"God knows I promise willingly," he said.
Thus Wolff von Arnim went back to his own country, and in April, four months later, came again, but not alone. Frau von Arnim accompanied him, and Delford awoke from its lethargy to the thrilling, gossip-giving occasion of a wedding. The ugly church was made beautiful with all the flowers which Mrs. Ingestre's garden and the neighbouring town could provide, the village choir produced its best anthem with deafening, ear-rending enthusiasm, and every inhabitant turned out to gape at the "Baron" and the elegant woman who—it was scarcely to be believed!—was actually a German. In truth, Frau von Arnim's elegance and air of grande dame upset not only Delford's preconceived notions but the Rev. John's attitude as the condescending party in an obvious mésalliance. The "German woman" frightened him, and his position was rendered the more difficult by his wife, who chose to take a decided liking for this new guest and to treat her as a welcome relation. Altogether, on the day of the wedding the poor gentleman was fairly carried off his feet by the foreign invasion. Not only Frau von Arnim, but even the despised Wolff became a personage beside whom it was not easy to appear with dignity. The latter had discarded the ungainly efforts of the Karlsburg civilian tailor, and though the Delfordites, who, in spite of a strong anti-military spirit, had had secret hopes of being regaled with flying plumes and glittering epaulettes, were somewhat disappointed with his frock-coat, his height and the fact that he was "a real foreigner" successfully withdrew every particle of attention from the Rev. John's moving address.
In all the church there were perhaps only three people for whom the ceremony had any other significance than that of an interesting show, and none of them were listening to the Rev. John. Mrs. Ingestre was praying for the future in which she was doomed to have no share. Wolff and Nora thanked God for the present, which was theirs and which seemed but a foretaste of the future. Both had forgotten the trials and disappointments of the last four months, or if they thought of them at all it was as of obstacles triumphantly surmounted.
In Nora all that had grown hard and bitter softened into an all-embracing tenderness. Her love for her father and brother revived—even Delford and its inhabitants appeared to her in the beautiful light of farewell. She knew she was leaving everything, if not for ever, at least for ever as her home, and as she walked by her husband's side down the narrow churchyard path her heart throbbed with a sudden pain. After all, it was England she was leaving—and she was English no longer! Then she looked up at Wolff, and their eyes met, and the pain had died as though at the touch of some mysterious healing hand.
"How I love you!" she thought.
At the door of her old home Frau von Arnim was the first to greet her. Perhaps the elder woman's instinct had guessed the moment's pain, for she took Nora in her arms and kissed her with an unusual tenderness.
"We will try and make you happy in your new country," she whispered. "You must not be afraid."
But Nora was no longer afraid, and her eyes were bright with a fearless confidence in the future as she returned the embrace.
"I am happy!" she said. "I have everything that I care for in the world."
She ran quickly upstairs and changed into her simple travelling-dress. Mrs. Ingestre, she knew, was resting in her room, and the desire to be alone with her mother for a last moment was strong in Nora's heart. In her supreme happiness she did not forget those whom she loved; rather her love had strengthened, and towards her mother it was mingled with an endless gratitude. Yet when she crept into the little room she found it empty and silent. Mrs. Ingestre had gone back to her guests, and for a moment Nora stood looking about her, overwhelmed by the tide of tender memories from a past which already seemed so far off. The invalid's sofa, her own special chair where she had sat in those peaceful afternoons when they had been alone together, her mother's table—Nora drew closer. Something lying on the polished surface had attracted her attention. Hardly knowing why, she picked it up. It was a letter addressed to her at Karlsburg, and the handwriting was familiar. Nora did not stop to think. She tore the envelope open and read the first few lines of the contents with the rapidity of indifference. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and the words and the writing had at first no meaning. And then suddenly, as though she had been roughly awakened from a dream, she understood what it was she held. It was from Robert Arnold, and it was a love-letter.