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.
CHAPTER II
—AND THE NEW LIFE
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."