Front matter (continued 5)

How had it all come? Whose fault was it? Poor Nora felt she knew. The spectre had risen in the same hour when Miles had leant back in the Drotschke and sighed with relief because Wolff had not accompanied them. She had been angry at first, but the rough words had revealed something to her which she would never otherwise have believed, something in herself which had lain dormant and which now awoke, never to rest again. It was not Miles's fault. Had it been, she would not have hesitated to follow her mother's advice. But to have sent him away would be a sign of weakness—and it would be useless. The evil—whatsoever it was—lay in herself. It had always been there, but she had not recognised it. Miles had shown her what she must sooner or later have seen for herself. She had married a stranger from a strange land, and he had remained a stranger, and the land had not become her home. That was the whole matter. That she loved him, that his country had offered her love and welcome did not alter the one great fact that the faintest cry, the faintest call from her own people had drawn from her an irrepressible answer of unchanged allegiance. She loved Wolff, but in every petty conflict between him and her brother her heart had sided against him; she had had a sincere affection for the Selenecks, and in cold blood she knew that Miles had behaved boorishly towards them; but she had grown to hate them because they had shown their disapproval, and because he hated them.

In this strange, unseen conflict of influences Miles stood for more than her brother; he stood for her whole race, for every inborn prejudice and opinion, and his coming had revealed to her her own loneliness. She was alone in a foreign land; she spoke a tongue which was not her tongue; she lived a life in which she was, and must remain, a tolerated stranger. Her seeming compliance had been no more than youth's adaptability to a passing change. Her love and her ready enthusiasm had blinded her, but Miles had torn down the scales from her eyes, and she saw the life she lived as he saw it—as a weary round of dismal pleasures, big sacrifices, endless struggle. She saw that her home was poor and tasteless, that her friends were neither elegant nor interesting, that they had other ideas, other conceptions of things which to Nora were vitally important—that they were, in a word, foreigners to her blood and up-bringing.

It had been a terribly painful awakening, and in her desperate flight from the full realisation of the change in her she had broken through the circle which hedged in her life, and sought her escape on the turbulent sea of another, more gilded society. She had tried to intoxicate herself with the splendour and popularity so easily acquired. The Frau Commerzienrat Bauer had received her with open arms, had showered upon her delicate and sometimes indelicate attentions; she had been fêted at the gorgeous entertainments given in her honour at the over-decorated "palatial residence"; she had seen Miles's expression of contemptuous criticism change for one of admiration, herself surrounded by the adulation of men who, she was told, governed the world's finance; she had heard the Frau Commerzienrat's loud voice proclaim her as "My dear friend, Frau von Arnim"—and at the bottom of her heart she had been nauseated, disgusted, wearied by it all. She had come back to the close and humble quarters of her home with a sweet sense of its inner purity and dignity, with the determination to make it the very centre of her life. And then she had seen her husband's grave—as it seemed to her, reproachful—face, the freezing disapproval of his circle, the mocking satisfaction of her brother; and the momentary peace had gone. She had felt herself an outcast, and, in hot, bitter defiance of the order of things against which she had sinned, had returned thither, where the opium flattery awaited her. But through it all she loved her husband, desperately, sincerely. As she sat there bent over her work, she thought of him in all the glamour of the first days of their happiness, and a tear rolled down her cheek, only to be brushed quickly away as she heard his footstep on the corridor outside.

"How tired he sounds!" she thought, and suddenly an immense pity mingled with the rekindling tenderness, and shone out of her eyes as she rose to greet him, like a reflex from earlier days.

He looked tired to exhaustion. The rim of his helmet had drawn a deep red line across his broad forehead, and there were heavy lines under the eyes. Nevertheless, his whole face lit up as he saw her.

"May I come in, Nora?" he asked, with a glance at his dusty riding-boots. "We have been surveying, and I am not fit for a lady's drawing-room; but if I tiptoed——"

"Of course you may come in," she cried cheerfully, thankful that the light was behind her. "I have been waiting for you, and tea is quite ready. Sit down, and I will bring you a cup."

He obeyed willingly, and followed her with his eyes as she bustled around the room. It was like old times to find her alone, to see her so eager to attend to his wants. When she came to him with his cup he drew her gently down beside him, and she saw that his face was full of tender gratitude.

"You kind little wife!" he said. "It's worth all the fatigue and worry just to come back and be spoilt. What a long time it seems since we were alone and since you 'fussed' over me, as you used to call it."

There was no reproach or complaint in his voice, and yet she felt reproached. She lifted her face to his and kissed him remorsefully.

"Have I neglected you, Wolff?"

"Not a bit, dear. I only meant—of course, one can't go on being newly married for ever, but it has its charm to go back and pretend; hasn't it?"

"You talk as though we had been married for years!" she said in a troubled tone. "And it is scarcely seven months."

"Seven months can be a long time," he answered gravely. "It all depends on what happens."

She had her head against his shoulder, and suddenly, she knew not why nor how, she was transported back to that magic hour when he had first taken her in his arms and an unhoped for, unbelievable happiness had risen above her dark horizon. In a swift-passing flash she realised that this was the man for whom she had fought, who had been everything to her, without whom life had been impossible, and that now he was hers, her very own, and that she had been cruel, unfaithful, and ungrateful. She flung her arms impetuously about his neck and drew his head down till it rested against her own.

"Oh, Wolff, Wolff!" she cried. "Are you so very disappointed in me? Has it only needed six months to show you what a hopeless little failure I am?"

"You—a failure?" He passed his hand gently over her hair. "You could never be a failure, and I should be an ungrateful fellow to talk of 'disappointment.' You are just everything I thought and loved, my English Nora."

The name aroused her, startled her even. Was it only because it emphasised what had already passed unspoken through her mind, or was it because it seemed to have a pointed significance, perhaps an intended significance?

"Why do you call me 'English Nora'?" she asked, with an unsteady laugh. "I am not English any more. I am your wife, Wolff, and you are ein guter Deutscher, as you say."

He nodded, his eyes fixed thoughtfully in front of him.

"Yes, I am German, bone and blood," he said. "That's true enough. And you are my wife. I wonder, though——"

He stopped, and then suddenly he bent and lifted her like a child in his arms and carried her to the big chair opposite.

"Now I can see you better," he said quietly. "I want to ask you something which your face will tell me better than your words."

He had fallen on one knee beside her and was looking her earnestly in the eyes. She bore his scrutiny, but only with a strong effort of the will. She felt that he was looking straight into the secret places of her heart, that he was reading the pain that her words, "I am not English any more," had caused her and how little they were true.

"Tell me," he said, "are you happy, Nora? Are you not the one who is disappointed?"

"I? Wolff, how should I be? how could I be?"

"All too easily—sometimes I think inevitably. I am not blind, Nora. I see how petty and small your life must be compared to what you perhaps thought—to what might have been. The people you meet are accustomed to it all—at least they have learnt to make the best of what little they have; but you have come from another world and another life. You are accustomed to breadth and light and freedom. You have never known this brilliant poverty which we know so well, and it is hard on you—too hard on you. I have never seen it all so clearly as I see it now. If I had seen it then I would have trampled my love for you underfoot rather than have asked so great a sacrifice. But I was blinded—I did not understand——"

"Wolff, have I complained? Have I been so ungrateful—so wicked?"

"No, Nora. You have been very brave and good, but I have seen, and I have reproached myself bitterly—terribly. When I came in to-night and saw that you had been crying, I felt that I would do anything—that I would give you up——"

He stopped short, and with a pang of indescribable pain she felt that this soldier kneeling at her feet was fighting for his voice, that his quick, broken sentences had been the outburst of a long-suppressed and bitter struggle.

"I love you, Nora," he stammered roughly. "I love you with my life and soul and body, but if your happiness required it I would give you up—to your people——"

"Wolff!" she interrupted passionately.

"Listen, dear. I am not talking at random. I have thought it all over. If I cannot make you happy, I will not make you unhappy. I will do everything a man can do to atone for the one great wrong. Only tell me, whilst I have the strength to part with you——"

He stopped again, and she felt that he was trembling. There was something infinitely pathetic in his weakness, something which called to life not only her love for him as her husband but a wealth of a new and wonderful tenderness such as a mother might feel for a suffering child. She put her arms about him and drew his head against her breast. For that moment she forgot everything save that he was miserable and that she had made him so.

"I will never leave you of my free will," she said. "Never! You will have to chase me away, and then I shall come and sit on the doorstep and wait for you to let me in. Oh, Wolff, my dearest, what foolish things have you been thinking, and how long have you been brooding over them? Don't you know that I could not live without you?"

He lifted his face, searching hers with keen, hungry eyes, in which she read doubt and a dawning hope.

"Is that true, Nora?"

"Yes; it is true!"

"Be honest with me. Am I so much to you that you can be happy with me—with my people and in my home and country?"

He had asked the question which she had asked herself in moments of pitiless self-examination, but, like her, he asked it too late. She answered now earnestly, passionately, swept beyond all selfish considerations on a tide of deep, sincere feeling.

"Yes, I love you enough, Wolff. And if there have been any regrets, any longings which have caused you pain, forgive them, my husband—above all, understand them. They will pass—they must pass, because, at the bottom, you are my all in all."

He made no answer. He lifted her hand to his lips, and in the movement there was a joy, a gratitude deeper than words could have expressed. She felt that she had satisfied him, and she, too, felt satisfied.

Thus they sat silent together, hand clasped in hand, his head against her shoulder, whilst peace and a new happiness seemed to creep in about them with the evening shadows. And in her young hope and confidence Nora believed in this new happiness as she had believed in the old. It seemed so strong, so invulnerable, the obstacles so petty, so mean. They had been swept aside in a moment, like sand-castles before the onrush of the sea, so that it seemed impossible, absurd, that she could ever have thought of them as insurmountable. And yet, though heart and mind believed in the change, another wider, less definable sense, which we call instinct, remained doubtful and fearful. It was the one sign that all was not as it had once been, that they had only outwardly regained the past. Once they had lived for the future, longing for it in their extravagant youth as for a time which must reveal to them new wonders and joys. Now they clung anxiously to the present, scarcely daring to move or speak lest the peace, the outward semblance of unity, should be destroyed. Thus they sat silent together, each apparently plunged in his own untroubled reflections, each in reality fighting back thought as an enemy who might overshadow their victory.

It was Arnim who at last spoke. He drew two letters from his pocket and gave them to her.

"The postman met me on the stairs," he said. "One is a disappointment and the other the fulfilment of a wish. Which will you have first?"

"The disappointment," she said, turning over the letters anxiously. "I always keep the bonne bouche for the last. But it has grown so dark that I cannot see. You must tell me what is in both."

"The one is from Aunt Magda," he answered. "It seems that the doctor has ordered Hildegarde a longer trial of the baths at Baden-Baden, so that their coming will be postponed a week or two at least. I am very sorry. I had looked forward to the time when you would have them—to help you."

It was the one faint intimation that he knew that she still needed help and that all had not gone well in the short period of their married life. Nora's face fell. Her very real disappointment proved to her how much she had longed for the two women who had always been her friends, even in the darkest hours. She loved them as mother and sister. She had never felt for them the antipathy, the enmity which had grown up between her and the Selenecks, and, in lesser degrees, between her and all the other women of her husband's circle, and she had longed for them as for a refuge from her increasing isolation. And now they were not coming—or, at least, not for some weeks. She was to be left alone among these strangers, these foreigners, with only Miles to support and uphold her. Only Miles? She remembered her husband with a pang of the old remorse, and she bent and kissed him as though to atone for some unintentional wrong.

"I am sorry they are not coming," she said; "but perhaps the baths will do Hildegarde good, and as for me—why, have I not got my husband to turn to?"

Wolff laughed happily.

"After that pretty speech, I must hold out some reward, so that the practice may be encouraged," he said, waving the second letter in triumph. "Behold! His Excellency General von Hulson has done himself the honour to invite his future colleague, the Captain von Arnim, nebst his beautiful Gemählin and honourable brother-in-law, to a ball on the 17th of next month. Now, are you satisfied?"

"How good you are to me, dear!" She kissed him, guiltily conscious that her joy had been but a poor feigning. Now, for the first time, she realised clearly how far she had drifted from her husband's circle. She shrank from that which had once been the goal of her ambition. Wolff laughed at her, mistaking the cause of her hesitation.

"Verily, I am growing to be a wise husband!" he said gaily. "Are all the fine dresses worn out, that my wife's fair face should be so overcast? Well, there! Is that enough to cover future expenses, Vanity?"

He had pressed a little bundle of paper-money into her hand, and she looked at it, dazed with surprise. She did not know that it was Bruno's price which he had given her, but again her eyes filled. She pitied him in that moment more than herself.

"You dear, generous fellow!" she stammered mechanically.

"It's not generosity, little woman. It's only right that you should have change and gaiety. You must not think that I do not understand how dull and dreary it must sometimes be. I do understand—it goads me sometimes to think how little I can do. Perhaps one day it will all be better—when I am Field-Marshal, you know!"

He tried to laugh, but somehow a certain weariness rang through his laughter. She heard it, and remorse mingled with her pity.

"You must not worry about all that," she said gently. "I must be a poor kind of wife if I am not satisfied as I am." She repeated her words to herself, and felt that there was bitter truth in them.

For a moment Wolff remained silent. She thought he was resting, but presently he spoke again, and she knew that he had been preparing himself to approach a graver subject.

"Nora, there is something I want you to do for me, something I want you to promise."

She looked anxiously down into his face.

"What is it, dear?"

"I want you to associate less with Bauer—and with Bauer's relations."

"Why?"

The one word sounded a defiance. Wolff rose from his kneeling position and stood at her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.

"Because he is a man I do not trust. It is not my way to speak against a comrade or to accuse lightly, but I have sure reason for asking what I do of you. No man and no woman is the better for Bauer's friendship."

"Does that mean that you do not trust me?"

She was angry now—without just cause or reason, simply because she saw in him the embodiment of all the prejudices of the class which had dared to look askance at her. A grave smile passed over her husband's face.

"You know I trust you, Nora; but in our position we must avoid even the appearance of evil. Not so much as a breath of scandal must tarnish my wife's name."

"Ah, 'your wife'!" she said bitterly.

"——who is myself," he added.

There was a moment's silence before he went on:

"It is not only of you I was thinking, Nora. There is Miles to be considered. He is very young, and possibly easily influenced. No one can tell into what difficulties—what temptations he might be led by unscrupulous hands. Surely you sympathise with me in this?"

"My brother is no more likely to act dishonourably than myself," she answered, and again it was her race rather than Miles that she defended. "Nor do I believe Captain Bauer to be the man you describe. He has been very kind to me, and I know to what influence I must ascribe your prejudices. The Selenecks have always hated my—my friendship with the Bauers. No doubt they told you that the Commerzienrat has stolen his wealth."

She regretted her words as soon as they had been spoken. In her angry conviction that her conduct had been criticised—perhaps justly criticised—she had allowed herself to say more than she had meant, more even than she believed to be true.

"You are not just to me, Nora," Wolff answered quietly. "I have said nothing against the Bauers—I know nothing against them. But they are very rich, and it is their wealth which makes your association with them undesirable. We are poor—our friends are poor. We cannot entertain as they do. And we belong to another class—not a better class, perhaps, but one with other aims and other ideals. You cannot belong to both."

"At the bottom, you do think your class superior," Nora interposed scornfully.

"Perhaps I do—perhaps you do, when you are honest with yourself, dear. You must know that the Bauers' friendship for you is not wholly disinterested. It sounds rather brutal; but those sort of people who talk of money as the one thing that counts and pretend to scorn family and titles are just those who are most anxious to have a titled name among their visitors."

Nora started as though she had been stung.

"I think you overestimate your—our importance," she said.

He did not retort. He simply held out his hands to her.

"Nora, you can't think it gives me pleasure to spoil anything for you. Won't you trust me? Won't you give me your promise?"

She looked at him; she was honest enough to acknowledge to herself that he had been right, but above all, his patience, his quiet tone of pleading had moved and softened her.

"I give you my promise, Wolff."

"Thank you, dear. Goodness knows, I will try and make it up to you in all I can."

He kissed her, and then suddenly she drew away from him.

"You don't need to make up for it. And I think, after all, I won't go to the Hulsons."

He looked at her in blank surprise. He had sold his favourite horse to satisfy her needs, he had humbled his pride, laid himself open to the accusation of being a "place-hunter" in order to be able to lead her into the brilliant world after which she had once craved, and now that the sacrifices had been brought she would have none of them. He did not understand—as how should he have done?—that she saw in his action an attempt to bribe her, in his gift a sweetmeat offered to a disappointed child. He felt, instead—though he would not have admitted it even in his thoughts—that she had been capricious, inconsiderate.

He turned away and went over to the writing-table, throwing down the two letters with a gesture of weariness.

"We must go now, whether we want to or not," he said. "I have worried for the invitation, and it is impossible to refuse. The Selenecks would have every right to be offended."

"They are that already," Nora said bitterly.

"Perhaps they have some reason to be, dear." He spoke quietly, but he had implied that the fault was hers, and the angry blood rushed to her cheeks.

"The Selenecks are absurd and ridiculously sensitive," she said. "They have chosen to take offence at nothing, and——"

"Nora, they are my best friends!"

"Is that any reason why they should be mine?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And if I do not like them—if I find their manners and ways too different to mine—what then?"

There was a faint sneer in tone and look which was intentional, and which she knew was undeserved, but she could not help herself. She hated the Selenecks and the whole crowd of small military nobodies struggling for advancement and their daily bread. Why should she be forced to live her life amongst them?

Wolff made no answer to her question. He was sufficiently calm to feel with its full poignancy how fleeting and unstable their newly won happiness had been. The barrier was raised again—the more formidable because it had been once so easily overcome. Yet, with the tenacity of despair he clung to the appearance of things, and kept his teeth tight-clenched upon an angry, bitter retort. He was spared all further temptation. The door-bell rang, and he turned to Nora with a quiet question as though nothing had happened.

"Is that Miles, or is he at home?"

"It is Miles, probably. He has been out all the afternoon."

She, too, had recovered her self-possession and was grateful to him for having ignored her outburst. Nevertheless she knew that he would not forget, any more than she would be able to do.

"Where has he been, do you know?"

"I am not sure. He found it very dull here, and went out with some English friends he has picked up. Is there any harm in that?"

Again the same note of sneering defiance! Wolff kept his face steadily averted.

"Not so far. But I do not like his English friends."

"I suppose not," she retorted. "Everybody here hates us."

"Us——?" He turned at last and looked at her.

"——the English, I mean," she stammered.

He had no opportunity to reply. The door opened, and their little maid-of-all-work entered, bearing a card.

"A gentleman to see the gnädige Frau," she said. "Shall I show him in?"

Nora took the card. She looked at it a long time. Even in the half-darkness her pallor was so intense that it caught Wolff's attention. He saw her stretch out her hand blindly as though seeking support.

"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked.

She lifted her eyes to his, staringly, stupidly. He felt that she hardly saw him.

"Nothing—it is an old friend—from England."

The sound of her own voice seemed to bring her to her senses. She handed him the card, and her manner from stunned bewilderment changed to something that was intensely defiant. There was a moment's silence. Then Arnim turned to the waiting servant.

"Show him in here," he ordered.

"Wolff—how do you know I wish to see him?"

"An old friend—who has come so far to see you? You surely cannot do otherwise. Besides, why should you not want to see him?"

He looked at her in steady surprise, so that the suspicion which for one moment had flashed up in her mind died down as quickly as it had come. He did not know—he could not know. But the consciousness of coming disaster weighed upon her like a crushing burden.

"There is no reason. Only I thought you might not wish it."

"Your friends are my friends," he answered gravely.

And then the door opened a second time, and Robert Arnold stood on the threshold.

CHAPTER IX

ARNOLD RECEIVES HIS EXPLANATION

A great physical change had come over him in the few months of his absence. He was pale and gaunt-looking, as though he had but lately risen from a serious illness, and his eyes, which fell at once on Nora's face, were hollow and heavily underlined.

Nora noticed these details with the sort of mechanical minuteness of a mind too stunned to grasp the full magnitude of the situation. One side of her intellect kept on repeating: "Why has he come? Why has he come?" whilst the other was engrossed in a trivial catalogue of the changes in his appearance. "He stoops more—he is thinner," she thought, but she could not rouse herself to action. Arnold, indeed, gave her little opportunity. After the first moment's hesitation he advanced and held out his hand.

"I ought to have let you know of my coming, Nora," he said, "but I could not wait. I have just arrived in Berlin, and of course my first visit had to be to you. I hope I have not chosen an inconvenient time?"

He was trying to speak conventionally, and was successful, insomuch that Nora understood that she had at present nothing to fear from him. Not that she felt any fear now that the first shock was over. It was with a certain dignity and resolution that she looked from one man to the other.

"This is my husband, Robert," she said, "and this, Wolff, is my old playfellow, Captain Arnold."

Wolff held out his hand frankly.

"I am glad to meet you," he said. "I am glad for my wife's sake when she has the chance of seeing her old friends. I hope, therefore, that your stay in Berlin is to be a long one?"

Arnold bowed.

"I am on my way home to England," he said. "How long I remain depends on circumstances."

"May the circumstances be favourable, then!" Wolff returned. His tone was warm—almost anxiously friendly, and Nora looked at him in surprise and gratitude. His smiling face betrayed no sign of the devil which he had grappled with and overcome in one short moment of struggle. He nodded cheerfully at her.

"I am afraid you must play hostess alone for a little, dear," he said. "Captain Arnold, as a soldier you will understand that duty can't be neglected, and you will excuse me. I have no doubt you will have a great deal to talk about, and at supper-time I shall hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again. Whilst you are in Berlin you must consider this your pied-à-terre."

"You are very kind," Arnold stammered. Like Nora, he too was impressed—uncomfortably impressed—by the impetuous hospitality with which Wolff greeted him. Like Nora, also, he had no means of knowing that it was the natural revolt of a generous nature from the temptings of jealousy and suspicion.

Wolff had lighted a small lamp, which he carried with him to the door, together with a bundle of documents. For a moment he hesitated, looking back at Nora, and the light thrown up into his face revealed an expression of more than usual tenderness.

"Don't talk yourself tired, Frauchen," he said as he went out.

Nora smiled mechanically. She had had the feeling that the words were nothing, that he had tried to convey an unspoken message to her which she had neither understood nor answered. She gave herself no time to think over it. She switched on the electric light, and turned to Arnold, who was still standing watching her.

"Sit down, Robert," she said. "As Wolff said, we have a great deal to say to each other—at least, I fancy you have come because you have a great deal to say to me."

Her words contained a slight challenge, which, the next moment, she felt had been out of place. Arnold sank down in the chair nearest to hand. It was as though he had hitherto been acting a part, and now let the mask fall from a face full of weary hopelessness.

"You are right," he said. "I have something to say, Nora—I suppose, though, I ought to call you Frau von Arnim?"

"You ought," she answered, irritated by his tone. "But it does not matter. I don't think Wolff minded."

A grim smile passed over Arnold's lips.

"Wolff seems a good-natured sort of fellow," he said. There was again something disparaging in his tone which brought the colour to Nora's cheeks.

"He is everything I could wish," she answered proudly. And then the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes reminded her that she had done this man a cruel injury, and her heart softened with pity and remorse.

"How pale and thin you have grown!" she exclaimed. "Have you been ill?"

"Very ill," he answered. "I caught some swamp fever or other out there in the wilds, and it was months before they could get me back to the coast. That is why you never heard from me. As soon as I reached port I set straight off for home—to you."

"To me——!" she repeated blankly.

He nodded.

"Yes; to the woman I believed was to be my wife."

"Then you never got my second letter?"

"Did you write a second letter?"

He was looking her earnestly in the eyes, and there was a stifled, tragic wretchedness in his own which was terrible to look on.

"I wrote and explained everything," Nora, answered, controlling her voice with an effort. "I have behaved badly to you, but not so badly as to leave you undeceived."

"You sent me an explanation," he said slowly. "Nora, it is that explanation which I have come to seek. When I first heard of your marriage, I made up my mind that you were not worth suffering for. I thought that I would go back to the forest and forget you—if I could. I meant never to see you again—I felt I could not bear it. But, Nora, a man's love is not only a selfish desire for possession. If he loves truly, he puts into that love something of himself which is a vital part of his life and being—his ideals and his whole trust. I suffered—not only because I had lost you, but because I had lost my faith in every one. You seemed so good and true, Nora. I felt I could never trust another woman again. That was unbearable. For my own sake I had to come and ask you—if you could explain."

He stopped abruptly, and there was a little silence. He had spoken without passion, simply in that weary monotone of those who have risen from great physical or mental suffering; and Nora's heart ached with the knowledge that she alone had brought this ruin upon him.

"You said, 'When I first heard of your marriage,'" she began at last. "When and how was that?"

"From Frau von Arnim," he answered. "I thought you might still be with her at Karlsburg, and the place lay on my route. It was Frau von Arnim who told me."

"Then—she knows everything?"

He saw the alarm on her face.

"As much as I know. Forgive me, Nora; it was inevitable—I could not believe what she told me. I am the more sorry because she is a hard, cold woman who will make trouble. That is another reason why I have come. I wanted to warn you."

Nora made a quick gesture—half of dissent, half of doubt.

"You misjudge her," she said. "She will forgive and understand, as you must. Oh, Robert, it makes me miserable to think I have caused you so much pain, but if I had to live my life again I could not have acted otherwise than I did!"

Her voice had grown firmer, and as she spoke she turned from her position by the window and faced him with quiet confidence.

"I acted for what I believed to be the best, Robert," she said. "It was perhaps wrong what I did, but I did not mean it to be—I meant to be just and honourable. But I was not strong enough. That was my one fault."

Her clear, earnest tones brought back the light to the tired eyes that watched her.

"I am glad," he said. "I am glad that you can explain. That is all I have come for, Nora—to hear from your own lips that you are not ashamed."

"I am not ashamed," she answered steadily. And then, in a few quick sentences she told him everything that had led up to that final moment when Wolff had taken her in his arms and the whole world had been forgotten. As she spoke, the past revived before her own eyes, and she felt again a faint vibration of that happiness which had once seemed immortal, indestructible.

"I did not deceive you," she said at last, with convincing sincerity. "I wrote and told you that I would marry you—not that I loved you. I knew I did not love you, because my love was given elsewhere. I loved Wolff already then, but there was a barrier between us which I believed to be insurmountable. I consented to become your wife because it seemed the best and safest thing to do. Afterwards—it was almost immediately afterwards—the barrier proved unavailing against our love, and I forgot you. That is the brutal truth. I forgot you until it was too late, because, you see, I did not feel more for you than friendship, and because I really loved. That was weak, no doubt, but I had never loved before, and it was too strong for me. A wiser woman would have waited until she was free. She would have written to you and told you that it was all a mistake. I wrote to you afterwards. That is the only difference. The letter did not reach you, and you believed the worst of me. It was only natural, and I know I am to blame, but oh! if you really love, surely you can understand?"

He smiled at her unconscious cruelty, and, rising, took the outstretched hands in his.

"I do understand," he said, "and the blame is all mine. I should never have accepted your generous gift of yourself without your love. I might have known that it would end badly. But you were so young, dear. I thought I should be able to teach you to love. Well, some one else was cleverer and had a better chance, perhaps, than I had. I have no right to blame, nor do you need to feel any remorse on my account. The worst wound is healed now that I can understand. My one prayer is that you may be very, very happy." He studied her upturned face. "You are happy, aren't you, Nora?"

For the shortest part of a minute she wavered. She repeated the question to herself and wondered.

"Yes, of course I am happy," she replied almost impatiently. "Why should I not be?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I am over-anxious for you. You see"—his faint smile betrayed how deep his emotion was, in spite of all self-control—"I still love you."

"I am glad," she answered frankly. "I care for you too, Robert, quite enough to make me very sad if I should lose your regard. It made me miserable to think that you probably hated and despised me."

"I never did that, though I believe I tried," he said. "And now that I may not give you my love, I may at least feel that I am your friend? Grant me that much, Nora. It is very little that I ask—your trust and friendship."

It was indeed very little that he asked, and he had been more generous to her than she could have ever dared to hope. And yet she hesitated.

"Nora!" he cried "Surely I have not deserved to lose everything!"

He was pleading as a beggar might have pleaded for the crumbs beneath the table, and all that was generous in her responded. The hesitation, the vague uneasiness passed. She gave him her hand.

"Of course! We have always been friends—we must always be friends."

"Thank you, dear. That is a great deal to me. No other woman will ever come into my life."

"Don't!" she exclaimed, painfully moved. "You make me feel that I have spoilt your life."

"But you haven't, Nora. You are just the only woman I could ever have loved, and if I had not met you I should be even lonelier than I am. At least I have your friendship."

His tone was composed, almost cheerful, but she felt that he was at the end of his strength, and when, after a quick pressure of the hand, he went towards the door, she made no effort to recall him. Her own voice was strangled, and perhaps her face revealed more than she knew, more than she was actually conscious of feeling—a regret, an appeal, an almost childish loneliness. As though answering an unexpected cry of pain, he turned suddenly and looked at her. He saw the all-betraying tears, and the next minute he had come back to her side and had taken her hands and kissed them.

"You must not!" he said gently. "You are to be happy—as I am. Forgive me; it is the seal upon our friendship—and a farewell."

She had not resisted. She would have forgiven him, because she understood; she would have put the moment's surrender to passion from her memory as something pardoned, but fate took the power of forgiving and forgetting from her. For the door had opened, and Miles stood on the threshold, watching them with an expression of blank amazement on his flushed, excited face.

Arnold turned, too late conscious that they were not alone, and Miles's amazement changed to a loud delight.

"If it isn't old Arnold!" he exclaimed, flinging coat and hat on to the nearest chair and stretching out an unsteady hand. "Why, we thought you were dead and buried in some African wilderness, didn't we, Nora?"

"You were not far wrong, then," Arnold answered. "I was pretty well done for once, and am only just beginning to feel that I really belong to this world again." He had recovered his self-possession with an effort, and he went on quickly, almost as though he were afraid of Miles's next words: "I was on my way home, and took Berlin as a break. Of course I had to come and see you all."

Miles nodded.

"Decent of you," he said thickly. "Nora will be glad to have you in this foreign hole. It's a sickening shame——" He stumbled and reeled up against Arnold with an impatient curse. The momentary excitement over the unexpected arrival had passed, leaving him bemuddled, in a dull but unmistakable state of intoxication. Arnold took him by the arm and helped him to the nearest chair.

"You are a young fool," he said good-naturedly. "German beer isn't so harmless as you seem to think. What have you been doing with yourself?"

Miles passed his hand over his forehead with a helpless movement, as though he were awakening from a dream.

"It's not the drink," he stammered. "It's not the drink, I tell you. It's—it's the money. I'm in a devil of a mess. These dirty foreigners——"

"Oh, hush!" Nora cried. For the moment disgust and anger had passed. She had heard Wolff's footstep in the adjoining room, and a sudden terror had come over her. "Robert, take him away—quick! And come back afterwards—Wolff may not ask for him whilst you are here. Oh, help me!"

Arnold nodded silently. He lifted the hapless Miles and half dragged, half carried him from the room. He had no thought as yet of the future. It had been revealed to him in a flash that all was not well in Nora's life; he had seen something like despair in her face, and knew that she needed the strong hand of a friend.

"And I am that—nothing else," he thought as he closed Miles's door behind him. "No one can blame me if I claim the rights of friendship and help her—no one!"

But Captain Robert Arnold, sure of his own honour, forgot that the world, being less honourable, might also be of another opinion.

CHAPTER X

NEMESIS

It was her at-home day. As she sat there, with her hands clasped listlessly on her lap, it seemed as though in imagination she saw the ghosts of other days arise—days where the little room had been crowded with eager, chattering friends who had come to tell her and each other the latest news of their servants, their husbands or the service, or to be "intellectual," as the case might be. She thought she saw Frau von Seleneck seated on the sofa opposite her, her round, rosy face bright with an irrepressible optimism; she thought she heard the rich, contented chuckle, and felt the maternal pat upon her arm. Then her vision cleared, and the ghosts vanished. The little room was empty of all but shadows, and she was alone.

Presently the door of her husband's study opened. She heard him come towards her, and knew that he was standing at her side; but she did not look up. She felt for the moment too listless, too weary, above all too proud to let him see how deeply her new isolation wounded her.

"All alone, dear?"

"Yes, all alone."

"I thought it was your at-home day?"

She tried to laugh.

"Yes, so it is. But no one has come, you see."

"How is that?"

Then she looked up at him.

"You know quite well. Everybody hates me."

"Nora! That is not true."

She nodded.

"It is quite true. The Selenecks have taken care that none of my misdeeds should go forgotten. They can't forgive my—my intimacy with other people, or my nationality."

"Your nationality?"

She got up with an impetuous, angry movement.

"Yes, my nationality."

He stood looking at her. A new expression had come into his grave face—an expression of sudden understanding, of indescribable pain. Then he came towards her and put his arm about her shoulders.

"My little wife, don't, for God's sake, don't let that come between us! Be brave, fight it down. It will only be for a time. Our—my people are easily hurt. They think, perhaps, you despise them for their sober ways—that they are not good enough for you. Be kind to them, and they will come back. They would forgive you anything."

She drew back from him.

"I do not want their forgiveness. I do not want them. I am happiest alone."

He made no answer, but went slowly towards the door. She knew that she had hurt him, and in her bitterness and wounded pride it gave her a painful satisfaction to know that he too suffered. Yet she loved him; she knew, as he stood there with bent head, that she would give her life for him—only she could not surrender herself, her individuality, the old ties of blood and instinct. She could not, would not break down the barrier which her race built between them. She was too proud, perhaps too hurt to try.

Suddenly Arnim looked up. His features were quiet and composed, and the gathering twilight hid the expression in his eyes.

"Nora, where is Miles?"

"Still in bed. He—he is not feeling well."

"The effects of yesterday?" He laughed grimly. "It seems to me, dear, that your brother would be the better for some occupation—in his own country."

"You wish him to go?"

He met her challenge with an unfaltering determination that was yet mingled with tenderness and pity.

"I think it better—before it is too late."

"What do you mean?"

"Before he ruins himself—or us."

"Wolff, you are not fair. You are unjust."

He smiled sadly.

"I hope I am. Good-bye, little woman. I shall try and be back early. But perhaps Arnold will come—and then you will not be alone."

He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. The protest died on her lips; an icy sense of isolation crept over her, obliterating for the moment all thought of his injustice, of the slight which he had cast upon her brother. In her sudden weakness she held out her arms towards the closed door and called his name, feebly, like a frightened child crying in the dark. But he did not come back. She heard his spurs jingle with a mocking cheerfulness—and then silence. So she went back to her place by the window and sat there, holding back with a pitiful pride the tears that burnt her eyes.

Presently the door opened again. She thought he had come back, and with all her pride her heart beat faster with a momentary, reasonless hope. Then she heard the click of the electric light and a man's voice speaking to her.

"Gnädige Frau, may I come in?"

She sprang to her feet as though the voice had been a blow, and saw Bauer standing on the threshold, bowing, a curious half-ironical smile playing about his mouth. For the moment she could neither think nor speak, but out of the depths of her consciousness arose the old aversion, the old instinctive dread. She knew then, warned by that same occult power, that the time had come when the dread should receive its justification.

"I found the door open, and ventured to enter unannounced," Bauer went on calmly. "I knew from experience that the usual formalities would lead to no result. You have been 'out' a great deal of late, gnädige Frau." He came towards her without hesitation, and, taking her passive hand, kissed it. "Am I forgiven?"

His absolute ease of manner checked the rise of her indignation. She felt herself strangely helpless. Yet her dignity—her dignity as Wolff's wife—came to her rescue. She looked steadily into the still smiling face.

"If I have been often out, it has not been a mere chance, Herr Rittmeister," she answered. "It has been of intention—an intention which you would have been wiser to respect."

"I see no good reason why I should respect your husband's 'intentions,' gnädige Frau," he retorted calmly.

"My husband's wishes are mine."

"Really?" He laughed, and then grew suddenly serious. "In any case, it seems to me that I—we have a right to some sort of an explanation. To put it baldly—there was a time when it pleased you to accept my sister-in-law's hospitality and friendship. Now, it seems, neither she nor I are good enough for you."

Nora flinched involuntarily. She knew that the reproach was a just one, but she knew too that Wolff had been right and only she to blame. Instinct again warned her. She saw danger in this man's cold eyes, in which there yet flickered the light of some controlled passion either of hatred or some other feeling to which she dared give no name.

"You have a right to an explanation," she said at last, with an effort controlling her unsteady voice. "Indeed, I owe you more than that—I owe you an apology. It was a mistake for me to enter into a circle to which I did not belong; only you will do me the justice to remember that it was a mistake not altogether of my making."

"Gott, gnädige Frau!" He laughed angrily. "You talk as though we were the dirt under your feet. Is it your husband's petty nobility which gives you the right to look at me like that? I too wear the King's uniform—that is a point which you would do well to remember."

"I have not forgotten it. And there is no question of contempt—I feel myself, Heaven knows, superior to no one; but I repeat, it was a mistake to accept kindness which could not be returned. Surely you can understand——" She crushed down her pride, and in the effort her bearing became prouder and colder. "We are poor, Herr Rittmeister, your relations are rich and live as we cannot live. That alone is a barrier between us."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"An excuse, gnädige Frau, an excuse! I know the opinions of your husband's class too well not to know perfectly what you prefer not to tell me. In any case, your considerations are a little belated. You should have thought of all that before you allowed your brother to enter into a circle"—he echoed her words with a kind of mocking satisfaction—"in which he could not sustain his position."

Nora started. She knew now that there was a menace in this man's looks and words. She understood that he would never have acted as he had done without the sure conviction that the power was in his hands. What that power was she did not know—she only knew that she was afraid.

"Sit down, gnädige Frau," he went on more calmly. "You look pale, and I have something of importance to tell you. But before everything, I want you to believe that I come to you as your friend."

He motioned her to be seated in the chair which he had pushed towards her, and she obeyed him passively. A sharply defined recollection of their first meeting came back to her as she did so. Then, too, he had acted with the insolent assurance of a man who knows himself master of the situation; but then she had had the power of her independence. Now she felt herself bound, helpless in the bonds of circumstance—and her own folly.

"It is of your brother I have come to speak," Bauer went on, taking his place before her. "Nothing should prove my friendship better than the fact that I have come in spite of the rebuff to which I knew I should lay myself open. But I could not see the crisis break over you without a word of warning—without offering you a helping hand."

She looked at him in mingled astonishment and anger. His familiarity was more terrible to her than his previous tone of menacing resentment.

"I do not understand you," she said coldly.

"Perhaps not. But you must surely be aware that your brother has not been living the most austere of lives since his arrival in Berlin. It may be that I am a little to blame. I thought by the way he talked that he could well afford it, and encouraged him to share my life with me. Well, it appears now that he bragged more than circumstances justified. I do not speak of the money he owes me nor his gambling-debts to my friends. Those I have already paid. It was not pleasant for me to be associated with a defaulting gambler, and what I did I did for my own sake. I ask no thanks or credit for it. But there are other matters." He had undone the buttons of his military coat, and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he laid before her. "That is a rough list of your brother's creditors, with the amounts attached," he said. "You will see for yourself that he has understood the art of amusing himself."

She took the list from him. The figures swam before her eyes and she fought against a deadly faintness. From afar off she heard Bauer's voice roll on with the unchanged calm of a lawyer for whom the matter had only a professional interest.

"At the bottom you will see the sum-total, gnädige Frau. It runs into three figures, and it is possible that my list is not complete. The worst of it is that your husband will be held responsible. The credit would never have been given to Mr. Ingestre if his brother-in-law had not been Herr von Arnim, captain on the general staff."

Nora rose unsteadily to her feet.

"It is impossible," she stammered incoherently. "I know—Wolff hasn't the money—it is impossible. Oh, how could he have been so foolish—so wicked!" And it was curious that in that moment she thought less of the ruin which was bearing down upon her husband than of the disgrace which had fallen upon her brother, of Wolff's justified contempt and the triumph of his friends. Bauer had also risen and now took a quick step to her side.

"Gnädige Frau, your brother has only done what hundreds of young fellows do. No doubt he hoped that he would have time enough allowed him to pay. Unfortunately, there are war-scares flying about, and the tradespeople are a little shy of English customers. I fear they will press payment. But there is no need for you to worry. Your husband need never even know that these debts existed. A word from you and they are paid and forgotten."

"What do you mean?"

"I will pay them."

"You?"

"Yes, I." He came still closer, so that she could hear his quick, irregular breathing. "You English are practical people," he went on, with an attempted laugh. "You know that there is precious little done out of pure charity in this world. If I help you out of this difficulty it is on certain conditions."

"I do not want to hear them——"

"Why not? They are simple enough. The one is that you should renew your friendship with my sister-in-law. It is awkward for her—this sudden cooling off; and she has a right to expect some consideration from you. The other concerns myself. I too must have your friendship—more than that—you, your regard." He took her hands and held them in a brutal, masterful grip. "You can't pretend you don't know—you must have known I cared—from the beginning—you——"

She wrenched herself free. She had seen his eyes and the hell in them, and, inexperienced though she was, she knew that it was not even a so-called love which he experienced, but a cruel thirst for conquest, the hunger for revenge, the desire to retaliate where he had been slighted and thwarted. She reached the door before he could restrain her, and with her hand on the bell stood there facing him. She seemed unnaturally calm, and her scorn for the man who had tried to trap her lent her a dignity, a look of triumph which curbed his passion and held him for the moment speechless.

"Please go," she said.

He bowed.

"By all means. But I shall not take this as your final answer."

"My husband will answer you—not I."

"Do you know what that will mean?"

"It will mean that I intend to have no secrets from him."

"You misunderstand me. Do you know the consequences? Your husband, as a man of honour, will challenge me. I shall have the choice of weapons, and I swear to you that I will kill him."

She said nothing. Her eyes had dilated, and every trace of colour had left her face; but she retained her attitude of proud defiance, and he went past her through the open door.

"You see, I can be patient," he said, looking back at her. "My sister-in-law is giving a ball on the 18th. If you are there I shall understand. If not——" He shrugged his shoulders. "No doubt your husband will see his way to settling Mr. Ingestre's troubles. As they stand, they are likely to cost him his collar. Auf Wiedersehen, gnädige Frau."

He was gone. She waited until the last echo of his steps had died on the wooden stairway, then she tottered forward and sank into Wolff's chair, her face buried in her hands. She did not cry, and no sound escaped her lips. She sat there motionless, bereft of thought, of hope, almost of feeling. The end, the crisis to which she had been slowly drifting was at hand. It seemed to her that she heard the roar of the cataract which was to engulf her. And there was no help, no hope.

It was thus Miles Ingestre found her an hour later. Knowing that Arnim was out, he had donned a dressing-gown and now stood staring blankly at his sister, his hair disordered, his yellow face a shade yellower from the last day's dissipation.

"Why, Nora!" he said sleepily. "What's the matter, old girl?"

She looked up. His voice gave her back the power at least to act.

"Rittmeister Bauer has been here," she said. "He gave me this. Is it true?"

He took the paper which she held towards him and studied it, rocking on his heels the while in an uneasy silence.

"Yes, it seems true enough. What the devil did he give it you for?"

"He says the creditors are likely to press payment—and—and—Wolff will be held responsible. Oh, Miles, what have you done? What have you done?"

The last words broke from her like a cry of despair. They seemed to penetrate the thickness of Miles's phlegm, for he laid his hand on her shoulder, his lips twitching with a maudlin self-pity.

"It wasn't my fault, Nora. I didn't know what they were leading me into. If Wolff had only helped me a bit—if he hadn't been such a stuck-up prig, so beastly self-righteous. There, you needn't break out! I can't help it—it's the truth; it's not all my fault." He ran his shaky hand through his hair. "And, after all, there isn't so much to make a fuss about. Everybody in our set does that sort of thing, and I dare say Bauer will tide me over the worst. He's a decent fellow, and beastly rich. Look here, Nora"—his shifty eyes took an expression of stupid cunning—"if you asked him—you know he's a friend of yours—I'll be bound he'd help me."

Nora turned and looked at him. In that moment he seemed to her a complete stranger. Then she gently loosened herself from his hand. She did not answer. It was too useless. She rose and left him standing there, the silly smile still playing about his lips.

CHAPTER XI

THE FETISH

"Your mother is very ill," the Rev. John had written, "and I am in an indescribable state of anxiety both on her account and yours. Everybody here is quite certain that there is going to be war between us and Germany. Only yesterday the squire was down here talking to me about it. He says there is no hope, and that the conflict is bound to come. I do not understand politics myself, but it seems the Germans are determined to destroy us and get our power. It is very dreadful that a whole nation should show itself so avaricious, and I am sure God will help us punish so wicked and wanton an attack. All Delford is already on foot, and quite a number of young men are thinking of enlisting in the Territorials. The squire says it is a magnificent sight to see how the whole country rises at the call of danger. He himself has done not a little to help the general patriotic movement, and has opened a shooting-range in a field, where he is teaching his men to shoot. The sound of the guns makes me quite nervous, and is very bad for your poor mother, but the squire says it is helping to produce the best shots in Europe, so we must not complain, but bring our sacrifice to the motherland with a cheerful countenance. Nevertheless, I am terribly troubled. If war should break out—which God forbid!—what will become of you, my poor child, out there in the enemy's country? Could you not make your mother's health an excuse to come back to us, at any rate until the present crisis is over? Wolff will surely understand that you cannot stay in Germany if there is war. Find out from him what he thinks of the chances, and notice if there are any signs of preparation. If you can, come home. Your mother is very much against it, but she is ill and hardly understands the seriousness of the situation. We must all stand together in the moment of danger, and I am sure your heart is aching for the dear old country, and that you are longing to be with us. I have written to Miles that he is to return as soon as ever he thinks fit. He seems to be very tied by his studies, so that I do not like to press a hasty decision. You must talk it over together."

Nora had received this letter by the afternoon's post. She was reading it a second time when Wolff entered the room. He had on his parade uniform, and the cheery clatter of his sword and spurs jarred on her overstrung nerves.

"Why this magnificence?" she asked, trying to disguise her unreasonable irritability. "Is there anything unusual?"

"A review to which I am commanded," he answered quietly. "I may be home a little late for supper. I expect you will go and see Aunt Magda and Hildegarde. They will think it curious if you do not go soon."

"They have only just arrived," Nora said in the same tone of smothered irritation. "I could not have gone before."

Wolff bent over the back of her chair and kissed her.

"Please go!" he said coaxingly. "You used to be fond of them both, and they have been very good to us. Be nice to them—for my sake."

She was silent a moment, as though struck by a new thought. Then she nodded.

"I shall go this afternoon. Robert was coming, but it does not matter."

"Captain Arnold?" Wolff drew himself suddenly upright. "Were you expecting him?"

"Yes; he was coming to see me. Have you any objection?"

She had heard the colder, graver note in his voice, and it stung her. Was Arnold also to come between them—Arnold, in whose hands lay the one chance of rescue from the coming catastrophe? Was her last friend to be taken from her by a reasonless, unworthy distrust? She looked up into her husband's tanned face with a directness which was not unlike defiance.

"I have no objection," he answered her at last. "You know everything pleases me that makes you happy. I only beg of you to be careful."

"Careful!" she echoed.

"Captain Arnold has been in Berlin a month," he went on. "It is obvious that he has stayed for your sake, and for my part I am glad enough. But there are the evil tongues, little wife."

She sprang to her feet. If she could only have told him, only unburdened her heart of its crushing trouble, then perhaps he would understand, and the widening cleft between them be bridged. The words of a reckless confession trembled on her lips; but she remembered Bauer and his promise: "I swear I will kill him"; and the confession turned to bitterness, to an impotent revolt against the circumstances of her life.

"The evil tongues!" she echoed scornfully. "Why should I mind what they say now? They have taken everything from me—all my friends. I have only Robert left. Is it wrong to have friends in this country—friends who do not listen to the verdict of—of enemies?"

"It is not wrong, but it can be dangerous," he answered. "You have no enemies, Nora, only people who do not understand you and whom you have hurt. You have always been unfortunate in your friends. They have all stood between you and those to whom, by your position, you belong."

"You mean that if Arnold were German—'one of us,' as you would say—it would not matter?"

"Not so much."

She laughed angrily.

"How jealous you are!" she exclaimed. "How petty and jealous!"

"Nora!" He was white to the lips, and the hand which had fallen involuntarily on his sword-hilt showed every bone of the knuckles, so tense was the grip. Something in his expression frightened her.

"I do not mean you alone," she stammered, "but all of you. You are jealous of us and you hate us. When you marry one of us, you do your best to isolate her, to cut her off from her country and her people."

"Is that not inevitable—right, even? But have I done that?"

"No."

Her conscience smote her as she looked up at him standing erect and stern before her. She realised that another and graver issue had arisen between them—an issue that was perhaps the source of all. She realised that there had been something more than fear and a consequent irritability in her attitude towards him. She had not seen her husband in him, but only the representative of thousands who might soon be marching against her country, and for one short minute at least she had hated him. The realisation horrified her, drove her to a reckless attempt at atonement.

"Oh, forgive me, Wolff!" she cried eagerly. "I am simply unbearable this afternoon. Father has written a worrying letter—about mother—and that made me nervous and bad-tempered. Forgive me, dear. Don't be angry at the silly things I have said."

He yielded to the hands that drew him towards her, and kissed her, but rather gravely, as though he more than half-doubted her explanation.

"I am not angry, Nora. I only ask you to try and understand. God knows"—she thought his voice changed, and grew less certain—"I would never willingly come between you and any one you cared for, but I have my honour to protect, and your honour is mine."

"Wolff, what do you mean? Have I done anything dishonourable?"

"No, dear. You cannot see things from my standpoint. You have been brought up with other ideas. I have tried to explain before. We have a double task. For our names' sake and for the sake of the uniform we wear we must keep ourselves from the very breath of evil. And that applies to every one connected with us."

Nora drew her hands away.

"I think I understand," she said. "For those two fetishes everything must be sacrificed. I will do my best to satisfy them and you."

"Thank you, Nora. I trust you implicitly."

She went to the door, hesitated, and then stole out. But in that moment's hesitation she had caught a glimpse of him standing at his table in an attitude of dejection, and had heard a smothered sigh of pain.

"I am miserable," she thought, "and I have made him miserable. How will it all end?"

In trembling haste she dressed and hurried out. She had a one all-dominating desire to seek help and comfort from some one who could understand her, some one, too, who held Wolff's happiness higher than her own and could be just to both. She needed a woman's comfort, and she turned now to Frau von Arnim. Hitherto she had shrunk from the inevitable meeting, now she sought it with the desperation of one who knows no other course. She had indeed no one else to turn to. Before Wolff she was tongue-tied. It was not only that silence was forced upon her by a mingled pride and fear; the subtle understanding between them had been rudely broken, and though their love for each other remained, they had inwardly become something worse than strangers. For there is no reserve so complete, so insurmountable, so surcharged with bitterness as that which follows on a great passion. And then, too, what had she to say to him? "I love you; but I have brought ruin upon your life. I love you; but I am not happy with you." Had she even the right to say that to him? Was it not, in any case, useless? Yet she knew she must unburden her heart, if for no other reason than that the power to keep silence was passing out of her hands.

Thus it was natural that her footsteps turned for the first time towards the little flat near the Brandenburger Tor. And on her road she met Arnold himself. It was as though fate pursued her.

"I was on my way to you," he said quietly, as he turned to walk by her side. "I have something to tell you, and should have been sorry if we had missed. It is about Miles."

Nora glanced at him, and her eyes were full of a miserable gratitude.

"How good you are to me!" she said. "I have not deserved it; you are my only friend here."

"Surely not," he answered. "What I can do is little enough. I have found out the full extent of Miles's liabilities and have endeavoured to persuade his creditors to wait. Unfortunately, they are obdurate on the subject. They believe there is going to be war and that your brother might leave Berlin suddenly. It seems to me that you should do one of two things, Nora—either allow me to—to advance the money, or to tell your husband the truth."

She put up her hand with a movement of involuntary protest.

"You know that the first is out of the question," she said proudly. "And the second! Oh, Robert, I am afraid! It may ruin Wolff, and then—they hate each other so. Wolff will send him away, and——"

She broke off with a quick breath that was like a sob.

"Isn't that the best thing that can happen?" Arnold answered. "Your brother will never do any good here. He is better in England."

"Yes, I know, I know. He has been weak and foolish. He is so—young." Her voice was full of a piteous apology. "And perhaps it was my fault—a little, at least. But I can't let him go, Robert. Whatever else he is, he is my brother, and I am so alone."

"Alone!" He looked at her aghast. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you understand? It's so easy—so simple. I am a stranger here. I am hated and distrusted. I suppose it was inevitable. In a few days you will have gone, and if Miles goes too I shall have no one left——"

"Nora!" he interrupted sternly. "There is your husband."

"Wolff—yes, there is Wolff. Robert, they say there will be war. Is it true?"

He frowned with perplexity. For the moment he could not follow her thought, and her question seemed to him erratic and purposeless.

"It is possible. For my part, I hope it may come to that. Things have been drifting to a crisis for a long time, and we must assert ourselves once and for all. These beggars are beginning to suspect us of fear or incompetence, and the sooner they are disillusioned the better." Suddenly he caught a glimpse of her face, and stopped short. "Nora, what is the matter?"

"You forget," she said hoarsely. "I am not English any more."

They walked on in silence, Arnold too startled and overwhelmed by the conflict which she in one short sentence had revealed to him to speak or think.

"I was a thoughtless fool," he said at last. "For the moment I could not imagine you as anything but my own countrywoman. Now I see; and it is terrible for you—terrible. Even marriage cannot blot out one's nationality."

They had reached the door of the Arnims' flat, and she stopped and faced him with wide-open, desperate eyes.

"Nothing can!" she said. "And I know this—if there is war it will break my heart, or drive me mad. I don't know which."

Never before had she felt so drawn to him by all the ties of friendship and blood, and yet she went up the steps without a word of farewell. Arnold understood, and looked after her with a tender pity. He believed that he had crushed all passion out of his heart, but that a love remained which was infinitely greater, purified, as it seemed, from the dross of selfish desire. He felt as he stood there that he would willingly have given his life to save her from the threatening struggle, and yet—such is the irony of things—in that same moment he unconsciously brought her even deeper into the complicated tangle of her life. The door had opened, and a short, plump little woman stood on the threshold. She saw Nora, bowed, hesitated as though she would have spoken; then her eyes fell on Arnold, and she passed on down the steps with a cold, blank stare.

"Who was she, I wonder?" Arnold thought indifferently. "What was the matter?"

Poor Nora could have answered both questions, and a numbing sense of hopelessness crept over her as she toiled slowly up the stone stairs. She felt already, without knowing why, that she had come in vain. They were all her enemies, they all hated her. Why should Frau von Arnim be different from the rest? Had not Arnold said, "She is a cold, hard woman who will make trouble"? And yet, as she entered the narrow sitting-room of her aunt's new home, something of her first hope revived. Frau von Arnim was alone. She stood at the writing-table by the window, apparently looking out into the street, and Nora saw the resolute, aristocratic profile and graceful figure with a heart-throb of relief. This woman was like her mother in all that was noble and generous—perhaps she would be to her as a mother, perhaps she would really understand and help her in her great need.

"Aunt Magda!" she said. Her voice sounded breathless. A curious excitement possessed her, so that she could say no more. She felt that everything, her whole future life, depended on Frau von Arnim's first words.

The elder woman turned slowly. Had the faintest warmth of kindness brightened her face, Nora might have flung herself into her arms and poured out the whole story of her errors, her sorrows, her aching sense of divided duty; but Frau von Arnim's face was cold, impassive, and the hand she extended indifferent, her kiss icy. Nora drew back. In an instant everything in her had frozen. A dawning bitterness and resentment shut the gates of her heart against all confidence, all affection. She felt that here was an enemy from whom she need expect neither help nor mercy, and she seated herself with the hard, set face of a criminal who knows that he is before an unjust judge.

"I am glad that you have come at last, Nora," Frau von Arnim said calmly. "We had been hoping to see you some days ago. No doubt you have a great many friends who claim your attention."

Her quiet words were free from all sarcasm, and, indeed, every trace of feeling, but they stung Nora by their very indifference.

"I came as soon as I thought you would be glad to see me," she said. "I did not think you would want visitors whilst you were settling down."

Frau von Arnim studied the sullen girlish face opposite. She might well have retorted that a helping hand is always welcome, even in "settling down," and that Frau von Seleneck, despite her own household cares, had been daily to lend her advice and assistance. But it was not Magda von Arnim's custom to reproach for neglect, and, moreover, she had another and more important matter on her mind.

"Hildegarde is lying down at present," she said in answer to Nora's question, "and perhaps it is just as well. I have something I wish to speak to you about whilst we are alone."

Nora stiffened in her chair. She felt already trapped and browbeaten, and her eyes were bright with defiance as they met Frau von Arnim's steady gaze.

"I would have written to you," Frau von Arnim went on, in the same judicial tone, "but I knew that my letters would find their way into Wolff's hands, and at that time I felt sure that you have some sufficient explanation to offer us for the unbelievable story which your friend, Captain Arnold, was clumsy enough to relate to us. I felt, as I say, sure that there was some painful mistake, and one which it would be unkind and useless to tell Wolff. Besides, for your sake I thought it better to wait. If there was some mistake, as I firmly believed, a letter could only have troubled and puzzled you. So I waited, meaning to ask you privately for an explanation. Since I have been in Berlin I have heard enough to see that my caution was altogether unnecessary."

"Aunt Magda!"

Frau von Arnim lifted a quiet hand, as though to command silence.

"It is obvious that Captain Arnold must have told you of our interview," she said, "and obvious that you have remained his friend. I hear that he is constantly at your house. I do not know what Wolff thinks and feels on the matter. He loves you, and is himself too honourable not to have a blind confidence in you. That, however, is not sufficient. I must know whether that confidence is justified."

Nora wondered afterwards that she did not get up then and go. Every inflection of the calm voice was a fresh insult, and yet she felt spell-bound, incapable of either attack or self-defence. In her mind she kept on repeating, "YOU are cruel, wicked, and unjust!" but the words were never spoken; they were stifled by the very violence of her indignation and growing hatred.

Frau von Arnim saw the hatred and interpreted it in the light of her own bitterness. For, little as Nora knew it, her "enemy" was suffering intensely. There were in Frau von Arnim's heart two things worth more to her than love or happiness: they were the fetishes against which Nora had railed in scorn and anger—"Standesehre" and pride of name. Since her arrival in Berlin a scandal had drifted to Frau von Arnim's ears which had been like a vital blow at the two great principles on which her life was built; and had Wolff been the cause instead of Nora she would not have been less severe, less indignant. As it was, she saw in his wife a careless, perhaps unworthy bearer of her name and her scorn and disappointment smothered what had been, and might still have been, a deep affection.

"I must ask you to answer one question," she continued. "Was it true what Captain Arnold told me? Were you his promised wife at the time when you married Wolff?"

Nora's lips parted as though in an impulsive answer, then closed again, and for a moment she sat silent, with her eyes fixed full on her interlocutor's face. The time had surely come to give her explanation, to appeal to the other's pity and sympathy for what had, after all, been no more than an act of youthful folly—even generous in its impulse. But she could say nothing. The stern, cold face froze her in a prison of ice, and she could do no more than answer in a reckless affirmative.

"Yes; it was perfectly true."

"Do you think your conduct was honourable, or fair to Wolff? Have you no explanation to offer?"

Nora rose to her feet. She was white with anger and indignation.

"None that I need offer you, Frau von Arnim," she said. Unconsciously she had reverted to the old formal title, and in her blind sense of injury and injustice she did not see the spasm of pain which passed over the elder woman's face.

Frau von Arnim also rose. She appeared calm almost to the point of indifference, but in reality her whole strength was concentrated on the suppression of her own emotion, and for once in a way the generous-minded, broad-hearted woman saw and understood nothing but herself.

"You force me to speak openly, Nora," she said. "I must point out to you that you have done something which in our eyes is nearly unpardonable. An engagement is almost as binding as a marriage and until it is dissolved no honourable woman or man has the right to enter into another alliance. But that is what you did; and whether you have an explanation to offer or not, makes, after all, no difference. What is done cannot be undone. But you are now no longer the Miss Ingestre who was free to act as she chose in such matters. You are my nephew's wife, and you bear our name and the responsibility which it implies. Whatsoever you do reflects itself for good or evil upon him and upon us all. Therefore we have the right to control your conduct and to make this demand—that you keep our name from scandal. That you have not done. From every quarter I hear the same warnings, the same insinuations. It is not only Captain Arnold who has caused them—I alone know the worst—it is your friendship with people outside our circle, your neglect of those to whom you are at least bound by duty, if not by affection. Before it goes too far to be mended, I ask—I demand that your intimacy with these people and with this Captain Arnold should cease."

"Captain Arnold is my friend," Nora exclaimed. "The only friend I have."

Had Frau von Arnim been less self-absorbed that one sentence might have opened her eyes and shown her a pitiful figure enough, overburdened with trouble and loneliness. But Nora's head was thrown back, and the defiant attitude blinded the other to the tears that were gathered in the stormy, miserable eyes.

"You appear only to consider yourself and your own pleasure," Frau von Arnim answered, "and that is not the point. The point is, what is good for Wolff and Wolff's reputation? It is not good for either that your name should be coupled with another man's, or that his brother-in-law should, in a few weeks, make himself renowned as a drunkard and a reprobate."

Nora took an impulsive step forward. She had come to make her confession, her explanation, to throw the burden of her brother's delinquencies upon these stronger shoulders. Now everything was forgotten save resentment, the passionate need to defend herself and her blood from insult.

"That is not true!" she stammered. "Nothing that you have said is true. I have not been dishonourable, and Miles——" She broke off because her conscience accused her, and a smile of bitterness passed over Frau von Arnim's pale features.

"Then all I can say is that English people must have an extraordinary sense of honour," she said.

Perhaps she regretted her own hasty words, but it was too late to recall them. A blank silence followed. Both felt that the straining bond between them had snapped and that they stood opposite each other like two people separated by an untraversable river.

Nora went to the door and from thence looked back at the proud figure of her adversary.

"You have no right to speak to me as you have done," she said in a voice that she strove in vain to steady. "What I do concerns no one but Wolff and myself, and I need not and shall not alter my life because of what you have said. You can do what you like—tell Wolff everything: I am not afraid. As to what you said about us—the English—it only proves what I already knew—you hate us because you envy us!"

And with this explosion of youthful jingoism she closed the door upon her last hope of help and comfort. But outside in the narrow, dusky hall she broke down. A strange faintness came over her, which numbed her limbs and senses and drew a veil before her eyes. A cry rose to her lips, and had that cry been uttered it might have changed the whole course of her life, sweeping down the barrier between her and the stern-faced woman by its very weakness, its very pitifulness. But she crushed it back and, calling upon the last reserves of her strength, went her way, too proud to plead for pity where she had already found judgment.

CHAPTER XII

WAR-CLOUDS

Nora had not seen Arnim the whole morning. He sat in his study with the door locked, and the orderly had injunctions to allow no one to disturb him. Nevertheless, towards midday a staff-officer was shown through the drawing-room into Wolff's sanctum, and for an hour the two men were together, nothing being heard of them save the regular rise and fall of their voices.

"What has the fellow come about?" Miles demanded in a tone of injury. "One would think they were concocting a regular Guy Fawkes plot, with their shut doors and their whisperings—or making plans for the Invasion."

Nora looked at her brother. He was lying full-length on the sofa, reading the latest paper from home; and as he had done very little else since he had lounged in to breakfast an hour late, complaining of a severe headache, Nora strongly suspected him of having varied the "Foreign Intelligence" with supplementary instalments of his night's repose.

"Is there any news?" she asked. She put the question with an effort, dreading the answer, and Miles grunted angrily.

"Things don't move much one way or the other," he said. "They stay as bad as they can be. The beggars won't go for us—they're funking it at the last moment, worse luck!"

"Why 'worse luck'?"

"Because it is time the cheek was thrashed out of them." He turned a little on one side, so as to be able to see his sister's face. "What are you going to do when the trouble begins?" he asked.

Nora's head sank over her work.

"I shall stay by my husband."

"Poor old girl!"

Nora made no answer. She was listening to the voices next door, and wondering what they were saying. Was Miles's suggestion possible? Was it true that her husband sat before his table hour after hour absorbed in plans for her country's ruin, his whole strength of mind and body set on the supreme task? And if so, what part did she play—she, his wife?

"And you, Miles?" she asked suddenly. "What will you do?"

He laughed uneasily.

"If my Jew friend gives me the chance, I shall make a bolt for it," he said. "It's a nuisance having all these confounded debts. I wish you weren't so stand-offish with the Bauers, Nora. If you had only sugared them a little——"

"Don't!" she interrupted almost sternly. "Your debts must be paid somehow, but not that way. Wolff must be told."

"Wolff!" He stared at her open-mouthed.

"There is nothing else to be done, unless father can help you."

"The pater won't move a finger," Miles assured her. "And if you tell your righteous husband, there will be the devil of a row."

He sat up rather abruptly as he spoke, for at that moment the study door opened, and Wolff and his visitor entered. Both men looked absorbed and tired, and Wolff's usually keen eyes had an absent expression in them, as though he were mentally engaged in some affair of importance and difficulty. His companion, however, a tall, ungainly major whom Nora had always liked because of his openly-expressed admiration for her husband's abilities, immediately assumed his manner of the gay and empty-headed cavalier.

"You must forgive my taking so much of your husband's time, gnädige Frau," he said as he kissed Nora's hand. "I had some rather stiff calculations, and I simply couldn't do them alone—you have no doubt heard what a dull person I am—so I came round to Arnim for help. There is nothing like having a clever junior, is there?"

He turned to Wolff with his easy, untroubled smile, but Wolff's face remained serious. He was buckling on his sword in preparation for departure, and appeared not to have heard his major's facetious self-depreciation.

"By the way, I have a small invitation for you, gnädige Frau," the elder officer went on. "A sort of peace-offering, as it were. My wife is driving out to see the Kaiser's review this afternoon, and asks if you would care to accompany her. If you have not seen it before it will be well worth your while to go."

"Thank you. I should be delighted!" Nora said eagerly. She knew Major von Hollander's wife as a harmless if rather colourless woman, who had as yet shown no signs of joining in the general boycott to which Nora was being subjected. Besides, every instinct in her clamoured for freedom from her thoughts and from the stuffy, oppressive atmosphere of this home, which seemed now less a home than a prison. She accepted the offer, therefore, with a real enthusiasm, which was heightened as she saw that her ready answer had pleased Wolff. He came back after the major had taken his leave, and kissed her.

"Thank you, Nora," he said. "It is good of you to go."

"Why good of me? I want to go."

"Then I am grateful to you for wanting."

Nora did not understand him, nor did she see that he was embarrassed by her question. She felt the tenderness in his voice and touch, and it awoke in her a sudden response.

"Don't overwork, dear," she said. "Couldn't you come with us?"

"I can't, little woman. When the Emperor calls——"

He finished his sentence with a mock-heroic gesture, and hurried towards the door. The major had coughed discreetly outside in the narrow hall, and in an instant duty had resumed its predominating influence in his life.

Nora took an involuntary step after him and laid her hand upon his arm. She wanted to hold him back and tell him—she hardly knew what; perhaps the one simple fact that she loved him in spite of everything, perhaps that she was sorry her love was so frail, so wavering; perhaps even, if they had been alone, she would have thrown down the whole burden of her heart and conscience with the appeal, "Forgive me! Help me!"

It was one of those fleeting moments when, in the very midst of discord, of embittered strife, a sudden tenderness, shortlived but full of possibilities, breaks through the walls of antagonism. Something in Wolff's voice or look had touched Nora. She remembered the first days of their marriage, and with hasty, groping fingers sought to link past with present.

"Wolff!" she said.

Very gently, but firmly, he loosened her clasp. He heard the major move impatiently; he knew nothing of the bridge which she had lowered for him to cross and take her in his old possession. And even if he had known he could not have acted otherwise.

"I must go, dear," he said. "I am on important duty."

"More important than I am?"

"Yes, even more important than you are!"

She drew back of her own accord and let him go. The moment's self-surrender was gone, and because it had been in vain the gulf between them had widened.

Miles laughed as he saw her face.

"It must be amusing to be married to a German," he said. "I suppose you are never an important duty, are you?"

Nora went out of the room without answering. She almost hated Miles for his biting, if disguised criticism; she hated herself because it awoke in her an echo, a bitter resentment against her husband. She was the secondary consideration: he proved it every day of his life. His so-called duty was no more in her eyes than an insatiable ambition which thrust every other consideration on one side. He had never yet given up a day's work to her pleasure; he sat hour after hour locked in his room, and toiled for his advancement, indifferent to her loneliness, to the bitter struggle which was being fought out in the secrecy of her heart; and when she came to him, as in that vital moment, with outstretched hands, pleading for his help and pity, he had thrust her aside because, forsooth, he had "important duty"! He was like those other men she had met who dressed their wives like beggars rather than go with a shabby uniform or deny themselves a good horse. He was selfish, self-important, and she was no more in his life than a toy—or at most an unpaid housekeeper, as her father had prophesied. How right they had been, those home-people! How true their warnings had proved themselves! Her love had intoxicated her, blinded her to the insurmountable barriers. She saw now, more clearly than ever before, in her dawning recognition, that she stood alone, without a friend, in the innermost depths of her nature a stranger even to her husband. And he had not helped her. He had left her to her solitude, he had cut her off from the one companion who might have made her life bearable. He was as narrow, as bigoted as the rest of those who judged her by the poor standard of their foreign prejudices and customs. The thought of that last interview with Frau von Arnim was fuel to the kindling fire in Nora's brain. She had been treated like a criminal—or, worse, like a silly child who has been caught stealing. She had been ordered to obedience like a will-less inferior who has been admitted into the circle of higher beings and must submit to the extreme rigour of their laws. Whereas, it was she who had condescended, who had sacrificed her more glorious birthright to associate with them! All that was obstinate and proud in Nora's nature rose and overwhelmed the dread of the threatening consequences. Let Frau von Arnim tell her husband the truth as she knew it! Let Wolff despise her, cast her and hers from him as, according to his rigid code of honour, he was bound to do! It would but hasten the catastrophe which in Nora's eyes was becoming inevitable. Her love for her husband sank submerged beneath the accumulation of a bitterness and an antagonism which was not so much personal as national.