DIVIDING WATERS
BY
I. A. R. WYLIE
AUTHOR OF
"THE RAJAH'S PEOPLE," "MY GERMAN YEAR"
SECOND EDITION
MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.
Published 1911
Copyright 1911 in the United States of America by I. A. R. Wylie
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAP.
- [The Mistakes of Providence]
- ["Wanderlust"]
- [An Experiment]
- [Outward Bound]
- [Among the Heathen]
- [A Letter Home]
- [A Duet]
- [The Awakening]
- [Renunciation]
- [Youth and the Barrier]
- [Wolff makes his Debut in Delford]
- [Nora Forsakes Her Country]
BOOK II
- [The New Home]
- [—And the New Life]
- [A Meeting]
- [A Visitor Arrives in Karlsburg]
- [The Cub as Lion]
- [In Which the Rev. John Receives a Shock]
- [Wolff Sells a Horse and Nora Loses a Friend]
- [Rising Shadows]
- [Arnold Receives His Explanation]
- [Nemesis]
- [The Fetish]
- [War-Clouds]
- [Ultimatum]
- [The Code of Honour]
- [The Sea Between]
BOOK III
THE BRIDGE
DIVIDING WATERS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
THE MISTAKES OF PROVIDENCE
The family Ingestre sat in conclave. That they sat together at all at any time other than a meal-time was in itself sufficient proof that the subject of their debate was unusually serious: their faces and attitudes added conclusive evidence.
The Reverend John Ingestre occupied his chair of state at the head of the long table. He was a middle-sized man, with narrow, sloping shoulders, which were at that particular moment drawn up into an uncomfortable hunch. When he spoke he pulled at his thin beard and glanced at his wife surreptitiously over his spectacles, as though seeking her advice or support—actions which gave his whole person an air of harassed nervousness.
Mrs. Ingestre did not return her husband's signals. She lay quietly on the sofa by the window, her hand half shading her face, and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. Only once during the Rev. John's long and detailed statement did she give any sign of having heard. Then she shifted her position so that her grave scrutiny rested on the two younger members of the family. Perhaps she hoped to learn from their expressions what they were innerly experiencing, and therein no doubt she must have been successful, for their positions alone were expressive of much.
The boy—or young man, for he was at that uncertain age when boyhood and manhood meet—had his hands plunged in his pockets; his long legs were stretched out in front of him, his chin rested on his chest. Supreme and energiless despondency seemed to be imprinted in the very creases of his Norfolk coat.
The girl had her place at the table. Though she sat perfectly still, never turning her eyes from her father's face, there was something in her rigid attitude which suggested irritation and impatience. Her hands lay in her lap; only a close observer would have seen that they were not folded, but clenched, so that the knuckles stood out white.
"So you see, my dear children," the Rev. John said at last, coming to his peroration, "I felt it my duty to lay the case before you exactly as it stands. For a long time I hoped that it would not be necessary for me to do so—that a merciful Providence would spare me the pain of inflicting upon you so sharp a wound. Well, it has been ruled otherwise, and I only pray that you share with me my one consolation—the knowledge that it is the will of a Higher Power, and therefore all for the best."
He stopped and waited. In spite of the catastrophe which he had just announced, there was a trace of meek satisfaction in his manner, of which he seemed gradually to become conscious, for he turned to his wife with a note of apology in his thin voice:
"My dear, I have explained the matter correctly, I hope?"
"Quite correctly, I should think."
Mrs. Ingestre's hand sank from her face. It was a finely shaped hand, and whiter, if possible, than the dress she wore. Everything about her was beautiful and fragile—painfully fragile. The very atmosphere around her seemed laden with the perfume of a refined and nobly borne suffering.
"It seems to me there is no possible mistake," said the young man, getting up roughly. "We are ruined—that is the long and the short of the matter."
For a moment no one made any attempt to deny his angry statement. Then the Rev. John shook his head.
"You speak too strongly, my dear Miles," he corrected. "We are not what one would call ruined. I have still my stipend. There is no idea of—eh—starving, or anything of that sort; but the superfluous luxuries must be done away with, and—eh—one or two sacrifices must be brought."
He coughed, and looked at his daughter. Mrs. Ingestre looked at her also, and the pale, pain-worn face became illumined with tenderness and pity.
"Sacrifices," the Rev. John repeated regretfully. "Such, I fear, must be the payment for our misfortunes."
Nora Ingestre relaxed from her stiff attitude of self-restraint. The expression of her face said clearly enough: "The sermon is at an end, and the plate being handed round. How much am I expected to put in?"
"It was of your career I was thinking, my dear Miles," the Rev. John answered. "I am quite aware that your whole future depends on your remaining in the Army, therefore we have decided that—that sacrifices must be brought for you."
He hesitated again, and threw another glance at his wife's pale face.
"Nora, I am sure you see the necessity of what I say?"
His daughter started, as though he had awakened her from a reverie.
"Yes, I do," she said, with an abrupt energy. "We must all help each other as much as we can. I shall just work like a nigger."
"Eh—yes," said her father doubtfully. "I am sure you will. Of course, we shall have to dismiss some of the servants, and your mother will need—eh—more assistance than hitherto—and I know, dear Nora——" He coughed, and left the sentence unfinished.
Whether it was his manner or her mother's face which aroused her to closer attention, Nora Ingestre herself could not have said. She became suddenly aware that all three were looking at her, and that she was expected to say something.
"I don't quite understand," she said. "It is only natural that I should help all I can, only——"
It was her turn to stop short. She too had risen to her feet, and quite unconsciously she drew herself upright like a person preparing for attack from some as yet unknown quarter. Like her father, she was not above the middle height, but she had her mother's graceful, well-proportioned build, which made her seem taller than she really was, and added to that a peculiar resolute dignity that was all her own. It was, perhaps, to this latter attribute that she owed the unacknowledged respect in which she was held both by her father and brother. For it is a set rule that we must admire most what is in direct contrast to ourselves; and it had never been in the Rev. John's power either to carry himself erect, or to give himself anything but the appearance of a meek and rather nervous man. It was owing to this inherent respect that he hesitated at the present moment. Perhaps he realised at the bottom of his heart that it was not an altogether fair proceeding to load his mistaken monetary speculations on the shoulders of a disinterested Providence, and that his family might have other, if secret, views as to the real responsibility. At any rate, he was not sufficiently convinced of his own absolute innocence to meet his daughter's grave, questioning eyes with either firmness or equanimity.
"My dear," he said, "we want you at home." And therewith he considered he had put the case both concisely and gently. But Nora continued to look at him, and he grew irritated because she did not seem able to understand.
"Surely you can see that—that there are certain things for which we have neither the time nor the money?" he said, drumming on the table with his thin fingers.
A deep wave of colour mounted Nora Ingestre's cheeks. She did not speak, however, until it had died away again, leaving her unusually pale.
"You mean—I must give up—everything?" she asked in a low voice.
"If by 'everything' you mean your musical studies—yes," her father returned impatiently. The next minute he relented, and, leaning forward, took her passive hand in his. "But surely it is not 'everything,'" he said. "Surely your home and your people are more to you than even this favourite pursuit? I know it is hard for you—it is indeed hard for us all; but if we kept our promise and sent you to London other things would have to pay for it—the dear old house, the garden, Miles's career. You see how it is? You know there is nothing for your real good that I would withhold from you if I could help it, dear child."
He waited, expecting her to throw herself into his arms in generous self-reproach at her own hesitation; but she said nothing, and there was a long, uncomfortable silence.
"And then time will not hang heavy on your hands," he went on, with forced cheerfulness. "Your mother will need you and I shall need you—good little amanuensis that you are! Is it not something to you that we all need you so much?"
"Yes," she said.
The monosyllable encouraged him, though it would have encouraged no one else.
"And, of course, in between whiles you will be able to keep up your music," he added, patting her hand.
This time there was not even a monosyllable to reassure him. Nora Ingestre stood motionless at her father's side, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her fine, resolute features set, and almost expressionless.
Miles swung impatiently on his heel.
"I can't think what you are making all this fuss about," he said. "You ought to be jolly glad that we can keep on the old place, and that you have such a decent home. I know lots of girls who would give their eyes to be in your shoes."
"Have I been making a fuss?"
She spoke perfectly quietly, without changing her position, but her question seemed to cause Miles fresh annoyance.
"I call it a fuss to stand there and say nothing," he said, with sound masculine logic. "And anyhow—what does it matter whether you can tinkle a few tunes on the old tin-kettle or not?"
"That is something you do not understand," she blazed out. It was as though he had unwittingly set fire to some hidden powder-mine in her character. She was breathing quickly and brokenly, and every line in her face betrayed a painfully repressed feeling which threatened to break out into passionate expression.
Mrs. Ingestre rose from her couch. When she stood upright she seemed to dominate them all, to command silence and respect, by the very dignity of her bearing.
"I think this has all lasted long enough," she said. "What is done cannot be undone. We must face matters as best we can. As your father says, it is the will of Providence, and as such we must accept it. Only"—she turned to Miles, and from the faintest possible inflection of irony her tone deepened to reproof—"there are some things you do not understand, dear boy, and which you had better leave to wiser heads. Perhaps I understand better. At any rate, I should like to speak to Nora alone."
Thus she virtually dismissed the masculine members of the family. Miles shrugged his shoulders, and went out into the garden whistling. The Rev. John rose, and gathered up the business papers which he had brought in with him.
"I am sure that your mother will show it is all for the best," he said weakly.
At the door he turned and looked back over his spectacles.
"Remember always what we have both tried to impress upon you—it is the will of Providence," he said. "We must not kick against the pricks."
He then went out, leaving the two women alone.
CHAPTER II
"WANDERLUST"
For some minutes mother and daughter did not speak. Nora had turned her back, and was gazing out on to the pleasant country garden with eyes that saw neither the flowers nor the evening shadows which lengthened out over the lawn. She was still too profoundly occupied in the effort to appear indifferent, to cover over that one slip of feeling, to notice what was going on about her. She hated herself for having shown what she felt, she hated herself for feeling as she did; but no amount of hatred or self-condemnation would retrieve the one or change the other, and when she at last turned, aroused by the prolonged silence, the signals of anger and resentment still burned in her cheeks and eyes.
"Oh, I am a wretch," she cried impetuously. "Dearest, don't look so grave and distressed. It isn't your fault that you have such a disagreeable daughter. There, I ought to be a help and comfort, and instead——"
"An old woman does not need so much help and comfort as a young one," Mrs. Ingestre interrupted gently. "Just at present I am not suffering one-tenth of what you are suffering. And, dear Nora, don't treat me like some frail old wreck that must be shielded at all costs from the rough winds. Don't stand there and swallow up everything you are feeling because you are afraid of hurting me. It will only rankle all the worse. I would rather have your full confidence, however painful it may be. Come here and sit down beside me. Tell me everything you are thinking and feeling, honest Injun!"
The "honest Injun" brought a smile to Nora's eyes. Like everything else that she said or did, Mrs. Ingestre stamped the schoolboy phrase with an exotic, indefinable charm that was all her own. Yet beneath the half-gay appeal there lay a note of command, and Nora drew nearer awkwardly and hesitatingly, bereft for the moment of her youthful assurance and thrust back to the school days which at the age of nineteen are not so far away. She took the white outstretched hand and stood with bent head, frowning at the carpet. Suddenly she knelt down and buried her face in her mother's lap.
"I feel like a trapped rabbit," she murmured indistinctly.
A very faint smile touched Mrs. Ingestre's lips.
"A trapped rabbit, Nora? And who has trapped you, pray?"
"You have, and you know it. You always do!"
"Really, dear, it would have to be a very old and shortsighted rabbit to allow me to trap it, and you are neither. You must explain."
Nora lifted her face. She was laughing, but she was also very near crying.
"I mean—that is how you make me feel," she said. "I can defy other people when they want to do any soul-exploring on my territory. I just shut my mouth and my heart, and leave them out in the cold. But you are different. You mesmerise me till I not only have to tell you what I am feeling, but I positively want to—even though it is the most disgraceful, most disreputable feeling possible."
"And just now——?"
"It was a thought."
"What sort of a thought?"
"A dreadful one."
"Couldn't you tell me?"
"Of course I can—I must—but——"
"Well?"
"Do you want to know exactly?"
"Word for word."
"I was thinking what a duffer father is—was, I mean."
A complete silence. Mrs. Ingestre stroked her daughter's hand and stared sightlessly into the deepening shadows. The smile had died from her lips.
"Go on," she said at last.
"I don't think there is anything else. I always think that when father talks about Providence and—and that sort of thing. I feel sometimes that if Providence took human shape and was in the room at the time I should wink—I am not sure I don't wink inside me, anyhow."
She waited, and then, as Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, she went on disconsolately:
"I know I am awful, darling. I wonder if other people have shocking ideas too, or whether I am the wicked exception?"
"I don't think so," Mrs. Ingestre said. "One can't help one's thoughts, you know."
"No, one can't; can one? The more one sits on them, the more uproarious they get. Are you cross?"
"No."
"Do you—ever have thoughts like that?"
"Nora, I am not feeling in the least like a trapped rabbit, if that's what you mean."
Nora laughed outright. Her youth and buoyant spirits won the upper hand for the moment, but for no longer. The actual subject of their conversation interposed itself between her humour and herself.
"Why did father try and make money in Mexico?" she demanded suddenly and sharply. "We were rich enough before, and now we are so poor that we have to give up everything that makes life worth living, in order to live."
"My dear child, do you really think that?"
"No, I don't think that. If I thought, I daresay I should see that, as the world goes, I am a very lucky girl. But I feel—awful! And the feelings always count most with me."
Mrs. Ingestre nodded to herself.
"They count most with all normal people," she said; "and those who govern their lives by their heads are not, as a rule, either the happiest or the cleverest. Still, Nora, is it such a sacrifice?"
"Yes."
"Is the music so dear to you that it is the only thing which makes life worth living?"
Nora did not answer, and with a firm, gentle hand Mrs. Ingestre tilted her daughter's head backwards, so that she could look straight into the overcast grey eyes. A very faint smile played about the corners of her own mouth.
"Nora, you know, a few months ago, when we promised to send you up to London to begin your studies, we were comparatively rich people. Rich people can afford luxuries, and our pet luxury was to imagine that our little girl was a genius who was going to show the world great things. We meant to give you every chance—we would have seen that our ship lacked nothing to make its first passage in public waters a success. Well, we are poor now, and the first luxury which we must part with is that fond hope. You and I must face the fact—you are a sweet musician, not a genius."
"Mother, you knew that all the time—as well as I did."
A pale rose sprang to Mrs. Ingestre's cheeks. Quite unconsciously she avoided her daughter's challenging eyes.
"Mother, why did you pretend to think otherwise?" Nora went on. "Did you believe me so silly as to imagine myself anything more than an amateur? Why, of course I knew. I had only to compare myself with others."
"And yet you let us think and talk about you as a genius!" Mrs. Ingestre interposed.
Nora nodded defiantly.
"I was a humbug," she declared. "I wanted to go to London. It seemed the only way."
"Wasn't that a rather disreputable way?"
"Not more disreputable than yours. I remember, when father complained about the useless expense you told him it was a sin against Providence not to encourage Genius. It was then I first made the discovery that when you are most serious you are really laughing—at father and me and every one."
"Nora! Nora!" The tone of mild reproof died away Mother and daughter looked each other in the eyes and laughed. When she had done laughing, Mrs. Ingestre bent down and kissed the girl lightly on the forehead.
"You pry too deep to be an altogether very respectful person," she said; "but since you have pryed, I must make the best of it and confess. I knew your father would not understand my ideas, so I too humbugged a little—just a very little. I wanted you to go to London, and afterwards into the world. It was the only way."
"And now this is the end of it all!"
Nora Ingestre rose and stood by her mother's side. Her voice rang with all the protest and despair of which youth is so capable—very real protest and very real despair, whole-hearted and intense, as is the way with youth.
"It wasn't the music," she went on. "I loved it, of course, but I wanted to see the world and people more than anything else. I wanted the world so badly, mother. I felt like a caged animal that sees the forests and the plains through its prison bars. I wanted to get out and be free. Oh, you can't understand—you can't!"
Mrs. Ingestre stirred suddenly, as though a wound had been touched with rough fingers.
"I do understand," she said. But Nora was too young, above all, too absorbed in her own griefs, to hear all that was hidden in her mother's words.
"At any rate, no one else would understand," she went on. "Father wouldn't, Miles wouldn't, and the whole village wouldn't. They would all say I was a New Woman, or unwomanly, or something—why, I don't know. I don't care whether I have a vote or not. I can cook and I can sew; I love children. All that sort of thing is womanly, isn't it? Isn't it womanly to want to live, and to know what life means? Nobody thinks it strange that Miles, though he has no talent for anything except loafing, should travel, should live away from home and get to know other people. It is all for his development! But I am not to develop, it seems. Perhaps development isn't womanly. Perhaps the only right thing for me to do is to look after the flowers and worry the cook and bore myself through my days with tea-parties and tennis-parties and occasional match-making dances, until somebody asks me to be his wife, and I marry him to save myself from turning into a vegetable!"
She stopped, breathless with her fierce torrent of sarcasm and bitterness. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands clenched; there were tears in her bright eyes. Mrs. Ingestre rose and followed her daughter to the window, whither she had wandered in her restless energy.
"How long have you been thinking all this, Nora?" she asked.
"Ever since I left school and Miles went to Sandhurst. Until then it all seemed fair enough. He had been to school and I had been to school. But after that, just when I was beginning to learn because I loved it, just when I was beginning to see things and understand them—then I was brought home—here—and there was an end to it."
Mrs. Ingestre put her arm about her daughter's shoulders.
"And then you remembered that you were musical?" she said.
"And you discovered that I was a genius!" came the retort.
Mrs. Ingestre laughed quietly.
"I see that we must not throw stones at each other, or our glass houses will suffer," she said. "And, after all, it does not matter why either of us wanted it, or how we managed. You were to go to London and see a little of the world——"
"Don't talk about it, mother!"
"Only a little, perhaps, but more than your whole future promises you now, poor child. Now you will have to stop here and vegetate."
Nora turned and clasped her mother in a tumultuous embrace.
"What a brute I must seem!" she exclaimed. "And yet I do love you, dearest. I believe I love you more than most daughters do their mothers, and I don't believe that I am really more selfish—only, I can't hide what I feel, and I feel such a lot. Are you hurt?"
Mrs. Ingestre shook her head.
"It is an old woman's privilege to pretend that she has a reason to feel bitter," she said, "but I am not in the least bitter, because, you see, I understand. I understood even before you said anything, and so I made up my mind that you should be given an alternative——"
"An alternative, mother?"
"——To staying here; and Captain Arnold."
A sudden silence fell on both. Mrs. Ingestre, under cover of the twilight, observed her daughter sharply. She saw that though Nora's face had grown grave it showed no sign of any profound feeling, and she took the quiet, undisturbed colour as an answer to a question which even she had never ventured to ask.
"And so," she went on after a moment, "I wrote to my old friend, Fräulein Müller, about you, and she answered two or three days ago, and said she knew of an excellent position as companion to a lady in Karlsburg. She thought it would suit you admirably. You would be treated as one of the family, and have plenty of time to go on with your own studies. Would you like it?"
The proposal came so suddenly, and yet in such a matter-of-fact tone, that Nora caught her breath and looked up at her mother in blank surprise.
"You mean," she began slowly, "that I should go and live in a German family?"
"Yes."
"With a lot of fat, greasy, gobbling Germans?"
"Do you know any Germans?"
"No—at least there was our German music-master at school, and he was fat and greasy, and I am sure he must have gobbled. He must have done. They all do."
"You used to say he played like an angel," Mrs. Ingestre interposed.
"So he did. But I hated him all the same. I hate all Germans."
Her tone rang with a sort of school-girl obstinacy. Her attitude, with lifted chin and straight shoulders, was eloquent with national arrogance and scorn.
Mrs. Ingestre turned away.
"I shall write to Fräulein Müller and tell her to make all arrangements," she said. "I think, if everything proves suitable, that you had better go to Karlsburg."
"Mother! You haven't even given me the choice!"
"I do not think it wise to do so," Mrs. Ingestre answered gravely. "You are right, Nora; you must see the world. You must go away from here, not just for the sake of the music, the change, and excitement, but in order that your heart may grow wider, in order to learn to love the good that lies outside your own little sphere. There are great things, great people outside Delford, Nora—yes, and outside England. You must learn to know them."
The girl's face flushed crimson.
"At the bottom we all despise foreigners and foreign ways," she said in self-defence. "Father does, Miles does, the Squire does. And they have all travelled; they have seen for themselves."
"They have travelled with their eyes open and their hearts closed," Mrs. Ingestre answered.
"How do you know, mother? You have never been out of England."
Mrs. Ingestre shook her head. A rather melancholy smile passed over her wan features.
"No," she said; "I have never been out of England, but I have been often, very often, ill, and during the long hours I have travelled great distances, and I have begun to think that God cannot surely have reserved all the virtues for us English. I fancy even the poor benighted Germans must have their share of heaven."
Nora laughed outright.
"I expect they have, now I come to think of it," she admitted gaily. "Mother, you are a much better Christian than father, though you won't call every one 'dearly beloved,' and you are yards better than I am. I can't help it—I despise all foreigners, especially——"
She stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Ingestre smiled.
"Still, you will try Karlsburg. It will be an experience for you, and you will hear good music. The family is a very old one, and perhaps the members, being of noble birth, may gobble less than the others."
"All Germans are of noble birth," Nora observed scornfully.
"So much the better for them," Mrs. Ingestre returned. "Are you willing to try? You know the alternative."
"May I think it over, mother?"
"Yes, you may think over it, if you like. It is, after all, only a question of your willingness."
"That means you have made up your mind?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Ingestre saw the strong young face set into lines of defiance. She went back to the sofa and lay down with a sigh.
"Little Nora," she said, almost under her breath, "you know it is not my custom to preach. You won't think, therefore, that I am just 'talking' when I tell you: years ago I would have given anything—anything—to have had this chance."
For the first time in their long interview the girl stopped listening to the self-pitying confusion of her thoughts. The elder woman's voice had penetrated her youthful egoism, and she turned with that curious tugging at the heart which we experience when we have unexpectedly heard a smothered cry of pain break from lips usually composed in lines of peace and apparent content.
"Mother!" Nora exclaimed. The room was now in almost complete shadow. She came closer and bent over the quiet face. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of roses, and it flashed through Nora's mind as she stood there that her mother was like a rose—pale and faded, but still beautiful, still breathing a wonderful perfume of purity and sweetness.
"Mother!" she repeated, strangely awe-struck.
Mrs. Ingestre opened her eyes and smiled.
"I am very tired," she said. "I think I could sleep a little. Go and think it over. I want you to be willing."
Nora bent and kissed her.
"If you wish it, I am willing," she said with impulsive, whole-hearted surrender. She crept out on tiptoe, and for a few minutes all was quiet in the great shadowy room. Then the door opened again, and the Rev. John entered and peered round short-sightedly. He saw that his wife's eyes were closed, and, since it is not kind to waken a weary invalid, he merely knocked some books off the table and coughed. Truth to tell, it annoyed him that his wife should have chosen that identical moment to rest. He wanted to talk to her, but since in spite of all his indirect efforts she remained quiet, he went out again, a disconsolate victim of his own gentle consideration.
But Mrs. Ingestre had not been asleep. Her eyes were shut, but the eyes of her mental vision were open. They were watching sunlit panoramas of long rivers with mountain banks and frowning ruins, glorious, heaven-inspiring cathedral spires and great cities. The ears of her imagination had not heard the Rev. John's clumsy movements. They were listening to the song of the ocean, the confusion of a strange tongue, the rich crescendo of a wonderful music.
Mrs. Ingestre had left the room and the vicarage and the village far behind, and was travelling swiftly through a world which she had never seen and—since for her life was near its close—would never see. And as she travelled, the same thought repeated itself to her with stern persistency:
"Whatever it costs you, she must go. You must not, dare not keep her."
CHAPTER III
AN EXPERIMENT
Breakfast with the Ingestres was a movable and unsociable feast. The various members of the family came down when it suited them, the only punishment being the inevitable one of cold eggs and bitter tea, and conversation was restricted to the barest necessities. The Rev. John was usually engrossed in parochial letters, Mrs. Ingestre was never present at all, and Miles only at such a time when it pleased him. Thus Nora, choosing on the morning following the momentous interview to be an early riser, found little difficulty in making her escape. The Rev. John was more absorbed than usual in his post, since it contained not only letters dealing with his cure of souls, but also some disagreeable business facts which he swallowed with his tea in melancholy gulps.
Nora kissed him lightly on the high forehead as she ran toward the open French window. Rather to her surprise, the customary caress seemed to arouse her father from his reflections. He looked up and blinked, like a man who is trying to remember some important matter.
"My dear," he said, before Nora had reached the lawn, "is it really true that you want to go abroad? Your mother was talking to me about it last night."
"We were thinking about it," Nora admitted, fidgeting nervously with the blind-cord. "Mother said she thought it would be good for me."
"But, my dear child, what shall we do without you?" her father complained.
Nora made an almost imperceptible movement of impatience. She knew of what her father was thinking, and it did not move her to any great degree of sympathy.
"You will manage all right," she said. "Mr. Clerk will help you with your letters." And then, to cut the conversation short, she went out into the garden and along the gravel pathway towards the road.
The sun shone gloriously. All the charm of an English summer morning lay in the air, and Nora drew in great breaths with a joyous, unconscious triumph in her own fresh youth and health. The garden was the one place in the village which she really loved. The ugly, modern red-brick church, the straggling "square," with its peppermint bull's-eye monument to some past "glorious victory," in which the inhabitants of Delford were dimly supposed to have had their honourable share, the stuffy cottages, interspersed here and there by an ivy-overgrown residence of some big-wig of the neighbourhood—these features were unaccountably connected in Nora's mind with her father's sermons, the drone of the organ, and the dull piety of Sundays. But the garden was all her mother's. Nora believed that within its peaceful limits the forgotten and despised fairies of ancient lore took refuge from the matter-of-fact bigots who formed Delford's most respectable community. She had even christened a certain rose-corner the "Fairy Castle," and it amused her riotous young fancy to imagine an indignant and horrified Queen Mab scampering across the lawn in disorganised flight, before the approach of the enemy in the form of Mrs. Clerk, the curate's wife, or Mrs. Chester of the Manor. The garden was, as it were, Mrs. Ingestre's self-created Eden in the drab-coloured land of the Philistines, and even the Rev. John was an intruder and disturber of its poetic peace. Nora felt all this, and in a dim, unformed way understood why her mother's roses were different to the roses in other and richer gardens, why the very atmosphere had its own peculiar perfume, the silence its own peculiar mystery. She felt that her mother had translated herself into the flowers, and that the depths of her quiet, unfathomable heart were revealed in their beauty and sweetness. She felt that if she could have read their language, the very daisies on the lawn would have lifted the veil which hung between her and the woman who seemed to her the most perfect on earth. For, in spite of their close and tender relationship, Mrs. Ingestre's inner life was for her daughter a sort of Holy of Holies, into which no human being had ever ventured.
Thus, once beyond the reach of her father's voice, Nora lingered willingly between the rose beds, making mental comments on the progress of the various favourites and for the moment forgetting the matter which was weighing heavily on her mind. At the gate opening out on to the road, however, she pulled herself sharply together, with a sudden gravity on her young face. Either the church steeple visible above the trees, or the sight of an inquisitive face peering through the blinds of the house opposite, reminded her that the frontier of Eden was reached, and that the dull atmosphere of respectability was about to encompass her. She went quickly through the village. Most of the villagers touched their caps as she passed, and Mrs. Clerk, early bird of charity that she was, attempted to waylay her, to discuss the desirability of procuring parish relief for bedridden old Jones, and, incidentally, of course, to discover how far the pleasantly lugubrious reports respecting the Ingestres' disabled fortunes were founded on fact. Nora, however, avoided her enemy with the assistance of an absent-minded smile and increased speed, and managed to reach her destination without further interruption.
Her destination was a stile which led out on to a narrow pathway over the fields. She was fond of the spot, partly because if you turned your back to the east it was quite possible to forget that such things as Delford or the church or the peppermint bull's-eye monument existed, partly because westwards the limitless stretch of undulating fields seemed to suggest freedom and the great world beyond, of which Nora thought so much. On this particular morning it was not the view which attracted her, as her rather unusual conduct testified. She arranged her ruffled brown hair, stooped, and tightened a shoelace, undid the second shoelace and retied it with methodical precision. Then some one said "Good morning, Nora," and she sprang upright with her cheeks red with surprise or exertion, or anything else the beholder chose to suppose.
"Good morning, Robert," she said.
The new-comer took the friendly, outstretched hand.
"I was coming to pay a disgracefully early morning call," he said. "I am awfully glad we have met."
"I knew you would come over the fields this way," she said. "I came because I wanted to see you."
He flushed crimson with pleasure.
"That was decent of you, Nora. You are not always so kind."
"This is an exceptional occasion," she answered gravely.
She perched herself on the stile and sat there gazing thoughtfully in front of her. In that moment she made a sweet and pleasing picture of English girlhood. The sunlight played through the trees on to her hair, picking out the shining red-gold threads, and touching with warmer glow the softly tinted skin. The clean-cut, patrician features, dark-arched eyebrows, and proud, rather full lips seemed to contrast strangely with the extreme simplicity of her flowered muslin frock. And indeed she came of another race of women than that of which Delford and its inhabitants were accustomed—something finer, more delicate, more keenly tempered. It was almost impossible to think of her as the Rev. John's daughter—quite impossible as Miles Ingestre's sister. One could only understand the small, aristocratic features when one remembered that Mrs. Ingestre was her mother. Captain Arnold remembered the fact keenly that moment.
"I declare you are Mrs. Ingestre's miniature!" he exclaimed. "This morning, one would positively think she had been made twenty years younger, and perched up there as a surprise-packet."
Nora turned on him with a pleased smile.
"This is a nice compliment," she said; "but I have no time for such things just now. Any moment Mrs. Clerk might scurry round the corner, and then my reputation would be gone for ever. She would probably tell every one that I had come out to meet you on purpose."
"Which is true, by the way, isn't it?" he inquired, smiling.
"Yes, quite true; only my reason is respectable—not the sort of reason that Mrs. Clerk would put down to my credit."
He came closer and, leaning his elbows on the cross-bars of the stile, looked up into her face.
"I hope it is a nice reason," he said.
"No," she answered, "it is a serious reason, and not in the least nice. I expect you have already heard something about it, haven't you?"
He hesitated.
"Of course—I have heard rumours," he said. "As a rule I ignore such things, but I could not altogether ignore this; it concerned you and yours too closely."
"Besides, it is true," she added.
"True, Nora?"
"Yes, quite true. We are ruined."
"My dear girl!"
"At least, comparatively ruined," she corrected.
For a moment he was silent, apparently intent on the study of his own strong square hands linked together in front of him.
"How did it happen?" he asked at last.
"I don't know," she answered impatiently. "Father bought some shares that aren't any good. I suppose he wanted to make money." Her tone was unconsciously scornful.
"We all want to do that," Arnold observed in defence.
The strongly arched eyebrows went up a degree.
"At any rate," she said, "it is frightfully rough on mother. Her life was hard enough before—what with ill-health and that sort of thing. Now it will be ten times worse." She clenched her hands in a sudden passionate protest. "I can't help it," she went on, "it seems to me all wrong. She is the best, the cleverest woman I have ever met. She ought to be the wife of a genius or a great, good man—not father's wife. Father ought to have married Mrs. Clerk. Why did she marry him? It is wicked, but it is the thought which comes into my mind every time I see them together. And now, when I think that she will have to scrape and save as well I——" She stopped short and looked at her companion defiantly. "I suppose you are very shocked," she said. "That comes of always feeling as though you were one of the family. I have to say just what is passing in my mind."
"I am glad you have so much confidence in me," Arnold answered seriously. "All the same, I do not think that you are just to your father. He is a thoroughly good man. Many people would think Mrs. Ingestre very lucky."
"Perhaps they do think so," Nora said, with indifference. "That is because no one about here is capable of understanding her. In any case, it's no good talking about it. This latest trouble is quite enough."
"I suppose Miles will be able to stay in the Army?" Arnold asked.
"Oh, yes, that's settled."
"What about your studies? They will have to be given up, of course?"
"Why 'of course'?" she flashed out.
"Because there won't be enough money for them," he explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "For my part," he went on, "I shall be glad. I dreaded the thought of coming home on leave and finding you gone. It would have been sickening."
"It will be still more 'sickening' now," she said, rather revengefully. "I am going away for a long time, and to a place a long way off."
"Nora! In Heaven's name where and why?"
She laughed at his astonished, troubled face.
"To Karlsburg, in Germany—as a companion."
"To Germany! Why do you want to go there?"
"Because I do not want to vegetate here."
"Nora, you will hate it. You will be ill with home-sickness. You don't know what it will be like. It is not as though you will be among your own country-people. You will hate their manners, their customs, their ways, and they will treat you like a servant. Little Nora, I can't bear the thought of it."
He spoke earnestly, almost incoherently.
Nora shook her head.
"There is no other alternative," she said.
"There is one other alternative, Nora. Will you be my wife?"
He had taken her hand, and she did not attempt to draw it back. Nor had she changed colour. Her clear eyes studied his thin, rather gaunt face, and passed on with frank criticism to his tall figure, loosely built and rather stooping, in the grey Norfolk suit.
"Nora," he said sternly, "I have asked you a question. You do not need to look at me like that. I am not different to what I usually am."
"But I am looking at you in a different light," she said.
He seemed to think that she was laughing at him, or that she had not taken him seriously. A deep flush mounted his sun-burnt cheeks.
"Nora, I am very much in earnest," he said, his grasp on her hand tightening. "Though you are a child you must have felt long ago that I cared for you as something more than my little comrade. I love you, and I have loved you a long time. Will you be my wife?"
She shook her head gravely and regretfully.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I do not love you."
"Are you sure? How can you tell? You know nothing of love."
"No," she agreed. "That is the very reason I will not marry you."
He let her hand go and stood looking at her with his lips tightly compressed, as though on a storm of protest.
"Would you mind if I was quite honest?" she went on. "I would rather tell you everything, even if it makes you think me bad and heartless."
"I shall never think that of you," he said painfully.
"Well, then, I did know you cared for me," she continued. "I was always ashamed of myself for knowing. It seemed conceited of me to imagine that a grown-up man should want such a child as I am—still, I couldn't help it. I felt it. It seems one does feel that sort of thing. It is like electricity in the air. Anyhow, it did not worry me very much. I made up my mind that one of these days I would marry you. It seemed so probable and natural that I should. We had known each other since I was a baby and you a school-boy; our families were connected; we lived in the same neighbourhood; we saw each other at regular intervals; we never quarrelled—or hardly ever; we knew each other's faults better than most people do who marry. Everything seemed to point in the same direction. But I was such a school-girl. I felt that there was heaps of time for me to grow to love you—or perhaps find out that I loved you already. You see, I wasn't sure. I liked to be with you; but then, I like to be with any one who is jolly and amusing, so that wasn't a sure test. Yesterday I knew that there was no time left me. I guessed that I should have to decide between you and Karlsburg. It sounds horrid, but it is the truth. And I could not decide—I simply could not. Then I thought—perhaps if you asked me, perhaps if you told me about your love, it would awaken some sort of an answer in me—I should feel some sort of signal such as I should imagine a woman would feel if the being with whom she is destined to spend her life, and perhaps more, stood at her side and held her hand. So I came out here, so that you would ask me to be your wife. Are you angry?"
He shook his head, frowning straight before him.
"No."
"It may sound heartless," she went on; "I did not mean it to be. I thought it would be better if everything was spoken out clearly between us. I knew you loved me, and I cared for you—I cared for you enough to be glad if I found I loved you. For my own sake I should have been glad. I know my life would be safe in your hands—that you are all an English gentleman need be, but——"
"Now comes the 'but,' he said, with bitterness.
"It is no good," she said. "I can't pretend, can I? When you took my hand, when you spoke, I felt nothing—absolutely nothing, or, perhaps, only a little more critical than usual. I noticed, for instance, that you stoop. It had never struck me before. I tell you that because it shows you just how I feel."
"Thank you," he said.
She put her hand on his shoulder.
"Don't be angry," she pleaded. "I do care for you."
"Then, if you care for me, couldn't you give me a chance—won't you trust yourself to me, Nora? Love will come little by little."
He had taken her hand again, and she felt that he trembled with restrained feeling.
"I have an idea that love never comes little by little," she said.
They were a long time silent. Arnold had buried his face on his arms on the cross-bars. Presently he looked up, and met her sorrowful gaze with pale composure.
"So it is to be Karlsburg?" he asked.
"Yes, I think so."
"Nora, I shan't give up hope."
"It wouldn't be fair of me to say 'don't.'"
"Still, when you come back?" ...
"I can't promise anything," she said, but her eyes were full of pity and kindness. "I am so sorry, Robert."
"That's all right, dear. You can't help it." He pressed her hand a last time. "I won't come on now. You understand—I would rather be alone. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
She watched him till he was out of sight. A tear rolled down her cheek. She rubbed it quickly and impatiently away. Then she sprang down and went home. She felt shaken and vaguely regretful, and was filled with the one desire to be with her mother.
Mrs. Ingestre was in the garden when Nora reached the vicarage. She was looking paler than usual, but she greeted her daughter with the customary grave, affectionate smile.
"You are out early to-day," she said.
Nora came and slipped her arm through her mother's.
"I have something serious to tell you," she said. "Robert has asked me to be his wife."
She spoke quickly, breathlessly, as though disburdening her heart of an uncomfortable load. Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, but waited quietly for what was to come. She held a bunch of roses, and if Nora had been less self-absorbed, she would have seen that the white hand trembled.
"I wanted him to propose to me," Nora went on with her confession. "I wanted to find out if I cared—I wanted to care, but—I don't—not enough. So I said 'No.' I am glad it is over."
Mrs. Ingestre pressed the arm resting on her own.
"And I am glad that you have said 'no,'" she said. "I should always have been afraid if it had been 'yes' that Karlsburg and vegetation had given the casting vote. It is dangerous to treat marriage as an escape loop-hole. Sometimes it means the tragedy of a lifetime."
They talked of other things, as people do who have touched on a subject too near the heart's innermost and untrodden places, but Mrs. Ingestre had unconsciously lifted a corner of the veil. The words "a tragedy of a lifetime" remained ineffaceable, and, though they had been untouched with self-pity or bitterness, Nora believed she understood.
From that moment she saw in her mother's face, words, and acts a new meaning—the revelation of a harsh punishment nobly and patiently accepted.
CHAPTER IV
OUTWARD BOUND
After the final decision, events moved swiftly in Nora Ingestre's life. It was almost as though Mrs. Ingestre was afraid delay might develop imperceptibly into a gradual surrender to the protests of her husband and the scoffing criticisms of her son. The former treated Nora's journey as a sort of soul-contaminating emigration into the land of the Moabites—a matter full of spiritual danger for her, and, incidentally, of annoyance for him. During the six weeks that passed in correspondence between Delford and Karlsburg and in busy preparations, he varied the table conversation with anxious appeals to a watchful, if occasionally inexplicable Providence on behalf of his dearest child and a fretful review of his own crippled condition without her assistance.
"God forbid that I should criticise my fellow-creatures," was his usual introductory sentence, "but foreigners are not as we. They have ways and customs which I cannot believe are well-pleasing in His sight. Do not, my child, be led astray by the creeping influence of example; do not surrender the proud and glorious tenets of your country because you see many, less fortunate, following other paths than those you have been taught to tread. They may seem fair, but remember the end is not here. Be careful that a light and frivolous conception of a terrible God does not taint your blood. I shall think of you always, dear child, but most of all on Sundays, in our beloved church, when I shall pray that you too are joining in the universal praise in some suitable place of worship."
After which he was wont to remark that his sermon was not yet copied out, and on Nora having offered to perform the task, only too thankful that her soul's condition should cease to be made the subject for an after-dinner's conversation, he would draw her to him and kiss her.
"What shall I do without my right hand?" he usually added, with a grave and melancholy shake of the head.
It was then Miles's turn to take up the ball and keep it rolling after his own methods and ideas. References to fat Germans and to people who chose to associate with that sort of foreign bounder rather than stay at home with decent English people were plentiful, and became tiresome even in their variations. But alike to her brother's pungent sarcasm and her father's periods Nora bore the same determined front. She was on her mother's side, blindly and devotedly, and in spite of the fact that at the bottom of her heart she shared the prejudices of the masculine element in her family. She had the firm conviction that her mother was right, and felt, moreover, that anything—even Karlsburg—was better than the dreary Puritan monotony of her present life.
As for Mrs. Ingestre, she said little, but went on quietly with the necessary arrangements and ignored the constant, if indirect, attacks of her husband and son. Neither ventured to criticise her plans to her face. Miles lived in a wholesome shamefaced awe of his mother's dignity and keener insight into his own weaknesses; the Rev. John had his private reasons for caution. He had, in fact, waged one battle royal with his wife, and had been momentarily forced to realise that for twenty-five years he had been living with a master who had acted willingly as his slave. Not that the awakening was more than momentary. When he first recovered from the shock of finding himself confronted by an iron wall of opposition, he had dozed back into the old delusion that he was sent with a divine mission to be the guide and support to a frail and helpless woman. But there were a few words uttered in the course of a short and painful interview which the Rev. John could not forget. They rankled in his mind as the proof of the injustice, ingratitude, and perversity of the best of women.
"We look at things from a different standpoint," Mrs. Ingestre had said wearily. "You regard the world and all that it has to offer in beauty and happiness as something to be hated and avoided. You do hate the world. You boast of the fact. I am different. I believe that I was put into the world to enjoy it to the uttermost power of my capability, that every day in which I had not seen or done something new or experienced some fresh wonder was a day wasted. I believed all this in spite of my home and upbringing. I simply waited for the time when I should be allowed to live as I understood living. I married you—and then too late I saw that your ideas and mine clashed. It was a mistake, John, but in all justice you must admit it was a mistake which you have never had to feel. I have done my best to smother my wishes and instincts because I realised that it was not your fault that I had seen more in you than was really there. I have stood by you loyally—I felt it was my duty to do so even at the cost of my own individuality. I had made a mistake. But it was a mistake none the less, John, and it is one for which Nora shall not suffer. My responsibility to her is greater than it is to you. She is my daughter. She shall live as her character requires—as my character required. She shall not be stunted and dwarfed in her growth. This is the first time I have ever opposed you. I do so because I must."
And, strangely enough, the Rev. John had found nothing to say. He prayed very earnestly for his wife against the hydra-headed monster of worldliness and vanity which he firmly believed had taken hold upon her soul, but from that moment his protest confined itself to an increased gravity in her presence and the indirect reproach of his after-dinner orations.
Thus time slipped past, and almost before she knew it the day of departure dawned for Nora. In the fresh autumnal air and bright sunshine she forgot the pangs of the previous night, when she had wept a few tears of regret and vague remorse. In the darkness she had reproached herself to the point of believing that to desert her father and the copying of his sermons was a piece of unfilial selfishness. Even Robert Arnold appeared to her in a new light—that light which our "good-night" thoughts, first cousins to "last" thoughts, cast about those dear to us. He seemed very dear to her at midnight. A dozen episodes, grave and gay, in their common life recurred to her, also illuminated by the same tender regret. A year's parting from him caused her almost intolerable heartache, the more so because she had repulsed him and the love after which she began to hunger. "If he will only wait, I am sure I shall grow to love him," she confided to her damp pillow, more than half convinced that the love had come already, startled to life by the fear of loss and separation.
But the morning sunshine is a spritely, cold-hearted magician. As the shaky old four-wheeled cab, glorified in the village by the name of "the brougham," rolled over the uneven cobbles, she found herself nodding a cheerful, almost triumphant, farewell to the church and the monument. They were in her eyes the symbols of a life she was leaving behind her, like the gates of a not intolerable prison. She was quite sorry that Mrs. Clerk failed to be on her usual watchful guard at the window. Certainly, if the village was a sort of prison, Mrs. Clerk was its spiritual gaoler, and Nora would have dearly loved to flourish her dawning freedom in the disapproving face of her natural enemy. But Mrs. Clerk was nowhere to be seen, and Nora's flashing glance encountered only her mother's grave, thoughtful eyes.
Against all advice, Mrs. Ingestre had determined to accompany her daughter up to London. Perhaps she feared her husband's last exhortations, perhaps she was urged by a secret heart-hunger. Yet her whole face brightened with warm sympathy as she read in Nora's smile and heightened colour the proud, bold joy of youth plunging for the first time into the full tide of life.
"You are glad to go?" she asked in a low voice that was without the faintest tone of reproach.
Nora nodded.
"I am excited," she said. "I feel like a pioneer setting out on the discovery of new worlds. And so I am. What does it matter that millions of people have been where I am going? I have never been before. It is all new to me."
Her father sighed in pained disapproval.
"Let us hope that your adventures in foreign lands will not cost you too dear, Nora," he said. "May they bring you back to your home contented and grateful for its blessed peace."
Mrs. Ingestre leant forward and laid her hand on Nora's. The movement might have been made in confirmation of her husband's words—it might also have had another meaning. It might have meant, taken in conjunction with the almost youthful flash in the dark eyes: "Be of good cheer! The world and life are before you. Grasp both in spite of every one. They are worth fighting for!"
And Nora's clasp responded. Her spirits were at their highest pitch. She was afraid of nothing; the long journey, the foreign country, and its despised inhabitants had no terrors for her. Youth and morning sunshine swept her forward on a wave of impetuous joy. She even found it in her heart to be thankful for the "blows of Providence," though for other reasons than those of her piously resigned parent. "After all, now I shall be able to fight my own battles," was her proud thought.
The day in London cast the first shadow over her courage. They arrived in the metropolis at midday, and as the boat-train left at eight o'clock in the evening there was a whole afternoon to be spent wandering about the busy streets—a pleasant occupation if you understand how to go about it. But this was one thing that the Rev. John did not understand. He belonged to the class of people for whom London is a great black, smutty monster, replete with all the vices and crimes of Babylon, and his passage through its heart was a veritable penance. His sincerely Puritan temperament—for, to do him justice, he was but half a hypocrite and only that much unconsciously, like the rest of us—found "sermons in stones," and in everything else from the wicked luxury of the lady lounging in her victoria to the ragged profligacy of the beggar. Sermons he delivered, therefore, and Nora, trudging wearily at his side, with all her eyes on the ignored shop windows, listened in sullen defiance. She loved London with the almost passionate love which is given to no other city in the world. She loved the fogs, its dirt, its stern, relentless bustle; she felt a sort of vague kinship with its vagabonds, its grandees, its very policemen, and her father's criticisms goaded her to distraction. Yet once, as they dragged themselves into an A.B.C. for tea, she saw her mother's face, and her anger died down, yielding to the first cold touch of home-sickness. There was something written on the pale, worn face which she could not read but which filled her with vague pain. Visited by what unshed years of regret, longing, and unavailing remorse had those quiet eyes watched the tide of life flow past them? Nora did not know. In an instinctive, almost childish, sympathy she slipped her hand into Mrs. Ingestre's.
"Dear, dear mother!" she said, "I wish I could make you happy—really happy."
The Rev. John had gone to order the buns and tea which were to form the pièces de résistance of their evening meal. Mrs. Ingestre looked down into the young, earnest face. Her own face relaxed an instant from its own usual serenity. It was as though a sudden gust of wind had passed over a lake, ruffling its smooth, peaceful surface.
"Be happy," she said almost imperatively. "Whatever else happens, remember that you have the right to happiness. And to be happy you must open your heart wide—you must welcome all that is good, even if it is not the good you have been taught to know. Don't let Delford or—or even us make your standard. Keep the past and those that love you, but don't let them hem you—don't let them stand between you and the future. Show your new world a big, generous, open heart, and it will open a heart as big and generous to you. Be arrogant and petty, and everything about you will reflect yourself. Oh, Nora, I am not preaching; a narrow heart is a curse to others and to itself."
There was a peculiar emphasis in her words, a note in her voice so like despair that it rang long afterwards in Nora's memory. It cast a deeper shadow over her sinking spirits, and as she walked by her mother's side towards the station which was to mark their first long parting, the hot, burning tears welled up in her eyes and only by a strong effort were kept back from overflow. Since that morning, with its brilliant sunshine, its youth and hope, all had changed within her and without. The sunshine had yielded to cold, dark shadows, youth and hope lagged wearily, overcome by the growing tide of home-love. "Dear old England!" Nora whispered to herself. "Dear old England!" And the very shop windows, casting bright golden patches on the thickening fog, seemed to have a special light of their own. The faces of the passers-by were dear to her because they were English faces and because she was going to a strange country, where she would see them no more. Even the red-brick church and "the monument" became hallowed in her memory. In that moment of youthful grief she would have given worlds to know that she was going home, that there were to be no partings, that she was to live her life in the dull peace to which she had waved a joyous farewell that very morning.
They entered the great station. The bustle and confusion brought her no relief—rather, it increased the sense of helplessness which was growing stronger and stronger. For a moment she lost sight of her father and mother, and it was then she felt for the first time all the poignancy of the loneliness which was, in less than a quarter of an hour, to become an irreparable reality. She turned, dazedly seeking a familiar face, and in the same instant a firm, warm hand clasped hers.
"Nora—little girl!"
It was Arnold who stood beside her. She recognised his strong, gaunt face with a sudden, joyous start which brought the colour to her cheeks. Had she unconsciously been longing for him? Had the heartache been a little because she had not seen him, because ever since that decisive morning he had kept away from her, taking her dismissal as final? Was it final? These were things he at least might have asked as he felt the quick response of her touch and saw the light flash back into her tear-filled eyes. But Nora thought of nothing—asked no questions. She clung to his arm like a tired, lost child.
"Oh, I am so glad," she said, almost incoherent with relief, "so glad!"
"I couldn't keep away," he said, himself shaken by her sudden self-abandonment. "I did my best, but in the end I had to come. I could not let you go so far from me without a God-speed. And something seemed to tell me that you would be glad to see me."
"I am!" she cried. "Of course I am!"
They reached Mrs. Ingestre and her husband, who were busy with the luggage registration. A shadow seemed to pass over the latter's face as she saw the two together, but she greeted Arnold with her usual serene courtesy.
"Miles has come too," she said.
Miles was, indeed, very much en évidence. He had made himself what he called "smart" for the occasion, and an extraordinary high collar and a flagrantly red tie certainly put him beyond all danger of being overlooked. His face was a trifle flushed—perhaps with the hurry of his arrival—and his manner jocose.
"You look as though you might flood the station any minute," he told Nora. "I bet anything you'd give your bottom dollar to be out of it."
"Don't, Miles!" she answered gently. "Of course I am sorry to leave you all. It is only natural."
Her eyes met Arnold's, and perhaps they said more than she knew. He came back to her side.
"Let us go and find a comfortable corner for you," he suggested.
She followed him passively, and they walked along the platform to the end of the train, where the crowd of passengers was less dense.
"Dear little Nora!" he said, looking down at her with infinite pity and tenderness. The tears rushed again to her eyes. She fought them down courageously, but her voice shook as she answered:
"It is so hard to go," she said, "much harder than I thought this morning. I have only just realised how dear everything—everybody is to me."
"Nora, that is what I hoped. You are so young—you do not know your own heart. Now perhaps you can tell better—if there is any chance for me."
She saw the pleading in his face, and she made no answer. Her throat hurt her and she was no longer so sure. She did care for him, and if she had felt no thrill of passion at his touch, his presence seemed to envelop her in a warm, comforting glow of protecting tenderness infinitely precious.
"Nora," he went on, "even now it is not too late. My dearest, what are you waiting for? What are you expecting to find? I believe I could make you happy—my love is so great."
She threw up her head with the determined gesture he knew so well.
"I must go," she said. "It would be weak and cowardly to turn back at the last minute. Only——"
"You will come back soon?"
She nodded, her lips trembling.
"I feel I must," she said.
"And you will write to me?"
The Rev. John bustled up to them. He was flustered and nervous, as people are to whom a journey of any sort is an event full of dangerous possibilities.
"You must get in at once," he said fussily. "The train is just off. There, God bless you, my dear child! Remember all I have said. And if you are not happy, or the people not nice, let us know at once."
Mrs. Ingestre clasped her daughter in a short, almost passionate embrace.
"Be happy!" she said again; and the words were a blessing.
The carriage door slammed to; somewhere from the rear they heard the guard's shrill whistle, and gradually the train began to glide forward, leaving behind the little group of dearly loved faces.
Arnold walked at the carriage side.
"You will write to me often?" he pleaded.
"Yes, yes, I will write."
"Tell me everything—everything you think and feel. Oh, Nora, it is so hard to let you go! But I have taken fresh hope. I believe you will come back soon—I believe it will all come right for us both."
The train was gathering speed. He had to run to keep pace with her carriage.
"Nora, after all—you do care a little, don't you?"
She nodded. She was so tired, so heart-sick, that had it been possible she would have sprung out and put her hand in his in weary, thankful surrender. But it was too late. She could only look at him, and again her eyes told more than she perhaps would have said. He stood still, hat in hand, and waved to her, and the last she saw of him was a face full of hope and gratitude.
"When you send for me, I shall come," he said.
The train glided into the suffocating darkness of a tunnel, and when they once more emerged the station was far behind, and they were travelling faster and faster into the night. The lights of London, of home, of England swept past in blurred lines of fire.
Nora Ingestre watched them, fighting bravely; but when they had disappeared she covered her eyes with her hand and wept the silent, bitter tears of a first exile.
CHAPTER V
AMONG THE HEATHEN
"Karlsburg! Alles aussteigen—Karlsburg!"
Nora sprang up, roughly aroused from a half-doze by the stentorian tones and a general move in her compartment. The fat German who had occupied the corner seat opposite her, and who had spent the journey in doing his best to justify her scorn and contempt for all foreigners, was heaving great masses of untidy luggage out of the window and shouting furiously for a Gepäckträger. In this performance he trod more than once on Nora's toes, thus arousing her so effectually that she made haste to convey herself and her belongings out into the narrow corridor congested with passengers and baggage. After a brief energetic scramble down the appalling staircase which separates the continental traveller from the platform, she landed safely and drew a sigh of relief. "Here I am at last!" she thought, comforted by the knowledge that the worst was over. The "worst" in connection with separations is the first twenty-four hours, the first night-fall, and the first awaking to changed surroundings and circumstances. After that, the human capacity for adjustment mercifully begins to display itself, and the first poignancy of grief is over—at any rate for those who have courage and youth to help them. And Nora had both. As she stood that morning on the deck of the Flushing boat, watching the pale, low outline of land, she had already felt the first glow of returning vigour. The keen sea-air had blown colour into her cheeks; the tears which had threatened to assert themselves so often the night before had dried at their source, and she had flung herself into the confusion of exchange from the boat to the waiting train with a pleased realisation of her own independence. Then had come the long and glorious panorama along the Rhine, the frowning castles, the majestic spires of the great Dom, the new types of men and women hurrying backwards and forwards about the busy platforms.
During the long hours Nora's watchful, eager eyes never closed. This, then, was the new world to which she was to open her heart; these, then, the people whose qualities of goodness she was to learn to honour. The first task was easy enough—it was, indeed, a beautiful world. But the people? They were of another type than that to which she was accustomed, and Nora, imbued with the pleasant insular conviction that all English people are tall and handsome, found them so far little to her taste. In truth, a firmly rooted prejudice is not to be overcome in a moment, or even by the wisest precept, and not all Mrs. Ingestre's eloquence could crush back the half-conscious superiority which her daughter experienced in that stuffy second-class coupé. Her fellow-passengers, be it confessed, were stout and inelegant, and they obviously preferred the window closed—points which were alone quite sufficient to stamp them as belonging to an inferior class. But the chief point was Nora's own nationality. The mere fact that she was English would have kept her in countenance even when confronted with the whole Imperial family, and, indeed, throughout the journey, with its difficulties, its various encounters with idiotic foreign porters who refuse to understand the English language, no matter how loud it is shouted, she was sustained by a calm and inborn knowledge of her racial superiority. Thus she felt no sense of loneliness or helplessness until the voice shouting "Karlsburg" had hurried her out on to the crowded, bustling platform. There for the first time she felt her own insignificance, her own strangeness. She was really in a foreign country at last, and with all her superiority she stood there a forlorn handful of pretty, despairing girlhood, waiting for the first jabbering, gesticulating savage to rescue her from her perplexity.
"Ach, liebes Kind, da bist du! Willkommen!"
The eager, kindly voice and the cordial embrace were equally sudden and somewhat overwhelming. Steadying her hat from the effects of the shock, Nora turned to find herself held by a short, stout little woman, very out of breath, very excited, who was smiling and nodding at her as though at an old and very dear acquaintance.
"Ach! you do not know me?" she interrogated, adding in the same gasp, "But how should you? I am ze old Fräulein Müller—you haf heard of her? Long ago she did teach ze muzzer, and now here is ze daughter—her muzzer every bit of her. Ach, du lieber Gott im Himmel! But I must not so much talk. Give ze man your Gepäckschein, liebes Kind."
Half overcome by the torrent of words, Nora produced the document which she supposed answered to the name of Gepäckschein. In the interval, whilst Fräulein Müller was apparently pouring volumes of mingled explanation and abuse over the head of an equally flustered porter, Nora had opportunity to study her rescuer. Fräulein Müller, she imagined, was well over the fifties and, on account of her stoutness, looked her age, but her face was as lively as it was plain, and the rotund figure in its dowdy brown dress cut after the manner of a long-forgotten fashion seemed to be bubbling over with seething sprightliness. Nora had a quick eye, and her critical faculties, at home usually dormant, were on the alert. "How badly the Germans dress!" she thought. "What dreadful boots—and that dress! I suppose it is her best, and it was probably quite expensive. Whatever could have made any one choose a colour like that?"
Her observations were cut short by her unconscious victim grasping her by the arm and hurrying her up and down dark flights of steps, the whole way continuing her explanations, peppered with gasps and exclamatory German outbreaks.
"Ze portermans are ze stupidest race on ze earth," she panted, "but I haf told him—I haf his number—it is zirty-one—please try and remember, liebes Kind—zat he must your Koffers bring at once. Ze Frau Baronin's carriage is not big enoff to take more zan us two and your rugs. Ach, je! Ze many steps are not for one so short in ze breaths as I!"
They were out of the station at last—Nora had delivered up her ticket with the feeling that the last link between her and home was gone—and were greeted by a simply dressed footman, who conducted them to a brougham promptly summed up by Nora as shabby.
Fräulein Müller dropped back into the cushions with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Now all is well," she said. "I shall drive wiz you to the Frau Baronin's house and see you safe in. She ask me to fetch you, as I knew I could easy find you. Ach, sie ist die Liebenswürdigkeit selber, die, Frau Baronin!"
"You are her great friend?" Nora suggested, seeking something to say.
Fräulein Müller threw up her plump hands in the straining brown kid gloves and laughed.
"Nee, nee, liebes Kind, how should zat be? I am Fräulein Müller—old Fräulein Müller—and she is the Baronin von Arnim."
Perhaps Nora's look showed that the all-apparent distinction was not clear, for her companion went on with a soft chuckle:
"Zat is somezing you vill understand wiz ze time, my dear. Ze Baronin is von great person and I am von nobody. Zat is all. I am proud zat I haf brought a so nice English girl—and glad to haf been able to give ze daughter of my dear pupil so nice a place. I am sure you will be very happy."
Nora's arched brows contracted for a minute. Something in Fräulein Müller's tone or words ruffled her—she was not quite sure why. The little woman was so obviously and naïvely impressed with the glories of Nora's new position and with the greatness and splendour of the "Baronin," of whom she spoke with almost bated breath, that Nora's self-importance was somewhat wounded. Besides which, she regarded both matters as decidedly "unproven." The "Baronin," she felt sure, was a snobbish person, probably very stout and ponderous, and as for her splendour and greatness, it remained yet to be seen. Armorial bearings with a seven-pearled crown—after all, Nora knew very well that everybody was a count or a baron in Germany—and a bone-shaking brougham with a shabby footman proved nothing at all. Thus Nora expressed neither gratitude nor gratification, and her manner was perhaps more chilly than she intended, for her companion subsided into an abrupt silence, which lasted until the carriage drew up and the door was opened by the despised attendant.
"Now you are here!" she cried, springing out with surprising agility. "I vill come no further—my leetle étage is just round the corner. In a day or two I vill venture to pay respects on the Baronin and see how all goes wiz you. Until then—lebewohl!"
Much to Nora's relief, she was not embraced a second time. A warm squeeze of the hand, which seemed, somehow, to express a slight "hurtness," and the stumpy little figure disappeared into the darkness, leaving Nora to face her destiny alone.
It was now dusk, and she had only time to take in the dim outline of a small, square house before the footman led her up the steps to the already opened door. A flood of light greeted her as she entered the hall, and seemed to intensify its unfurnished coldness. Little as she had expected, the barren white walls and carpetless stone floor cast a chill over her courage which not even the beaming smile of a pleasant-faced but far from stylish parlourmaid could wholly dispel.
"Die gnädige Frau wartet im Salon," she said, and proceeded to conduct the way farther down the passage, switching off the electric light carefully as she went.
In spite of everything, Nora's heart beat faster with anticipation and an inevitable nervousness. The great moment had arrived which was to decide the future. "As long as she is fat and comfortable like Fräulein Müller, I daresay it won't be so bad," she told herself, but prepared for the worst. A minute later and she was ushered into a room so utterly at variance with what had gone before and her own expectations that she stood still on the threshold with a little inward gasp of surprise.
The softly shaded light revealed to her quick young eyes an elegance, if not luxury, whose details she had no time to gather. She received only an impression of warm, delicate colours, soft stuffs, rich, sound-deadening carpets and the touch of an indefinable personality, whose charm seemed to linger on every drapery. From the ugly stone wall to this had been no more than a step, but that step divided one world from another, and Nora stood hesitating seeking in the shadows the personality whose influence she felt already like a living force. She had no more than an instant to wait. Then a tall, slight figure rose out of one of the chairs drawn out of the circle of light and came to meet her.
"You are very welcome, Miss Ingestre," a voice said, and her hand was taken and she was led farther into the room. "I would have met you myself, but I had no method of recognising you, and the gute Fräulein Müller seemed so sure that she would be able to find her old pupil's daughter."
The voice was low, the English almost perfect, though a little slow, as though from want of practice, the touch of the hand firm and cool. Somehow, in that moment poor Nora felt painfully aware that she was dirty and untidy from the journey and, above all, that she was terribly young and awkward. Yet her natural frankness stood her in good stead. She looked up, smiling.
"Fräulein Müller picked me out at once," she said. "I must be very like my mother, otherwise I cannot think how she found me."
"In any case, the great thing is that you are found," Frau von Arnim said. "Come and sit down here. You see, we have a real English tea waiting for you."
Nora obeyed willingly, and whilst the white, delicate hands were busy with the cups standing on the low tray, she had opportunity to study the woman upon whom the weal or woe of perhaps a whole long year depended. "She is not as beautiful as my mother," Nora thought, but the criticism was no disparagement. If Frau von Arnim was not actually beautiful, she at least bore on every feature marked refinement, and the expression of the whole face, pale and slightly haughty though it was, had a certain indefinable fascination which held Nora's attention riveted. She was dressed elegantly, moreover, in some dark colour which suited the brown hair and the slow hazel eyes which, Nora felt positive, had in one quiet glance taken in every detail of her appearance.
"We are so very glad that you have come," Frau von Arnim went on. "My daughter and I love everything that is English, but, alas, nice English people are raræ aves in Karlsburg. We have only the scum of all nations, and I cannot tell you how pleased we were when your mother decided to entrust you to our care."
The tone of the words was delicate and kind, suggesting a conferred favour on Nora's side which somehow had the reverse effect. In her youthful and insular arrogance Nora had felt that the "German family" which boasted of her services was to be congratulated, and that the real and only question of importance was whether she liked them. Now she found herself wondering what this serene and graceful woman was thinking of her.
"I'm afraid I'm not a bit a glory to my nation," she said, with sincere schoolgirlish humility. "I wish I was."
Frau von Arnim laughed.
"We like you very much already," she said. "Besides, you could not help being nice with such a charming mother."
Nora started with pleased surprise, and whatever had been unconsciously antagonistic in her melted into an impulsive gratitude which spoke out of the heightened colour and bright, frank eyes.
"Do you know my mother, then?" she asked.
"No, only by her letters. But letters betray far more than the writers think. I often feel when I meet some reserved, unfathomable person who interests me, that if he would only write me the shortest note I should know more of him than after hours of conversation. And Mrs. Ingestre and I have exchanged many long letters. We feel almost as though she were an old friend; don't we, Hildegarde?"
This sudden appeal to a third person revealed to Nora the fact that they were not alone. Frau von Arnim rose, smiling at her bewilderment, and took her by the hand.
"You must think us very rude, strange people," she said, "but my daughter has been listening and watching all this time. You see, it is for her sake that we wanted you to come and live with us, and she had a whim that she would like to see you without being seen. Invalids may have whims and be pardoned, may they not?"
Whilst she had been speaking she had led Nora to the far end of the room. There, lying on a sofa drawn well into the shadow, Nora now perceived a girl of about her own age, whose thin, white face was turned to greet her with a mingling of apology and that pathetic humility which goes with physical weakness.
"Do not be angry," she said, holding out a feeble hand. "I am so afraid of strangers. I felt I should like to see you first—before you saw me. I do not know why—it was just a whim, and, as mother says, when one is ill one may perhaps be forgiven."
"Of course," Nora said gently. To herself she was thinking how beautiful suffering can be. The face lifted to hers—the alabaster complexion, the great dark eyes and fine aristocratic features framed in a bright halo of disordered hair—seemed to her almost unearthly in its spiritualised loveliness. And then there was the expression, so void of all vanity, so eloquent with the appeal: "You are so strong, so beautiful in your youth and strength. Be pitiful to me!"
Governed by some secret impulse, Nora looked up and found that Frau von Arnim was watching her intently. A veil had been lifted from the proud patrician eyes, revealing depths of pain and grief which spoke to Nora much as the younger eyes had spoken, save with the greater poignancy of experience: "You are strong, and life offers you what it will always withhold from my child. Be pitiful!"
And then prejudice, reserve, her own griefs, were swept out of Nora's hot young heart on a wave of sympathy. She still held the thin hand clasped in her own. She clasped it tighter, and her answer to the unspoken appeal came swift and unpremeditated.
"I hope you will like me," she said. "I am so glad I have come."
Hildegarde Arnim's pale face flushed with pleasure.
"I do like you," she said. "I do hope you will be happy with us."
And then, to their mutual surprise, the two girls kissed each other.
CHAPTER VI
A LETTER HOME
"I never realised before now how true it is that all men are brothers," Nora Ingestre wrote home to her mother at the end of her first week in Karlsburg. "I used to believe that we English were really the only people who counted, the really only nice people, and the rest were sort of outsiders on quite another level. And now all my ideas are turned topsy-turvy. I keep on saying to myself, 'Why, she is just like an Englishwoman,' or 'How English he looks!' and then I have to admit that the simple reason why I think they look English is because they look nice, and it seems there are nice people all the world over. Of course there are differences—one notices them especially among the poorer classes—and so far, I can only judge the men from a distance; but if I met the Gnädige Frau, as she is called, in any drawing-room, I should think, 'Well, with one exception, she is the most charming woman I have ever met,' and never have so much as guessed that she could belong to any country but my own. Hildegarde is a dear, too. Although she has known me such a short time, she treats me almost as though I were her sister—in fact, I am a sort of enfant gâté in the house, everybody, from Freda, the sturdy little housemaid, upwards, doing their best to show their goodwill to the 'kleine englische Dame.' (You see, I am picking up German fast!) Both the Gnädige Frau and Hildegarde know English well and seem to enjoy talking, though one half of the day is dedicated to my first German efforts, which, I am sure, have the most comical results. But no one ever laughs at you. Even Johann, the coachman, keeps quite a straight face when I call him 'du'—a disgraceful piece of endearment which seems to haunt me every time I open my mouth. That reminds me to tell you that yesterday we went for a lovely drive in the Wild Park, the private property of the Grand Duke. Driving is the only outdoor enjoyment which is left for poor Hildegarde, and it is terribly hard on her, because she loves riding and driving and tennis, and all that sort of thing. It seems she had a bad accident whilst out riding two years ago with her cousin, who is a captain in the Artillery here, and since then she has always been ill. She never complains, and is always so sweet and patient that it makes one despise oneself for not being an angel outright, but I know that she has her struggles. Yesterday, for instance, Johann was giving the horse a breathing space in a lovely allée—oh, you would have enjoyed it, darling! It was just like a glorious bit of England, with great oak trees on either side and lots of deer and—there, now! I have lost myself! Where was I?—Oh, yes, in the allée, when an officer galloped past and saluted. I hardly saw his face, but he certainly looked very smart in his dark-blue uniform, and he sat his horse as though he were part of it. He turned out to be Herr von Arnim, the cousin in question, and I would not have thought any more about him had it not been for a glimpse I caught of Hildegarde's face. She is always pale, but just at that moment she looked almost ghastly, and her lips were tight-pressed together, as though she were in pain. Somehow, I knew it was not physical, so I did not dare say anything, but I have wondered since whether it was the memory of all the splendid gallops she used to have and will never have again, or whether—but there! I must not let my fancy run away with me. Anyhow, I am quite anxious to see the 'Herr Baron' again. Perhaps I shall to-morrow at the Gnädige Frau's 'At Home'—at least, I suppose it is an 'At Home' or a German equivalent—a function which fills me with the profoundest awe and alarm. Imagine me, dearest, with my knowledge of the German language, in a crowd of natives! What will happen to me, I wonder? If I am lucky, the earth will open and swallow me up before I say something dreadful by mistake.
"September 15.—You see, I am writing my letter in diary form, so that you get all the details—which is what you want; is it not, dearest? And, indeed, there are so many details that I do not know where to begin. At any rate, the 'At Home' is over, which is a comfort, for it was even more exciting than I had expected. The crowd was awful—there were so many people that one could hardly breathe, and I was so frightened of some one speaking to me that I had to keep on repeating to myself, 'Remember you are English! Remember you are English!' in order to prevent a disorderly and undignified flight. Fortunately there was too much confusion for anybody to notice my insignificant person, and at last I managed to hide myself in an obscure alcove, where I could see and not be seen. On the whole it was the most mixed 'At Home' I have ever seen, and I am sure it would have shocked Mrs. Chester beyond words, You know how much she thinks of clothes and all that sort of thing. Well, here, apparently, no one thinks anything of them at all. Some of the biggest 'aristocrats'—they were nearly all 'aristocrats,' as I found out afterwards—were dressed in fashions which must have been in vogue when I was born, and nobody seemed to think it in the least funny. Of course, there were well-dressed people and a few young officers in uniform, who brightened matters up with a little colour, but I had no time to take in more than a general impression, for just as I was settling down to enjoy myself, some one spoke to me. Fortunately it was in English, or I have no doubt I should have fainted; as it was, I looked up and found a man in a pale-blue uniform standing beside me with his heels clapped together, evidently waiting for me to say something. I supposed he had introduced himself, for I had heard him say 'Bauer' in a rather grating voice, but I felt very far from friendly. You know how I am, mother. I take violent likes and dislikes, and I cannot hide either the one or the other. And almost in the same instant that I saw this man's face I disliked him. I cannot tell you why. He was good-looking enough and his manners were polished, but there was something in his face, in the way he looked at me, which made me angry—and afraid. It sounds absurd to talk of being afraid at a harmless German 'At Home,' but if I believed in omens I should say that the man is destined to bring me misfortune and that the instant I saw him I knew it. Please don't laugh—I am only trying to explain to you how intense the feeling was, and to make my subsequent behaviour seem less foolish. I fancy I was not friendly in my answers or in my looks, but he sat down beside me and went on talking. It does not matter what he said. He spoke English well, and seemed to 'listen to himself' with a good deal of satisfaction, all the time never taking his eyes off my face. Somehow, though everything he said was polite enough, I felt that he looked upon me as a kind of 'dependent' with whom he could amuse himself as he pleased; and that made my blood boil. I prayed for some one to come and fetch me away, and just then Frau von Arnim passed close to where I was sitting. I heard her ask after me and say something about music (I had promised to play), and suddenly I felt ashamed. I wondered what she would think of me if she found me sitting in a secluded corner with a man whom I had never seen before and to whom I had never been properly introduced. After all, she does not know me well enough to understand—well, that I am not that sort, and the idea that she might think badly of me with an appearance of reason was more than could bear. There is a small door in the alcove leading out into the hall, and just when my uninvited companion was in the middle of a sentence I got up and went out without a word of explanation. I am afraid it was neither a very dignified nor sensible proceeding, and it certainly landed me into worse difficulties, since the next thing I knew after my stormy exit was that I had collided violently with a man standing in the hall. Of course, my fragment of German forsook me, and I gasped, 'I beg your pardon!' in English, to which my victim answered, 'I beg your pardon!' also in English, but with the faintest possible accent. After that I recovered enough from the shock to draw back and assume as much dignity as I could under the circumstances. My victim was a tall, broad-shouldered man—of course in uniform-and though it was already twilight in the hall I could see that he had a pleasant, sun-burnt face and bright eyes, which at that moment looked very much amused. I suppose my attempt at dignity was rather a failure. 'I hope I did not hurt you?' he asked, and when I had reassured him on that point he suggested that he should introduce himself, as there was no one there to do it for him. Whereupon he clicked his spurs together and said, 'Von Arnim. Miss Ingestre, I think?' I asked him how he knew my name, and he said, as a Prussian officer it was his duty to know everything, and that he had heard so much about Miss Ingestre that it was impossible not to recognise her. And then we stood looking at each other, I feeling horribly awkward, he evidently still very much amused. Then he proposed to take me back into the drawing-room, but that was the last thing I wanted, and I said so in my usual rude way, which seemed to amuse him still more.
"'But why not?' he asked. (I give you the conversation in full.)
"'Because they wanted me to play.' (It was the first excuse I could think of.)
"'Is that kind? You are depriving my aunt's guests of a great treat.'
"'How do you know?'
"'Military instinct.'
I could not help laughing at him.
"'Your military instinct is all wrong,' I said. 'At any rate, I don't want to go back.'
"I don't know why, but I fancy he suspected there was something more in the matter than I had explained. At any rate, he grew suddenly quite grave.
"'You see, I have taken you prisoner of war,' he said, 'and it is my duty to keep you in sight. At the same time, I wish to make your captivity as agreeable as possible. Suppose I persuade my aunt not to worry you to play, and suppose I see that no one else worries you—will you come back?'
"I said 'Yes' in a lamb-like fashion altogether new to me, and after he had hung up his sword he opened the door and bowed me in. I saw my first partner staring at us, but I felt curiously at my ease, not any more strange and helpless. And Herr von Arnim was so nice. After he had paid his respects all round he came back and brought me some tea and talked to me about the opera, to which we are going to-morrow evening. I forgot to tell you about it, didn't I? It is the Walküre, and I am bubbling over with excitement, as Frau von Arnim has given me her seat at the opera so that I can always go with Hildegarde. She is good to me. Sometimes I think she must be very rich, and then there are things which make me doubtful—the old pill-box brougham, for instance. But perhaps that is just German style—or lack of it. I must stop now, or I shan't have stamps enough to post this letter. Indeed, I do not know why I have given you all these details. They are very unimportant—but somehow they seemed important when I was writing. Good-night, dearest!
"September 16.—It is nearly twelve o'clock, and the Gnädige Frau told me I should hurry straight to bed and make up for the lost beauty-sleep, but I simply can't! I feel I must sit down and tell you all about it whilst I am still bubbling over with it all and the Feuerzauber and the Liebesmotif and all the other glories are making symphonies of my poor brains. Oh, mother darling! how you would have enjoyed it! That is always my first thought when I hear or see something beautiful, and to-night—to-night I feel as though I had been let into a new world. Do you remember that glorious evening when you took me to hear Traviata in Covent Garden? Of course I loved it—but this was so absolutely different. It was like drinking some noble wine after sugared buns and milk. The music didn't try to please you—it just swept you away with it on great wings of sound till you stood above all Creation and looked into the deepest secrets of life. Your own heart opened and grew, everything mean and petty was left far, far beneath. I felt suddenly that I understood things I had never even thought of before—myself and the whole world. Of course, that is over now. I am just like a wingless angel stumbling over the old earthly obstacles, but I shall never forget the hours when I was allowed to fly above them all. Oh dear, does this sound very silly? It is so hard to explain. I feel as though this evening had wrought some great change in me, as though I had grown wiser, or at any rate older. Perhaps it is only a feeling which will pass, and I shall awake to-morrow to find myself the old Nora. Surely one evening cannot bring a lasting change!
"I must not forget to tell you that I met Herr von Arnim again. He came up to speak to Hildegarde after the first act, and I was glad to find that my first impression of him was correct. If I had gone by my old prejudices and by Lieutenant Bauer I should have always believed that German officers were frightful boors, but Herr von Arnim seems just like an English gentleman, a little stiff and ceremonious at first, perhaps, but not in the least conceited or self-conscious. Of course he talks English excellently—he told me he was working it up for some examination or other, so perhaps he thought I was a good subject to practise on. At any rate, he was very attentive, and stayed with us until long after the bell had rung, so that he had to hurry to get back to his place in time. There were quite a number of officers present, and some of the uniforms are very smart, but I like the Artillery best—dark blue with a black velvet collar. It looks elegant and business-like at the same time. Certainly it suits Herr von Arnim. He is not exactly a handsome man, but well-built, with a strong, sunburnt face, a small fair moustache and very straight-looking eyes with those little lines at the corners which you always say indicate a well-developed sense of humour. Altogether, good looks and nice manners seem to run in the Arnim family. He brought us some chocolates in the second pause, and was very amusing. Hildegarde seems fond of him and he of her in a cousinly sort of way. He is so kind and attentive to her—almost as though it were his fault that she is a cripple. I wonder—oh dear! I have just heard the clock outside strike one, and I am so sleepy I do not know how I shall ever get into bed. I meant only to tell you about the music, and instead I have been wandering on about Wolff von Arnim! Good-night, my darling. Though I am so happy I am always thinking of you and wishing you were here to make me enjoy it all double. Sometimes I am very 'mother-sick,' but I fight against it because I know you want me to be happy, and it seems ungrateful to lament. Love to father and Miles and ever so much to you, dearest.
"Your devoted daughter,
"NORA.
"P.S.—I have written a little note to Robert telling him about my arrival. He asked me to, and I couldn't refuse, could I? He seems so genuinely fond of me, and I—oh dear! I only wish I knew!
"P.SS.—They are giving the second evening of the Ring next Sunday. Herr von Arnim says that a great many people think it even grander than the Walküre and the Götterdämmerung (Sunday fortnight) grandest of all. Hildegarde is going to both, if she is strong enough, and he says I must come too. I told him that I knew father would strongly disapprove, and he said quite solemnly, and with a funny little German accent, that he thought an 'English Sunday the invention of the deevil,' which made me laugh. I wonder if it would be wrong to go? I know what father would say, but somehow, when I come to think over it, I can't feel horrified at the idea. I can't believe that it is wrong to listen to such grand, beautiful music—even on Sunday; as Herr von Arnim said, 'I am sure der liebe Gott would rather see you good and happy enjoying the wonders He has made than bored and bad-tempered, wishing that Sunday was well over.' What do you think, mother? Let me know soon. I will not do anything you do not like.
"P.SSS.—I think we had better keep to our first arrangement that my letters should be quite private. You see, I tell you everything, and father might not always understand.
"P.SSSS.—What a lot of postscripts! I am sure I must be very feminine, after all. I quite forgot to tell you that Fräulein Müller called the other day. She was very nervous and flustered, and treats the 'Frau Baronin' as though she were a sort of deity to be propitiated at all costs. She also asked me to tea. I went, but I won't go again if I can help it. I was never so near suffocating in my life. All the windows were double and had not been opened, I should imagine, since August, so that the August air was unpleasantly intermingled with the fumes of a furiously energetic stove, against which I had the honour of sitting for four mortal hours. But she was so friendly and kind that it seems horrid to complain, only—Heaven preserve me from being poor and living in a German flat!"
Mrs. Ingestre read the letter carefully. She then tore it up and answered the same day:
"As regards your question—do what your conscience tells you, Nora. You are old enough to judge, and I have perfect confidence in you. Be true and good, and I too think that God will not blame you if you rule your life according to the opinions He has given you rather than the arbitrary laws which we have made. Do what seems honestly right to you and you cannot do wrong—at least, not in His sight."
This letter was shown to the Rev. John, her husband, but of the scene that followed, where righteous indignation and quiet resolve fought out a bitter struggle, Nora heard nothing. She only knew that the letter had been safely posted, and that once again her mother had forced open the doors of liberty.
CHAPTER VII
A DUET
"Meine Herrn, to the Moltke of the future, the pride of the regiment, er lebe—hoch—hoch—hoch!"
The little group of officers gathered round the mess-table responded to the toast with an enthusiasm that was half bantering, half sincere. There followed a general clinking of glasses, the pleasant popping of champagne corks, and a chorus of more or less intelligible congratulations, against which the recipient stood his ground with laughing good-nature, his hands spread out before his face as though to hide natural blushes of embarrassment.
"Spare me, children!" he explained as the tumult gradually subsided. "Do you not know that great men are always modest? Your adulation throws me into the deepest possible confusion, from which I can only sufficiently extricate myself to promise you——"
"Another bottle!" a forward young ensign suggested.
"Not at all," with a wave of the hand, "nothing so basely material—but my fatherly patronage when I am head of the Staff, as of course I shall be within a few years. Work hard, my sons, and who knows? One of you may actually become my adjutant!"
Amidst derisive laughter he drained his glass, and then turned quickly, his attention having been arrested by a slight touch upon the shoulder. Unobserved in the general confusion, a tall, slightly built man, wearing the uniform of an officer in the Red Dragoons, had entered the mess-room and, leaning on his sword-hilt in an attitude of weary impatience, had taken up his place behind the last speaker. He now held out his hand.
"Congratulate you, Arnim," he said. "I heard the racket outside as I was passing, and came in for enlightenment as to the cause. Seleneck has just told me. Permit me to drink your health." He had taken the glass which a neighbour had proffered him and raised it slightly. "May you continue as you have begun!" he added.
"Many thanks," was the brief answer.
There was a moment's silence. The new-comer sipped at his share of the German champagne and then put down the glass with a faint contracting of the features which suggested a smothered grimace.
"You must let me order up a bottle of Cliquot," he said. "A great occasion should be worthily celebrated."
Arnim shook his head.
"Again—many thanks. I have had enough, and it is of no use cultivating expensive tastes. But you perhaps...?"
"If you have no objection." The dragoon beckoned an orderly, and, having given his instructions, seated himself at the table and drew out a cigarette-case.
"This means Berlin for you," he said. "When do your orders date from?"
"From next summer. I shall still have some months with the regiment."
"So? That's tiresome. The sooner one gets away from this God-forsaken hole the better. By the way, there will be quite a little party of us with you. Seleneck tells me he is expecting a Kommando at the Turnschule, and I am moving heaven and earth to get ditto. You, lucky dog, are freed for ever from this treadmill existence."
The young Artillery captain glanced sharply at the speaker's good-looking face, and a close observer would have noticed that his brows had contracted.
"The way out is open to every one," he observed curtly.
The other laughed and chose to misunderstand him.
"Only to the workers, my dear fellow. And I confess that work has no fascination for me. I am not ambitious enough, and on the whole I suppose one form of drudgery is as bad as another. You like that sort of thing, and I envy you, but I fear I have no powers of emulation."
There was something grim in Arnim's subsequent silence which might have drawn the dragoon's attention had it been allowed to last. At that moment, however, an elderly-looking officer detached himself from the group by the window and came to where the two men were seated.
"I'm off home," he said. "Are you coming my way, Arnim?"
Arnim rose with an alacrity which suggested relief.
"Yes, as far as the Kaiser Strasse. You will excuse me, Bauer? I must tell the good news at home, or I shall never be forgiven."
The dragoon bowed.
"Of course. By the way," he added, as Arnim slipped into the overcoat which the orderly had brought him, "that is a pretty little English girl your aunt has picked up. I met her the last time I was at the house. What's her name?"
"You are probably referring to Miss Ingestre."
"Ingestre? Well, she's a pretty little piece of goods, anyhow—though not particularly friendly." He threw back his head and laughed, as though at some amusing reminiscence. "Imagine: I had just settled myself down to a comfortable tête-à-tête, when she got up and bolted—straight out of the room like a young fury. I was rather taken aback until I consoled myself with the reflection that all English people are mad—even the pretty ones."
During his recital a sudden light of comprehension flashed over Arnim's face. He half smiled, but the smile was indefinably sarcastic.
"No doubt Miss Ingestre had her good reasons for interrupting your comfortable tête-à-tête," he observed. "Though English people may suffer from madness, there is usually method in it."
"No doubt she had her good reasons for her return five minutes later," was the retort. "There was method in that madness, at any rate."
The two men looked each other straight in the eyes. Arnim's hand rested on his sword-hilt, and the smile had died away from his lips.
"Perhaps I ought to remind you that Miss Ingestre is my aunt's guest, and therefore under my protection," he said slowly.
"The reminder is quite unnecessary," the dragoon returned with perfect sang-froid. "I meant no offence either to you or Miss Ingestre; and poaching is, anyhow, not one of my vices."
Arnim hesitated an instant, then, with a curt bow, he slipped his arm through that of the officer standing beside him.
"Come, Seleneck," he said, "I have wasted time enough."
The two men made their way out of the Casino into the street. A sharp east wind greeted them, and Wolff von Arnim drew a deep breath of relief.
"I need fresh air," he said. "A man like Bauer stifles me, sickens me. I cannot imagine why he always seeks my society. He must know that I have no liking for him. Does he wish to pick a quarrel?"
The elder man shook his head.
"You are a harsh judge, Wolff," he said. "As far as I know, Bauer is a harmless fellow enough. It is true that he swaggers a good deal with his money and is rather pushing in circles where he is not wanted, but for the rest—I have heard nothing to his discredit."
"That may be," was the quick answer. "There are dishonourable men who act honourably out of caution, and honourable men who act dishonourably out of rashness. I do not want to be unjust, but I cannot help putting Bauer in the former category. My instinct warns me against him—and not only my instinct. A man who talks about duty as a drudgery and is content to get through life without success and with as little effort as possible is a useless drone. In our calling he is worse than that—a parasite."
Seleneck sighed.
"Oh, you ambitious, successful fellows!" he said with a lugubrious tug at his moustache. "You talk as scornfully of 'getting through life without success' as though it were a crime. Look at me—grey hairs already, a family man, and still nothing more than a blundering old captain, who will be thankful it he is allowed at the end to retire with a major's pension. I am one of your drones—a parasite, if you like, and certainly a failure, but Heaven knows it is not my wish."
"You are no more a failure than the best of us," Wolff von Arnim answered vigorously. "I know you, alter Kerl, and I know you have given your best strength, your best thought to your calling; I know 'duty' is the Alpha and Omega of your life—no one could ask more of you."
"I have done my best," was the simple answer. "It hasn't come to much, but still, it was my best. You, Wolff, will go much farther."
They were passing under the light of a street lamp as he spoke, and Arnim glanced at his companion's face. There was perhaps something written on the plain yet honest and soldierly features which touched him, for his own relaxed, and the softened expression made him seem almost boyish.
"If I do my duty as well as you have done, I shall be very proud," he said earnestly.
They walked on in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts, and then Seleneck came to a standstill.
"Our ways end here," he said. "I suppose you are going to Frau von Arnim's?"
"Yes; I must let her know my good luck. She will be very glad."
"And the little cousin—will she be 'very glad'?"
Arnim met the quizzical not unkindly glance with an almost imperceptible change of countenance.
"I suppose so. Why shouldn't she?"
"She will miss you."
Arnim did not answer, nor did he show any sign of continuing on his way. He seemed suddenly caught in a painful train of thought, from which his companion made no effort to arouse him.
"Poor little soul!" he said at last, half to himself. "It is terribly hard luck on her. No one loved life as she did, and now"—his brows contracted—"sometimes I feel as though I were to blame," he added abruptly.
"What nonsense!" Seleneck retorted. "Are you responsible because a horse shies and a girl has the misfortune to be thrown?"
"Perhaps not; but the feeling of responsibility is not so easily shaken off. I never see her—or her mother—without cursing the impulse that made me take her out that day."
"It might just as well have happened any other day and with any one else," Seleneck retorted cold-bloodedly.
"Of course. Only one cannot reason like that with one's conscience. At any rate, there is nothing I would not do to make her happy—to atone to her. Besides," he added hastily, as though he had said something he regretted, "I am very fond of her."
The elder man tapped him on the shoulder.
"Alter Junge," he said pointedly, "I can trust your career to your brains, but I am not so sure that I can trust your life to your heart. Take care that you do not end up as Field-Marshal with Disappointment as your adjutant. Lebewohl."
With an abrupt salute he turned and strode off into the gathering twilight, leaving Arnim to put what interpretation he chose to the warning. That the warning had not been without effect was clear. Arnim went up the steps of the square-built house with a slowness that suggested reluctance, and the features beneath the dark-blue cap, hitherto alight with energy and enthusiasm, had suddenly become graver and older.
He found Frau von Arnim in her private sitting-room, writing letters. She turned with a pleased smile as he entered, and held out a hand which he kissed affectionately. The bond between them was indeed an unusually close one, and dated from Wolff's first boyhood, when as a pathetically small cadet he had wept long-controlled and bitter tears on her kind shoulder and confided to her all the wrongs with which his elder comrades darkened his life. From that time he had been a constant Sunday guest at her table, had been Hildegarde's playfellow throughout the long Sunday afternoons, and had returned to the grim Cadettenhaus at nightfall laden with contraband of the sort dearest to a boy's heart. Afterwards, as ensign and young lieutenant, he had still looked up to her with the old confidence, and to this very hour there had been no passage in his life, wise or foolish, of which she was not cognisant. She had been mother, father, and comrade to him, and it was more by instinct than from any sense of duty that he had come to her first with his good news.
"I have been appointed to the Staff in Berlin," he said. "The order arrived this afternoon. It's all a step in the right direction, isn't it? At any rate, I shall be out of the routine and able to do head-work to my heart's—I mean head's content."
Frau von Arnim laughed and pressed the strong hand which still held hers.
"It is splendid, Wolff," she said. "I knew that the day would come when we should be proud of unsren Junge. Who knows? Perhaps as an old, old woman I shall be able to hobble along on a stately General's arm—that is, of course, if he will be seen with such an old wreck. But"—her face overshadowed somewhat—"when shall we have to part with you?"
"Not for some months," he said, seating himself beside her, "and then I think you had better pack up your goods and chattels and come too. I shall never be able to exist without you to keep me in order and Hildegarde to cheer me up."
"I have never noticed that you wanted much keeping in order," Frau von Arnim said with a grave smile. "And as for the other matter, it is to you that Hildegarde owes much of her cheeriness. She will miss you terribly."
A silence fell between them which neither noticed, though it lasted some minutes. Overhead some one began to play the "Liebeslied" from the Walküre.
Wolff looked up and found that his aunt's eyes were fixed on him.
"Hildegarde?" he asked, and for the first time he felt conscious of a lack of candour.
Frau von Arnim shook her head.
"Poor Hildegarde never plays," she reminded him gently. "It is Nora—Miss Ingestre. You remember her?"
"Yes," he said slowly. "She is not easily forgotten." After a moment's hesitation he added, "I never knew English people could be so charming. Those I have met on my travels have either been badly mannered boors or arrogant pokers. Miss Ingestre is either an exception or a revelation."
The room was in part darkness, as Frau von Arnim loved it best. A small lamp burned on her table, and by its light she could study his face unobserved.
"She has won all hearts—even to the coachman, who has a prejudice against foreigners," she said in a lighter tone, "and Hildegarde has become another person since her arrival. I do not know what we should do without her. When she first came she was, of course, baked in her insular prejudices, but she is so open-minded and broad-hearted that they have fallen away almost miraculously. We have not had to suffer—as is so often the case—from volleys of Anglo-Saxon criticisms."
"She seems musical, too," Wolff said, who was still listening with close attention to the unseen player.
"She is musical; so much so that I am having her properly trained at the Conservatorium," his aunt answered with enthusiasm. "When she has got out of certain English mannerisms she will do well. It is already a delight to listen to her."
A tide of warm colour darkened Wolff's face as he glanced quickly at Frau von Arnim's profile.
"I wonder what little pleasure—or perhaps necessity—you have denied yourself to perform that act of kindness?" he said.
"Neither the one nor the other, lieber Junge. If I deny myself one pleasure to give myself another, it can hardly be counted as a denial, can it? Besides, I believe her people are very badly off, and it is a shame that her talent should suffer for it. There! I am sure you want to go upstairs. Run along, and let me write my letters."
Wolff laughed at the old command, which dated back to the time when he had worried her with his boy's escapades.
"I'll just glance in and tell Hildegarde my good luck," he said, a little awkwardly. "I promised her I would let her know as soon as the news came."
"Do, dear Wolff."
She turned back to her letters, and Arnim, taking advantage of her permission, hurried out of the room and upstairs.
Hildegarde's little boudoir was an inner room, divided off from the neighbouring apartment by a heavy Liberty curtain. Governed by he knew not what instinct or desire, he stepped softly across and, drawing the hangings a little on one side, remained a quiet, unobserved spectator of the peaceful scene.
Nora had left the Walküre and had plunged into the first act of Tristan und Isolde. She played it with inexperience and after her own ideas, which were perhaps not the most correct, but the face alone, with its youth, its eagerness, its enthusiasm, must have disarmed the most captious critic. And Wolff von Arnim was by no means captious at that moment. Though he was listening, he hardly realised what she was playing, too absorbed in the pure pleasure which the whole picture gave him to think of details. He knew, for instance, that her dress was simple and pretty, but he could not tell afterwards whether it was blue or green or pink, or of no colour at all; he knew that he had never before found so much charm in a woman's face, but he would have been hard put to to describe exactly wherein that charm lay, or whether her features were regular or otherwise. He simply received an impression—one that he found difficult to forget.
A lamp had been placed on the top of the piano, and by its light the bright, wide-open eyes and eager fingers were finding their way through the difficult score. The rest of the room had been left in shadow. Arnim knew where his cousin was lying, but he did not look in her direction—perhaps he did not even think of her, so far did she lie outside the picture on which his whole interest was centred; and when the music died into silence, her voice startled him by its very unexpectedness.
"Wolff, won't you come in now?" she said.
Was there pain or annoyance in her tone? Arnim could not be certain. The knowledge that she had seen him standing there was sufficiently disconcerting. When we are unobserved, we unconsciously drop the masks which the instinct of self-preservation forces us to assume in the presence even of our dearest, and our faces betray emotions or thoughts which we have, perhaps, not even acknowledged to ourselves. As he advanced into the room, Arnim wondered uncomfortably how much the invalid's quick eyes had seen and if there was, indeed, anything in his looks or action which could have wounded her.
"You must think my manners very bad," he said in English as he greeted Nora, "but I knew if I came in you would stop playing, and that would have disappointed me and annoyed Hildegarde. You see, I know my cousin's little foibles, and one is that she does not like being interrupted in anything. Is that not so, Hildegarde?"
"You are a privileged person," she answered with a gentle smile on her pale face. "Still, I am glad you let Nora—Miss Ingestre—finish. She plays well, don't you think?"
"Splendidly—considering," was the answer.
Nora looked up.
"Considering? That sounds a doubtful compliment."
"I mean, English people as a rule have not much understanding for dramatic music."
"Yes, they have!" Nora blazed out impulsively.
"Have they?"
Still seething with injured patriotism, she met the laughter in his eyes with defiance. Then her sense of humour got the better of her.
"No, they haven't," she admitted frankly.
"There, now you are honest! Have you tried Tristan for the first time?"
Nora nodded. She had gone back to the piano and was turning over the leaves of the score with nervous fingers. For some reason which she never attempted to fathom, Wolff von Arnim's entries into her life, seldom and fleeting as they had been hitherto, had always brought with them a subtle, indescribable change in herself and in her surroundings. There were times when she was almost afraid of him and welcomed his departure. Then, again, when he was gone she was sorry that she had been so foolish, and looked forward to their next meeting.
"I have tried to read the first act before," she said, "but it is so hard. I can make so little out of it. I am sure it all sounds poor and confused compared to the real thing."
"Your piano score is inadequate," he said, coming to her side. "The duet arrangement is much better. Hildegarde and I used to play it together for hours."
Nora looked at him with wide-open eyes of wonder.
"Can you play?" she asked, very much as though he had boasted of his flying abilities, so that he laughed with boyish amusement.
"I play like a great many of us do," he said, "sufficiently well to amuse myself. I have a piano in my quarters which I ill-treat at regular intervals. Do you remember how angry you used to get because I thumped so?"
He had turned to the girl lying on the sofa, but she avoided his frank gaze.
"Yes," she said. "It is not so long ago, Wolff." And then, almost as though she were afraid of having betrayed some deeper feeling, she added quickly, "Couldn't you two try over the old duets together? I should so like to hear them, and I am too tired to talk."
"Would you like to, Miss Ingestre?"
"Very much—only you will find me dreadfully slow and stupid."
He hunted amongst an old bundle of music, and having found the required piece, he arranged it on the piano and prepared himself for the task with great gravity.
"You must let me have the bass," he said; "then I can thump without being so much noticed. I have a decided military touch. Hildegarde says I treat the notes as though they were recruits."
Nora played her part without nervousness, at first because she was convinced of her own superiority and afterwards because he inspired her. His guidance was sure and firm, and when he corrected, it was not as a master but as a comrade seeking to give advice as to a common task. Her shyness and uneasiness with him passed away. Every bar seemed to make him less of a stranger, and once in a long rest she found herself watching the powerful, carefully kept hands on the keyboard with a curious pleasure, as though they typified the man himself—strong, clean, and honest.
Thus they played through the whole of the first act, and when the last chord had been struck there was a long silence. It was as though both were listening to the echo of all that had gone before, and it was with an effort that Nora roused herself to speak.
"How well you play!" she said under her breath. "And how grand—how wonderful it is!"
He turned and looked at her.
"Did you understand it?"
"Not all. I feel that there are many more wonders to fathom which are yet too deep for me. But I understand enough to know that they are there—and to be glad."
"It is the noblest—most perfect expression of love and of the human heart that was ever written or composed," he said.
She looked up at him, and their eyes met gravely and steadily for a moment, in which the world was forgotten.
"Thank you very much," a quiet voice said from the background.
Arnim turned quickly, so quickly that it was almost a start.
"Now for your criticism, Hildegarde!" he cried gaily. "I assure you, we are both trembling."
Hildegarde shook her head.
"I cannot criticise," she said. "You played so well together, much better than when I was able to take my part." She hesitated. "One could hardly believe that you had never practised together before," she added slowly.
Nora rose and closed the piano. Without knowing why, the words pained her and the brief silence that followed seemed oppressive.
Arnim followed her example.
"I have been here a disgraceful time!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "And there! I have never even told you what I really came about. I have been passed into the General Staff. What do you think of that? Are you not proud to have such a cousin?"
His tone was gay, half teasing, but there was no response from the quiet figure on the sofa. Nora's eyes, rendered suddenly sharp, saw that the pale lips were compressed as though in pain.
"Of course, Wolff, I am so glad. It is splendid for you. How long will you be there—in Berlin, I mean?"
"A long time, I expect, unless there is a war."
Then, as though by some intuition he knew what was passing in her mind, he came to her side and took her hand affectionately between his own.
"You and the mother will have to come too," he said. "I have just been telling her that I cannot get on without you. Imagine my lonely state! It's bad enough here, now that I have no one to ride out with me. Old Bruno is eating off his head in anticipation of the day when you will gallop him through the woods again."
Hildegarde shook her head, but his words, spoken hastily and almost at random, had brought the soft colour to her cheeks.
"I shall never ride again," she said.
She looked at her cousin and then to Nora, and her own wistful face became suddenly overshadowed.
"But then," she went on with a quick, almost inaudible sigh, "that is no reason why Bruno should eat his head off, as you say. It is true I cannot ride him any more, but Miss Ingestre can, and it would do her good. Wouldn't it, Nora?"
Was there an appeal in her voice which both heard and understood? Arnim said nothing. He did not take his eyes from his cousin's face.
"It is really very good of you," Nora said quickly, "but I think I had better not. You see, I love it so, and it is best not to encourage impossible tastes. Besides, I have no habit."
Warned, perhaps, by her own involuntary start of pleasure, by Arnim's silence and Hildegarde's voice, she had sought wildly for any reasonable excuse, and unwittingly chosen the one most likely to arouse the generous impulses in both her companions.
"Whilst you are here you must enjoy everything you can get," Arnim said, smiling at her. "And who knows what Fate has in store for you?"
"And the habit is no difficulty," Hildegarde chimed in. "You can have mine. We are about the same size, and it could easily be made to fit you. Do, dear!"
She was now all enthusiasm for her own plan, and Nora, glancing at Arnim's face, saw that it had become eager with pleasure.
"Do!" he begged. "I should so like to show you all the woods about here. Or—can you not trust yourself to me?"
A second time their eyes met.
"Of course I should trust you," Nora said quickly, "and there is nothing I should love more."
"Then that is settled. You must let me know the first day which suits you. Good-bye, gnädiges Fräulein. Good-bye, Hildegarde. I am sending my orderly round with some books I have found. I think you will like them."
"Thank you, Wolff."
Then he was gone. They heard the door bang downstairs, and the cheery clatter of his sword upon the stone steps.
Nora came to the sofa and knelt down.
"How good you are to me!" she said. "You are always thinking of my pleasure, of things which you know I like, and, after all, it ought to be just the other way round."
"I am very fond of you," Hildegarde answered in a low voice. "Though I know you so short a time, you are the only friend I really care for. It made me bitter to see other girls enjoy their life—but you are different. I don't think I should grudge you—anything."
Her voice broke suddenly. She turned her face to the wall, and there was a long silence. Nora still knelt by the sofa. Her eyes were fixed thoughtfully in front of her, and there was an expression on her young face of wonder, almost of fear. Something new had come into her life. There was a change in herself of which she was vaguely conscious. What was it? What had brought it? Was it possible that in a mere glance something had passed out of her, something been received? She sprang restlessly to her feet, and as she did so a smothered, shaken sob broke upon the stillness. In an instant she had forgotten herself and her own troubled thoughts. She bent over the quivering figure and tried to draw away the hands that hid the tear-stained face.
"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."
"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.
"Der Herr Hauptmann ist unten und wartet," she said. "Gnädiges Fräulein mochten sofort kommen!"
She spoke in a tone of command which her intense respect for "den Herrn Hauptmann" more than justified. Was not her "Schatz" in the Herr Hauptmann's battery, and did not he say every Sunday, when they walked out together, that the whole Army did not contain a finer officer or a more "famoser Kerl"?
"Ich komme gleich," Nora answered. She thrust the half-read letter into the pocket of her loose-fitting coat and ran downstairs. All the way she was thinking of Robert Arnold with a strange mingling of affection and pity. She thought how good and honest he was, and of the life of a woman who entrusted herself to his care—and then abruptly he passed out of her mind like a shadow dispersed by a broad, full ray of sunshine. Wolff von Arnim stood in the hall. His face was lifted to greet her, his hand outstretched. She took it. She tried to say something banal, something that would have broken the spell that had fallen upon her. Her lips refused to frame the words, and he too did not speak. Side by side they went out into the cold morning air. The orderly stood waiting with the two horses. Arnim motioned him on one side, and with sure strength and gentleness lifted Nora into the saddle.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked; and then, with a sudden change of tone, "Why, what is the matter? Did I hurt you? You are so pale."
Nora shook her head.
"It is nothing—nothing. I am quite all right. I lost my breath—that is all. You lifted me as though I were a mere feather."
She tried to laugh, but instead bit her lip and looked down into his face with a curious bewilderment. He had not hurt her, and yet some sensation that was near akin to pain had passed like an electric current right to the centre of her being.
"I am quite all right," she said again, and nodded as though to reassure him. "Please do not be so alarmed."
To herself she thought, "What is the matter with me? What has happened?"
These were the questions she asked herself incessantly as they walked their horses through the empty streets. She found no answer. Everything in her that had hitherto been was no more. All the old landmarks in her character, her confidence, her courage, her inexhaustible fund of life were gone, leaving behind them a revolution of unknown emotions whose sudden upheaval she could neither explain nor control. Her world had changed, but as yet it was a chaos where she could find no firm land, no sure place of refuge.
They left the town behind them and walked their horses through the long allées of stately trees. Almost without their knowledge their conversation, broken and curiously strained as it was, dropped into silence. The deadened thud of their horses' hoofs upon the soft turf was the only sound that broke the morning stillness, and the mists hanging low upon the earth, as yet undisturbed by the rising winter sun, intensified the almost ghostly forest loneliness. It was a loneliness that pierced like a cold wind through Nora's troubled soul. Though they had ridden the same way before, at the same hour, surrounded by the same grey shadows, she had never felt as she felt now—that they, alone of the whole world, were alive and that they were together. The clang of the park gates behind them had been like a voice whose warning, jarring tones echoed after them in the stillness, "Now you are alone—now you are alone!" What was there in this loneliness and silence? Why did it suffocate, oppress her so that she would have been thankful if a sudden breeze had stirred the fallen leaves to sound and apparent life? Why had she herself no power to break the silence with her own voice? She glanced quickly at the man beside her. Did he also feel something of what she was experiencing that he had become so silent? Usually a fresh, vigorous gaiety had laughed out of his eyes to meet her. To-day he did not seem to know that she had looked at him, or even that she was there. His gaze was set resolutely ahead, his lips beneath the short fair moustache were compressed in stern, thoughtful lines which changed the whole character of his face, making him older, graver. Believing herself unobserved, even forgotten, Nora did not look away. She saw Arnim in a new light, as the worker, the soldier, the man of action and iron purpose. Every line of the broad-shouldered figure in the grey Litewka suggested power and energy, and the features, thrown into shadow by his officer's cap, were stamped with the same virile characteristics translated into intellect and will.
"What a man you are!" was the thought that flashed through Nora's mind, and even in that moment he turned towards her.
"It seems we are not the only ones out this morning," he said quietly. "There is a rider coming towards us—Bauer, if I am not mistaken. Let us draw a little on one side."
She followed his guidance, at the same time looking in the direction which he had indicated. The mists were thinning, and she caught the flash of a pale-blue uniform, and a moment later recognised the man himself.
"Yes, it is Lieutenant Bauer," she said.
The new-comer drew in his horse to a walk and passed them at the salute. Nora caught a glimpse of his face and saw there was an expression of cynical amusement which aroused in her all the old instinctive aversion. She stiffened in her saddle and the angry blood rushed to her cheeks.
"I am glad he is not in your regiment," she said impulsively.
"Why, Miss Ingestre?"
"Because I dislike him," she answered.
He did not smile at her blunt reasoning—rather, the unusual gravity in his eyes deepened.
"I have no right to criticise a comrade," he said; "only I want you to remember that in a great army such as ours there must always be exceptions, men who have forced their way for the sake of position—idlers, cads, and nonentities. There are not many, thank God, and they are soon weeded out, but I want you to believe that they are the exceptions."
"I do believe it," she said gently.
"Thank you." He waited a moment and then added, "It is a great deal to me that you should think well of us."
"I could not well do otherwise," she answered.
"I am a foreigner." The simple pronoun betrayed him, but Nora did not notice the change. She was gazing ahead, her brows knitted.
"That does not seem to make much difference," she said. "I used to think it would—only a few weeks ago. I must have been very young then. I am very young now, but not so young. One can learn more in an hour than in a lifetime."
"It all depends on the hour," he said, smiling.
"No—I think each hour has the same possibilities. It all depends on oneself. If one has opened one's heart——" She left the sentence unfinished, her thoughts reverting suddenly to her mother, and for a moment the man beside her was forgotten. But not for more than a moment. Then, with a shock, the consciousness of his presence aroused her, and she looked up at him. It was only his profile which she saw, but some subtle change in the bold outline and a still subtler change in herself quickened the beating of her heart. As once before that morning, she suffered an inexplicable thrill of pain and wondered at herself and at the silence again closing in about them. It was a silence which had its source more in themselves than in their surrounding world, for when the thud of galloping hoofs broke through the deadening wall of mist they did not hear it, or heard it unconsciously and without recognition. Only when it grew to a threatening thunder did it arouse Arnim from his lethargy. He turned in his saddle, and the next instant caught Nora's horse sharply to one side.
"It is Bauer again!" he said. "Take care!" He had acted not an instant too soon. The shadow which he had seen growing out against the grey wall behind them became sharply outlined, and like a whirlwind swept past them, escaping the haunch of Nora's horse by a hair's-breadth. The frightened animal shied, wrenching the reins from Arnim's grasp, and swerved across the narrow roadway. Whether she lost her nerve or whether in that moment she did not care Nora could not have said. The horse broke into a gallop, and she made no effort to check its dangerous speed. The rapid, exhilarating motion lifted her out of herself, the fresh, keen air stung colour to her cheeks and awoke in her a flash of her old fearless life.
"Ruhe! Ruhe!" she heard a voice say in her ear. "Ruhe!"
But she paid no heed to the warning. Quiet! That was what she most feared. It was from that ominous silence she was flying, and from the moment when it would reveal the mystery of her own heart. Rather than that silence, that revelation, better to gallop on and on until exhaustion numbed sensibility, hushed every stirring, unfathomed desire into a torpor of indifference! She felt at first no fear. The power to check her wild course had long since passed out of her hands, but she neither knew nor cared. She saw the forest rush by in a blurred, bewildering mist, and far behind heard the muffled thunder of horse's hoofs in hot pursuit. But she saw and heard as in some fantastic dream whose end lay in the weaving hands of an implacable Destiny. In that same dream a shadow crept up to her side, drew nearer till they were abreast; a grip of iron fell upon her bridle hand. Then for the first time she awoke and understood. And with understanding came fear. Her own grip upon the straining reins relaxed. She reeled weakly in the saddle, thinking, "This is indeed the end." But the shock for which she dimly waited did not come. Instead, miraculously supported, she saw the mists clear and trees and earth and sky slip back to their places before her eyes. The world, which for one moment had seemed to be rushing to its destruction, stood motionless, and Nora found herself in the saddle, held there by the strength she would have recognised, so it seemed to her, even if it had caught her up out of the midst of death. Arnim's face was bent close to hers, and its expression filled her with pity and a joy wonderful and inexplicable.
"Wie haben Sie mir das anthun können?" he stammered, and then, in broken, passionate English, "How could you? If anything had happened—do you not know what it would have meant to me?" With a hard effort he regained his self-possession and let her go. "You frightened me terribly," he said. "I—I am sorry."
"You have saved my life," she answered. "It is I who have to be sorry—that I frightened you."
She was smiling with a calm strangely in contrast to his painful but half-mastered agitation. The suspense of the last minutes was still visible in his white face, and the hand which he raised mechanically to his cap shook.
"It was Bauer's fault," he said. "He rode like a madman. I shall call him to account. We seem fated to cross each other."
"Then why call him to account—since it is Fate? After all, nothing has happened."
Had, indeed, nothing happened? She avoided his eyes, and the colour died from her cheeks.
"Let us go home," he said abruptly.
They walked their panting horses back the way they had come. As before, neither spoke. To all appearances nothing had changed between them, and yet the change was there. The sunlight had broken through the mists, the oppressive silence was gone, and life stirred in the long grasses, peered with wondering, timid eyes from amidst the shadows, where deer and squirrel and all the peaceful forest world watched and waited until the intruders had passed on and left them to their quiet. And in Nora's heart also the sun had risen. The chaos had resolved itself into calm; and though so long as the man with the pale, troubled face rode at her side she could give no account even to herself of the mysterious happiness which had come so suddenly and so strangely, she was yet content to wait and enjoy her present peace without question.
Thus they passed out of the gates and through the busy streets, Arnim riding close to her side, as though to shield her from every possible danger. But the silence between them remained unbroken. It was the strangest thing of all that, though throughout they had scarcely spoken, more had passed between them than in all the hours of the gay and serious comradeship they had spent together.
At the door of the Arnims' house Wolff dismounted and helped Nora to the ground. And as they stood for a moment hand in hand, he looked at her for the first time full in the eyes.
"I cannot thank God enough that you are safe," he said.
She heard in his low voice the last vibrations of the storm, and the thought that it was her danger which had shaken this man from his strong self-control overwhelmed her so that she could bring no answer over her lips. She turned and ran into the house, into her own room, where she stood with her hands clasped before her burning face, triumphant, intoxicated, swept away on a whirlwind of unmeasured happiness.
It is the privilege—the greatest privilege perhaps—of youth to be swept away on whirlwinds beyond the reach of doubt and fear, and Nora was very young. Over the new world which had risen like an island paradise out of the chaos of the old, she saw a light spread out in ever-widening circles till it enveloped her whole life. For Nora the child was dead, the woman in her had awakened because she loved for the first time and knew that she was loved.
It was a moment of supreme happiness, and, as such moments needs must be if our poor mortal hearts are to be kept working, shortlived. Even as her eager, listening ears caught the last echo of horses' hoofs outside, some one knocked at the door.
"Fräulein Nora, please come at once," a servant's voice called. "The Fräulein Hildegarde has been taken very ill, and she is asking for you."
"I am coming," Nora answered mechanically.
Her hands had fallen to her side. The whirlwind had dropped her, as is the way with whirlwinds, and she stood there pale and for the moment paralysed by the shock and an undefined foreboding.
CHAPTER IX
RENUNCIATION
Frau von Arnim was waiting at the door of Hildegarde's bedroom. In the half-light Nora saw only the dim outline of the usually grave and composed face, but the hand that took hers betrayed more than the brightest searchlight could have done. It was icy cold, steady, but with something desperate in its clasp.
"Nora, are you accustomed to people who are very ill?"
"My mother is often ill," Nora answered, and the fear at her heart seemed to pass into her very blood. "But surely Hildegarde—it is not serious?"
Frau von Arnim shook her head.
"I do not know," she said. "She fainted suddenly, and since then she has been in a feverish state which I do not understand. Poor little Hildegarde!"
She spoke half to herself, quietly, almost coldly. Only Nora, strung to that pitch of sensitiveness where the very atmosphere seems to vibrate in sympathy, knew all the stifled pain, the infinite mother-tenderness which the elder woman cloaked behind a stern reserve. And because the best of human hearts is a complicated thing answering at once to a dozen cross-influences, Nora's pity was intensified by the swift realisation that even her wonderful new happiness might be struck down in an hour, a minute, as this woman's had been.
"Let me look after her," she pleaded. "I can be such a good nurse. I understand illness—and I love Hildegarde."
Something like a smile relaxed Frau von Arnim's set features. The words had been so girlish in their enthusiasm and self-confidence.
"I know," she said, "and Hildegarde loves you. She has been asking after you ever since she recovered consciousness. Let us go in."
She opened the door softly and led the way into the silent room. The blinds had been drawn down, and the great four-posted bed loomed up grim and immense at the far end, seeming to swallow up the frail, motionless figure in its shadow.
Nora tiptoed across the heavy carpet.
"Hildegarde," she whispered, "are you better?"
The closed eyes opened full and looked at her.
"Yes, I am better. It is nothing. I fainted—only a little time after you had gone—and since then I have not been well." She stopped, her gaze, curiously intense and steadfast, still fixed on Nora's face. Her sentences had come in jerks in a rough, dry voice. She now stretched out her hand and caught Nora's arm.
"You enjoyed your ride?" she whispered. "Nothing happened?"
Troubled by the steady eyes and the feverish clasp, which seemed to burn through to her very bone, Nora answered hastily and with a forced carelessness.
"Nothing very much. Bruno bolted with me in the woods, and I do not know what might have happened if Herr von Arnim had not come to my rescue. It was all my fault."
Hildegarde turned her flushed face a little on one side.
"I knew something had happened," she said almost to herself. "It all came over me when I fainted. I knew everything."
Nora made no answer. She was thankful for the half-light, thankful that the large, dark eyes had closed as though in utter weariness. They had frightened her just as the conclusive "I know everything" had done by their infallible mysterious knowledge. "And even if you do know everything," she thought, "why should I mind?—why should I be afraid?" Nevertheless, fear was hammering at her heart as she turned away. Frau von Arnim took her by the hand.
"She seems asleep," she whispered. "Let us leave her until the doctor comes. Then we shall know better what to do."
It was as though she had become suddenly anxious to get Nora away from the sick girl's bedside, and Nora yielded without protest. She felt that Hildegarde's need of her had passed; that she had indeed only waited to ask that one question, "Did anything happen?" before sinking into a feverish stupor. Silent, and strangely sick at heart, Nora followed Frau von Arnim from the room into the passage. There the elder woman took the troubled young face between her hands and kissed it.
"Hildegarde loves you," she said gravely. "I perhaps know best how much; but she has lost a great deal that makes life worth living, Nora, and sometimes bitterness rises above every other feeling. When that happens you must have pity and understanding. You must try and imagine what it would be like if you lost health and strength——" She stopped short, but Nora, struggling with the hard, painful lump in her throat, did not notice the break. She saw only in the sad eyes the same appeal that had met her on the first evening, "Be pitiful!" and, obeying an irresistible impulse, she put her arms about Frau von Arnim's neck in an outburst of conflicting feeling.
"I do understand!" she cried brokenly. "And I am so dreadfully sorry. I would do anything to help her—to make her happy!"
"I know you would, dear Nora; but that is not in your power or mine. She must learn happiness out of herself, as soon or late we all must do. We can only wait and be patient."
They said no more, but they kept together, as people do who find an instinctive consolation in each other's presence. An hour later the doctor arrived. He pronounced high fever, apparently without any direct cause, and ordered quiet and close watching.
"So far, it seems nothing serious," he said, with a thoughtful shake of the head, "but she is delicate and over-sensitive. Every mental excitement will work inevitably upon her health. She must be spared all trouble and irritation."
According to his suggestion, Frau von Arnim and Nora shared the task of watching in the sick-room. There was nothing for them to do, for Hildegarde lay inert and silent, apparently unconscious of their presence, and the hours slipped heavily past. At ten o'clock Nora took up her post. She had slept a little, and the dark rings beneath Frau von Arnim's eyes caused her to say gently:
"You must rest as long as you can. I am not tired. I could watch all night."
Frau von Arnim shook her head.
"I will come again at twelve," she said, with a faint smile. "Youth must have its sleep, and I shall be too anxious to be away long."
The door closed softly, and Nora was left to her lonely vigil. She stood for a moment in the centre of the room, overcome by a sudden uneasiness and fear. She had watched before, but never before had the silence seemed so intense, the room so full of moving shadows. Except for the reflection from the log fire and the thin ray of a shaded night-light, the apartment was in darkness, but to Nora's excited imagination the darkness was alive and only the outstretched figure beneath the canopy dead. The illusion was so strong that she crept closer, listening with beating heart. There was no sound. For one sickening moment it seemed as though her fear had become a reality—then a stifled sigh broke upon the stillness. Hildegarde stirred restlessly, and again there was silence, but no longer the same, no longer so oppressive. Death was as yet far off, and, relieved and comforted, Nora drew an arm-chair into the circle of firelight. From where she sat she could observe every movement of her charge without herself changing position, and for some time she watched anxiously, self-forgetful in the fulfilment of her duty. But then the fascination of the glowing logs drew her eyes away, and almost without her knowledge her thoughts slipped their leash and escaped from the gloomy room with its atmosphere of pain, out into the forest, back to the moment when life had broken out into full sunshine and happiness such as she had never known, and love incomparable, irresistible, swept down upon her and bore her with them into a new paradise. Who shall blame her if she saw in the bright flames not Hildegarde's pale, suffering face, but the features of the man who had wrought in her the great miracle which occurs once, surely, in every woman's life? Who shall blame her if a half-read letter and its writer were forgotten, or, if remembered, only with a tender pity such as all good women must feel for honest failure? And in that pity there was mingled a certain wonder at herself that she could ever have supposed her feeling for Robert Arnold to be love. What was the childish regret at parting, the casual affection for an old comrade, blown to a warmer glow by the first harsh winds of exile, compared to this—this wonderful Thing which in an instant had revealed to her the possibility of a union where the loneliness, conscious or unconscious, surrounding each individual life is bridged and the barriers between mind and mind, heart and heart, are burnt down by the flames of a pure and noble passion? Poor Arnold! It was well for him that he could not know what was passing in Nora's mind nor see her face as she gazed into the fire. He might then have wished that his letter, with its bold self-confidence, had never been written. For the glow upon the young features was not all fire-shine, the starlight in the dreamy eyes not all reflected gleams from the burning logs upon the hearth. Both had their birth within, where the greatest of all human happiness had been kindled—but not by Arnold's hand.
Thus half an hour, and then an hour, slipped past. Lulled by her thoughts and the absolute quiet about her, Nora sank into a doze. The firelight faded into the distance, and half-dreaming, half-waking, she drifted into a chaotic world of fancies and realities. She dreamed at last that some one called her by name. She did not answer, and the call grew louder, more persistent. It seemed to drag her against her will back to full sensibility, and with a violent start Nora's eyes opened, and she knew that the voice had not been part of her dreams, but that Hildegarde was calling her with monotonous reiteration.
"Nora! Nora!"
"Yes, I am here. What is it?"
Nora drew softly to the bedside and took the outstretched hand in hers. It burnt, as though the feverish sparkle in the wide-opened eyes was but a signal of an inner devouring fire, and there was something, too, in the feeble smile which hurt Nora by reason of its very piteousness.
"I ought not to have disturbed you," Hildegarde said in a dry whisper. "It was selfish of me, but you looked so happy that I thought you could spare me a moment. I have been so frightened."
"Frightened, dear? Of what?"
"I do not know—of myself, I think."
She turned her fair head restlessly on the pillow, as though seeking to retrace some thought, and then once more she lifted her eyes to Nora. They seemed unnaturally large in the half-darkness, and their expression strangely penetrating. Nevertheless, when she spoke again Nora felt that they sought rather to convey a message than to question.
"Nora, you will laugh at me—I want to know, have I been talking—in my sleep, I mean?"
"No."
"I am glad." Again the same half-pleading, half-frightened smile played about the colourless lips. "I have been having such mad dreams—not bad dreams—only so—so untrue, so unreal. I should not have liked you to know them. You might have thought——" She stopped, and her clasp tightened.
"You know how I love you, don't you, Nora?"
"Yes, I think so—more than I deserve."
"Not as much, but still, very dearly. That was what I wanted to tell you. It seems foolish—in the middle of the night like this; but I was so afraid you would not understand. You do, though, don't you?"
"Of course." Nora spoke soothingly, but with a dim knowledge that she had not wholly understood. There was, indeed, a message in those broken sentences, but one to which she had no key.
"You have been good to me," Hildegarde went on rapidly. "Though you possess all that makes life worth living, you have not jarred on me with your wealth. You have not tried to comfort me with the truism that there are others more suffering than I—such a poor sort of comfort, isn't it? As though it made me happy to think that more suffering was possible—inevitable! When I am ill, I like to think that I am the exception—that the great law of life is happiness. And you are life and happiness personified, Nora, and so I love you. I love you so that I grudge you nothing—shall never grudge you anything. That is—what—I want—you to understand!" The last words came like a sigh, and there was a long silence. The earnest eyes had closed, and she seemed to sleep. Nora knelt down by the bedside, still holding the thin white hand between her own, and so remained until, overcome by weariness, her head sank on to the coverlet. Half an hour passed, and then suddenly a rough movement startled her from her dreams. Again she heard her name called, this time desperately, wildly, as though the caller stood at the brink of some hideous chasm.
"Nora! Nora!"
Nora made no answer. She stumbled to her feet and stood half-paralysed, looking at the features which in an instant had undergone so terrible a change. Hildegarde sat bolt upright. Her hair was disordered, her eyes, gleaming out of the ashy face, were fixed on the darkness behind Nora with a terrible entreaty in their depths.
"Nora! Nora! what have you done?"
Nora recovered herself with an effort. Usually strong of nerve, there was something in the voice, in the words, which terrified her.
"Hildegarde, what do you mean? What is the matter?"
"Oh, Nora, Nora, what have you done?"
The voice had sunk to a moan so piteous, so wretched, that Nora forgot the cold fear which for a moment held her paralysed. She tried to press the frail figure gently back among the pillows.
"Dear, I don't know what you mean. But you must lie quiet. To-morrow you can tell me everything——"
Hildegarde pushed her back and put her hand wildly to her head.
"Of course, you can't help it. You don't even know. How should you? A cripple—you would never even think of it. Nobody would—they would laugh at me or pity me. Wolff pities me now—but not then. Oh, Wolff! Wolff!"
The name burst from the dry lips in a low cry of pain. Hitherto she had spoken in English; she went on in German, but so clearly and with such vivid meaning in tone and gesture that Nora, cowering at the foot of the bed, felt that she would have understood had it been in some dead, unknown language.
"Wolff, how good you are to me! Shall we gallop over there to the bridge? How splendid it is to be alive, isn't it? Yes, of course I shall keep the supper waltz for you, if you really want it. We always have such fun together. Look! There is the Kaiser on the brown horse! And Wolff is leading the battery with Seleneck! How splendid he looks! Oh, Wolff! Wolff!"
Again the old cry, vibrating with all the unspoken love and pride and happiness which the short, disjointed sentences had but indicated! They had painted for the dazed, heart-stricken listener vivid pictures from the past—the long, joyous gallops over the open country, the brilliant ballroom, the parade, all the laughter, the music, the lights, and chivalresque clash of arms—but in that one name a life had been revealed, the inner life of a girl ripening to a pure and loving woman.
The tears burned Nora's eyes. Every word that fell from the delirious lips struck a deeper, more fatal blow at her own happiness, yet she could not have fled, could not have stopped her ears against their message.
"You must work hard, Wolff," the voice went on, sunk to a sudden gentleness. "Perhaps one day you will do something wonderful—something that will help to make us the greatest country in the world. How proud we shall be of you! I am proud already! Steady, Bruno! How wild you are this morning! One last gallop! Oh, Wolff, don't look like that! It is nothing—nothing at all! Only my back hurts. Am I not too heavy? You are so strong." And then, with a smothered exclamation of anguish: "Wolff, the doctor says I shall never ride again!"
A long, unbroken silence. The young, suffering face had grown grey and pinched. There were lines about the mouth which made it look like that of an old woman. A log fell with a crash into the fireplace. The voice went on, toneless, expressionless:
"How the light shines on her face! She is so pretty, and she can walk and ride. She is not half dead, like I am. No wonder he stands and watches her! Wolff, why do you stand there? Why do you look like that? Won't you come and sit by me? No, no, why should you? It is better so. You play well together. Tristan und Isolde—I wonder if it is Fate. They have gone out riding. I am glad. I wished it. When one is a cripple one must conquer oneself. I can see them riding through the park gates. They look splendid together—so handsome and young and strong. Now they are galloping. Oh, my God, my God! Nora, what are you doing? Something has happened! Oh, Wolff, Wolff! I know—I know you love her!"
The voice, which had risen from note to note as though urged by some frightful inner tumult of fear, now sank to silence. Hildegarde fell back among the pillows. With that final tragic recognition her mind seemed once more to be shrouded in oblivion. The look of agony passed from her features. She was young again, young and beautiful and at peace.
Nora stumbled. She would have fallen at the bedside had not a hand, seeming to stretch out of the darkness, caught her and held her. It was Frau von Arnim. How long she had been there Nora could not tell. She felt herself being drawn gently but firmly away.
"Go to your room, Nora. Lie down and sleep. I should never have left you. Poor child!"
In the midst of her grief the tones of deep, generous pity awoke in Nora's heart a strange awe and wonder. She did not dare meet Frau von Arnim's eyes. It was as though she knew she would see there a tragedy greater than her own, a pain too sacred for words of comfort. She crept from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone.
"Nora, Nora, what have you done?"
The words followed her; they rang in her ears as she flung herself down by her table, burying her face in her arms in a passion of despair.
"What have I done?" she asked again and again. And all that was generous and chivalrous in her answered:
"She loved you, and you have stolen her one happiness from her. You are a thief. You have done the cruellest, meanest thing of your life."
Justice protested:
"How could you have known? You did not even know that you loved, or were loved—not till this morning."
Then the memory of that morning, that short-lived happiness already crumbled and in ruins, swept over her and bore down the last barriers of her self-control. Poor Nora! She sobbed as only youth can sob face to face with its first great grief, desperately, unrestrainedly, believing that for her at least life and hope were at an end. Another less passionate, less governed by emotion would have reasoned, "It is not your fault. You need not suffer!" Nora only saw that, wittingly or unwittingly, she had helped to heap sorrow upon sorrow for a being who had shown her only kindness and love. She had brought fresh misfortune where she should have brought consolation; she had dared to love where she had no right to love; she had kindled a love in return which could only mean pain—perhaps worse—to those who had given her their whole trust and affection. She had done wrong, and for her there was only one punishment—atonement by renunciation.
The grey winter dawn crept into the little bedroom, and Nora still sat at her table. She was no longer crying. Her eyes were wide open and tearless. Only an occasional shudder, a rough, uneven sigh, told of the storm that had passed over her. As the light grew stronger she took up a crumpled letter and read it through, very slowly, as though each word cost her an effort. When she had finished she copied an address on to an envelope and began to write to Robert Arnold. Her hand shook so that she had to tear up the first sheet and begin afresh, and even then the words were scarcely legible. Once her courage almost failed her, but she pulled herself back to her task with a pathetic tightening of the lips.
"I know now that I do not love you," she wrote. "I know, because I have been taught what love really is; but if you will take me with the little I have to give, I will be your wife."
And with that she believed that she had raised an insurmountable barrier between herself and the love which fate had made sinful.
CHAPTER X
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.
"Yes, Huber. And then what will you do?"
"Go too, Gnädiges Fräulein. I have served my country many years, and when the Herr Hauptmann leaves the regiment I have had enough. One gets old and stiff, and the time comes when one must take off the helmet."
"That is true, Huber."
Still he hesitated.
"And Gnädiges Fräulein——?"
"I, Huber?"
"Gnädiges Fräulein will go with the Herr Hauptmann?"
A deep wave of colour mounted the pale cheeks.
"It is possible we may go to Berlin for a few months."
"Ja, ja, for a few months!" He laughed, and his laugh was like the rumble of distant thunder. "It is well, Gnädiges Fräulein; it is well." Then suddenly he stiffened, growled an "Empfehle mich gehorsamst," and was gone.
Hildegarde bowed her head over the violets and there was a long silence. Then she too laughed so naturally and gaily that Nora forgot herself and looked at her in wondering surprise.
"He is such a strange old fellow," Hildegarde explained. "Wolff calls him his nurse. Once in the manoeuvres he saved Wolff's life, and ever since then he has attached himself to the family, and looks upon us all more or less as his children. He is never disrespectful, and so we allow him his little idiosyncrasies. One of his pet ideas is that Wolff should marry me."
Nora repressed a start. What strange thing was this that Hildegarde should speak so lightly, so carelessly, of the tragic loss overshadowing both their lives?
"I think it would quite break his heart if we disappointed him," Hildegarde added quietly. "Is it not amusing?"
"Amusing?" Nora's hand gripped the back of the sofa. "I do not see why it should be amusing—it is natural. Of course"—she struggled to overcome the roughness in her voice—"every one sees how much your—your cousin cares for you."
Again the same easy laugh answered her.
"Why, Nora, you are as bad as our military matchmaker! Of course, Wolff is fond of me just as I am of him. We are like brother and sister; but marriage—that is quite another matter. I am afraid I could never bring myself to marry a man whose heart-affairs I have known ever since he was an absurd little cadet."
Nora pushed the hair from her forehead. She felt as though the ground had suddenly been torn from under her feet. Every resolution, every principle, the very spirit of sacrifice to which she had clung, had been shaken by those few simple words. Had she dreamed, then, that night when delirium had broken open the innermost sanctuary of Hildegarde's heart? Had it all been a wild fancy, and was this the truth? Or—— She looked full into the face raised to hers. There was a quiet merriment in the steady eyes—a merriment which yielded gradually to concern, but there was no sign of pain, no trace of struggle. It was impossible to believe that those eyes held their secret, or that the smiling lips had once uttered a cry of the greatest human agony. Yes, it was impossible, and if impossible, why, then—— Nora could think no further. She turned and walked mechanically to the window. The military band had begun the wedding-march out of Lohengrin, but for her it was no more than a confused sound beating against her brains. She heard the house-gate click, and saw a well-known figure slowly mount the steps, but she could not rouse herself to speak or think. She stood stunned and helpless, knowing nothing of the pitying eyes that watched her. In those moments a faint change had come over Hildegarde von Arnim's features. The smile had died, and in its place had come a grave peace—a peace such as is given sometimes with renunciation. Then her eyes closed and she seemed to sleep, but her hands held fast to the purple violets, and the sunlight falling upon the quiet face revealed a line that is also renunciation's heritage.
Meanwhile Wolff von Arnim had entered the state drawing-room, whither the little housemaid, overwhelmed by the plumes and glittering epaulettes, had considered fit to conduct him. It was the one spot in the whole house which Frau von Arnim had not been able to stamp with her own grace and elegance. The very chairs seemed to have entered into a conspiracy to appear stiff, and stood in comfortless symmetrical order, and the fire smouldering upon the hearth could do nothing against the chill atmosphere of an unloved and seldom inhabited dwelling-room.
Arnim went straight to the window. It was as though his surroundings pressed upon him with an intolerable burden, and he remained staring sightlessly out into the grey morning until the quiet opening of a door told him that he was no longer alone. Even then he did not at once turn. Only the slight convulsive tightening of the hand upon the sword-hilt betrayed that he had heard, and Frau von Arnim had almost reached his side before he swung round to greet her.
"Aunt Magda!" he exclaimed.
She gave him her hand, and he bent over it—remained so long with his head bowed that it seemed a conscious prolongation of the time before their eyes must meet.
"I hardly expected you this afternoon," she said gently, "certainly not in such grande tenue. Are you on special duty?"
He did not answer at once. He stood looking at her with a curiously absent expression.
"I came to ask after Hildegarde," he said. "Is she better?"
"Yes, much better—still very weak, of course. A fever like that is not quickly forgotten."
She had slipped her arm through his and led him to the sofa before the fire.
"The violets you sent are most beautiful," she went on. "They gave Hildegarde so much pleasure. She asked me to thank you for them."
He sat down beside her and for a moment was silent, gazing into the fire.
"Aunt Magda," he then began abruptly, "you have never told me what it was that caused Hildegarde's illness—nor even what was the matter with her. I—I want to know."
A faint, rather weary smile passed over Frau von Arnim's lips.
"Illness with Hildegarde is never far off, lieber Junge," she said. "She is like an ungarrisoned castle exposed to the attack of every enemy. The least thing—something which leaves you and me unharmed—throws her off her balance no one knows how or why."
"And she was once so strong!" he said, half to himself. "Nothing could tire her, and she was never ill—never."
"Wolff, there is no good in remembering what was and can never be again."
"Never?" he queried.
"Not so far as we can see."
His strongly marked brows knitted themselves in pain.
"Would to God it had all happened to me!" he broke out impulsively. "Then it would not have been so bad."
"It would have been much worse," Frau von Arnim answered. "Women suffer better than men, Wolff. It is one of their talents. After a time, Hildegarde will find consolation where you would only have found bitterness."
"After a time!" he repeated. "Then she is not happy? Poor Hildegarde!"
"Even women cannot learn patience and resignation in a day."
He sprang up as though inactivity had become unbearable.
"Aunt Magda—if she is strong enough—I want to see Hildegarde."
"Why?"
Involuntarily their eyes met in a quick flash of understanding.
"Because I think that it is time for our relationship to each other to be clearly settled," he said. "Ever since our childhood it has been an unwritten understanding that if Hildegarde would have me we should marry; and so I have come to ask her—if she will be my wife."
He spoke bluntly, coldly, not as he had meant to speak, but the steady gaze on his face shook his composure.
"Have you the right to ask her that?"
"Aunt Magda!"
"Or, after all, have you been playing with the affections of a girl who has the right to my protection?"
"Aunt Magda—that is not true—that——"
He stopped short, pale with agitation, his lips close compressed on the hot words of self-vindication.
For a minute Frau von Arnim waited as though giving him time to speak, and then she went on quietly:
"Wolff, we Arnims are not fond of charity. We prefer to eat out our hearts in silence rather than be objects of the world's pity. And Hildegarde is like the rest of us. She will not ask for your sympathy nor your care nor your devotion. She will ask you for your whole heart. Can you give her that?"
He made a gesture as though about to give a hasty answer, but her eyes stopped him.
"I—love Hildegarde," he stammered. "We have been friends all our lives."
"Friends, Wolff! I said 'your whole heart.'"
And then he saw that she knew; and suddenly the tall, broad-shouldered man dropped down, sword-clattering, at her side and buried his face in his hands. The smile in Frau von Arnim's eyes deepened. So he had done in the earlier days when youthful scrapes and disappointments had sent the usually proud, reserved boy to the one unfailing source of understanding and consolation. Very gently she rested her hand upon his shoulder.
"Shall you never grow up, Wolff?" she said with tender mockery. "Shall you always be a big schoolboy, with the one difference that you have grown conceited and believe that you can hide behind a full-dress uniform and a gruff military voice—even from my eyes?"
He lifted his flushed, troubled face to hers.
"You know—everything?" he asked.
"Everything, lieber Junge. Hildegarde knows, Johann knows, the cook knows. I should not be surprised if the very sparrows make it a subject of their chattering. And you can go about with that stern face and mysterious, close-shut mouth and think you have deceived us all! Oh, Wolff, Wolff!"
"You are laughing at me," he said. "God knows I am in deadly earnest."
She took his hand between her own.
"If I laugh at you it is because I must," she said; "because it is the only thing to do. There are some forms of quixotic madness which it is dangerous to take seriously, and this is one of them. Wolff, you have tortured yourself with an uncalled-for remorse until you are ready to throw your own life and the lives of others into a huge catastrophe. In all this, have you thought what it might mean to Nora?"
He started, and the colour ebbed out of his face, leaving it curiously pale and haggard.
"I think of her day and night," he said hoarsely. "I pray God that she does not know—that I shall pass out of her life and leave no trace behind me."
"You believe that that is possible? You deceive yourself so well? You pretend you do not love Nora, and you do not know that she loves you?"
"That I love her? Yes, I know that," he confessed desperately. "But that she loves me—how should I know?"
"Any one would know—you must know." She put both her hands on his shoulders and looked him firmly in the face. "Wolff, if you were honest you would admit it. You would see that you have acted cruelly—without intention, but still cruelly."
"Then if I have been cruel, I have been most cruel against myself," he answered. "But I meant to do what was right—I meant to act honestly. It is true when I say I love Hildegarde. I do love her—not perhaps as a man should love his wife, but enough, and I had sworn that I would make her happy, that I would compensate her for all that she has lost. I swore that to myself months ago—before Nora came. When Nora came, Aunt Magda"—his voice grew rough—"there are some things over which one has no power, no control. It was all done in a minute. If I had been honest, I should have gone away, but it would have been too late. And as it was I deceived myself with a dozen lies. I stayed on and saw her daily, and the thing grew until that morning when Bruno bolted. I lost my head then. When it was all over I could not lie and humbug any more. I had to face the truth. It was then Hildegarde fell ill. I felt it as a sort of judgment."
He spoke in short, jerky sentences, his face set and grey with the memory of a past struggle. He sprang to his feet and stood erect at Frau von Arnim's side.
"Whatever else I am, I am not consciously a cad," he said. "What I had done wrong I was determined to put right at all costs. I loved Hildegarde, and I had dedicated my life to her happiness. Nothing and no one must turn me from my purpose. That is why I am here this morning." He made an impatient gesture. "I have been a fool. You have seen through me—you have made me tell you what torture would not have dragged out of me. But that can alter nothing."
For a moment Frau von Arnim watched his stern, half-averted face in silence. Then she too rose.
"I have a message for you from Hildegarde," she said quietly.
He started.
"For me?"
"Yes. Those who suffer have quick eyes, quicker intuitions. She saw this coming, and she asked me to tell you—should it come—that she loved you too much to accept a useless sacrifice. For it would have been useless, Wolff. You deceive yourself doubly if you believe you could have made Hildegarde happy. Yes, if you had brought your whole heart—then, perhaps; but it is almost an insult to have supposed that she would have been satisfied with less. Since her illness she has told me everything, and we have talked it over, and this is our answer to you: Take the woman you love; be happy, and be to us what you always were. In any other form we will have nothing to do with you!"
She was smiling again, but Arnim turned away from the outstretched hands.
"It is awful!" he said roughly. "I cannot do it—I cannot!"
"You must, Wolff. Let time pass over it if you will, but in the end you must yield. You dare not trample on your own happiness, on Nora's, on Hildegarde's—yes, Hildegarde's," she repeated emphatically. "In the end she will find happiness in her own renunciation. She loves you both, and the first bitterness is already past. And why wait? There may be struggles enough before you both, though I shall do my best to help you. Go to Nora and make her happy. Believe me, lieber Junge, the heart-ache has not been all on your side."
He had taken her hands now and was kissing them with a passionate, shame-faced gratitude.
"You make me feel the lowest, meanest thing on earth," he said. "And Hildegarde is an angel—far too good for me."
"Yes; that is the best way to put it," she said. "Hildegarde is too good for you. And now perhaps it would be wise for you to go in search of the woman who is your equal."
"Not now," he said. "I could not. I must be alone a little. It has all happened so suddenly. My whole life and future has changed in a minute."
"Do as you think best, dear Wolff. But do not wait long."
He pressed her hand again in farewell.
"You love Nora?" he asked.
"Yes; otherwise I would not have let things drift. There are many barriers between you—race and language are not the least—and we had thought of a match—since Hildegarde's illness—more, perhaps, in accordance with our family traditions. But Nora is a dear, sweet child, and, I believe, will make you a good wife. At any rate, I shall do all I can to smooth your path, and Hildegarde and I will be happy to welcome her as one of us."
He smiled, half in gratitude, half in doubt.
"You seem very sure that she will have me," he said. "Everybody does not think me such a fine fellow as you do."
"Lieber Junge, I am a woman, and when I see a girl grow thin and pale without apparent cause—well, I look for the cause. Nora has been very unhappy in the last days. I suspect strongly she has been suffering from your conflict, and no doubt looks upon her life and happiness as ruined. That is why I tell you not to wait too long."
There was so much affection in her tone that the faint mockery in her words left no sting.
"I will not wait long, I promise you," Wolff said.
At the door he turned and looked back at her. It was almost as though he had meant to surprise her into a betrayal of some hidden feeling; but Frau von Arnim had not moved, nor was there any change in the grave face.
"Tell Hildegarde that I shall never forget," he said earnestly, "that I owe her my happiness, and that I thank her."
"I shall give her your message," Frau von Arnim answered.
The fate that arranges the insignificant, all-important chances of our lives ordained that at the same moment when Wolff von Arnim passed out of the drawing-room Nora Ingestre came down the stairs. She held an open telegram in her hand, and the light from the hall window fell on a face white with grief and fear.
Arnim strode to meet her.
"What is it?" he demanded. "What has happened?"
"My mother is very ill," she answered faintly. "They have sent for me."
She had descended the last step. The next instant Wolff von Arnim was at her side, and had taken her in his arms.
"Mein Liebling!" he whispered. "Mein armes Liebling!"
She yielded, overwhelmed by the swiftness of his action, by her own wild heart-throb of uncontrollable joy. Then she tried to free herself.
"You must not!" she cried. "It is not right!"
"My wife!" he retorted triumphantly. "My wife!"
She looked up into his face. At no time had he been dearer to her, seemed more worthy of her whole love, than he did then, with his own joy subdued by an infinite tenderness and pity. But the name "wife" had rung like a trumpet-call, reminding and threatening even as it tempted.
"Oh, Wolff!" she said, "you must let me go. It is not possible—you do not understand. I——"
She was going to tell him of the barrier she had raised with her own hands, of the letter that was on its way. She was going to say to him, "I am not free. My word is given to another. Seek your happiness where it awaits you." In some such words she meant to shatter her own life and lay the first stones of the atonement to the girl whose happiness she had stolen. Or, after all, had it been no theft? Was it not possible that she had been deceived? And even if it were true, had it not been said, "A useless sacrifice is no sacrifice at all"? Had she not a right to her happiness? And Wolff was speaking, and it seemed to her that his joy and triumph answered her.
"Nothing can come between us and our love!" he said. "Nothing and no one! Oh, Nora, ich habe dich so endlos lieb!"
The barrier, the letter, Hildegarde, every heroic resolution was forgotten, swept away by the man's passion and her own exulting love. Nora leant her head against the dark-blue coat in reckless, thankful surrender.
"Ich habe dich so endlos lieb!" he repeated. "Kannst du mich auch lieb haben?"
And she answered fearlessly:
"I love you!" and kissed him.
Such was Nora Ingestre's brief courtship and betrothal.
CHAPTER XI
WOLFF MAKES HIS DEBUT IN DELFORD
The family Ingestre was once more united. As far as could be judged from appearances, the union was a complete one. Domestic peace and prosperity seemed to hover like benignant spirits over the tableau which concluded the day's round. Mrs. Ingestre lay as usual on her couch beneath the light of the tall red-shaded lamp, her husband was seated at the table, poring over a volume of the latest dogma, whilst his son, still suffering from the results of a nervous breakdown (attributed to overwork), reclined in the most comfortable arm-chair by the fireside, and imbibed military wisdom from a London daily. If there was any note of discord in this harmony, it came from Nora. She stood opposite her brother, with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece, and the firelight betrayed a warning flash in the wide-open eyes and a tense line about the mouth which boded not altogether well for peace. Her father had glanced once or twice over his spectacles in her direction, but had seemed satisfied. On the whole, she had taken her abrupt and alarming recall with surprising docility and had accepted the obvious exaggeration of the Rev. John's report concerning her mother without resentment. Mrs. Ingestre had been ill, but then she was always more or less ill, and the degree more had scarcely justified the good gentleman's excited telegram. Were the truth admitted, he had been glad to seize upon an excuse to withdraw Nora from the "pernicious influence" of her foreign surroundings, and the strain of copying his sermons and attending to his own affairs generally had given the casting vote. As it has been said, Nora's docility had been as agreeable as it was surprising, and he attributed it to causes very satisfactory to himself. It was obvious, as he had explained triumphantly to Mrs. Ingestre, that Nora had had a bitter lesson "amongst these foreigners," and was only too glad to be home. Hitherto Nora had allowed him to cherish this delusion—hence the undisturbed peace in the family circle.
The French clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. Nora started and looked up, as though she had been waiting for the sound. Then she turned and stood with her back to the fire, her hands clasped behind her, her head held resolutely. "Father and mother," she began, "I have something important to tell you."
The Rev. John turned over a page before considering the speaker. The formality of the address and Nora's general attitude would have startled him if he had been any judge of outward and visible signs, but he was one of those men who only see what they have made up their mind to see, and just at that moment he was determined to look upon Nora in something of the light of a returned and repentant prodigal.
"Well, my dear," he asked indulgently, "what is it?"
"I want to tell you"—Nora took a deep breath—"that I am engaged to be married."
The Rev. John removed his spectacles.
"To whom?"
"To Captain von Arnim."
For a full minute her father said nothing. Miles sat up as though a bomb had exploded in his close proximity. Only Mrs. Ingestre remained unmoved. She was watching her daughter with grave, thoughtful eyes, but there was an unmistakable, half-whimsical, half-pitying smile about her mouth. The Rev. John passed his hand over his head, thereby ruffling a thin wisp of hair, which, usually decorously smoothed over a wide surface, now stood on end in a fashion wholly inconsistent with the seriousness of the moment. But of this he was fortunately ignorant. To do him justice, his agitation was unfeigned. The blow had demoralised him, and to cover the momentary mental paralysis he took refuge in an obstinate refusal to understand what had been said to him.
"My dear," he began amiably, "you mentioned that some one was going to be married—I did not catch the names. Would you mind repeating——?
"I said that Captain von Arnim has asked me to be his wife," Nora answered steadily.
"The impertinence of the fellow!" Miles had by this time recovered his self-possession sufficiently to speak. "I hope you sent him to the right-about?"
"I kissed him," Nora explained, with a gleam of humour.
"Nora!"
"There was no reason why I shouldn't. He is to be my husband."
Miles swore under his breath. The Rev. John rose with what would have been dignity but for his ruffled hair-dress.
"Nora—you—you—are talking nonsense," he jerked out. "I cannot believe that you know what you are saying. A—a—foreigner—a—a man of whom I know nothing!——"
"You will get to know him in time," Nora put in hastily.
"Do not interrupt me. I am grieved—shocked beyond words. I can only suppose that you have been led astray—eh—blinded by the glamour of a uniform. It is terrible. This is the reward of my weakness. Have I not always seen this coming?"—(here the reverend gentleman exaggerated, since the gift of prophecy had not been granted him)—"have I not always protested against your absence? But I at least supposed that—that Frau von Arnim was a woman who could be trusted—who would protect you from the—eh—attentions of a——"
"Frau von Arnim is the best woman I have ever met, except mother," Nora broke in again. "As to Wolff——"
"Wolff!" Miles laughed loudly. "Just think of it, people! 'Wolff' for my brother-in-law! A German bounder in the family! Many thanks!"
There was a moment's electric silence. The Rev. John had by this time recovered his professional eloquence, and was preparing to settle down to the work of exhortation with a zest. It was perhaps fortunate that Nora's face was turned away, otherwise he might have found less pleasure in listening to his own rounded periods.
"Miles puts the matter a trifle pointedly," he began, "but, on the whole, he expresses my own views. For many reasons I strongly disapprove of an English girl marrying out of her people, and as you are too young and inexperienced to appreciate those reasons, you must submit to my simple authority. I must, dear child, absolutely refuse my consent to this premature and regrettable engagement. I have no doubt that Frau von Arnim will see for herself that in her anxiety to effect an advantageous alliance for her nephew she has been over-hasty—I must say, inexcusably hasty, in giving her sanction."
"Thank goodness that is knocked on the head!" Miles said, rising triumphantly to his feet. "I swear to you, the bare possibility makes me feel positively faint. We all know what German officers are like—bullying drinkers and gamblers——"
Nora turned and looked at him. There was something very like hatred in her dangerously bright eyes.
"I forbid you to speak like that of a class to which my future husband belongs!" she said. "Besides what you said being nonsense, it is also cowardly to attack where no chance is given to defend. As to my engagement"—she turned again to her father, and her voice grew calm and firm—"whether you give your consent or not makes no real difference. In a short time I shall be of age, and then I shall marry Wolff. We can afford to wait, if it must be."
"Nora!" The Rev. John recovered his breath with difficulty. "How can you—how dare you speak to me like that? Have you forgotten that I am your father—that——"
"I have not forgotten anything," Nora interrupted, in the same steady accents, "but it would be hypocritical of me to pretend a submission which I do not feel and which I should consider disloyal. Hitherto my duty has been towards you—it is now due to the man whom I love above every other earthly consideration. It does not matter in the least to me that Wolff is a foreigner. If he were a Hottentot it would make no difference."
Neither the Rev. John nor his son found any immediate answer. They looked at the proud, determined face, and perhaps in various degrees of distinctness each realised that Nora the child was a creature of the past, and that this was a woman who stood before them, armed and invulnerable in the strength of her awakened passion.
The Rev. John, completely thrown out of his concept by this unexpected revelation, looked at his wife with the weak appeal of a blusterer who suddenly discovers that he has blustered in vain. Mrs. Ingestre saw the look—possibly she had been waiting for it.
"I think that, if all Nora says is true, we have no right to interfere," she said quietly, "and the best thing we can do is to ask Captain von Arnim to come and see us. What do you say, Nora?"
Nora's whole face lit up, but she said nothing, only looked at her father and waited. Had she burst out into a storm of girlish delight and gratitude, the Rev. John might have plucked up courage and held his ground, but that steady self-repression indicated a strength of purpose of which he himself was incapable. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Since my authority is denied in my own house, there is no object in appealing to me," he said peevishly. "Do what you like—only, in the future remember that I warned you. You have taken your life into your own hands, Nora. I can no longer hold myself responsible."
"All I beg is that I shall be allowed to keep out of the way when the beggar comes here," Miles said, as he followed his indignant parent out of the room.
The moment the door had closed Nora left her place of defence by the fire and came to Mrs. Ingestre's side.
"I know you are wondering why I did not tell you before, mother," she said rapidly and clearly. "It was because I did not want to drag you into it more than I could help. I know what you have to bear when father thinks you are 'abetting' me. I wanted to fight my battle alone."
"And I suppose you think you have won, Nora?"
"Yes, I think so. Father can do nothing."
"I was not thinking of that."
Nora looked down into the pale face and wondered at the pity which mingled with the tenderness of its expression.
"Of what were you thinking, mother?"
Mrs. Ingestre sighed.
"Are you so sure of yourself, little girl?" she asked gently. "Is your love really above every earthly consideration? Can you give up your home, your country, your language, your ways, us—your people, without a heart-ache? Do you realise that you are bringing your love the greatest of all sacrifices?"
"Mother, it is a sacrifice Wolff will never ask of me."
"Life will ask it of you—not even Wolff can alter the laws of life. The day may come when Circumstance will say to you that you must choose. And what then?"
Nora was silent. Then she lifted her head.
"Then, mother, I should have to choose. It is true—my love is strongest in me."
Mrs. Ingestre sank back among her pillows.
"God help you, dear!" she said under her breath.
Nora waited a moment. There was something more that she had to tell—the story of a letter written in a fervour of self-sacrifice, and of another letter written two weeks later, a pitiful letter containing a confession and a plea for forgiveness. But she recognised the signs of exhaustion, and crept softly back to the fire. After all, it would do another day. Another day! That most pitiful of all excuses had haunted her from the moment that she had felt Wolff von Arnim's arms about her, and she was honest enough to despise it and herself. But she was afraid. She was convinced that Wolff would not understand either her old friendship with Robert Arnold or her subsequent folly in accepting a man she did not love. Nor could she explain, for the one explanation possible was the sacred secret of Hildegarde's heart. She was equally convinced that her mother would disapprove of her silence and demand that she should deal honestly with the man she was to marry. She knew that her mother would be right, and indeed she meant to tell the truth—but not now. The new happiness was too insecure. And then, the episode, foolish and even disloyal as it had been, was closed and done with. Robert Arnold had obviously accepted her final acknowledgment of the truth, and had silently gone his way. He had not answered either letter, and probably they would not meet again, or, at any rate, not until the wound had healed and been forgotten. Was it not wiser, therefore, to keep silence also—for the present? Thus Nora argued with her own conscience, and, torn between a natural rectitude and a headstrong love, came to no conclusion, but let the matter drift until that well-known "some time" which, had she been wiser, she would have recognised as an equivalent for "never."
But at least the great battle for her liberty had been fought and won. An invitation was promptly sent to Karlsburg and as promptly accepted, and the day dawned which was to see Wolff's triumphal entry into the enemy's stronghold. Even Miles, though the permission to "keep out of the way" would have been willingly granted him as far as Nora was concerned, insisted on making his future brother-in-law's arrival an excuse for returning on leave.
"The sooner I get the blow over the better," he said, and gratuitously undertook to accompany Nora and her father to the station when the unloved guest was expected.
There were more people on the platform than was usual at that time of the day. From one source and another, Delford had got to know all about Nora's engagement; and though, from the station-master's "Well, I call it a real downright shame that a pretty girl should throw herself away on one of them there Proosians!" to Mrs. Clerk's "Dear me, how dreadful!" the chorus of disapproval had been rung on every possible change, still, a good many of the disapprovers had found it necessary to be present at the arrival of the London express. Nora herself noticed nothing unusual. She was overwhelmed by a sense of unreality which made the incidents of the last months seem like pictures from a confused dream. Everything had happened so swiftly. Love, despair, and happiness had trodden on each other's heels; and in the same moment that she had grasped her happiness with both hands, she had been swept away, back into the old surroundings where that happiness had no place. And now that it was coming to her, seeking her out, as it were, in the enemy's territory, she could hardly be sure whether it were really true, whether Wolff himself were not some dream-figure who had won her in another and less everyday existence.
In the midst of her bewildered thoughts the express steamed into the little station, and the next minute Wolff had become a living, breathing reality, who swept down upon her and kissed her, regardless of all the Delfordites in the world. When he gave her time and opportunity to look at him, she felt that he, too, had undergone a change, and had taken on something of his surroundings. She would hardly have recognised him in the plain tweed suit and bowler hat. Neither became him so well as his uniform—to tell the truth, neither fitted him with any great exactitude, and it was all too evident that the suit was "ready-made." But the face, strong and tanned, flushed now with his joy at seeing her, was the same. It carried her memory back to that wonderful hour when he had lifted her out of the deepest despair to an intoxicating happiness, and she, too, forgot the Delfordites and the disapproving glances of her relations, and clung to him in a transport of delight.
"My little Nora!" he said, "the weeks have been months!"
"I am not sure that they have not been years!" she cried, laughing. And then she remembered her father and brother, and hastened to perform the ceremony of introduction. The three men shook hands, the Rev. John with solemnity, Miles with a covert sneer and a glance which took in every detail of the newcomer's person. Either the solemnity or the sneer worked depressingly on Wolff's spirits. He grew suddenly quiet and grave, though his eyes, when they met Nora's, flashed with a smothered happiness which she read and understood.
But the drive home in the narrow confines of the Delford brougham remained in Nora's memory as one of the most painful in her experience. The Rev. John persisted in his funereal solemnity, and talked of the weather, the journey, and the crops, very much as though he were trying to take their minds off the unpleasant circumstances which had brought them together. As to Miles, he sat in the far corner with his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window—when he was not staring the new-comer out of countenance.
Poor Nora! Never before had she greeted the appearance of the monument and the ugly church steeple with so much thankfulness.
"We are nearly there now," she said, looking up into Wolff's face. "Mother has been so impatient to see you."
Her eyes were full of a shamed, indignant apology, to which Wolff's quiet smile seemed to answer:
"What do I care for them? I would carry you off if there were forty of them, all forty times as disagreeable!" And he pressed her hand defiantly under the rugs.
At length the vicarage was reached. The queer, old-fashioned trunk was dragged down from its perch, and five minutes later Wolff was standing in the dimly lit drawing-room. Mrs. Ingestre had heard their coming, and came slowly and painfully forward. Her hands were outstretched, and Wolff took them, gravely bowing, and kissed them. Nora saw a curious, half-horrified expression pass over her father's face, and Miles smothered a laugh. She felt in that moment as though she could have killed them both, and then fled with Wolff anywhere, so long as she could get away from their stifling atmosphere of self-satisfaction and petty prejudices.
Her mother's voice was the first to break the silence.
"My dear Wolff," Mrs. Ingestre said gently, "how glad I am that you have really come at last!"
The simple words, with their quietly emphasised acceptance of him as a relation, acted like a balm on poor Nora's wounded spirits. She saw, too, that Wolff's face had relaxed.
"You make me very happy," he said. "I feel for the first time that Nora and I really belong to one another—since I have seen you, and you have welcomed me."
A strange sound came from the Rev. John's direction, which might have been a cough or a groan of disapproval. Mrs. Ingestre appeared to notice nothing. She took Wolff's arm, and, leaning on him as though for support, led him closer to the light.
"You must forgive me," she said. "Remember that I am an old woman and that old women have their cranks. One of mine is that I do not like to be kept waiting. And I have been kept waiting so long to see the face of this wonderful German that I forgot that in all politeness I should be studying you out of the corners of my eyes. Nora has of course described you—but then, Nora is prejudiced."
At this point the Rev. John's cough became consumptive in its hollow persistency, and he was heard to murmur something to the effect that Herr von Arnim would no doubt like to be shown to his room. Herr von Arnim appeared to be afflicted with deafness. He looked down at Mrs. Ingestre, meeting her frank inspection with steady, laughing eyes.
"I am not anything to look at—especially in these clothes," he said naïvely. "I don't think even Nora could have said that I was handsome. So you must not judge by appearances. After a time you will know what I really am, and I hope you will like me."
"If I can trust Nora's description I do that already," Mrs. Ingestre answered, "but, more than Nora, more than experience, I trust my own eyes. And I think"—she paused, and the smile that crept about her lips lit up her whole face, and made it almost young and very beautiful—"I think I shall be happy to give my Nora to you, Wolff."
The cough and its owner had departed in despair. Miles, finding himself ignored, skulked sulkily in the passage. Wolff bent and kissed the white, delicate hand that still clasped his own.
"I thank you!" he said simply.
This time there were neither exclamatory eyebrows nor smothered giggles, and Nora, forgetting that they had ever been, saw in Wolff's action the seal and charter of her happiness.
CHAPTER XII
NORA FORSAKES HER COUNTRY
Nora believed in unalloyed happiness. Any one with more experience would have known that unalloyed happiness, as such, does not exist. The moment when we feel ourselves supremely happy is the moment when we are most exposed to the rude shocks of fortune. We know it, and consequently our bliss is immediately overshadowed with the knowledge of its short duration.
When Mrs. Ingestre and Wolff had stood together hand in hand, as though in solemn compact of friendship and affection, Nora's heart had filled to overflowing; but already that same evening a dozen trifles, a dozen pin-pricks, came to prove to her that the storms and misadventures of the last weeks were by no means at an end. Her father who, to do him justice, never accused a fellow-creature until he was proved guilty, was none the less on the lookout for proofs of Wolff's unsuitability, and continued distressed and grave. If at any time the conversation became in the least animated, or showed a tendency to the mildest form of hilarity, he was at once on the spot with some painfully repressing commonplace. It was as though he were constantly murmuring, "Children, remember what has happened! This is not an occasion for unseemly mirth!" and in spite of all efforts the conversation drifted into a channel which would have been considered unnecessarily depressing at a funeral.
Miles aided and abetted his father after his own fashion. His asides to Nora were marked by pungent humour and sarcasm. Inquiries after Wolff's tailor, and whether it was the fashion in Germany to wear one's tie at "that angle," were varied with shocked appeals that "that fellow might be told to put his knife and fork together when he had finished eating, and not leave it sprawling about his plate like a yokel!"
Nora never retorted. She felt the uselessness of explaining that the Germans were different, but not on that account worse; but she felt like an enraged tigress who sees her cub attacked by brutal, clumsy hands. She did not see that Wolff, unaccustomed to such things, had struggled in vain with a refractory evening tie, nor that the cut of his coat was scarcely of the latest fashion. She saw first and foremost that he was a man and a gentleman, and her love and respect for him kindled in the same measure that her love for her father and brother diminished. There were moments during Wolff's fortnight visit when she came to hate both, so intensely did she resent their attitude towards her future husband. The Rev. John, thanks to Mrs. Ingestre, remained formal and polite to Wolff's face. Behind his back he displayed an all-damning charity.
"Of course, we must not judge a foreigner by our standards," he would say pathetically, "and I daresay he is well-meaning, but I wish, my poor child——"
He would then break off, and look out of the window with an expression full of the most moving pity and regret.
Miles, fortified with the knowledge of exams. passed and a dawning manhood, was not so reserved in his opinions.
"I can't think what you see in him, Nora!" he once said condescendingly. "He is a regular out-and-out German, and his hat-doffing and hand-kissing make me sick. I wish he would take himself and his beastly polish back to his own country."
Whereby it will be seen that "beastly polish" was not one of Miles Ingestre's weaknesses.
On the whole, Wolff more than held his own. Although unaffected and modest as far as his own person was concerned, he was much too deeply imbued with the traditional conception of his social position to feel anything but calm amusement at the ungraciousness of his two hosts. As an officer in the King's army, and as a scion of an old and noble race, he felt himself secure against contempt even in a foreign country where such things did not count. For him they counted everywhere—they upheld him and lent him an imperturbable savoir faire where another man would have shown temper or resentment. Nevertheless, the fortnight was not a very happy one. The unspoken knowledge that Wolff was not "approved of" weighed upon Nora and himself as a fact which both recognised but felt wiser to ignore. They were ill at ease even when alone—Nora because she was ashamed of her own people, Wolff because he knew she was ashamed, and could do nothing to help her. Consequently they were happiest when together with Mrs. Ingestre. Her grace of manner and openly expressed affection for her future son-in-law lifted the shadow between them, and the hours spent at her side counted amongst the most unclouded.
There were constant "visits" during Wolff's stay. From the inevitable Mrs. Clerk, who, in spite of strong disapproval, could not refrain from gushing over the German Baron to the Manor people, who were ponderously and haughtily critical, the whole of Delford came up for the inspection. Of course, it was a "formal" inspection. "Informal inspections" had been held in church, and when Wolff had cantered through Delford on a borrowed horse, which Miles had hopefully but mistakenly prophesied would "buck him over the first hedge." On the latter occasion it is possible that more than one feminine heart was stirred to unacknowledged admiration for the bronzed face and splendid figure, and even Miles was compelled to the sulky confession that "the fellow could ride."
Thus the days passed, and, except in one long interview with the Rev. John, Wolff and Nora's marriage was treated as a tabooed subject. That interview, revealing as it did not very brilliant financial prospects, reduced the rev. gentleman to even deeper depression, and the hope of a definite settlement seemed all too far off. It was then that Mrs. Ingestre threw in the casting vote of her influence. A few days before Wolff's departure she called him to her, and the two were alone together for a long hour. In that hour Wolff learnt to know more of Mrs. Ingestre's life and character than Nora had done in all the years at her mother's side. In her desire to help her daughter to happiness, all other considerations were forgotten, and Mrs. Ingestre revealed unconsciously to Wolff's more experienced eyes a profound, if resigned, grief over her own life, stifled and clogged as it had been in her husband's atmosphere. In the quiet room her voice sounded peculiarly earnest, almost impressive.
"I need not tell you, my dear Wolff," she said, "that my husband is against your marriage with Nora. You must know that already. He has other ideas of happiness and suitability, and I can scarcely blame him, since they were once mine. Like him, I once saw in long acquaintance, similarity in ideas, and, of course, nationality, a certain wealth and position, the best foundations for a happy and successful life. Like him, I would probably have thought that you were not rich enough to marry, that you had not known each other long enough, that the difference of nationality and upbringing would be too great a stumbling-block. I have learnt since those days to think differently. The circumstances make little difference either way, so long as a great love is there. And, after all, what is a great love?" For the first time her tone was tinged with a faint cynicism. "Who can dare to call their love really great until they are on their deathbeds? We cannot be sure of our love, whether the object be well known to us or not, until it has been tried by the fires of years and custom. Custom is the hardest trial of all, and that is why I am glad rather than sorry that you and Nora know each other so little. It is because you know each other so little that you are in love, for being in love is simply the charm of standing before the closed, mysterious door of another's personality, and knocking for it to open. When the door opens, you will cease to be in love, but I believe that, because you are both worthy of it, you will find the all-enduring love waiting for you. At any rate, it seems to me the chances are as great for you as for those who, knowing each other too well, have never known the charm. Wolff, I am an old woman in suffering if not in years, and I think age and youth often join hands over the experience of middle life. Youth believes it is better to be truly happy for an hour and to suffer through all eternity rather than enjoy years of placid, passionless content. And that is what I have also come to believe. I would rather Nora enjoyed a brief but complete union with you than a lifetime of 'living together' with another man. Besides, I trust you; I believe you to be a good man, as I believe Nora to be a good woman, and I hope that in the afterwards you will learn to love each other. As to the question of nationality and wealth, they spell struggle and sacrifice for you both, Wolff. As a woman Nora will bring the greatest sacrifice, but I know that you will help her."
"With all my strength."
"And you will have patience?"
He looked at her wonderingly.
"Sometimes you will need it, Wolff. But Nora is brave and good. She will learn to love your country because she loves you. For my part—I am glad that she is leaving Delford far behind her."
Wolff made no answer. He felt that the words were an almost unconscious outburst, that unknowingly she had spoken of herself. After a moment she went on with a quiet smile:
"So, you see, I am on your side. So long as I am on your side, there is nothing for either of you to fear. If anything should happen——"
"I pray that I shall never give you cause to take your trust away from me!" Wolff broke in.
Mrs. Ingestre shook her head.
"I was not thinking of that possibility," she said. "I was thinking that if Nora stood alone—without me—the fight against her father's wishes might be harder. I know she would hold to you, but it would be at a bitter cost. That is why I wish for you to marry soon—as soon as possible."
Something in her tone affected Wolff painfully. He looked at her, and for the first time he saw that this woman was suffering intensely, silently, with a smile on her lips and unconquered life in her eyes.
"Mrs. Ingestre!" he exclaimed.
She took his hand and pressed it.
"I think you know," she said, "and if I tell you what I have withheld, and shall withhold, from every living being, it is because I wish you to clearly understand my reasons. I cannot live very long, and before it is too late I want to see Nora in your care. Can you promise that my wish shall be granted?"
He made no effort to pity or express his grief. There was something masculine in her calm which held him silent, but in that moment his love for Nora strengthened because one woman had lifted her whole sex with her to the highest summit of his man's ideal. He lifted her hand reverently to his lips.
"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.
She read the first page over and over again. She felt stunned and sickened. Her mind refused to grasp what had happened.
"My darling," Robert had written two months before, from some far-off African village, "a miracle has happened! Your letter has come! It must have missed me at Aden, and had followed me from place to place until at last it has reached my hands. And all these months I have been thinking that you had no answer for me, or at the most the one I feared. Nora, need you ask me if I will take what you have to offer? I love you, dear, and I know my love will awaken yours and that I shall make you happy. My whole life shall thank you for the trust you have given me. I can hardly write for my joy, and the time that must elapse before I can see you seems intolerable. I cannot return for at least two or three months, as I have promised a friend to accompany him on an inland expedition, but when that is over I shall make full steam for home—or, rather, to Germany if you are still there. In the meantime, write to me, dearest. Even though weeks may pass before the letters reach me, yet the knowledge that they are there waiting will give me hope and courage. I am sending this letter to the coast by a native carrier. Heaven knows if it will ever reach you, but..."
Nora looked up, conscious that she was no longer alone. Wolff stood in the doorway, dressed for departure, his hands outstretched.
"Are you ready, kleine Frau?" he said. "We are all waiting for you——" He broke off, and took a quick step towards her. "Nora!" he exclaimed. "How pale you are! What is the matter?"
It seemed to her that a full minute must have elapsed before she brought her lips to move, but in reality she answered almost immediately:
"It is nothing—nothing whatever. I am quite ready—I will come now."
Outwardly pale and calm, she had lost all inner self-possession, and in a kind of frenzied fear was tearing the letter into a thousand pieces. She had no thought for the future; blindly and instinctively she was saving herself from the present.
Wolff watched her in puzzled silence. Then, when the last fragment fell to the ground, he came and took her hands.
"Nora, something is wrong. Did that letter trouble you? What was it?"
"No, no. If it is anything, it is just the thought of leaving them all. Surely you understand?"
Poor Nora! That "some day" when she had thought to tell him everything had become a "never," sealed and made irrevocable by a silence and a lie. Poor Wolff! He thought he understood. He put his arms tenderly about her.
"Yes, I understand. I know you have given up everything for my sake. But, oh, Nora, God helping us, we shall be so happy!"
He waited, and then, as she did not speak, went on gently:
"Can you bear to come now? Is your love big enough to give up all that is past, to start afresh—a new life with me in a new home, a new country? Is it too great a sacrifice to ask, Nora?"
His words acted like a strong charm. She thought they were prophetic, and her reckless despair changed into a more reckless happiness. She lifted her face to his, and her eyes were triumphant.
"It is no sacrifice," she said. "My love for you can perform miracles. It has made your people my people, your God my God, and it can wipe out the past—everything—and leave nothing in my life but you! Take me with you, Wolff. I am quite, quite ready!"
He led her proudly and happily from the room, and afterwards from the house that had been her home.
But, little as she knew it, no miracle had been performed in Nora's life.
END OF BOOK I
BOOK II