"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.
CHAPTER VIII
THE AWAKENING
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."