YOUTH AND THE BARRIER
It was Hildegarde's birthday. The November sunshine had come out to do her honour, and in every corner of her room rich masses of winter flowers rejoiced in the cold brightness which flooded in through the open window. Hildegarde herself lay on the sofa, where the light fell strongest. The two long weeks in which she had hung between life and death had wrought curiously little change in her, and what change there was lay rather in her expression than in her features. Her cheeks were colourless, but she had always been pale, and the ethereal delicacy which had become a very part of herself, and which seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of peaceful sanctity, was more spiritual than physical. Nora, who stood beside her, watching the sunlight as it made a halo of the fair hair, could not think of her as a suffering human being. It was surely a spirit that lay there, with the bunch of violets clasped in the white hands—a spirit far removed from all earthly conflict, upheld by some inner strength and softened by a grave, serene wisdom. And yet, Nora knew, it was only an heroic "seeming." She knew what pictures passed before the quiet eyes, what emotions lay hidden in the steady-beating heart, what pain the gentle lips held back from utterance. Admiration, pity, and love struggled in Nora's soul with the realisation of her own loss and the total ruin of her own happiness. "But I have done right," she repeated to herself, with a kind of desperate defiance, "and one day, if you are happy, it will be because I also brought my sacrifice in silence." It was her one consolation—a childish one enough, perhaps—the conviction that she had done right. It was the one thing which upheld her when she thought of the letter speeding to its destination and of the fate she had chosen for herself. But it had not prevented the change with which grief and struggle mark the faces of the youngest and the bravest.
Down below in the street the two quiet listeners heard the tramp of marching feet which stopped beneath their window, and presently a knock at the door heralded a strange apparition. A burly under-officer in full dress stood saluting on the threshold.
"The regiment brings Gnädiges Fräulein its best wishes for her birthday," he thundered, as though a dozen luckless recruits stood before him. "The regiment wishes Gnädiges Fräulein health and happiness, and hopes that she will approve of the selection which has been made." He advanced with jingling spurs and held out a sheet of paper, which Hildegarde accepted with a gentle smile of thanks.
"It is a nice programme, isn't it?" she said, as she handed the list to Nora. "All my favourites."
"It was the Herr Hauptmann who told us what Gnädiges Fräulein liked," the gruff soldier said, still in an attitude of rigid military correctness. "The Herr Hauptmann will be here himself before long. He commanded me to tell Gnädiges Fräulein."
"Thank you, Huber—and thank the regiment for its good wishes. Afterwards—when the concert is over—well, you know what is waiting for you and your men in the kitchen."
He bowed stiffly over her extended hand.
"Danke, Gnädiges Fräulein." He strode back to the door, and then turned and hesitated, his weather-beaten face a shade redder.
"The regiment will lose the Herr Hauptmann soon," he said abruptly.