"But—why?"
It was now Nora's turn to crimson with embarrassment. She was herself hardly clear as to her reasons. The night before she had played the second act of Tristan und Isolde with Wolff von Arnim, and when it was at an end they had found Hildegarde lying in a sleep from which they could not at first awaken her, so close was it allied to another and graver state. And Wolff von Arnim had had a strange misery in his eyes. Such was the only explanation she knew of. She knew, too, that she could not give it. Nevertheless, she held her ground desperately.
"Because I believe it hurts you, and if not you, at least Hildegarde," she said at last. "She cries sometimes when she thinks I shall not find out, and though she never owns to it, I know it is because I enjoy things she used to have and cannot have. And, besides, it isn't fair, it isn't right. You have both been so good to me. You have treated me just as though I were a daughter of the house, and I have done nothing to deserve it. I have only caused Hildegarde pain, and that is what I do not want to do."
Frau von Arnim took her by the hand and drew her closer. A faint, rather whimsical smile played about the fine mouth.
"Dear Nora, the fact that you are the daughter of the house proves that you deserve the best we can give you. Neither Hildegarde nor I are given to adopting relations promiscuously. And as for the other matter, anybody suffering as Hildegarde does is bound to have her moments of bitterness and regret—perhaps envy. Thank God they are not many. In the first months I have known the sight of a child playing in the street bring the tears to her eyes, and it is only natural that you, with your health and strength, should remind her of what she has lost. And there is another thing"—her manner became grave, almost emphatic—"a useless sacrifice is no sacrifice at all; it is simply flying in the face of a Providence who has given to one happiness, another sorrow. It will not make Hildegarde happy if you stay at home—on the contrary, she will blame herself—and you will deprive my nephew of a pleasure. There! After that little lecture you must have your breakfast and read your letters. You have only half an hour before you start, and my nephew suffers from military punctuality in its most aggravated form."
Nora obediently made a pretence of partaking of the frugal rolls and coffee. As a matter of fact, the prospect before her, but above all the two letters lying on her plate, had successfully driven away her appetite. The one envelope was addressed in her father's spider-like hand, the other writing set her heart beating with uneasiness. At the first opportunity she opened her father's bulky envelope and hurried over its contents. Sandwiched in between rhetorical outbursts of solemn advice, she extracted the facts that her mother was unusually out of health, that he was consequently distracted with worry and over-burdened with work, that Miles had obtained sick-leave and was enjoying a long rest in the bosom of the family, that the neighbours, Mrs. Clerk in particular, were both surprised and shocked at her, Nora's, continued absence. "Home is not home without you," the Rev. John had written pathetically. Then at the end of the letter had come the sting. There was a certain paragraph which Nora read twice over with heightened colour and a pained line between the brows.
"Dear child, you tell me that you are going out riding with a certain Herr von Arnim, your protectress's nephew. Apart from the fact that an indulgence in pleasure which your family can no longer afford seems to me in itself unfitting, I feel that there is more besides in the matter to cause me grave anxiety on your behalf. Herr von Arnim's name occurs constantly in your letters; he appears to use his musical talent as an excuse to pay you constant attention; you meet him at the theatre—which place, I must say in passing, you attend with what I fear must be a wholly demoralising frequency; he lends you books, he instructs you in the German language. Now, my dear child, I myself have never met a German officer, but from various accounts I understand that they are men of a disorderly mode of life who would not hesitate to compromise a young, inexperienced girl. Knowing, of course, that your affections do not come into question as regards a foreigner, I warn you not to allow yourself to become this man's plaything. As his aunt's dependent, he may no doubt think that you are fit game for his amusement. Remember that you are an English girl, and show him that as such you are too proud to play a degrading rôle, and that you will have none of his attentions. Ah, Nora, I would that I were with you to watch over you! Oh that you were in a certain good man's keeping!"
Nora dropped the letter. Her cheeks burned with indignation. It was in this light, then, that her father judged Wolff von Arnim's grave, almost formal, courtesy, their innocent, straightforward friendship together! And yet, beneath the indignation, new fears and doubts stirred to life. She did not attempt to analyse them. Impatiently, as though seeking to escape from all self-interrogation, she picked up the second letter and tore it open. It was from Arnold. Like the man, the handwriting was bold and clear, the sentences abrupt, sincere, and unpolished. In a few lines he thanked her for her last letter, outlined the small events of his own life. He then plunged into the immediate future.
"Unexpectedly, I have been granted a year's leave to travel in Central Africa," he had written. "You can understand that I shall be only too glad to get out of England and to have some active work outside the usual military grind. I leave Southampton in two days' time, so that you will not have time to answer this. In any case, I do not want you to hurry. I reach Aden on the 10th. That will give you time to consider what I am going to say. Hitherto I have been silent as to the matter that lies nearest my heart, but now I am going so far from you I must speak, Nora. I believe that one day you will become my wife. I believe that it is so destined, and I believe you know it as well as I do. Our parting at Victoria convinced me, or at least it gave me the greatest possible hope. I believe that if I had jumped into the carriage beside you and taken you in my arms, you would have yielded. I was a fool to have hesitated, but perhaps it is best that you should decide in cold blood. You know what I have to offer you—an honest, clean devotion, not the growth of a moment's passion, but of years. I know you and I love and understand you—even to your faults. You know me, and whether you love me or not, you at least know that I am a man who never changes, who will be twenty years hence what he is to-day. Is this to be despised? Is not reciprocal trust and understanding worth more than a shortlived passion? Nora, do not count it against me if I cannot write to you eloquently, if I am poor in all the outward elegancies of speech and manner. I have no metaphors to describe my love to you; no doubt I shall always fail in those graceful nothings which you seem to appreciate so much. I can only speak and act as a straightforward Englishman who offers a woman his honest love. For the second—but not the last time, if needs must be—will you be my wife? Consider well, dearest, and if you can, let me go into my exile with the blessed knowledge that in a short time—for I shall not wait a year—I may come and fetch you home. Nora..."
Hoofs clattered impatiently in the street outside. The Arnims' little maid opened the door and grinned with mysterious friendliness.