"I am going home—to my husband," she answered, "and I pray with all my heart that I may never see your face again!"
CHAPTER IV
THE BRIDGE ACROSS
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!"