Front matter (continued 2)

"'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?"