never be again."

"Never?" he queried.

"Not so far as we can see."

His strongly marked brows knitted themselves in pain.

"Would to God it had all happened to me!" he
broke out impulsively.  "Then it would not have
been so bad."

"It would have been much worse," Frau von
Arnim answered.  "Women suffer better than men,
Wolff.  It is one of their talents.  After a time,
Hildegarde will find consolation where you would
only have found bitterness."

"After a time!" he repeated.  "Then she is not
happy?  Poor Hildegarde!"

"Even women cannot learn patience and resignation
in a day."

He sprang up as though inactivity had become
unbearable.

"Aunt Magda—if she is strong enough—I want to
see Hildegarde."

"Why?"

Involuntarily their eyes met in a quick flash of
understanding.

"Because I think that it is time for our relationship
to each other to be clearly settled," he said.  "Ever
since our childhood it has been an unwritten
understanding that if Hildegarde would have me we should
marry; and so I have come to ask her—if she will
be my wife."

He spoke bluntly, coldly, not as he had meant to
speak, but the steady gaze on his face shook his
composure.

"Have you the right to ask her that?"

"Aunt Magda!"

"Or, after all, have you been playing with the
affections of a girl who has the right to my protection?"

"Aunt Magda—that is not true—that——"

He stopped short, pale with agitation, his lips close
compressed on the hot words of self-vindication.

For a minute Frau von Arnim waited as though
giving him time to speak, and then she went on quietly:

"Wolff, we Arnims are not fond of charity.  We
prefer to eat out our hearts in silence rather than be
objects of the world's pity.  And Hildegarde is like
the rest of us.  She will not ask for your sympathy
nor your care nor your devotion.  She will ask you
for your whole heart.  Can you give her that?"

He made a gesture as though about to give a hasty
answer, but her eyes stopped him.

"I—love Hildegarde," he stammered.  "We have
been friends all our lives."

"Friends, Wolff!  I said 'your whole heart.'"

And then he saw that she knew; and suddenly
the tall, broad-shouldered man dropped down, sword-clattering,
at her side and buried his face in his hands.
The smile in Frau von Arnim's eyes deepened.  So he
had done in the earlier days when youthful scrapes
and disappointments had sent the usually proud,
reserved boy to the one unfailing source of
understanding and consolation.  Very gently she rested
her hand upon his shoulder.

"Shall you never grow up, Wolff?" she said
with tender mockery.  "Shall you always be a big
schoolboy, with the one difference that you have
grown conceited and believe that you can hide behind
a full-dress uniform and a gruff military voice—even
from my eyes?"

He lifted his flushed, troubled face to hers.

"You know—everything?" he asked.

"Everything, *lieber Junge*.  Hildegarde knows,
Johann knows, the cook knows.  I should not be
surprised if the very sparrows make it a subject of
their chattering.  And you can go about with that
stern face and mysterious, close-shut mouth and
think you have deceived us all!  Oh, Wolff, Wolff!"

"You are laughing at me," he said.  "God knows
I am in deadly earnest."

She took his hand between her own.

"If I laugh at you it is because I must," she said;
"because it is the only thing to do.  There are some
forms of quixotic madness which it is dangerous to
take seriously, and this is one of them.  Wolff, you
have tortured yourself with an uncalled-for remorse
until you are ready to throw your own life and the
lives of others into a huge catastrophe.  In all this,
have you thought what it might mean to Nora?"

He started, and the colour ebbed out of his face,
leaving it curiously pale and haggard.

"I think of her day and night," he said hoarsely.
"I pray God that she does not know—that I shall
pass out of her life and leave no trace behind me."

"You believe that that is possible?  You deceive
yourself so well?  You pretend you do not love
Nora, and you do not know that she loves you?"

"That I love her?  Yes, I know that," he
confessed desperately.  "But that she loves me—how
should I know?"

"Any one would know—you must know."  She
put both her hands on his shoulders and looked him
firmly in the face.  "Wolff, if you were honest you
would admit it.  You would see that you have acted
cruelly—without intention, but still cruelly."

"Then if I have been cruel, I have been most cruel
against myself," he answered.  "But I meant to do
what was right—I meant to act honestly.  It is true
when I say I love Hildegarde.  I do love her—not
perhaps as a man should love his wife, but enough,
and I had sworn that I would make her happy, that
I would compensate her for all that she has lost.
I swore that to myself months ago—before Nora
came.  When Nora came, Aunt Magda"—his voice
grew rough—"there are some things over which
one has no power, no control.  It was all done in a
minute.  If I had been honest, I should have gone
away, but it would have been too late.  And as it
was I deceived myself with a dozen lies.  I stayed on
and saw her daily, and the thing grew until that
morning when Bruno bolted.  I lost my head then.  When
it was all over I could not lie and humbug any more.
I had to face the truth.  It was then Hildegarde fell
ill.  I felt it as a sort of judgment."

He spoke in short, jerky sentences, his face set and
grey with the memory of a past struggle.  He sprang
to his feet and stood erect at Frau von Arnim's side.

"Whatever else I am, I am not consciously a cad,"
he said.  "What I had done wrong I was determined
to put right at all costs.  I loved Hildegarde, and
I had dedicated my life to her happiness.  Nothing
and no one must turn me from my purpose.  That is
why I am here this morning."  He made an impatient
gesture.  "I have been a fool.  You have seen
through me—you have made me tell you what torture
would not have dragged out of me.  But that can
alter nothing."

For a moment Frau von Arnim watched his stern,
half-averted face in silence.  Then she too rose.

"I have a message for you from Hildegarde," she
said quietly.

He started.

"For me?"

"Yes.  Those who suffer have quick eyes, quicker
intuitions.  She saw this coming, and she asked
me to tell you—should it come—that she loved you
too much to accept a useless sacrifice.  For it would
have been useless, Wolff.  You deceive yourself
doubly if you believe you could have made Hildegarde
happy.  Yes, if you had brought your whole heart—then,
perhaps; but it is almost an insult to have
supposed that she would have been satisfied with
less.  Since her illness she has told me everything,
and we have talked it over, and this is our answer
to you: Take the woman you love; be happy, and be
to us what you always were.  In any other form we
will have nothing to do with you!"

She was smiling again, but Arnim turned away
from the outstretched hands.

"It is awful!" he said roughly.  "I cannot do
it—I cannot!"

"You must, Wolff.  Let time pass over it if you
will, but in the end you must yield.  You dare not
trample on your own happiness, on Nora's, on
Hildegarde's—yes, Hildegarde's," she repeated emphatically.
"In the end she will find happiness in her own
renunciation.  She loves you both, and the first
bitterness is already past.  And why wait?  There
may be struggles enough before you both, though I
shall do my best to help you.  Go to Nora and make
her happy.  Believe me, *lieber Junge*, the heart-ache
has not been all on your side."

He had taken her hands now and was kissing them
with a passionate, shame-faced gratitude.

"You make me feel the lowest, meanest thing on
earth," he said.  "And Hildegarde is an angel—far
too good for me."

"Yes; that is the best way to put it," she said.
"Hildegarde is too good for you.  And now perhaps
it would be wise for you to go in search of the woman
who is your equal."

"Not now," he said.  "I could not.  I must be
alone a little.  It has all happened so suddenly.  My
whole life and future has changed in a minute."

"Do as you think best, dear Wolff.  But do not
wait long."

He pressed her hand again in farewell.

"You love Nora?" he asked.

"Yes; otherwise I would not have let things drift.
There are many barriers between you—race and
language are not the least—and we had thought of a
match—since Hildegarde's illness—more, perhaps, in
accordance with our family traditions.  But Nora is
a dear, sweet child, and, I believe, will make you a
good wife.  At any rate, I shall do all I can to smooth
your path, and Hildegarde and I will be happy to
welcome her as one of us."

He smiled, half in gratitude, half in doubt.

"You seem very sure that she will have me," he
said.  "Everybody does not think me such a fine
fellow as you do."

"*Lieber Junge*, I am a woman, and when I see a
girl grow thin and pale without apparent cause—well,
I look for the cause.  Nora has been very unhappy in
the last days.  I suspect strongly she has been suffering
from your conflict, and no doubt looks upon her life
and happiness as ruined.  That is why I tell you not
to wait too long."

There was so much affection in her tone that the
faint mockery in her words left no sting.

"I will not wait long, I promise you," Wolff said.

At the door he turned and looked back at her.  It
was almost as though he had meant to surprise her
into a betrayal of some hidden feeling; but Frau von
Arnim had not moved, nor was there any change in
the grave face.

"Tell Hildegarde that I shall never forget," he
said earnestly, "that I owe her my happiness, and
that I thank her."

"I shall give her your message," Frau von Arnim
answered.

The fate that arranges the insignificant, all-important
chances of our lives ordained that at the same
moment when Wolff von Arnim passed out of the
drawing-room Nora Ingestre came down the stairs.
She held an open telegram in her hand, and the light
from the hall window fell on a face white with grief
and fear.

Arnim strode to meet her.

"What is it?" he demanded.  "What has happened?"

"My mother is very ill," she answered faintly.
"They have sent for me."

She had descended the last step.  The next instant
Wolff von Arnim was at her side, and had taken her
in his arms.

"*Mein Liebling!*" he whispered.  "*Mein armes Liebling!*"

She yielded, overwhelmed by the swiftness of his
action, by her own wild heart-throb of uncontrollable
joy.  Then she tried to free herself.

"You must not!" she cried.  "It is not right!"

"My wife!" he retorted triumphantly.  "My wife!"

She looked up into his face.  At no time had he
been dearer to her, seemed more worthy of her whole
love, than he did then, with his own joy subdued by
an infinite tenderness and pity.  But the name "wife"
had rung like a trumpet-call, reminding and threatening
even as it tempted.

"Oh, Wolff!" she said, "you must let me go.
It is not possible—you do not understand.  I——"

She was going to tell him of the barrier she had
raised with her own hands, of the letter that was on
its way.  She was going to say to him, "I am not
free.  My word is given to another.  Seek your
happiness where it awaits you."  In some such words
she meant to shatter her own life and lay the first
stones of the atonement to the girl whose happiness
she had stolen.  Or, after all, had it been no theft?
Was it not possible that she had been deceived?  And
even if it were true, had it not been said, "A useless
sacrifice is no sacrifice at all"?  Had she not a right
to her happiness?  And Wolff was speaking, and it
seemed to her that his joy and triumph answered her.

"Nothing can come between us and our love!"
he said.  "Nothing and no one!  Oh, Nora, *ich habe
dich so endlos lieb*!"

The barrier, the letter, Hildegarde, every heroic
resolution was forgotten, swept away by the man's
passion and her own exulting love.  Nora leant her
head against the dark-blue coat in reckless, thankful
surrender.

"*Ich habe dich so endlos lieb!*" he repeated.
"*Kannst du mich auch lieb haben?*"

And she answered fearlessly:

"I love you!" and kissed him.

Such was Nora Ingestre's brief courtship and
betrothal.





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.. _`WOLFF MAKES HIS DEBUT IN DELFORD`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   WOLFF MAKES HIS DEBUT IN DELFORD

.. vspace:: 2

The family Ingestre was once more united.  As far
as could be judged from appearances, the union was
a complete one.  Domestic peace and prosperity
seemed to hover like benignant spirits over the tableau
which concluded the day's round.  Mrs. Ingestre lay
as usual on her couch beneath the light of the tall
red-shaded lamp, her husband was seated at the
table, poring over a volume of the latest dogma,
whilst his son, still suffering from the results of a
nervous breakdown (attributed to overwork), reclined
in the most comfortable arm-chair by the fireside,
and imbibed military wisdom from a London daily.
If there was any note of discord in this harmony, it
came from Nora.  She stood opposite her brother,
with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece, and the
firelight betrayed a warning flash in the wide-open
eyes and a tense line about the mouth which boded
not altogether well for peace.  Her father had glanced
once or twice over his spectacles in her direction, but
had seemed satisfied.  On the whole, she had taken
her abrupt and alarming recall with surprising docility
and had accepted the obvious exaggeration of the
Rev. John's report concerning her mother without
resentment.  Mrs. Ingestre had been ill, but then
she was always more or less ill, and the degree more
had scarcely justified the good gentleman's excited
telegram.  Were the truth admitted, he had been
glad to seize upon an excuse to withdraw Nora from
the "pernicious influence" of her foreign surroundings,
and the strain of copying his sermons and attending
to his own affairs generally had given the casting
vote.  As it has been said, Nora's docility had been
as agreeable as it was surprising, and he attributed
it to causes very satisfactory to himself.  It was
obvious, as he had explained triumphantly to Mrs. Ingestre,
that Nora had had a bitter lesson "amongst
these foreigners," and was only too glad to be home.
Hitherto Nora had allowed him to cherish this
delusion—hence the undisturbed peace in the family
circle.

The French clock on the mantelpiece struck nine.
Nora started and looked up, as though she had been
waiting for the sound.  Then she turned and stood
with her back to the fire, her hands clasped behind
her, her head held resolutely.  "Father and mother,"
she began, "I have something important to tell you."

The Rev. John turned over a page before considering
the speaker.  The formality of the address and Nora's
general attitude would have startled him if he had
been any judge of outward and visible signs, but he
was one of those men who only see what they have
made up their mind to see, and just at that moment
he was determined to look upon Nora in something of
the light of a returned and repentant prodigal.

"Well, my dear," he asked indulgently, "what is it?"

"I want to tell you"—Nora took a deep breath—"that
I am engaged to be married."

The Rev. John removed his spectacles.

"To whom?"

"To Captain von Arnim."

For a full minute her father said nothing.  Miles
sat up as though a bomb had exploded in his close
proximity.  Only Mrs. Ingestre remained unmoved.
She was watching her daughter with grave, thoughtful
eyes, but there was an unmistakable, half-whimsical,
half-pitying smile about her mouth.  The Rev. John
passed his hand over his head, thereby ruffling a thin
wisp of hair, which, usually decorously smoothed over
a wide surface, now stood on end in a fashion wholly
inconsistent with the seriousness of the moment.
But of this he was fortunately ignorant.  To do him
justice, his agitation was unfeigned.  The blow had
demoralised him, and to cover the momentary mental
paralysis he took refuge in an obstinate refusal to
understand what had been said to him.

"My dear," he began amiably, "you mentioned
that some one was going to be married—I did not
catch the names.  Would you mind repeating——?

"I said that Captain von Arnim has asked me to
be his wife," Nora answered steadily.

"The impertinence of the fellow!"  Miles had by
this time recovered his self-possession sufficiently to
speak.  "I hope you sent him to the right-about?"

"I kissed him," Nora explained, with a gleam of
humour.

"Nora!"

"There was no reason why I shouldn't.  He is to
be my husband."

Miles swore under his breath.  The Rev. John rose
with what would have been dignity but for his ruffled
hair-dress.

"Nora—you—you—are talking nonsense," he jerked
out.  "I cannot believe that you know what you
are saying.  A—a—foreigner—a—a man of whom I
know nothing!——"

"You will get to know him in time," Nora put in
hastily.

"Do not interrupt me.  I am grieved—shocked
beyond words.  I can only suppose that you have
been led astray—eh—blinded by the glamour of a
uniform.  It is terrible.  This is the reward of my
weakness.  Have I not always seen this coming?"—(here
the reverend gentleman exaggerated, since the
gift of prophecy had not been granted him)—"have
I not always protested against your absence?  But
I at least supposed that—that Frau von Arnim was
a woman who could be trusted—who would protect
you from the—eh—attentions of a——"

"Frau von Arnim is the best woman I have ever
met, except mother," Nora broke in again.  "As to
Wolff——"

"Wolff!"  Miles laughed loudly.  "Just think of
it, people!  'Wolff' for my brother-in-law!  A
German bounder in the family!  Many thanks!"

There was a moment's electric silence.  The
Rev. John had by this time recovered his professional
eloquence, and was preparing to settle down to the
work of exhortation with a zest.  It was perhaps
fortunate that Nora's face was turned away, otherwise
he might have found less pleasure in listening to his
own rounded periods.

"Miles puts the matter a trifle pointedly," he
began, "but, on the whole, he expresses my own views.
For many reasons I strongly disapprove of an English
girl marrying out of her people, and as you are too
young and inexperienced to appreciate those reasons,
you must submit to my simple authority.  I must,
dear child, absolutely refuse my consent to this
premature and regrettable engagement.  I have no doubt
that Frau von Arnim will see for herself that in her
anxiety to effect an advantageous alliance for her
nephew she has been over-hasty—I must say,
inexcusably hasty, in giving her sanction."

"Thank goodness *that* is knocked on the head!"
Miles said, rising triumphantly to his feet.  "I swear
to you, the bare possibility makes me feel positively
faint.  We all know what German officers are
like—bullying drinkers and gamblers——"

Nora turned and looked at him.  There was something
very like hatred in her dangerously bright eyes.

"I forbid you to speak like that of a class to which
my future husband belongs!" she said.  "Besides
what you said being nonsense, it is also cowardly to
attack where no chance is given to defend.  As to
my engagement"—she turned again to her father,
and her voice grew calm and firm—"whether you
give your consent or not makes no real difference.
In a short time I shall be of age, and then I shall
marry Wolff.  We can afford to wait, if it must be."

"Nora!"  The Rev. John recovered his breath
with difficulty.  "How can you—how dare you speak
to me like that?  Have you forgotten that I am
your father—that——"

"I have not forgotten anything," Nora interrupted,
in the same steady accents, "but it would be
hypocritical of me to pretend a submission which I do not
feel and which I should consider disloyal.  Hitherto
my duty has been towards you—it is now due to the
man whom I love above every other earthly
consideration.  It does not matter in the least to me
that Wolff is a foreigner.  If he were a Hottentot it
would make no difference."

Neither the Rev. John nor his son found any
immediate answer.  They looked at the proud,
determined face, and perhaps in various degrees of
distinctness each realised that Nora the child was a
creature of the past, and that this was a woman
who stood before them, armed and invulnerable in
the strength of her awakened passion.

The Rev. John, completely thrown out of his concept
by this unexpected revelation, looked at his wife
with the weak appeal of a blusterer who suddenly
discovers that he has blustered in vain.  Mrs. Ingestre
saw the look—possibly she had been waiting for it.

"I think that, if all Nora says is true, we have no
right to interfere," she said quietly, "and the best
thing we can do is to ask Captain von Arnim to come
and see us.  What do you say, Nora?"

Nora's whole face lit up, but she said nothing,
only looked at her father and waited.  Had she
burst out into a storm of girlish delight and gratitude,
the Rev. John might have plucked up courage and
held his ground, but that steady self-repression
indicated a strength of purpose of which he himself
was incapable.  He shrugged his shoulders.

"Since my authority is denied in my own house,
there is no object in appealing to me," he said peevishly.
"Do what you like—only, in the future remember
that I warned you.  You have taken your life into
your own hands, Nora.  I can no longer hold myself
responsible."

"All I beg is that I shall be allowed to keep out of
the way when the beggar comes here," Miles said, as
he followed his indignant parent out of the room.

The moment the door had closed Nora left her place
of defence by the fire and came to Mrs. Ingestre's
side.

"I know you are wondering why I did not tell
you before, mother," she said rapidly and clearly.
"It was because I did not want to drag you into it
more than I could help.  I know what you have to
bear when father thinks you are 'abetting' me.  I
wanted to fight my battle alone."

"And I suppose you think you have won, Nora?"

"Yes, I think so.  Father can do nothing."

"I was not thinking of that."

Nora looked down into the pale face and wondered
at the pity which mingled with the tenderness of its
expression.

"Of what were you thinking, mother?"

Mrs. Ingestre sighed.

"Are you so sure of yourself, little girl?" she
asked gently.  "Is your love really above every earthly
consideration?  Can you give up your home, your
country, your language, your ways, us—your people,
without a heart-ache?  Do you realise that you are
bringing your love the greatest of all sacrifices?"

"Mother, it is a sacrifice Wolff will never ask of me."

"Life will ask it of you—not even Wolff can alter
the laws of life.  The day may come when Circumstance
will say to you that you must choose.  And what
then?"

Nora was silent.  Then she lifted her head.

"Then, mother, I should have to choose.  It is
true—my love is strongest in me."

Mrs. Ingestre sank back among her pillows.

"God help you, dear!" she said under her breath.

Nora waited a moment.  There was something
more that she had to tell—the story of a letter written
in a fervour of self-sacrifice, and of another letter
written two weeks later, a pitiful letter containing
a confession and a plea for forgiveness.  But she
recognised the signs of exhaustion, and crept softly
back to the fire.  After all, it would do another day.
Another day!  That most pitiful of all excuses had
haunted her from the moment that she had felt Wolff
von Arnim's arms about her, and she was honest
enough to despise it and herself.  But she was afraid.
She was convinced that Wolff would not understand
either her old friendship with Robert Arnold or her
subsequent folly in accepting a man she did not love.
Nor could she explain, for the one explanation possible
was the sacred secret of Hildegarde's heart.  She was
equally convinced that her mother would disapprove
of her silence and demand that she should deal honestly
with the man she was to marry.  She knew that her
mother would be right, and indeed she meant to tell
the truth—but not now.  The new happiness was
too insecure.  And then, the episode, foolish and
even disloyal as it had been, was closed and done
with.  Robert Arnold had obviously accepted her
final acknowledgment of the truth, and had silently
gone his way.  He had not answered either letter,
and probably they would not meet again, or, at any
rate, not until the wound had healed and been
forgotten.  Was it not wiser, therefore, to keep silence
also—for the present?  Thus Nora argued with her
own conscience, and, torn between a natural rectitude
and a headstrong love, came to no conclusion, but
let the matter drift until that well-known "some
time" which, had she been wiser, she would have
recognised as an equivalent for "never."

But at least the great battle for her liberty had
been fought and won.  An invitation was promptly
sent to Karlsburg and as promptly accepted, and the
day dawned which was to see Wolff's triumphal entry
into the enemy's stronghold.  Even Miles, though
the permission to "keep out of the way" would
have been willingly granted him as far as Nora was
concerned, insisted on making his future brother-in-law's
arrival an excuse for returning on leave.

"The sooner I get the blow over the better," he
said, and gratuitously undertook to accompany Nora
and her father to the station when the unloved guest
was expected.

There were more people on the platform than was
usual at that time of the day.  From one source and
another, Delford had got to know all about Nora's
engagement; and though, from the station-master's
"Well, I call it a real downright shame that a pretty
girl should throw herself away on one of them there
Proosians!" to Mrs. Clerk's "Dear me, how dreadful!"
the chorus of disapproval had been rung on
every possible change, still, a good many of the
disapprovers had found it necessary to be present at the
arrival of the London express.  Nora herself noticed
nothing unusual.  She was overwhelmed by a sense
of unreality which made the incidents of the last
months seem like pictures from a confused dream.
Everything had happened so swiftly.  Love, despair,
and happiness had trodden on each other's heels; and
in the same moment that she had grasped her happiness
with both hands, she had been swept away, back into
the old surroundings where that happiness had no
place.  And now that it was coming to her, seeking
her out, as it were, in the enemy's territory, she could
hardly be sure whether it were really true, whether
Wolff himself were not some dream-figure who had
won her in another and less everyday existence.

In the midst of her bewildered thoughts the express
steamed into the little station, and the next minute
Wolff had become a living, breathing reality, who
swept down upon her and kissed her, regardless of all
the Delfordites in the world.  When he gave her time
and opportunity to look at him, she felt that he, too,
had undergone a change, and had taken on something
of his surroundings.  She would hardly have
recognised him in the plain tweed suit and bowler hat.
Neither became him so well as his uniform—to tell
the truth, neither fitted him with any great exactitude,
and it was all too evident that the suit was
"ready-made."  But the face, strong and tanned, flushed
now with his joy at seeing her, was the same.  It
carried her memory back to that wonderful hour
when he had lifted her out of the deepest despair to
an intoxicating happiness, and she, too, forgot the
Delfordites and the disapproving glances of her
relations, and clung to him in a transport of delight.

"My little Nora!" he said, "the weeks have
been months!"

"I am not sure that they have not been years!"
she cried, laughing.  And then she remembered her
father and brother, and hastened to perform the
ceremony of introduction.  The three men shook
hands, the Rev. John with solemnity, Miles with a
covert sneer and a glance which took in every detail
of the newcomer's person.  Either the solemnity or
the sneer worked depressingly on Wolff's spirits.  He
grew suddenly quiet and grave, though his eyes,
when they met Nora's, flashed with a smothered
happiness which she read and understood.

But the drive home in the narrow confines of the
Delford brougham remained in Nora's memory as
one of the most painful in her experience.  The
Rev. John persisted in his funereal solemnity, and talked
of the weather, the journey, and the crops, very
much as though he were trying to take their minds
off the unpleasant circumstances which had brought
them together.  As to Miles, he sat in the far corner
with his hands in his pockets and stared out of the
window—when he was not staring the new-comer out
of countenance.

Poor Nora!  Never before had she greeted the
appearance of the monument and the ugly church
steeple with so much thankfulness.

"We are nearly there now," she said, looking up
into Wolff's face.  "Mother has been so impatient
to see you."

Her eyes were full of a shamed, indignant apology,
to which Wolff's quiet smile seemed to answer:

"What do I care for them?  I would carry you
off if there were forty of them, all forty times as
disagreeable!"  And he pressed her hand defiantly
under the rugs.

At length the vicarage was reached.  The queer,
old-fashioned trunk was dragged down from its perch,
and five minutes later Wolff was standing in the
dimly lit drawing-room.  Mrs. Ingestre had heard
their coming, and came slowly and painfully forward.
Her hands were outstretched, and Wolff took them,
gravely bowing, and kissed them.  Nora saw a curious,
half-horrified expression pass over her father's face,
and Miles smothered a laugh.  She felt in that moment
as though she could have killed them both, and then
fled with Wolff anywhere, so long as she could get
away from their stifling atmosphere of self-satisfaction
and petty prejudices.

Her mother's voice was the first to break the silence.

"My dear Wolff," Mrs. Ingestre said gently, "how
glad I am that you have really come at last!"

The simple words, with their quietly emphasised
acceptance of him as a relation, acted like a balm on
poor Nora's wounded spirits.  She saw, too, that
Wolff's face had relaxed.

"You make me very happy," he said.  "I feel
for the first time that Nora and I really belong to
one another—since I have seen you, and you have
welcomed me."

A strange sound came from the Rev. John's
direction, which might have been a cough or a groan of
disapproval.  Mrs. Ingestre appeared to notice
nothing.  She took Wolff's arm, and, leaning on him as
though for support, led him closer to the light.

"You must forgive me," she said.  "Remember
that I am an old woman and that old women have
their cranks.  One of mine is that I do not like to
be kept waiting.  And I have been kept waiting so
long to see the face of this wonderful German that I
forgot that in all politeness I should be studying you
out of the corners of my eyes.  Nora has of course
described you—but then, Nora is prejudiced."

At this point the Rev. John's cough became consumptive
in its hollow persistency, and he was heard
to murmur something to the effect that Herr von
Arnim would no doubt like to be shown to his room.
Herr von Arnim appeared to be afflicted with deafness.
He looked down at Mrs. Ingestre, meeting her frank
inspection with steady, laughing eyes.

"I am not anything to look at—especially in these
clothes," he said naïvely.  "I don't think even Nora
could have said that I was handsome.  So you must
not judge by appearances.  After a time you will
know what I really am, and I hope you will like me."

"If I can trust Nora's description I do that already,"
Mrs. Ingestre answered, "but, more than Nora, more
than experience, I trust my own eyes.  And I
think"—she paused, and the smile that crept about her
lips lit up her whole face, and made it almost young
and very beautiful—"I think I shall be happy to
give my Nora to you, Wolff."

The cough and its owner had departed in despair.
Miles, finding himself ignored, skulked sulkily in the
passage.  Wolff bent and kissed the white, delicate
hand that still clasped his own.

"I thank you!" he said simply.

This time there were neither exclamatory eyebrows
nor smothered giggles, and Nora, forgetting that
they had ever been, saw in Wolff's action the seal
and charter of her happiness.





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.. _`NORA FORSAKES HER COUNTRY`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   NORA FORSAKES HER COUNTRY

.. vspace:: 2

Nora believed in unalloyed happiness.  Any one with
more experience would have known that unalloyed
happiness, as such, does not exist.  The moment when
we feel ourselves supremely happy is the moment
when we are most exposed to the rude shocks of
fortune.  We know it, and consequently our bliss is
immediately overshadowed with the knowledge of its
short duration.

When Mrs. Ingestre and Wolff had stood together
hand in hand, as though in solemn compact of
friendship and affection, Nora's heart had filled to
overflowing; but already that same evening a dozen
trifles, a dozen pin-pricks, came to prove to her that
the storms and misadventures of the last weeks were
by no means at an end.  Her father who, to do him
justice, never accused a fellow-creature until he was
proved guilty, was none the less on the lookout for
proofs of Wolff's unsuitability, and continued
distressed and grave.  If at any time the conversation
became in the least animated, or showed a tendency
to the mildest form of hilarity, he was at once on
the spot with some painfully repressing commonplace.
It was as though he were constantly murmuring,
"Children, remember what has happened!  This is
not an occasion for unseemly mirth!" and in spite
of all efforts the conversation drifted into a channel
which would have been considered unnecessarily
depressing at a funeral.

Miles aided and abetted his father after his own
fashion.  His asides to Nora were marked by pungent
humour and sarcasm.  Inquiries after Wolff's tailor,
and whether it was the fashion in Germany to wear
one's tie at "that angle," were varied with shocked
appeals that "that fellow might be told to put his
knife and fork together when he had finished eating,
and not leave it sprawling about his plate like a
yokel!"

Nora never retorted.  She felt the uselessness of
explaining that the Germans were different, but not
on that account worse; but she felt like an enraged
tigress who sees her cub attacked by brutal, clumsy
hands.  She did not see that Wolff, unaccustomed to
such things, had struggled in vain with a refractory
evening tie, nor that the cut of his coat was scarcely
of the latest fashion.  She saw first and foremost
that he was a man and a gentleman, and her love and
respect for him kindled in the same measure that her
love for her father and brother diminished.  There
were moments during Wolff's fortnight visit when
she came to hate both, so intensely did she resent
their attitude towards her future husband.  The
Rev. John, thanks to Mrs. Ingestre, remained formal
and polite to Wolff's face.  Behind his back he
displayed an all-damning charity.

"Of course, we must not judge a foreigner by our
standards," he would say pathetically, "and I daresay
he is well-meaning, but I wish, my poor child——"

He would then break off, and look out of the window
with an expression full of the most moving pity and
regret.

Miles, fortified with the knowledge of exams. passed
and a dawning manhood, was not so reserved in his
opinions.

"I can't think what you see in him, Nora!" he
once said condescendingly.  "He is a regular
out-and-out German, and his hat-doffing and hand-kissing
make me sick.  I wish he would take himself and his
beastly polish back to his own country."

Whereby it will be seen that "beastly polish"
was not one of Miles Ingestre's weaknesses.

On the whole, Wolff more than held his own.  Although
unaffected and modest as far as his own person
was concerned, he was much too deeply imbued with
the traditional conception of his social position to
feel anything but calm amusement at the ungraciousness
of his two hosts.  As an officer in the King's
army, and as a scion of an old and noble race, he felt
himself secure against contempt even in a foreign
country where such things did not count.  For him
they counted everywhere—they upheld him and lent
him an imperturbable *savoir faire* where another man
would have shown temper or resentment.  Nevertheless,
the fortnight was not a very happy one.  The
unspoken knowledge that Wolff was not "approved
of" weighed upon Nora and himself as a fact which
both recognised but felt wiser to ignore.  They were
ill at ease even when alone—Nora because she was
ashamed of her own people, Wolff because he knew
she was ashamed, and could do nothing to help her.
Consequently they were happiest when together with
Mrs. Ingestre.  Her grace of manner and openly
expressed affection for her future son-in-law lifted the
shadow between them, and the hours spent at her
side counted amongst the most unclouded.

There were constant "visits" during Wolff's stay.
From the inevitable Mrs. Clerk, who, in spite of strong
disapproval, could not refrain from gushing over the
German Baron to the Manor people, who were
ponderously and haughtily critical, the whole of Delford
came up for the inspection.  Of course, it was a
"formal" inspection.  "Informal inspections" had
been held in church, and when Wolff had cantered
through Delford on a borrowed horse, which Miles
had hopefully but mistakenly prophesied would
"buck him over the first hedge."  On the latter
occasion it is possible that more than one feminine
heart was stirred to unacknowledged admiration for
the bronzed face and splendid figure, and even Miles
was compelled to the sulky confession that "the
fellow could ride."

Thus the days passed, and, except in one long
interview with the Rev. John, Wolff and Nora's
marriage was treated as a tabooed subject.  That
interview, revealing as it did not very brilliant financial
prospects, reduced the rev. gentleman to even deeper
depression, and the hope of a definite settlement
seemed all too far off.  It was then that Mrs. Ingestre
threw in the casting vote of her influence.  A few
days before Wolff's departure she called him to her,
and the two were alone together for a long hour.
In that hour Wolff learnt to know more of Mrs. Ingestre's
life and character than Nora had done in all
the years at her mother's side.  In her desire to help
her daughter to happiness, all other considerations
were forgotten, and Mrs. Ingestre revealed unconsciously
to Wolff's more experienced eyes a profound,
if resigned, grief over her own life, stifled and clogged
as it had been in her husband's atmosphere.  In the
quiet room her voice sounded peculiarly earnest,
almost impressive.

"I need not tell you, my dear Wolff," she said,
"that my husband is against your marriage with
Nora.  You must know that already.  He has other
ideas of happiness and suitability, and I can scarcely
blame him, since they were once mine.  Like him, I
once saw in long acquaintance, similarity in ideas,
and, of course, nationality, a certain wealth and
position, the best foundations for a happy and
successful life.  Like him, I would probably have thought
that you were not rich enough to marry, that you had
not known each other long enough, that the difference
of nationality and upbringing would be too great a
stumbling-block.  I have learnt since those days to
think differently.  The circumstances make little
difference either way, so long as a great love is there.
And, after all, what is a great love?"  For the first
time her tone was tinged with a faint cynicism.  "Who
can dare to call their love really great until they are
on their deathbeds?  We cannot be sure of our love,
whether the object be well known to us or not, until
it has been tried by the fires of years and custom.
Custom is the hardest trial of all, and that is why I
am glad rather than sorry that you and Nora know
each other so little.  It is because you know each
other so little that you are in love, for being in love
is simply the charm of standing before the closed,
mysterious door of another's personality, and knocking
for it to open.  When the door opens, you will cease
to be in love, but I believe that, because you are both
worthy of it, you will find the all-enduring love waiting
for you.  At any rate, it seems to me the chances are
as great for you as for those who, knowing each other
too well, have never known the charm.  Wolff, I am
an old woman in suffering if not in years, and I think
age and youth often join hands over the experience
of middle life.  Youth believes it is better to be truly
happy for an hour and to suffer through all eternity
rather than enjoy years of placid, passionless content.
And that is what I have also come to believe.  I
would rather Nora enjoyed a brief but complete union
with you than a lifetime of 'living together' with
another man.  Besides, I trust you; I believe you
to be a good man, as I believe Nora to be a good
woman, and I hope that in the afterwards you will
learn to love each other.  As to the question of
nationality and wealth, they spell struggle and sacrifice
for you both, Wolff.  As a woman Nora will bring
the greatest sacrifice, but I know that you will help
her."

"With all my strength."

"And you will have patience?"

He looked at her wonderingly.

"Sometimes you will need it, Wolff.  But Nora is
brave and good.  She will learn to love your country
because she loves you.  For my part—I am glad
that she is leaving Delford far behind her."

Wolff made no answer.  He felt that the words
were an almost unconscious outburst, that unknowingly
she had spoken of herself.  After a moment she went
on with a quiet smile:

"So, you see, I am on your side.  So long as I am
on your side, there is nothing for either of you to
fear.  If anything should happen——"

"I pray that I shall never give you cause to take
your trust away from me!" Wolff broke in.

Mrs. Ingestre shook her head.

"I was not thinking of that possibility," she said.
"I was thinking that if Nora stood alone—without
me—the fight against her father's wishes might be
harder.  I know she would hold to you, but it would
be at a bitter cost.  That is why I wish for you to
marry soon—as soon as possible."

Something in her tone affected Wolff painfully.
He looked at her, and for the first time he saw that
this woman was suffering intensely, silently, with a
smile on her lips and unconquered life in her eyes.

"Mrs. Ingestre!" he exclaimed.

She took his hand and pressed it.

"I think you know," she said, "and if I tell you
what I have withheld, and shall withhold, from every
living being, it is because I wish you to clearly
understand my reasons.  I cannot live very long, and before
it is too late I want to see Nora in your care.  Can
you promise that my wish shall be granted?"

He made no effort to pity or express his grief.  There
was something masculine in her calm which held him
silent, but in that moment his love for Nora strengthened
because one woman had lifted her whole sex
with her to the highest summit of his man's ideal.
He lifted her hand reverently to his lips.

"God knows I promise willingly," he said.

Thus Wolff von Arnim went back to his own country,
and in April, four months later, came again, but not
alone.  Frau von Arnim accompanied him, and
Delford awoke from its lethargy to the thrilling,
gossip-giving occasion of a wedding.  The ugly church
was made beautiful with all the flowers which
Mrs. Ingestre's garden and the neighbouring town could
provide, the village choir produced its best anthem
with deafening, ear-rending enthusiasm, and every
inhabitant turned out to gape at the "Baron" and
the elegant woman who—it was scarcely to be
believed!—was actually a German.  In truth, Frau von
Arnim's elegance and air of *grande dame* upset not
only Delford's preconceived notions but the
Rev. John's attitude as the condescending party in an
obvious *mésalliance*.  The "German woman" frightened
him, and his position was rendered the more
difficult by his wife, who chose to take a decided liking
for this new guest and to treat her as a welcome
relation.  Altogether, on the day of the wedding the
poor gentleman was fairly carried off his feet by the
foreign invasion.  Not only Frau von Arnim, but even
the despised Wolff became a personage beside whom
it was not easy to appear with dignity.  The latter
had discarded the ungainly efforts of the Karlsburg
civilian tailor, and though the Delfordites, who, in
spite of a strong anti-military spirit, had had secret
hopes of being regaled with flying plumes and glittering
epaulettes, were somewhat disappointed with his
frock-coat, his height and the fact that he was "a
real foreigner" successfully withdrew every particle
of attention from the Rev. John's moving address.

In all the church there were perhaps only three
people for whom the ceremony had any other
significance than that of an interesting show, and none
of them were listening to the Rev. John.  Mrs. Ingestre
was praying for the future in which she was doomed
to have no share.  Wolff and Nora thanked God for
the present, which was theirs and which seemed but
a foretaste of the future.  Both had forgotten the
trials and disappointments of the last four months,
or if they thought of them at all it was as of obstacles
triumphantly surmounted.

In Nora all that had grown hard and bitter softened
into an all-embracing tenderness.  Her love for her
father and brother revived—even Delford and its
inhabitants appeared to her in the beautiful light of
farewell.  She knew she was leaving everything, if
not for ever, at least for ever as her home, and as she
walked by her husband's side down the narrow
churchyard path her heart throbbed with a sudden pain.
After all, it was England she was leaving—and she
was English no longer!  Then she looked up at
Wolff, and their eyes met, and the pain had died
as though at the touch of some mysterious healing
hand.

"How I love you!" she thought.

At the door of her old home Frau von Arnim was
the first to greet her.  Perhaps the elder woman's
instinct had guessed the moment's pain, for she took
Nora in her arms and kissed her with an unusual
tenderness.

"We will try and make you happy in your new
country," she whispered.  "You must not be afraid."

But Nora was no longer afraid, and her eyes were
bright with a fearless confidence in the future as she
returned the embrace.

"I *am* happy!" she said.  "I have everything
that I care for in the world."

She ran quickly upstairs and changed into her
simple travelling-dress.  Mrs. Ingestre, she knew, was
resting in her room, and the desire to be alone with
her mother for a last moment was strong in Nora's
heart.  In her supreme happiness she did not forget
those whom she loved; rather her love had strengthened,
and towards her mother it was mingled with an
endless gratitude.  Yet when she crept into the little
room she found it empty and silent.  Mrs. Ingestre
had gone back to her guests, and for a moment Nora
stood looking about her, overwhelmed by the tide of
tender memories from a past which already seemed so
far off.  The invalid's sofa, her own special chair where
she had sat in those peaceful afternoons when they had
been alone together, her mother's table—Nora drew
closer.  Something lying on the polished surface had
attracted her attention.  Hardly knowing why, she
picked it up.  It was a letter addressed to her at
Karlsburg, and the handwriting was familiar.  Nora
did not stop to think.  She tore the envelope open
and read the first few lines of the contents with the
rapidity of indifference.  Her thoughts were
elsewhere, and the words and the writing had at first no
meaning.  And then suddenly, as though she had
been roughly awakened from a dream, she understood
what it was she held.  It was from Robert Arnold,
and it was a love-letter.

She read the first page over and over again.  She
felt stunned and sickened.  Her mind refused to
grasp what had happened.

"My darling," Robert had written two months
before, from some far-off African village, "a miracle
has happened!  Your letter has come!  It must
have missed me at Aden, and had followed me from
place to place until at last it has reached my hands.
And all these months I have been thinking that you
had no answer for me, or at the most the one I feared.
Nora, need you ask me if I will take what you have
to offer?  I love you, dear, and I know my love will
awaken yours and that I shall make you happy.  My
whole life shall thank you for the trust you have
given me.  I can hardly write for my joy, and the
time that must elapse before I can see you seems
intolerable.  I cannot return for at least two or three
months, as I have promised a friend to accompany
him on an inland expedition, but when that is over
I shall make full steam for home—or, rather, to
Germany if you are still there.  In the meantime,
write to me, dearest.  Even though weeks may pass
before the letters reach me, yet the knowledge that
they are there waiting will give me hope and courage.
I am sending this letter to the coast by a native carrier.
Heaven knows if it will ever reach you, but..."

Nora looked up, conscious that she was no longer
alone.  Wolff stood in the doorway, dressed for
departure, his hands outstretched.

"Are you ready, *kleine Frau*?" he said.  "We
are all waiting for you——"  He broke off, and took
a quick step towards her.  "Nora!" he exclaimed.
"How pale you are!  What is the matter?"

It seemed to her that a full minute must have
elapsed before she brought her lips to move, but in
reality she answered almost immediately:

"It is nothing—nothing whatever.  I am quite
ready—I will come now."

Outwardly pale and calm, she had lost all inner
self-possession, and in a kind of frenzied fear was
tearing the letter into a thousand pieces.  She had no
thought for the future; blindly and instinctively she
was saving herself from the present.

Wolff watched her in puzzled silence.  Then, when
the last fragment fell to the ground, he came and
took her hands.

"Nora, something *is* wrong.  Did that letter
trouble you?  What was it?"

"No, no.  If it is anything, it is just the thought
of leaving them all.  Surely you understand?"

Poor Nora!  That "some day" when she had
thought to tell him everything had become a "never,"
sealed and made irrevocable by a silence and a lie.
Poor Wolff!  He thought he understood.  He put
his arms tenderly about her.

"Yes, I understand.  I know you have given up
everything for my sake.  But, oh, Nora, God helping
us, we shall be so happy!"

He waited, and then, as she did not speak, went
on gently:

"Can you bear to come now?  Is your love big
enough to give up all that is past, to start afresh—a
new life with me in a new home, a new country?
Is it too great a sacrifice to ask, Nora?"

His words acted like a strong charm.  She thought
they were prophetic, and her reckless despair changed
into a more reckless happiness.  She lifted her face
to his, and her eyes were triumphant.

"It is no sacrifice," she said.  "My love for you
can perform miracles.  It has made your people my
people, your God my God, and it can wipe out the
past—everything—and leave nothing in my life but
you!  Take me with you, Wolff.  I am quite, quite
ready!"

He led her proudly and happily from the room, and
afterwards from the house that had been her home.

But, little as she knew it, no miracle had been
performed in Nora's life.

.. vspace:: 3

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   END OF BOOK \I





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NEW HOME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BOOK II

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium bold

   THE NEW HOME

.. vspace:: 2

"My dear," said Frau von Seleneck, bustling into her
husband's study, "is it true that the Arnims have
arrived?  I heard something about it yesterday from
Clara, but she was not certain, and I want to know.
Of course they ought to call first, but as one of the
regiment, we don't need to stand on ceremony.
Besides, I want to see his wife."

"And his flat, and his furniture, and his cook, and
her dresses," Herr von Seleneck added, with a chuckle.
"Yes; call by all means.  They arrived some days
ago, and have a flat in the Adler Strasse.  You had
better go this morning."

"I thought you had duty?"

"So I have."  Kurt von Seleneck stretched
himself, and his eyes twinkled.  "You can make that
my excuse for not accompanying you on your first
visit.  You don't need to pretend to me, after five
years of married life, that you really want me to come
with you, because you know you don't.  Just think
of the things you can talk about if I am not there!
Just think how wretchedly *de trop* I should be between
you two, and let me go—this time, at least."

"You would have Wolff to talk to," Frau von
Seleneck said, trying to draw her round, rosy face
into lines of disappointment.  "You must have a
lot to say to each other."

"Thank you!" her husband retorted, preparing
to exchange his undress *Litewka* for the blue coat
which a stolid orderly was holding in readiness.
"Wolff and I will have opportunities enough, and
the prospect of being sent away 'to talk' like children
whilst you two women exchange confidences is too
humiliating.  Go alone, my dear."

Frau von Seleneck, having attained her object,
proceeded to raise all sorts of objections.

"I think it is mean of you to desert me, Kurt,"
she said.  "Frau von Arnim probably can't speak a
word of German, and my English is as rusty as it
can be.  I haven't spoken it for years and years.  We
shall have to play Dumb Crambo or something, and
I shall die of nervousness."

"I hope not," Seleneck said, who was now busy
with the gloves she had laid out for him.  "No doubt
you are too modest, and your English only needs a
little polish to reach perfection.  At any rate, you
can but try, and, as far as I know, Frau von Arnim can
help things along with her German.  She has been
in Karlsburg ever since May, and ought to have
picked up something of the language."

"Oh, if it comes to that, I dare say I shall manage
quite well," said Frau von Seleneck, who was secretly
very proud of her English, "but I wish she were
*erne gute Deutsche*.  I can't think why Wolff married
an Englishwoman.  All English people are dreadful.
I had an English governess who frightened me to
death.  At meal times she used to keep up a fire of
unpleasant criticism, and glare at me as though I were
a sort of heathen monstrosity.  'Elsa, don't bolt
your food!  You eat like a wolf!  Your manners
would disgrace a bricklayer!'  I simply hated her,
and I hate all English people.  They are so rude and
stiff and *ungemtlich*.  One sees that they despise
everybody except themselves, and one wonders how
they manage it."

Her husband laughed good-naturedly.

"I don't think they are as bad as you paint them,"
he said.  "I believe some of them are quite decent
fellows, and Frau von Arnim is, I know, charming.
At any rate, do your best to be agreeable; there's a
kind soul.  I expect she will feel rather forlorn at
first."

Frau von Seleneck bridled with indignation.

"Of course I shall be agreeable!  If she doesn't
freeze me, I shall do everything I can to make her
feel she is one of us.  At least——" she hesitated,
"I suppose she is one of us, isn't she?  Who was she
before she married Wolff?"

"My dear, if you knew you wouldn't be much the
wiser," Seleneck said, preparing for departure.
"English people are different.  I believe it is quite an
honour to marry a rich tea-merchant—or a rich
anybody, for that matter.  As far as I know, Frau von
Arnim was a parson's daughter, and quite good
family.  The fact that Wolff married her and has been
able to stay in the Army is guarantee enough."

Elsa von Seleneck looked relieved.

"Of course!" she said.  "How stupid of me!
Well, I shall go and see what I can do to help her.
I expect she is in frightful trouble with her servants.
I know I am."

She accompanied her husband to the door of their
flat, brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his
uniform, kissed him and rushed to the window to wave
him a last farewell as he rode off down the quiet
street.  Until eleven o'clock she busied herself with
her household matters, then arrayed herself in her
best clothes and set off on the proposed voyage of
discovery.

The Adler Strasse lay at some considerable
distance, and Frau von Seleneck was both hot and
exhausted by the time she reached the unpretentious
little house where the Arnims had taken up their
quarters.  She had not made use of the trams, because
if you start taking trams in Berlin you can spend a
fortune, and she had no fortune to spend.  Moreover,
she was a rotund little person, with a dangerous
tendency to stoutness, and exercise therefore was a
good excuse for saving the pfennige.  Certainly she
had exercise enough before she reached the Arnims'
flat.  It was on the top floor, and even for Frau
von Seleneck's taste, which was not that of a pampered
millionaire, the stairs were unusually steep and narrow
and smelly.  From the tiny landing where the visitor
sought room to wait patiently for the opening of the
hall door, it was possible to make a close guess at
the various dinners which were being prepared in
all four flats.  Boiled vegetables formed the staple
odour, and as, according to the unwritten law which
governs German flats, all the staircase windows were
hermetically sealed, it was very noticeable indeed.
Not that this troubled Frau von Seleneck in the least.
What did trouble her was the obstinate silence which
greeted her vigorous application of the electric bell.
At last, after one exceptionally determined peal, the
door was cautiously opened, and Frau von Seleneck
found herself welcomed by a girl who stared at her
with an amusing mixture of alarm and indignation,
Frau von Seleneck's inner comment was to the point.

"Pretty servants are always a trouble," she thought.
"This one will certainly be having love affairs with
the Bursche.  I shall warn Frau von Arnim at once."

Aloud she inquired if the *gnädige Frau* was at
home.  To her surprise, a deep flush mounted the
"servant's" cheeks and dyed the white forehead to
the roots of the somewhat disordered brown hair.
The door was opened a fraction wider.

"I am the *gnädige Frau*," a low voice said shame-facedly,
in a nervous, broken German.  "My—my
cook has gone out, and so——"

Frau von Seleneck held out both her hands.

"Why, of course!" she cried in English.  "How
stupid of me!  I am terribly short-sighted, you know,
or I should not make so silly a mistake.  I am Frau
von Seleneck—the wife of your husband's old
comrade.  I should have had the joy of meeting you in
Karlsburg, but I was ill at the time—and better
late than never, as you English say.  I have come
now to tell you "Willkommen in the Fatherland!"

Her English came in an almost unintelligible rush,
but the tone was so warmhearted and friendly, that
poor Nora, who believed she had brought everlasting
disgrace upon herself and the whole family, was
humbly thankful to open the drawing-room door and
usher in her unexpected visitor.

"I don't know what you must think of me," she
said, "but just at present we have only one servant,
and she has gone out.  It seems the tradespeople
don't come for orders, and I am much too inexperienced,
and know far too little German to go shopping alone."

In her unhappiness at having opened the door,
she forgot to offer Frau von Seleneck a chair; but the
latter, at heart only too thankful to find the freezing
"Engländerin" in so human a fluster, took possession
of the centre of the little sofa, and began the
work of reassurance.

"That is nothing whatever in the world, dear Frau
von Arnim," she said cheerfully.  "I often open the
door myself, and if anybody takes me for my cook,
what does that make?  It prove that the person does
not belong to my circle, and if he does not belong to my
circle it makes nothing what he thinks."

During this exposition of uncontrovertible logic
she had been making a rapid mental catalogue of the
furniture.  Nora saw the wandering eyes, and her
humiliation deepened.

"I am afraid the room is horribly untidy," she
confessed, wondering if the time would ever come
when she would be able to stop apologising and begin
a normal conversation.  "You see, we have only
been in a few days, and I have not got everything in
its place.  I hope soon it will look a little better."

She spoke rather despondently, because she felt
the cheap little suite of plush furniture gave no great
hopes of "looking better," even with the most careful
arrangement, and she was sure that the fact was
obvious to all.  Very much to her surprise, therefore,
her visitor broke into a panegyric of praise.

"It is all charming!" she said, looking about her
very much as though she were in a gallery of
art-treasures.  "I do not see how it could be better.
And how good have you chose the colours!  The
chairs are almost the same tint as the paper, aren't
they?—not quite, perhaps, but nearly.  And the
curtains are exquisite.  How I envy you!  When
you come to see us, you will say, 'Ach! how is all
old and shady!' and you will pity us long-married
people."

"Perhaps you would like to see the other rooms?"
Nora suggested, who had never mastered the problem
as to what one did with visitors who called at twelve
o'clock in the morning.  Frau von Seleneck expressed
herself more than willing, and a close inspection was
made of the five large-sized cupboards which served
the Arnims as abode.

"Really, one can hardly know which is the most
delightful," Frau von Seleneck declared at the end.
"Everything is so tasty, as you English say—so
bijou."

"A little stuffy, don't you think?" Nora said
timidly.  "I can never get enough air, and the stairs
are sometimes quite—unpleasant.  Didn't you notice it?"

"*Ach, was!*" Frau von Seleneck exclaimed.
"You should smell ours when our down-below neighbours
have their wash-day.  Then you might complain.
But one must not complain.  It is the greatest mistake
possible—and so ungrateful.  Everything is so
delightful, you know."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Nora said hesitatingly.

Frau von Seleneck gave a comfortable little laugh,
and patted her on the shoulder.

"You don't think so, *Verehrteste*?  You must do
like I.  Six days in the week I thank *dem lieben Gott*
that my neighbours wash not, and the seventh I
think of my sins.  That way I can almost enjoy the
smell.  And after all, it is quite a little smell, and
my sins are sometimes——"  She spread out her
arms to indicate an immeasurable immensity, and
Nora laughed.  Her visitor's good spirits were so
infectious that she forgot her futile discussion with
the cook, and the impenetrable stupidity of the Bursche,
and began to believe that everything really was
"delightful."

"I will think of your advice next time I want to
grumble," she said, as they re-entered the drawing-room.
"Perhaps it will help me over some bad moments."

Frau von Seleneck took her hand, and, to Nora's
surprise, embraced her affectionately.

"That is why I am here," she said.  "The others—the
*Spitzen*, superior officers and wives, you know—you
will have to visit first.  But I thought I could
help you.  I am such an old soldier."  She laughed
again, and then became suddenly thoughtful.  "Have
you yet called upon the Mayos?" she asked.

"No," Nora answered abruptly.

"Then you must do so at once—they are important
people, and Major von Mayo is your husband's direct
superior.  You know, at the beginning it is important
that you should offend no one—one cannot be too
particular."

"I met Frau von Mayo in Karlsburg," Nora said.
"I did not like her—she was rude and ill-mannered."

Frau von Seleneck's eyes twinkled.

"She is always so," she said.  "One gets accustomed."

"I do not think that I should 'get accustomed,'"
Nora retorted, with heightened colour.  "At any
rate, I shall not call."

"You——" Frau von Seleneck gasped, and her
eyes distended with unaffected horror.  "*Aber, du
lieber Gott im Himmel!*—you cannot mean what you
say, you do not know——" she choked.  "*Es ist
unmöglich!*" she decided, as though addressing an
unreasonable deity.

"I don't see why it is *unmöglich*," Nora said.
"There is no purpose in calling on people whom I
do not want to know.  I told Wolff so."

"Ah, you have told your husband!  And what
did he say?"

Nora hesitated.  She remembered now that Wolff
had looked troubled, and the remembrance caused
her a sudden uneasiness.

"He said I could do as I liked," she said slowly.

"Ah, the young husbands!"  Frau von Seleneck
threw up her hands.  "What folly!  It must not
be.  You must call on the Mayos—on everybody.
You must not show that you hate or that you love.
You must be the same to all—gracious, smiling—though
you may want to scratch their eyes out.
You must remember we are all comrades."

"Comrades!  I do not want Frau von Mayo as a
comrade!" Nora cried indignantly.

Frau von Seleneck bent forward, and her voice
sank to a mysterious whisper.

"Nor do any of us.  I tell you in secret—she is a
hateful person.  But we must not let her see—it is
our duty to pretend."

"Why?" Nora demanded uncompromisingly.

"For our husbands' sake—it does not do to have
ill-feeling between the wives.  Then the husbands
quarrel, and there must be no ill-feeling between
comrades."

Nora shook her head.

"I'm afraid I'm no good at pretending," she said.

"But you will try—for your good Wolff's sake?
See, I will help you—if you will let me."

Nora took the outstretched hand.  Her moment's
anger had gone—dispersed by the simple appeal
"for Wolff's sake."

"You are very good to me," she said gratefully,
"and I will try and do what is right.  Everything is
so new and strange to me."

"I know, I know.  But you will see—all will go
so smooth—so smooth.  One day I will go with you
to the Mayos.  I have my little English, and that
will make it easier.  My poor English!"  She gave
another of her comfortable chuckles.  "He is so very bad."

"Oh, not at all!" Nora hastened to reassure her
politely.  "It is really quite good—considering.  I
can understand everything you say."

There was a rather sudden silence, and to her
alarm Nora observed that her visitor's pink cheeks
had turned a bright scarlet, and that there was a look
of almost childish disappointment in the large brown
eyes.  "What have I done?" Nora thought, and
then, before she had time to fathom the mystery, the
good-natured little woman had recovered her
equanimity as suddenly as she had lost it.

"You and I must be great friends," she said.  "Our
husbands are so—great friends, and then, of course,
you belong to the regiment—at least"—she corrected
herself hastily, and almost apologetically—"your
husband is on the Staff now, and will make a
brilliant career, whilst my poor *Mann* has only a
year's *Kommando*.  Still, you *did* belong to the
regiment, did you not?  And that always makes a
bond."

"Of course," Nora said.  She was a little overwhelmed
by the respect which this vastly older and
wiser personage displayed towards her, and for the
first time she realised that she had married a man on
whom the military world already cast eyes of interest
and envy.  "I should only be too grateful for your
friendship," she went on.  "I know no one here,
and Berlin is so big and strange to me.  When Wolff
is on duty I feel quite lost."

"And a leetle *Heimweh*?" Frau von Seleneck
suggested quickly.  "I know not what the word is
in English, but it is a terrible pain.  I have it
here"—she put her hand to her heart—"every year, once
for two months, when Kurt is in the manoeuvres,
and I weep—I weep whole buckets full."

Nora started.

"Two months!" she said, horror-struck.  "And
will Wolff be away all that time?"

"*Aber natürlich, liebes Kind*!  Even your Wolff
will not be excused again.  The Emperor has no
heart for the poor wives.  But you must not complain.
You must laugh and be happy—at any rate, until
your husband has gone.  I always send mine away
with a big smile, and tell him I am glad to be rid of
him.  Afterwards I weep.  It is a great comfort to
weep, but men like not tears.  It makes them
uncomfortable, and besides, one must not make their
duty harder than it is."

"Of course not," Nora said bravely.  "I shall do
all I can to help him.  And one can write lots of
letters, can't one?"

"Every day, and twice a day," declared her visitor
cheerily, as she arose.  "Ach, you will be a good
soldier's wife soon.  And now I must go and see that
my silly Bertha has not put all the salt-box in the
soup.  But if you will let me I will come again, and
bring my Kurt with me.  He was dying to come
this time, but I would have none of him.  Men are
such a nuisance, *nicht wahr*!  And then you must
come and see us, and we will talk German together,
and you shall know all my friends, and we will help
each other like *gute Kameraden*."

A warm, hurried embrace, and plump, smiling-faced
Frau von Seleneck was out of the room and on the
tiny landing.  A last pressure of the hand, a hearty
"*Aufwiedersehen!*" and she had disappeared into a
foggy atmosphere of pea-soup and Sauerkraut.

Nora went back into the disordered little drawing-room,
and set to work with a new will.  The spirit of
cheery content and selflessness had been left sitting
on the sofa, and it seemed to chuckle in a peculiar,
fat, comfortable way as Nora pushed the chairs
backwards and forwards in the vain attempt to induce
an air of elegance.

"Even if she does admire the furniture, and think
the flat perfection, she has a good, kind heart," Nora
thought.  "I am glad we are going to be friends."

She began to hum to herself, and when in an
unusually untidy corner she found a pair of Wolff's
*dritte Garnitur* gloves, she picked them up and kissed
them.  There was so much sunlight and love in her
heart that smells and stuffiness and ugly furniture
were forgotten, and she triumphed in the knowledge
that she was, without exception, the happiest woman
in the world.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`—AND THE NEW LIFE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   —AND THE NEW LIFE

.. vspace:: 2

Nora sank with a triumphant sigh into her favourite
arm-chair by the window.  The much-dreaded visit
to the Mayos was an accomplished fact, the day's
household work at an end, and for a breathing-space
she was at liberty to enjoy the luxury of an unobserved
idleness.  Dusk had set in, and dusk is the time of
memories and dreams.  And this evening Nora
recalled the near past.  She could not have explained
why of late her thoughts reverted so constantly to the
glowing period which had stood, as it were, beyond
the first entry of her marriage and divided it from the
dull grey of everyday life.  The glorious month in
the Black Forest, the visit to Karlsburg, the princely
reception by her husband's old regiment, the military
serenades, the military visits, the endless flood of
bouquets from *Kameraden* the wild enthusiasm of
poor little Fräulein Müller, who felt as though "it
were my own wedding-day, you know, *liebes Kind*,"
and behaved as though such were really the case,
the happy hours with Hildegarde and her mother—all
this awoke in Nora's memory like some brilliant,
intoxicating dream in whose reality she could scarcely
believe.  Then had come the house-hunting—or,
rather, flat-hunting in the stifling heat of a Berlin
July, and at last this—the slow settling down to her
new life.

Nora sighed.  She was feeling very tired and
possibly slightly depressed.  In truth, she was very
often depressed in that hour which divided the close
of her day's duties and Wolff's return, and sometimes
there was even a touch of irritability in her depression.
The constant round of "teas," the constant meeting
of the same people, the constant repetitions, the
unfailing discussions on *Dienst* and *Dienstangelegenheiten*
wearied her to exasperation.  Some of the
women she liked, some she tolerated, some she hated;
but, hated or loved or tolerated, these women formed
her "circle," from which there was no possible escape.
On the whole, she bore the burden of their
good-natured dullness with apparent equanimity, so that
Frau von Seleneck had told her, with the satisfaction
of a successful monitor, that she was really "one of
them."  But there were also moments when weariness
overcame her determined courage, and only the
rallying-cry "For Wolff's sake" could bring light
to her eyes.  They were for the most part lonely
moments, when she wandered about the tiny flat
seeking some occupation which would help to pass
the time till Wolff's return, or when *Kriegspiel*
carried him away in the evenings and left her to
solitude, a vague home-sickness—and fear.  For fear
had not been altogether banished from Nora's life,
though she held it under with a firm hand.  It haunted
her now as she sat there watching the lights spring
up in the windows opposite; it asked her what had
happened, and what might still happen; it reminded
her of the man she had deceived.  No, not deceived.
After all, she had offered her life, not her love, to
Robert Arnold, because he had needed her, and
because she in her turn had needed him as a barrier
between herself and the man she really loved.  When
the barrier had proved useless she had flung it aside,
and she knew that if she could live over again that
hour when Wolff von Arnim had come to her with
love and happiness in his hands, she would not act
otherwise than she had done.  And to Robert Arnold
she had offered the one possible atonement—she had
told him the truth.  He had not answered her, and
she had tried to put him out of her life, regretfully
and remorsefully, as a friend whom she had wronged
beyond forgiveness.  Nevertheless, the power to forget
had not been granted her.  Memory, like some old
mythological Fury seeking an expiatory sacrifice,
haunted her and would haunt her, as she knew, until
such time as the sacrifice was paid.  And the sacrifice
was a confession to her husband—an impossibility,
since her lips were sealed by a lie and by the fear of
losing that which was most precious to her—his love.

"But there shall be no more secrets in my life,"
she thought as she heard his step on the stairs outside,
and perhaps at the bottom of her heart there lurked
a superstitious hope that Nemesis had heard her
promise and accepted it as an atonement.  The
next minute she was in her husband's arms, and
Nemesis, conscience, Robert Arnold, and all the
petty trials of the day were forgotten, overwhelmed
by a passionate joy which filled her heart and the
dusky room with sunshine.

"Why, Nora!" he exclaimed.  "You are like a
little hobgoblin, springing at one out of the shadows.
What have you been doing all alone in the dark?"

"Dreaming—and waiting for you," she answered
gaily.  "Wait a moment till I have lit the lamp.
I had forgotten that weary warriors do not care for
the dim religious light which goes with dreaming."

He sank down into his chair with a tired sigh of
contentment and watched her as she busied about
the room, putting away his gloves and the officer's
cap which he had thrown upon the table.  There
was no trace of depression in her face, nor, indeed,
in her heart—only an almost childish happiness, and
gradually the lines of worry and exhaustion faded
from about the man's strong mouth.

"How good it is to come home, Nora!" he said
under his breath.  "When I think of how I used to
feel after a long day's work—why, I can't imagine
how I existed."

"Do I make all the difference?"

"All the difference, my little wife."

She came and kissed him, and then stood looking
down into his face with tender concern.

"You look so tired.  Has anything been worrying you?"

"No, nothing—only the head-work is rather a
strain.  One has to give mind and soul to it; there
is no slacking possible, even if one were inclined that
way."

"Which you are not, you terrible man of iron
and blood!  Sometimes I am quite jealous of your
work: I believe you love it more than you do me."

"It is my duty," he answered gravely.  And then,
after a moment, he added in a lighter tone, "By
the way, an old friend of yours has arrived in
Berlin."

Nora started.

"Who?"

"Bauer!"

She was conscious of a sensation of relief as reasonless
as it was acute.  Of what had she been afraid?
She herself could not have told.

"I used to look upon that man as my evil genius,"
she said gaily, "but now I think he must have been
sent as an angel in disguise.  If it had not been for
him I should not have known you loved me—do
you remember—that day, in the forest?"

"I am never likely to forget," he answered, with
a sudden movement of pain.  "When I think what
might have happened to you——"

"You mustn't think.  Nothing *did* happen to me—or
only something nice.  But now you must listen to
my news.  Imagine what I have done to-day?"

"Nora, is that fair?  Do you really expect my
exhausted brains to tackle a problem like that!"

"Don't be rude!  Think—I have called on the
whole family Mayo, and been so polite and amiable
that her ladyship only found it in her heart to be
rude once.  What have you to say to that?"

"What have I to say?"  He took her hand and
kissed it.  "Thank you, dear."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Why, Wolff, does it mean so much to you?"

"Yes, a good deal.  You see—one gets a bad name
if one neglects certain people."

"Then why didn't you insist?"

He hesitated, avoiding her eyes.

"I didn't want to bother you more than I could
help.  Sometimes I am afraid it must be very hard
on you, little woman."

Intuitively she guessed his thoughts, and without
a word she gathered up some sheets of closely written
notepaper lying on the table and thrust them into
his hands.

"There, read that, you extremely foolish husband
of mine!" she cried triumphantly.  "I have been
writing home, so you can judge for yourself."

He obeyed, and she stood watching him, knowing
that he could but be satisfied.  Indeed, her letters
home were full of her happiness and of Wolff—the
two things were synonymous—and if she did not
mention that their home was small and stuffy, that
she did most of the household work herself, and that
a strict, painful economy watched over every item
of their daily life, it was partly because she told herself
that these details played no part in her estimation
and partly because she shrank instinctively from the
criticism which she knew would inevitably result.
She gave, instead, glowing descriptions of the
dinner-parties, of the whist-parties, even of the four-hour
tea-parties with their unbroken conversational circle
of *Dienstangelegenheiten* and "*Dienst-mädchen*."  And
in all this there was no hypocrisy.  Her
momentary depression and distaste were sub-conscious;
she did not recognise them as such.  She
called them "moods," which vanished like mists in
the sunshine of her husband's presence.

"Well?" she demanded, as he put the letters aside.

He shook his finger at her.

"Frauchen, Frauchen!" he said, laughing, "I
am afraid you are what English people would call a
humbug.  From this epistle one would really imagine
that Frau von Seleneck had received you in a palace,
and that you had associated with all the *belles esprits*
in Berlin, instead of—well, I imagine something very
different.  If I remember rightly, on that particular
evening I found a very pale-faced wife waiting for
me, with a bad headache and an apologetic description
of an afternoon spent in an overheated cupboard,
with six other unhappy sufferers.  And then you sit
down and write that you enjoyed yourself immensely.
Oh, Nora, Nora!"

"I *did* enjoy myself!" Nora affirmed, perching
herself on the arm of her chair.  "You know very
well that the anticipation of happiness is almost as
good as the thing itself, and every time that I felt
I was going to suffocate I thought of the evening we
were to spend together afterwards, and felt as happy
as I have described myself.  After all, everything
helps to pass the time till we are together again."

He put his arm about her and was silent a moment,
gazing thoughtfully before him.  Then he looked
up at her.

"It strikes me sometimes what a poor life I have
to offer you, Nora," he said abruptly.  "I don't
think I would have noticed it so much, had I not seen
your home.  Poverty is such a relative conception.
There are hundreds of officers' wives who are no better
off than you, and who think themselves comfortably
situated.  But your father talked of poverty, and
lived—for our ideas—like a lord.  When I compare things
I feel as though I had wronged you, and tempted you
into a life of sacrifice to which you were never born."

Nora bent her head and kissed him.

"You are a very foolish fellow!" she said.  "If
you were not so filled with fortifications and tactics,
you would know quite well that I would rather live
in a rabbit-hutch with my husband, than in a palace
with a prince."

Arnim laughed, and it was obvious that her words
had lifted a very real burden from his mind.

"I'm afraid you would never get your husband
into a rabbit-hutch," he said, with a self-satisfied
glance at his own long, powerful limbs.  "Still, it is
a comfort to know that you would be ready to make
the attempt.  I think, though, if your people knew,
and were not blinded by a certain deceitful young
person, they would feel very differently.  I think they
would have a good many disagreeable things to say
on the subject of your German home.  Don't you?"

"No, I don't!" said Nora, privately determined
that they should never have the chance.  "I think
they would be very glad to see for themselves how
happy I am."

Wolff drew a letter from the pocket of his *Litewka*,
and handed it to her.

"In that case there seems every likelihood of
them enjoying that spectacle in the near future," he
said.  "I had this letter from your father by the
evening post.  Read it and see what you think."

Nora's beaming face clouded over somewhat.
Letters from her father were always a mixed pleasure,
and Wolff's words had warned her that this particular
one contained something more than the usual
condensed sermon.  Her supposition was correct.  After
a long-winded preamble, the Rev. John plunged into
the matter which was really on his mind.  It
appeared that Miles, having broken down under the
strain of his military duties, had been granted a few
months' leave, and it was proposed that he should
spend the time abroad—for the benefit of his
education.  And whither was it more natural that he
should go than to his own dear sister?

"You can imagine," the Rev. John had written,
"that apart from the fact that we shall miss our boy
terribly, the expense of the undertaking weighs heavily
upon our minds.  I am prepared, however, to make
every possible sacrifice in order that he should obtain
his wish, and am anxious to know if you could help
me.  Being on the spot, you will know best where
and at what cost he could remain during his stay in
your fine capital and, as one of the family, I feel sure
that we shall be able to trust him to your care and
surveillance.  I should be most grateful, my dear
Wolff, if you would give me your reply as soon as
possible, as Miles is most eager to join you, and my
wife, whose health, I regret to say, is far from
satisfactory, feels that it would be good for her to be able
to enjoy perfect quiet."

Nora put the letter down.  It was the first time
that the Rev. John had ever spoken of his son-in-law
as "My dear Wolff" or admitted that he was "one
of the family," and Nora felt vaguely ashamed—so
much so, that she did not meet her husband's eyes,
but sat twisting the carefully written epistle into a
torn screw, as though she would have preferred to
throw it in the fire, but was restrained by a sense of
respect.

"I have certainly overdone it with my descriptions,"
she admitted frankly.  "Miles is getting bored at
home, and imagines that we can procure a good time
for him here.  What are you going to do, Wolff?"

"I think there is only one thing for us to do,"
Wolff answered, with a somewhat grim smile, "and
that is—our duty.  I shall write to your father and
invite Miles to stay with us, so long as he is in
Berlin."

Nora got up.  The movement was abrupt enough
to suggest a sudden disquiet amounting to actual
fear, and her face had become crimson.

"Wouldn't you like it, Nora?" her husband asked.
He was watching her keenly, and his gaze seemed
to increase her uneasiness.

"Miles is so young—a mere boy," she stammered.
"We can't tell what trouble he will get into.  And
besides, where have we to put him?  We have no
room?"

"There is the *Fremdenzimmer*," Wolff answered
quietly; "and as to your other objection, I can only
say that at his age I was already lieutenant, and free
to govern my own life as I chose."

"One can't compare you with Miles," Nora
interposed.  "I think your people must have been
able to trust you when you were in the cradle."

Wolff laughed, but the gravity in his eyes remained
unchanged.  He got up, and put his hands on Nora's
shoulders.

"You do not want your brother to come," he said.
"Is it not a little because you are ashamed—of the
way we live?"

Nora met his eyes steadily, but for a moment she
was silent, deep in her own thoughts.  She was trying
to find out exactly why a weight had fallen upon her
mind, why the atmosphere in the little room had
become close and stifling.  Was it really shame, or
was it something else—a foreboding of resulting evil,
too vague to be defined in words?

"I want an answer, Nora," Wolff continued firmly.
"The thought that you might be hiding the truth
from your people out of loyalty towards me is
intensely painful.  Heaven knows, I would bring every
possible sacrifice——"

"Hush!" Nora interrupted, and there was a
curious note of sternness in her young voice.  "I
hate to hear you talk like that.  It sounds as though
*I* had brought some sacrifice, or had lowered myself
to become your wife.  I married you, Wolff, because
I loved you, and because I knew that you were the
only man with whom I could be happy.  You have
given me everything my most sanguine hopes could
ask of life.  That is the truth.  What more can I say?"

He bent and kissed her.

"Thank you, dear," he said.  "Then I may write
to your father?"

"Yes—of course.  I shall miss our quiet evenings
alone, Wolff; but if you think it right——"

"I think there is nothing else for us to do," her
husband answered.  "After all, I do not expect it
will be for long.  We must not be selfish, dearest."

Nora smiled cheerfully; but for the first time in
her married life the cheerfulness was forced.  She
could not shake off the feeling that a change had come,
and one which was to bring no good with it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MEETING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   A MEETING

.. vspace:: 2

Frau von Seleneck was engaged with her toilet
before the looking-glass, and Nora, seated in the
place of honour on the sofa, watched her with a critical
interest.  Hitherto she had not troubled herself much
with the dowdiness or the smartness of her friends'
apparel; she had accepted the general principle
that "those sort of things did not matter so long as
everybody knew who you were"; but something or
other had occurred of late to change her attitude—a
something which she had successfully avoided
analysing.  Only when Frau von Seleneck drew on her
white silk mittens, Nora found herself wondering
what Miles would think of her and, indeed, of everything.
Not that Miles's opinion was of the slightest
importance, but the possibility of criticism roused
her to criticise; she was beginning to consider her
surroundings without the aid of love-tinted glasses,
and the results, if hitherto painless, were somewhat
disconcerting.

"Now I am really ready!" Elsa von Seleneck
declared, considering her bemittened hands.  "How
do you like my dress, Nora?"  She lifted the ends
of her mouse-coloured evening cloak and displayed
herself with complacency.  "No one would believe
I had had it three years.  Frau von Schilling said she
thought it was quite a marvel.  But you English have
such good taste—I should like to know what you
think."

Nora took a deep breath, and then, having seen the
round, good-natured face turn to her with an
expression of almost wistful appeal, plunged.

"I think it is a marvel, too," she said slowly.
"I am so glad.  You know, the first year I had it
it was cream, the second year mauve, the third year
black.  Such a beautiful black, too!  Of course, the
fashion——" she looked at the puff sleeves
regretfully—"they are rather out of date, are they not?"

"That doesn't matter," Nora assured her.  "The
fashions are anyhow so ugly——" she was going to
add "here," but stopped in time.

Frau von Seleneck laughed her comfortable laugh.
It was one of her virtues that she never gave or
suspected offence.

"Quite right, Norachen.  How wonderfully sensible
and practical you English are—at least, I should not
say 'You English,' for you are a good German now, my
dear!"  It was evident that she had intended the
remark as a compliment, and Nora was annoyed with
herself for her own rather grim silence.  "But there!"
her friend went on with a sudden gust of energy, "here
I stand and chatter, and it is getting so late!  If there
is one thing Her Excellency dislikes it is unpunctuality,
and at this rate we are certain to miss the tram.  Now,
isn't that annoying!  Bertha has hidden my goloshes
again!"

In response to a heated summons, the little
maid-of-all-work made her appearance, and after a long
scramble around the hall hatstand the required articles
were discovered and donned.

"Now I am *really* ready!" Frau von Seleneck
declared for the twentieth time, and to confirm the
statement proceeded to lead the way downstairs.
Nora followed resignedly.  She knew that it was
raining, and she knew also that the very idea of taking
a cab would be crushed instantly as a heinous extravagance,
so she gathered up the frail skirt of her chiffon
dress and prepared for the worst with a humorous
despair.

Fortunately, though they indeed missed the tram,
the road to Her Excellency Frau von Gersdorf's flat
was not a long one, and only Nora's temper suffered
in the transit.  And even that circumstance passed
unnoticed.  Frau von Seleneck had walked very fast,
and by the time they had mounted the flight of stone
stairs leading to their destination she was hopelessly
out of breath and in no mood to notice Nora's ruffled
condition.

"Ah, but it is good to be arrived!" she sighed in
English as she yielded her cloak to the attendant
housemaid.  "Now, my dear!"

The "now, my dear" was uttered in an awe-struck
tone which suggested a solemnal entry into the
Imperial Presence, and Nora, following her lead towards
the drawing-room, experienced the bliss of a short-lived
hope.  She knew that it was a great honour to
be invited to "Her Excellency's Evenings"; was
it not possible that they might be different to the other
"evenings" which she knew so well?  Was it not
possible that she was to see new faces and learn to
know a brilliant world which she could show to Miles
without——  She did not finish the thought, and indeed
the hope had died at birth.

The door was thrown open, and she found herself
in a small library, which appeared to form a kind of
backwater for the two adjoining and equally
over-crowded rooms.  Nora sighed.  There was no one
in that moving stream whom she had not met before—the
very sandwiches arranged in symmetrical order
on the table under the window seemed to welcome
her with the silent greeting of a long-established
friendship.  She knew their history so well.  Had she not
made them herself as many times as it had been her
fate to give a so-called "evening"?  As to the rest
of the company, there was the usual sprinkling of
elderly officers and their wives and an apparently
limitless number of stray lieutenants who, commanded
temporarily to Berlin, had been brought together by the
natural law which unites exiles and outcasts.  Her
Excellency's son himself belonged to a regiment stationed
in a southern state—hence the familiar "clique"
which crowded his mother's rooms.  Nora had seen
enough to resign all hope before their hostess bore
down upon them.  The little old lady, who had been
holding a veritable levee at the folding-doors, displayed
all the naïve cordiality which belonged to her South
German blood.

"How good of you to come!" she exclaimed,
taking Nora's hand between both her own.  "It is
such a delightful evening—everybody is here, you
know.  And where is Herr von Arnim?"

Nora looked down smiling into the alert but deeply
lined face.  In any other country Her Excellency von
Gersdorf would have cut rather a ridiculous figure.
She had once been a great beauty, and though there
were but few traces left of her former splendour, she
had still retained the long ringlets and the flowered
brocades of her youth.  These and other eccentricities—she
had a passion for reciting her own and other
people's poetry on all possible and impossible occasions—were
respectfully accepted by the mighty circle of her
acquaintances.  She was Her Excellency von Gersdorf,
the widow of a high-standing Court official, and by
birth a countess with sixteen untarnished quarterings;
consequently at liberty to do, say, and dress exactly
what and how she pleased, without exciting the slightest
criticism.  Nora knew all this; but in the brief
pause between her hostess's question and her own
answer she found herself again wondering what her
English friends would say—what Miles would say.

"My husband sends his greetings and begs that
your Excellency will excuse him," she answered.  "He
has some important work to-night and could not
accompany me."

Frau von Gersdorf nodded, whilst her bright, bird-like
eyes wandered over her guests.

"I know, I know; these General-Staff husbands are
totally unreliable.  But there, I dare say you will be
able to amuse yourself without him.  I think you
must know everybody here?"

"Everybody," Nora responded gravely.

"And—*ach, ja, naturlich*!  There is a countryman
of yours who is most anxious to meet you again."  She
saw Nora's colour change, and added quickly, "I do
not mean an Englishman—a captain from the dragoons
in Karlsburg—Herr Rittmeister!"

A tall figure in a pale-blue uniform disengaged itself
from a group of officers by the window and came
towards them.  Nora recognised Bauer instantly, but
this time his good-looking face, with its expression of
almost insolent indifference, aroused no feeling either
of aversion or alarm.  She determined to treat him as
she would have treated any other acquaintance, satisfied
that a great change divided the hot-headed child of
then from the dignified married woman of now.  Bauer's
manner also reassured her.  He kissed her extended
hand with a grave respect which was almost apologetic
and caused her to answer his greeting with an
impulsive friendliness worthy of a younger and less
experienced Nora.

Frau von Gersdorf nodded her satisfaction.  She
evidently felt that two of her guests were settled for
the evening, and patted Nora's arm with a hand whose
white beauty was one of the few remaining traces of
the past.

"You two can talk Karlsburg news as soon as Herr
Rebenski has finished his sonata," she said as she
prepared to bustle off.  "He is one of my protégés—a
real genius, you know."

Bauer looked at Nora with a faint, whimsical grimace.

"Her Excellency has always a genius on hand," he
said.  "It is part of her own genius—this 'discovering'
instinct.  Apparently the latest belongs to the
piano *virtuoso* class.  We shall have to listen in
respectful silence."

To confirm his statement, a profound hush fell upon
the assembly.  Those who could find chairs sat down,
the others lined themselves along the wall and stood in
various attitudes of attention or indifference.  Bauer
had discovered an empty alcove at the back of the
room, and from this point of vantage Nora studied
her surroundings with the keenness of her new vision.
She had written home of her "brilliant life" and had
not been hypocritical.  For her it had at first been
brilliant.  The resplendent uniforms, the constant
social intercourse, the courtly gallantry of her husband's
comrades, the ring of grand names—all these features
in her daily life had bewildered her, accustomed as she
was to the stagnation and general dullness of Delford
society.  Now the thought of Miles's advent steadied
her critical faculties.  She saw behind the first glamour
an almost extraordinary simplicity, a total indifference
to what she had always looked upon as the refinements
of life.  These people cared for other things: the
women thought little of their appearance—they gloried
in their name and position; the men, beneath the
polish of their manners, were something primitive in
their tastes.  Nora thought suddenly of her husband.
How little he seemed to mind the narrow dimensions
of his home, the ugliness of the furniture!  How
satisfied the elegant staff-officer seemed with his supper
of cheap wine and sausage!  Nora's sense of humour
won the upper hand.  She laughed to herself, and
suddenly realised that the long sonata was at an end
and that Bauer was speaking to her under cover of
the renewed hubbub.

"*Gnädige Frau*, do you know why I am here
to-night?" he asked.

Nora looked up.

"Probably because you were invited, and wished to
enjoy a pleasant evening," she said, still smiling at
her own thoughts.

"A pleasant evening!" he laughed.  "*Gnädige
Frau*, in an ordinary way I avoid these festivities like
the plague.  I came to-night because I had heard that
you were coming.  Please, do not frown like that—the
statement is wholly innocent of impertinence.  I
wanted to meet you again because I wanted to
apologise."

"To me?"

"Yes.  Do you remember a certain morning in the
forest at Karlsburg—a few weeks before your return
to England?  You were out riding with Captain von
Arnim, and I galloped past you.  I was told after
wards that my furious riding had frightened your
horse and that but for your future husband's presence
of mind there might have been an accident.  The
thought has troubled me ever since."

Nora felt a pang of remorse.  She felt that she had
misjudged this man.  Her previous conduct to him
appeared inexcusably childish and prejudiced.

"You did not do it on purpose," she said gently.

"No; that is true.  I did not see you until it was
too late.  Still, I had no business to ride like
that—I was in the devil's own mood that morning."

"With a reason?"

"Yes; with a reason.  Perhaps one day I will tell
you about it—but not now.  Am I forgiven?"

Nora nodded.  She was reliving the moment when
she had felt Wolff's arm snatch her, as it had seemed,
from the brink of death; she saw again his white,
frightened face, and answered truthfully:

"I have nothing to forgive.  You did me no harm."

"No; I know," he said, as though he had divined
her thoughts.  Nora caught a glance of his face in
the long mirror opposite, and was struck for a moment
by the bitterness of his expression.  He looked less
indifferent than usual—almost disturbed.

"They say that if you give the devil a finger he
takes the whole hand," he went on after a pause, and
in a lighter tone.  "Having obtained your forgiveness,
I now come with a request, *gnädige Frau*."

"May it be as easily granted!" Nora answered,
laughing.

"At any rate, it is not for myself this time.  My
sister-in-law, Frau Commerzienrat Bauer, has asked
me to be a suppliant on her behalf.  Perhaps
you remember her?  You met her at the Charity
Bazaar last month."

Nora shook her head.

"I am a disgrace—I forget people's names so
quickly," she said apologetically.

"My relation has a better memory—especially
for those to whom she has taken a fancy.  She has
a special weakness for English people, and it seems
she is most anxious to meet you again.  She has, of
course, quite another circle of acquaintances, and so
is driven to the expedient of calling on you herself.
Has she your permission?"

Something in the request or in the manner of its
making jarred on Nora.  She hesitated, not knowing
why, and Bauer went on quickly:

"I know this form of proceeding is unusual, *gnädige
Frau*, and I confess I should not have undertaken to
be my sister-in-law's messenger if it had not been that
I had heard you were expecting your brother.  The
two things do not seem to have much connection, but
it struck me that it might interest him—and perhaps
you—to see something of another side of German
life.  There *is* another side, *gnädige Frau*."

"I am very content with the one I know," Nora
answered.  She was conscious of a rising
repugnance—and a rising curiosity.

Bauer laughed.

"That is natural enough.  You have married an
officer, and have made his set yours.  But for your
brother it will be different.  I know a little of English
life and of English tastes, and I fancy he will find
all this—this sort of thing cramped and dull, not
to say shabby.  These people"—his tone became
faintly tinged with condescension—"belong to the
class which prides itself on being poor but noble, and
on despising those who have acquired riches.  When
they have not enough to eat, they feast on the memory
of their ancestors and are satisfied.  But there is
another class, thank Heaven, one which has taken
your people as an example, *gnädige Frau*.  The great
commercial and financial potentates, who have flung
off the foolish, narrow-hearted prejudices of the
past—it is of them and of their lives which you should see
something before you pass judgment."

Nora rose suddenly to her feet.  She felt vaguely
that a bribe had been offered her, and, what was
worse, a bribe whose cunning effectiveness had been
based on some instinctive knowledge of her mind.
All her natural loyalty rose up in arms against it.

"I have not passed judgment," she said proudly.
"I should never pass judgment on a people to whom
I belong."  Then the old impulsive kindness moved
her to add: "All the same, I shall be pleased to
renew my acquaintance with your sister-in-law at
any time convenient to her."

She gave him her hand, a little ashamed of her
previous outburst, and he bent over it and kissed it
respectfully.

"Thank you, *gnädige Frau*."

She left him, and he stood there stroking his fair
moustache and looking after her with amused and
admiring eyes.  Nor was he the only one to watch
her quiet progress, for, little as she knew it, the child
Nora had become a beautiful woman, and the charm
of her new womanhood hung about her like a veil.

Later on, when the last of Her Excellency's protégés
had performed their uttermost, and Frau von Seleneck
and Nora had started on the home passage, the latter
ventured a question concerning Frau Commerzienrat
Bauer.  She did not know why she asked, and Frau
von Seleneck's answer did not encourage further
curiosity.

"I believe her father had a big furniture-shop
somewhere," she said, "and her husband is something
or the other on the money-market.  I cannot imagine
how the captain got into such a good regiment."

"He may be a very good officer," Nora said,
conscious of a slight feeling of irritation.

Frau von Seleneck shrugged her shoulders.

"He may be.  At any rate, I know nothing more
about his relations."  She lifted her skirts a little
higher, though whether to avoid contamination with
the mud or as a sign of her general disapproval was
not clear.  "They are very rich," she added indifferently.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A VISITOR ARRIVES IN KARLSBURG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A VISITOR ARRIVES IN KARLSBURG

.. vspace:: 2

The square-built house in the Moltke Strasse was to
let.  A big notice in the front windows published
the fact, although the curtains were still hanging,
and the air of desolation which usually envelops
"desirable residences," or their German equivalents,
was not yet noticeable.

Inside, the signals of departure were more evident.
The hall had been stripped bare of its scanty decorations,
and in the disordered rooms a person of obviously
Hebrew origin was to be seen roaming about with a
pencil and a greasy note-book, making a careful
inventory of the valuables.  There was, indeed, only
one room where the bustle and the confusion had
been vigorously excluded and where the Hebrew
gentleman's foot had not yet ventured to tread.
This was Frau von Arnim's boudoir, and Hildegarde
had taken refuge there like a shipwrecked mariner
on a friendly island.  She lay on her sofa with closed
eyes and listened to the hammering and bumping of
furniture over the bare boards.  Only an occasional
contraction of the fine brows and a tightening of
the lips betrayed that she was awake, and that the
sounds were painful to her.

Frau von Arnim, who was working at her accounts
by the window, never failed to catch that fleeting
expression of suffering.  It was as though some
invisible nerve of sympathy existed between her and
the invalid, and that she knew when the dull ache
kindled to poignant pain.  For a time she remained
silent, ignoring what she saw.  Then she rose, and
coming to Hildegarde's side, laid her hand tenderly
upon the white forehead.

"Does it cost so much?" she asked.  "Does it
cost too much?  Ought I never to have allowed so
great a sacrifice?"

Instantly Hildegarde's eyes opened and revealed
a brightness that they had not shown since the days
when she had ridden at Wolff's side through the
forest, and known neither suffering nor loss.

"It's not a sacrifice," she said, taking her mother's
hand, and holding it in her own.  "When I think of
what we are going to do, and why we are doing it,
I feel as though I were giving myself some selfish
pleasure and making you pay the price.  After all,
from my sofa the world will look much the same in
Berlin as it does here, and if I am sorry to leave, it
is only because every room has its dear associations.
You see, on my side it is only a sentimental sort of
pain, which is rather agreeable than otherwise.  But
for you it is different.  It will be so lonely for you,
and I know how you hate flats—a suite of lofts in
a badly managed hotel is what you used to call them."

Frau von Arnim smiled.

"You have a bad memory in so far as it retains
foolish remarks, better forgotten," she said.  "I
am sure I shall be very happy in our new home, and
in any case, I, too, have my pleasure from our 'plot.'  I
have just been reckoning that if we are careful we
shall be able to allow them at least 1,000 marks more
next year, and that will make all the difference in
the world to them.  They will not have to worry so
much over their pfennige at any rate."

"If only Wolff will accept it!" Hildegarde said
doubtfully.  "He is like the rest of us all; and if he
thinks, as I suppose he must, that we are giving up
anything, he will call it a sacrifice and will refuse to
accept it."

"He will do just what I tell him!" Frau von
Arnim retorted, with a touch of half-laughing authority,
which threw a sidelight on her conscious power
over her entourage.  "He will let me humbug him
because there will be nothing else for him to do.  I
shall say that we have come to Berlin to be near
them—which is true; that we prefer the quiet quarters—which
is partly true; that we are doing our best to
spend our money, but that, do what we will, there is
always a trouble—some 1,000 marks over, which
won't be got rid of—which is not true at all.  I shall
offer it him as an indirect present to Nora, and Nora
will secretly spend it on his dinners, and both will
be all the happier; you need not be afraid."

Hildegarde's eyes flashed with amusement.  She
loved her mother in her triumphant, self-confident
moods.

"I do not think I was afraid—really," she said.
"I know by experience that you can twist most
people round your finger.  And Wolff is no exception."

She smiled to herself, and there was something
wistful in her expression which Frau von Arnim was
quick to perceive.  She bent lower as though she
wished to catch and interpret every shadow that
crossed her daughter's face.

"And you will be glad to see them again, Hildegarde?
You are strong enough?  It will not make
you unhappy?"

Hildegarde shook her head.

"It is true when I say that I am longing to see
them," she said firmly.  "I am happier—far happier
now than in the time when I knew that, crippled
though I was, Wolff would have married me, that I
had only to stretch out my hand, as it were, for him
to take it.  It was so hard *not* to stretch out my hand;
I had to crush down my love for him, and throw
scorn on myself for daring to love at all.  Every day
I was afraid that I might betray myself.  Now it is
different.  I can love him openly and honestly as my
brother, and Nora I can love too without bitterness
or envy as the one woman who could make him happy,
or who was worthy of him.  So you see, dearest,
everything is for the best."

Frau von Arnim nodded, satisfied by the steady,
cheerful voice.

"You have your reward," she said.  "Rightly
enough, Wolff traces all his happiness back to you,
and his love and gratitude are in proportion."

"To his happiness?" Hildegarde suggested, smiling.
"In that case I ought to be more than satisfied.
Although, perhaps, for my sake he tries to hide that
fact, it is obvious from his letters that he never knew
what the real thing was until Nora became his wife.
And I believe it will be lasting.  We know Nora so
well.  We know how good and loving and honest she
is.  I do not think she will ever disappoint him or us."

"And Wolff, of course, could not disappoint any
one, not even though he were advertised as perfect,"
Frau von Arnim observed slyly.  "So we need feel
no alarm for the future.  And now I must go back
to my accounts."

There was a long unbroken silence.  Hildegarde
seemed really asleep, or at least too deep in her own
thoughts to notice the significant rumblings overhead,
and her mother was frowning over the division
of income, or rather the stretching of income over
the hundred-and-one things necessary to the "keeping
up of appearances."  The latter occupation had
been the constant worry of Frau von Arnim's life.
Her poverty had always been of the brilliant kind,
but it had been poverty none the less for that, and
now this change had come it was not even to be
brilliant.  Not that she felt any regret.  The
"brilliancy" had only been maintained as a sort of sop
to the family traditions, and now that the family
honour seemed to concentrate itself on Wolff, it
was only natural that the other members would be
ready to make every sacrifice to support him and
save him from the curse of pecuniary troubles, which
is the curse of two-thirds of the German nobility.
So the old home was to be given up, and the old
pill-box brougham and such of the family relics as
would find no place in the narrow dimensions of an
*étage* were to drift into the hands of strangers.  Both
Frau von Arnim and Hildegarde, brought up in the
stern code of their old race, found this course of
events perfectly correct, and they would have done
no less even if they had not cared for Wolff.  Thus
the frown upon Frau von Arnim's brow was caused
not so much by trouble or regret as by a natural
dislike for the consideration of pfennige, and it was
with a movement of almost relief that she looked
up presently, aroused from her unloved task by the
ringing of the front-door bell.

"That must be Herr Sonnenthal again," she said.
"He has probably come to tell us how much the
carriage has fetched.  Would you mind if I saw him
in here?"

Hildegarde assented, but her mother's supposition
proved incorrect.  The untidy charwoman who put
in her head a minute later informed them that there
was a strange gentleman downstairs inquiring after
a certain Fräulein whose name she, the charwoman,
had not been able to grasp, and that, failing her, he
had requested the honour of a few minutes'
conversation with the *gnädige Frau* herself.

Frau von Arnim looked puzzled as she studied the card.

"I think there must be some mistake," she said.
"However, show him up here."

For some reason or other nothing was said of the
unknown visitor.  It is possible that, as the wild
beasts of the forest have an instinctive prescience
of an enemy's approach, so we, in our higher world
of sensitiveness, receive indefinable warnings when
mischance is about to overtake us or a personality
to enter into our lives and change its whole course.
Certain it is that neither Frau von Arnim nor Hildegarde
were fully at their ease as their visitor entered
the room, and their response to his correct, somewhat
stiff bow was marked by that frigidity which seems
to ask of itself "Who are you?  What do you want
with us?"

Hildegarde had drawn herself up into a sitting
position.  The last two months had brought a marked
change for the better in her health, and with a revival
of the old strength had come a revival of the old
pride and sensitiveness.  She hated a stranger to
see, and perhaps pity, her infirmity, and, moreover,
on this occasion she was conscious of an inexplicable
restlessness.

There was, at all events, nothing alarming in the
stranger's appearance.  A tall, carefully dressed man,
with a thin sunken face, and a manner suggesting at
once breeding and embarrassment, stood in the
doorway, evidently uncertain as to his own course
of conduct.  As the silence threatened to grow
awkward, Frau von Arnim took the initiative.

"From your card, and from what my servant tells
me, I judge that you are English, Captain Arnold,"
she said, motioning him to be seated.

The visitor's face immediately lightened, and he
advanced into the room, without, however, making
further use of her invitation.

"I should be most thankful," he said.  "If my
German had not been of such a negligible quality I
should not have had to trouble you.  Indeed, until
I heard you speak I feared my difficulties were by
no means at an end.  I hope you will excuse my
intrusion?"

His sentences, like his manner, were somewhat
wooden, and not calculated to inspire any particular
warmth in his hearers.  Having briefly introduced
him to Hildegarde, Frau von Arnim repeated her
invitation, which he now accepted, though with
reluctance.

"I shall be glad to be of any service to you," Frau
von Arnim said graciously.  "English people are
bound to me by at least one tie, and it is always a
pleasure when I can assist any one of them.  You
need not apologise therefore."

Arnold smiled, and his expression suggested that
he accepted her words as a formal politeness, and
valued them as such.

"You are very kind," he said.  "At the same
time I trust that I need not trespass too much on
your good-nature.  I must explain that I have just
returned from Africa, and Karlsburg lying on
overland route, I stopped in the hope that Miss
Ingestre were still staying here.  Your servant,
however, did not understand my German, or did
not recognise the name——"

"The latter is certain," Frau von Arnim interrupted
calmly.  "The girl was not here when Miss
Ingestre lived with us."

"Miss Ingestre has left, then?"

"Already—some months."

Captain Arnold rose abruptly.  It was evident
that his mission was at an end.

"In that case I do not need to trouble you further,"
he said.  "I came on a mere supposition.  Had I
not travelled so quickly I should no doubt have
heard from Miss Ingestre herself, but I have been
on the road night and day, missing, apparently, every
mail, and getting a good start on my own letters.
I shall now have to hurry on to England as fast as
possible."

"If you wish to meet Frau von Arnim your journey
will be in vain," Hildegarde said.  "She is at present
in Berlin."

Arnold turned, and for the first time looked steadily
at the speaker.  It was evident that the words had
had no meaning for him, but there was a curious,
apparently causeless animosity and distrust in her
steady eyes which arrested his attention and aroused
in him emotions of a like nature.  It was as though
unconsciously they had hated each other before all
time, and that the hatred had now become a definite
recognisable quality.

"You spoke of Frau von Arnim," he said.  "I
am afraid I do not quite understand."

Hildegarde shrugged her shoulders.  The movement
was slightly insolent and utterly at variance
with her usual gentle courtesy, but, like all nervous
invalids, she could be goaded beyond all self-control,
and something in this man's manner jarred on her
as presumptuous, overbearing, suggesting an
impertinent familiarity with the woman who was Wolff's
wife.

"I think you must undoubtedly have missed your
letters," she said; "otherwise you would know that
Miss Ingestre ceased to exist many months ago."

The next minute she regretted her own clumsiness.
The man's whole bearing and expression had changed.
His face was livid; it was obvious that he had a
hard task to control an extraordinary agitation.

"You must think me very stupid," he said, and
his voice was painful to listen to.  "I beg of you to
speak more clearly.  You will perhaps understand
what it means to me when I tell you what you seem
not to know—that Miss Ingestre is to be my wife."

"Captain Arnold, you are labouring under some
strange delusion.  Miss Ingestre is already married."

It was Frau von Arnim who spoke.  She had
advanced almost unconsciously, and now stood
half-way between him and Hildegarde, who had risen to
her feet.

Arnold said nothing.  His eyes were fixed full
on Frau von Arnim's face, but his expression was
absolutely blank, and he did not seem to see her.  She
waited, too disturbed to move farther forward along
the path of inevitable explanation, and after a minute,
in which the man's whole moral strength seemed to
be concentrated in the fight for self-mastery, Arnold
himself broke the silence.

"I can only believe that there is a misapprehension
on both sides," he said.  "Are you speaking of
Miss Nora Ingestre?"

"Of Miss Nora Ingestre that was."

"And you say she is already married?"

"In April—five months ago."

"To whom?"

"To Hauptmann von Arnim, at present officer
on the Staff at Berlin."

"You are sure of what you say?  There is no
possible mistake?"

Frau von Arnim's brows contracted proudly.  For
a brief moment she had sympathised with, and even
pitied, his agitation.  His rigid self-control, entailing
as it did an increased abruptness of manner, impressed
her disagreeably, hiding from her usually keen eyes
the fact that the man was really suffering.  She
answered therefore, with considerable haughtiness:

"There is no possible mistake.  You will see
that for yourself when I tell you that Herr von Arnim
is my nephew, and that I myself was at the wedding
at Delford."

Arnold bowed.  His expression was now normal,
and it suggested no more than the calm interest of
an ordinary caller on an ordinary topic of conversation.

"You are perfectly right," he said.  "There is
no possible mistake.  I am very grateful to you for
your explanation."

He included Hildegarde in his curt salute, and
turned towards the door.

Frau von Arnim detained him with a decided and
indignant gesture.

"The matter cannot end there," she said.  "You
have suggested that Miss Ingestre was engaged to
you at the time of her betrothal with my nephew.
It is a suggestion intensely offensive to us all.  It
is now my turn to point out to you that you are
making a mistake—or worse."

Arnold coloured with anger.

"I am not likely to make a mistake of such
magnitude," he said.  "Of your second insinuation
I need take no notice."

"In that case I must ask you to be more explicit.
I—we have a right to an explanation."

"Excuse me—I fail to see that any one has a
right in a matter which concerns Miss Ingestre—Frau
von Arnim, and myself alone."

"The matter concerns my nephew and us all."

Arnold smiled ironically.

"I regret that I cannot sympathise with your point
of view," he said.  "In any case, I have no
explanation to offer."

There was a blank silence.  It was the more marked
because it followed on a sharp lightning-like exchange,
kept within bounds of outward courtesy only by the
education and upbringing of the conflicting personalities.
Frau von Arnim, usually armed with a kindly wisdom
which had sympathy for all sorts and conditions of
men, was brought nearer to a display of uncontrolled
anger than in all her life before.  To her mind, Arnold
had, unwittingly perhaps, cast a slur upon the credit of
one who was a member of her family; and her family
was Frau von Arnim's fetish.  He had done so, moreover,
without offering proof or justification, and the
latter offences deepened his guilt, though their omission
would not have shielded him from her enmity.

Arnold, on his side, saw a haughty, domineering
woman who claimed the right to investigate a personal
overwhelming calamity in which she had no share,
and with which he could as yet only grapple in blind,
half-incredulous pain.  He disliked her instinctively,
but also because he could not understand the motives
and principles which governed her conduct towards
himself.  He continued speaking after a moment,
and his irritation was so intense that it helped him
to overcome, almost forget, his own misery.

"I think there is nothing more to be said," he
observed, looking Frau von Arnim coldly in the face.
"It seems I have blundered, and it is only right that
I should bear the brunt of the consequences alone.  I
am sure you will agree with me that it will be best
for this—what has passed between us—to be kept
entirely to ourselves, to be forgotten.  It can only
bring trouble to others, and, as I have said, I am
alone to blame."

In spite of everything, he was thinking of Nora,
seeking to shield her from the results of his betrayal
of a cruel duplicity.

Frau von Arnim was thinking of Wolff, and of the
woman to whom he had entrusted his happiness—above
all things, their name.

"What you suggest is impossible," she said.  "There
are things one cannot forget—at least not until they
have been explained.  We must therefore look for the
explanation."

"I have none to give," Arnold returned, with bitter
truth.

"Then we must look elsewhere."

"It would be better to do as I suggest, and leave the
matter alone, or lay it to my account—to my own
stupid muddle."  He spoke hurriedly, for he felt afraid
of this woman, with her haughty, resolute face.  It
was as though, unwittingly, he had roused to action a
force which had passed out of his control.

"If there is any shadow of wrong connected with my
nephew's marriage, it must be cleared," Frau von
Arnim answered.  "That is the only wisdom I know."

Arnold bowed a second time, and went.

For a long time after he had gone the two women
remained silent, motionless, avoiding each other's
eyes.  The action seemed to imply that nothing had
happened.

Hildegarde had long since fallen wearily back upon
her couch.  She roused herself then, and turned her
white, troubled face towards her mother.

"The man must be mad!" she said, almost
violently.  "Nora could never have done such a thing.
She is so frank and honest.  She would have told us
from the beginning.  I could have sworn that she
never cared for a man before she loved Wolff.  I do
not believe a word of it."

"Nor I," her mother answered calmly.  "As you
say, the man may be mad—though he did not seem
so—or there may really be some mistake.  But we
must make sure, for our own peace of mind, and Nora
is the only one who can help us.  Even so we must
have patience and wait.  We have no right to trouble
her so early in her married life with what, I pray,
may be a false alarm."

"You must ask her when we are in Berlin," Hildegarde
said, in the same sharp, determined tone.  "I
could not see her every day like that and not know."

"You are quite right.  When we are settled in
Berlin I will tell her everything that has happened.
Until then we must believe the best."

"Yes, of course—believe the best," Hildegarde
answered thoughtfully.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CUB AS LION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CUB AS LION

.. vspace:: 2

The express steamed in between the crowded platforms
of the Potsdamer Bahnhof, and from one of the
windows of a carriage labelled "Vlissingen" a rather
sallow face and a loud voice announced the fact that
Mr. Miles Ingestre had made his triumphal entry into
the Fatherland.

Nora, who had been threading her way through the
crowd, with Wolff's arm in hers, ran off and was
received by her brother with that English prosaicness
which has the advantage of being equally admirable
as Spartan disguise for rich and noble emotions or as
an expression of no emotion at all.

"Hullo, old girl, how are you?"

"Very well, thanks.  What was the journey like?"

"Might have been worse.  There were a lot of
beastly Germans in the carriage, so of course the
windows——"  He caught sight of Wolff, who had
approached at a more leisurely pace, and his tone
shaded down somewhat.  "Hullo, Wolff, how are you?"

They shook hands, and whilst the *Gepäckträger* was
bustling round in the search for the new-comer's
luggage, one of those painful silences threatened to set
in which are the ghosts at all meetings where joy is too
deep for words, or too shallow to stand much
demonstration.  Of the three, Miles himself was the only one
who was sincerely in high spirits.  They broke out
in spurts and seemed regulated very much by how far
he was conscious of Wolff's presence.  It was evident
that his respect for his brother-in-law had gone up
several degrees since the afternoon when he had
criticised the latter's Karlsburg civilian clothes, though
whether that respect had its source in a juster appreciation
of his relative's character or in the knowledge that
Wolff was now master in his own country was hard to
determine.  Certain it is that he did his best to be
amiable after his own fashion.

"I assure you I have been simply wild to come,"
he said as they made their way together towards the
exit of the station.  "It was as stale as ditch-water
at home, and I was getting fairly fed up with it all.  So
I piled on my 'nerves,' as the pater calls them, and
dropped a few hints about the place, which the old
man picked up quite brightly—for him.  He was really
quite game about it, and sent all sorts of amiable
messages to you, Wolff."

"Thanks.  By the way, how long does your leave
extend?  You seem pretty liberal with that sort of
thing in your Army."

Miles chuckled.

"My leave extends to all eternity," he said
enigmatically, and then, as he saw Nora's astonished face,
he condescended to explanation.  "I've chucked the
Army, you know.  I thought the pater had told you.
I was fairly fed up with the drudgery and the routine
of it all.  It wasn't so bad at first.  It gave one a kind
of standing, and as long as there was plenty of money
going a fellow could amuse himself fairly well.  But
when the pater began drawing in the purse-strings I
had enough of it.  Ugh!  Imagine duty one half of the
day and trying to make both ends meet the other
half!  No, thanks!"

He shuddered, and Nora looked at him anxiously.

"Then what are you going to do afterwards?" she
asked.

"Go into some business or other—something where
one can make money as fast as possible.  By the way,
Wolff, is it true that you are on the general staff?"

"Yes; it is quite true, fortunately."

"I see—great gun.  Hard work, though, I suppose?"

"Yes——"  Arnim hesitated, as though on the point
of making some remark, and then added innocently
enough, "Perhaps you would have found it less of a
drudgery than the usual routine, but scarcely
remunerative enough."

Miles glanced uneasily at his brother-in-law, and then
subsided, to all appearance suppressed, but Nora, who
walked on his other side, caught a fleeting grimace,
which was all too easy to translate into Miles's
vernacular.  She was secretly thankful when her husband
had seen them both into a cab and closed the door.

"I shall be home late to-night," he said.  "Don't
stay up for me, dear, if you are tired."

He waited on the pavement until they drove off, and
Nora's eyes sought to convey to him an unusual
tenderness.  There was indeed something remorseful and
apologetic in her manner which she herself could hardly
have explained.  For the first time she was conscious
of being almost glad that he was not coming home, and
her sense of relief when at length the *droschke* actually
started on its way was so keen that she felt herself
guilty of disloyalty.  "It is only the first evening,"
she thought in self-defence.  "They are such strangers
to each other.  Wolff might not understand Miles.  It
will be better when they know each other and are
friends."

"Where is Wolff to-night?" Miles inquired, breaking
in upon her troubled thoughts.  "Any spree on?"

"It is his *Kriegsspiel* night," Nora answered.
"He has to go."

Miles chuckled sceptically.

"Rather good for us, anyhow," he said.  "We can
talk so much better, can't we?"

Nora was thankful for the half-darkness.  The angry
colour had rushed to her cheeks.  And yet her brother's
words, tacitly placing Wolff in the position of an
outsider as they did, were little more than a brutalised
edition of her own thoughts.

"I hate it when he is not at home," she said loyally.
"Of course, to-night it is different, but as a rule it is
very lonely without him."

"But you have plenty of people who could come
and see you?"

"Y—es.  Still, there are evenings when there is no
one."

"Well, you have got me now," said Miles consolingly.
He was busy gazing out of the carriage
window, and for a time the bustling, lighted streets
occupied his whole attention.  Nora made no attempt
to distract him.  She was not feeling very happy
not as happy as she knew she ought to be—and the
fact worried her.  Presently they turned into a
quiet street and Miles sank back with a sigh of
satisfaction.

"It seems a lively enough sort of place," he said.
"I expect you have a gay time, don't you?"

"I am very happy," said Nora, with unusual
eagerness.

"Yes, of course, but I meant gay—dances and
dinners and all that sort of thing.  The pater ran
into some fellow who had just come back from a
trip to Berlin, and he said the officers had no end of
a time—were treated like the lords of creation, in
fact, especially if they had a bit of a title stuck on
to their names.  Wolff is a baron, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Nora abruptly.

"I thought so.  Pater stuck him up a peg to this
chap and said he was a count.  Barons aren't much
in Germany, though.  They're as common as herrings."

"*They* don't think so," Nora protested, hot with
annoyance.  "They think a good deal of it."

"Yes—snobs.  That's what this fellow said.  However,
I don't mind.  The good time is the only thing
I care about, and you seem to have that all right by
your letters."

Nora's brows contracted.  In a rapid mental review
she passed over everything she had ever written home,
and reconsidered it in the light of Miles's possible
judgment.  Frau von Seleneck gave dinners.  There
were never more than four simple courses, whose
creation, she proudly admitted, was owed almost
entirely to her own skill.  The orderly waited at table,
and it was a standing joke that somebody's dress or
uniform had to pay for his too eager attentions.  Nora
remembered having written home that she had
enjoyed herself immensely, and she had written in
perfect truth.  She had happened to like the people
on that particular occasion, and above all things Wolff
himself had been there.  This wonderful fact of
Wolff's presence was indeed sufficient to colour the
most dismal entertainment in Nora's opinion; but
in Miles's opinion, she felt with painful certainty, it
would have less than no effect.  He did not love Wolff
as she did, and without love her "brilliant life"
might, after all, be more correctly viewed as a hard if
cheerful struggle against necessity.

"There is always something going on," she said
at length; "but you must not expect anything too
wonderful, dear.  People in Germany live much more
simply than we—than in England, you know.  And—we
are not rich."  She made the last confession with
an effort—not in the least because she was ashamed,
but because—Nora herself could have given no
explanation.

Miles laughed.

"I don't expect you live in a loft," he said.

Nora thought of their little fourth-floor flat and
laughed too—also with an effort for which there was
no possible reason.

The droschke pulled up with a grind against the
curbstone, and a gruff voice informed them that they
had arrived at their destination.  Miles jumped out
and looked about him doubtfully.

"What a poky street!" he said, rather as though
he thought the coachman must have made a mistake.
"Is this really your house?"

"Our flat is here," Nora said.  "We—we like it
because it is so quiet."

And then she was ashamed of herself, because she
knew that she had not been honest.

Miles showing no intention of paying the coachman,
she paid him herself out of her own slender purse,
and they began the ascent of the narrow stone steps
which led to the heights of their *étage*.  She knew
that Miles was rapidly becoming more puzzled, but
she made no attempt to elucidate matters—indeed,
could not have done so.  Never before had she found
the stairs so endless, so barren, so ugly.  The chill
atmosphere, which yet succeeded in being stuffy,
seemed to penetrate into every corner of her heart
and weight it down with a leaden depression.  She
did not look at Miles when they stood crowded together
on the narrow landing, nor when her little maid-of-all-work,
Anna, opened the door and grinned a more than
usually friendly welcome.  She led the way into the
so-called drawing-room and switched on the electric
light—their one luxury—half-hoping that some miracle
might have mercifully worked among the plush
chairs and covered them with a much-needed elegance.
But they stood as they had always stood, in spite of
the most careful arranging in the world—stiff and
tasteless as though they had come out of the front
window of a cheap furniture shop—which, in point
of fact, they had—and would not forget that they
were "reduced goods."  Nora had a kind of
whimsical affection for them—they were so hopelessly
atrocious that it would have been uncharitable to
criticise; but to-night something like hatred welled
up in her heart against their well-meaning ugliness.
She had felt much the same when Frau von Seleneck
had first visited her, but that lady had burst into
such unfeigned raptures that the feeling had passed.
But Miles said nothing, and his silence was, if
exclamatory, not rapturous.

Nora turned to him.  She was ashamed of her
shame, but with all the will in the world she could
only meet his wide-open stare with a sort of defiance
which betrayed that she knew already what he was
thinking, that she had even foreseen it.

"This is the drawing-room," she said lamely.
"We don't often use it, though.  It is not
as—comfortable as the others."

"I should hope not," he said.  He was looking
around him with such real and blank astonishment
that poor Nora could have laughed if the tears of
bitter humiliation had not been so near the surface.
Bravely, and with the recklessness of one who feels
that the worst is over and nothing else matters, she
pushed open the folding-doors.

"The dining-room," she said, as though she were
introducing a poor relation of whom she was trying
not to be ashamed.

Miles inspected the imitation mahogany table and
chairs with his eyebrows still at an elevated angle, but
now less with surprise as with a supercilious disgust.

"Is this where you have your dinner parties?"
he asked.

Nora heard and understood the irony, and it gave
her back her nerve and pride.

"Yes," she said.  "We do not have them often,
because we cannot afford them.  When we do we
only have our best friends, and they find the room
big enough and good enough."

Miles made no further observation, though his
silence was a work of art in unexpressed things, and
Nora led him to their little *Fremdenzimmer*.  She had
prepared it with the greatest care.  There was a jar
of flowers on the dressing-table, and everything smelt
of freshness and cleanliness, but she had not been
able to stretch its dimensions, and it was with
unanswerable justice that Miles inquired where he was
expected to keep his things.

"You can keep one of your boxes under the bed,"
Nora said in some confusion.  "The others are being
put in the corridor.  I'm afraid you'll have to go
outside when you want anything.  I am very sorry,
dear."

"That's all right," Miles said, with sudden and
surprising amiability.  "I'll manage somehow."

Nora left him to make what toilette he chose,
thankful to be alone for a moment.  She went straight
back to the drawing-room and faced each chair in
turn with an unflinching eye.  Her shame was over
and her spirit was up in arms.  In that moment she
cared nothing for Miles's opinion nor the opinion of
the whole world.  This was her home—her and Wolff's
home—and he who chose to despise it could shake the
dust off his feet and go elsewhere.  She could almost
have embraced the ugliest chair, and she was so proud
of her own loyal enthusiasm that she did not
recognise it for what it really was—the last desperate
refuge of her deeply humbled pride.  She went about
her work singing to herself—a thing she rarely
did—and told herself that she was in excellent spirits.
It cost her no effort to leave the dining-room door
open whilst she laid the table.  Let Miles see her!
What did she care?  And if he jeered and asked
if she waited at her own dinner parties or covered
her little home with the wealth of his contempt, had
she not one triumphant answer?

"Small and poor it may be, but it contains everything
I care for on this earth!"

She felt so sure of herself that when her brother
entered half an hour later, she lifted a face from
which a happy smile had brushed away every sign
of storm and conflict.

"How quick you have been!" she cried.  "And,
oh, Miles, what a magnificent man!"

He laughed self-consciously and glanced down at
his immaculate evening-clothes.

"Not a bad fit, are they?" he said.  "Poole's,
you know.  I suppose you don't change here, do you?"

Nora flinched in spite of herself.

"We do when we can," she said, still cheerful;
"but very often Wolff comes back so late that he has
no time to do more than wash and slip into his
*Litewka*.  Poor fellow!  He has to work so frightfully
hard."

Again Miles said nothing, and again Nora felt
that his silence was more effective than the longest
speech.  But still borne on the high tide of her
enthusiasm, she went on arranging the knives and forks,
and only her burning cheeks betrayed that she was not
so entirely at her ease.  Suddenly, to her complete
bewilderment, she found Miles's arm about her and
her own head against his shoulder.

"Poor little Nora!" he said.  "Poor little sister!"

Nora gasped.  He had never been affectionate in
his life before, and the tone of manly tenderness was
so new as to be almost incredible.  She threw back
her head and looked into his face with mingled laughter
and wonder.  He was perfectly serious, and for the
first time it dawned on her that there was a real
change in him which went deeper than the evening-dress,
that he had in fact left boyhood behind him
and assumed something of the manners and bearing
of a man, something, too, of his father, the Rev. John
Ingestre.  Gradually her smile died away under the
undisturbed seriousness of his gaze.

"Why, what is the matter, Miles?" she asked.
"I have never known you like this before."

He bent his head and kissed her.

"It struck me when I was dressing that I had
been a bit of a brute," he said.  "I am awfully sorry,
dear.  I had imagined everything so very different
that it fairly took my breath away, and I said—well,
what had no doubt been better left unsaid.  I thought
you had humbugged us and I was inclined to be angry.
When I thought it over I saw how it all was and I
was awfully sorry.  Poor old girl!"

She caught her breath, seeking wildly for words to
answer him, but none came.  She had been prepared
for and armed against scorn, not against this brotherly
sympathy!  Sympathy!  What had she to do with
sympathy?  Sympathy was an insult to Wolff—an
insult to their love!

With an effort she tried to free herself.

"You don't understand," she stammered.

"Oh, yes, I think I do," he interrupted.  "I understand
all that you won't tell me, because you are such
a decent little soul; and I will say this and no more:
I wish to Heaven it had been another man, Nora, a fine
English fellow who would have given you a decent
English home.  I wish it had been poor old Arnold——"

"Miles, let me go!"

She wrenched herself from his hands.  She had
seen what he had not seen—Wolff standing in the open
doorway, watching them with a curiously pale, grave
face.  Had he heard, and if he had heard, had he
understood?  Nora could not tell.  Furious with Miles and
with herself, she ran to him and put her arms about
his neck.

"Oh, how glad I am that you have come!" she
cried incoherently.  "You are just in time for supper.
How did you manage to get away so early?"

He kissed her upturned face.  Lips and hands were icy.

"I got special leave," he said.  "I thought"—a
forced lightness struggled through his gravity—"I
thought it was not good manners to desert my
own table on the first evening.  I am glad that I
managed—to come in time.  I shall be ready in a
minute."

He turned and went into his dressing-room, giving
neither time to answer.  Nora stared blankly after
him.  She felt as though she had allowed some one to
strike him across the face without protest, and that
he had gone away, not angrily, but wounded—perhaps
beyond her powers of healing.

"What a pity!" she heard Miles say behind her.
"I had looked forward to our evening together."

Nora turned.  In her anger and desperation, she
could scarcely keep her voice under control.

"Do not talk like that, Miles," she said.  "What
you think of Wolff does not matter.  I am his wife,
and this is his home.  Remember that!"

Miles put his hand in his pocket and smiled.  His
smile suggested a perfect understanding.

"I have said what I want to say," he observed.
"I shall not need to say it again."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN WHICH THE REV. JOHN RECEIVES A SHOCK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN WHICH THE REV. JOHN RECEIVES A SHOCK

.. vspace:: 2

A few days after his arrival, Miles wrote home in the
following terms:

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

.. vspace:: 1

"I have landed safely, as you know by my
telegram, and I expect you are wondering why I have not
written before.  As a matter of fact, I wanted to have
a look round me to see how things were before I broke
the news to you.  I tell you honestly, if it were not for
Nora's sake, and because, of course, I want to pick up
some of the lingo, I should have packed up my
trunks and come home by the next train.  You know
how Nora described things to us.  You might have
imagined them living in palatial apartments with a
footman and I don't know what to wait on them.

"Well, my palatial apartment measured eight by
eight, and when I get out of bed I have to take care
that I don't fall out of the window or into the
water-jug.  As to the footman, he is a scrubby-looking
orderly, who drops bits of potato down your collar
whilst he is serving and can't understand a word
you say to him.  So much for my share of the
grandeur.  There are four other rooms and they
have all about the same dimensions, and have
evidently been furnished out of some second-hand
place by some one who suffered from colour-blindness.
As to the atmosphere!  Imagine a kitchen-range
with the fat in the fire and you have an
idea.  Of course, Nora, being English, keeps the
windows open, but that's not much good, because we
look out on to houses in the front and dirty yards at
the back; in fact, I shouldn't think there was a breath
of fresh air for miles round.  Well, I was fairly thunderstruck,
I can tell you, and I have been in varying stages
of that condition ever since.

"My first dinner—I had an appetite like a wolf—would
have made any ordinary wolf turn tail.  Nora
said she had had to leave it to the cook, and so
everything had gone wrong.  It *had*, and the only
wonder is that *I* didn't go wrong afterwards.
The soup was a miniature salt-lake, the meat so
tough I couldn't get my knife through it, and the
pudding—I never got to the bottom of that pudding,
and I hope I never shall.  It was a ghastly meal; Wolff
was as glum as an undertaker, and Nora as near crying
as she could be without coming to the real thing, and
I wasn't particularly sprightly, as you can imagine.

"However, at last I got to bed—or the thing
which they call a bed—an iron affair with no
springs that I could find, and a rotten, puffed-out
air-cushion for a covering, which fell off five times
in the night and had to be fished up from the floor.
At seven o'clock—seven o'clock if you please!—I
was thumped awake by the orderly, who had
planted a five-inch pot of lukewarm water in my
basin.  He jabbered a lot which I didn't understand,
and then of course I went to sleep again.  At
about nine I yelled for my bath, and in came Nora,
looking awfully tired and worried.  It seems she had
been up ever since seven slaving at the house—I mean
loft—trying to get it shipshape before lunch.  After
a lot of fuss I got hold of Wolff's hip-bath and had
some sort of a wash, getting down to breakfast at
ten.  Breakfast!  Coffee and rolls!  Coffee and rolls!
I wonder if I shall ever get a square meal again!
Wolff had already gone off and didn't get back till
lunch, when we had a new edition of supper (which,
it appears, had been extra grand on my account).
He doesn't seem to mind what he eats, and is always
talking shop, which, I am sure, bores Nora as much
as it does me.

"What a beastly lot these German fellows think
of themselves and their beastly army!  He talks
about it as though it were a sort of holy institution
compared to which nothing else mattered, and goes
clattering about the house with his spurs like a god
on wheels.  Thank Heaven he is not at home much,
or we should be having rows in no time.  Yesterday,
for instance, I came down at ten for breakfast, and
in the afternoon he spoke to me about it as though
I were a sort of raw recruit—said it gave Nora a lot
of extra work, and that he must ask me to be more
punctual.  I held my tongue for Nora's sake, but I
longed to give him a bit of my mind in good English.
I longed to ask him why, if he is so keen on Nora
being spared, he doesn't see that she has a proper
cook and housemaid, why he lets her work like a
servant herself whilst he goes off and amuses
himself—as I know he does.  He can't be badly off.  His
uniforms are spotless, and he has a ripping horse,
which he rides every day.  A lot of riding Nora
gets—except now and again on borrowed regimental
hacks!  As to the theatre, she has only been twice
since they were married—it's too expensive in
Berlin forsooth! and I know for a fact that she has
not had a new dress.  I suppose all Germans treat
their wives like that; but it makes my blood boil to
think that Nora should have to put up with it.

"As to their grand friends, I don't think much of
them.  They all seem to live in the same poky style,
and the dinner we were invited to the other day
fairly did for me.  We sat something like two hours
over three courses, each one worse than the other,
and the people shouted and jabbered as though
they were in a monkey-house.  What with the
food and the bad wine and the row, I hardly knew
whether I was on my head or my heels.  Wolff and
I had a bit of a jar about it afterwards.  He said it
was *gemütlich*, or whatever the word is, and I said
it was beastly and that wild horses wouldn't drag
me into such a show again, whereupon he had the
cheek to inform me that I probably wouldn't be asked
and that he thought it was bad form to criticise one's
host because he didn't happen to be rich.  Nora was
nearly in tears, so I held my tongue; but you can guess
what I felt like.  Imagine that foreigner trying to
teach *me* good form!  Of course, I know, mother,
that you had a weakness for Wolff, but you should
see him in his own home—a selfish, bullying martinet,
whose head I should be heartily delighted to punch.
Perhaps I shall one day.  Don't worry about me,
though.  I shall be able to look after myself.

"There is one rather nice fellow here—a Captain
Bauer, who has been really decent to me and taken
me about.  He has rich relations with some style
about them—if you only knew what an oasis
'style' is in this desert!—and I fancy they mean
to give Nora and myself a good time.  Wolff tries
not to show how wild he is about it, though why he
should mind I have no idea.  Besides that, I have
run up against some nice English fellows, and when
I can't stand things and feel in need of a square meal,
I go out with them and have a run round.  In any
case I shall remain, for Nora's sake.  At the bottom,
I believe she is wishing herself well out of the mess,
and so I shall stay as long as possible to help her."

.. vspace:: 2

In answer to this description of Nora's home life,
the Rev. John wrote to his daughter an epistle
fulminating in grief, reproaches, sympathy, and advice.
Let it be said in praise of his epistolary abilities, that
without ever getting as far as "I told you so!" he
implied that sentence at least once on every one of
the eight closely written sheets.

"My poor child!" he wrote at the close.  "I
cannot tell you how this revelation has shocked and
grieved me.  Alas!  I can hardly call it revelation,
for did not my father's instinct prophesy everything
as it has come to pass?  I cannot but admire your
noble silence, your generous concealment of the true
facts of your life.  I can understand how you wish to
shield your husband from all reproach, and I am the
last one to attempt to turn you from your duty to
him.  Nevertheless, I beseech you, give us your whole
confidence.  Let us help you to bear your burden,
and if it should grow too heavy, remember that your
home awaits you and that your father's arms are
always open."

Mrs. Ingestre had added a brief note to this long
oration.  The handwriting was less firm than of old,
as though it had cost an effort, but the short, concise
sentences were full of strength and insight.

.. vspace:: 2

"Do you still love each other?" she asked.  "For
if you still love your husband and he still loves you,
I need offer neither sympathy nor pity.  You are to
be envied, and I pray only that you will let no
one—not even those dearest to you—come between you and
your great happiness.  If Miles is stupid and troubles
you, send him home."

.. vspace:: 2

This little note was first wept over and then hidden
away in a secret drawer, but the letter went to the
flames, thrown there by an angry, indignant hand.

"How dare he!" Nora thought in a passion of
resentment.  "How dare any one pity me!"

And she sat down in that same hour and wrote
home a protest and a defence which, it is to be feared,
was often incoherent and still more often lacking
in respect.  But her intention was clear.  It was
condensed in the closing sentences:

.. vspace:: 2

"No one has the right to criticise my husband or
my house.  I love them both, and for me they are
the most perfect in the world.  Those who really
love me will do well to remember this and spare me
both advice and misplaced sympathy."

.. vspace:: 2

After which this declaration of war, she went out
to meet Wolff and greeted him with a delight and
tenderness which was almost feverish, almost too
marked.  It was as though she were saying to herself:
"See how much I love him!  And if I love him
nothing else can matter."





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.. _`WOLFF SELLS A HORSE AND NORA LOSES A FRIEND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   WOLFF SELLS A HORSE AND NORA LOSES A FRIEND

.. vspace:: 2

In the broad Exerzier-Platz of the Grenadier barracks
a little group of officers were watching the paces of
a handsome chestnut thoroughbred, which was being
galloped and cantered past them for their inspection.
Occasionally they exchanged a terse criticism, but
for the most part they were silent, intent upon the
business of the moment.  The shorter of the three
men—a somewhat languid-looking captain of the
Hussars—followed the movements of the rider with
a professional admiration.

"Too bad, *Donnerwetter*! really too bad!" he
exclaimed, as Arnim at length rode up and swung
himself out of the saddle.  "That one fellow should
have brains and a seat like that as well is a direct
injustice.  But you are wasted on the Staff, my
dear Arnim; sheer wasted.  They don't know what
to do with such material—the *langweilige Streber*!
But at the head of a Hussar squadron you would
cut a figure—*auf Ehre*, I would give a quarter's pay
to have you with Us, and I know a *Cavallerist* when
I see one.  Here, let me try him.  You would make
an old cab-horse step out!"

Wolff laughed shortly.

"By all means, Herr Graf," he said.  "You will
find that the credit of the performance is more Bruno's
than mine."

He stood aside and watched the Count mount and
ride slowly off to the other end of the square.  His
face had been flushed with the recent exercise and
the natural joy which a man takes in his own skill
and strength, but Seleneck, who was observing him
closely, saw that the momentary animation had
covered over unusual weariness—even depression.
There were lines between the strongly marked brows
which the elder man did not like.  They were new
to Wolff's face, and betokened something more than
mere mental strain.  They indicated trouble, and
trouble also of a new kind.

With an affectionate movement, Seleneck slipped
his arm through Wolff's and led him a little apart,
as though to point out some special features in the
Count's equestrian performance.  In reality he was
indulging in the grumble which had been choking
him for the last hour.

"What a silly fellow you are!" he said.  "You
have a horse which most of us would give our ears
to possess, and you sell it for about half its value.
I could hardly believe my senses when I happened to
come down on you in the middle of the transaction.
It was the shock of my life."

"Your life must be remarkably free from shocks,
then," Wolff observed grimly.  "It was at any
rate one that I had every intention of sparing you."

"I have no doubt.  You looked glum enough
when I appeared.  But that makes it worse.  It
proves that you know you are doing a silly thing,
and are ashamed of it.  Seriously, though, whatever
has induced you to part with Bruno?  You told
me only the other day that there wasn't another
horse like it in Berlin."

"That was perfectly true.  But that is no reason
why I should keep such a paragon to myself."

Seleneck took another hasty inspection of his
friend's face.

"Does it hurt to smile like that when you are
losing your most treasured possession?" he asked
quizzically.

"You exaggerate things," Wolff returned, with
a movement of impatience.  "If I find that I have
no need of a horse in Berlin, that it is both a trouble
and an expense, there is no need to immediately
adopt a tone of high tragedy.  Besides, Graf Stolwitz
is giving a very fair price, from his point of view.  I
cannot expect him to pay for my personal attachment
to his purchase."

"If I did not know you as I do, I should think
you had been gambling," Seleneck said, in his turn
slightly ruffled.  "At any rate, I am not going to
stand by and see the deed.  *Auf wiedersehen*."

Wolff's ears, quick to catch and interpret every
shade of tone, had heard the irritation in his friend's
voice, and he turned quickly, as though shaking off
a weight of preoccupation.

"Forgive me, *lieber alter Kerl*," he said.  "I'm
a bear this afternoon, and ready to snap off
anybody's head.  Don't take any notice of me.  And
don't worry about Bruno.  Everything has its reason."

"You are working too hard," Seleneck declared.
"That's what's the matter with you.  I shall speak
to your wife."

"Please do nothing of the sort," Wolff said firmly.
"In the first place, it isn't true; and in the second,
it would only worry her.  Every man has his own
battles to fight, and every man must fight them alone.
Such is the law of things, and I am no exception."

"If such *were* the law of things I should have
nothing more to say," Seleneck retorted, "but the
man who will neither confide in his friend or his
wife is running full-tilt against nature, and must
pay for the consequences.  If I did not let Elsa have
her share of my fights, she would be perfectly
miserable—and with reason.  I should be depriving her of
the one thing that keeps a woman happy—trouble."

Wolff laughed.

"You are an ideal couple," he said.

"And you—are you not an ideal couple?"

"Of course—ideal."

Seleneck waited a moment, as though he expected
from Wolff's tone that there was more to come, but
the younger man remained silent, to all appearances
intent on watching the Count, who was walking his
purchase towards them.  There was no irony or
bitterness in his expression, but also none of the
happiness which one might have expected from the
one half of an "ideal couple," and Seleneck turned
away with a sigh of resignation.

"I think strategy and statistics and military
secrets have gone to your head," he said.  "You
are developing sphinx-like habits which are too much
for my childish intellect.  Still, when you want me
you will know where to find me."

Wolff turned, as though struck by a sudden thought.

"I want you now, Seleneck," he said quickly.
"At least, there is something I want your advice
about.  You know, I suppose, that my wife's brother
is staying with us?"

"I heard something about it," Seleneck admitted,
with a sudden uneasiness.  In truth, he had heard
a great deal about it—from his wife.  Hitherto,
neither Nora nor her brother had called at the little
flat, and this deliberate, inexplicable breach of
etiquette had grown to be something worse than a
grievance in Frau von Seleneck's usually pacific
heart.  But Seleneck knew himself to be no
diplomatist, and held his peace.

"Well, I fancy that time hangs pretty heavy on
his hands.  Of course, I am too busy to do much
in the entertaining line—and I have an idea that
I am too German for his taste.  At any rate, my
wife is very anxious that he should see something
more of Berlin life—the social life, you know—and
that he should have a—a good impression."

"I can quite understand that," Seleneck said
slowly.  "We'll do everything we can.  Let me
see, Elsa was talking of giving a little dinner next
week.  I'll tell her to include him in the invitation."

"Thank you," Wolff answered.  He was staring
hard in front of him, and an uncomfortable flush
had mounted his cheeks.  "It's very good of you
both," he added, as though ashamed of his own lack
of enthusiasm.  "As a matter of fact, Miles has found
entertainment enough for the present.  He has
picked up with Bauer, who appears to have some
rich relations here.  My—my wife has got to know
them too."

"Yes, so I heard," Seleneck observed grimly.

Wolff looked up, frowning.

"Is there any objection?" he demanded.

"I don't know, *alter Junge*."  Seleneck hesitated,
conscious again of a failing diplomacy, but goaded
on by a sense of duty.  "The Bauers are immensely
wealthy, but they do not belong to our set, and Bauer
himself is not the sort of man to whom I should like
to trust a young fellow—or, indeed, any one," he
added almost inaudibly.

"What do you mean by that?"

Seleneck faced the stern eyes with the courage
of desperation.

"I mean—I feel I ought to tell you—your wife's
intimacy with the Bauers is causing ill-feeling.  It
is all nonsense, of course, but you know how it
is—people talk.  Forgive me for putting it plainly—Bauer
has a bad reputation.  They say he has already
escaped dismissal from the Army by a hair's-breadth.
It is well to be careful."  He waited a moment, and
then went on, "It has been on my mind some time,
Wolff.  I felt I ought to warn you, but was afraid
you might take it amiss."

Wolff shook his head.

"You have only told me what I already suspected,"
he said quietly; "and of course, now that I know,
I shall speak to Nora about it.  She will see how it
is at once.  It is all my fault—I should have taken
more care.  And then, there is another thing——"

"Is it anything in which I can help?" Seleneck
asked, as Wolff again hesitated.  "You know you
have only got to say what it is.  There need be no
humbug between us."

"No; that's true."

Seleneck waited patiently, seeing that whatever it
was Wolff found it hard to express the matter on his
mind.  He was digging his spurred heel into the
sand and frowning, not in anger, but with a curious
shamefaced embarrassment.

"It's this," he said at last.  "You know how it
was, Kurt, when we first came here.  Of course we
did the duty round of visits and so on, and went out
in a quiet way, but we kept as clear as we could of the
swell affairs.  I made my work the excuse, and it
was quite an honest excuse, though of course there
were other reasons.  Now I think it was a mistake.
I think, for my own advantage, I ought not to have
refused certain invitations—one gets a bad name at
head-quarters—or is passed over; and if it were
possible I should like to get back on the lists
again——"

He stopped short, and Seleneck stared at him in
puzzled silence.  For the first time he had the
opportunity of studying Wolff in a state of thorough
confusion.

"Of course, that is easy enough," he said at last.
"But all that sort of thing entails heavy expense
and——"

"I think the expense justified," Arnim broke in
hastily.  "I am convinced that a certain outlay—a
certain ostentation, if you like—is necessary to a
rapid career.  And I should be immensely grateful
to you if you would help me."

"But your work—and the money?" Seleneck
inquired bluntly.

"Both are my affairs," was the quick, irritable
answer.  The next minute he repented, and held out
an apologetic hand.  "I don't know what is the
matter with me," he said.  "I'm not fit companion
for a savage.  Don't take me seriously, there's a
good fellow, and lend me a helping hand this once.
I want it badly."

Seleneck shook his head.

"As you have just suggested, you know your own
business best," he said gravely, "and I shall certainly
do what I can.  My uncle, the General Hulson, is
giving a ball some time this winter.  I and the wife
aren't going.  We can't afford it.  But I daresay I
could get you invitations; and once you are in the
tide you will be able to swim on for yourselves.  All
the same"—he laid a kindly hand on Wolff's
shoulder—"I can only tell you what you yourself
know, that the officer who burns his mental and
financial resources at both ends is lost.  *Es wäre
Schade um dich, alter Junge!*"

Wolff smiled.

"Don't worry," he said.  "I shall take care of
myself, and, at any rate—thanks for helping me."

The Hussar had by now finished his trial, and
Seleneck, with a general salute, hurried out of the
barracks.  He was a sensitive man who felt a good
many things acutely which his brain did not
understand, and something in his friend's manner caused
him an unexplained distress.  He knew that Wolff
had changed—his very actions were proof of the fact.
It was not like him to part with an animal to which
he was attached with the real affection of a good
rider for a good horse; it was not like him to seek
steps to his advancement in the patronage of his
superiors.  Wolff had never been a "place-hunter."  Whilst
always a favourite with those under whom he
served, he had not sought their favour by any other
means than his ready goodwill and the vigorous,
unsparing fulfilment of his duty.  And now he was
talking of dancing attendance at every general's
levee like any common *Streber* for whom all means
are good enough so long as the end is attained.

Seleneck sighed as he hurried homewards.  Yes,
the change in his friend was there right enough, and
it had left its trace on the man's whole bearing.  He
had been neither as frank nor as cheery nor as
self-confident as was his wont, and there had been a grim
determination in his voice and manner which warned
against all interference.  Above all things, no laughter
and forced good spirits had concealed the fact that
he was not at his ease.  His whole newly born gravity
had borne more the stamp of the stiff-lipped recklessness
of an adventurer than the sober determination
of a good soldier seeking a short cut to success; and
Seleneck, who felt for Wolff an ungrudging admiration,
boded no good for the future if the change continued.
"I have seen a few dozen fellows go like that," he
thought to himself, "and it has always ended in
breakdown.  Only in their case it was horses or
cards, and I'll wager that neither play any part in
Wolff's trouble.  I wonder what the devil is the
matter?"

He was still wondering when he reached home,
after an unusually tedious and disagreeable walk.
More than once he had been tempted to take the tram,
in order to be quicker home to Elsa and the comfort of
shifting on to her willing shoulders the burden of
his doubts; but the consideration of expense held
him back.  After all, trams become too easily a habit.
Two trams a day cost 20 pf. and six days amount to
1.20, and 1.30 will buy a bottle of Landwein good
enough for the little "evenings" which one is bound
to give if one is a good comrade.  So Freiherr von
Seleneck had walked, and those who had observed him
had envied the immaculate uniform and the lordly
bearing, making no guess at the empty pockets of
the one and the entire innocence of the other.  For
lordliness and Seleneck were unknown to each other;
and if he bore himself with a certain unconscious
assertiveness, it was because he wore the King's
uniform, and not in the least because he thought
himself a great man.

Somewhat to his surprise and disappointment, his
wife was not at the door to receive him when he
arrived.  The *Bursche* who helped him off with his
coat told him the *gnädige Frau* had visitors and was
in the drawing-room.  Thither Seleneck at once
repaired.  Usually a sociable and hospitable man, he
felt he could have dispensed with guests in the one
hour of the day when he was certain of his wife's
undivided company, but his slight annoyance
evaporated as soon as he saw who the visitors were.  Nora
herself occupied the sofa, and her fair young face,
lit by a faint, almost embarrassed, smile of greeting,
inspired Seleneck with the brilliant reflection that
she had no doubt come to confide the trouble, whatsoever
it was, to his wife's sympathetic ears.  The hope
was immediately dispelled, however, by Frau von
Seleneck herself, who drew his attention to the
presence of a young man seated at the other end of the
room, nursing an elegantly booted foot with the air
of profoundest boredom.

"I do not think you have met before," she said.
"This is Frau von Arnim's brother—Mr. Ingestre."

Seleneck accepted the languidly outstretched hand
with a feeling so akin to alarm that he caught little
more than a general impression of his guest's
appearance.  It was not often that his good-natured,
easy-going wife rose to heights of real indignation, but
when she did, the signs of storm were not absent,
and he had recognised them all too clearly in the rather
high-pitched voice and flushed face.  Moreover, he
became now acutely aware of a certain strained
politeness in the atmosphere which had hitherto been
unknown in the relations between the two women.
Once he even caught Nora's eyes fixed on his with
such an expression of trouble in their depths that he
was convinced something unpleasant had happened,
and became almost indignant with his Elsa, who
firmly refused to allow the conversation to flow in any
but the most cold and formal channels.  The young
man took no part in the talk, halting and spasmodic
as it naturally became.  He appeared to know no
German; and as Seleneck's English was of a limited
description, intercourse between them was more or
less impossible.  Seleneck took the opportunity to
study this new arrival, of whom he had indeed heard
little that was complimentary; but his cautious survey
gave him no great satisfaction.  In truth, Berlin
and the few weeks of unlimited freedom had not
improved Miles.  He was, as always, scrupulously
dressed and had a certain air of the "man-about-town"
which contrasted with his otherwise uneasy
and rather boorish manners.  It was a little hard to
imagine that he had ever held a lieutenant's
commission, still harder to believe that he was Nora von
Arnim's brother.  There was no resemblance between
the two, as Seleneck noticed with satisfaction.  Miles's
face was round and sallow, and he had a peculiar
trick of furtively glancing about him which was directly
opposed to Nora's frank and at that moment defiant
gaze.  As a matter of fact, though his critic did not
know it, Miles had developed on his father's lines,
with the one difference that the Rev. John's habits
were those of a naturally nervous and diffident
character, whereas Miles, having no nerves to complain
of, had still a rooted objection to looking any one in
the face.  As he sat, alternately staring at the carpet
and casting curious, supercilious glances round the
poorly furnished drawing-room, Seleneck passed
judgment on him.

"You drink, and can't stand it," he thought, and
then, remembering Bauer, added, "and probably gamble."

Which proved that Seneleck, though neither a
diplomatist nor a strategian, was at least something
of a judge of character.

At that moment Nora rose hastily to her feet.
The conversation had languished beyond hope of
recovery, and, moreover, she had seen something in
her host's expression which made her cheeks burn
with a curious mixture of shame and anger.

"We must really go," she said nervously.  "We
have stayed far too long—I hope you will forgive us."

"It is always a pleasure to see you, *gnädige Frau*,"
Seleneck answered warmly.  "You know that your
welcome is always waiting you.  And that reminds
me—we are giving a little dinner next week—quite
*entre nous*, you know—and of course it would not be
complete without you and Wolff.  And your brother"—he
turned to Miles with a bow, which was answered
by a blank stare—"I hope will do us the honour."

He had spoken with unusual kindness, because he
felt that his thoughts at least had not been altogether
hospitable, and he had every desire to atone to Nora
as far as lay in his power.  A cough from Frau von
Seleneck warned him that he had instead been guilty
of a mysterious *faux pas*.  Nora's colour had deepened,
and she was playing restlessly with her gloves.

"It's very good of you," she stammered.  "Frau
von Seleneck has also asked me—it was very kind.
Of course I shall tell Wolff, and we will let you know."

The puzzled officer saw a scornful, angry smile pass
over his wife's face; and feeling that he was altogether
out of his depths, he kissed the extended hand and
prepared to show his guests to the door of the flat.

At the general preparations for departure Miles
Ingestre awoke from his dreary contemplation of the
imitation Turkish carpet and, extricating one hand
from his pocket, proffered it all round with signs of
sincere relief.  Frau von Seleneck bowed and ignored
the offer, and her farewell with Nora was marked
with a not less striking, if more inexplicable, rigidity.

Five minutes later, when her husband returned
from his host's duties, he found her in floods of angry
tears.

"*Mein liebes Kind!*" he exclaimed in despair.
"Whatever is the matter?  Has anything serious
happened?"

"I have been insulted in my own house!" the little
woman retorted, dabbing her eyes fiercely with a
minute pocket-handkerchief.  "I should hope that
was serious enough!"

"Insulted!  By whom?"

"By that—that English creature!"

"Do you mean Frau von Arnim?  But,
*Menkenkind*!—she is your best friend!"

"She is nothing of the kind.  She is a conceited,
pretentious, arrogant—oh! I don't know what, but
I know I hate her with all my heart.  And as for that
brother——"  With a determined effort she swallowed
down a torrent of adjectives and sobbed huskily instead.

Seleneck seated himself on the arm of her chair
and patted her on the shoulder.

"Perhaps one day you'll tell me all about it," he
suggested, and waited patiently for results.

After a moment, the desire to tell her story
overcame the desire to have a good cry, and Frau von
Seleneck, leaning her head against her husband and
squeezing his hand violently at moments of more than
usual indignation, related the incidents which had led
up to this climax.  It appeared, in the first place, that
Nora had arrived at an entirely inopportune moment.

"I was in the middle of making something extra
for your supper," Elsa von Seleneck explained.  "I
shan't tell you what it is, as it is a surprise, and may
still turn out all right, though I should think it was
very doubtful, because Bertha is such an unutterable
fool.  At any rate, had it been any one else I should
have been very angry, but as it was Nora I didn't
mind so much.  I told Bertha to bring her into the
kitchen, but then she said she had brought her brother
with her, so I came out.  Well, of course I wasn't as
tidy as I might have been, but—look at me, please,
Kurt.  Is there anything in my appearance to warrant
anybody giggling?"

Seleneck looked at his wife gravely.  She was very
flushed and hot, and there was a suspicion of flour on
the tip of her nose, which might have aggravated a
ticklish sense of humour; but Seleneck knew better
than to say so.

"Certainly not!" he said.  "Who dared giggle, pray?"

"That—that boy!" Frau von Seleneck retorted.
"Nora looked fearfully upset, and at first I thought she
was ashamed of him, but afterwards I knew better—I
knew she was ashamed of me!"

"My dear!" her husband protested.

"It's true—perfectly true.  You wouldn't have
recognised her.  You know how sweet she was when she
first came—so nice and grateful and simple—I really
had quite a *Schwärmerei* for her.  Everybody
had—they couldn't help it.  She won all hearts with her
broken German and her girlish, happy ways.  Well,
to-day she was intolerable—stiff as a poker, my dear,
and as disagreeable as a rheumatic old major on half-pay.
I couldn't get a friendly word out of her, and all
the time I could see her studying my dress and the
furniture, as though she were trying to find the prices
on them.  As for that boy, he went on giggling.  Every
time I made an English mistake, he sniggered"—the
little woman's voice rose with exasperation.  "He
tried to hide it behind his hand, but of course I saw, and
it made me so angry I could have boxed his ears!"

"Pity you didn't," said Seleneck.  "*Dummer Junge!*"

"That wasn't the worst.  I tried to be friendly.
I asked them both to dinner next week—and what do
you think?  She looked ever so uncomfortable, and
said she was very sorry, but she was afraid they could
not manage it.  I don't know what excuse she meant
to give, but that—that boy went and blurted the truth
out for her.  It appears that he had been to a dinner
party last week and had been bored to extinction.  At
any rate, he said that wild horses, or some such
creatures, wouldn't drag him to another business like that,
and then he set to work and made fun of everything.
My dear, I don't know what dinner it was, but it was
exactly like ours will be—exactly, from the soup to
the cheese!"

Seleneck pulled his moustache thoughtfully.

"He wasn't to know that," he said in faint excuse.

"But Nora knew, and she never said a word, never
even tried to stop him; and when I said that I thought
it was very bad manners to make fun of people whose
hospitality one had enjoyed, she flared up and said
that her brother was English, and that English people
had different ways, and couldn't help seeing the funny
side of things—she saw them herself!"

Seleneck got up and paced about restlessly.  The
matter was more serious than he thought, and an
instinctive wisdom warned him that for the present at
any rate it would be better to keep his troubles about
Wolff to himself.

"I wonder what is the matter with them all?" he
said at last.  "Of course, the brother is simply an
ill-behaved cub, but I confess I do not understand
Frau von Arnim.  She was always so amiable, and
everybody thought Wolff the luckiest fellow
alive—except myself."

"I can tell you exactly what is the matter," his
wife said more calmly and with some shrewdness,
"Marriage, after all, doesn't work miracles, and Frau
von Arnim is no more German than I am Chinese.
She is English right to the core, and at the bottom of
everything she despises and hates us and our ways.
They are not good enough for her any more, and she
wants to go back to her own life and her own people.
It was all right so long as she was alone with Wolff in
the first few months.  One didn't notice the gulf so
much, but now she has her brother to remind her and
support her, it will widen and widen.  See if what I say
is not true!"

"It's a very bad outlook for poor Wolff if it *is* true,"
Seleneck said gloomily.  "He is absolutely devoted
to her."

"Nevertheless, it will end badly," his wife answered,
preparing to make her departure.  "It is I who tell
you so.  Race and nationality are dividing oceans,
and the man who tries to bridge them is a fool, and
deserves his fate."

And with these words of wisdom she disappeared
into the mysterious region of the kitchen.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RISING SHADOWS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   RISING SHADOWS

.. vspace:: 2

Nora sat by the window and mended stockings.  There
was not very much light, for although it was still early
afternoon and the winter sun stood high in the heavens,
very few rays found their way into the fourth-floor
rooms of No. 22, Adler Strasse.  As Miles had said
more than once, it was a poky hole.  Nora remembered
his words as she worked, and she looked up and
studied the tiny apartment with a wondering regret.
Yes; it was dark and poky; but why did the fact
strike her so clearly and so constantly?  Why was
she doomed to see everything and everybody with
another's eyes?  For that was what had happened to
her.  One short month ago, this place had been her
paradise, her own particular little Eden, and now it
was a "poky hole"—because Miles had said so and
because her common sense told her that he was
right.  Had, then, the magic which had blinded her
against the reality ceased to act its charm—or
altogether lost its power?  Surely not.  Her eyes fell
on her husband's writing-table, with its burden of
neatly arranged books and papers, and something
in her softened to wistful tenderness.  In her
imagination she saw him sitting there, bent over his
work in all-absorbed interest.  She saw the thoughtful,
knitted brows, the strong white hand guiding the pen
through the intricacies of plans and calculations, the
keen, searching eyes which were never stern for her,
which, if they no longer flashed with the old unshadowed
laughter, were always filled with the same unshaken,
unaltered love.  And she in her turn loved him.  That
she knew.  There, and there alone, her brother's
barbed shafts had fallen short, or had broken harmless
against the steeled walls of defence.  Her husband was
still what he had always been—the one and only man
who had ever counted in her life.  But there was a
difference.  What the difference was she could not
tell.  Perhaps just that change had come into her
love which had come into his eyes.  It was still a great
love, still unshaken, but it had lost the power of glorying
in itself, of being happy, of rejoicing in its own strength
and youth and unity.  When Wolff entered the room
her pulses quickened, but it was with a curious,
inexplicable pain, and when he went away she breathed
more easily.  That most wonderful and rare of
moments when they had thought and felt and lived as
though they were one mind, one body, one soul had
passed—perhaps for ever.  They stood on different
shores and looked at each other over the dividing
stream with sad eyes of love and hopeless regret.

How had it all come?  Whose fault was it?  Poor
Nora felt she knew.  The spectre had risen in the same
hour when Miles had leant back in the *Drotschke* and
sighed with relief because Wolff had not accompanied
them.  She had been angry at first, but the rough
words had revealed something to her which she would
never otherwise have believed, something in herself
which had lain dormant and which now awoke, never
to rest again.  It was not Miles's fault.  Had it
been, she would not have hesitated to follow her
mother's advice.  But to have sent him away would
be a sign of weakness—and it would be useless.
The evil—whatsoever it was—lay in herself.  It
had always been there, but she had not recognised
it.  Miles had shown her what she must sooner or later
have seen for herself.  She had married a stranger
from a strange land, and he had remained a stranger,
and the land had not become her home.  That was
the whole matter.  That she loved him, that his
country had offered her love and welcome did not
alter the one great fact that the faintest cry, the
faintest call from her own people had drawn from
her an irrepressible answer of unchanged allegiance.
She loved Wolff, but in every petty conflict between
him and her brother her heart had sided against him;
she had had a sincere affection for the Selenecks, and
in cold blood she knew that Miles had behaved
boorishly towards them; but she had grown to hate
them because they had shown their disapproval, and
because *he* hated them.

In this strange, unseen conflict of influences Miles
stood for more than her brother; he stood for her
whole race, for every inborn prejudice and opinion,
and his coming had revealed to her her own loneliness.
She was alone in a foreign land; she spoke a tongue
which was not her tongue; she lived a life in which
she was, and must remain, a tolerated stranger.  Her
seeming compliance had been no more than youth's
adaptability to a passing change.  Her love and her
ready enthusiasm had blinded her, but Miles had torn
down the scales from her eyes, and she saw the life
she lived as he saw it—as a weary round of dismal
pleasures, big sacrifices, endless struggle.  She saw
that her home was poor and tasteless, that her friends
were neither elegant nor interesting, that they had
other ideas, other conceptions of things which to Nora
were vitally important—that they were, in a word,
foreigners to her blood and up-bringing.

It had been a terribly painful awakening, and in her
desperate flight from the full realisation of the change
in her she had broken through the circle which hedged
in her life, and sought her escape on the turbulent sea
of another, more gilded society.  She had tried to
intoxicate herself with the splendour and popularity
so easily acquired.  The Frau Commerzienrat Bauer
had received her with open arms, had showered upon
her delicate and sometimes indelicate attentions;
she had been fêted at the gorgeous entertainments
given in her honour at the over-decorated "palatial
residence"; she had seen Miles's expression of
contemptuous criticism change for one of admiration,
herself surrounded by the adulation of men who,
she was told, governed the world's finance; she had
heard the Frau Commerzienrat's loud voice proclaim
her as "My dear friend, Frau von Arnim"—and at
the bottom of her heart she had been nauseated,
disgusted, wearied by it all.  She had come back to the
close and humble quarters of her home with a sweet
sense of its inner purity and dignity, with the
determination to make it the very centre of her life.  And
then she had seen her husband's grave—as it seemed
to her, reproachful—face, the freezing disapproval
of his circle, the mocking satisfaction of her brother;
and the momentary peace had gone.  She had felt
herself an outcast, and, in hot, bitter defiance of the
order of things against which she had sinned, had
returned thither, where the opium flattery awaited
her.  But through it all she loved her husband,
desperately, sincerely.  As she sat there bent over
her work, she thought of him in all the glamour of
the first days of their happiness, and a tear rolled
down her cheek, only to be brushed quickly away
as she heard his footstep on the corridor outside.

"How tired he sounds!" she thought, and suddenly
an immense pity mingled with the rekindling tenderness,
and shone out of her eyes as she rose to greet
him, like a reflex from earlier days.

He looked tired to exhaustion.  The rim of his
helmet had drawn a deep red line across his broad
forehead, and there were heavy lines under the
eyes.  Nevertheless, his whole face lit up as he
saw her.

"May I come in, Nora?" he asked, with a glance
at his dusty riding-boots.  "We have been surveying,
and I am not fit for a lady's drawing-room;
but if I tiptoed——"

"Of course you may come in," she cried cheerfully,
thankful that the light was behind her.  "I have
been waiting for you, and tea is quite ready.  Sit
down, and I will bring you a cup."

He obeyed willingly, and followed her with his eyes
as she bustled around the room.  It was like old
times to find her alone, to see her so eager to attend
to his wants.  When she came to him with his cup
he drew her gently down beside him, and she saw that
his face was full of tender gratitude.

"You kind little wife!" he said.  "It's worth
all the fatigue and worry just to come back and be
spoilt.  What a long time it seems since we were
alone and since you 'fussed' over me, as you used
to call it."

There was no reproach or complaint in his voice,
and yet she felt reproached.  She lifted her face to
his and kissed him remorsefully.

"Have I neglected you, Wolff?"

"Not a bit, dear.  I only meant—of course, one
can't go on being newly married for ever, but it
has its charm to go back and pretend; hasn't it?"

"You talk as though we had been married for
years!" she said in a troubled tone.  "And it is
scarcely seven months."

"Seven months can be a long time," he answered
gravely.  "It all depends on what happens."

She had her head against his shoulder, and
suddenly, she knew not why nor how, she was
transported back to that magic hour when he had first
taken her in his arms and an unhoped for, unbelievable
happiness had risen above her dark horizon.  In a
swift-passing flash she realised that this was the man
for whom she had fought, who had been everything to
her, without whom life had been impossible, and that
now he was hers, her very own, and that she had been
cruel, unfaithful, and ungrateful.  She flung her arms
impetuously about his neck and drew his head down
till it rested against her own.

"Oh, Wolff, Wolff!" she cried.  "Are you so
very disappointed in me?  Has it only needed six
months to show you what a hopeless little failure
I am?"

"You—a failure?"  He passed his hand gently
over her hair.  "You could never be a failure, and I
should be an ungrateful fellow to talk of
'disappointment.'  You are just everything I thought and loved,
my English Nora."

The name aroused her, startled her even.  Was
it only because it emphasised what had already
passed unspoken through her mind, or was it because
it seemed to have a pointed significance, perhaps an
intended significance?

"Why do you call me 'English Nora'?" she
asked, with an unsteady laugh.  "I am not English
any more.  I am your wife, Wolff, and you are *ein
guter Deutscher*, as you say."

He nodded, his eyes fixed thoughtfully in front of
him.

"Yes, I am German, bone and blood," he said.
"That's true enough.  And you are my wife.  I
wonder, though——"

He stopped, and then suddenly he bent and lifted
her like a child in his arms and carried her to the
big chair opposite.

"Now I can see you better," he said quietly.  "I
want to ask you something which your face will tell
me better than your words."

He had fallen on one knee beside her and was
looking her earnestly in the eyes.  She bore his
scrutiny, but only with a strong effort of the will.
She felt that he was looking straight into the secret
places of her heart, that he was reading the pain that
her words, "I am not English any more," had caused
her and how little they were true.

"Tell me," he said, "are you happy, Nora?  Are
you not the one who is disappointed?"

"I?  Wolff, how should I be? how could I be?"

"All too easily—sometimes I think inevitably.
I am not blind, Nora.  I see how petty and small
your life must be compared to what you perhaps
thought—to what might have been.  The people you
meet are accustomed to it all—at least they have
learnt to make the best of what little they have;
but you have come from another world and another
life.  You are accustomed to breadth and light and
freedom.  You have never known this brilliant poverty
which we know so well, and it is hard on you—too
hard on you.  I have never seen it all so clearly as
I see it now.  If I had seen it then I would have
trampled my love for you underfoot rather than have
asked so great a sacrifice.  But I was blinded—I
did not understand——"

"Wolff, have I complained?  Have I been so
ungrateful—so wicked?"

"No, Nora.  You have been very brave and good,
but I have seen, and I have reproached myself
bitterly—terribly.  When I came in to-night and saw that
you had been crying, I felt that I would do
anything—that I would give you up——"

He stopped short, and with a pang of indescribable
pain she felt that this soldier kneeling at her feet
was fighting for his voice, that his quick, broken
sentences had been the outburst of a long-suppressed
and bitter struggle.

"I love you, Nora," he stammered roughly.  "I
love you with my life and soul and body, but if your
happiness required it I would give you up—to your
people——"

"Wolff!" she interrupted passionately.

"Listen, dear.  I am not talking at random.  I
have thought it all over.  If I cannot make you
happy, I will not make you unhappy.  I will do everything
a man can do to atone for the one great wrong.
Only tell me, whilst I have the strength to part with
you——"

He stopped again, and she felt that he was trembling.
There was something infinitely pathetic in his
weakness, something which called to life not only
her love for him as her husband but a wealth of a
new and wonderful tenderness such as a mother might
feel for a suffering child.  She put her arms about
him and drew his head against her breast.  For that
moment she forgot everything save that he was
miserable and that she had made him so.

"I will never leave you of my free will," she said.
"Never!  You will have to chase me away, and then
I shall come and sit on the doorstep and wait for you
to let me in.  Oh, Wolff, my dearest, what foolish
things have you been thinking, and how long have
you been brooding over them?  Don't you know that
I could not live without you?"

He lifted his face, searching hers with keen,
hungry eyes, in which she read doubt and a dawning
hope.

"Is that true, Nora?"

"Yes; it is true!"

"Be honest with me.  Am I so much to you that
you can be happy with me—with my people and in
my home and country?"

He had asked the question which she had asked
herself in moments of pitiless self-examination, but,
like her, he asked it too late.  She answered now
earnestly, passionately, swept beyond all selfish
considerations on a tide of deep, sincere feeling.

"Yes, I love you enough, Wolff.  And if there have
been any regrets, any longings which have caused
you pain, forgive them, my husband—above all,
understand them.  They will pass—they must pass,
because, at the bottom, you are my all in all."

He made no answer.  He lifted her hand to his
lips, and in the movement there was a joy, a gratitude
deeper than words could have expressed.  She felt
that she had satisfied him, and she, too, felt satisfied.

Thus they sat silent together, hand clasped in
hand, his head against her shoulder, whilst peace and
a new happiness seemed to creep in about them with
the evening shadows.  And in her young hope and
confidence Nora believed in this new happiness as
she had believed in the old.  It seemed so strong, so
invulnerable, the obstacles so petty, so mean.  They
had been swept aside in a moment, like sand-castles
before the onrush of the sea, so that it seemed
impossible, absurd, that she could ever have thought of
them as insurmountable.  And yet, though heart and
mind believed in the change, another wider, less
definable sense, which we call instinct, remained
doubtful and fearful.  It was the one sign that all
was not as it had once been, that they had only
outwardly regained the past.  Once they had lived for
the future, longing for it in their extravagant youth
as for a time which must reveal to them new wonders
and joys.  Now they clung anxiously to the present,
scarcely daring to move or speak lest the peace, the
outward semblance of unity, should be destroyed.
Thus they sat silent together, each apparently plunged
in his own untroubled reflections, each in reality
fighting back thought as an enemy who might
overshadow their victory.

It was Arnim who at last spoke.  He drew two
letters from his pocket and gave them to her.

"The postman met me on the stairs," he said.
"One is a disappointment and the other the
fulfilment of a wish.  Which will you have first?"

"The disappointment," she said, turning over
the letters anxiously.  "I always keep the *bonne
bouche* for the last.  But it has grown so dark that
I cannot see.  You must tell me what is in both."

"The one is from Aunt Magda," he answered.
"It seems that the doctor has ordered Hildegarde
a longer trial of the baths at Baden-Baden, so that
their coming will be postponed a week or two at
least.  I am very sorry.  I had looked forward to
the time when you would have them—to help you."

It was the one faint intimation that he knew that
she still needed help and that all had not gone well
in the short period of their married life.  Nora's face
fell.  Her very real disappointment proved to her
how much she had longed for the two women who
had always been her friends, even in the darkest
hours.  She loved them as mother and sister.  She
had never felt for them the antipathy, the enmity
which had grown up between her and the Selenecks,
and, in lesser degrees, between her and all the other
women of her husband's circle, and she had longed
for them as for a refuge from her increasing isolation.
And now they were not coming—or, at least, not
for some weeks.  She was to be left alone among
these strangers, these foreigners, with only Miles
to support and uphold her.  Only Miles?  She
remembered her husband with a pang of the old
remorse, and she bent and kissed him as though to
atone for some unintentional wrong.

"I am sorry they are not coming," she said; "but
perhaps the baths will do Hildegarde good, and as
for me—why, have I not got my husband to turn to?"

Wolff laughed happily.

"After that pretty speech, I must hold out some
reward, so that the practice may be encouraged," he
said, waving the second letter in triumph.  "Behold!
His Excellency General von Hulson has done himself
the honour to invite his future colleague, the Captain
von Arnim, *nebst* his beautiful *Gemählin* and honourable
brother-in-law, to a ball on the 17th of next
month.  Now, are you satisfied?"

"How good you are to me, dear!"  She kissed
him, guiltily conscious that her joy had been but
a poor feigning.  Now, for the first time, she realised
clearly how far she had drifted from her husband's
circle.  She shrank from that which had once been
the goal of her ambition.  Wolff laughed at her,
mistaking the cause of her hesitation.

"Verily, I am growing to be a wise husband!"
he said gaily.  "Are all the fine dresses worn out,
that my wife's fair face should be so overcast?  Well,
there!  Is that enough to cover future expenses,
Vanity?"

He had pressed a little bundle of paper-money
into her hand, and she looked at it, dazed with
surprise.  She did not know that it was Bruno's price
which he had given her, but again her eyes filled.
She pitied him in that moment more than herself.

"You dear, generous fellow!" she stammered
mechanically.

"It's not generosity, little woman.  It's only
right that you should have change and gaiety.  You
must not think that I do not understand how dull
and dreary it must sometimes be.  I do understand—it
goads me sometimes to think how little I can
do.  Perhaps one day it will all be better—when I
am Field-Marshal, you know!"

He tried to laugh, but somehow a certain weariness
rang through his laughter.  She heard it, and remorse
mingled with her pity.

"You must not worry about all that," she said
gently.  "I must be a poor kind of wife if I
am not satisfied as I am."  She repeated her words
to herself, and felt that there was bitter truth in
them.

For a moment Wolff remained silent.  She thought
he was resting, but presently he spoke again, and
she knew that he had been preparing himself to
approach a graver subject.

"Nora, there is something I want you to do for
me, something I want you to promise."

She looked anxiously down into his face.

"What is it, dear?"

"I want you to associate less with Bauer—and
with Bauer's relations."

"Why?"

The one word sounded a defiance.  Wolff rose
from his kneeling position and stood at her side, his
hand resting gently on her shoulder.

"Because he is a man I do not trust.  It is not
my way to speak against a comrade or to accuse
lightly, but I have sure reason for asking what I
do of you.  No man and no woman is the better for
Bauer's friendship."

"Does that mean that you do not trust me?"

She was angry now—without just cause or reason,
simply because she saw in him the embodiment of
all the prejudices of the class which had dared to
look askance at her.  A grave smile passed over her
husband's face.

"You know I trust you, Nora; but in our position
we must avoid even the appearance of evil.  Not so
much as a breath of scandal must tarnish my wife's
name."

"Ah, '*your* wife'!" she said bitterly.

"——who is myself," he added.

There was a moment's silence before he went on:

"It is not only of you I was thinking, Nora.  There
is Miles to be considered.  He is very young, and
possibly easily influenced.  No one can tell into what
difficulties—what temptations he might be led by
unscrupulous hands.  Surely you sympathise with
me in this?"

"My brother is no more likely to act dishonourably
than myself," she answered, and again it was her
race rather than Miles that she defended.  "Nor
do I believe Captain Bauer to be the man you
describe.  He has been very kind to me, and I know
to what influence I must ascribe your prejudices.
The Selenecks have always hated my—my friendship
with the Bauers.  No doubt they told you that
the Commerzienrat has stolen his wealth."

She regretted her words as soon as they had been
spoken.  In her angry conviction that her conduct
had been criticised—perhaps justly criticised—she
had allowed herself to say more than she had meant,
more even than she believed to be true.

"You are not just to me, Nora," Wolff answered
quietly.  "I have said nothing against the Bauers—I
know nothing against them.  But they are very
rich, and it is their wealth which makes your
association with them undesirable.  We are poor—our
friends are poor.  We cannot entertain as they do.
And we belong to another class—not a better class,
perhaps, but one with other aims and other ideals.
You cannot belong to both."

"At the bottom, you do think your class superior,"
Nora interposed scornfully.

"Perhaps I do—perhaps you do, when you are
honest with yourself, dear.  You must know that
the Bauers' friendship for you is not wholly
disinterested.  It sounds rather brutal; but those sort
of people who talk of money as the one thing that
counts and pretend to scorn family and titles are
just those who are most anxious to have a titled name
among their visitors."

Nora started as though she had been stung.

"I think you overestimate your—our importance,"
she said.

He did not retort.  He simply held out his hands
to her.

"Nora, you can't think it gives me pleasure to
spoil anything for you.  Won't you trust me?  Won't
you give me your promise?"

She looked at him; she was honest enough to
acknowledge to herself that he had been right, but
above all, his patience, his quiet tone of pleading
had moved and softened her.

"I give you my promise, Wolff."

"Thank you, dear.  Goodness knows, I will try
and make it up to you in all I can."

He kissed her, and then suddenly she drew away
from him.

"You don't need to make up for it.  And I think,
after all, I won't go to the Hulsons."

He looked at her in blank surprise.  He had sold
his favourite horse to satisfy her needs, he had humbled
his pride, laid himself open to the accusation of being
a "place-hunter" in order to be able to lead her
into the brilliant world after which she had once
craved, and now that the sacrifices had been brought
she would have none of them.  He did not
understand—as how should he have done?—that she saw
in his action an attempt to bribe her, in his gift a
sweetmeat offered to a disappointed child.  He felt,
instead—though he would not have admitted it even in his
thoughts—that she had been capricious, inconsiderate.

He turned away and went over to the writing-table,
throwing down the two letters with a gesture
of weariness.

"We must go now, whether we want to or not,"
he said.  "I have worried for the invitation, and it
is impossible to refuse.  The Selenecks would have
every right to be offended."

"They are that already," Nora said bitterly.

"Perhaps they have some reason to be, dear."  He
spoke quietly, but he had implied that the fault
was hers, and the angry blood rushed to her
cheeks.

"The Selenecks are absurd and ridiculously sensitive,"
she said.  "They have chosen to take offence
at nothing, and——"

"Nora, they are my best friends!"

"Is that any reason why they should be mine?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And if I do not like them—if I find their manners
and ways too different to mine—what then?"

There was a faint sneer in tone and look which
was intentional, and which she knew was undeserved,
but she could not help herself.  She hated the Selenecks
and the whole crowd of small military nobodies
struggling for advancement and their daily bread.
Why should she be forced to live her life amongst them?

Wolff made no answer to her question.  He was
sufficiently calm to feel with its full poignancy how
fleeting and unstable their newly won happiness
had been.  The barrier was raised again—the more
formidable because it had been once so easily
overcome.  Yet, with the tenacity of despair he clung to
the appearance of things, and kept his teeth
tight-clenched upon an angry, bitter retort.  He was spared
all further temptation.  The door-bell rang, and
he turned to Nora with a quiet question as though
nothing had happened.

"Is that Miles, or is he at home?"

"It is Miles, probably.  He has been out all the
afternoon."

She, too, had recovered her self-possession and was
grateful to him for having ignored her outburst.
Nevertheless she knew that he would not forget, any
more than she would be able to do.

"Where has he been, do you know?"

"I am not sure.  He found it very dull here, and
went out with some English friends he has picked up.
Is there any harm in that?"

Again the same note of sneering defiance!  Wolff
kept his face steadily averted.

"Not so far.  But I do not like his English friends."

"I suppose not," she retorted.  "Everybody here
hates us."

"Us——?"  He turned at last and looked at her.

"——the English, I mean," she stammered.

He had no opportunity to reply.  The door opened,
and their little maid-of-all-work entered, bearing a
card.

"A gentleman to see the *gnädige Frau*," she said.
"Shall I show him in?"

Nora took the card.  She looked at it a long time.
Even in the half-darkness her pallor was so intense
that it caught Wolff's attention.  He saw her stretch
out her hand blindly as though seeking support.

"What is it?  What is the matter?" he asked.

She lifted her eyes to his, staringly, stupidly.  He
felt that she hardly saw him.

"Nothing—it is an old friend—from England."

The sound of her own voice seemed to bring her to
her senses.  She handed him the card, and her manner
from stunned bewilderment changed to something that
was intensely defiant.  There was a moment's silence.
Then Arnim turned to the waiting servant.

"Show him in here," he ordered.

"Wolff—how do you know I wish to see him?"

"An old friend—who has come so far to see you?
You surely cannot do otherwise.  Besides, why should
you not want to see him?"

He looked at her in steady surprise, so that the
suspicion which for one moment had flashed up in her
mind died down as quickly as it had come.  *He did
not know—he could not know*.  But the consciousness
of coming disaster weighed upon her like a crushing
burden.

"There is no reason.  Only I thought you might
not wish it."

"Your friends are my friends," he answered gravely.

And then the door opened a second time, and Robert
Arnold stood on the threshold.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ARNOLD RECEIVES HIS EXPLANATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   ARNOLD RECEIVES HIS EXPLANATION

.. vspace:: 2

A great physical change had come over him in the few
months of his absence.  He was pale and gaunt-looking,
as though he had but lately risen from a serious illness,
and his eyes, which fell at once on Nora's face, were
hollow and heavily underlined.

Nora noticed these details with the sort of mechanical
minuteness of a mind too stunned to grasp the full
magnitude of the situation.  One side of her intellect
kept on repeating: "Why has he come?  Why has he
come?" whilst the other was engrossed in a trivial
catalogue of the changes in his appearance.  "He
stoops more—he is thinner," she thought, but she
could not rouse herself to action.  Arnold, indeed,
gave her little opportunity.  After the first moment's
hesitation he advanced and held out his hand.

"I ought to have let you know of my coming, Nora,"
he said, "but I could not wait.  I have just arrived
in Berlin, and of course my first visit had to be to you.
I hope I have not chosen an inconvenient time?"

He was trying to speak conventionally, and was
successful, insomuch that Nora understood that she
had at present nothing to fear from him.  Not that
she felt any fear now that the first shock was over.  It
was with a certain dignity and resolution that she
looked from one man to the other.

"This is my husband, Robert," she said, "and this,
Wolff, is my old playfellow, Captain Arnold."

Wolff held out his hand frankly.

"I am glad to meet you," he said.  "I am glad for
my wife's sake when she has the chance of seeing her
old friends.  I hope, therefore, that your stay in Berlin
is to be a long one?"

Arnold bowed.

"I am on my way home to England," he said.
"How long I remain depends on circumstances."

"May the circumstances be favourable, then!"
Wolff returned.  His tone was warm—almost
anxiously friendly, and Nora looked at him in surprise
and gratitude.  His smiling face betrayed no sign of
the devil which he had grappled with and overcome
in one short moment of struggle.  He nodded
cheerfully at her.

"I am afraid you must play hostess alone for a little,
dear," he said.  "Captain Arnold, as a soldier you
will understand that duty can't be neglected, and you
will excuse me.  I have no doubt you will have a
great deal to talk about, and at supper-time I shall
hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again.  Whilst
you are in Berlin you must consider this your *pied-à-terre*."

"You are very kind," Arnold stammered.  Like
Nora, he too was impressed—uncomfortably
impressed—by the impetuous hospitality with which
Wolff greeted him.  Like Nora, also, he had no means
of knowing that it was the natural revolt of a
generous nature from the temptings of jealousy and
suspicion.

Wolff had lighted a small lamp, which he carried
with him to the door, together with a bundle of
documents.  For a moment he hesitated, looking back at
Nora, and the light thrown up into his face revealed
an expression of more than usual tenderness.

"Don't talk yourself tired, Frauchen," he said as
he went out.

Nora smiled mechanically.  She had had the feeling
that the words were nothing, that he had tried to
convey an unspoken message to her which she had
neither understood nor answered.  She gave herself
no time to think over it.  She switched on the electric
light, and turned to Arnold, who was still standing
watching her.

"Sit down, Robert," she said.  "As Wolff said, we
have a great deal to say to each other—at least, I
fancy you have come because you have a great deal
to say to me."

Her words contained a slight challenge, which, the
next moment, she felt had been out of place.  Arnold
sank down in the chair nearest to hand.  It was as
though he had hitherto been acting a part, and now
let the mask fall from a face full of weary hopelessness.

"You are right," he said.  "I have something to
say, Nora—I suppose, though, I ought to call you
Frau von Arnim?"

"You ought," she answered, irritated by his tone.
"But it does not matter.  I don't think Wolff minded."

A grim smile passed over Arnold's lips.

"Wolff seems a good-natured sort of fellow," he said.
There was again something disparaging in his tone
which brought the colour to Nora's cheeks.

"He is everything I could wish," she answered
proudly.  And then the hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes reminded her that she had done this man a cruel
injury, and her heart softened with pity and remorse.

"How pale and thin you have grown!" she
exclaimed.  "Have you been ill?"

"Very ill," he answered.  "I caught some swamp
fever or other out there in the wilds, and it was months
before they could get me back to the coast.  That is
why you never heard from me.  As soon as I reached
port I set straight off for home—to you."

"To me——!" she repeated blankly.

He nodded.

"Yes; to the woman I believed was to be my wife."

"Then you never got my second letter?"

"Did you write a second letter?"

He was looking her earnestly in the eyes, and there
was a stifled, tragic wretchedness in his own which
was terrible to look on.

"I wrote and explained everything," Nora, answered,
controlling her voice with an effort.  "I have behaved
badly to you, but not so badly as to leave you
undeceived."

"You sent me an explanation," he said slowly.
"Nora, it is that explanation which I have come to
seek.  When I first heard of your marriage, I made
up my mind that you were not worth suffering for.
I thought that I would go back to the forest and forget
you—if I could.  I meant never to see you again—I
felt I could not bear it.  But, Nora, a man's love is
not only a selfish desire for possession.  If he loves
truly, he puts into that love something of himself which
is a vital part of his life and being—his ideals and his
whole trust.  I suffered—not only because I had lost
you, but because I had lost my faith in every one.  You
seemed so good and true, Nora.  I felt I could never
trust another woman again.  That was unbearable.
For my own sake I had to come and ask you—if you
could explain."

He stopped abruptly, and there was a little silence.
He had spoken without passion, simply in that weary
monotone of those who have risen from great physical
or mental suffering; and Nora's heart ached with the
knowledge that she alone had brought this ruin upon him.

"You said, 'When I first heard of your marriage,'"
she began at last.  "When and how was that?"

"From Frau von Arnim," he answered.  "I thought
you might still be with her at Karlsburg, and the place
lay on my route.  It was Frau von Arnim who told me."

"Then—she knows everything?"

He saw the alarm on her face.

"As much as I know.  Forgive me, Nora; it was
inevitable—I could not believe what she told me.  I
am the more sorry because she is a hard, cold woman
who will make trouble.  That is another reason why
I have come.  I wanted to warn you."

Nora made a quick gesture—half of dissent, half of
doubt.

"You misjudge her," she said.  "She will forgive
and understand, as you must.  Oh, Robert, it makes
me miserable to think I have caused you so much pain,
but if I had to live my life again I could not have acted
otherwise than I did!"

Her voice had grown firmer, and as she spoke she
turned from her position by the window and faced
him with quiet confidence.

"I acted for what I believed to be the best,
Robert," she said.  "It was perhaps wrong what I
did, but I did not mean it to be—I meant to be just
and honourable.  But I was not strong enough.
That was my one fault."

Her clear, earnest tones brought back the light to
the tired eyes that watched her.

"I am glad," he said.  "I am glad that you can
explain.  That is all I have come for, Nora—to hear
from your own lips that you are not ashamed."

"I am not ashamed," she answered steadily.  And
then, in a few quick sentences she told him everything
that had led up to that final moment when Wolff
had taken her in his arms and the whole world had
been forgotten.  As she spoke, the past revived before
her own eyes, and she felt again a faint vibration of
that happiness which had once seemed immortal,
indestructible.

"I did not deceive you," she said at last, with
convincing sincerity.  "I wrote and told you that I
would marry you—not that I loved you.  I knew I
did not love you, because my love was given
elsewhere.  I loved Wolff already then, but there was a
barrier between us which I believed to be insurmountable.
I consented to become your wife because it
seemed the best and safest thing to do.  Afterwards—it
was almost immediately afterwards—the barrier
proved unavailing against our love, and I forgot
you.  That is the brutal truth.  I forgot you until
it was too late, because, you see, I did not feel more
for you than friendship, and because I really loved.
That was weak, no doubt, but I had never loved
before, and it was too strong for me.  A wiser woman
would have waited until she was free.  She would
have written to you and told you that it was all a
mistake.  I wrote to you afterwards.  That is the
only difference.  The letter did not reach you, and
you believed the worst of me.  It was only natural,
and I know I am to blame, but oh! if you really love,
surely you can understand?"

He smiled at her unconscious cruelty, and, rising,
took the outstretched hands in his.

"I do understand," he said, "and the blame is all
mine.  I should never have accepted your generous
gift of yourself without your love.  I might have
known that it would end badly.  But you were so
young, dear.  I thought I should be able to teach you
to love.  Well, some one else was cleverer and had
a better chance, perhaps, than I had.  I have no
right to blame, nor do you need to feel any remorse
on my account.  The worst wound is healed now that
I can understand.  My one prayer is that you may
be very, very happy."  He studied her upturned
face.  "You are happy, aren't you, Nora?"

For the shortest part of a minute she wavered.
She repeated the question to herself and wondered.

"Yes, of course I am happy," she replied almost
impatiently.  "Why should I not be?"

"I don't know.  Perhaps I am over-anxious for
you.  You see"—his faint smile betrayed how deep
his emotion was, in spite of all self-control—"I
still love you."

"I am glad," she answered frankly.  "I care for
you too, Robert, quite enough to make me very sad
if I should lose your regard.  It made me miserable
to think that you probably hated and despised me."

"I never did that, though I believe I tried," he
said.  "And now that I may not give you my love,
I may at least feel that I am your friend?  Grant
me that much, Nora.  It is very little that I
ask—your trust and friendship."

It was indeed very little that he asked, and he had
been more generous to her than she could have ever
dared to hope.  And yet she hesitated.

"Nora!" he cried "Surely I have not deserved
to lose everything!"

He was pleading as a beggar might have pleaded
for the crumbs beneath the table, and all that was
generous in her responded.  The hesitation, the
vague uneasiness passed.  She gave him her hand.

"Of course!  We have always been friends—we
must always be friends."

"Thank you, dear.  That is a great deal to me.
No other woman will ever come into my life."

"Don't!" she exclaimed, painfully moved.  "You
make me feel that I have spoilt your life."

"But you haven't, Nora.  You are just the only
woman I could ever have loved, and if I had not met
you I should be even lonelier than I am.  At least I
have your friendship."

His tone was composed, almost cheerful, but she
felt that he was at the end of his strength, and when,
after a quick pressure of the hand, he went towards
the door, she made no effort to recall him.  Her own
voice was strangled, and perhaps her face revealed
more than she knew, more than she was actually
conscious of feeling—a regret, an appeal, an almost
childish loneliness.  As though answering an
unexpected cry of pain, he turned suddenly and looked
at her.  He saw the all-betraying tears, and the next
minute he had come back to her side and had taken
her hands and kissed them.

"You must not!" he said gently.  "You are to
be happy—as I am.  Forgive me; it is the seal upon
our friendship—and a farewell."

She had not resisted.  She would have forgiven him,
because she understood; she would have put the
moment's surrender to passion from her memory as
something pardoned, but fate took the power of
forgiving and forgetting from her.  For the door had
opened, and Miles stood on the threshold, watching
them with an expression of blank amazement on his
flushed, excited face.

Arnold turned, too late conscious that they were
not alone, and Miles's amazement changed to a loud
delight.

"If it isn't old Arnold!" he exclaimed, flinging
coat and hat on to the nearest chair and stretching out
an unsteady hand.  "Why, we thought you were
dead and buried in some African wilderness, didn't
we, Nora?"

"You were not far wrong, then," Arnold answered.
"I was pretty well done for once, and am only just
beginning to feel that I really belong to this world
again."  He had recovered his self-possession with an
effort, and he went on quickly, almost as though he
were afraid of Miles's next words: "I was on my way
home, and took Berlin as a break.  Of course I had
to come and see you all."

Miles nodded.

"Decent of you," he said thickly.  "Nora will be
glad to have you in this foreign hole.  It's a
sickening shame——"  He stumbled and reeled up against
Arnold with an impatient curse.  The momentary
excitement over the unexpected arrival had passed,
leaving him bemuddled, in a dull but unmistakable
state of intoxication.  Arnold took him by the arm
and helped him to the nearest chair.

"You are a young fool," he said good-naturedly.
"German beer isn't so harmless as you seem to think.
What have you been doing with yourself?"

Miles passed his hand over his forehead with a
helpless movement, as though he were awakening
from a dream.

"It's not the drink," he stammered.  "It's not
the drink, I tell you.  It's—it's the money.  I'm
in a devil of a mess.  These dirty foreigners——"

"Oh, hush!" Nora cried.  For the moment
disgust and anger had passed.  She had heard Wolff's
footstep in the adjoining room, and a sudden terror
had come over her.  "Robert, take him away—quick!
And come back afterwards—Wolff may not
ask for him whilst you are here.  Oh, help me!"

Arnold nodded silently.  He lifted the hapless
Miles and half dragged, half carried him from the room.
He had no thought as yet of the future.  It had been
revealed to him in a flash that all was not well in
Nora's life; he had seen something like despair in
her face, and knew that she needed the strong hand
of a friend.

"And I am that—nothing else," he thought as he
closed Miles's door behind him.  "No one can blame
me if I claim the rights of friendship and help
her—no one!"

But Captain Robert Arnold, sure of his own honour,
forgot that the world, being less honourable, might
also be of another opinion.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NEMESIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   NEMESIS

.. vspace:: 2

It was her at-home day.  As she sat there, with her
hands clasped listlessly on her lap, it seemed as
though in imagination she saw the ghosts of other
days arise—days where the little room had been
crowded with eager, chattering friends who had come
to tell her and each other the latest news of their
servants, their husbands or the service, or to be
"intellectual," as the case might be.  She thought
she saw Frau von Seleneck seated on the sofa opposite
her, her round, rosy face bright with an irrepressible
optimism; she thought she heard the rich, contented
chuckle, and felt the maternal pat upon her arm.
Then her vision cleared, and the ghosts vanished.
The little room was empty of all but shadows, and she
was alone.

Presently the door of her husband's study opened.
She heard him come towards her, and knew that he
was standing at her side; but she did not look up.
She felt for the moment too listless, too weary, above
all too proud to let him see how deeply her new
isolation wounded her.

"All alone, dear?"

"Yes, all alone."

"I thought it was your at-home day?"

She tried to laugh.

"Yes, so it is.  But no one has come, you see."

"How is that?"

Then she looked up at him.

"You know quite well.  Everybody hates me."

"Nora!  That is not true."

She nodded.

"It is quite true.  The Selenecks have taken care
that none of my misdeeds should go forgotten.  They
can't forgive my—my intimacy with other people,
or my nationality."

"Your nationality?"

She got up with an impetuous, angry movement.

"Yes, my nationality."

He stood looking at her.  A new expression had
come into his grave face—an expression of sudden
understanding, of indescribable pain.  Then he came
towards her and put his arm about her shoulders.

"My little wife, don't, for God's sake, don't let that
come between us!  Be brave, fight it down.  It will
only be for a time.  Our—my people are easily hurt.
They think, perhaps, you despise them for their sober
ways—that they are not good enough for you.  Be
kind to them, and they will come back.  They would
forgive you anything."

She drew back from him.

"I do not want their forgiveness.  I do not want
them.  I am happiest alone."

He made no answer, but went slowly towards the
door.  She knew that she had hurt him, and in her
bitterness and wounded pride it gave her a painful
satisfaction to know that he too suffered.  Yet she
loved him; she knew, as he stood there with bent
head, that she would give her life for him—only she
could not surrender herself, her individuality, the old
ties of blood and instinct.  She could not, would not
break down the barrier which her race built between
them.  She was too proud, perhaps too hurt to try.

Suddenly Arnim looked up.  His features were
quiet and composed, and the gathering twilight hid
the expression in his eyes.

"Nora, where is Miles?"

"Still in bed.  He—he is not feeling well."

"The effects of yesterday?"  He laughed grimly.
"It seems to me, dear, that your brother would be
the better for some occupation—in his own country."

"You wish him to go?"

He met her challenge with an unfaltering determination
that was yet mingled with tenderness and pity.

"I think it better—before it is too late."

"What do you mean?"

"Before he ruins himself—or us."

"Wolff, you are not fair.  You are unjust."

He smiled sadly.

"I hope I am.  Good-bye, little woman.  I shall
try and be back early.  But perhaps Arnold will
come—and then you will not be alone."

He went out, closing the door quietly behind him.
The protest died on her lips; an icy sense of isolation
crept over her, obliterating for the moment all thought
of his injustice, of the slight which he had cast upon
her brother.  In her sudden weakness she held out
her arms towards the closed door and called his name,
feebly, like a frightened child crying in the dark.  But
he did not come back.  She heard his spurs jingle with
a mocking cheerfulness—and then silence.  So she
went back to her place by the window and sat there,
holding back with a pitiful pride the tears that burnt
her eyes.

Presently the door opened again.  She thought he
had come back, and with all her pride her heart beat
faster with a momentary, reasonless hope.  Then she
heard the click of the electric light and a man's voice
speaking to her.

"*Gnädige Frau*, may I come in?"

She sprang to her feet as though the voice had been
a blow, and saw Bauer standing on the threshold,
bowing, a curious half-ironical smile playing about his
mouth.  For the moment she could neither think nor
speak, but out of the depths of her consciousness arose
the old aversion, the old instinctive dread.  She knew
then, warned by that same occult power, that the time
had come when the dread should receive its justification.

"I found the door open, and ventured to enter
unannounced," Bauer went on calmly.  "I knew
from experience that the usual formalities would lead
to no result.  You have been 'out' a great deal of
late, *gnädige Frau*."  He came towards her without
hesitation, and, taking her passive hand, kissed it.
"Am I forgiven?"

His absolute ease of manner checked the rise of her
indignation.  She felt herself strangely helpless.  Yet
her dignity—her dignity as Wolff's wife—came to her
rescue.  She looked steadily into the still smiling
face.

"If I have been often out, it has not been a mere
chance, Herr Rittmeister," she answered.  "It has
been of intention—an intention which you would have
been wiser to respect."

"I see no good reason why I should respect your
husband's 'intentions,' *gnädige Frau*," he retorted
calmly.

"My husband's wishes are mine."

"Really?"  He laughed, and then grew suddenly
serious.  "In any case, it seems to me that I—we have
a right to some sort of an explanation.  To put it
baldly—there was a time when it pleased you to accept
my sister-in-law's hospitality and friendship.  Now,
it seems, neither she nor I are good enough for you."

Nora flinched involuntarily.  She knew that the
reproach was a just one, but she knew too that Wolff
had been right and only she to blame.  Instinct again
warned her.  She saw danger in this man's cold
eyes, in which there yet flickered the light of some
controlled passion either of hatred or some other
feeling to which she dared give no name.

"You have a right to an explanation," she said at
last, with an effort controlling her unsteady voice.
"Indeed, I owe you more than that—I owe you an
apology.  It was a mistake for me to enter into a circle
to which I did not belong; only you will do me the
justice to remember that it was a mistake not
altogether of my making."

"*Gott, gnädige Frau!*"  He laughed angrily.  "You
talk as though we were the dirt under your feet.  Is
it your husband's petty nobility which gives you the
right to look at me like that?  I too wear the King's
uniform—that is a point which you would do well to
remember."

"I have not forgotten it.  And there is no question
of contempt—I feel myself, Heaven knows, superior to
no one; but I repeat, it was a mistake to accept
kindness which could not be returned.  Surely you can
understand——"  She crushed down her pride, and
in the effort her bearing became prouder and colder.
"We are poor, Herr Rittmeister, your relations are
rich and live as we cannot live.  That alone is a barrier
between us."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"An excuse, *gnädige Frau*, an excuse!  I know the
opinions of your husband's class too well not to know
perfectly what you prefer not to tell me.  In any case,
your considerations are a little belated.  You should
have thought of all that before you allowed your brother
to enter into a circle"—he echoed her words with a
kind of mocking satisfaction—"in which he could not
sustain his position."

Nora started.  She knew now that there was a
menace in this man's looks and words.  She understood
that he would never have acted as he had done
without the sure conviction that the power was in his
hands.  What that power was she did not know—she
only knew that she was afraid.

"Sit down, *gnädige Frau*," he went on more calmly.
"You look pale, and I have something of importance
to tell you.  But before everything, I want you to
believe that I come to you as your friend."

He motioned her to be seated in the chair which he
had pushed towards her, and she obeyed him passively.
A sharply defined recollection of their first meeting
came back to her as she did so.  Then, too, he had
acted with the insolent assurance of a man who knows
himself master of the situation; but then she had had
the power of her independence.  Now she felt herself
bound, helpless in the bonds of circumstance—and her
own folly.

"It is of your brother I have come to speak," Bauer
went on, taking his place before her.  "Nothing
should prove my friendship better than the fact that
I have come in spite of the rebuff to which I knew I
should lay myself open.  But I could not see the crisis
break over you without a word of warning—without
offering you a helping hand."

She looked at him in mingled astonishment and anger.
His familiarity was more terrible to her than his
previous tone of menacing resentment.

"I do not understand you," she said coldly.

"Perhaps not.  But you must surely be aware that
your brother has not been living the most austere of
lives since his arrival in Berlin.  It may be that I am
a little to blame.  I thought by the way he talked that
he could well afford it, and encouraged him to share my
life with me.  Well, it appears now that he bragged
more than circumstances justified.  I do not speak of
the money he owes me nor his gambling-debts to my
friends.  Those I have already paid.  It was not
pleasant for me to be associated with a defaulting
gambler, and what I did I did for my own sake.  I ask
no thanks or credit for it.  But there are other
matters."  He had undone the buttons of his military coat, and
drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he laid before
her.  "That is a rough list of your brother's creditors,
with the amounts attached," he said.  "You will see
for yourself that he has understood the art of amusing
himself."

She took the list from him.  The figures swam before
her eyes and she fought against a deadly faintness.
From afar off she heard Bauer's voice roll on with the
unchanged calm of a lawyer for whom the matter had
only a professional interest.

"At the bottom you will see the sum-total, *gnädige
Frau*.  It runs into three figures, and it is possible
that my list is not complete.  The worst of it is that
your husband will be held responsible.  The credit
would never have been given to Mr. Ingestre if his
brother-in-law had not been Herr von Arnim, captain
on the general staff."

Nora rose unsteadily to her feet.

"It is impossible," she stammered incoherently.
"I know—Wolff hasn't the money—it is impossible.
Oh, how could he have been so foolish—so wicked!"  And
it was curious that in that moment she thought
less of the ruin which was bearing down upon her
husband than of the disgrace which had fallen upon
her brother, of Wolff's justified contempt and the
triumph of his friends.  Bauer had also risen and now
took a quick step to her side.

"*Gnädige Frau*, your brother has only done what
hundreds of young fellows do.  No doubt he hoped
that he would have time enough allowed him to pay.
Unfortunately, there are war-scares flying about, and
the tradespeople are a little shy of English customers.
I fear they will press payment.  But there is no need
for you to worry.  Your husband need never even
know that these debts existed.  A word from you and
they are paid and forgotten."

"What do you mean?"

"I will pay them."

"You?"

"Yes, I."  He came still closer, so that she could
hear his quick, irregular breathing.  "You English
are practical people," he went on, with an attempted
laugh.  "You know that there is precious little done
out of pure charity in this world.  If I help you out of
this difficulty it is on certain conditions."

"I do not want to hear them——"

"Why not?  They are simple enough.  The one
is that you should renew your friendship with my
sister-in-law.  It is awkward for her—this sudden
cooling off; and she has a right to expect some
consideration from you.  The other concerns myself.
I too must have your friendship—more than that—you,
your regard."  He took her hands and held them
in a brutal, masterful grip.  "You can't pretend you
don't know—you must have known I cared—from
the beginning—you——"

She wrenched herself free.  She had seen his eyes
and the hell in them, and, inexperienced though she
was, she knew that it was not even a so-called love
which he experienced, but a cruel thirst for conquest,
the hunger for revenge, the desire to retaliate where
he had been slighted and thwarted.  She reached
the door before he could restrain her, and with her
hand on the bell stood there facing him.  She seemed
unnaturally calm, and her scorn for the man who
had tried to trap her lent her a dignity, a look of
triumph which curbed his passion and held him for
the moment speechless.

"Please go," she said.

He bowed.

"By all means.  But I shall not take this as your
final answer."

"My husband will answer you—not I."

"Do you know what that will mean?"

"It will mean that I intend to have no secrets
from him."

"You misunderstand me.  Do you know the
consequences?  Your husband, as a man of honour,
will challenge me.  I shall have the choice of weapons,
and I swear to you that I will kill him."

She said nothing.  Her eyes had dilated, and
every trace of colour had left her face; but she
retained her attitude of proud defiance, and he went
past her through the open door.

"You see, I can be patient," he said, looking back
at her.  "My sister-in-law is giving a ball on the
18th.  If you are there I shall understand.  If
not——"  He shrugged his shoulders.  "No doubt
your husband will see his way to settling Mr. Ingestre's
troubles.  As they stand, they are likely to cost
him his collar.  *Auf Wiedersehen, gnädige Frau*."

He was gone.  She waited until the last echo of
his steps had died on the wooden stairway, then she
tottered forward and sank into Wolff's chair, her
face buried in her hands.  She did not cry, and no
sound escaped her lips.  She sat there motionless,
bereft of thought, of hope, almost of feeling.  The
end, the crisis to which she had been slowly drifting
was at hand.  It seemed to her that she heard the
roar of the cataract which was to engulf her.  And
there was no help, no hope.

It was thus Miles Ingestre found her an hour later.
Knowing that Arnim was out, he had donned a dressing-gown
and now stood staring blankly at his sister, his
hair disordered, his yellow face a shade yellower from
the last day's dissipation.

"Why, Nora!" he said sleepily.  "What's the
matter, old girl?"

She looked up.  His voice gave her back the power
at least to act.

"Rittmeister Bauer has been here," she said.
"He gave me this.  Is it true?"

He took the paper which she held towards him
and studied it, rocking on his heels the while in an
uneasy silence.

"Yes, it seems true enough.  What the devil did
he give it you for?"

"He says the creditors are likely to press
payment—and—and—Wolff will be held responsible.  Oh,
Miles, what have you done?  What have you done?"

The last words broke from her like a cry of despair.
They seemed to penetrate the thickness of Miles's
phlegm, for he laid his hand on her shoulder, his
lips twitching with a maudlin self-pity.

"It wasn't my fault, Nora.  I didn't know what
they were leading me into.  If Wolff had only helped
me a bit—if he hadn't been such a stuck-up prig, so
beastly self-righteous.  There, you needn't break out!
I can't help it—it's the truth; it's not all my
fault."  He ran his shaky hand through his hair.  "And,
after all, there isn't so much to make a fuss about.
Everybody in our set does that sort of thing, and I
dare say Bauer will tide me over the worst.  He's a
decent fellow, and beastly rich.  Look here, Nora"—his
shifty eyes took an expression of stupid cunning—"if
you asked him—you know he's a friend of yours—I'll
be bound he'd help me."

Nora turned and looked at him.  In that moment
he seemed to her a complete stranger.  Then she
gently loosened herself from his hand.  She did not
answer.  It was too useless.  She rose and left him
standing there, the silly smile still playing about
his lips.





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.. _`THE FETISH`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FETISH

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"Your mother is very ill," the Rev. John had written,
"and I am in an indescribable state of anxiety both
on her account and yours.  Everybody here is quite
certain that there is going to be war between us and
Germany.  Only yesterday the squire was down
here talking to me about it.  He says there is no
hope, and that the conflict is bound to come.  I
do not understand politics myself, but it seems the
Germans are determined to destroy us and get our
power.  It is very dreadful that a whole nation
should show itself so avaricious, and I am sure God
will help us punish so wicked and wanton an attack.
All Delford is already on foot, and quite a number
of young men are thinking of enlisting in the
Territorials.  The squire says it is a magnificent sight
to see how the whole country rises at the call of danger.
He himself has done not a little to help the general
patriotic movement, and has opened a shooting-range
in a field, where he is teaching his men to shoot.  The
sound of the guns makes me quite nervous, and is
very bad for your poor mother, but the squire says
it is helping to produce the best shots in Europe,
so we must not complain, but bring our sacrifice to
the motherland with a cheerful countenance.  Nevertheless,
I am terribly troubled.  If war should break
out—which God forbid!—what will become of you,
my poor child, out there in the enemy's country?
Could you not make your mother's health an excuse
to come back to us, at any rate until the present
crisis is over?  Wolff will surely understand that
you cannot stay in Germany if there is war.  Find
out from him what he thinks of the chances, and
notice if there are any signs of preparation.  If you
can, come home.  Your mother is very much against
it, but she is ill and hardly understands the seriousness
of the situation.  We must all stand together
in the moment of danger, and I am sure your heart
is aching for the dear old country, and that you are
longing to be with us.  I have written to Miles that
he is to return as soon as ever he thinks fit.  He
seems to be very tied by his studies, so that I do
not like to press a hasty decision.  You must talk
it over together."

Nora had received this letter by the afternoon's
post.  She was reading it a second time when Wolff
entered the room.  He had on his parade uniform,
and the cheery clatter of his sword and spurs jarred
on her overstrung nerves.

"Why this magnificence?" she asked, trying
to disguise her unreasonable irritability.  "Is there
anything unusual?"

"A review to which I am commanded," he answered
quietly.  "I may be home a little late for
supper.  I expect you will go and see Aunt Magda
and Hildegarde.  They will think it curious if you
do not go soon."

"They have only just arrived," Nora said in the
same tone of smothered irritation.  "I could not
have gone before."

Wolff bent over the back of her chair and kissed her.

"Please go!" he said coaxingly.  "You used to
be fond of them both, and they have been very good
to us.  Be nice to them—for my sake."

She was silent a moment, as though struck by a
new thought.  Then she nodded.

"I shall go this afternoon.  Robert was coming,
but it does not matter."

"Captain Arnold?"  Wolff drew himself suddenly
upright.  "Were you expecting him?"

"Yes; he was coming to see me.  Have you any
objection?"

She had heard the colder, graver note in his voice,
and it stung her.  Was Arnold also to come between
them—Arnold, in whose hands lay the one chance
of rescue from the coming catastrophe?  Was her
last friend to be taken from her by a reasonless,
unworthy distrust?  She looked up into her husband's
tanned face with a directness which was not unlike
defiance.

"*I* have no objection," he answered her at last.
"You know everything pleases me that makes you
happy.  I only beg of you to be careful."

"Careful!" she echoed.

"Captain Arnold has been in Berlin a month,"
he went on.  "It is obvious that he has stayed for
your sake, and for my part I am glad enough.  But
there are the evil tongues, little wife."

She sprang to her feet.  If she could only have
told him, only unburdened her heart of its crushing
trouble, then perhaps he would understand, and the
widening cleft between them be bridged.  The words
of a reckless confession trembled on her lips; but
she remembered Bauer and his promise: "I swear
I will kill him"; and the confession turned to bitterness,
to an impotent revolt against the circumstances
of her life.

"The evil tongues!" she echoed scornfully.  "Why
should I mind what they say now?  They have
taken everything from me—all my friends.  I have
only Robert left.  Is it wrong to have friends in
this country—friends who do not listen to the verdict
of—of enemies?"

"It is not wrong, but it can be dangerous," he
answered.  "You have no enemies, Nora, only
people who do not understand you and whom you
have hurt.  You have always been unfortunate in
your friends.  They have all stood between you and
those to whom, by your position, you belong."

"You mean that if Arnold were German—'one of
us,' as you would say—it would not matter?"

"Not so much."

She laughed angrily.

"How jealous you are!" she exclaimed.  "How
petty and jealous!"

"Nora!"  He was white to the lips, and the
hand which had fallen involuntarily on his sword-hilt
showed every bone of the knuckles, so tense was
the grip.  Something in his expression frightened her.

"I do not mean you alone," she stammered, "but
all of you.  You are jealous of us and you hate us.
When you marry one of us, you do your best to
isolate her, to cut her off from her country and her
people."

"Is that not inevitable—right, even?  But have
I done that?"

"No."

Her conscience smote her as she looked up at him
standing erect and stern before her.  She realised
that another and graver issue had arisen between
them—an issue that was perhaps the source of all.
She realised that there had been something more than
fear and a consequent irritability in her attitude
towards him.  She had not seen her husband in him,
but only the representative of thousands who might
soon be marching against her country, and for one short
minute at least she had hated him.  The realisation
horrified her, drove her to a reckless attempt at
atonement.

"Oh, forgive me, Wolff!" she cried eagerly.  "I
am simply unbearable this afternoon.  Father has
written a worrying letter—about mother—and that
made me nervous and bad-tempered.  Forgive me,
dear.  Don't be angry at the silly things I have
said."

He yielded to the hands that drew him towards her,
and kissed her, but rather gravely, as though he
more than half-doubted her explanation.

"I am not angry, Nora.  I only ask you to try
and understand.  God knows"—she thought his
voice changed, and grew less certain—"I would never
willingly come between you and any one you cared
for, but I have my honour to protect, and your
honour is mine."

"Wolff, what do you mean?  Have I done anything
dishonourable?"

"No, dear.  You cannot see things from my standpoint.
You have been brought up with other ideas.
I have tried to explain before.  We have a double
task.  For our names' sake and for the sake of the
uniform we wear we must keep ourselves from the
very breath of evil.  And that applies to every one
connected with us."

Nora drew her hands away.

"I think I understand," she said.  "For those
two fetishes everything must be sacrificed.  I will
do my best to satisfy them and you."

"Thank you, Nora.  I trust you implicitly."

She went to the door, hesitated, and then stole
out.  But in that moment's hesitation she had caught
a glimpse of him standing at his table in an attitude
of dejection, and had heard a smothered sigh of pain.

"I am miserable," she thought, "and I have made
him miserable.  How will it all end?"

In trembling haste she dressed and hurried out.
She had a one all-dominating desire to seek help and
comfort from some one who could understand her,
some one, too, who held Wolff's happiness higher than
her own and could be just to both.  She needed a
woman's comfort, and she turned now to Frau von
Arnim.  Hitherto she had shrunk from the inevitable
meeting, now she sought it with the desperation of
one who knows no other course.  She had indeed no
one else to turn to.  Before Wolff she was tongue-tied.
It was not only that silence was forced upon her by a
mingled pride and fear; the subtle understanding
between them had been rudely broken, and though
their love for each other remained, they had inwardly
become something worse than strangers.  For there
is no reserve so complete, so insurmountable, so
surcharged with bitterness as that which follows on
a great passion.  And then, too, what had she to say
to him?  "I love you; but I have brought ruin upon
your life.  I love you; but I am not happy with
you."  Had she even the right to say that to him?  Was
it not, in any case, useless?  Yet she knew she must
unburden her heart, if for no other reason than that
the power to keep silence was passing out of her
hands.

Thus it was natural that her footsteps turned for
the first time towards the little flat near the
Brandenburger Tor.  And on her road she met Arnold
himself.  It was as though fate pursued her.

"I was on my way to you," he said quietly, as he
turned to walk by her side.  "I have something to
tell you, and should have been sorry if we had missed.
It is about Miles."

Nora glanced at him, and her eyes were full of a
miserable gratitude.

"How good you are to me!" she said.  "I
have not deserved it; you are my only friend here."

"Surely not," he answered.  "What I can do is
little enough.  I have found out the full extent of
Miles's liabilities and have endeavoured to persuade
his creditors to wait.  Unfortunately, they are
obdurate on the subject.  They believe there is going
to be war and that your brother might leave Berlin
suddenly.  It seems to me that you should do one of
two things, Nora—either allow me to—to advance
the money, or to tell your husband the truth."

She put up her hand with a movement of involuntary
protest.

"You know that the first is out of the question,"
she said proudly.  "And the second!  Oh, Robert,
I am afraid!  It may ruin Wolff, and then—they hate
each other so.  Wolff will send him away, and——"

She broke off with a quick breath that was like
a sob.

"Isn't that the best thing that can happen?"
Arnold answered.  "Your brother will never do any
good here.  He is better in England."

"Yes, I know, I know.  He has been weak and
foolish.  He is so—young."  Her voice was full of
a piteous apology.  "And perhaps it was my fault—a
little, at least.  But I can't let him go, Robert.
Whatever else he is, he is my brother, and I am so
alone."

"Alone!"  He looked at her aghast.  "What
do you mean?"

"Don't you understand?  It's so easy—so simple.
I am a stranger here.  I am hated and distrusted.
I suppose it was inevitable.  In a few days you will
have gone, and if Miles goes too I shall have no one
left——"

"Nora!" he interrupted sternly.  "There is
your husband."

"Wolff—yes, there is Wolff.  Robert, they say
there will be war.  Is it true?"

He frowned with perplexity.  For the moment he
could not follow her thought, and her question seemed
to him erratic and purposeless.

"It is possible.  For my part, I hope it may come
to that.  Things have been drifting to a crisis for a
long time, and we must assert ourselves once and for
all.  These beggars are beginning to suspect us of
fear or incompetence, and the sooner they are
disillusioned the better."  Suddenly he caught a glimpse
of her face, and stopped short.  "Nora, what is the
matter?"

"You forget," she said hoarsely.  "I am not
English any more."

They walked on in silence, Arnold too startled
and overwhelmed by the conflict which she in one
short sentence had revealed to him to speak or
think.

"I was a thoughtless fool," he said at last.  "For
the moment I could not imagine you as anything
but my own countrywoman.  Now I see; and it is
terrible for you—terrible.  Even marriage cannot
blot out one's nationality."

They had reached the door of the Arnims' flat, and
she stopped and faced him with wide-open, desperate
eyes.

"Nothing can!" she said.  "And I know this—if
there is war it will break my heart, or drive me
mad.  I don't know which."

Never before had she felt so drawn to him by all
the ties of friendship and blood, and yet she went up
the steps without a word of farewell.  Arnold
understood, and looked after her with a tender pity.  He
believed that he had crushed all passion out of his
heart, but that a love remained which was infinitely
greater, purified, as it seemed, from the dross of
selfish desire.  He felt as he stood there that he would
willingly have given his life to save her from the
threatening struggle, and yet—such is the irony of
things—in that same moment he unconsciously
brought her even deeper into the complicated tangle
of her life.  The door had opened, and a short, plump
little woman stood on the threshold.  She saw Nora,
bowed, hesitated as though she would have spoken;
then her eyes fell on Arnold, and she passed on down
the steps with a cold, blank stare.

"Who was she, I wonder?" Arnold thought
indifferently.  "What was the matter?"

Poor Nora could have answered both questions,
and a numbing sense of hopelessness crept over her as
she toiled slowly up the stone stairs.  She felt already,
without knowing why, that she had come in vain.
They were all her enemies, they all hated her.  Why
should Frau von Arnim be different from the rest?
Had not Arnold said, "She is a cold, hard woman who
will make trouble"?  And yet, as she entered the
narrow sitting-room of her aunt's new home, something
of her first hope revived.  Frau von Arnim was alone.
She stood at the writing-table by the window,
apparently looking out into the street, and Nora saw
the resolute, aristocratic profile and graceful figure
with a heart-throb of relief.  This woman was like
her mother in all that was noble and generous—perhaps
she would be to her as a mother, perhaps she
would really understand and help her in her great
need.

"Aunt Magda!" she said.  Her voice sounded
breathless.  A curious excitement possessed her, so
that she could say no more.  She felt that everything,
her whole future life, depended on Frau von Arnim's
first words.

The elder woman turned slowly.  Had the faintest
warmth of kindness brightened her face, Nora might
have flung herself into her arms and poured out the
whole story of her errors, her sorrows, her aching sense
of divided duty; but Frau von Arnim's face was
cold, impassive, and the hand she extended indifferent,
her kiss icy.  Nora drew back.  In an instant
everything in her had frozen.  A dawning bitterness and
resentment shut the gates of her heart against all
confidence, all affection.  She felt that here was an
enemy from whom she need expect neither help nor
mercy, and she seated herself with the hard, set face
of a criminal who knows that he is before an unjust
judge.

"I am glad that you have come at last, Nora,"
Frau von Arnim said calmly.  "We had been
hoping to see you some days ago.  No doubt you
have a great many friends who claim your attention."

Her quiet words were free from all sarcasm, and,
indeed, every trace of feeling, but they stung Nora
by their very indifference.

"I came as soon as I thought you would be glad
to see me," she said.  "I did not think you would
want visitors whilst you were settling down."

Frau von Arnim studied the sullen girlish face
opposite.  She might well have retorted that a helping
hand is always welcome, even in "settling down," and
that Frau von Seleneck, despite her own household
cares, had been daily to lend her advice and assistance.
But it was not Magda von Arnim's custom to reproach
for neglect, and, moreover, she had another and more
important matter on her mind.

"Hildegarde is lying down at present," she said in
answer to Nora's question, "and perhaps it is just as
well.  I have something I wish to speak to you about
whilst we are alone."

Nora stiffened in her chair.  She felt already
trapped and browbeaten, and her eyes were bright
with defiance as they met Frau von Arnim's steady
gaze.

"I would have written to you," Frau von Arnim
went on, in the same judicial tone, "but I knew that
my letters would find their way into Wolff's hands, and
at that time I felt sure that you have some sufficient
explanation to offer us for the unbelievable story which
your friend, Captain Arnold, was clumsy enough to
relate to us.  I felt, as I say, sure that there was some
painful mistake, and one which it would be unkind
and useless to tell Wolff.  Besides, for your sake I
thought it better to wait.  If there was some mistake,
as I firmly believed, a letter could only have troubled
and puzzled you.  So I waited, meaning to ask you
privately for an explanation.  Since I have been in
Berlin I have heard enough to see that my caution
was altogether unnecessary."

"Aunt Magda!"

Frau von Arnim lifted a quiet hand, as though to
command silence.

"It is obvious that Captain Arnold must have told
you of our interview," she said, "and obvious that you
have remained his friend.  I hear that he is constantly
at your house.  I do not know what Wolff thinks and
feels on the matter.  He loves you, and is himself
too honourable not to have a blind confidence in you.
That, however, is not sufficient.  *I* must know whether
that confidence is justified."

Nora wondered afterwards that she did not get up
then and go.  Every inflection of the calm voice was
a fresh insult, and yet she felt spell-bound, incapable
of either attack or self-defence.  In her mind she kept
on repeating, "YOU are cruel, wicked, and unjust!"
but the words were never spoken; they were stifled
by the very violence of her indignation and growing
hatred.

Frau von Arnim saw the hatred and interpreted it in
the light of her own bitterness.  For, little as Nora
knew it, her "enemy" was suffering intensely.  There
were in Frau von Arnim's heart two things worth
more to her than love or happiness: they were the
fetishes against which Nora had railed in scorn and
anger—"*Standesehre*" and pride of name.  Since her
arrival in Berlin a scandal had drifted to Frau von
Arnim's ears which had been like a vital blow at the
two great principles on which her life was built; and
had Wolff been the cause instead of Nora she would
not have been less severe, less indignant.  As it was,
she saw in his wife a careless, perhaps unworthy bearer
of her name and her scorn and disappointment
smothered what had been, and might still have been,
a deep affection.

"I must ask you to answer one question," she
continued.  "Was it true what Captain Arnold told me?
Were you his promised wife at the time when you
married Wolff?"

Nora's lips parted as though in an impulsive answer,
then closed again, and for a moment she sat silent,
with her eyes fixed full on her interlocutor's face.  The
time had surely come to give her explanation, to appeal
to the other's pity and sympathy for what had, after
all, been no more than an act of youthful folly—even
generous in its impulse.  But she could say nothing.
The stern, cold face froze her in a prison of ice, and she
could do no more than answer in a reckless affirmative.

"Yes; it was perfectly true."

"Do you think your conduct was honourable, or
fair to Wolff?  Have you no explanation to offer?"

Nora rose to her feet.  She was white with anger and
indignation.

"None that I need offer you, Frau von Arnim,"
she said.  Unconsciously she had reverted to the old
formal title, and in her blind sense of injury and
injustice she did not see the spasm of pain which passed
over the elder woman's face.

Frau von Arnim also rose.  She appeared calm almost
to the point of indifference, but in reality her whole
strength was concentrated on the suppression of her
own emotion, and for once in a way the generous-minded,
broad-hearted woman saw and understood
nothing but herself.

"You force me to speak openly, Nora," she said.
"I must point out to you that you have done
something which in our eyes is nearly unpardonable.  An
engagement is almost as binding as a marriage and
until it is dissolved no honourable woman or man has
the right to enter into another alliance.  But that is
what you did; and whether you have an explanation
to offer or not, makes, after all, no difference.  What
is done cannot be undone.  But you are now no longer
the Miss Ingestre who was free to act as she chose in
such matters.  You are my nephew's wife, and you bear
our name and the responsibility which it implies.
Whatsoever you do reflects itself for good or evil upon
him and upon us all.  Therefore we have the right
to control your conduct and to make this demand—that
you keep our name from scandal.  That you have not
done.  From every quarter I hear the same warnings,
the same insinuations.  It is not only Captain Arnold
who has caused them—I alone know the worst—it is
your friendship with people outside our circle, your
neglect of those to whom you are at least bound by
duty, if not by affection.  Before it goes too far to
be mended, I ask—I demand that your intimacy with
these people and with this Captain Arnold should
cease."

"Captain Arnold is my friend," Nora exclaimed.
"The only friend I have."

Had Frau von Arnim been less self-absorbed that
one sentence might have opened her eyes and shown
her a pitiful figure enough, overburdened with trouble
and loneliness.  But Nora's head was thrown back,
and the defiant attitude blinded the other to the
tears that were gathered in the stormy, miserable eyes.

"You appear only to consider yourself and your
own pleasure," Frau von Arnim answered, "and that
is not the point.  The point is, what is good for Wolff
and Wolff's reputation?  It is not good for either that
your name should be coupled with another man's, or
that his brother-in-law should, in a few weeks, make
himself renowned as a drunkard and a reprobate."

Nora took an impulsive step forward.  She had
come to make her confession, her explanation, to throw
the burden of her brother's delinquencies upon these
stronger shoulders.  Now everything was forgotten
save resentment, the passionate need to defend herself
and her blood from insult.

"That is not true!" she stammered.  "Nothing
that you have said is true.  I have not been dishonourable,
and Miles——"  She broke off because her conscience
accused her, and a smile of bitterness passed
over Frau von Arnim's pale features.

"Then all I can say is that English people must
have an extraordinary sense of honour," she said.

Perhaps she regretted her own hasty words, but it
was too late to recall them.  A blank silence followed.
Both felt that the straining bond between them had
snapped and that they stood opposite each other like
two people separated by an untraversable river.

Nora went to the door and from thence looked back
at the proud figure of her adversary.

"You have no right to speak to me as you have
done," she said in a voice that she strove in vain to
steady.  "What I do concerns no one but Wolff and
myself, and I need not and shall not alter my life
because of what you have said.  You can do what you
like—tell Wolff everything: I am not afraid.  As to
what you said about us—the English—it only proves
what I already knew—you hate us because you
envy us!"

And with this explosion of youthful jingoism she
closed the door upon her last hope of help and comfort.
But outside in the narrow, dusky hall she broke down.
A strange faintness came over her, which numbed
her limbs and senses and drew a veil before her eyes.
A cry rose to her lips, and had that cry been uttered
it might have changed the whole course of her life,
sweeping down the barrier between her and the stern-faced
woman by its very weakness, its very pitifulness.
But she crushed it back and, calling upon the last
reserves of her strength, went her way, too proud to
plead for pity where she had already found judgment.





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.. _`WAR-CLOUDS`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   WAR-CLOUDS

.. vspace:: 2

Nora had not seen Arnim the whole morning.  He sat
in his study with the door locked, and the orderly had
injunctions to allow no one to disturb him.
Nevertheless, towards midday a staff-officer was shown
through the drawing-room into Wolff's sanctum, and
for an hour the two men were together, nothing being
heard of them save the regular rise and fall of their
voices.

"What has the fellow come about?" Miles demanded
in a tone of injury.  "One would think they
were concocting a regular Guy Fawkes plot, with their
shut doors and their whisperings—or making plans
for the Invasion."

Nora looked at her brother.  He was lying full-length
on the sofa, reading the latest paper from home;
and as he had done very little else since he had lounged
in to breakfast an hour late, complaining of a severe
headache, Nora strongly suspected him of having
varied the "Foreign Intelligence" with supplementary
instalments of his night's repose.

"Is there any news?" she asked.  She put the
question with an effort, dreading the answer, and Miles
grunted angrily.

"Things don't move much one way or the other,"
he said.  "They stay as bad as they can be.  The
beggars won't go for us—they're funking it at the last
moment, worse luck!"

"Why 'worse luck'?"

"Because it is time the cheek was thrashed out of
them."  He turned a little on one side, so as to be
able to see his sister's face.  "What are you going to
do when the trouble begins?" he asked.

Nora's head sank over her work.

"I shall stay by my husband."

"Poor old girl!"

Nora made no answer.  She was listening to the
voices next door, and wondering what they were
saying.  Was Miles's suggestion possible?  Was it
true that her husband sat before his table hour after
hour absorbed in plans for her country's ruin, his
whole strength of mind and body set on the supreme
task?  And if so, what part did she play—she, his
wife?

"And you, Miles?" she asked suddenly.  "What
will you do?"

He laughed uneasily.

"If my Jew friend gives me the chance, I shall
make a bolt for it," he said.  "It's a nuisance having
all these confounded debts.  I wish you weren't so
stand-offish with the Bauers, Nora.  If you had only
sugared them a little——"

"Don't!" she interrupted almost sternly.  "Your
debts must be paid somehow, but not that way.
Wolff must be told."

"Wolff!"  He stared at her open-mouthed.

"There is nothing else to be done, unless father
can help you."

"The pater won't move a finger," Miles assured
her.  "And if you tell your righteous husband, there
will be the devil of a row."

He sat up rather abruptly as he spoke, for at that
moment the study door opened, and Wolff and his
visitor entered.  Both men looked absorbed and
tired, and Wolff's usually keen eyes had an absent
expression in them, as though he were mentally
engaged in some affair of importance and difficulty.
His companion, however, a tall, ungainly major whom
Nora had always liked because of his openly-expressed
admiration for her husband's abilities, immediately
assumed his manner of the gay and empty-headed
cavalier.

"You must forgive my taking so much of your
husband's time, *gnädige Frau*," he said as he kissed
Nora's hand.  "I had some rather stiff calculations,
and I simply couldn't do them alone—you have
no doubt heard what a dull person I am—so I came
round to Arnim for help.  There is nothing like
having a clever junior, is there?"

He turned to Wolff with his easy, untroubled
smile, but Wolff's face remained serious.  He was
buckling on his sword in preparation for departure,
and appeared not to have heard his major's facetious
self-depreciation.

"By the way, I have a small invitation for you,
*gnädige Frau*," the elder officer went on.  "A sort
of peace-offering, as it were.  My wife is driving out
to see the Kaiser's review this afternoon, and asks
if you would care to accompany her.  If you have
not seen it before it will be well worth your while
to go."

"Thank you.  I should be delighted!" Nora said
eagerly.  She knew Major von Hollander's wife as
a harmless if rather colourless woman, who had as
yet shown no signs of joining in the general boycott
to which Nora was being subjected.  Besides, every
instinct in her clamoured for freedom from her
thoughts and from the stuffy, oppressive atmosphere
of this home, which seemed now less a home than a
prison.  She accepted the offer, therefore, with a
real enthusiasm, which was heightened as she saw
that her ready answer had pleased Wolff.  He came
back after the major had taken his leave, and kissed her.

"Thank you, Nora," he said.  "It is good of you
to go."

"Why good of me?  I want to go."

"Then I am grateful to you for wanting."

Nora did not understand him, nor did she see that
he was embarrassed by her question.  She felt the
tenderness in his voice and touch, and it awoke in
her a sudden response.

"Don't overwork, dear," she said.  "Couldn't
you come with us?"

"I can't, little woman.  When the Emperor calls——"

He finished his sentence with a mock-heroic gesture,
and hurried towards the door.  The major had
coughed discreetly outside in the narrow hall, and
in an instant duty had resumed its predominating
influence in his life.

Nora took an involuntary step after him and laid
her hand upon his arm.  She wanted to hold him back
and tell him—she hardly knew what; perhaps the
one simple fact that she loved him in spite of
everything, perhaps that she was sorry her love was so
frail, so wavering; perhaps even, if they had been
alone, she would have thrown down the whole burden
of her heart and conscience with the appeal, "Forgive
me!  Help me!"

It was one of those fleeting moments when, in the
very midst of discord, of embittered strife, a sudden
tenderness, shortlived but full of possibilities, breaks
through the walls of antagonism.  Something in
Wolff's voice or look had touched Nora.  She remembered
the first days of their marriage, and with hasty,
groping fingers sought to link past with present.

"Wolff!" she said.

Very gently, but firmly, he loosened her clasp.
He heard the major move impatiently; he knew
nothing of the bridge which she had lowered for
him to cross and take her in his old possession.  And
even if he had known he could not have acted otherwise.

"I must go, dear," he said.  "I am on important
duty."

"More important than I am?"

"Yes, even more important than you are!"

She drew back of her own accord and let him go.
The moment's self-surrender was gone, and because
it had been in vain the gulf between them had
widened.

Miles laughed as he saw her face.

"It must be amusing to be married to a German,"
he said.  "I suppose you are never an important
duty, are you?"

Nora went out of the room without answering.
She almost hated Miles for his biting, if disguised
criticism; she hated herself because it awoke in her
an echo, a bitter resentment against her husband.
She was the secondary consideration: he proved
it every day of his life.  His so-called duty was no
more in her eyes than an insatiable ambition which
thrust every other consideration on one side.  He
had never yet given up a day's work to her pleasure;
he sat hour after hour locked in his room, and toiled
for his advancement, indifferent to her loneliness,
to the bitter struggle which was being fought out
in the secrecy of her heart; and when she came to
him, as in that vital moment, with outstretched
hands, pleading for his help and pity, he had thrust
her aside because, forsooth, he had "important
duty"!  He was like those other men she had met
who dressed their wives like beggars rather than go
with a shabby uniform or deny themselves a good
horse.  He was selfish, self-important, and she was
no more in his life than a toy—or at most an unpaid
housekeeper, as her father had prophesied.  How
right they had been, those home-people!  How true
their warnings had proved themselves!  Her love
had intoxicated her, blinded her to the insurmountable
barriers.  She saw now, more clearly than ever before,
in her dawning recognition, that she stood alone,
without a friend, in the innermost depths of her
nature a stranger even to her husband.  And he
had not helped her.  He had left her to her solitude,
he had cut her off from the one companion who might
have made her life bearable.  He was as narrow, as
bigoted as the rest of those who judged her by the
poor standard of their foreign prejudices and customs.
The thought of that last interview with Frau von
Arnim was fuel to the kindling fire in Nora's brain.
She had been treated like a criminal—or, worse,
like a silly child who has been caught stealing.  She
had been ordered to obedience like a will-less inferior
who has been admitted into the circle of higher beings
and must submit to the extreme rigour of their laws.
Whereas, it was she who had condescended, who had
sacrificed her more glorious birthright to associate
with them!  All that was obstinate and proud in
Nora's nature rose and overwhelmed the dread of
the threatening consequences.  Let Frau von Arnim
tell her husband the truth as she knew it!  Let
Wolff despise her, cast her and hers from him as,
according to his rigid code of honour, he was bound
to do!  It would but hasten the catastrophe which
in Nora's eyes was becoming inevitable.  Her love
for her husband sank submerged beneath the accumulation
of a bitterness and an antagonism which was
not so much personal as national.

Thus it was in no peaceful or conciliatory mood
that she took her place in Frau von Hollander's carriage
that afternoon.  Her manners were off-hand, her
remarks tinged with an intentional arrogance which
led her meek companion to the conclusion that
public opinion was right, after all, and *die kleine
Engländerin* an intolerable person.  Nevertheless, she
did her best to act the part of amiable hostess, and
attempted to draw Nora's attention to the points of
interest as they passed.

"All the regiments in Berlin will be there," she
said with a pardonable pride.  "That is not a thing
one can see every day, you know.  It will be a
grand sight.  They are the finest regiments in the
world."

"In Germany, perhaps," Nora observed.

Her companion made no answer, and Nora tried
to believe that she was satisfied with her own
sharpness.  How these foreigners boasted!  It was a good
thing to point out to them that not every one was
so impressed with their marvels.

Yet, as they reached the Tempelhofer Felde Nora
had hard work to restrain her naturally lively interest
and curiosity from breaking bounds.  The regiments
had already taken up their positions.  Solid square
after square, they spread out as far as the eye could
reach, a motionless bulwark of strength, bayonets
and swords glittering like a sea of silver in the bright
December sunshine.  Wolff had taught Nora to
recognise them, and she took a curious pride in her
knowledge, though she said nothing, and her eyes
expressed a cold, critical indifference.

"How fine the *Kürassiers* look!" Frau von Hollander
said enthusiastically.  "I have a cousin among
them.  They are all six-foot men—a regiment of
giants."

"Rather like our Horse Guards," Nora returned;
"but your horses are not so fine."

Frau von Hollander pursed her lips, and the bands
striking up with the National Anthem put an end to
the dangerous colloquy.  The colour rushed to Nora's
cheeks as she listened to the massed sound.  She
thought for an instant it was "God Save the King"
that they were playing, and the tears of a deeply
stirred patriotism rushed to her eyes.  It was only a
moment's illusion.  Then the dazzling simultaneous
flash of arms, a loud, abrupt cheer from the crowd
about them reminded her of the truth.  It was not the
King who rode past amidst his resplendent Staff—it
was the German Emperor—HER Emperor!  She
caught a glimpse of the resolute, bronze face, and
because she was at the bottom neither narrow nor
prejudiced, she paid her tribute of admiration ungrudgingly,
for the moment forgetful of all the issues that
were at stake.  With eager eyes she followed the
cortège as it passed rapidly before the motionless
regiments.  The resounding cheer which answered the
Emperor's greeting thrilled her, and when he at last
took his stand at the head of his Staff, and the
regiments swung past, moving as one man amidst the
crash of martial music, she stood up that she might
lose no detail in the brilliant scene, her hands clenched,
her pulses throbbing with a strange kind of enthusiasm.
It was her first Kaiser parade; it overwhelmed her,
not alone by its brilliancy but by the solidity, the
strength and discipline it revealed; and had Frau von
Hollander at that moment ventured a word of
admiration she would have received no depreciatory
comparison as answer.  But poor Frau von Hollander had
had enough for one day.  She sat quiet and wordless,
and silently lamented her own good-nature in taking
such a disagreeable little foreigner with her in her
expensive carriage.

The charge past had just begun when Nora heard
her companion speak for the first time.  It was not
to her, however, but to a young dragoon officer who
had taken up his stand at the carriage door, and Nora
was much too absorbed to take any further notice
of him.  Their conversation, however, reached her
ears, and she found herself listening mechanically
even whilst her real attention was fixed on the great
military pageant before her.

"The criticism should be good to-day," the officer
was saying.  "*Tadellos, nicht wahr*?  Even the
Emperor should be satisfied.  I don't think we have
much to fear from the future."

"From the future?" Frau von Hollander interrogated.
She was not a clever woman, and her topics
of the day—like her clothes—belonged usually to a
remote period.

"I mean when the row comes," the dragoon
explained.  "We have all sealed orders, you know.
No hurry, no bustle, no excitement; but when the
Emperor presses the button—wiff!—then we shall
be *en route* for England."

The brilliant picture before Nora's eyes faded.  She
was listening now with tight-set lips and beating
heart.

"Ach, you mean the war!" her hostess said.  "My
husband is so reticent on the subject.  I never hear
anything at all.  You think it will really come to
that?"

"No doubt whatever—unless the English are ready
to eat humble-pie.  They are afraid of us because they
see we are getting stronger, but they are equally afraid
to strike.  Their ancestors would have struck years
ago, and now it is too late.  Their navy is big on paper,
but absolutely untried.  As to their army——"  He
laughed good-naturedly.  "That won't give us much
trouble."

"You mean that it is not big enough?"

Frau von Hollander was pretending to forget Nora's
existence, but there was a spite in her tone which was
not altogether unpardonable.  She was grateful for
this opportunity to pay back the slights of the last
hour.

"It is not merely too small," the officer returned
judiciously; "it is no good against men like ours.
Their so-called regulars are picked up out of the gutters,
and the rest are untrained clerks and schoolboys who
scarcely know how to shoot——"

Nora turned.

"That is a lie!" she said deliberately.

The conversation had been carried on loud enough
to reach the adjoining carriages, and Nora's clear
voice caused more than one occupant to turn in her
direction.  They saw a pretty young woman standing
erect, white-lipped, with shining eyes, confronting a
scarlet-faced officer, who for a moment appeared too
taken aback to answer.

"I beg your pardon, *gnädige Frau*," he stammered
at last, with his hand lifted mechanically to his helmet.
"I—I did not quite understand——"

"I said that it was a lie," Nora repeated.  "Everything
you said was a lie.  We are not afraid of you,
and our soldiers are the best and bravest soldiers in
the world!"

The dragoon looked helplessly at Frau von Hollander,
and the latter decided on a belated rescue.

"It is most unfortunate," she said with pious regret.
"I really quite forgot for the moment.  Frau von
Arnim was English before her marriage——"

"——and is English still!" Nora interrupted
proudly.  "Please let me pass.  I am going home."

"Then tell the coachman.  I cannot let you walk."

Frau von Hollander was now thoroughly alarmed.
She felt that the matter had gone too far, and was
ready to atone in any possible way.  But Nora thrust
the detaining hand aside.

"I would rather walk," she said between her clenched
teeth.  She sprang from the carriage, ignoring the
dragoon's offer of assistance.  That unfortunate young
officer followed her, his face crimson with very real
distress.

"Please forgive me, *gnädige Frau*," he stammered.
"How was I to know?  Your name was German, and
I had no idea—and a fellow talks such rot sometimes.
Please forgive me!"

He was so young, so sincere and boyish in his regret
that her heart under any other circumstances might
have softened.  But the insult had fallen on an open
wound, and the pain was intolerable.

"You said what you thought, and you lied," she
said.  "That is all that matters."

He drew aside with a stiff salute.

"I have apologised.  I can do no more," he said,
and turned on his heel.

Thus poor Nora toiled her way over the hard, frozen
roads alone, her thin-shod feet aching, her heart
beating to suffocation with anger and misery.  But she was
unconscious of pain or weariness.  Her English pride,
the high love of her land had risen like a tide and swept
her forward—to what end she neither knew nor cared.





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   CHAPTER XIII


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"I do not know if I have done right in telling you,"
Frau von Arnim said.  "I had not meant to do so, but
circumstances—and Nora—have forced me.  Had she
offered me any reasonable explanation, or promised to
put an end to her intimacy with this Captain Arnold,
I should not have thought it necessary to speak to you
on the matter.  She chose to ignore my appeal and
my advice, and I felt that there was no other course
left open to me but to warn you and to give you my
reasons for doing so."

"I am sure you meant it all for the best," Wolff
answered.  "All the same—I would rather have
waited until Nora had told me herself."

He was standing by the window, and did not see
the sceptical lifting of his aunt's eyebrows.  She
frowned immediately afterwards, as though annoyed
at her own display of feeling.

"It would have been better," she admitted calmly;
"but Nora is in a state of mind which does not
encourage hope.  I cannot help saying so, Wolff; she
has changed very much since the Karlsburg days."

"I know," he answered.  "She has changed just in
this last month or two.  Poor little wife!"

"Other people have noticed it," his aunt went on.
"The Selenecks, the Freibergs, all our best friends
have the same complaint to make.  She is off-hand,
sometimes deliberately rude; and that sort of thing
does not help to stop the scandal that is growing round
her.  Elsa Seleneck does not usually klatsch, but she
is merciless where Nora is concerned, and it is all the
more unpleasant because they were once good friends.
I can only suppose that Nora has come under the
influence of her brother and this man—this——"

"Nora's friendship with Captain Arnold is absolutely
innocent," Wolff said firmly.  "No doubt they have
that sort of thing in England."

"Perhaps so, but we do not.  People see this
Englishman at your house day after day.  There seems no
reason for his constant visits.  They call each other
by their Christian names and go out together.  Who
can blame any one for putting the worst interpretation
on Nora's conduct?  And they are beginning to blame
you, Wolff."

"Me?"

"They say that you ought not to tolerate her
brother's presence in your house—that you ought to
send this Arnold to the right-about."

He winced.

"I can't.  She would never forgive me."

"Wolff!  Has she grown more important than
everything else in life?"

"No, no," he answered almost impatiently.  "But
she is young and careless—not bad.  She has done
nothing to deserve such treatment at my hands."

Frau von Arnim rose and came to his side.

"I know that she is not bad," she said.  "At the
bottom of her heart Nora may be honest, but she is
headstrong and foolish, and folly can lead to the same
catastrophes as deliberate wickedness.  Unless you
hold her back with a strong hand, Wolff, she will
alienate you from all your friends, she will bring an
unpleasant scandal upon our name and perhaps ruin your
career.  These last two things are more precious to me
than anything on earth, and that is why I have spoken
to you and put the matter in its most serious light.
You must show her how wrong she is."

Wolff turned and looked his companion steadily in
the eyes.  He had just returned from a hard
afternoon's work, and it was perhaps the recent fatigue
which had drawn the colour from his face and left him
with deep lines about the mouth and across the white
forehead.

"Is she wrong?" he said.  "Do you know, I am
not sure, Aunt Magda.  I am beginning to think the
mistake is all mine.  I loved her so, and she is so
impetuous and warm-hearted.  I carried her off her
feet before she had time to think, to realise what she
was giving up.  And now—well, I suppose she is
beginning to realise; the glamour has all gone, and
her love"—he steadied his voice with an effort—"hasn't
proved to be what she thought it was.  It
isn't strong enough to bring the sacrifices, and she
is hungry for her own country and her own people.
One can't blame her."

Frau von Arnim sighed.

"And when the war comes—what then?" she asked.

"God knows!"

He dropped wearily into a chair and covered his face
with his hands.

"We can but hope for the best," he said.  "I must
wait and be patient."

"You will say nothing to her, Wolff?"

"No.  I do not understand what you have told me.
I cannot believe that she should have deceived me and
kept the secret so long, nor can I understand Captain
Arnold's conduct.  Nevertheless, I trust Nora, and
one day perhaps she will tell me everything."

His aunt shook her head.  That "one day" seemed
too far off, too impossible, and in the meantime she saw
the man with the bowed head, and understood something
of what he was suffering.

"Do what you think best," she said, and, obeying
a sudden impulse of tenderness, she laid her hand upon
his shoulder.  "Only let no harm come to the name,
Wolff.  It is all I ask, for your sake and for mine."

He took the hand and lifted it to his lips.

"You have the right to ask everything," he said.
"Your sacrifice—yours and Hildegarde's—made it
possible for me to make Nora my wife.  I owe you——"

"Not your happiness, *armer Kerl*!" she interrupted
sadly.  "That was what we wanted to give
you, but we have not succeeded.  And you must not
call it a sacrifice.  We never do.  You are just my
only son, for whom it is a joy to smooth the way as much
as it lies in our power."

She knelt down beside him.  All her proud severity
had melted.  Had she shown a quarter of this
tenderness to Nora, they would never have parted as they
had done.  But then Nora had sinned against her
rigid code of honour; Nora deserved punishment—not
tenderness.

"There is another thing I want to say, Wolff," she
went on gently.  "Seleneck confessed to me that you
had sold Bruno.  I cannot understand why you should
have done so—unless you were short of money."

He turned away his head, avoiding her steady,
questioning eyes.

"Won't you confide in me, Wolff—like you did in
the old days?"

"Of course I will!"  He tried to laugh.  "Yes, it
was money, Aunt Magda.  You see, I knew we were
going to be invited to the Hulsons' to-morrow; and
Nora needed a new dress—and there were other
expenses——

"Miles Ingestre, for instance?" she suggested
bitterly.

"It was another mouth to feed," he admitted.
"Nora's father doesn't understand that we are not
rich.  He hears that we invite and are invited, and so
he thinks—naturally enough—that we can afford to
keep Miles for a few months.  And Nora does not
quite understand either; so I sold Bruno to smooth
things over."

He did not tell her what she none the less guessed—that
many of Wolff's scanty gold pieces had found
their way into his guest's pockets by means of the
simple formula, "I'll pay you back as soon as the
pater's cheque arrives."  Which event had, so far,
never taken place.

Frau von Arnim rose and, going to her writing-table,
drew out a thick envelope, which she put in his hands.

"It is our gift to you," she said.  "I have been
keeping it for—for any time when you might want a
little extra, and I should like you to have it now.
Perhaps you could get Bruno back."

"I can't!" he protested almost angrily.  "Do
you think I do not know what you have already given
up for my sake—your friends, your home, your
comfort?"

"And do you not know that all has no value for me
compared to the one thing?" she answered, looking
him steadily in the face.  "I want you to remember
that, should any greater trouble come, any sacrifice
would be gladly borne rather than disgrace."

"Disgrace!" he echoed, with a stern contraction
of the brows.  "Of what are you afraid, Aunt Magda?"

"I do not know.  I only wanted your promise that
you would always come to me.  As to this little
gift"—her tone became lighter—"it would be an insult to
our relationship to refuse it.  I cannot allow my nephew
to ride to war on an old charger.  Surely you will
allow me to throw this sop to the family pride?"

So she laughed away his objections, and he sat there
with drawn, white face and looked about him,
recognising the remnants of the old home, knowing for
whose sake it was that they had come to rest in these
narrow, gloomy confines.  And, after all, it had been
in vain.  The sacrifices had brought no one happiness.
He rose to go, and as he did so the door opened, and
Hildegarde stood on the threshold.  For a moment
he hardly recognised her.  She held herself upright
as he had not seen her do for nearly three years; her
cheeks were bright with colour and her eyes with the
old light, so that it seemed as though the time of
suffering had been blotted out of her life and she was once
more his gay, untroubled playfellow.

"Why, Hildegarde!" he cried delightedly.

She came laughing towards him and gave him her
hand with a cheery frankness.  Neither by look nor tone
did she betray that his presence had set her pulses
galloping with the old pain and the old happiness.

"Why, Wolff!" she repeated, mocking him.  "Do
you think I am a ghost?"

"A phoenix, rather," he retorted gaily, for his joy
was unfeigned.  "I never dared to hope such good
things of you.  What has brought about the miracle?"

She told him about the "cure" she had been
through, still in the same easy, unconcerned voice, and
only her mother noticed the restless movement of
the long, thin hands.  Perhaps it was that one sign
of emotion which prevented her from urging Wolff to
remain.  Perhaps she knew, too, that Wolff was stifling
in the narrow room.

"You must come back soon, Wolff," Hildegarde
said, as he bade her good-bye.  "You have so much
to tell us—about the war and our chances.  But I
will let you go to-day.  You look so tired."

She did not ask that Nora should come too.  She
did not even mention Nora's name.  Wolff remembered
that significant omission as he trudged homewards,
and he understood that Nora stood alone.  She had
lost touch with his friends and with those nearest to
him, and he too had drifted out of her life.  Such,
then, was the end of a love and a union which was to
have been endless!  A few months of untroubled
happiness, and the awakening!  He felt no anger
mingle itself with his grief, rather an intense pity.
Though he could not understand her conduct in the
past, he trusted her with the blindness of an unchanged
devotion.  He believed that she would have some
explanation.  He was sure that once at least her love
had been sincere, that she deceived herself more than
she had ever deceived him.  She had believed her love
for him stronger than that for home and people, than
any other love.  She had been mistaken—that was
all.  An old love had returned into her life and with
it the old ties.  The intoxication of the first passion
was over, and she had gone back to those to whom
she belonged, and a sea of racial prejudice, racial
differences, and national feeling divided her from the man
to whom she had sworn, "Thy God shall be my God,
thy people my people."  He had lost her.  What
then?  What was to be the solution to the problem
that lay before them both?  He knew of none, and
perhaps at the bottom of his heart there was still a
glimmer of hope that he was mistaken and her friendship
for Arnold no more than friendship, her change
towards him no more than a passing shadow.  He told
himself that when worried and overworked as he was,
a man can too easily exaggerate the extent of a
misfortune.  Who knew what change for the better the
next few hours might bring?

Thus he reached his home with a lighter heart than
he had expected.  Nora was not yet back from the
parade.  It surprised him, therefore, to hear loud and
apparently angry voices proceeding from his room.
He entered quickly, without waiting to lay sword or
helmet aside, and found Miles and another older man,
whose appearance warranted the supposition that his
descent from the Mosaic family was unbroken.

Wolff looked from one to the other, and perhaps his
knowledge of both classes of men warned him of what
was to come.

"Might I ask for an explanation?" he said quietly.

Miles was clinging to the back of a chair and trembling
from head to foot, either with fear or rage or a mixture
of both.  His usually sallow face was now grey and
his lips twitched convulsively before he managed to
answer.

"I'm beastly sorry, Wolff," he stammered.  "It's
the devil of a nuisance, and I swear I never meant to
bring you into the mess.  This—this man has come
fussing about some money.  I told him to wait, but
he seems to have got some idiotic ideas in his
head——"

"The Herr Baron vill not blame me that I am
anxious for my moneys," the Jew interrupted, speaking
also in broken English and giving Wolff the benefit of
a servile bow.  "Dis genelman have borrowed much
from me, and I am a poor man.  I vould not have took
the risk but dat he gave me your name as guarantee.
He said dat you vere his broder-in-law and dat it vere
all safe.  Dat is von month ago, and since den I have
heard no more of my genelman, but many English
leave Berlin just now, and I come to see if vat he say
be true."

"It is perfectly true.  Mr. Ingestre is my brother-in-law."

"Den I am satisfied.  De Herr Baron vill see to it
as officer and genelman."

He took a step towards the door, but Wolff stopped
him with a curt gesture.  Nor for a moment had he
taken his eyes from Miles's colourless and sickly
countenance.

"You say that Mr. Ingestre owes you money," he
said.  "Will you be so kind as to show me the bill?"

The Jew immediately produced a slip of greasy paper
and handed it to him.  Wolff took it with the tip of
his fingers, his eyes narrowing with an irrepressible
disgust.  There was a moment's waiting silence.
Miles's eyes were riveted on the carpet, the Jew was
taking an inventory of the furniture, and neither saw
Wolff's face.  For that matter, save that the lips
beneath the short fair moustache had stiffened, there
was no noticeable change in his expression.

"Twelve hundred marks!" he said at last, throwing
the paper on his table.  "Have you that sum by
you, Miles?  It would be better to pay this gentleman
at once."

Miles Ingestre started and glanced loweringly at his
brother-in-law's face.  He suspected sarcasm, but
Wolff's pitiless steel-grey eyes warned him that the
time for retort had not yet come.

"Eh—no; I'm afraid I haven't," he stammered.
"I am expecting a cheque from home, and of course
will pay up at once.  To tell you the truth——"

His thin, hesitating voice died away into silence.
Perhaps he felt that Wolff had no desire to hear "the
truth."  He held his tongue, therefore, and let events
drift as they might.  Wolff had taken Frau von
Arnim's envelope from his pocket.  He opened it and
counted twelve notes for a hundred marks each on to
the table.

"Kindly give me your receipt," he said.

The Jew obeyed willingly, scratching an untidy
signature across the bottom of the piece of paper which
Wolff pushed towards him.  With greedy, careful
fingers he counted the notes and stuffed them in his
pocket.

"It is a great pleasure to deal vid so great genelman,"
he said as he shuffled to the door.

Wolff waited until he was gone, then he threw open
the window as though the atmosphere sickened him.
When he turned again his expression was still calm,
only the narrowed eyes revealed something of what
was passing through his mind.

Miles did not look at him.  He was playing with the
paper-weight on the table, struggling to regain his
dignity.  It bit into his mean soul that he should be
indebted to "this foreigner."

"It's awfully decent of you, Wolff," he broke out at
last.  "I'm really awfully grateful, and of course as
soon as my money comes——"

Wolff cut him short with an abrupt and contemptuous
gesture.

"I ask for no promises," he said, "and make no
claim on your gratitude.  What I have done was not
done for your sake, but for Nora's and my own.  I do
not wish the scandal of a disgraceful debt to be
associated with my name.  No doubt you do not
understand my point of view, and there is no reason why
I should explain it.  There is one matter, however,
on which I have the right to demand an explanation.
You have run through something like £100 in the time
that you have been here.  Where has this money gone?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders.  The movement
suggested that as between one man of the world and
another the question was superfluous.

"Oh, you know—the usual thing," he said.
"Suppers, horses, and women.  The people I know
all did it.  It was pretty well impossible to keep out
of the swim."

Wolff detached his sword and seated himself at the
table; Miles remained standing, and Wolff did not
suggest that he should change his position.

"That means probably that you have other debts,"
he said.  "Is that so?"

"£100 goes nowhere," Miles answered sullenly.
"I didn't know they would come down on me so soon."

"You have a curious way of answering a question.
Still, I fancy I understand you.  You will make a list
of these other debts and lay them before me.  After
that, you will return to England."  He saw Miles's
start of anger, and went on deliberately: "You have
associated with the scum of Berlin, and therein I am
perhaps to blame.  I should have put an end to it
before you drifted thus far.  But I was under the
illusion that at your age and as Nora's brother you
would be capable of behaving as a man of honour.
Otherwise, I should never have allowed you in my
house."

He opened a drawer and began sorting out some
papers before him, with the same deliberation,
indifferent to the look of intense hatred which passed
over his companion's face.  "You have proved that
you cannot rise to so necessary a standard," he went
on, "and therefore a prolongation of your stay under
my roof has become impossible.  Nora must know
nothing of this, and there must be no fuss or scandal.
You will write this evening to your father and request
him to telegraph for you immediately—the possibility
of war will be sufficient excuse.  Until your departure
you will behave as usual, with the exception that you
do not leave the house.  You will, of course, send your
apologies to General von Hulson for to-morrow evening.
I do not wish you to accompany us.  That is all I have
to say.  You will do well to make no difficulties."

Miles laughed angrily.

"Do you think I'd make difficulties if I could help
it?" he demanded.  "I'd give ten years of my life
to get back to England."

"There is no object in your making fate such a
generous offer," was the ironical reply.  "Your debts
here will be paid—somehow or other.  The road home
is open to you."

"I can't go without money."

"Your passage will be paid for you."

"I don't mean that—I mean—there are reasons
which make it impossible for me to return—just
now——"

Arnim swung round in his chair.

"You mean that you have debts in England?"

"Yes."

"In other words, that you left England on that
account?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders.

"There were a good many reasons," he said.

There was a moment's silence.  Arnim began to
write with a studied calm.

"Your debts here will be paid on condition that you
leave within forty-eight hours," he said.  "I cannot
do more for you.  I only do that for Nora and for the
sake of my own name."

Males leant forward over the table.  He was not
usually clever, but hatred had made him clever enough
to take the most cruel weapon that lay within his
reach.

"You talk as though I were such a beastly cad," he
said, "but you shut your eyes to the other things
that go on in the house.  You are particular enough
about your precious honour and name where I am
concerned; but you let Arnold come into the house
and make love to your wife without turning a hair."

"Miles, take care what you are saying!"

"I don't mind telling the truth.  I have seen
them——"

Wolff held up his hand, and there was something in
the movement which checked the flood of malice and
treachery and sent Miles back a step as though he had
been struck.

"You can go," Wolff said quietly.

Again Miles wavered, torn between rage and
cowardice.  He hated this iron-willed martinet with
his strait-laced principles and intolerable arrogance,
but his fear was equal to his hatred, and after a moment
he turned and slunk from the room.

Arnim went on writing mechanically.  His brain—the
steeled, highly trained brain—followed the intricate
calculations before him with unchanged precision,
but the man himself fought with the poison in his
blood, and in the end conquered.  As a strong swimmer
he rose triumphant above the waves of doubt, suspicion,
and calumny which had threatened him and held high
above reach the shield of his wife's honour.  It was
all that was left him—his trust in her, his belief in her
integrity.  He knew that a crisis was at hand.
With Miles's departure would come the moment in
which Nora would have to make her choice between
the home and people which he represented and her
husband.  How would she choose?  The hope that
had comforted him before seemed all too desperate.
Family and country called her, and her love was the
last frail bond which held her to him.  Would it hold
good?  Had it not perhaps already yielded?  Was she
not already lost to him?

Yet, as he heard the door of the neighbouring room
open and the sound of her quick footsteps, the hot
blood rushed to his face, his pulses beat faster with the
hope kindled to something that was almost a joyous
certainty.  She was coming to him.  He would see
her standing irresolute before him, and he would take
her in his arms and by the strength of an unconquerable
love draw her back over the tide which was flowing
faster and broader between them.  It was impossible
that he should lose her, impossible that the outward
circumstances of their lives should be stronger than
themselves and what had been best in them—their love.
Even when the footsteps stopped and he remained
alone, the impossibility, absurdity of it all was still
predominant over despair.  He rose and pulled open
the door.  He had no clear conception of any plan.
He was so sure that the moment they stood face to
face she would understand everything by some miracle
of sympathy, the very thought of an "explanation"
was a sacrilege against the power with which he felt
himself possessed.

"Nora!" he cried joyfully.  "Nora!"

She stood immediately opposite him.  Her hat had
been flung recklessly on the table, and her hair was
disordered, her face white and drawn.  She made no
answer to his greeting.  Her eyes met his with no light
in their depths.  They were sombre, black, and sullen.

"Nora!" he repeated, and already the note of
triumph had died out of his voice.  "What is the
matter?"

She came at once to him, taking his hands, not in
affection but in a sort of feverish despair.

"Wolff," she said, "I want to go away from here—I
want to go home!"

The moment of hope and enthusiasm was over.
Something mysteriously cold and paralysing had
passed like an icy breath over his self-confidence and
changed it to a frigid despair.  He could not even
plead with her, nor tell her of the love which he felt
for her nor of the pain which he suffered.  Everything
lay at the bottom of his heart a dead, frozen weight.
He loosened her hands from his arm and forced her
gently into a chair.

"You want to go away?" he said quietly.  "Why?"

"Because I hate this place and—and every one."

"Does that include your home and your husband, Nora?"

She laughed wildly.

"My home!  This isn't my home: it never has
been.  I have always been a stranger—an exile here.
Everything is foreign to me—everything hateful.  If
you were twenty times my husband, I should say it.
I loathe and detest this country and I loathe and detest
your people.  I am English.  I was mad, mad, mad
to believe I could ever be anything else!"

She was hysterical with fatigue and excitement,
and scarcely conscious of what she was saying.  But
Wolff, who knew nothing of what had happened at
the parade, heard in her words a deliberate and final
declaration.

"If you hate my country and my people, you must
hate me," he said.  "Has it come to that already?"

She sprang to her feet as though goaded by some
frightful inner torment.

"No, no, I don't hate you," she cried.  "I love you
at the bottom—at least, I believe I do.  I can't tell.
Everything in me is in revolt and uproar.  I can't
see you clearly as you are, as I love you.  You are just
one of those others, one of those whom I detest as my
deadliest enemy.  That is why I must go away.  If I
stayed, God knows, I believe I should grow to hate
you."

Every trace of colour faded out of his face, but he
did not speak, and she ran to him and clasped his arm
with the old reckless pleading.

"Let me go!" she begged.  "Let me go home!
Things will be better then.  I shall quiet down.  I
shan't be so constantly maddened and irritated as
I am now.  I shall have time to think.  Wolff, I
*must* go!"

"If you go now, it will be for ever," he said steadily.
"The woman who leaves her husband and her country
in the time of danger sacrifices the right to return."

"Wolff!"  Her hands sank to her side.  She
stared at him blankly, horror-stricken.

"You must see that for yourself," he went on in the
same tone of rigid self-control.  "If war breaks out
and you return to England, you can never come back
here as my wife.  I am a German and an officer, and
the woman who shares my life must share my duty.
That is the law.  It is a just and right one.  Husband
and wife cannot be of different factions.  They must
stand together under the same flag.  In marrying
me you accepted my country as your own.  If you
leave me now, you are turning traitor, and there must
be no traitors amongst us."

He put the case before her with pitiless logic, more
overwhelming than the fiercest outburst of passion.
The hysterical excitement died out of her face.

"A traitor!" she repeated dully.  "How can I
be that?  How can any one give up their country?"

"I do not know," he answered, "and therefore
whatever you choose I shall not blame you.  I only
show you the inevitable consequences."

"Wolff, I can't stay here.  Everybody hates me.
I can't hide what I feel.  You don't know the things
I have done—and said.  I—I insulted some one this
afternoon."

"It can all be lived down," he returned.  "People
will forgive and understand, if you stand by us."

"But I can't—not in my heart of hearts.  Wolff,
if war breaks out, I shall be praying for your ruin—yes,
in your very churches I shall pray for it.  Perhaps
my prayers will direct the very bullet that kills
you——"

Her voice shook with a kind of smothered horror,
which stirred the cold weight in his heart to pity.

"Hush, Nora, hush!  That is all exaggerated feeling.
It is hard for you, but you must choose.  Either
you must sacrifice your country or your husband.
That is the simple issue."

"Why should *I* bring the sacrifice?" she retorted.
"Why must *I* be the one to give up everything that
I was taught to love and honour next to God?  If
you love me, leave the army, leave Germany!  Let
us go away—anywhere—and be happy together!"

"Nora!"

"You see!" she exclaimed with bitter triumph.
"That is too much to ask from you!"

"I am a soldier," he said.

"Then I would to God I had been born to so easy a
profession!"

She turned away, battling with the fierce, angry
sobs that choked her.  The next instant his arms were
about her.  There was no hope and no joy in his
embrace.  He held her as he might have done in the
midst of shipwreck and before the approach of
death.

"Do you think it is easy to put before you the
choice—knowing what you will choose?" he asked.

"Knowing——?" she stammered.

"You do not love me enough to stand by me."

"That is not true!"

She freed herself and took a step back, searching his
face as though to find there an answer to some agonising
doubt.

"That is not true," she repeated breathlessly.

He lifted his hand in stern warning.

"Think, Nora!  We stand, you and I, at the parting
of the ways.  Make your choice honestly—I shall not
blame you.  But once you have chosen, there must
be no turning back.  If you choose to follow me, it
must be to the bitter end of your duty.  You must
curse my enemies and bless my friends.  Otherwise
there can be no peace and happiness between us.  If
you choose your country—and those others whom you
love—you shall go to them.  I shall keep you in my
heart until I die, but I will never see you again."

In spite of his strongest effort, his voice shook, and
that one signal from the depths of his despair called
forth the one and only answer of which her headlong,
passionate nature was capable.  She flung herself
into his arms, clinging to him in a storm of grief and
pity.

"With God's help, I will stand by you to the end,
my husband!"

For a long minute he held her to him, and then
gradually he felt how her whole frame relaxed and her
arms sank powerless to her side.  He looked down
into her face.  It was very pale, and a faint, childlike
smile of utter weariness hovered round the half-open
lips.

"I am so tired, Wolff," she said under her breath,
"so tired!"

Without answering, he bore her to the sofa and laid
her with a clumsy tenderness among the cushions.
But he did not speak again.  For the moment the
conflict was over; a truce had been called between
them.  Only his instinct knew it was no more than
that.  Thus he knelt down silently beside her, and
with her hand still clasped in his watched over her as
she slept.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CODE OF HONOUR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CODE OF HONOUR

.. vspace:: 2

Nora stood before the long glass in the drawing-room
and studied herself with a listless interest.  The
expensive white chiffon dress which Wolff had given
her for the occasion became her well, and at another
time she might have found an innocent pleasure in
this contemplation of her own picture.  But she was
exhausted, spiritually and physically.  The storm of
the day before had shattered something in her—perhaps
her youth—and she saw in the mirror only the pale
face and heavy eyes, and before her in the near future
an evening of outward gaiety and inward trial.  That
which she had once sought after with feverish
desire—magnificence and contact with the great world where
stuffy flats and poverty were unknown—had become
her poison.  She shrank instinctively, like some poor
invalid, from all noise and movement.  She would
have been thankful to be able to lie down and sleep
and forget, but Duty, that grim fetish to which she
had sworn obedience, demanded of her that she should
laugh and seem merry beneath the critical, questioning
eyes of those who to-morrow might be fighting against
her people.

Miles was lying in his usual attitude on the sofa,
watching her.  He had been curiously quiet the whole
day, keeping to the house and avoiding Arnim with
an increased shyness.  Nora believed that she
understood him.  She did not see that his young face was
sallow and lined with dissipation, nor that his furtive
eyes were heavy and bloodshot.  She saw in him only
the brother, the Englishman, and that one fact of his
nationality covered him with a cloak, hiding from her
all that was pitiable and contemptible, lending him a
dignity, a worthiness that was not his.  So also she
interpreted his general conduct and his abrupt refusal
to accompany her to the Hulsons' ball.  She felt that
he was awaiting the hour of departure to his own
country, chafing at the bonds which held him, and
that, like a true Englishman, he shrank from all further
association with his future enemies.  She honoured
him for it—she envied him for it; but she dreaded
her own loneliness.  She came to his side and laid her
hand gently on his shoulder.

"I wish you were coming too," she said, "for my
sake, not for yours."

"I can't," he retorted sullenly.

"No, I know.  I was not going to try and persuade
you.  I understand so well how you feel.  Oh, Miles,
you must go back to England—we must manage it
somehow.  I shall tell Wolff to-night.  Things can't
be worse than they are—and perhaps he will help."

Miles Ingestre looked at her keenly.  An expression
that was half cunning, half amused lifted the moody
shadows from his face.  It was obvious that she did
not know what had passed between Wolff and himself,
and it was not his intention to tell her.  His promise
to Wolff on the subject did not weigh with him—he
had other and better reasons for keeping silence.  In
the first place, he had no wish to awaken any sense
of gratitude towards her husband in Nora's heart;
in the second, he still needed money.

"You need not worry him with my debts," he said
carelessly.  "They can wait, and anyhow they wouldn't
keep me in Berlin.  The difficulty is on the other
side."

"In England?"

"Yes; I must have ready money somehow.  I can't
go back until the way has been cleared a little."  He
pulled himself up on to his elbow.  "Look here, Nora,
you could help me if you wanted.  Wolff can't and
won't do anything, but there's Bauer.  You don't
need to look so shocked—he's told me himself that he
would do me a good turn, only his sister-in-law has the
purse-strings, and you have rather offended her.  If
you went to her ball on the 18th——"

"Miles, it is impossible!  You don't know——"

"I only know that if you don't help me I shall be in
a bad fix.  When the war breaks out——"

"Is war certain?"

"Unless they funk it.  I believe the ambassador
has his trunks packed and his carriage waiting."

Nora made a gesture of mingled impatience and
despair.

"Why must there be war?" she cried.  "Why
can't we leave each other alone?  What is there to
quarrel about?"

"Nothing!" Miles retorted.  "The whole thing is
got up.  The beggars want more than is good for them,
and we've got to keep them in their places.  That's the
gist of the matter.  It has to come sooner or later."

Nora was silent.  His words, with their unvaried
mingling of scorn and pride, aroused in her an equally
mingled feeling of irritation and sympathy.  Why
was he so sure of victory, why so scornful of "these
foreigners"?  What right had he to be either
contemptuous or arrogant?  What right had she to
share those feelings with him, even if only in the
secret places of her heart?

"By the way," Miles went on, watching her intently.
"What's the matter with you and poor old Arnold?
He has been here twice to-day, and you have been
so-called 'out' each time.  I got a note from him asking
what was up.  It's pretty rough luck on him, as he
wants to say good-bye."

"Good-bye?" Nora repeated.  She had started
perceptibly, and Miles grinned.

"He has marching orders, and is leaving to-morrow
night.  I bet he would have gone days ago if it hadn't
been—well, for some one!"

"Miles, I will not have you talk like that!"

She had turned on him scarlet with anger and
humiliation, but Miles only burst out laughing.

"You need not get into such a rage, sweet sister
mine!  I didn't say it was you, though if the cap
fits——"  He broke off into a sulky silence.  Wolff
had entered.  He was in full dress, and bespattered
with mud, as though he had returned from an arduous
ride.  In one hand he carried a dispatch case.  One
glance at his face showed them that he controlled a
strong excitement.

"I am awfully sorry, Nora," he said hurriedly,
"it is impossible for me to accompany you.  I have
been driven from pillar to post the whole day, and now
I have some work which will take me the whole night.
You must give my excuses to General von Hulson.
He will understand why it is.  A good many officers
will be absent for the same reason."

"Then I must go alone?" she asked.

Absorbed as he was, he heard the reproach and
annoyance.

"Do you mind that?"

"I shall hate it!" she said emphatically.

The word "hate," with all its too recent associations,
caused him to look at her closely.  He saw that
she had lost her pallor, and that the old defiant light
burnt in her eyes.

"Perhaps it would be better, then, if Miles accompanied
you," he said.  "There is still time."

"I do not wish Miles to do anything he objects to,"
she returned coldly.  "No doubt he has his reasons
for not going."

Wolff's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.

"No doubt," he said, glancing in Miles's direction;
"but perhaps if I added my appeal to yours he would
consent to overcome—his reasons."

Miles rose sullenly to his feet.

"If you want it—of course," he mumbled.

Wolff nodded absently.  He went into his room,
closed the door, leaving Nora alone.  There had been
an expression of anxiety on his face which did not,
however, excuse his apparent indifference in Nora's
eyes, and she stood frowning after him, puzzled and
deeply wounded.  But she made no attempt to follow
him.  The scene of the previous evening had been a
last effort; she was too weary, too hopeless to strive
again after a reunion which seemed already an
impossibility.

Twenty minutes later Miles reappeared in the full
glory of his evening clothes.  Nora was surprised—perhaps
a little disappointed—to observe that his
spirits had risen.

"The carriage is waiting," he said.  "Hurry up,
or we shall be late."

Nora hesitated.  A superstitious clinging to an old
custom led her to the threshold of Wolff's room.
She tried the handle of the door without effect,
and when she turned away again her cheeks were
scarlet.

"Locked, eh?" Miles said.  "I bet he's afraid
of us catching sight of his papers.  Arnold said some
of those staff fellows have the handling of pretty
valuable stuff."

Nora gave no attention to his words, though she
was destined to remember them.  She led the way
down the narrow stairs into the street where the cab
was waiting for them, and a minute later they were
rattling out of the little by-street into the busy
thoroughfare.

It seemed to Nora that the crowds were denser
than usual, that a curious unrest was written on the
usually placid, cheerful faces that flashed past the
open carriage window.  She remembered Wolff's
expression as he had entered the room; she felt now that
it had been the unconscious reflection from those other
faces, and that the one invisible bond of sympathy
which unites all men of the same race had passed on
the flame of patriotism from one to another, till in all
these thousands there burned, above every meaner
passion, the supreme *Vaterlandsliebe*.  Only *she* felt
nothing, nothing—though she was bound to them by
oath—save fear and horror.  She felt alone, deserted.
Miles was the one being in the whole seething crowd
who felt as she felt, who suffered as she suffered.  She
turned to him with an impulsive tenderness.  He was
not looking out of the window, but staring straight
before him, with his low forehead puckered into
thoughtful lines.

"It's a queer thing," he said, as though he felt her
questioning glance.  "Here we both are in a foreign
country, mixing with people whom we shall be blowing
up to-morrow, and to-day not moving a finger to harm
them, just because the word has not been given, as it
were.  If I threw a bomb amongst all those big-wigs
to-night, who knows what victories I might
prevent?—and yet I suppose it would be murder.  And then,
there is Wolff stewing over papers that, I bet, the
English War Office would give a few thousands just
to look at; you and I sit and watch him and never
move a hand."

"What do you expect us to do?" she returned listlessly.

"Nothing, I suppose."

The rest of the drive passed in silence, and once in
the ball-room, Nora lost sight of her brother
completely.  He drifted off by himself, whither and with
whom she could not think, for she knew that he had no
friends in the brilliant crowd.  She, too, was friendless,
though there were many there who bowed to her and
passed on, and for the first time she realised the full
extent of her isolation.  The Selenecks were not there,
and she was glad of their absence: she would have
hated them to have been witnesses of her loneliness.
Those whom she knew, whose comradeship with her
husband should have guaranteed a certain courtesy,
passed her by.  Nora cared nothing for them, but the
humiliation stung her to the quick.  She was English,
and because she was English they insulted her, tacitly
and deliberately.  Not all the months in her husband's
country had taught her to understand that she had
insulted them, that she had trampled on their pride of
race, and scorned the customs and opinions which were
their holiest possessions.  It never occurred to her that
the description of the scene of the previous afternoon
had passed from lip to lip with the rapidity of lightning,
and that in the eyes of that mighty brotherhood of
soldiers, and of that still mightier sisterhood of their
wives, she was branded as a renegade, as a woman who
had spat upon her husband's uniform, and exalted
another race above that to which she belonged—a
*Deutschfeindliche*, an enemy who masqueraded
among them under a transparent guise of hypocritical
friendship.  Perhaps some pitied her; but for the
most part they were the older men, whose experience
taught them to be pitiful—and they were not present
on this particular night.  Even if they had been they
could have done nothing to help her.  She was an
outcast, and for them she had made herself "unclean."  Thus
poor Nora, still young and headstrong in all
her emotions, her sensibilities raw with the events of
the last weeks, stood alone and watched the scene
before her with eyes from which the tears were held
back by the strength of pride alone.

There must have been considerably over two hundred
guests present, almost exclusively officers of lower
rank, with here and there a civilian to throw the
brilliant uniforms into more striking relief.  Nora could
not but be impressed by the tall, finely built men, with
the strong-cut, bronzed faces, and in each she saw a
dim reflection of her husband.  There was perhaps no
real resemblance, but they were of one type—they were
German, and that one similarity aroused in her the
old feeling of wild opposition against the man she
loved, and whom she had sworn to stand by to the end.
Her love for him was as genuine as her admiration
for these, his brothers—as genuine as her hatred for
him and for them all.

In the midst of her bitter reflections she heard a
voice speak to her, and, turning, found Bauer at her
side.  She had expected him the whole evening, and
her humiliation deepened as she saw the cynical
satisfaction in his eyes.  She knew that he was triumphing
in the belief that he had won, that in her loneliness she
would turn to him, and the knowledge changed her
misery to a desperate pride.

"Well, *gnädige Frau*," he said.  She made no answer,
and his smile broadened.  "You see, I am very
punctual," he went on.  "I have come for my answer.
What is it to be?"

"I gave it you once," she returned.  "Is that not
enough?"

"Circumstances can alter the most determined.
Are you not tired of this Pharisaical crowd, who
pretend to look upon you as dirt because you do
not pronounce their shibboleth as it pleases them?
Are you not ready now to come amongst friends
who wish you well—who would help you?  You
have only to say the word."

She looked about her, feeling her isolation like an
icy wind, and for an instant knew temptation.  How
easy it would be to yield!  What, after all, had he
asked of her?—her friendship, common politeness for
the woman who had shown her kindness.  What had he
offered her?  His help and support in her loneliness
and need.  Then she remembered—and the temptation
passed.

"My answer remains the same, Herr Rittmeister."

His face became suffused with a dull red.

"*Gnädige Frau*, take care!  It is not only your
brother who will suffer for your decision!"

She heard the angry threat in his voice, and a feeling
of contempt and aversion, almost physical in its
intensity, came over her.  She looked about her, half
unconsciously seeking some way of escape.  Miles
was nowhere to be seen.  Her eyes flashed rapidly
over the crowd, picking out the black evening coats, and
then for the first time she saw Arnold.  She went to
meet him, regardless of prudence, of the rage in Bauer's
eyes, of the malice and suspicion that watched her
from every side.  She only knew that a friend had come
to her in the midst of enemies, and that she was no
longer alone.

"Oh, Robert!" she cried.  "How glad I am to
see you!  How did you manage to come here?"

"The Ambassador got me the invitation," he
said, taking her hand in his strong clasp.  "God
knows it isn't the time to seek such hospitality,
but I had to see you somehow, Nora, before I went."

"Let us get away from this crowd," she said
hurriedly.  "We can't talk here."

He gave her his arm and led her to one of the
supper-tables that were placed beneath the gallery.

"We can pretend to want coffee, or something of
the sort," he said.  "No one will disturb us."

She looked across and smiled at him with a fleeting
radiance.  Oh, that English voice, that English face!
Laughter of relief and thankfulness fought with the
tears that had so long lain checked, and now struggled
for release beneath the touch of a friend's unspoken
sympathy.

"Nora, what is wrong?" he went on.  "Why
wouldn't you see me?  Have I offended you in any way?"

"Offended me!"  She laughed brokenly.  "Do
I look offended, Robert?  Don't you know I could
have danced for joy when I saw you coming?"

Reckless Nora!  Her words, spoken in a moment
of relief from an agonising pressure, had not the
meaning which he believed he read out of them.  Something
was not any longer so selfless, so resigned, flashed
into his steady grey eyes.

"Then what is it, Nora?  Tell me everything.  You
know you have promised me your friendship."

She did not hesitate an instant.  Those three hours
beneath the enemy's fire had driven her to exasperation,
to that point of hysterical nervousness from
which most feminine folly is committed.

"They forbade my seeing you," she said—"not in
words; but they said things which left me no choice.
They said I was bringing disgrace upon my husband,
and upon his name——"

"Nora!  Who said that?"

"Frau von Arnim.  She hates me.  And Wolff said
much the same.  They can't understand a straight,
honest friendship between a man and a woman."

"You mean it was because of me?"

"Yes.  Of course Frau von Arnim knows everything
about—about the past, and she believes—oh,
it is too horrid what she believes.  We don't need to
think about it.  She has not told Wolff.  If she had
he would have turned me out of the house or locked
me up in the cellar.  None of them—not even he—can
understand.  Oh, Robert, you don't know how
hard it was to have to send you away!  You and
Miles are the only people in all this big city to whom
I can turn."

Arnold sat silent, staring in front of him.  His
pulses were beating with a growing, suffocating
excitement.  He knew by every tone of her voice, by
every glance of her stormy, miserable eyes, that she
was in his power, that he had but to make the appeal
and she would follow him out of the room whithersoever
he led her.  The knowledge touched his steady-flowing
blood with fever—in the same moment he
was conscious of remorse and shame.  He had
lingered at her side against every behest of wisdom
and honour, deceiving himself and her with an
assumption of loyal, disinterested friendship.  It was
no friendship.  Those who had judged it by another
name had judged rightly.  He had come between
husband and wife, he was at that very moment,
willingly or unwillingly, playing the part of tempter
in the devil's comedy.

"Nora," he began, "perhaps I have done you harm.
Perhaps I ought not to have come to-night."

"I don't care!" she retorted recklessly.  "I don't
care whether anything is right or wrong.  When you
came I was desperate.  I hate every one here.  It is
awful to feel that I belong to them.  I want to get
away from here—home, to England."

"Nora—for God's sake!"  He was frightened now—of
her and of himself.  "You must not talk like
that.  Your home is here with your husband."

"It is not!" she retorted, in the same low, trembling
voice.  "It is in England—it can never be anywhere
else.  Oh, you don't know what I suffer!"

"I can guess.  Why don't you tell Wolff everything?
Why don't you confide in him?"

Everything in him revolted against his own words.
They were spoken, not out of innermost conviction,
but as a stern tribute to his honour, and the principles
which were bred into his bone and blood.

"I have," she said, "but it was of no good.  He
could not help me—no one can.  It is as he said—one
must choose."

"Poor child!"

"I deserve it all.  It is my punishment.  I did
wrong in marrying Wolff, I did wrong to make you
suffer.  And now I suffer——"

"Nora!"  An immense tenderness crept into his
voice.  He heard it, and the next moment he had
regained his self-control.  He was ashamed of the
rôle he had been about to play.  "We must bear our
lot," he said sternly.

The waltz, under cover of which their rapid conversation
had taken place, died into silence, and close
upon the momentary hush that followed, they heard
the dull thud of a falling body, a crash of glass and a
low hubbub, above which one loud angry voice was
distinctly audible.  Nora started to her feet.  Whether
she had recognised that voice, or whether she was led
by some instinct, she did not know.  Her heart was
beating with fear and excitement.

"Something has happened!" she exclaimed.  "Quick!"

Arnold followed her in the direction whence the
sounds came.  In one of the adjoining alcoves a little
group of officers had collected, and as they approached
near enough to see what was happening, Arnold turned
to Nora and tried to draw her on one side.

"Don't go!" he said.  "It is some silly quarrel!
Let me see to it."

"No, no!" she returned hoarsely, and pushed
forward to the outside of the circle.  She saw Miles
standing by the table; he was leaning on it as though
for support, his dress was disordered, his features
crimson with drink and passion.  A young officer
had hold of him by the arm and was evidently
trying to hold him back.  A few feet away Bauer
was rearranging his collar, with an assumption of
contemptuous calm.  A red scar upon his cheek told
its own story.

"You d——d liar!"  Miles shrieked in English,
struggling against the detaining hold upon his arm.
"If it wasn't that they protected you I'd thrash you
within an inch of your life!"

His opponent smiled scornfully.

"I do not care for boxing-matches in a ball-room."
he said, "not even with an intoxicated Englishman.
Captain von Ebberstein, I should be very glad if you
would represent me in this matter."

The one elderly officer present bowed, and approached
Miles, whom he also saluted with a faultless
formality, which contrasted strikingly with the other's
unsteady, excited movements.

"Perhaps the gentleman would kindly name his
seconds," he said, speaking in broken English.  "The
continuation of this affair can then be arranged on a
more becoming occasion."

Arnold tried to loosen Nora's grasp upon his arm.

"I must get him out of this somehow," he
whispered.  "They are trying to force him into a
duel."

Miles, however, gave him no time to interfere.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded.

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

"You felt yourself wounded in your honour and have
avenged yourself by insulting this officer here.  That
can have but one meaning."

"I swear I don't know what you are talking about!"

"There are certain injuries for which there is but
one remedy," was the cold explanation.

A light seemed to dawn over Miles's scarlet face.
He burst into a high, wavering laugh.

"You think I am going to fight a duel?  You think
I'm going to make such a d——d fool of myself?"
he demanded thickly.

The officers looked at each other in contemptuous
silence.  Bauer smiled and turned aside, as though
to spare himself the sight of so profound a humiliation.
Captain von Ebberstein alone retained his expression
of profound gravity.

"A gentleman is expected to give satisfaction," he
said.

"I don't care what you expect," was Miles's retort.
"I'll have nothing to do with such infernal nonsense.
He lied, and I choked the lie down his throat, and
there's an end to the matter!"

"On the contrary, it is the beginning."

"I think differently."

Bauer advanced.  He was swinging his white kid
glove carelessly backwards and forwards, and there
was the same scornful smile about his lips.  At the
same moment his eyes fell on Nora's face, and the
smile deepened with malicious satisfaction.

"In that case, it is my duty to inform you that you
are neither a gentleman nor a man of honour," he
said.  "As such, and as a coward, you will feel no
objection to my expressing my feelings—thus!"

He flung the glove full into Miles's face.

There was a moment of expectant silence.  Miles
appeared to ignore what had happened.  The temporary
excitement was over, and the wine was beginning to
numb his senses with the first touch of drowsiness.  It
was Arnold's opportunity.  He pushed through the
little circle and took Miles firmly by the arm.

"Let me pass!" he said to those about him.  "This
gentleman is my friend."

Miles yielded passively, and no one made any effort
to detain him.  The group fell back on either side, as
they would have done from people infected with disease,
and Arnold guided the wavering Miles across the
ballroom.  The floor was empty, and Nora felt she must
sink beneath the hundreds of eyes that watched them.
Yet she carried herself haughtily, and the one thought
that flashed clearly through her mind, as the great
glass doors swung behind her, was that she was free—that,
come what would, she could never see those people
again.  The last possibility of her existence amongst
them was destroyed.  Further than that she refused
to think.

The drive home was an absolutely silent one.  Miles,
yielding to the influence of champagne and the late
excitement, fell into a disturbed doze, from which
Arnold and Nora made no attempt to arouse him.
They sat opposite each other in the half-light, avoiding
each other's eyes.

Thus they reached the gloomy little house which
was Nora's home.

"I had better help him upstairs," Arnold said
quietly.  "We must make as little fuss as possible."

Nora consented with a brief inclination of the head.
She was past all struggle against circumstances.
Between them they succeeded in piloting Miles up the
endless flights.  He seemed, quite unconscious of his
state, and talked loudly and incessantly, so that all
hope of bringing him to his room unobserved was
doomed as vain.  Nevertheless, stunned and indifferent
as she was, Nora started back involuntarily as Wolff
met them in the passage.  He carried a candle in his
hand, and the light reflected on his pale, exhausted
face fell also on Miles, and revealed enough of the truth.
He glanced away at Nora, and from Nora to Arnold.
His expression betrayed no feeling, but she felt that
he was trying to read into the very depths of their
souls.

"Please come in here," he said quietly.

He led the way into the drawing-room and switched
on the light, and they followed him without protest.

"Tell me what happened," he commanded.

Arnold made a movement as though he would have
spoken, but Wolff stopped him with a courteous but
decided gesture.

"I wish Miles to tell me—if he can," he said.

Miles lifted his hanging head.  A silly self-satisfaction
twisted his unsteady lips.

"I can tell you right enough," he said, "only I'll
sit down, if you don't mind, I feel so infernally shaky.
It was Bauer, you know.  I was having my supper
when I heard him and another fellow talking, and
though I'm not good at the jargon I caught the drift
of what he was saying.  It was about a woman.  He
said if he were her husband he would make an end of
such a dirty scandal, and put a bullet through some
one or other's head.  You can fancy that I pricked
up my ears, and I turned and saw that he was pointing
at Nora and Arnold.  That was too much for me.  I
got up and asked what he meant.  He told me—and
I swear it wasn't nice.  He said——"

Wolff lifted his hand.

"I don't want to hear that," he said.  "Go on."

"Well, I knocked him down, and there was the devil
of a row!"  Miles laughed unsteadily.  "The silly
fools wanted me to fight a duel over it!" he added.

"And you——?"

"I told them I wasn't going to make such a d——d
idiot of myself."

Wolff said nothing for a moment.  His whole face
had stiffened, and he was looking at Miles from head
to foot.

"And after that they called you a coward?" he
asked, at last.

"Some rot like that——"

"And they were right.  You are a coward—the
vilest, most pitiful coward I have ever met."

"Wolff!"

It was Nora who had cried out.  The insult had
fallen on her brother and herself alike, and her voice
shook with passionate indignation.

Her husband turned to her.

"The man who is not ready to risk his life for
his sister's honour *is* a coward," he asserted
deliberately.

A gesture of protest escaped Arnold, who had hitherto
remained silent and motionless.

"You forget," he said.  "In England we do not
duel—it is not our custom."

"No; you go to law and take money for your injured
honour," was the coldly scornful answer.  "That is
the revenge of shopkeepers—not of gentlemen."

The two men measured each other in painful electric
silence, and as they stood there face to face, the
contrast between them marked them as two great types of
two great races.  The thin, loosely built Englishman,
with the long, gaunt features, confronted the German,
whose broad shoulders and massive head seemed to
make him taller than his opponent.  Perhaps some
vague notion of the conflict which they represented
dawned in Nora's mind.  She looked from one to the
other, terrified of the forces behind the masks of stern
self-repression, and instinctively weighing them in a
mental balance.  For the first time in their married life
she was afraid of her husband.  It seemed to her
that his height and breadth had increased in the
last moments; there was something gigantic in the
stature, and something bulldog, tenacious, and yet
keenly alive, powerfully intellectual in the face,
with its square chin and massive forehead.
Compared with him, Arnold, tall and wiry though he
was in reality, appeared enfeebled, almost fragile.
If the two men had fallen upon each other in
that moment—the very possibility sickened Nora's
heart with fear.  She had seen Arnold's hands clench
themselves as Wolff's scornful criticism had been
uttered, and involuntarily she had taken a quick step
forward as though to fling herself between them.  But
there was no need for interference.  Both men possessed
admirable self-control, and in that moment at
least they respected each other.

"We have our own opinions on these matters,"
Arnold said.  "You have yours.  Mr. Ingestre is an
Englishman, and does not need to conform to your
customs.  He gave his opponent the lie, and has done
all that he need do."

"So you have said," Wolff returned calmly.  "In
my eyes, and in the eyes of my world, there is still
much to be done.  But that—as the one German
here—concerns me alone."  He turned to Miles, who was
still seated, his face in his hands, apparently dozing.
"Go to your room!" he commanded peremptorily.
The tone of almost brutal authority acted like a goad
on Nora's tortured nerves.

"You speak to my brother as though he were a
dog!" she burst out.

Wolff did not answer her.

"Go to your room!" he repeated.

Miles staggered to his feet and tottered across to
the door.  He seemed to be obeying the hypnotising
power of Wolff's voice, for his movements were those
of a sleep-walker.

"Good night, every one!" he mumbled.  "Good night!"

No one responded.  The two men again faced each
other.

"I am grateful to you for the assistance you
rendered my wife," Wolff said.  "We shall scarcely meet
again."

"Not here, at any rate," was the significant answer.

A curt salute, and Arnold turned away.  He gave
Nora his hand.

"Good-bye—and God bless you!" he said.

Her lips moved soundlessly.  For an instant it
seemed almost as though she clung to him.  Then her
hand fell listlessly to her side, and the next minute he
too had gone.

Husband and wife did not speak.  Nora seated
herself at the table and buried her face in her arms.
She cried without restraint, not loudly, but with low,
monotonous, terrible sobs.

Her husband crossed to the door of his room.  He
stood there a moment, his head bowed, listening.  It
was as though he were receiving some final message
from those sounds of piteous self-abandonment.  But
he did not look at Nora.  He went out, and the soft
click of the lock pierced through her grief, so that she
started upright.

She saw that the door was closed, and that she was
alone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SEA BETWEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SEA BETWEEN

.. vspace:: 2

To reach Wolff's study it was necessary to pass through
the drawing-room.  On his way, therefore, Captain
von Seleneck encountered Nora, who was seated at her
table writing.  He bowed, she answered with a slight
inclination of the head and he passed on, as a total
stranger might have done, into the inner sanctuary.

He found Wolff at work on some nearly finished
plans.  He was standing over them, and with a
compass measuring distances with a careful, painstaking
exactitude, and his face, as he looked up, though
haggard almost beyond belief, was absolutely
determined, without trace of weakness.

The two men shook hands and Wolff went on working.

"It was good of you to come, Kurt," he said.  "I
know you must be overburdened with duty just now."

"One has always time for a comrade, and especially
for you," was the answer; "and whether you had sent
for me or not, I should have come—like a bird of
ill-omen.  I felt I owed it to you as your friend, and you
would rather have it from me than from another man.
It seems, though, you know all about last night?"

"Quite enough."

"It was a wretched affair," Seleneck said, placing
his helmet on the table.  "I got it from an eye-witness.
Of course, your precious brother-in-law had had too
much to drink.  That was inevitable, and might have
been hushed up.  But then came the row with Bauer.
It was obvious that Bauer was on the look-out for
mischief, and I should like to give Mr. Ingestre the
credit for knocking him down as a return for what
he said about your wife.  Unfortunately, the real
subject of dispute was—money."

Wolff nodded.

"How did you hear of it?" he asked.

"Ebberstein came straight to me.  It was rather
decent of him.  He knew, of course, that I was your
friend, and the best person to tell you what had
happened.  It was obvious that you had to be told.  You
see—it was not only your brother-in-law.  Your—wife's
name and—and honour were dragged in."

Wolff's lips tightened.

"I know," he said.  "Go on!"

"Well, we talked it over, and I promised to come
round to you directly I was free.  When I got back
this morning I found your letter waiting for me, and
here I am!"  He laid his hand with an affectionate
movement on his comrade's shoulder.  "Whatever
it is—I'm your man," he said.

"I know, *alter Junge*.  You have always stuck to
me.  You were the one man in all Berlin to whom I
felt I could turn with real confidence.  By the way, I
suppose I may leave the arrangement of things in your
hands?"

"I shall be proud to act for you, Wolff.  To all
intents and purposes everything is settled.  Ebberstein
and I talked it over last night.  In the almost
certain event of your challenging, we decided that a
Court of Honour should sit this evening in my house
and that the meeting should take place at the latest
to-morrow morning.  It is impossible to know when
we shall have marching-orders, so there must be no
delay.  If you wish it, I shall proceed at once to Bauer
and find out whom he intends to appoint as seconds.
The rest of the formalities you can safely entrust to me."

"Thank you.  When is the Court of Honour appointed
to sit?"

"If it can be managed, at six o'clock.  The
circumstances are simple enough, so that the conditions
should be very quickly settled.  You, of course, are
the challenging party, and the matter will come under
the head of '*schwere Beleidigung*,' so that ten paces
will be about the outcome.  Are you good at that
distance?"

"Pretty well."

"Ebberstein says your man is a first-class shot.  *Es
heisst aufpassen*, Wolff!"

Arnim made no answer and his companion took up
his helmet.

"I shall come round to you this evening as soon as
the Court's decision has been given," he said.

Wolff looked up quickly.

"If you don't mind, I would prefer to come to you,"
he said.  "And if I might, I will stay the night at your
house.  It would be better.  I do not want my wife
to know anything of what is to happen."

"But—*Menschenkind*!  She *must* know!"

"She suspects nothing.  You forget—she is not one
of us.  She does not understand."

Seleneck stared thoughtfully in front of him, pulling
his moustache as though a prey to some painful
uneasiness.

"Of course I hope the very best for you, Wolff," he
said, at last, "but you are a big man, and unlucky
accidents happen.  It would be pretty hard on your
wife if she knew nothing and——"

"It would be a shock," interrupted Wolff quietly.
"I know that.  Believe me, though, what I have
arranged is for the best.  She would not understand."

Seleneck asked none of the questions that were
burning the tip of his tongue.  A natural delicacy,
above all, his comrade's face, held him silent, and it
was Wolff who continued after a moment:

"In the event of what you call an 'unlucky accident'
my wife will, of course, return to her own country.
Her brother is starting for England to-morrow, so that
she will be able to accompany him.  But in any
case—whether I fall or not—I beg of you to do your utmost
to shield her from all trouble—and scandal.  She is
innocent—absolutely innocent.  I know—you cannot
hide it from me—that you and all the rest blame her.
She is not to be blamed because she married a man
not of her own people.  She is to be profoundly pitied.
That is all, and it explains everything."

"You talk as though you were certain of the worst,"
Seleneck said.  "But if everything goes well—what
then?"

The compasses slipped from Wolff's fingers.

"God knows!" he said.

It was no exclamation of despair, rather a reverent
surrender of a life which he could no longer shape alone,
and Seleneck turned aside, more deeply moved than he
cared to show.  He had known Wolff from the earliest
*Kadetten* days, and had watched the dawn of great
promise break into a day of seeming fulfilment.  With
unchanging, unenvying friendship he had followed the
brilliant career, admiring the boy's ambition ripening
to steadfast purpose, the boyish spirits steadying to a
bold and fearless optimism.  And, after all, he ended
as others ended—in shipwreck—only more tragically,
with the port of Victory in sight.  Seleneck
remembered his own words spoken only a few months before:
"Take care that you do not end as Field-Marshal
with Disappointment for an Adjutant!"  And Wolff
was not even major, and something worse than
Disappointment, something that was more like Catastrophe,
had already chosen him as comrade.

Against Wolff's wish, Seleneck blamed Nora
bitterly.  He held her responsible for every shadow
that had fallen upon the hopeful life, but he swore to
himself that she should not know it, and that he would
prove her friend for her husband's sake, whatever
befell.

"My will is, of course, made," Wolff said, breaking
upon his troubled reflections, "and here is a letter to
my aunt and Hildegarde; please give it to them in
the event of my death."

"And for your wife?"

"This other letter is for her."

Seleneck took the two envelopes and put them in
his pocket.

"I think everything is settled now?" he said.

"Everything.  I shall work at these plans as long
as possible, and if I get them finished I shall take them
to Colonel von Beck before I come to you.  If not, I
shall leave them locked in here and bring you the key.
If anything happens to me, you will know where to
find them.  They are of some importance, and I would
be grateful if you would see to it that they are taken
at once to head-quarters."

"Pray Heaven you may be able to take them
yourself!" Seleneck returned earnestly.

Wolff made no answer, but he straightened his
shoulders and held out a steady hand.

"In any case, thank you for your friendship, Kurt,"
he said.  "It has been the best—no, almost the best
thing in my life."

That loyal correction touched the elder man profoundly,
and for the first time a faint trace of emotion
relaxed Wolff's set features.

"Do not let my wife suspect that anything serious
has passed between us," he added.  "She suffers
enough."

The two men embraced, and Seleneck went out of
the room with his brows knitted in bitter, painful lines.
He did not wish to see Wolff's wife, much less speak
with her, but she was still seated by the table, and as
he entered she rose as though she had been waiting
for him.  She did not offer him her hand, and in
spite of all his resolutions he felt that the enmity
and distrust were in his eyes as he waited for her to
speak.

"Has anything happened?" she asked breathlessly.

If he could have forgotten his friend's face, he might
have pitied her in that moment.  Only a few months
had passed since he had welcomed the girlish bride on
the Karlsburg platform, and now all the girlhood had
gone.  She looked old as she stood there—pitiably old,
because the age lay only in the expression, which was
bitter, miserable, and reckless.

"What should have happened, *gnädige Frau*?"
Seleneck answered, parrying her question with an
indifference which concealed a very real anxiety.  He
could not free himself from the conviction that she
knew.  He could not imagine it possible that she
was ignorant of the consequences of the last night's
catastrophe.

"You know very well what I mean!" Nora said
roughly.  "I ask you because you must know.  Will
there be war?"

Seleneck nearly laughed.  So much for his
sharp-sightedness!  She had not been thinking of her
husband, but of herself; or was perhaps the fear written
on her face, fear for his safety?  He did not believe
it.  He was too bitter against her to give her the
benefit of the doubt.

"I know no more than you know, *gnädige Frau*,"
he said.  "Our ultimatum has been sent to England.
The next twenty-four hours must decide."

"But surely you have an idea—surely you can guess?"

"*Gnädige Frau*, we soldiers are not politicians.  We
are ready to march when the order is given.  That is
the only point with which we are concerned."

He waited an instant, and then, as she did not answer,
he clapped his spurred heels together and went.

Nora crept back to her place at the table.  Her
movements were like those of a woman who has
struggled up from a severe illness, and as she sat there
with the pen in her listless hand she asked herself if
this feeling of deadly physical inertia were not indeed
the forerunner of the definite breakdown of her whole
strength.  Alone her thoughts seemed alive, to be
indued with an agonising vitality which left her no
peace or rest.  They had followed her through the
short night hours of sleep, and they pursued her now
till she could have cried out with pain and despair.
They were not thoughts that helped her, or sought a
way for her out of the problem of her life.  They were
of the kind that haunt the fevered mind in dreams,
pictures of the past and of the future that slipped across
her mental vision in kaleidoscopic confusion, only to
return again and again with hideous persistency.  She
could not control them; she sat there and yielded
herself listlessly to their torture, leaving to Fate the
whole guidance of the future.  She had no plans of her
own.  Once it had occurred to her to write to her
mother, but she had not traced more than the first
few lines before the pen fell from her hand.  Pride,
rather than love, held her back from the bitter
confession of her wretchedness.  The thought of her
father's triumph and her mother's grief had been
sufficient to turn her away from the one path which
still remained open to her.

Thus her thoughts continued their round, and the
winter dusk deepened to evening.  The servant had
forgotten to attend to the stove, and a bitter
penetrating cold ate into her very heart.  She cared too
little to move.  She sat with her chin resting on her
hand and watched the snow that was beginning to
fall in the quiet street.  Winter—in a few days
Christmas!  The thoughts took a swift turn.  A year ago
she had been at home, fighting with the courage of her
youth for what she deemed her happiness.  A year ago
she had slept—foolish child!—with Wolff's last letter
beneath her pillow and sworn to it that, come what
might, she would trample on home and people and
country, and follow him whithersoever he would lead
her.  "Thy people shall be my people, thy God my
God!"  A year ago—no more than that!  And now
she sat alone, and the door was locked between them.

She listened intently, and again her thoughts changed
their course.  What was he doing?  Was he, too,
sitting alone, as she sat, with his face between his hands,
gazing into the ruin of his life's happiness?  A wave
of pity, even of tenderness, passed like a thawing
breath over her frozen misery.  Could she not go to
him and put her arms about his shoulders, and plead
with him, "Let all be good between us!  Take me
away from here to the other end of the earth and let
us forget!  I cannot bear to suffer thus, nor to see
you suffer!"  Surely it was not too late.

Urged by a hope born of her despair, she rose quickly
and went to his door.  She heard him move; there
was a sound of papers being turned over, the clatter
of keys, a short sigh of satisfaction, and then slow
steps approaching from the other side.  Her hand,
raised in the act of knocking, fell paralysed.  The next
instant she was back at her table writing—what and
to whom she never knew.  But she was laughing to
herself—that piteous heart-rending laughter of those
who find in themselves the butt for the bitterest
mockery.  He had been working.  Not for an instant
had he been thrown out of his course by the storm
which was threatening her with total shipwreck.
He had gone on with his plans, his maps, his calculations
as though nothing had happened, as though she
were no more than an episode in his life.  He did
not care for her suffering—or what was worse, he
did not know, so complete was the severance of their
union.

A year ago!  It might have been ten years, ten ages.
The moment when he had held her in his arms for the
first time might have been a dream and this the reality,
grim, cold, and intolerable.  She heard the key turn
in the lock, the crack of the door as it opened.  She
heard Wolff's heavy step on the parquette, and then
once more the closing of the door and the noise of the
key twice turned and withdrawn.  Then silence.  She
went on writing—words that had no meaning.  Her
pulses were at the gallop with suspense, fear, and an
emotion which she did not stop to analyse.  They had
not met since the night before.  What would he say
to her—or she to him?

"How cold it is!" he said quietly.  "The fire
has gone out.  You must be freezing!"

She did not lift her head for a moment, so startled
was she by the perfect equanimity of his words and
tone.  And yet it was what she might have expected.
It was all in perfect harmony with his whole character,
with his whole conduct.  He had seen the last link
between them break and had gone back to his room
and worked steadily throughout the night, and now he
came and talked to her—about the fire!

"Johann is out," he went on, "but I dare say I can
manage."

She turned then, and looked at him.  He was kneeling
by the stove trying to rekindle the dying embers
with some sticks he had found in the coal-scuttle.  He
had changed his clothes for his full uniform, and the
helmet with the plume lay at his side on the floor,
together with the sword and white kid gloves.  A
bitter, sarcastic smile relaxed Nora's set lips.  She
wondered that it had never struck her before how
prosaic, almost plebeian he was.  The splendid clothes
had, after all, only been the gilt covering to a piece of
machinery working in blind accordance with thousands
of others in its one great task—a dull, brute thing, for
whom the finer emotions were a sealed book.  She
saw him in a new light as he knelt there, his shadow
thrown up against the wall by the rekindling fire.
She felt as though he were a total stranger against
whom she felt an increasing antagonism.

Presently he rose, dusting his hands on his handkerchief.

"I think it will do now," he said.  "Do you want
the light?  You can't possibly see."

"I would rather be as I am," she answered coldly.

She covered her face with her hand and appeared to
forget his presence.  But in a rapid, inexplicable
revulsion of feeling, the first fear and suspense returned,
and though she did not see him she followed his every
movement, her ears translating every sound with the
precision of a second-sight.  She heard him pick up
sword and helmet, then the soft, familiar click of his
spurs as he crossed the room to the farther door.  Then
the sound stopped, and she knew that he was looking
at her.  The silence seemed to last an eternity.  It
suffocated her; she felt that if it lasted another instant
she must scream out, so frightful was the strain, and
yet, when as though obeying an irresistible behest he
came back upon his steps and put his hand upon her
shoulder, she prayed for that silence to come back,
anything rather than that he should speak to her.

"*Gott segne dich und behüte dich, meine Frau!*"
he said, and bent and kissed her hand.

That was all.  The next minute the loud clang of
the outer door told her that he had gone.

For a long time she sat as though paralysed, listening
to the words as they echoed through her memory.
He had spoken in German—as he never did save in
moments of deep feeling—and there had been something
in his voice which she had never heard before.
She sprang to her feet.  The earlier lassitude and
indifference were over, she felt as though every
nerve in her body had been drawn taut by some
nameless, indefinable fear.

"Wolff!" she cried.  "Wolff!"

She knew that he was out of hearing.  She knew that
if he stood before her in that moment she would turn
from him with the same coldness, the same anger.
Yet she called for him despairingly, and when she
put her hand to her face she found that it was wet with
tears.

"Wolff!" she repeated.  "Wolff!"

The answering silence appalled her.  She ran out
into the passage to Miles's door and knocked urgently.
She did not know what she wanted of him.  She only
knew that she could not bear to be alone.

After what seemed a moment's hesitation the bolt
was drawn, and Miles's flushed face appeared in the
aperture.  He looked curiously relieved when he saw
who his visitor was.

"What is it?" he demanded curtly.  "I am busy
packing."

His tone gave her back her self-possession—or the
appearance of self-possession.

"I only wanted to know if you were at home," she
said.  "I—am going out for a little."

The idea had come to her as she spoke.  The confusion
and noise of the streets seemed to offer to her
the sole antidote for the feverish restlessness which had
come over her.

Miles nodded.

"All right.  Where—where is Wolff?"

The light was behind him, and she could not see his
face.  Nevertheless she felt that the expression in his
eyes was tense, excited, that he was studying her as
though on her answer depended more than she guessed.

"He has just gone out."

"Thanks.  How long will you be?"

"I don't know.  I am only going to get fresh air."

"You might go towards the Kriegsministerium,"
Miles suggested carelessly.  "You might hear if there
is any answer come from home.  War may be declared
at any minute."

Nora made no answer.  His words had set her heart
beating with pain, and the pain increased as five minutes
later she found herself being swept along in the stream
of the crowd.  Everything was very quiet.  It seemed
to her that not one of those with whom she was borne
forward spoke.  A silence, ominous as the hush before
the storm, weighed upon all, and only the faces coming
and going out of the circles of lamp-light revealed the
forces of passion which were awaiting the hour when
they should be set free.  After the first moment, Nora
ceased to notice all this.  She was winged with a
panting, rapidly increasing anxiety which obliterated
everything—even to her own personality.  She forgot
Wolff, she forgot herself and the conflict before her;
she had become an atom in one mighty community
with whose existence her own was irrevocably bound.
She was no longer Wolff's wife, she was not even Nora
Ingestre; she was English, and, as though from far
away a voice called her by some all-powerful
incantation, she forced her way forward.  War!  Her heart
exulted.  War!  Her excited imagination transported
her to the centre of another and a greater city; she
felt closed in on every side by a people whose blood was
hers; she heard their voices, a magic stream of
sympathy poured from them to her; she heard the tramp
of a thousand feet, the clash of martial music, the
roar of cheering, and in the brilliant light bayonets
flashed like a moving ribbon of silver.  War!  And
if War—why then, Victory, her country's final, grandest
triumph!

The dream vanished—nay, became a reality with
another meaning, which for a moment she could not
comprehend.  The crowd about her swayed, hesitated,
and eddied like a stream that has been checked by
some unexpected force.  A low murmur rose like the
first breath of the hurricane.

"What is it?" Nora asked.  "What has happened?"

She forgot where she was.  She spoke in English,
and the man next her answered as though he understood,
as though he had not even noticed that she had
addressed him in a foreign language.  His young face
was crimson with exultation.

"They say there is to be war!" he answered
hoarsely.  "They say there is to be war!"

And then she understood, then the reality of it bore
down upon her with the crushing weight of a horrible
revelation.  She tried to force a passage for herself
out of this crowd of enemies, but like a straw in the
swirl of a whirlpool she was swept back.  And in that
moment of helplessness the hatred which had lain
smouldering burst into full flame in Nora's heart.
Reckless and defiant, she fought against the seething
mass of humanity, and for her the struggle was a real
thing.  She pitted herself against them all; alone
amongst those thousands, she felt herself indued with
superhuman strength and courage.  In her exultation
she could have cried aloud: "You fools, you poor
fools, who dare to rise against US—US, the elect of
God among the nations!"

It was a moment prescient of victory, unshadowed
by a single doubt or fear.  A moment!  Then the
murmur burst into a great shout, the crowd broke
asunder, and to the rattle of drums, the shrill voice
of the pipes, a regiment of Infantry passed through,
the thunder of their march sounding like some mighty
accompaniment to the high notes of the warlike music.
No confusion, no hurry, the officers at the head of their
companies, grave, resolute, filled with the consciousness
of their great calling; the men silent, their eyes
fixed ahead as though the enemy lay straight before
them, awaiting the final struggle.  What it was Nora
could not, in that moment of conflicting emotion,
clearly analyse.  Something had fallen like an icy
hand upon her courage.  Those faces that passed so
close to her through the driving snow, column after
column, those healthy, weather-beaten faces so full
of life and strength, those broad-shouldered figures,
erect, sturdy, swinging forward as though one soul,
one mind governed each and all alike—they had made
her afraid.  She felt herself flung back by a huge
pitiless Juggernaut, before which her strength broke
like a frail reed.  She turned away, sick and trembling,
and as she did so her eyes fell on the man who had
retained his place at her side.

"*Ach, du lieber Gott!*" he said, as though she had
spoken to him.  "That was my regiment—the 115th.
Perhaps I shall be called in—I also have been a
soldier."

She looked at him and she understood.  He, too,
was *Soldat*, he too could carry his gun and take
his place with the best, he too had been taught to bear
his share worthily in the highest of all human callings—one
saw the pride of it in his face.  And he was not
alone.  He was typical of all, of a whole nation in
arms.

A sort of panic seized her.  She turned and fled,
thrusting her way through the thinning crowd with
the strength of despair.  Only one thought possessed
her—to get away, to escape from a force which she had
learnt to fear.  Panting, disordered, scarcely knowing
what she did or meant to do, she reached her home at
last.  Silence greeted her—silence and an absolute
darkness.  She entered the drawing-room and turned
on the light.  No one.  Her husband's door, locked
when she had gone out, stood wide open.

"Wolff!" she called.  Her voice shook.  She
called again, and then her brother's name, but the
silence remained unbroken.  She looked about her,
and her eyes chanced to rest an instant on her table;
she saw that a letter was lying on the blotting-case,
which had not been there before.  She ran and picked
it up.  It was addressed to her in Miles's handwriting.

"Johann has just run in to look for Wolff," he
scrawled.  "He says war is declared, and I'm off.
There is a train leaving at eight, and I have no time to
lose.  Sorry I can't say good-bye, old girl.  I wish
you could come, but I suppose you can't.  We'll come
and fetch you though, never fear!"

A cry broke from Nora's trembling lips.  He had
gone—he had left her.  He had the right to go!  And
she was alone.  She looked at the clock ticking
peacefully on the mantelpiece.  She had no clear plan,
but she saw that it was half-past seven, and she
reckoned that the Potsdamer Bahnhof could not be
more than twenty minutes away.  If she could get a
cab there would be time.  For what?  She did not
know.  She was still panic-stricken.  The silence
oppressed her with a greater horror than the roaring
of the crowd.  The little room, with its cheap, ugly
ornaments, had become absolutely unfamiliar to her.
She felt that it was impossible she could ever have
lived here, she felt that she had wandered into a
stranger's house, and that he might come back any
minute and find her.  She ran to the door.  No bond,
no link of memory or past happiness held her back.
Not even the grey *Litewka* hanging in the hall, with
its silent reminder, could change the headlong course
of her resolution.  She saw it, she even stopped to look
at it.  It spoke to her of a man she had known long
ago, who had gone out of her life and was no more
than the memory of a dream.  Because it had been a
beautiful dream she bent and kissed the empty sleeve,
but she did not hesitate, and her eyes were tearless.
Stronger than that memory was the craving for home
and the fear of the stranger who would return and
find her.  Thus she fled, and the door of the little
flat closed with a melancholy clang.  It was empty
now—when the stranger came there would be no one
there to trouble his peace.  She felt neither remorse
nor pity.  All that had been love for her husband had
turned to bitterness.  He had come between her and
those dear to her; he had insulted her and her whole
nation; he had trampled on her pride; he had deserted
her, leaving her to fight her battle alone, whilst he had
followed his ambition behind locked doors, which
even she could not open.  As she drove rapidly through
the streets he stood before her mental vision, not as the
lover or the husband, but as the man who had faced
her on the preceding night, stern, resolute, pitiless,
sweeping her from his path as he would have done a
valueless toy.  He had had no thought for her
sufferings, he had not even tried to comfort her, but had
gone to his room and—worked.  And between this
man of iron and routine and the immense implacable
force which had revealed itself to her in the crowd,
there was a resemblance, nay, an affinity of mind and
purpose.  Both threatened her home, her people, and
her life.  She hated both.

Twenty minutes later she stood in the crowded
railway-station.  Miles was nowhere to be seen.  There
were only three minutes left before the train started,
and she had not money enough in her purse to take
her even to the coast.  Tears of helpless wretchedness
rushed to her eyes.  She must go—she must
escape.  She could never return to the silent, dreary
home, to the man who had become a hated stranger.

On every side she heard the same words, "*Der
Krieg!  Der Krieg!*"  They terrified her, exasperated
her.  A little crowd of English people, who were
hurrying to the train, arrested her attention.

"We should have left before," one of them said.
"All the places will be taken."

In her despair she could have flung herself upon their
mercy, but the crowd jostled her on one side, and they
were lost to sight.

"*Alles einsteigen!  Alles einsteigen!*"

It was then she saw Miles; just for one instant she
saw his face.  It stood out clearly in the blur—white,
aghast, full of a terrified recognition, and then, as she
held out her hands, too thankful to think what it all
meant, it disappeared.

She stood there, stupefied, rooted to the ground.
He had deserted her—he had been afraid of her.  Why?
What had happened?

"*Alles einsteigen!  Alles einsteigen!*"

A sob broke from Nora's lips, and even in that
moment, in which all hope seemed lost, Arnold stood
at her side.  She clung to him recklessly, like a child
who has been pursued by the phantom of some hideous
nightmare.

"Oh, take me with you, Robert!" she cried.
"Don't leave me!"

He looked down at her, then, without speaking, he
lifted her into the already moving train and sprang
in after her.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, little Nora," he
said tenderly.  "I will bring you home safe and
sound."

The word "home" swept aside the last barricades of
her self-control.  She flung herself into his arms
weeping wildly and thankfully.

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As the dawn broke, Nora stood at the prow of the
vessel that was bearing her homewards, and welcomed
the white bulwarks of England as they rose in majestic
sovereignty out of the morning mists.  Her eyes filled.
She could have stretched out her arms in her pride
and joy, and the whole world that she had left behind
had vanished like some delirious dream.

Miles away, in a quiet field on the outskirts of Berlin,
two men faced each other at ten paces' distance, and
awaited the signal.  It was given, and two puffs of
smoke issued from the outstretched weapons, and
curled slowly upwards into the frosty air.  One of the
men reeled and fell, and lay quiet, with his face in the
grass.

They picked him up tenderly, and as they bore him
thence his fading eyes opened.

"Do—not frighten her," he whispered.  "Don't
let her think that it is anything—serious——"

In the same instant, Nora had turned joyously to
the man at her side.

"Oh, thank God!" she cried.  "Thank God, I
am home at last!"

Thus she returned to her own country and her
own people, and a sea rolled between her and all
that had been.

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   END OF BOOK \II.





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.. _`HOME`:

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   BOOK III

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   THE BRIDGE

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   CHAPTER I

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   HOME

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Mrs. Ingestre's bed had been drawn to the window,
so that she could look out on to the drear landscape
of snow-covered fields and catch the few rays of
sunshine that here and there broke through the grey
monotony of sky.  It was her last stand against the
shadow which was soon to blot out the whole world
for ever from her eyes.  There she had lain day after
day, and with her imagination brightened the bleak
outlook with the summer sunshine and the green trees
which she was to see no more.  There she had written
cheery, hopeful letters to her daughter and had received
cheery, hopeful letters in return.  There mother and
daughter, clasped in each other's arms, acknowledged
that the letters had been no more than merciful lies,
that the hope they had expressed had been disguised
despair.

"How blind I must have been!" Mrs. Ingestre
thought, as Nora, kneeling at her bedside, poured out
the story of her short married happiness.  "How blind
not to have seen and understood!"

"How heartless, how self-absorbed I was not to have
known!" Nora reproached herself, as she looked
into the well-loved face on which death had set his
unmistakable seal.

But it was not of death which they spoke.  It was
as though the elder woman's life was already closed,
as though she already stood afar off and saw the world
and life with other and clearer eyes.  There was no
regret or fear in her attitude towards the unknown
future, and that calm, high confidence inspired Nora
with a curious awe which hushed all tears and passionate
grief.  She looked up to her mother as to a being
high above all earthly sorrow, yet linked to the world
by an infinite, all-comprehending pity.  That pity
was Nora's one refuge.  The wild delight which had
borne her up through that long night journey had died
almost in the same hour that her father had clasped
her in his arms and killed the fatted calf in honour of
the long-despaired-of prodigal.  Something like an icy
disappointment had crept into her aching heart as she
had woken the first morning in her girlhood's room
and realised that this was her home, the home she
had longed and prayed for, in which she had chosen
to pass her life.  She had laughed scorn at herself
and had greeted the hideous church-spire which peered
over the leafless trees with a seeming new-born affection,
and to her father and brother she maintained that
same seeming of delight and thankfulness.  Before
her mother she had broken down for a moment, and
the stormy sobs which had shaken her had not wholly
been the expression of a pent-up longing.  She had
recovered herself almost at once, the grave, clear eyes
of the dying woman warning her, perhaps, that her
secret was no longer entirely hidden, and now she
knelt and told her story as she would have told it
twenty-four hours before, with bitterness, resentment,
and self-pity.

"It was all a dreadful mistake, mother," she said.
"I believed I loved him enough to forget whom and
what I was, but I could not.  Every hour showed me
that I was a stranger, and would always remain a
stranger.  I could not grow to love his people, and
they hated me.  You don't know how they hated me.
When trouble began and there came the first rumour
of war, they did not let a chance pass to hurt me.
There were moments when I felt I could bear it no
longer, but I held out until that night.  Then—when
I was in that crowd, and heard them cheering, and
knew that it was against me—against us—I knew
that I could never go back, that the strain of pretending
or trying to pretend would send me mad.  And
oh, I longed so for my home and for you all!  It was
just as though I were in some frightful exile among
enemies——"

"So you escaped," Mrs. Ingestre interrupted gently.
"It was natural, and yet——"

Nora looked into her mother's face, and wondered
at the depth of pity which the low voice had betrayed.

"And yet——?" she asked.

"I was thinking of Wolff," Mrs. Ingestre said.  "He
must have suffered terribly."

"Wolff!"  The name burst almost angrily from
Nora's lips.  "How should he have suffered?  Men
of his stamp do not suffer.  They have no room in their
lives for such a feeling.  Do you know—after that
ball, when he had practically thrown Miles out of the
house, when he knew that I was miserable, broken-hearted,
he left me without a word, and worked with
his door locked between us.  He cared
nothing—nothing—only for his ambition and himself.  They
are all like that, and their wives are just their servants,
who must be satisfied with whatever is left over for
them.  *I* could not stand it.  It was like living with
some piece of machinery——"

"Nora, he is your husband, and you loved him!"

Nora sprang to her feet.  The reproach had stung
her, the more so because at the bottom she knew that
her indignation was feigned.  The panic and delirium
of that night was over, and left her terribly calm,
terribly cold, terribly clear as to what she had done.

"I did love him," she said—"or at least I thought
I did.  It is all the same thing.  I was carried off my
feet by the strangeness and newness of it all.  How
should I have known then what it meant to leave
one's country and one's people?  Leave them!  If
that had been all!  But to go against them, to
have to forget that one had ever loved them!"

She was trying to rouse herself to those feelings
which had been the cause of all her past misery and
whose crisis had brought about the final desperate
action.  She was trying to rouse in her mother
sympathy for those feelings, and it goaded her to know
that both efforts failed.  Mrs. Ingestre was gazing out
of the window, and her pale face was still grave and
pitiful.

"You see things with your own eyes, my Nora,"
she said, with a faint, wistful smile.  "I see them
from a long way off, and with eyes that suffering has
cleared from all prejudice and hatred.  And then—I
was very fond of Wolff."

Nora turned away, her small hands clenched.

"That—that means I have done wrong?" she
said almost fiercely.

"Have I blamed you?"

"No, but——"

"I can have pity for both, Nora.  I can see that
you had much to bear—perhaps more than was tolerable
for one so young and headstrong.  But I can see
Wolff's side too.  I can see him come home that night
and find you gone——"

She stopped as though her imagination had led her
before a sorrow for which she found no words, and
Nora too was silent.  Profoundly embittered and
disappointed, she stood looking at the still beautiful
face of the woman in whose sympathy she had had
implicit trust.  Was, then, everything to fail her,
even in her home, the home which she had seen in her
exile's dreams?  Was she to stand alone?  Was there
no one who would understand her and all that she
had endured?

"When Miles believed that war had broken out
he would not stay an hour longer," she said at last,
and her voice had a defiant note.  "He could not bear
to be away from his own country.  Why should I,
because I am a woman, feel less than he?"

"Because you are a woman, and because you feel
more, the greater sacrifice is asked of you," was the
quiet answer.  "In this life there is always some one
who must bring the sacrifice, and it is always the one
who feels deepest and loves most.  That is why it is
ordained that women should suffer for their children,
and often for their husbands.  It seems at first sight
unjust.  It is really the greatest compliment which
God and Nature can pay us."

"And I am unworthy of that compliment?" Nora
demanded hotly.

"You will go back, Nora."

"To my husband?  Never."  For the first time
she spoke with real conviction, with an almost
despairing conviction, "That is impossible.  You do not
know how impossible.  Even if I would, Wolff would
not take me back.  He said so himself.  I had to
choose once and for all, and I have chosen.  And,
besides, there are the others—the people I know;
stiff, straitlaced people who would never understand
and never forgive."

"Nevertheless, when the war is over you will go
back," Mrs. Ingestre persisted steadily.  "You will
go back and bravely take up the work which lies before
you—the work of reconciliation.  You will fight the
unhappy influence of the narrow-hearted fools and
braggarts who have helped to bring catastrophe in
your life and upon whole nations.  You will retain
your independence, your strength, your character;
but in opening your heart to the goodness and strength
in others you will bind them to you as no weak
surrender could ever have done; you will win a greater,
nobler victory than any victory won with the blood
of men; you will build a bridge between Wolff's heart
and yours; you will help build the bridge between
the country of your birth and the country of your
adoption!"

Her voice rang triumphant, prophetic.  For one
brief moment Mrs. Ingestre, dying though she was,
called back her lost youth and rose to the heights of
youth's hope and faith.

Nora took a deep breath.

"What can I do—a woman against thousands?"
she demanded.

"Your best—your duty."

"I have tried, and I have failed.  I have no power
to build the bridge——"

Her mother's eyes rested on her face, and in their
depths there was a serene confidence.

"God has given you the power," she said gently.
"God has given you an instrument which cannot fail
you.  My Nora"—her voice failed her an instant—"a
little child shall lead them"—she finished from
afar off.

Nora covered her face with her hands.

"It is too late," she said huskily.  "Not even that
can help me now."

Her mother made no answer.  She lay still with
closed eyes, and a peaceful smile smoothed away the
lines of pain from the sweet mouth.  She was so quiet
and the smile was so unchanging, so full of an almost
unearthly wisdom, that every protest died in Nora's
heart.  She crept nearer to the bedside, awe-struck and
afraid, as though already the curtain had fallen which
was to divide them in the future life.

"Mother!" she whispered faintly.

The serene eyes opened, the smile became infinitely
tender.

"My little girl—leave me now.  I am so tired, so
weary.  I shall be glad to sleep.  Remember what I
said.  Kiss me."

Nora obeyed.  For one instant she lay like a child
in the feeble arms, overwhelmed by a frightful
forewarning of a pain she was yet to know in all
its intensity.

"Good night, my darling," Mrs. Ingestre whispered.

Nora crept softly away.  She thought that her
mother had spoken from amidst her dreams and had
forgotten that it was still daylight.  Yet the tender
farewell haunted her as she went downstairs, and it
haunted her long afterwards, when the speaker's face
was obscured in the shadows of memory.

She found her father in the old familiar dining-room,
waiting for her.  The months had made his shoulders
more stooping, his manner feebler, more helpless.  He
looked so really wretched that she forgot her own grief
and put her arms about him and kissed him.

"What is she doing?" he whispered, as though
they stood in the invalid's room.  "Is she asleep?"

Nora nodded.

"Yes; I think so.  Our talking made her very tired."

A groan escaped from the man's quivering lips.

"The doctor said we must be prepared any moment
for the worst," he said.  "It is awful—I can scarcely
bring myself to believe that it is God's will.  How can
I live without her?"

"We must help each other.  And we must make
the last days happy."

"Yes, yes; we must try," he agreed, beginning to
pace restlessly backwards and forwards.  "We must
make her happy.  Nora——"  He stopped and looked
piteously at her over his spectacles.  "Nora, you
think she was happy?"

"Happy?" she echoed.  Somehow, the thought of
her mother's happiness had scarcely ever occurred
to her.

"I mean—I have been thinking, since I knew that
we were to lose her, that she would have been happier
in another sort of life—that I did not think enough
about her: I was always so busy with the poor and
the parish.  It is perhaps foolish of me.  A man of
sensitive conscience is liable to unreasonable remorse.
I should be glad—I should be easier in my mind if you
gave me your opinion."

"Mother never complained," Nora said slowly.

He nodded, as though her words had confirmed his
protests against his own self-reproach.

"No; she never complained," he said, with a sigh
of satisfaction.  For a moment he was silent, then he
turned to her again.  "I cannot tell you how glad
I am that you are here," he went on.  "Weeks ago,
when your mother became so ill, I wanted to send for
you both—you and Miles—but she would not let me.
Miles worried her, and she did not want your first
months of married life overshadowed.  Those were
her very words.  It seems almost providential that
this war should have brought you home in time."

"What news is there?" she asked quickly.  "Is
it really declared at last?"

"Surely, surely!" her father said.  "The rumour
was only a little in advance.  It must come to war;
there is no possible alternative.  We have gone too
far to draw back.  But there is the squire, and Miles
with him.  Probably they are bringing the news."

He went to the French window and threw it open,
so that the new-comers could come in straight from
the garden.  Nora hung back, though her pulses were
beating with excitement.  The news that the declaration
had been a false alarm, picked up with a reckless
haste by Miles—perhaps for his own reasons—had not
shaken her from her purpose.  Arnold had assured her
that it was only a question of hours before the rumour
became truth, and she had believed him.  But there
had been a strange delay, a strange hush; there had
been a talk of "negotiations," and it had made her
afraid.  She did not know of what she was afraid—whether
it was of the war or of peace.  She only knew
that the uncertainty was unbearable.  As she saw the
squire, she knew that, one way or the other, the die
was cast.  Fury and indignation were written on
every feature of the big, clean-shaven face; the small
eyes, sunken under the bushy brows, glistened like two
dangerous points of fire; the lips were compressed till
they were almost colourless.

For a moment he stood in the narrow doorway, his
huge shoulders spreading from side to side, glaring into
the room as though he sought his deadliest enemy.
Then, as he saw the unspoken question with which
the occupants greeted him, he nodded and, entering,
flung his riding-crop on to the table with a loud,
ringing curse.

The Rev. John glanced anxiously at the ceiling, as
though he thought his wife might have heard, and the
squire, catching the movement, hastened to apologise.

"'Pon my word, I didn't mean to make such an
infernal row," he said.  "If I hadn't done something
of the sort I should have had a fit.  It's enough to
send a man down into his grave with disgust.  It's
enough to make a man shake the dust off his boots
and—and——"  He stopped, stuttering with passion,
and the Rev. John turned involuntarily to Miles, who
had followed the squire into the room and was standing
with his hands in his pockets, gazing sulkily at the
floor.

"We've thrown up the sponge," he said, as though
he knew he had been appealed to.  "We've eaten
humble pie, and the war's off.  That's all."

"Yes, that's all!" the squire burst out.  "An
English Fashoda—that's all!  We're the laughing-stock
of Europe with our threats and demands, and then
this d——d surrender.  They call it a compromise.
It's not what I call it.  We've just licked their dirty
boots—and I'd like to see every man-jack of the
Government hanged and quartered!"

He was almost unintelligible in his fury, and the
Rev. John made a mild gesture of protest.

"As a man of peace, I must rejoice," he said.

"As an Englishman, I curse!" the squire retorted,
shaking his fist in the air.  "It was a cowardly thing
to do.  We were ready and waiting for war.  Every
man of us had put his best foot forward.  All my young
fellows were learning to shoot and ride—I spent a small
fortune on 'em; and now, what's the good?  Their
time and my money thrown clean away, and the
humiliation of it all into the bargain!  And to think
we might have thrashed those confounded ruffians
and settled them once and for all!"

He paced up and down, grinding his teeth, and Nora's
eyes followed him with a critical wonder.  By a swift
turn of the imagination, she was again in that huge
crowd, watching company after company of trained
men as they tramped past in stern, resolute silence.
Was it possible that this great blundering squire could
talk of thrashing that mighty force with men who were
learning to shoot and ride?  Was it possible that she
had ever thought as he thought?

He stopped in front of her, with his legs apart, and
fixed her with a fierce, choleric stare.

"Come now, Miss Nora," he said, "you have been
out there and know the blackguards.  You must have
hated 'em pretty well to have thrown up everything
and come home?"

Something like an electric shock passed through
Nora's body.

"I—hate them?" she stammered.

"Yes; Miles has been telling me the whole story.
No offence meant, of course; but between such old
friends as you and I, it was a d——d mistake to have
married that foreign fellow.  I always said so, didn't
I, Parson?"

The Rev. John sighed resignedly.

"I said so myself," he answered; "but they were
so determined that I could do nothing.  It was a
terrible blow to me."

"It made me sick when I was there," Miles interposed
viciously, "to think that I had to be civil to
those boors because my sister had married one of
them.  I tell you, I blessed the war.  It gave one
the chance to pay back."

"You!  What could *you* have done?"

The question came from Nora, and her voice sounded
curiously unsteady.

Miles nodded.

"I could have done a lot more than you think, my
dear sister," he said pointedly.  "I could have put
more than one spoke in your fine baron's wheel if I
had chosen.  And glad I should have been to have
done it—swaggering bully that he was!"

"Miles—you forget—you are speaking of my husband!"

She was leaning a little forward.  Her cheeks were
hot and her eyes alight with a passion which should
have warned him.  But Miles merely laughed.

"Your husband?  My dear girl, I expect he has
divorced you by now as a runaway and I don't know
what else besides.  They are pretty summary with
that sort of thing in the Fatherland.  Imagine"—he
turned to the squire—"they treat their women-folk
like underpaid servants.  The fine gentlemen go about
in their many-coloured coats, and the wives can patch
together what they can on nothing a year.  Poor
wretches!"

"They don't mind," Nora put in sharply.

"It wouldn't make much difference if they did.
And you needn't take up the cudgels like that!  You
grumbled enough that time Wolff said you couldn't
have a new dress for the Hulsons' ball!"

"He gave it me," she retorted, in the same tone of
repressed irritation.

"Yes; after you had worried enough.  But I doubt
very much if you would have got it if I hadn't been
there to back you up.  And the insolence of those
fellows!  He as good as called Arnold and me a pack
of cowards because we wouldn't have anything to do
with their idiotic duelling.  As though we didn't
know what a farce it all was!  Whew!  I am glad
we are both well out of it, and I wish to goodness we
could have given them a lesson they would not have
forgotten in a hurry."

"A bully is always a coward," the Rev. John said
sententiously.  "I have always heard those Prussians
were terrible bullies."

"I should think they are!" Miles agreed.  "To
hear my dear brother-in-law talk, one would have
supposed that I was a raw recruit, or some inferior
beast.  I held my tongue for Nora's sake, but I tell
you, there were moments——"  He clenched his fist
significantly, and Nora broke into a short angry laugh.
"You were always a model of diplomacy, Miles,"
she said.  Her tone was contemptuous, but her brother
chose to take her words literally, and the other two
were too absorbed to notice her.

"And that," said the squire furiously, "is the
people we have kow-towed to—a lot of swaggering
braggarts who don't know what to do with themselves
for conceit.  This comes of all our rubbishy peace-loving
notions!  The world only gives us credit for
being afraid!"

He went on explosively tirading, but Nora no longer
listened.  She was thinking of her mother's words and
wondering if these then were the narrow-hearted fools
and braggarts against whom she was to struggle.  And
in that moment the struggle began in her own heart.
She went to the window and tried to shut her ears
against all that was going on about her.  She tried
to understand herself and the strange, conflicting
emotions which had come to life in the last few minutes.
Everything that the squire and her brother had said
goaded her to a hot retort.  She felt herself quivering
with indignation—because they were abusing a people
she hated, the man whom she had deserted because she
no longer loved him!  She *wanted* to ratify every word
they said; she told herself that she had the right to do
so, that it was all true; and yet her whole spirit rose
in arms against their attack.  What was worse, she
felt a vague antipathy for these three men.  She
thought the squire coarse and arrogant; his entry
and his greeting to her had been rough and without
the respect to which she was accustomed.  And why
could Miles do nothing without his hands in his pockets?
Why, when he sat down, had he to be either
nursing his leg or "slouching"?  Why was her father
so weak and fussy-looking?  And then, to her horror,
Wolff stood before her eyes.  Was it a feeling of pride
which crept over her, pride in his upright bearing and
dignity?  *He* had never been rough or rude to her.
His courtesy to her and all women had been unvarying.
She turned quickly away, trying to stop her own
thoughts.  The squire was standing in his favourite
attitude, with his legs wide apart, still tirading
impartially against the German people and the English
Government, who refused to wipe them off the face of the
earth.  Miles had collapsed into the most comfortable
arm-chair, his head thrown back, his hands plunged
deep in his pockets.  The Rev. John stood between
them, a picture of helpless dejection.  It seemed to
Nora that they had each taken up the attitude in
which she hated them most.  Hated!  It was the
word her thoughts had uttered.  It could not be
recalled.  If she hated them—why, then, she had lost
everything: her husband, her people, her own
nationality!  Why, then, she was nothing, she belonged to
no one, no link of love bound her to any living being.
Only her mother was left—her mother and that one
other being the knowledge of whose existence had
come too late to save her.

In the same moment that her full misery broke
upon Nora some one tapped at the door and, without
awaiting an answer, a pale, terrified-looking servant
rushed in.

"If you please, sir," she stammered, "will you come
at once?  The mistress is—asleep—and we cannot
wake her——"

The Rev. John uttered a smothered cry, and without
a word to his guest hurried from the room.  Miles
followed him.  But Nora remained quietly by the
window and took no notice of the squire as, with an
awkwardly expressed hope that "it would be all right,"
he left her to herself.

She knew what had happened.  Her mother had
bidden her good night, and night had come.  She was
alone—in the whole world alone and friendless.





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   CHAPTER II


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   EXILED

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There is only one sorrow in life which is really great,
and that is the loss of those we love.  The other
sorrows seem great so long as we have been spared the
hardest blow which life can deal us, and then we
understand that, after all, they were very petty and that
if we had chosen we could have borne them patiently,
even cheerfully.  Loss of health, loss of wealth, loss of
position—they are all bad in their way, and as a rule
we make the worst we can of them; but not till we
have to bear them *alone*, without the support of some
familiar, loving hand, have we the right to cry out that
we can endure no more.

And for the first time in her life Nora knew
loneliness—not the loneliness which she had felt in her
husband's home and amongst her husband's people, for
that had been temporary, a state which could, if
necessary, be overcome by a return to those whom she had
left of her own free-will and whose love and sympathy
she could still claim.  *This* loneliness was final,
unbridgeable.  Death had raised up a wall between her and all
return.  The one being whose hand could have
comforted her, in whose arms she could have found peace
and rest, had passed beyond recall, and it was in vain
that, in a childish agony of grief, she flung herself down
by her mother's sofa and pleaded with the dead not to
leave her comfortless.  There was no answer.  The
patient, noble woman who had lain there day after
day without complaint, watching the slow, painful
fulfilment of her destiny, had gone and would come
no more.  She had gained her freedom.  Even in her
own stormy sorrow Nora realised so much—that her
mother was free and that her life had been a long, bitter
imprisonment, to which it would have been cruel to
recall her.  She had gone willingly, passing out of
a sphere in which she had always been an exile, and
taking with her the last—perhaps the only link which
had ever bound Nora to her home.  In those hours
when Nora had hated the stuffy little flat and had
longed for the scent of the home flowers, it had always
been of her mother's garden which she had thought;
when she had seen the picture of the Vicarage rise
before her eyes it had always been her mother's room
which had stood out clearest, which had tempted her
by the tenderest recollections.  And now that her
mother had gone, that home had ceased to be her
home.  The flowers were dead in the garden, the
rooms empty of the old haunting charm, the glamour
which her exile's memory had cast about her old life
became dull and faded.  She saw now an ugly red-brick
building, with dreary, silent rooms, and people
with whom she had never been in sympathy save in
her imagination.  This last was the bitterest
disappointment of all.  In her anger against Wolff she had
expected and believed so much of these "home people,"
and they had, after all, failed her.

As she sat alone in the sad, empty room, she felt that
those five days in England had taken from her not
only the dearest hope but the last illusion.  Her
mother had said, "You do not belong here," and it
was true.  She was an exile in this narrow little world,
and between her father and herself there was an
insurmountable barrier of taste and thought.  It had
always been there, just as, like her mother, she had
always been an exile, but in her girlhood's days it had
been less pronounced, less clearly defined.  Now that
she had had experience in another world, she could no
longer bear the trammels of her father's conventional
prejudices.  She had hated and despised her mode of
life at Wolff's side; she began to see, though dimly,
that it had had at least its great moments, that it
was at least inspired by a great idea worthy of the
sacrifices it demanded.  Here there was no sacrifice
and no idea—only vegetation, and her companion was
not even a useful machine.  He was a weak muddler,
and his world was a little village which muddled along
in a muddle-loving country and believed great things
of itself and its institutions.  Just as Nora had found
the squire ridiculous with his two-week soldiers, so her
father irritated her with his mingled piety, pusillanimity,
and timid self-satisfaction.  Not even their common
grief had brought them together.  They had stood
wordless by their dead, and when the Rev. John had
seemed about to speak, she had fled from him, dreading
that his words might destroy the impression which the
serene sleeper had made upon her mind.  Since then
they had hardly spoken, and Miles had wandered
between them like a sullen, dissatisfied ghost.  Somehow,
he felt that his influence over Nora was at an end,
that from the moment her feet had touched her native
soil she had turned from him and his explanations with
something like repugnance.  He did not trouble to
seek the reason—indeed, she could have given him
none; but the shadow between them threw Nora
back into even deeper loneliness.

And the wonder which had come into her life—the
miracle which had been revealed to her in her mother's
eyes?  She only knew that its revelation had come
too late.  Though all that was best and noblest in her
stirred as if beneath some divine touch, she felt none of
the exultation, none of the sanctified happiness which
might have been hers.  The gift which was to come to
her was like a golden link in a broken chain, like a jewel
without setting—beautiful but imperfect.  She was
indeed an exile and bore the exile's curse.

Thus, when the first tempest of grief had passed she
faced the future with the first fear turned to conviction.
She had lost everything, even to her nationality.  Those
few months had been sufficient to imbue her, without
her knowledge, with ideas and principles which made
her a stranger in her own land.  She could no longer
admire without reservation; at every turn she was
forced to compare and criticise with the same
sharpness as she had compared and criticised in her German
home, and a word against the people to whom she still
theoretically belonged was sufficient to arouse the same
indignation and resentment.  Poor Nora!  It was
a bitter self-revelation which she had to face, and the
only being who could have helped her in this conflict
between the dual affections had been laid only a few
hours before in the dreary churchyard whose walls
she could distinguish through the leafless trees.  The
sight of those walls and the red spire of the church
awakened her grief to its first intensity.  She sprang
up from her place by the empty sofa and hurried out of
the room and out of the house.  On her way she passed
her father's room.  The door stood open, and she saw
him seated by the table, with his face buried in his
hands.  She knew that he was crying, but she shrank
swiftly away, with the horrible conviction that she
despised him.  She wondered if Wolff had cried when
he had returned and found that she had left him.
She felt sure that he had gone on working, and the
picture which rose before her fancy of a strong,
broad-shouldered man bent over his maps and plans in
unswervable devotion caused her a strange sensation
of relief.

It was already late afternoon as she left the village
behind her.  She had no definite goal save the one to
be alone, and beyond the range of prying, curious eyes,
and almost unconsciously she chose the path over
the fields where, months before, she had gone to meet
Robert Arnold.  Then it had been late summer, and
it was now winter, but so vividly did the scene recur
to her that when a tall, well-known figure strode out
of the mists towards her, she could have believed
that all the preceding months, with their condensed
history of bewildering change, had been no more
than an hallucination and that she was once more Nora
Ingestre, setting out to learn the mysteries of her own
heart.  But the next instant her hand was taken, and
she was looking into a familiar face which was yet
so altered that she would have known alone from
its lines of care and grief that time had moved on,
bringing with him his inevitable burden.

"Robert!" she cried.  She saw his look of pain,
and wondered at it.  She did not know that he, too,
had drawn the same comparison between then and
now, and had been shocked by the change in the face
which so short a time ago had been that of a
girl—nay, almost of a child.

"Poor little Nora!" he said under his breath.
"Poor little Nora!"

She lifted her hand as though to stop all words of
commiseration, and he turned quietly and walked at
her side.  He understood that he was helpless, that
he could do nothing to comfort her in her grief, and
yet he felt, too, that she was glad of his presence and
silent sympathy.

All at once she herself broke the silence, and her
voice, save that it was intensely weary, sounded
untroubled and calm.

"I did not know you were here," she said.  "I
thought you were with your regiment."

"I have my Christmas leave," he answered.  "They
have no special need of me."

There was a bitterness in his tone and words which
she understood.  She looked at him, and saw that he
was frowning as though at some painful reflection.

"There will be no fighting?" she asked.

"No, none.  We have given in.  I suppose"—he
controlled his voice with an effort—"I suppose we
had to."

"Had to?" she echoed.

"We were not ready," he said between his teeth.
"Nothing was ready.  I could never have believed it
was possible had I not seen it with my own eyes.  If
there had been a war, it would have been a repetition of
1870, with London for a Sedan, and they knew it.
No horses, reduced regiments, a crowd of half-trained
men pitted against a nation which has been ready
for war any day in the last years!  The thing was
obvious."

"You were so sure," she said dully.  "Everybody
was so sure."

"No one knew until the test came," he answered.
"The outside of things was well enough, and there
were plenty of able statesmen and generals to tell us
that we had never been better prepared.  We like
listening to that sort of talk, and we like believing
it.  A belief like that is so comforting.  It frees us
from all sacrifice—all duty.  'When the call comes,
we shall answer to it,' is our patriotic motto.  'An
Englishman is worth three foreigners.'  And then,
when the call comes, a handful of half-trained youths
who cannot stand a day's march, who can scarcely
ride, scarcely shoot, is all that we have to show for our
boasting."  He clenched his fist with a movement of
angry despair.  "It's all wrong, Nora, all wrong!
We have grown too easy-going, too fond of our smooth
comfort.  Even if we knew that our national existence
were threatened, we should not rouse ourselves.  We
should vote for a few more Dreadnoughts and make
a great outcry and bang the Party drum with talk.
We think, because we have the money, that things
can't go far wrong—we have won before, so we think
there is a kind of lucky star to save us, however little
we have deserved success.  We can't see that the world
has changed, that we have to face a race that has all
our virtues in their youth and strength—all our
tenacity, all our bulldog purpose, all our old stoicism;
and we—God knows!  We never forget our grand
heritage; we never forget our forefathers nor the
glory they won for us.  But we forget to honour them
with our own worthiness.  How will it all end?"

"Whether it be in peace or in war, surely only the
fittest can win," she said thoughtfully.  "It will not
be the richest, or the best-armed nation, but the best,
the worthiest.  Pray God we may prove ourselves to
be that nation!"

"Pray God!" he echoed thoughtfully.

For a minute they walked on in the gathering mist
without speaking.  Both were plunged in sad
reflection, but in Nora's heart there had dawned a new
relief, a new peace.  Arnold had spoken without
arrogance, with a proud humility, with a respect and
admiration for those whom he had hitherto despised.
She did not know what had brought about the change,
but it comforted her, it brought her nearer to him;
in some strange way it revived all her old love for
England and her people.  The squire's swaggering, her
brother's calumnies had maddened her.  She discovered
dignity and candour in Arnold's words, and
her aching heart filled with gratitude.

Suddenly he stopped short and faced her.  She
saw then that a new thought had arisen in his mind.

"Nora, have you heard from your husband?" he
demanded.

She shook her head and went on walking, quickly,
almost nervously.

"No."

"Are you going to return to him—soon?"

"You know it is impossible that I should ever
return," she answered.  "In his eyes, at least, I have
no excuse for what I did—none.  He would never
forgive me."

"Not if he loved you?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Even if he did—even if he forgave me, I could
not return.  I left him because I had ceased to love
him, because the distance that separated us was too
great.  I did not understand his way of life, nor he
mine.  He said things I shall never forgive."

"Not even if you loved him?"

"I do not love him!" she returned passionately.
"He forfeited my love.  He did not care enough to
fight for it.  How should I grow to love him again?"

Arnold drove his stick into the soft turf.  His face
was white and deeply troubled.

"I feel as though I had done you a great wrong,
Nora," he said.  "I did you a wrong already in the
beginning when I tried to force my love upon your
inexperience—when I tried to bind you to me without
having really won you.  I failed, and I was justly
punished.  But I wronged you still more when I sought
you out and offered you my friendship.  I deceived
you and I deceived myself.  It was not friendship,
and people were right to give it another name and to
look askance at my part in your life.  Nora, it is my
one excuse that I did not know.  I believed absolutely
in my own loyalty, until that night of the ball.  Then
for the first time I knew that I was dangerous, and
whether I had been recalled or not, I should have
gone away.  But Fate was too strong for me.  If I
had really been your friend, I should not have taken
you with me that night.  It was a mad thing to have
done.  But everything happened so quickly that I
lost my self-control, my reason.  Now I feel as though
I had put an insurmountable barrier between you
and your husband and had ruined your happiness—perhaps
your life."

She had listened to him in unbroken silence, her
brows puckered into painful, ominous lines.

"You say you are not my friend?" she said.
"What are you, then?"

"One who loves you," he answered, "and one who
has never really ceased to long for you as his own."

"And you talked of friendship!" she cried.

"God forgive me.  Nora, a man does not know his
own heart until the moment comes when he is put
to the test as I was.  I believed it possible that I
could care for you in that way.  I should have
known better."

"I also should have known better," she said.

"No; you were so young.  You could not have
known what a man is capable and incapable of
performing.  The blame is all mine.  And if I have helped
to bring sorrow into your life, my punishment will be
more than I can bear."

So much genuine grief and remorse revealed itself
in his shaken voice that she laid her hand pityingly
on his arm.

"Don't talk as though it were alone your fault,"
she said.  "It was mine as well.  If I could not have
judged your heart, I could have judged my own."

"Nora!" he exclaimed, horror-stricken.

"I did not love you," she went on, almost to
herself, "and I do not love you.  I do not believe that
I love any one on earth; but I always knew that I
might grow to love you.  And—perhaps I have
something of my father in me—I should not have run so
great a risk."

"Nora!" he repeated, and beneath the horror
there rang a painful joy.

She stopped and looked him sternly in the face.

"Do not misunderstand me, Robert.  I did not
love you.  Then I loved my husband, and I do not
believe you really came between us.  There were
other things, and you were only the instrument that
helped me to escape from a life that was driving me
mad.  But, because of all that had been between us
and that which might so easily have been, I ought never
to have allowed you a place in my life.  It was wrong,
and the punishment is just this—that now our
friendship is an impossibility."

He walked on as though he could not bear to listen
to her.

"I know, I know!" he said, impatient with pain.
"I know it is true.  I feel no friendship for you—only
an immense love which has not learnt to be selfless.
But it will come; it shall come.  I swear it.
And when it comes—will you never be able to trust me?"

"I don't know," she said listlessly.

"Do not punish me because I have been honest
and confessed what I might have kept hidden."

"I should have known sooner or later," she
answered.

They had taken the village path, and already the
spire of the church rising above the clustering houses
warned them that their moments together were
numbered.  As though by mutual consent, they
stopped and stood silent, avoiding each other's eyes.

"I want you to know one thing," he said at last.
"Whatever happens, I shall love you all my life, and
that if you need me I shall prove worthy of your trust.
Promise me you will turn to me as you would to a
friend.  Don't take that hope from me!"

"How can I take hope from any one?" she answered;
"I who have no hope——"

She broke off, and he took her hand and forced her
to look at him.

"Oh, Nora!" he cried despairingly.  "You are so
young, and you speak as though your heart were
broken!"

"I do not know whether it is broken-hearted to feel
nothing," she said.  "If so, then I am broken-hearted."

"Nora, I believe you love your husband in spite of
all you say.  You must go back to him.  Where there
is love there must be forgiveness.  You will forgive
each other.  You will put aside misunderstandings
and foolish prejudices, and start afresh."

He spoke with a painful enthusiasm like that of a
man who is willing to trample on his own happiness;
but Nora shook her head.

"No one understands how impossible it is," she
said.  "If there were nothing else to separate us, there
would be the bitterness and hatred between our
countries.  It sounds terrible—absurd; but that is
the truth.  It was that hatred which poisoned our
life together, and if I could go back it would poison
our whole future.  Oh——" she made a little
passionate gesture of protest.  "Why are we so mean and
petty?  Why cannot we watch the rise of another
nation without hatred and jealousy?  Why cannot
we be generous and watch with sympathy and hope
her progress along the path which we have trodden?
Why cannot we go forward shoulder to shoulder with
her, learning and teaching, fearing no one?  If we are
worthy of our great place in the world, we shall keep
it, no matter how strong others may grow; if we are
unworthy, nothing will save us, from downfall—not
all our ships and wealth.  It seems so obvious, and
yet——"  Her momentary outburst died down to the
old listlessness.  "I talk like that because I have
suffered it so in my life," she said; "but it is all
talk.  At the bottom, the antagonism is still there.
Nothing will ever bridge it over."  She held out her
hand with a wan smile.  "Good-bye, Robert."

"Good-bye; and God bless you, dear!"

He watched her move slowly homewards.  He
suffered intensely because he knew that her pain was
greater than his.  He knew that the antagonism she
had spoken of surrounded her whole life, and that she
stood alone, without husband, without people, and
without country.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`REVELATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   REVELATION

.. vspace:: 2

Miles Ingestre met his sister in the hall, and without
a word drew her into the sitting-room and closed the
door.  His action had been so sudden, his grip upon
her arm so fierce, that she stood looking at him,
too startled to protest.  In the half-darkness she
could only see that he was very pale and that he
vainly strove to control the nervous twitching of his
lips.

"What is it?" she asked.  "Has anything happened?"

"Some one has come," he said breathlessly.

She did not answer.  A black veil had fallen before
her eyes, and an emotion to which she could give no
name, but which was so powerful that she stretched
out a groping hand for support, clutched at her throat
and stifled her.  She did not ask who had come.  She
knew by the very change in herself, by the violent
shock which seemed to waken her stunned senses
to a renewed and terrible capacity for suffering.

"Wolff—my husband!" she stammered.  "Where is he?"

"It is not Wolff," Miles retorted rapidly.  "It is
that Hildegarde von Arnim.  She arrived half an hour
ago, and says she must see you at once.  She won't
speak to either of us."

"Hildegarde?  You must be dreaming!  She is
too ill to move."

"She looks ill, but she can move all right.  At any
rate, she seems to have come a long way to find you."

"I must go to her," Nora said dully.  "Where is
she?  Why don't you let me pass?"

"Look here, Nora."  He took her hand again, and
his tone became half cajoling, half threatening.  "I
can guess what she has come about.  She wants to
get you back and put you against me—against us all.
She will tell you all sorts of lies.  But you won't
believe her, and you'll stick to us this time?  Swear,
Nora!"

She tried to shake herself free.

"Why should I swear?  You know I shan't go back—I
couldn't; and she would be the last person to want
it.  She has come about something else; perhaps
about the——"  She stopped with a quick breath
of pain.  "Let me go, Miles!

"All right.  But you'll stand by me, Nora?  And
you won't believe her lies?"

"I don't know what you mean.  What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing; only I know they'll do anything to—to
put us in the wrong.  They hate us like the devil.
I—I wanted to warn you, that's all."

Nora did not understand him.  His manner, over-excited
as it was, frightened her even more than this
strangest of all strange visits.  What miracle had
brought the feeble invalid over the sea to seek her—what
miracle or what catastrophe?  And as she entered
the drawing-room and saw the beautiful, exhausted
face and stern, unsmiling eyes which had once
been all love and tenderness for her, the fear grew
to something definite, so that she stopped short,
hesitating, overwhelmed by that and by a sudden shame.

But of shame Hildegarde Arnim saw no sign.  She
saw defiance in that waiting attitude, and not even
the pathos of the black dress and pale, sad face could
touch her.  She rose, but gave no sign of greeting.

"My mother sent me to you," she said.  "I am to
tell you that your—that Wolff is dying."

She seemed to take a cruel delight in the change
which came over the other's face.

"Dying," she repeated deliberately.  "Dying."

Nora clasped her hands in an agonised movement
of appeal.

"I know—I have heard you.  For pity's sake, tell
me——"

"You need not be afraid.  I shall tell you everything,
to the last detail."  Hildegarde seated herself again.
Her clenched hand rested on the table and her eyes
fixed themselves on her companion with a detestation
almost violent in its intensity.  "It is over a year
since you became engaged to my cousin," she went on.
"It is not nine months since you became his wife.  It
is not a long time, but it was long enough for you to
ruin the best, the noblest man whom I at least have
ever met.  You see, I declare openly what you no
doubt know and have triumphed over.  I love Wolff,
and I have loved him all my life.  If he had made me
his wife, I should have deemed myself unworthy of
so much happiness, and it would have been a joy to
sacrifice myself for him.  No doubt you find such an
idea poor and contemptible; the idea of sacrifice for
those one loves is perhaps out of fashion in your
country.  But, be that as it may, it was an idea
which served you well at the time.  Because I loved
him, and because his happiness was really dearer to
me than anything else on earth, I gave him up to
you——"

"You gave him up to *me*!" Nora echoed blankly.

"On the same day that he asked you to be his wife
I had given him his freedom from a bond which, though
it had never been openly acknowledged, was still
binding on him.  You did not know that?"

Nora sank down in the chair by which she had been
standing.  Her strength had left her; she looked
broken, and there was something intensely piteous in
the clasped hands upon her lap.

"How should I have known?" she asked almost
inaudibly.

"You might have known," Hildegarde retorted.
"You knew Wolff.  He was a man of honour.  He
would never have yielded even to his love for you
until he knew himself absolutely free."

There was a cutting significance in her tone which
could not be mistaken.  Nora lifted her head and met
the scornful eyes with despairing resolution.

"You say that against me, because I was not free,"
she said.  "But you do not know everything; you
have no right to judge.  My heart was free—my heart
belonged to Wolff and Wolff only."

"You were bound to another man."

"By a foolish letter written in a moment of despair.
You have said that I despise all sacrifice.  But that
letter was my sacrifice to you, Hildegarde."

"You must be mad," was the contemptuous answer.

"You have not spared me," Nora went on recklessly.
"I shall not spare you.  That night when you were
delirious I learnt of your whole love for Wolff and all
that you suffered.  I also loved him—I also suffered,
and I distrusted my own strength.  I tried to raise a
barrier between myself and him, so—so that we could
never come together.  I thought if I could say to him
'I belong to another,' that I should save you from
heart-break and myself from a mean, ungrateful act.
But the barrier was not high enough or strong enough
to shield me from my own weakness.  Believe me or
not, as you will—that is the truth.  In all my life I
have loved only one man—my husband."

There was a moment's silence.  Hildegarde sat
stiff and upright, her lips firmly compressed, her
expression unchanged.  But her voice betrayed the
rising of a new emotion.

"I must believe what you have told me," she said.
"In that case, what you did was pardonable—even
generous.  But that is not all.  That was not what
made me hate you.  I hate you because you have
ruined Wolff's life.  For the first month or two you
made him happy because you were happy yourself.
Then I suppose you tired of it all—of the poverty
and the restrictions and the sacrifices.  It did not
satisfy your grand English tastes to go poorly dressed
and live in small, ill-furnished flats.  It was beneath
your dignity to see to your husband's dinner; it did
not suit you to sit at home alone and wait for him,
much less to make his friends your friends and join in
their life.  Though they were honourable, good people,
who brought their sacrifices uncomplainingly, they
were beneath you.  You despised them because they
could not afford to live as you considered necessary,
because they cooked their husbands' supper and wore
old clothes so that he might go into the world and
represent his name and his profession worthily.  You
hated them——"

"Not till they hated me!" Nora broke in, with a
movement of passionate protest.

"They did not hate you—I know that.  They
welcomed you as a sister and a comrade, until you
showed that you would have none of them—until
they saw that you despised their ways and their ideals.
Yes; they have ideals, those poor dowdy women
whom you looked down upon, and their first and
highest ideal is their Duty.  Mark this!  They bore
with you and your contempt and English arrogance
until you insulted that ideal.  They bore with you
as a comrade until you proved yourself unworthy of
their comradeship, until you brought disgrace upon
your husband's name and profession with your
profligate brother and your lover——"

"Hildegarde—how dare you!"

"I dare because it is the truth."

Both women had risen and faced each other.  And
yet in that supreme moment of bitterness, something
between them—their hatred and distrust—yielded.
Accuser and accused read in each other's eyes a misery
too great for hatred.

"I know everything," Hildegarde went on rapidly.
"Wolff has not opened his lips, but Seleneck told us.
We know that Wolff took upon his shoulders the
consequences of your and your brother's conduct.  He
accepted the challenge that your brother refused, and
he went to his death without a word of reproach or
anger.  And that same night you fled with the man
whose name the whole world coupled with yours, and
took with you the one thing of value which you could
steal from your husband—his soldier's honour."

Nora put her hand to her forehead.

"Please—please tell me what you mean!" she
cried piteously.  "I don't understand—his soldier's
honour——?"

"You know nothing of the papers that were stolen
on the same night of your flight?"

"Papers——?"

"Mobilisation papers—the papers on which Wolff
had been working.  When Seleneck came to see you
and tell you what had happened, he found that you
had gone, and that Wolff's room had been broken
into.  There was only one explanation."

"Listen!"  Nora leant against the table.  She was
breathing in broken gasps that were like sobs, but
there was such clear resolution in her eyes that
Hildegarde waited in stern, rigid patience for her to speak.
"I will tell you all I can," she said at last, in a low,
toneless voice from which she had driven every trace of
emotion.  "I can't tell you all, because I have not
the strength—you must just believe me, Hildegarde,
when I say that I loved Wolff and that I was true to
him—yes, right to the bitter end.  You must try and
understand that I suffered.  I was English.  I couldn't
help myself.  I was English to the bottom of my heart.
I loved my country as you love yours, and I could not
give it up.  When the trouble began I was miserable:
everything goaded me.  Oh, I was all wrong, I know.
I let myself be carried away by it all.  I let myself be
influenced.  There were the Bauers—you won't
understand that, perhaps, but they flattered me.  They
offered me friendship where others only followed me
with their criticism; and when I saw where it would all
lead it was too late.  Miles had fallen into their hands.
There were terrible debts and money troubles, and
I dared not tell Wolff.  I knew he would send Miles
away and—and I was afraid of the loneliness."

"Of the loneliness!" Hildegarde echoed scornfully.

"Oh, can't you understand?  I was a stranger
among you.  I was young and headstrong and had
made so many enemies.  I had no one to turn to—only
Miles and Captain Arnold.  They were English; they
understood a little what I felt.  And I suffered,
Hildegarde.  It was as though I had been infected with
some frightful fever which left me no calm, which
magnified every word and look into a taunt and an
insult.  Once I *did* fight against it because I *did* love
Wolff and because I knew that our whole happiness
was at stake.  But in the end it was too much for me.
That night when we all thought war had been declared,
I could bear it no longer.  I rushed home.  My
brother had already gone——"  She stopped a moment
as though some terrible new thought had flashed
through her brain, and the last trace of colour fled
from her cheeks.  "I followed him.  At the station
I could not find him, but Captain Arnold was there.
He took me with him—home to my people.  I did not
go to him intentionally: I could not have done so,
because I did not love him and never had loved him.
I went home.  That is all."

"And the papers?"

They looked each other in the eyes.

"I think I know.  God pity me—*that* disgrace is
indeed mine!"

"No, no, not yours!  Nora——."  The old tone of
tenderness had crept into the shaken voice.  She said
no more, and they stood silently side by side,
overwhelmed with the disgrace that was another's, but
which yet seemed to surround them with its ugly
shadow.

It was Nora who at last broke the silence.

"He must have been mad!" she said, as though
she were thinking aloud.  "He must have thought
that he was serving his country."

But Hildegarde stopped her with a scornful gesture.

"He hated Wolff," she said, "and for the good
reason that Wolff had helped and befriended him for
your sake.  He paid his debts with money which my
mother had given him——"

"Don't, Hildegarde!  Don't tell me any more—not
now.  I cannot bear it!"

The agony in her voice silenced the reproach.
Hildegarde Arnim turned away, as though she, too, had
reached the limit of her strength.

"I am not here to hurt you, but to save Wolff," she
said brokenly.  "He will not save himself.  Ever
since he knew what had happened he has lain with his
eyes closed and will say nothing.  Only when Captain
von Seleneck asked him about the papers, he said
that he was to be held responsible.  They will arrest
him if they are not brought back in time."

"Oh, no, no!"

Hildegarde laughed harshly.

"It will be only a formality," she said.  "They
know that he is dying, and perhaps they will believe
that he is innocent.  But he has taken the responsibility
upon himself and must bear the punishment.
It was Captain von Seleneck who told me to go to you.
He has taken Wolff to his house, where my mother
and his wife are nursing him.  Seleneck thought you
might have pity, and the papers are valueless now that
there is to be no war.  Oh, I know that Wolff is
suffering!  He was so proud of his work and his duty and
his great trust.  You cannot understand all that it
means to him.  Oh, Nora, let him die in peace!  Give
him back his good name—he treasured it so——"

All the hatred and cruelty had gone.  She held out
her hands to Nora in desperate, almost humble,
pleading.

Nora stood rigid, staring in front of her with blank,
terrible eyes.

"He is dying!" she said under her breath.
"He thinks I was so cruel and wicked!  Oh, Wolff!"

"When he is asleep he calls your name," Hildegarde
went on, "and once he was half delirious, and he told
me that you were not to worry—that he was going
to die—he wanted to die.  And it is true: he wants
to die.  He has lost everything—everything.  That
is why I have come—to bring him back at least his
honour.  Oh, Nora, help me!  Remember how he
loved you!"  She drew a letter from her pocket and
forced it into Nora's powerless hands.  "He wrote
that before it all happened: it was his farewell to
you.  He is dying.  Read it!  Surely it will tell you
how he loved you!  Surely it will make you pitiful!
Nora, if I have been unjust and cruel—forgive
me.  Think that I am mad with grief—I loved him
so——"

She broke off.  Nora was reading her husband's
letter, and a silence as of death seemed to hover in the
little room.

.. vspace:: 2

"MY BELOVED WIFE," Wolff had written.  "It
seems strange and foolish that I should sit down and
write to you when you are in the next room and I
could go in to you and tell you all that I have in my
heart.  It seems all the more foolish because this
letter may never come into your hands.  Somehow,
though, I think that it will, and that, though I am a
clumsy fellow with my pen, you will understand better
than if I spoke to you now.  Now there is a terrible
sea between us which neither of us can cross.  You
are bitter and angry with me because I am a soldier
and must do my duty even if it is against the one I
love most on earth.  I am sad because I have lost
my wife.  You see, my dearest, I know everything.  I
have known quite a long time, and pitied you with
all my heart.  I pitied because I understood.  You
were too young to know your own heart or to measure
the sacrifices which you would have to bring, and it
was my fault that I did not measure for you and make
you understand.  Well, after it was too late, you
found out for yourself, and the old love came back
into your life, and I lost you.  I never asked you about
that 'old love.'  I trusted you, and I believed that
the day would come when you would tell me everything.
Fate has ordained otherwise.  I shall never
understand anything, save that you *did* love me, and
that for a time we were wonderfully happy in our
love.  Now that it is all over, I can still thank you
for that time.  It was worth all that it has cost, and
perhaps you too will not regret it—now that it is over.
My beloved wife!  I suppose it had to end thus:
there was too much between us.  I suppose—old
*Streber* that I am, with my cut-and-dried ways—that
I could not fit into your life nor fill it as another might
have done, and you could not understand that it was
not want of love that made me fail.  You could not
understand that I could love you and yet ask you to
sacrifice so much.  If you had been a German woman
you would have understood better.  You would have
seen that a soldier must belong to his duty, and that
his wife must help him at whatever cost.  But you
were English, and there was no reason why you should
have brought sacrifices to a country that was not your
own.  I can understand that: I always understood,
but I could not help you.

"There was only one way for me to go, and you had
to choose whether you would follow me or go back.
I wonder how you would have chosen?  Thank God,
you need not be put to the test.  I could not have
borne to see you suffer.  When you receive this you
will know that you are free and can go back to your
own people and your own country.  It is that freedom
from which I hope more than I would dare to hope if
I went to you now.  You will be able to forgive me
because it is easy to forgive those who have passed out
of one's life for ever.  You see, I know that I need
forgiveness.  In my selfishness I tempted you into a
life too full of sacrifice and hardship, and I failed you,
my darling, sometimes because I was too miserable to
see clearly, sometimes because I did not understand,
but never because I did not love you.  Forgive me,
then, and perhaps—if you can—let a little of the old
love revive.  It can do no harm, and it makes me
happy to think that it is possible.

"Do not try to find out how this has all happened.
All you need know is that I am to fight a duel
to-morrow, and that the chances are against me.  I
know you despise duelling, but this time it has at
least its use—it will set you free.

"This is a poor letter, dearest, in which I have said
only half of all I long to say.  If you read in it one
word of reproach or regret, believe that it is only my
clumsy pen which has failed me, and that I have
nothing in my heart but love for you.  In all I am
to blame, and I am glad that it has been spared me
to see you suffer.  Do not be sad over all that has
happened; do not let it cast a shadow over your
life.  You have given a few months' happiness to a
man who has never for one instant counted the price
too high.  You made me very happy.  Let that be
my thanks to you.

"God bless you, my little English wife!  In my
mind's eye I can see you sitting at your table in the
next room, with your heart full of bitterness against
me; or perhaps you are thinking of——  No, I will
not believe that.  I would rather believe that it is
only bitterness, only sorrow because you are torn
between your country and your husband, and can
find no peace.  The peace is yours now; and when
the time comes for you to find your happiness in
that old love, remember that I understood and
that I blessed you.

.. vspace:: 1

"WOLFF VON ARNIM.

.. vspace:: 1

"P.S.—The Selenecks are your friends, and have
promised to help you.  Trust them implicitly."

.. vspace:: 2

Nora lifted her eyes to Hildegarde's.  The two
women who a short half-hour before had confronted
each other in hatred and defiance now met on the
common ground of a great sorrow.  The barriers
between them were yielding fast, were being swept aside.
Their hands met, and that touch broke down the last
restraint.  The next instant they were clasped in
each other's arms.

"I loved him so!" Nora sobbed wildly.  "I loved
him so—and I have made him unhappy.  I have
killed him!  Oh, Hildegarde, why did I come into
his life?  You would have made him happy.  You
loved him, and there was nothing to divide you.  Why
did you not keep him?  Why did you give him back
his freedom?"

"I could not have made him happy, Nora," Hildegarde
answered.  "I think there are some natures
which must come together though the world stands
between, and even if it be to their own ruin.  Wolff
belongs to you.  He will belong to you to the very end."

Nora lifted her face.  She had become suddenly
calm.  She held herself with the dignity of
resolution.

"And I to him," she said.  "I belong to him
and to no one else in the world.  And whatever
separates us, I shall find my way back.  There
must be—there is a bridge across.  And when I
have crossed it I shall atone as no woman ever
atoned before.  I shall blot out the past.  Take
me with you, Hildegarde; take me back to him—now,
this hour!"

Hildegarde kissed her.  She could have said that
there is a "too late" in life, and that that "too late"
had come.  But there was something in Nora's face—a
hope, a confidence, a strange look of clarified
happiness which held her silent.  Without a word, Nora
turned and left her.  She seemed guided by a sure
instinct, for she went straight to her brother's
bedroom.  As she entered he was hurriedly cramming
some clothes into a portmanteau, and his white, foolish
face was blank with fear.

"Well?" he asked.

She came towards him, and he knew that no
explanation was needed.

"Give me the papers you stole from my husband!"
she said quietly.  "Give them to me at once."

A sullen, defiant answer trembled on his lips, but
she stopped him with a single gesture.

"I do not ask you to explain or excuse yourself,"
she said.  "I know what you are, Miles, and I should
not believe you.  Nor do I appeal to your better
feelings.  I appeal to your common sense.  The papers
are useless to you.  They might only bring you into
trouble.  Give them to me!"

He gave them to her without a word of protest.  Her
paralysed him; and only when she had reached
the door he stammered a single question.

"Where are you going, Nora?"

"I am going home—to my husband," she answered,
"and I pray with all my heart that I may never see
your face again!"





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.. _`THE BRIDGE ACROSS`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   THE BRIDGE ACROSS

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The Selenecks' little drawing-room was almost in
darkness.  Only the pale, flickering reflection from
the lights in the street beneath fell on the farther wall
and threw into ghostly prominence the figures of the
silent occupants.  Frau von Seleneck was seated at
the table, still bent over a letter which she had ceased to
write long before the dusk had crept in upon them.
Her husband knelt beside her, and his hand held hers
in a strong, tender clasp.

Thus they had been ever since a hard-drawn sob had
told him that the letter was no more than a pretence.
He had seen the tear-stains and the piteous smudges,
and he had knelt down as though he knew that his
closer presence comforted her.  Neither had spoken.
They seemed to be always listening, but the silence
remained unbroken.  Once, it is true, a carriage had
rattled along the street and they had looked at each
other, but it had gone on, and neither had made any
observation.

From where they sat they could see across the road
into the rooms of the house opposite.  They were
brightly lit, and in one a noble young fir-tree glittered
in all the glory of tinsel and golden spangles.  Husband
and wife glanced quickly away.  It was Christmas
Eve.  A tiny little shrub stood in the corner, unadorned
save with the candles and one single star.  Frau von
Seleneck had bought it at the last moment, because
she could not bring herself to let the great evening
pass without that time-honoured custom, but she
had cried when she had fixed the star on the topmost
branch, and since then she had never dared look
at it because of the tears that rose in spite of every
heroic effort.

Presently the clock upon the mantelpiece began to
chime.  They counted the hurried, cheery little strokes
under their breath.  Seven o'clock.

"They must be here soon," she said in a whisper.

"If the train is not late," he answered, trying to
speak in a matter-of-fact tone.  "They are usually
late on Christmas Eve."

"Yes," she said.  "How terrible and long the
journey must seem to her!"

"If she cares!" he said bitterly.

His wife's hand tightened on his.

"I think she cares," she said with an almost
awe-struck earnestness.  "I am nearly sure.  It is not
alone that she is coming—it is something else.  Kurt,
haven't you ever had a letter—just an ordinary
letter—from some one dear to you, and haven't you had
the feeling that it contained a message of which the
writer had written nothing—as though the words
had absorbed the look of his eyes, the touch of his
hand, and were trying to transmit to you all that
which he had tried to hide behind them?  That was
how I felt when Nora's telegram came.  It was just
an ordinary, ugly telegram, and yet I knew that she
cared—that she was sorry."

"Pray God he may live to see her!" he answered.

"Pray God that he may live to be happy with her!"
she added reverently.

He shook his head.

"I don't pray that," he said.  "I can't ask
impossibilities of God.  And how should Nora make
Wolff happy now?  She failed before, when her task
was easy.  What should give her the strength to succeed
in the face of the distrust and hatred which she called
to life by her own folly?"

"I shall help her," Elsa von Seleneck returned
proudly.  "I shall stand by her for Wolff's sake and
because we were once friends.  After all, she has
atoned—she is coming back.  That must be the hardest
thing of all."

"She will need more than your help," was the grave
answer.

"Then God will give it her!"

A tear splashed on to the note-paper, and he
pressed her hand tighter.

"Steady, Frauchen!" he whispered.  "I hear
some one moving."

They listened breathlessly.  A second cab rumbled
along the street, but this time they did not hear it.
Their whole attention was concentrated on that
neighbouring room, where life and death kept their silent
vigil, and when suddenly the door was softly opened,
both started as though an icy hand had touched
them on the shoulder.

A faint light came through the open doorway, and
against the pale background Frau von Arnim's figure
stood out in all its old noble stateliness.  They could
not see her face, but they felt that it was composed
and resolute in its grief.

"I think they have come," she said.  "I heard a
cab outside."

Somewhere downstairs a bell rang, and Seleneck
rose softly to his feet.

"I will light the lamp," he said, but his hand shook,
and his wife took the matches from him.

"Let me do it, Kurt.  I am crying—I can't help
it; but I am quite steady.  *Gnädige Frau*, how is he?"

"Sleeping," was the answer.

Poor Frau von Seleneck was not as good as her word.
She could not manage the wick, and the glass shade
threatened to fall from her nervous hands.  In the
end she lighted the little candles on the Christmas
tree.

"We can at least see each other," she apologised
humbly.

Thus it was by this frail yet steady light of hope and
happiness that Nora entered and stood before them.
She was not alone, and yet, as though of intention,
Hildegarde had drawn back from her so that she stood
apart, looking silently from one to the other.  No one
spoke.  They too looked at her without a gesture of
greeting, even of recognition.  It was as though she
were a total stranger, an intruder, an enemy.  And
yet that haggard young face might have touched
them.  It was almost terrible in its look of suspense
and agony.

"Have I come in time?" she whispered.

Her voice broke the spell.  Frau von Arnim nodded.
Nothing had changed in her expression, but its very
calm was a reproach and a punishment.

"He is alive," she said.

Nora took a step forward so that she came within
the pale circle of light.  For the first time they saw
each other full in the eyes.

"You have brought the papers—the proof that he
is innocent?" Frau von Arnim asked.

"I have brought everything—more than you know;
and I have come to be forgiven."

A dead, blank silence.  Suddenly she stretched out
her hands in piteous, reckless appeal.

"Forgive me.  I am guilty, but not so guilty as you
think.  I have been foolish and self-deceived, but not
heartless, not wicked.  Forgive me!  Hildegarde has
forgiven me!"

It was like a broken-hearted child crying in helpless,
lonely repentance, and with a quick movement Hildegarde
slipped her arm about the trembling shoulders.

"You will know everything soon," she said.
"Then you will see that we have all been to blame—that
we all need to pardon and to receive pardon.
Forgive now—for Wolff's sake!"

Something quivered in Frau von Arnim's frozen face.
The little woman by the tree was crying openly, and
her husband turned away as though the light blinded
him.

"Nora," Frau von Arnim said.

That was all.  Nora took a stumbling step forward;
the elder woman caught her and held her.  They
clung to each other in a moment's agony of grief.
Years of life would not have brought them together
nor broken their stubborn pride.  The hand of death
had touched them, and pride and hatred vanished.
The barriers had yielded and left free the road from
heart to heart.

"Forgive?" Nora whispered brokenly.

Very gently she was drawn towards the closed door.

"Let us go to him," Frau von Arnim said.

It was her forgiveness, and they entered the room
together, hand clasped in hand.  For one instant
Nora shrank back as she saw the white face on the
pillow.  Then she loosened herself from her
companion's clasp and went forward alone.  They did
not follow her.  It was as though at this hour of
crisis she had claimed her right above them all, as
though without a word she yet demanded back
from them what was her own; and they watched
her in awed, unbroken silence.  She took the white,
feeble hand upon the coverlet, and kissed it.

"Wolff!" she whispered.  "Wolff!"

No one before had been able to rouse him from that
terrible, death-like slumber.  His eyes opened, and he
smiled peacefully at her.

"My little wife!" he answered faintly.

She crept nearer.  She put her arm beneath his head
so that he rested like a child against her breast.

"I have come back," she said.  "I have brought
your papers and your honour.  You are to be quite,
quite happy.  I will tell you everything——"

"Not now," he interrupted gently; "not now.
I have so little time."

His voice was pitifully thin and broken.  It was as
though the great, powerful body had become inhabited
by the soul of a child.  She drew him closer to her
with a movement of infinite tenderness.

"Only one thing—I did not leave you because I did
not love you—or because of—any one else.  Wolff,
you must understand that.  I was mad—the thought
of war and my own people made me forget all that you
were to me.  But now I know, and you must know
too.  You shall not think so badly, so wickedly of me."

He shook his head.

"I think nothing bad of you, Nora."

"You know I love you?"

"You have a good, warm heart," he answered faintly.
"You are sorry for me—and I thank you.  I am glad
that I am going to set you free."

"Wolff!"

For the first time she understood.  He did not
believe her, and he was dying.  The blow was almost
annihilating in its force and cruelty.  Hitherto she
had defied Fate; it crushed her now beneath its
inevitableness, and a cry of agonised revolt burst
from her lips.

"Wolff, you must believe me!  I can't begin life
again without you—I can't!  You must not leave
me—you cannot leave me lonely!"

He smiled.

"Don't you see that it is for the best, my darling?
It was not your fault.  The sea between is so broad
and strong——"  He broke off suddenly, and a curious,
unsteady light flickered into his glazed eyes.  "Don't
let her know it is anything—serious," he whispered.
"She will be frightened—and she must not be
frightened.  She has gone, you say?  With Arnold?  That
is a lie.  I knew she was going—I sent her.  Her
mother is ill.  The papers——?  Oh, my God! my God!"

She clasped him tighter in her arms.  The frightful
outbreak of delirium—frightful because of its
extraordinary yet heart-broken quietness—shook her to
the soul.  She looked about her, and in an instant
Hildegarde was at her side.

"Nora is here," she said.  "She will never leave
you again.  She has brought the papers.  They are
safe—the papers are safe."

She repeated the words over and over again, as
though she were striving to break through the cloud
in which his mind was shrouded.  He thrust her from
him, dragging himself upright in a stiff attitude of
salute.

"Herr General, I am responsible—alone responsible.
No one else is to blame.  The papers?—I can tell you
nothing but that I am responsible.  Tell him, Seleneck!
Tell him I boasted about them and was careless—anything!
Swear—give me your word of honour!  I
am dying—what does it matter?  No, no; you are not
to send for her.  She is to be happy—and free—among
her own people.  You must not blame her.  It was
too hard.  We—must forgive each other.  Oh, Nora!  Nora!

"I am here, Wolff, my darling, my husband!  I
have come back—I will atone to you with my whole
life.  You don't know how I love you—more than
people, more than country, more than the whole
world!  I have learnt just in the last hours that
there is no one else who matters to me but you, and
you alone.  I will make you happy—so happy, my
dearest!"

In that moment she remembered the power that had
been given her, and her voice rang with the exultation
of victory.  He heard it, and the painful excitement
died out of his eyes.  The mist of dreams shifted, and
he picked up the thread as though the short burst of
delirium had never been.

"Nora, why do you look at me like that?  What
is it you are trying to say to me?  There is something
new in your face.  Nora, help me!  I am groping in
the dark——"

She held him closer to her, and it seemed to her that
the threatening hand of Fate sank, and that Death
drew back as from a greater power.

"I am happy, Wolff—happier than I have ever been.
I know that our happiness has begun at last."

"It is too late—too late, Nora!"

"Not if you live, my darling.  And you will live,
because you will not leave me comfortless—because
there is another to come who will need you——"

She broke off.  He was looking at her as he had once
looked at her before—as though he were trying to
pierce down to the uttermost depths of her soul.  A
look of dawning wonder was in his eyes.

"Nora—is it possible——?"

She smiled at him triumphantly through the blinding
tears.

"It is possible; it is true.  And even if it were not
true, I should hold you back alone—with my own
hands.  I have been through fire, Wolff.  I have
grown strong, and my strength is my love for you.
Don't you know that?"

"*Kleine Frau*, it is so hard to believe, and yet—yes,
I believe I *know*!  It has come to me suddenly.
It is as though a cloud were lifting.  Before, you
seemed afar off; a great distance separated us, and
when you spoke I could not hear or understand what
you were saying to me—what you were trying to tell
me.  Nora, I can hear and understand.  Oh, Nora,
how good it is to have you again, my little wife!
How good God is!"

A change had come over his face.  It seemed
illuminated from within, so that the shadow of death was
forgotten, obliterated by the strength of his joy
and love.

"Nora, I believe I have been living for this!  I have
been like Tristan—do you remember?—fighting back
death until my Isolde came.  I have been waiting and
waiting as he waited.  There was a great sea between
us; but I knew that you would come in time.  I saw
you in my dreams—at first a long way off, and then
nearer and nearer—Nora!  I understand everything—you
don't need to tell me: there is a bridge between
us; you are quite close to me; you have crossed—my
wife!"

He tried to lift her hand, as though he would have
kissed it, but his strength failed him and he lay still,
with his head resting peacefully against her breast.

Presently he sighed.  And with that sigh something
in the quiet room seemed to change.  The shadows
lifted, and through the open doorway the single
glittering star upon the solemn fir-tree shone with a greater
brightness.  Hildegarde knelt down by the bed and
buried her face in her hands.  The sounds of her
smothered sobs alone broke the peaceful hush about
them.  But Nora seemed not to hear her.  She bent,
and her lips rested on the quiet, untroubled forehead.
A great calm and thankfulness had come over her.
She knew that all was well.

Love had pronounced the last triumphant word, and
the sea between them had rolled away for ever.

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   Mills & Boon's New Novels

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**THE MOUNTAIN OF GOD**.  E. S. STEVENS.
**DIVIDING WATERS**.  I. A. R. WYLIE.
**THE SOCIALIST COUNTESS**.  HORACE W. C. NEWTE.
**THE PALACE OF LOGS**.  ROBERT BARR.
**PHILLIDA**.  THOMAS COBB.
**THE NEEDLEWOMAN**.  WINIFRED GRAHAM.
**THE TWO FACES**.  MARIE VAN VORST.
**ODD COME SHORTS**.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
**THE LEECH**.  MRS. HAROLD E. GORST.
**CAPTAIN SENTIMENTAL**.  EDGAR JEPSON
**THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA**.  GASTON LEROUX.
**DOWN OUR STREET**.  J. E. BUCKROSE.
**MR. PERRIN AND MR. TRAILL**.  HUGH WALPOLE.
**BODY AND SOUL**.  LADY TROUBRIDGE.
**CHILDREN OF THE CLOVEN HOOF**.  ALBERT DORRINGTON.
**THE YEAR'S ROUND**.  MAUD STEPNEY RAWSON.
**THE QUEEN'S HAND**.  MRS. BAILLIE REYNOLDS.
**ISABEL**.  DOROTHY V. HORACE SMITH.
**WHEN THE RED GODS CALL**.  BEATRICE GRIMSHAW.
**SOME EXPERIENCES OF A POLITICAL AGENT**.  ANON.
**THE SEA-LION**.  PATRICK RUSHDEN.
**813**.  A New Arsène Lupin Adventure.  MAURICE LEBLANC.
**WITH POISON AND SWORD**.  W. M. O'KANE.
**SPORT OF GODS**.  H. VAUGHAN-SAWYER.

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