"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.