"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.
"WOLFF VON ARNIM.
"P.S.—The Selenecks are your friends, and have promised to help you. Trust them implicitly."
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."