Poor Nora! Never before had she greeted the appearance of the monument

and the ugly church steeple with so much thankfulness.

"We are nearly there now," she said, looking up into Wolff's face.

"Mother has been so impatient to see you."

Her eyes were full of a shamed, indignant apology, to which Wolff's

quiet smile seemed to answer:

"What do I care for them? I would carry you off if there were forty of

them, all forty times as disagreeable!" And he pressed her hand

defiantly under the rugs.

At length the vicarage was reached. The queer, old-fashioned trunk was

dragged down from its perch, and five minutes later Wolff was standing

in the dimly lit drawing-room. Mrs. Ingestre had heard their coming,

and came slowly and painfully forward. Her hands were outstretched, and

Wolff took them, gravely bowing, and kissed them. Nora saw a curious,

half-horrified expression pass over her father's face, and Miles

smothered a laugh. She felt in that moment as though she could have

killed them both, and then fled with Wolff anywhere, so long as she

could get away from their stifling atmosphere of self-satisfaction and

petty prejudices.

Her mother's voice was the first to break the silence.

"My dear Wolff," Mrs. Ingestre said gently, "how glad I am that you have

really come at last!"

The simple words, with their quietly emphasised acceptance of him as a

relation, acted like a balm on poor Nora's wounded spirits. She saw,

too, that Wolff's face had relaxed.

"You make me very happy," he said. "I feel for the first time that Nora

and I really belong to one another--since I have seen you, and you have

welcomed me."

A strange sound came from the Rev. John's direction, which might have

been a cough or a groan of disapproval. Mrs. Ingestre appeared to

notice nothing. She took Wolff's arm, and, leaning on him as though for

support, led him closer to the light.

"You must forgive me," she said. "Remember that I am an old woman and

that old women have their cranks. One of mine is that I do not like to

be kept waiting. And I have been kept waiting so long to see the face

of this wonderful German that I forgot that in all politeness I should

be studying you out of the corners of my eyes. Nora has of course

described you--but then, Nora is prejudiced."

At this point the Rev. John's cough became consumptive in its hollow

persistency, and he was heard to murmur something to the effect that

Herr von Arnim would no doubt like to be shown to his room. Herr von

Arnim appeared to be afflicted with deafness. He looked down at Mrs.

Ingestre, meeting her frank inspection with steady, laughing eyes.

"I am not anything to look at--especially in these clothes," he said

naively. "I don't think even Nora could have said that I was handsome.

So you must not judge by appearances. After a time you will know what I

really am, and I hope you will like me."

"If I can trust Nora's description I do that already," Mrs. Ingestre

answered, "but, more than Nora, more than experience, I trust my own

eyes. And I think"--she paused, and the smile that crept about her lips

lit up her whole face, and made it almost young and very beautiful--"I

think I shall be happy to give my Nora to you, Wolff."

The cough and its owner had departed in despair. Miles, finding himself

ignored, skulked sulkily in the passage. Wolff bent and kissed the

white, delicate hand that still clasped his own.

"I thank you!" he said simply.

This time there were neither exclamatory eyebrows nor smothered giggles,

and Nora, forgetting that they had ever been, saw in Wolff's action the

seal and charter of her happiness.

*CHAPTER XII*

*NORA FORSAKES HER COUNTRY*

Nora believed in unalloyed happiness. Any one with more experience

would have known that unalloyed happiness, as such, does not exist. The

moment when we feel ourselves supremely happy is the moment when we are

most exposed to the rude shocks of fortune. We know it, and

consequently our bliss is immediately overshadowed with the knowledge of

its short duration.

When Mrs. Ingestre and Wolff had stood together hand in hand, as though

in solemn compact of friendship and affection, Nora's heart had filled

to overflowing; but already that same evening a dozen trifles, a dozen

pin-pricks, came to prove to her that the storms and misadventures of

the last weeks were by no means at an end. Her father who, to do him

justice, never accused a fellow-creature until he was proved guilty, was

none the less on the lookout for proofs of Wolff's unsuitability, and

continued distressed and grave. If at any time the conversation became

in the least animated, or showed a tendency to the mildest form of

hilarity, he was at once on the spot with some painfully repressing

commonplace. It was as though he were constantly murmuring, "Children,

remember what has happened! This is not an occasion for unseemly

mirth!" and in spite of all efforts the conversation drifted into a

channel which would have been considered unnecessarily depressing at a

funeral.

Miles aided and abetted his father after his own fashion. His asides to

Nora were marked by pungent humour and sarcasm. Inquiries after Wolff's

tailor, and whether it was the fashion in Germany to wear one's tie at

"that angle," were varied with shocked appeals that "that fellow might

be told to put his knife and fork together when he had finished eating,

and not leave it sprawling about his plate like a yokel!"

Nora never retorted. She felt the uselessness of explaining that the

Germans were different, but not on that account worse; but she felt like

an enraged tigress who sees her cub attacked by brutal, clumsy hands.

She did not see that Wolff, unaccustomed to such things, had struggled

in vain with a refractory evening tie, nor that the cut of his coat was

scarcely of the latest fashion. She saw first and foremost that he was

a man and a gentleman, and her love and respect for him kindled in the

same measure that her love for her father and brother diminished. There

were moments during Wolff's fortnight visit when she came to hate both,

so intensely did she resent their attitude towards her future husband.

The Rev. John, thanks to Mrs. Ingestre, remained formal and polite to

Wolff's face. Behind his back he displayed an all-damning charity.

"Of course, we must not judge a foreigner by our standards," he would

say pathetically, "and I daresay he is well-meaning, but I wish, my poor

child----"

He would then break off, and look out of the window with an expression

full of the most moving pity and regret.

Miles, fortified with the knowledge of exams. passed and a dawning

manhood, was not so reserved in his opinions.

"I can't think what you see in him, Nora!" he once said condescendingly.

"He is a regular out-and-out German, and his hat-doffing and

hand-kissing make me sick. I wish he would take himself and his beastly

polish back to his own country."

Whereby it will be seen that "beastly polish" was not one of Miles

Ingestre's weaknesses.

On the whole, Wolff more than held his own. Although unaffected and

modest as far as his own person was concerned, he was much too deeply

imbued with the traditional conception of his social position to feel

anything but calm amusement at the ungraciousness of his two hosts. As

an officer in the King's army, and as a scion of an old and noble race,

he felt himself secure against contempt even in a foreign country where

such things did not count. For him they counted everywhere--they upheld

him and lent him an imperturbable _savoir faire_ where another man would

have shown temper or resentment. Nevertheless, the fortnight was not a

very happy one. The unspoken knowledge that Wolff was not "approved of"

weighed upon Nora and himself as a fact which both recognised but felt

wiser to ignore. They were ill at ease even when alone--Nora because

she was ashamed of her own people, Wolff because he knew she was

ashamed, and could do nothing to help her. Consequently they were

happiest when together with Mrs. Ingestre. Her grace of manner and

openly expressed affection for her future son-in-law lifted the shadow

between them, and the hours spent at her side counted amongst the most

unclouded.

There were constant "visits" during Wolff's stay. From the inevitable

Mrs. Clerk, who, in spite of strong disapproval, could not refrain from

gushing over the German Baron to the Manor people, who were ponderously

and haughtily critical, the whole of Delford came up for the inspection.

Of course, it was a "formal" inspection. "Informal inspections" had

been held in church, and when Wolff had cantered through Delford on a

borrowed horse, which Miles had hopefully but mistakenly prophesied

would "buck him over the first hedge." On the latter occasion it is

possible that more than one feminine heart was stirred to unacknowledged

admiration for the bronzed face and splendid figure, and even Miles was

compelled to the sulky confession that "the fellow could ride."

Thus the days passed, and, except in one long interview with the Rev.

John, Wolff and Nora's marriage was treated as a tabooed subject. That

interview, revealing as it did not very brilliant financial prospects,

reduced the rev. gentleman to even deeper depression, and the hope of a

definite settlement seemed all too far off. It was then that Mrs.

Ingestre threw in the casting vote of her influence. A few days before

Wolff's departure she called him to her, and the two were alone together

for a long hour. In that hour Wolff learnt to know more of Mrs.

Ingestre's life and character than Nora had done in all the years at her

mother's side. In her desire to help her daughter to happiness, all

other considerations were forgotten, and Mrs. Ingestre revealed

unconsciously to Wolff's more experienced eyes a profound, if resigned,

grief over her own life, stifled and clogged as it had been in her

husband's atmosphere. In the quiet room her voice sounded peculiarly

earnest, almost impressive.

"I need not tell you, my dear Wolff," she said, "that my husband is

against your marriage with Nora. You must know that already. He has

other ideas of happiness and suitability, and I can scarcely blame him,

since they were once mine. Like him, I once saw in long acquaintance,

similarity in ideas, and, of course, nationality, a certain wealth and

position, the best foundations for a happy and successful life. Like

him, I would probably have thought that you were not rich enough to

marry, that you had not known each other long enough, that the

difference of nationality and upbringing would be too great a

stumbling-block. I have learnt since those days to think differently.

The circumstances make little difference either way, so long as a great

love is there. And, after all, what is a great love?" For the first

time her tone was tinged with a faint cynicism. "Who can dare to call

their love really great until they are on their deathbeds? We cannot be

sure of our love, whether the object be well known to us or not, until

it has been tried by the fires of years and custom. Custom is the

hardest trial of all, and that is why I am glad rather than sorry that

you and Nora know each other so little. It is because you know each

other so little that you are in love, for being in love is simply the

charm of standing before the closed, mysterious door of another's

personality, and knocking for it to open. When the door opens, you will

cease to be in love, but I believe that, because you are both worthy of

it, you will find the all-enduring love waiting for you. At any rate,

it seems to me the chances are as great for you as for those who,

knowing each other too well, have never known the charm. Wolff, I am an

old woman in suffering if not in years, and I think age and youth often

join hands over the experience of middle life. Youth believes it is

better to be truly happy for an hour and to suffer through all eternity

rather than enjoy years of placid, passionless content. And that is what

I have also come to believe. I would rather Nora enjoyed a brief but

complete union with you than a lifetime of 'living together' with

another man. Besides, I trust you; I believe you to be a good man, as I

believe Nora to be a good woman, and I hope that in the afterwards you

will learn to love each other. As to the question of nationality and

wealth, they spell struggle and sacrifice for you both, Wolff. As a

woman Nora will bring the greatest sacrifice, but I know that you will

help her."

"With all my strength."

"And you will have patience?"

He looked at her wonderingly.

"Sometimes you will need it, Wolff. But Nora is brave and good. She

will learn to love your country because she loves you. For my part--I

am glad that she is leaving Delford far behind her."

Wolff made no answer. He felt that the words were an almost unconscious

outburst, that unknowingly she had spoken of herself. After a moment

she went on with a quiet smile:

"So, you see, I am on your side. So long as I am on your side, there is

nothing for either of you to fear. If anything should happen----"

"I pray that I shall never give you cause to take your trust away from

me!" Wolff broke in.

Mrs. Ingestre shook her head.

"I was not thinking of that possibility," she said. "I was thinking that

if Nora stood alone--without me--the fight against her father's wishes

might be harder. I know she would hold to you, but it would be at a

bitter cost. That is why I wish for you to marry soon--as soon as

possible."

Something in her tone affected Wolff painfully. He looked at her, and

for the first time he saw that this woman was suffering intensely,

silently, with a smile on her lips and unconquered life in her eyes.

"Mrs. Ingestre!" he exclaimed.

She took his hand and pressed it.

"I think you know," she said, "and if I tell you what I have withheld,

and shall withhold, from every living being, it is because I wish you to

clearly understand my reasons. I cannot live very long, and before it

is too late I want to see Nora in your care. Can you promise that my

wish shall be granted?"

He made no effort to pity or express his grief. There was something

masculine in her calm which held him silent, but in that moment his love

for Nora strengthened because one woman had lifted her whole sex with

her to the highest summit of his man's ideal. He lifted her hand

reverently to his lips.

"God knows I promise willingly," he said.

Thus Wolff von Arnim went back to his own country, and in April, four

months later, came again, but not alone. Frau von Arnim accompanied

him, and Delford awoke from its lethargy to the thrilling, gossip-giving

occasion of a wedding. The ugly church was made beautiful with all the

flowers which Mrs. Ingestre's garden and the neighbouring town could

provide, the village choir produced its best anthem with deafening,

ear-rending enthusiasm, and every inhabitant turned out to gape at the

"Baron" and the elegant woman who--it was scarcely to be believed!--was

actually a German. In truth, Frau von Arnim's elegance and air of

_grande dame_ upset not only Delford's preconceived notions but the Rev.

John's attitude as the condescending party in an obvious _mesalliance_.

The "German woman" frightened him, and his position was rendered the

more difficult by his wife, who chose to take a decided liking for this

new guest and to treat her as a welcome relation. Altogether, on the

day of the wedding the poor gentleman was fairly carried off his feet by

the foreign invasion. Not only Frau von Arnim, but even the despised

Wolff became a personage beside whom it was not easy to appear with

dignity. The latter had discarded the ungainly efforts of the Karlsburg

civilian tailor, and though the Delfordites, who, in spite of a strong

anti-military spirit, had had secret hopes of being regaled with flying

plumes and glittering epaulettes, were somewhat disappointed with his

frock-coat, his height and the fact that he was "a real foreigner"

successfully withdrew every particle of attention from the Rev. John's

moving address.

In all the church there were perhaps only three people for whom the

ceremony had any other significance than that of an interesting show,

and none of them were listening to the Rev. John. Mrs. Ingestre was

praying for the future in which she was doomed to have no share. Wolff

and Nora thanked God for the present, which was theirs and which seemed

but a foretaste of the future. Both had forgotten the trials and

disappointments of the last four months, or if they thought of them at

all it was as of obstacles triumphantly surmounted.

In Nora all that had grown hard and bitter softened into an

all-embracing tenderness. Her love for her father and brother

revived--even Delford and its inhabitants appeared to her in the

beautiful light of farewell. She knew she was leaving everything, if

not for ever, at least for ever as her home, and as she walked by her

husband's side down the narrow churchyard path her heart throbbed with a

sudden pain. After all, it was England she was leaving--and she was

English no longer! Then she looked up at Wolff, and their eyes met, and

the pain had died as though at the touch of some mysterious healing

hand.

"How I love you!" she thought.

At the door of her old home Frau von Arnim was the first to greet her.

Perhaps the elder woman's instinct had guessed the moment's pain, for

she took Nora in her arms and kissed her with an unusual tenderness.

"We will try and make you happy in your new country," she whispered.

"You must not be afraid."

But Nora was no longer afraid, and her eyes were bright with a fearless

confidence in the future as she returned the embrace.

"I _am_ happy!" she said. "I have everything that I care for in the

world."

She ran quickly upstairs and changed into her simple travelling-dress.

Mrs. Ingestre, she knew, was resting in her room, and the desire to be

alone with her mother for a last moment was strong in Nora's heart. In

her supreme happiness she did not forget those whom she loved; rather

her love had strengthened, and towards her mother it was mingled with an

endless gratitude. Yet when she crept into the little room she found it

empty and silent. Mrs. Ingestre had gone back to her guests, and for a

moment Nora stood looking about her, overwhelmed by the tide of tender

memories from a past which already seemed so far off. The invalid's

sofa, her own special chair where she had sat in those peaceful

afternoons when they had been alone together, her mother's table--Nora

drew closer. Something lying on the polished surface had attracted her

attention. Hardly knowing why, she picked it up. It was a letter

addressed to her at Karlsburg, and the handwriting was familiar. Nora

did not stop to think. She tore the envelope open and read the first

few lines of the contents with the rapidity of indifference. Her

thoughts were elsewhere, and the words and the writing had at first no

meaning. And then suddenly, as though she had been roughly awakened

from a dream, she understood what it was she held. It was from Robert

Arnold, and it was a love-letter.

She read the first page over and over again. She felt stunned and

sickened. Her mind refused to grasp what had happened.

"My darling," Robert had written two months before, from some far-off

African village, "a miracle has happened! Your letter has come! It

must have missed me at Aden, and had followed me from place to place

until at last it has reached my hands. And all these months I have been

thinking that you had no answer for me, or at the most the one I feared.

Nora, need you ask me if I will take what you have to offer? I love

you, dear, and I know my love will awaken yours and that I shall make

you happy. My whole life shall thank you for the trust you have given

me. I can hardly write for my joy, and the time that must elapse before

I can see you seems intolerable. I cannot return for at least two or

three months, as I have promised a friend to accompany him on an inland

expedition, but when that is over I shall make full steam for home--or,

rather, to Germany if you are still there. In the meantime, write to

me, dearest. Even though weeks may pass before the letters reach me,

yet the knowledge that they are there waiting will give me hope and

courage. I am sending this letter to the coast by a native carrier.

Heaven knows if it will ever reach you, but..."

Nora looked up, conscious that she was no longer alone. Wolff stood in

the doorway, dressed for departure, his hands outstretched.

"Are you ready, _kleine Frau_?" he said. "We are all waiting for

you----" He broke off, and took a quick step towards her. "Nora!" he

exclaimed. "How pale you are! What is the matter?"

It seemed to her that a full minute must have elapsed before she brought

her lips to move, but in reality she answered almost immediately:

"It is nothing--nothing whatever. I am quite ready--I will come now."

Outwardly pale and calm, she had lost all inner self-possession, and in

a kind of frenzied fear was tearing the letter into a thousand pieces.

She had no thought for the future; blindly and instinctively she was

saving herself from the present.

Wolff watched her in puzzled silence. Then, when the last fragment fell

to the ground, he came and took her hands.

"Nora, something _is_ wrong. Did that letter trouble you? What was

it?"

"No, no. If it is anything, it is just the thought of leaving them all.

Surely you understand?"

Poor Nora! That "some day" when she had thought to tell him everything

had become a "never," sealed and made irrevocable by a silence and a

lie. Poor Wolff! He thought he understood. He put his arms tenderly

about her.

"Yes, I understand. I know you have given up everything for my sake.

But, oh, Nora, God helping us, we shall be so happy!"

He waited, and then, as she did not speak, went on gently:

"Can you bear to come now? Is your love big enough to give up all that

is past, to start afresh--a new life with me in a new home, a new

country? Is it too great a sacrifice to ask, Nora?"

His words acted like a strong charm. She thought they were prophetic,

and her reckless despair changed into a more reckless happiness. She

lifted her face to his, and her eyes were triumphant.

"It is no sacrifice," she said. "My love for you can perform miracles.

It has made your people my people, your God my God, and it can wipe out

the past--everything--and leave nothing in my life but you! Take me

with you, Wolff. I am quite, quite ready!"

He led her proudly and happily from the room, and afterwards from the

house that had been her home.

But, little as she knew it, no miracle had been performed in Nora's

life.

END OF BOOK I

*BOOK II*

*CHAPTER I*

*THE NEW HOME*

"My dear," said Frau von Seleneck, bustling into her husband's study,

"is it true that the Arnims have arrived? I heard something about it

yesterday from Clara, but she was not certain, and I want to know. Of

course they ought to call first, but as one of the regiment, we don't

need to stand on ceremony. Besides, I want to see his wife."

"And his flat, and his furniture, and his cook, and her dresses," Herr

von Seleneck added, with a chuckle. "Yes; call by all means. They

arrived some days ago, and have a flat in the Adler Strasse. You had

better go this morning."

"I thought you had duty?"

"So I have." Kurt von Seleneck stretched himself, and his eyes

twinkled. "You can make that my excuse for not accompanying you on your

first visit. You don't need to pretend to me, after five years of

married life, that you really want me to come with you, because you know

you don't. Just think of the things you can talk about if I am not

there! Just think how wretchedly _de trop_ I should be between you two,

and let me go--this time, at least."

"You would have Wolff to talk to," Frau von Seleneck said, trying to

draw her round, rosy face into lines of disappointment. "You must have

a lot to say to each other."

"Thank you!" her husband retorted, preparing to exchange his undress

_Litewka_ for the blue coat which a stolid orderly was holding in

readiness. "Wolff and I will have opportunities enough, and the prospect

of being sent away 'to talk' like children whilst you two women exchange

confidences is too humiliating. Go alone, my dear."

Frau von Seleneck, having attained her object, proceeded to raise all

sorts of objections.

"I think it is mean of you to desert me, Kurt," she said. "Frau von

Arnim probably can't speak a word of German, and my English is as rusty

as it can be. I haven't spoken it for years and years. We shall have

to play Dumb Crambo or something, and I shall die of nervousness."

"I hope not," Seleneck said, who was now busy with the gloves she had

laid out for him. "No doubt you are too modest, and your English only

needs a little polish to reach perfection. At any rate, you can but

try, and, as far as I know, Frau von Arnim can help things along with

her German. She has been in Karlsburg ever since May, and ought to have

picked up something of the language."

"Oh, if it comes to that, I dare say I shall manage quite well," said

Frau von Seleneck, who was secretly very proud of her English, "but I

wish she were _erne gute Deutsche_. I can't think why Wolff married an

Englishwoman. All English people are dreadful. I had an English

governess who frightened me to death. At meal times she used to keep up

a fire of unpleasant criticism, and glare at me as though I were a sort

of heathen monstrosity. 'Elsa, don't bolt your food! You eat like a

wolf! Your manners would disgrace a bricklayer!' I simply hated her,

and I hate all English people. They are so rude and stiff and

_ungemtlich_. One sees that they despise everybody except themselves,

and one wonders how they manage it."

Her husband laughed good-naturedly.

"I don't think they are as bad as you paint them," he said. "I believe

some of them are quite decent fellows, and Frau von Arnim is, I know,

charming. At any rate, do your best to be agreeable; there's a kind

soul. I expect she will feel rather forlorn at first."

Frau von Seleneck bridled with indignation.

"Of course I shall be agreeable! If she doesn't freeze me, I shall do

everything I can to make her feel she is one of us. At least----" she

hesitated, "I suppose she is one of us, isn't she? Who was she before

she married Wolff?"

"My dear, if you knew you wouldn't be much the wiser," Seleneck said,

preparing for departure. "English people are different. I believe it is

quite an honour to marry a rich tea-merchant--or a rich anybody, for

that matter. As far as I know, Frau von Arnim was a parson's daughter,

and quite good family. The fact that Wolff married her and has been

able to stay in the Army is guarantee enough."

Elsa von Seleneck looked relieved.

"Of course!" she said. "How stupid of me! Well, I shall go and see what

I can do to help her. I expect she is in frightful trouble with her

servants. I know I am."

She accompanied her husband to the door of their flat, brushed an

imaginary speck of dust off his uniform, kissed him and rushed to the

window to wave him a last farewell as he rode off down the quiet street.

Until eleven o'clock she busied herself with her household matters, then

arrayed herself in her best clothes and set off on the proposed voyage

of discovery.

The Adler Strasse lay at some considerable distance, and Frau von

Seleneck was both hot and exhausted by the time she reached the

unpretentious little house where the Arnims had taken up their quarters.

She had not made use of the trams, because if you start taking trams in

Berlin you can spend a fortune, and she had no fortune to spend.

Moreover, she was a rotund little person, with a dangerous tendency to

stoutness, and exercise therefore was a good excuse for saving the

pfennige. Certainly she had exercise enough before she reached the

Arnims' flat. It was on the top floor, and even for Frau von Seleneck's

taste, which was not that of a pampered millionaire, the stairs were

unusually steep and narrow and smelly. From the tiny landing where the

visitor sought room to wait patiently for the opening of the hall door,

it was possible to make a close guess at the various dinners which were

being prepared in all four flats. Boiled vegetables formed the staple

odour, and as, according to the unwritten law which governs German

flats, all the staircase windows were hermetically sealed, it was very

noticeable indeed. Not that this troubled Frau von Seleneck in the

least. What did trouble her was the obstinate silence which greeted her

vigorous application of the electric bell. At last, after one

exceptionally determined peal, the door was cautiously opened, and Frau

von Seleneck found herself welcomed by a girl who stared at her with an

amusing mixture of alarm and indignation, Frau von Seleneck's inner

comment was to the point.

"Pretty servants are always a trouble," she thought. "This one will

certainly be having love affairs with the Bursche. I shall warn Frau

von Arnim at once."

Aloud she inquired if the _gnaedige Frau_ was at home. To her surprise,

a deep flush mounted the "servant's" cheeks and dyed the white forehead

to the roots of the somewhat disordered brown hair. The door was opened

a fraction wider.

"I am the _gnaedige Frau_," a low voice said shame-facedly, in a

nervous, broken German. "My--my cook has gone out, and so----"

Frau von Seleneck held out both her hands.

"Why, of course!" she cried in English. "How stupid of me! I am

terribly short-sighted, you know, or I should not make so silly a

mistake. I am Frau von Seleneck--the wife of your husband's old

comrade. I should have had the joy of meeting you in Karlsburg, but I

was ill at the time--and better late than never, as you English say. I

have come now to tell you "Willkommen in the Fatherland!"

Her English came in an almost unintelligible rush, but the tone was so

warmhearted and friendly, that poor Nora, who believed she had brought

everlasting disgrace upon herself and the whole family, was humbly

thankful to open the drawing-room door and usher in her unexpected

visitor.

"I don't know what you must think of me," she said, "but just at present

we have only one servant, and she has gone out. It seems the

tradespeople don't come for orders, and I am much too inexperienced, and

know far too little German to go shopping alone."

In her unhappiness at having opened the door, she forgot to offer Frau

von Seleneck a chair; but the latter, at heart only too thankful to find

the freezing "Englaenderin" in so human a fluster, took possession of

the centre of the little sofa, and began the work of reassurance.

"That is nothing whatever in the world, dear Frau von Arnim," she said

cheerfully. "I often open the door myself, and if anybody takes me for

my cook, what does that make? It prove that the person does not belong

to my circle, and if he does not belong to my circle it makes nothing

what he thinks."

During this exposition of uncontrovertible logic she had been making a

rapid mental catalogue of the furniture. Nora saw the wandering eyes,

and her humiliation deepened.

"I am afraid the room is horribly untidy," she confessed, wondering if

the time would ever come when she would be able to stop apologising and

begin a normal conversation. "You see, we have only been in a few days,

and I have not got everything in its place. I hope soon it will look a

little better."

She spoke rather despondently, because she felt the cheap little suite

of plush furniture gave no great hopes of "looking better," even with

the most careful arrangement, and she was sure that the fact was obvious

to all. Very much to her surprise, therefore, her visitor broke into a

panegyric of praise.

"It is all charming!" she said, looking about her very much as though

she were in a gallery of art-treasures. "I do not see how it could be

better. And how good have you chose the colours! The chairs are almost

the same tint as the paper, aren't they?--not quite, perhaps, but

nearly. And the curtains are exquisite. How I envy you! When you come

to see us, you will say, 'Ach! how is all old and shady!' and you will

pity us long-married people."

"Perhaps you would like to see the other rooms?" Nora suggested, who had

never mastered the problem as to what one did with visitors who called

at twelve o'clock in the morning. Frau von Seleneck expressed herself

more than willing, and a close inspection was made of the five

large-sized cupboards which served the Arnims as abode.

"Really, one can hardly know which is the most delightful," Frau von

Seleneck declared at the end. "Everything is so tasty, as you English

say--so bijou."

"A little stuffy, don't you think?" Nora said timidly. "I can never get

enough air, and the stairs are sometimes quite--unpleasant. Didn't you

notice it?"

"_Ach, was!_" Frau von Seleneck exclaimed. "You should smell ours when

our down-below neighbours have their wash-day. Then you might complain.

But one must not complain. It is the greatest mistake possible--and so

ungrateful. Everything is so delightful, you know."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Nora said hesitatingly.

Frau von Seleneck gave a comfortable little laugh, and patted her on the

shoulder.

"You don't think so, _Verehrteste_? You must do like I. Six days in

the week I thank _dem lieben Gott_ that my neighbours wash not, and the

seventh I think of my sins. That way I can almost enjoy the smell. And

after all, it is quite a little smell, and my sins are sometimes----"

She spread out her arms to indicate an immeasurable immensity, and Nora

laughed. Her visitor's good spirits were so infectious that she forgot

her futile discussion with the cook, and the impenetrable stupidity of

the Bursche, and began to believe that everything really was

"delightful."

"I will think of your advice next time I want to grumble," she said, as

they re-entered the drawing-room. "Perhaps it will help me over some bad

moments."

Frau von Seleneck took her hand, and, to Nora's surprise, embraced her

affectionately.

"That is why I am here," she said. "The others--the _Spitzen_, superior

officers and wives, you know--you will have to visit first. But I

thought I could help you. I am such an old soldier." She laughed

again, and then became suddenly thoughtful. "Have you yet called upon

the Mayos?" she asked.

"No," Nora answered abruptly.

"Then you must do so at once--they are important people, and Major von

Mayo is your husband's direct superior. You know, at the beginning it

is important that you should offend no one--one cannot be too

particular."

"I met Frau von Mayo in Karlsburg," Nora said. "I did not like her--she

was rude and ill-mannered."

Frau von Seleneck's eyes twinkled.

"She is always so," she said. "One gets accustomed."

"I do not think that I should 'get accustomed,'" Nora retorted, with

heightened colour. "At any rate, I shall not call."

"You----" Frau von Seleneck gasped, and her eyes distended with

unaffected horror. "_Aber, du lieber Gott im Himmel!_--you cannot mean

what you say, you do not know----" she choked. "_Es ist unmoeglich!_"

she decided, as though addressing an unreasonable deity.

"I don't see why it is _unmoeglich_," Nora said. "There is no purpose in

calling on people whom I do not want to know. I told Wolff so."

"Ah, you have told your husband! And what did he say?"

Nora hesitated. She remembered now that Wolff had looked troubled, and

the remembrance caused her a sudden uneasiness.

"He said I could do as I liked," she said slowly.

"Ah, the young husbands!" Frau von Seleneck threw up her hands. "What

folly! It must not be. You must call on the Mayos--on everybody. You

must not show that you hate or that you love. You must be the same to

all--gracious, smiling--though you may want to scratch their eyes out.

You must remember we are all comrades."

"Comrades! I do not want Frau von Mayo as a comrade!" Nora cried

indignantly.

Frau von Seleneck bent forward, and her voice sank to a mysterious

whisper.

"Nor do any of us. I tell you in secret--she is a hateful person. But

we must not let her see--it is our duty to pretend."

"Why?" Nora demanded uncompromisingly.

"For our husbands' sake--it does not do to have ill-feeling between the

wives. Then the husbands quarrel, and there must be no ill-feeling

between comrades."

Nora shook her head.

"I'm afraid I'm no good at pretending," she said.

"But you will try--for your good Wolff's sake? See, I will help you--if

you will let me."

Nora took the outstretched hand. Her moment's anger had gone--dispersed

by the simple appeal "for Wolff's sake."

"You are very good to me," she said gratefully, "and I will try and do

what is right. Everything is so new and strange to me."

"I know, I know. But you will see--all will go so smooth--so smooth.

One day I will go with you to the Mayos. I have my little English, and

that will make it easier. My poor English!" She gave another of her

comfortable chuckles. "He is so very bad."

"Oh, not at all!" Nora hastened to reassure her politely. "It is really

quite good--considering. I can understand everything you say."

There was a rather sudden silence, and to her alarm Nora observed that

her visitor's pink cheeks had turned a bright scarlet, and that there

was a look of almost childish disappointment in the large brown eyes.

"What have I done?" Nora thought, and then, before she had time to

fathom the mystery, the good-natured little woman had recovered her

equanimity as suddenly as she had lost it.

"You and I must be great friends," she said. "Our husbands are

so--great friends, and then, of course, you belong to the regiment--at

least"--she corrected herself hastily, and almost apologetically--"your

husband is on the Staff now, and will make a brilliant career, whilst my

poor _Mann_ has only a year's _Kommando_. Still, you _did_ belong to

the regiment, did you not? And that always makes a bond."

"Of course," Nora said. She was a little overwhelmed by the respect

which this vastly older and wiser personage displayed towards her, and

for the first time she realised that she had married a man on whom the

military world already cast eyes of interest and envy. "I should only

be too grateful for your friendship," she went on. "I know no one here,

and Berlin is so big and strange to me. When Wolff is on duty I feel

quite lost."

"And a leetle _Heimweh_?" Frau von Seleneck suggested quickly. "I know

not what the word is in English, but it is a terrible pain. I have it

here"--she put her hand to her heart--"every year, once for two months,

when Kurt is in the manoeuvres, and I weep--I weep whole buckets full."

Nora started.

"Two months!" she said, horror-struck. "And will Wolff be away all that

time?"

"_Aber natuerlich, liebes Kind_! Even your Wolff will not be excused

again. The Emperor has no heart for the poor wives. But you must not

complain. You must laugh and be happy--at any rate, until your husband

has gone. I always send mine away with a big smile, and tell him I am

glad to be rid of him. Afterwards I weep. It is a great comfort to

weep, but men like not tears. It makes them uncomfortable, and besides,

one must not make their duty harder than it is."

"Of course not," Nora said bravely. "I shall do all I can to help him.

And one can write lots of letters, can't one?"

"Every day, and twice a day," declared her visitor cheerily, as she

arose. "Ach, you will be a good soldier's wife soon. And now I must go

and see that my silly Bertha has not put all the salt-box in the soup.

But if you will let me I will come again, and bring my Kurt with me. He

was dying to come this time, but I would have none of him. Men are such

a nuisance, _nicht wahr_! And then you must come and see us, and we

will talk German together, and you shall know all my friends, and we

will help each other like _gute Kameraden_."

A warm, hurried embrace, and plump, smiling-faced Frau von Seleneck was

out of the room and on the tiny landing. A last pressure of the hand, a

hearty "_Aufwiedersehen!_" and she had disappeared into a foggy

atmosphere of pea-soup and Sauerkraut.

Nora went back into the disordered little drawing-room, and set to work

with a new will. The spirit of cheery content and selflessness had been

left sitting on the sofa, and it seemed to chuckle in a peculiar, fat,

comfortable way as Nora pushed the chairs backwards and forwards in the

vain attempt to induce an air of elegance.

"Even if she does admire the furniture, and think the flat perfection,

she has a good, kind heart," Nora thought. "I am glad we are going to

be friends."

She began to hum to herself, and when in an unusually untidy corner she

found a pair of Wolff's _dritte Garnitur_ gloves, she picked them up and

kissed them. There was so much sunlight and love in her heart that

smells and stuffiness and ugly furniture were forgotten, and she

triumphed in the knowledge that she was, without exception, the happiest

woman in the world.

*CHAPTER II*

*--AND THE NEW LIFE*

Nora sank with a triumphant sigh into her favourite arm-chair by the

window. The much-dreaded visit to the Mayos was an accomplished fact,

the day's household work at an end, and for a breathing-space she was at

liberty to enjoy the luxury of an unobserved idleness. Dusk had set in,

and dusk is the time of memories and dreams. And this evening Nora

recalled the near past. She could not have explained why of late her

thoughts reverted so constantly to the glowing period which had stood,

as it were, beyond the first entry of her marriage and divided it from

the dull grey of everyday life. The glorious month in the Black Forest,

the visit to Karlsburg, the princely reception by her husband's old

regiment, the military serenades, the military visits, the endless flood

of bouquets from _Kameraden_ the wild enthusiasm of poor little

Fraeulein Mueller, who felt as though "it were my own wedding-day, you

know, _liebes Kind_," and behaved as though such were really the case,

the happy hours with Hildegarde and her mother--all this awoke in Nora's

memory like some brilliant, intoxicating dream in whose reality she

could scarcely believe. Then had come the house-hunting--or, rather,

flat-hunting in the stifling heat of a Berlin July, and at last

this--the slow settling down to her new life.

Nora sighed. She was feeling very tired and possibly slightly

depressed. In truth, she was very often depressed in that hour which

divided the close of her day's duties and Wolff's return, and sometimes

there was even a touch of irritability in her depression. The constant

round of "teas," the constant meeting of the same people, the constant

repetitions, the unfailing discussions on _Dienst_ and

_Dienstangelegenheiten_ wearied her to exasperation. Some of the women

she liked, some she tolerated, some she hated; but, hated or loved or

tolerated, these women formed her "circle," from which there was no

possible escape. On the whole, she bore the burden of their good-natured

dullness with apparent equanimity, so that Frau von Seleneck had told

her, with the satisfaction of a successful monitor, that she was really

"one of them." But there were also moments when weariness overcame her

determined courage, and only the rallying-cry "For Wolff's sake" could

bring light to her eyes. They were for the most part lonely moments,

when she wandered about the tiny flat seeking some occupation which

would help to pass the time till Wolff's return, or when _Kriegspiel_

carried him away in the evenings and left her to solitude, a vague

home-sickness--and fear. For fear had not been altogether banished from

Nora's life, though she held it under with a firm hand. It haunted her

now as she sat there watching the lights spring up in the windows

opposite; it asked her what had happened, and what might still happen;

it reminded her of the man she had deceived. No, not deceived. After

all, she had offered her life, not her love, to Robert Arnold, because

he had needed her, and because she in her turn had needed him as a

barrier between herself and the man she really loved. When the barrier

had proved useless she had flung it aside, and she knew that if she

could live over again that hour when Wolff von Arnim had come to her

with love and happiness in his hands, she would not act otherwise than

she had done. And to Robert Arnold she had offered the one possible

atonement--she had told him the truth. He had not answered her, and she

had tried to put him out of her life, regretfully and remorsefully, as a

friend whom she had wronged beyond forgiveness. Nevertheless, the power

to forget had not been granted her. Memory, like some old mythological

Fury seeking an expiatory sacrifice, haunted her and would haunt her, as

she knew, until such time as the sacrifice was paid. And the sacrifice

was a confession to her husband--an impossibility, since her lips were

sealed by a lie and by the fear of losing that which was most precious

to her--his love.

"But there shall be no more secrets in my life," she thought as she

heard his step on the stairs outside, and perhaps at the bottom of her

heart there lurked a superstitious hope that Nemesis had heard her

promise and accepted it as an atonement. The next minute she was in her

husband's arms, and Nemesis, conscience, Robert Arnold, and all the

petty trials of the day were forgotten, overwhelmed by a passionate joy

which filled her heart and the dusky room with sunshine.

"Why, Nora!" he exclaimed. "You are like a little hobgoblin, springing

at one out of the shadows. What have you been doing all alone in the

dark?"

"Dreaming--and waiting for you," she answered gaily. "Wait a moment

till I have lit the lamp. I had forgotten that weary warriors do not

care for the dim religious light which goes with dreaming."

He sank down into his chair with a tired sigh of contentment and watched

her as she busied about the room, putting away his gloves and the

officer's cap which he had thrown upon the table. There was no trace of

depression in her face, nor, indeed, in her heart--only an almost

childish happiness, and gradually the lines of worry and exhaustion

faded from about the man's strong mouth.

"How good it is to come home, Nora!" he said under his breath. "When I

think of how I used to feel after a long day's work--why, I can't

imagine how I existed."

"Do I make all the difference?"

"All the difference, my little wife."

She came and kissed him, and then stood looking down into his face with

tender concern.

"You look so tired. Has anything been worrying you?"

"No, nothing--only the head-work is rather a strain. One has to give

mind and soul to it; there is no slacking possible, even if one were

inclined that way."

"Which you are not, you terrible man of iron and blood! Sometimes I am

quite jealous of your work: I believe you love it more than you do me."

"It is my duty," he answered gravely. And then, after a moment, he

added in a lighter tone, "By the way, an old friend of yours has arrived

in Berlin."

Nora started.

"Who?"

"Bauer!"

She was conscious of a sensation of relief as reasonless as it was

acute. Of what had she been afraid? She herself could not have told.

"I used to look upon that man as my evil genius," she said gaily, "but

now I think he must have been sent as an angel in disguise. If it had

not been for him I should not have known you loved me--do you

remember--that day, in the forest?"

"I am never likely to forget," he answered, with a sudden movement of

pain. "When I think what might have happened to you----"

"You mustn't think. Nothing _did_ happen to me--or only something nice.

But now you must listen to my news. Imagine what I have done to-day?"

"Nora, is that fair? Do you really expect my exhausted brains to tackle

a problem like that!"

"Don't be rude! Think--I have called on the whole family Mayo, and been

so polite and amiable that her ladyship only found it in her heart to be

rude once. What have you to say to that?"

"What have I to say?" He took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you,

dear."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Why, Wolff, does it mean so much to you?"

"Yes, a good deal. You see--one gets a bad name if one neglects certain

people."

"Then why didn't you insist?"

He hesitated, avoiding her eyes.

"I didn't want to bother you more than I could help. Sometimes I am

afraid it must be very hard on you, little woman."

Intuitively she guessed his thoughts, and without a word she gathered up

some sheets of closely written notepaper lying on the table and thrust

them into his hands.

"There, read that, you extremely foolish husband of mine!" she cried

triumphantly. "I have been writing home, so you can judge for

yourself."

He obeyed, and she stood watching him, knowing that he could but be

satisfied. Indeed, her letters home were full of her happiness and of

Wolff--the two things were synonymous--and if she did not mention that

their home was small and stuffy, that she did most of the household work

herself, and that a strict, painful economy watched over every item of

their daily life, it was partly because she told herself that these

details played no part in her estimation and partly because she shrank

instinctively from the criticism which she knew would inevitably result.

She gave, instead, glowing descriptions of the dinner-parties, of the

whist-parties, even of the four-hour tea-parties with their unbroken

conversational circle of _Dienstangelegenheiten_ and

"_Dienst-maedchen_." And in all this there was no hypocrisy. Her

momentary depression and distaste were sub-conscious; she did not

recognise them as such. She called them "moods," which vanished like

mists in the sunshine of her husband's presence.

"Well?" she demanded, as he put the letters aside.

He shook his finger at her.

"Frauchen, Frauchen!" he said, laughing, "I am afraid you are what

English people would call a humbug. From this epistle one would really

imagine that Frau von Seleneck had received you in a palace, and that

you had associated with all the _belles esprits_ in Berlin, instead

of--well, I imagine something very different. If I remember rightly, on

that particular evening I found a very pale-faced wife waiting for me,

with a bad headache and an apologetic description of an afternoon spent

in an overheated cupboard, with six other unhappy sufferers. And then

you sit down and write that you enjoyed yourself immensely. Oh, Nora,

Nora!"

"I _did_ enjoy myself!" Nora affirmed, perching herself on the arm of

her chair. "You know very well that the anticipation of happiness is

almost as good as the thing itself, and every time that I felt I was

going to suffocate I thought of the evening we were to spend together

afterwards, and felt as happy as I have described myself. After all,

everything helps to pass the time till we are together again."

He put his arm about her and was silent a moment, gazing thoughtfully

before him. Then he looked up at her.

"It strikes me sometimes what a poor life I have to offer you, Nora," he

said abruptly. "I don't think I would have noticed it so much, had I

not seen your home. Poverty is such a relative conception. There are

hundreds of officers' wives who are no better off than you, and who

think themselves comfortably situated. But your father talked of

poverty, and lived--for our ideas--like a lord. When I compare things I

feel as though I had wronged you, and tempted you into a life of

sacrifice to which you were never born."

Nora bent her head and kissed him.

"You are a very foolish fellow!" she said. "If you were not so filled

with fortifications and tactics, you would know quite well that I would

rather live in a rabbit-hutch with my husband, than in a palace with a

prince."

Arnim laughed, and it was obvious that her words had lifted a very real

burden from his mind.

"I'm afraid you would never get your husband into a rabbit-hutch," he

said, with a self-satisfied glance at his own long, powerful limbs.

"Still, it is a comfort to know that you would be ready to make the

attempt. I think, though, if your people knew, and were not blinded by

a certain deceitful young person, they would feel very differently. I

think they would have a good many disagreeable things to say on the

subject of your German home. Don't you?"

"No, I don't!" said Nora, privately determined that they should never

have the chance. "I think they would be very glad to see for themselves

how happy I am."

Wolff drew a letter from the pocket of his _Litewka_, and handed it to

her.

"In that case there seems every likelihood of them enjoying that

spectacle in the near future," he said. "I had this letter from your

father by the evening post. Read it and see what you think."

Nora's beaming face clouded over somewhat. Letters from her father were

always a mixed pleasure, and Wolff's words had warned her that this

particular one contained something more than the usual condensed sermon.

Her supposition was correct. After a long-winded preamble, the Rev.

John plunged into the matter which was really on his mind. It appeared

that Miles, having broken down under the strain of his military duties,

had been granted a few months' leave, and it was proposed that he should

spend the time abroad--for the benefit of his education. And whither

was it more natural that he should go than to his own dear sister?

"You can imagine," the Rev. John had written, "that apart from the fact

that we shall miss our boy terribly, the expense of the undertaking

weighs heavily upon our minds. I am prepared, however, to make every

possible sacrifice in order that he should obtain his wish, and am

anxious to know if you could help me. Being on the spot, you will know

best where and at what cost he could remain during his stay in your fine

capital and, as one of the family, I feel sure that we shall be able to

trust him to your care and surveillance. I should be most grateful, my

dear Wolff, if you would give me your reply as soon as possible, as

Miles is most eager to join you, and my wife, whose health, I regret to

say, is far from satisfactory, feels that it would be good for her to be

able to enjoy perfect quiet."

Nora put the letter down. It was the first time that the Rev. John had

ever spoken of his son-in-law as "My dear Wolff" or admitted that he was

"one of the family," and Nora felt vaguely ashamed--so much so, that she

did not meet her husband's eyes, but sat twisting the carefully written

epistle into a torn screw, as though she would have preferred to throw

it in the fire, but was restrained by a sense of respect.

"I have certainly overdone it with my descriptions," she admitted

frankly. "Miles is getting bored at home, and imagines that we can

procure a good time for him here. What are you going to do, Wolff?"

"I think there is only one thing for us to do," Wolff answered, with a

somewhat grim smile, "and that is--our duty. I shall write to your

father and invite Miles to stay with us, so long as he is in Berlin."

Nora got up. The movement was abrupt enough to suggest a sudden

disquiet amounting to actual fear, and her face had become crimson.

"Wouldn't you like it, Nora?" her husband asked. He was watching her

keenly, and his gaze seemed to increase her uneasiness.

"Miles is so young--a mere boy," she stammered. "We can't tell what

trouble he will get into. And besides, where have we to put him? We

have no room?"

"There is the _Fremdenzimmer_," Wolff answered quietly; "and as to your

other objection, I can only say that at his age I was already

lieutenant, and free to govern my own life as I chose."

"One can't compare you with Miles," Nora interposed. "I think your

people must have been able to trust you when you were in the cradle."

Wolff laughed, but the gravity in his eyes remained unchanged. He got

up, and put his hands on Nora's shoulders.

"You do not want your brother to come," he said. "Is it not a little

because you are ashamed--of the way we live?"

Nora met his eyes steadily, but for a moment she was silent, deep in her

own thoughts. She was trying to find out exactly why a weight had

fallen upon her mind, why the atmosphere in the little room had become

close and stifling. Was it really shame, or was it something else--a

foreboding of resulting evil, too vague to be defined in words?

"I want an answer, Nora," Wolff continued firmly. "The thought that you

might be hiding the truth from your people out of loyalty towards me is

intensely painful. Heaven knows, I would bring every possible

sacrifice----"

"Hush!" Nora interrupted, and there was a curious note of sternness in

her young voice. "I hate to hear you talk like that. It sounds as

though _I_ had brought some sacrifice, or had lowered myself to become

your wife. I married you, Wolff, because I loved you, and because I

knew that you were the only man with whom I could be happy. You have

given me everything my most sanguine hopes could ask of life. That is

the truth. What more can I say?"

He bent and kissed her.

"Thank you, dear," he said. "Then I may write to your father?"

"Yes--of course. I shall miss our quiet evenings alone, Wolff; but if

you think it right----"

"I think there is nothing else for us to do," her husband answered.

"After all, I do not expect it will be for long. We must not be

selfish, dearest."

Nora smiled cheerfully; but for the first time in her married life the

cheerfulness was forced. She could not shake off the feeling that a

change had come, and one which was to bring no good with it.

*CHAPTER III*

*A MEETING*

Frau von Seleneck was engaged with her toilet before the looking-glass,

and Nora, seated in the place of honour on the sofa, watched her with a

critical interest. Hitherto she had not troubled herself much with the

dowdiness or the smartness of her friends' apparel; she had accepted the

general principle that "those sort of things did not matter so long as

everybody knew who you were"; but something or other had occurred of

late to change her attitude--a something which she had successfully

avoided analysing. Only when Frau von Seleneck drew on her white silk

mittens, Nora found herself wondering what Miles would think of her and,

indeed, of everything. Not that Miles's opinion was of the slightest

importance, but the possibility of criticism roused her to criticise;

she was beginning to consider her surroundings without the aid of

love-tinted glasses, and the results, if hitherto painless, were

somewhat disconcerting.

"Now I am really ready!" Elsa von Seleneck declared, considering her

bemittened hands. "How do you like my dress, Nora?" She lifted the

ends of her mouse-coloured evening cloak and displayed herself with

complacency. "No one would believe I had had it three years. Frau von

Schilling said she thought it was quite a marvel. But you English have

such good taste--I should like to know what you think."

Nora took a deep breath, and then, having seen the round, good-natured

face turn to her with an expression of almost wistful appeal, plunged.

"I think it is a marvel, too," she said slowly. "I am so glad. You

know, the first year I had it it was cream, the second year mauve, the

third year black. Such a beautiful black, too! Of course, the

fashion----" she looked at the puff sleeves regretfully--"they are

rather out of date, are they not?"

"That doesn't matter," Nora assured her. "The fashions are anyhow so

ugly----" she was going to add "here," but stopped in time.

Frau von Seleneck laughed her comfortable laugh. It was one of her

virtues that she never gave or suspected offence.

"Quite right, Norachen. How wonderfully sensible and practical you

English are--at least, I should not say 'You English,' for you are a

good German now, my dear!" It was evident that she had intended the

remark as a compliment, and Nora was annoyed with herself for her own

rather grim silence. "But there!" her friend went on with a sudden gust

of energy, "here I stand and chatter, and it is getting so late! If

there is one thing Her Excellency dislikes it is unpunctuality, and at

this rate we are certain to miss the tram. Now, isn't that annoying!

Bertha has hidden my goloshes again!"

In response to a heated summons, the little maid-of-all-work made her

appearance, and after a long scramble around the hall hatstand the

required articles were discovered and donned.

"Now I am _really_ ready!" Frau von Seleneck declared for the twentieth

time, and to confirm the statement proceeded to lead the way downstairs.

Nora followed resignedly. She knew that it was raining, and she knew

also that the very idea of taking a cab would be crushed instantly as a

heinous extravagance, so she gathered up the frail skirt of her chiffon

dress and prepared for the worst with a humorous despair.

Fortunately, though they indeed missed the tram, the road to Her

Excellency Frau von Gersdorf's flat was not a long one, and only Nora's

temper suffered in the transit. And even that circumstance passed

unnoticed. Frau von Seleneck had walked very fast, and by the time they

had mounted the flight of stone stairs leading to their destination she

was hopelessly out of breath and in no mood to notice Nora's ruffled

condition.

"Ah, but it is good to be arrived!" she sighed in English as she yielded

her cloak to the attendant housemaid. "Now, my dear!"

The "now, my dear" was uttered in an awe-struck tone which suggested a

solemnal entry into the Imperial Presence, and Nora, following her lead

towards the drawing-room, experienced the bliss of a short-lived hope.

She knew that it was a great honour to be invited to "Her Excellency's

Evenings"; was it not possible that they might be different to the other

"evenings" which she knew so well? Was it not possible that she was to

see new faces and learn to know a brilliant world which she could show

to Miles without---- She did not finish the thought, and indeed the

hope had died at birth.

The door was thrown open, and she found herself in a small library,

which appeared to form a kind of backwater for the two adjoining and

equally over-crowded rooms. Nora sighed. There was no one in that

moving stream whom she had not met before--the very sandwiches arranged

in symmetrical order on the table under the window seemed to welcome her

with the silent greeting of a long-established friendship. She knew

their history so well. Had she not made them herself as many times as

it had been her fate to give a so-called "evening"? As to the rest of

the company, there was the usual sprinkling of elderly officers and

their wives and an apparently limitless number of stray lieutenants who,

commanded temporarily to Berlin, had been brought together by the

natural law which unites exiles and outcasts. Her Excellency's son

himself belonged to a regiment stationed in a southern state--hence the

familiar "clique" which crowded his mother's rooms. Nora had seen

enough to resign all hope before their hostess bore down upon them. The

little old lady, who had been holding a veritable levee at the

folding-doors, displayed all the naive cordiality which belonged to her

South German blood.

"How good of you to come!" she exclaimed, taking Nora's hand between

both her own. "It is such a delightful evening--everybody is here, you

know. And where is Herr von Arnim?"

Nora looked down smiling into the alert but deeply lined face. In any

other country Her Excellency von Gersdorf would have cut rather a

ridiculous figure. She had once been a great beauty, and though there

were but few traces left of her former splendour, she had still retained

the long ringlets and the flowered brocades of her youth. These and

other eccentricities--she had a passion for reciting her own and other

people's poetry on all possible and impossible occasions--were

respectfully accepted by the mighty circle of her acquaintances. She

was Her Excellency von Gersdorf, the widow of a high-standing Court

official, and by birth a countess with sixteen untarnished quarterings;

consequently at liberty to do, say, and dress exactly what and how she

pleased, without exciting the slightest criticism. Nora knew all this;

but in the brief pause between her hostess's question and her own answer

she found herself again wondering what her English friends would

say--what Miles would say.

"My husband sends his greetings and begs that your Excellency will

excuse him," she answered. "He has some important work to-night and

could not accompany me."

Frau von Gersdorf nodded, whilst her bright, bird-like eyes wandered

over her guests.

"I know, I know; these General-Staff husbands are totally unreliable.

But there, I dare say you will be able to amuse yourself without him. I

think you must know everybody here?"

"Everybody," Nora responded gravely.

"And--_ach, ja, naturlich_! There is a countryman of yours who is most

anxious to meet you again." She saw Nora's colour change, and added

quickly, "I do not mean an Englishman--a captain from the dragoons in

Karlsburg--Herr Rittmeister!"

A tall figure in a pale-blue uniform disengaged itself from a group of

officers by the window and came towards them. Nora recognised Bauer

instantly, but this time his good-looking face, with its expression of

almost insolent indifference, aroused no feeling either of aversion or

alarm. She determined to treat him as she would have treated any other

acquaintance, satisfied that a great change divided the hot-headed child

of then from the dignified married woman of now. Bauer's manner also

reassured her. He kissed her extended hand with a grave respect which

was almost apologetic and caused her to answer his greeting with an

impulsive friendliness worthy of a younger and less experienced Nora.

Frau von Gersdorf nodded her satisfaction. She evidently felt that two

of her guests were settled for the evening, and patted Nora's arm with a

hand whose white beauty was one of the few remaining traces of the past.

"You two can talk Karlsburg news as soon as Herr Rebenski has finished

his sonata," she said as she prepared to bustle off. "He is one of my

proteges--a real genius, you know."

Bauer looked at Nora with a faint, whimsical grimace.

"Her Excellency has always a genius on hand," he said. "It is part of

her own genius--this 'discovering' instinct. Apparently the latest

belongs to the piano _virtuoso_ class. We shall have to listen in

respectful silence."

To confirm his statement, a profound hush fell upon the assembly. Those

who could find chairs sat down, the others lined themselves along the

wall and stood in various attitudes of attention or indifference. Bauer

had discovered an empty alcove at the back of the room, and from this

point of vantage Nora studied her surroundings with the keenness of her

new vision. She had written home of her "brilliant life" and had not

been hypocritical. For her it had at first been brilliant. The

resplendent uniforms, the constant social intercourse, the courtly

gallantry of her husband's comrades, the ring of grand names--all these

features in her daily life had bewildered her, accustomed as she was to

the stagnation and general dullness of Delford society. Now the thought

of Miles's advent steadied her critical faculties. She saw behind the

first glamour an almost extraordinary simplicity, a total indifference

to what she had always looked upon as the refinements of life. These

people cared for other things: the women thought little of their

appearance--they gloried in their name and position; the men, beneath

the polish of their manners, were something primitive in their tastes.

Nora thought suddenly of her husband. How little he seemed to mind the

narrow dimensions of his home, the ugliness of the furniture! How

satisfied the elegant staff-officer seemed with his supper of cheap wine

and sausage! Nora's sense of humour won the upper hand. She laughed to

herself, and suddenly realised that the long sonata was at an end and

that Bauer was speaking to her under cover of the renewed hubbub.

"_Gnaedige Frau_, do you know why I am here to-night?" he asked.

Nora looked up.

"Probably because you were invited, and wished to enjoy a pleasant

evening," she said, still smiling at her own thoughts.

"A pleasant evening!" he laughed. "_Gnaedige Frau_, in an ordinary way

I avoid these festivities like the plague. I came to-night because I

had heard that you were coming. Please, do not frown like that--the

statement is wholly innocent of impertinence. I wanted to meet you

again because I wanted to apologise."

"To me?"

"Yes. Do you remember a certain morning in the forest at Karlsburg--a

few weeks before your return to England? You were out riding with

Captain von Arnim, and I galloped past you. I was told after wards that

my furious riding had frightened your horse and that but for your future

husband's presence of mind there might have been an accident. The

thought has troubled me ever since."

Nora felt a pang of remorse. She felt that she had misjudged this man.

Her previous conduct to him appeared inexcusably childish and

prejudiced.

"You did not do it on purpose," she said gently.

"No; that is true. I did not see you until it was too late. Still, I

had no business to ride like that--I was in the devil's own mood that

morning."

"With a reason?"

"Yes; with a reason. Perhaps one day I will tell you about it--but not

now. Am I forgiven?"

Nora nodded. She was reliving the moment when she had felt Wolff's arm

snatch her, as it had seemed, from the brink of death; she saw again his

white, frightened face, and answered truthfully:

"I have nothing to forgive. You did me no harm."

"No; I know," he said, as though he had divined her thoughts. Nora

caught a glance of his face in the long mirror opposite, and was struck

for a moment by the bitterness of his expression. He looked less

indifferent than usual--almost disturbed.

"They say that if you give the devil a finger he takes the whole hand,"

he went on after a pause, and in a lighter tone. "Having obtained your

forgiveness, I now come with a request, _gnaedige Frau_."

"May it be as easily granted!" Nora answered, laughing.

"At any rate, it is not for myself this time. My sister-in-law, Frau

Commerzienrat Bauer, has asked me to be a suppliant on her behalf.

Perhaps you remember her? You met her at the Charity Bazaar last

month."

Nora shook her head.

"I am a disgrace--I forget people's names so quickly," she said

apologetically.

"My relation has a better memory--especially for those to whom she has

taken a fancy. She has a special weakness for English people, and it

seems she is most anxious to meet you again. She has, of course, quite

another circle of acquaintances, and so is driven to the expedient of

calling on you herself. Has she your permission?"

Something in the request or in the manner of its making jarred on Nora.

She hesitated, not knowing why, and Bauer went on quickly:

"I know this form of proceeding is unusual, _gnaedige Frau_, and I

confess I should not have undertaken to be my sister-in-law's messenger

if it had not been that I had heard you were expecting your brother.

The two things do not seem to have much connection, but it struck me

that it might interest him--and perhaps you--to see something of another

side of German life. There _is_ another side, _gnaedige Frau_."

"I am very content with the one I know," Nora answered. She was

conscious of a rising repugnance--and a rising curiosity.

Bauer laughed.

"That is natural enough. You have married an officer, and have made his

set yours. But for your brother it will be different. I know a little

of English life and of English tastes, and I fancy he will find all

this--this sort of thing cramped and dull, not to say shabby. These

people"--his tone became faintly tinged with condescension--"belong to

the class which prides itself on being poor but noble, and on despising

those who have acquired riches. When they have not enough to eat, they

feast on the memory of their ancestors and are satisfied. But there is

another class, thank Heaven, one which has taken your people as an

example, _gnaedige Frau_. The great commercial and financial

potentates, who have flung off the foolish, narrow-hearted prejudices of

the past--it is of them and of their lives which you should see

something before you pass judgment."

Nora rose suddenly to her feet. She felt vaguely that a bribe had been

offered her, and, what was worse, a bribe whose cunning effectiveness

had been based on some instinctive knowledge of her mind. All her

natural loyalty rose up in arms against it.

"I have not passed judgment," she said proudly. "I should never pass

judgment on a people to whom I belong." Then the old impulsive kindness

moved her to add: "All the same, I shall be pleased to renew my

acquaintance with your sister-in-law at any time convenient to her."

She gave him her hand, a little ashamed of her previous outburst, and he

bent over it and kissed it respectfully.

"Thank you, _gnaedige Frau_."

She left him, and he stood there stroking his fair moustache and looking

after her with amused and admiring eyes. Nor was he the only one to

watch her quiet progress, for, little as she knew it, the child Nora had

become a beautiful woman, and the charm of her new womanhood hung about

her like a veil.

Later on, when the last of Her Excellency's proteges had performed their

uttermost, and Frau von Seleneck and Nora had started on the home

passage, the latter ventured a question concerning Frau Commerzienrat

Bauer. She did not know why she asked, and Frau von Seleneck's answer

did not encourage further curiosity.

"I believe her father had a big furniture-shop somewhere," she said,

"and her husband is something or the other on the money-market. I

cannot imagine how the captain got into such a good regiment."

"He may be a very good officer," Nora said, conscious of a slight

feeling of irritation.

Frau von Seleneck shrugged her shoulders.

"He may be. At any rate, I know nothing more about his relations." She

lifted her skirts a little higher, though whether to avoid contamination

with the mud or as a sign of her general disapproval was not clear.

"They are very rich," she added indifferently.

*CHAPTER IV*

*A VISITOR ARRIVES IN KARLSBURG*

The square-built house in the Moltke Strasse was to let. A big notice

in the front windows published the fact, although the curtains were

still hanging, and the air of desolation which usually envelops

"desirable residences," or their German equivalents, was not yet

noticeable.

Inside, the signals of departure were more evident. The hall had been

stripped bare of its scanty decorations, and in the disordered rooms a

person of obviously Hebrew origin was to be seen roaming about with a

pencil and a greasy note-book, making a careful inventory of the

valuables. There was, indeed, only one room where the bustle and the

confusion had been vigorously excluded and where the Hebrew gentleman's

foot had not yet ventured to tread. This was Frau von Arnim's boudoir,

and Hildegarde had taken refuge there like a shipwrecked mariner on a

friendly island. She lay on her sofa with closed eyes and listened to

the hammering and bumping of furniture over the bare boards. Only an

occasional contraction of the fine brows and a tightening of the lips

betrayed that she was awake, and that the sounds were painful to her.

Frau von Arnim, who was working at her accounts by the window, never

failed to catch that fleeting expression of suffering. It was as though

some invisible nerve of sympathy existed between her and the invalid,

and that she knew when the dull ache kindled to poignant pain. For a

time she remained silent, ignoring what she saw. Then she rose, and

coming to Hildegarde's side, laid her hand tenderly upon the white

forehead.

"Does it cost so much?" she asked. "Does it cost too much? Ought I

never to have allowed so great a sacrifice?"

Instantly Hildegarde's eyes opened and revealed a brightness that they

had not shown since the days when she had ridden at Wolff's side through

the forest, and known neither suffering nor loss.

"It's not a sacrifice," she said, taking her mother's hand, and holding

it in her own. "When I think of what we are going to do, and why we are

doing it, I feel as though I were giving myself some selfish pleasure

and making you pay the price. After all, from my sofa the world will

look much the same in Berlin as it does here, and if I am sorry to

leave, it is only because every room has its dear associations. You see,

on my side it is only a sentimental sort of pain, which is rather

agreeable than otherwise. But for you it is different. It will be so

lonely for you, and I know how you hate flats--a suite of lofts in a

badly managed hotel is what you used to call them."

Frau von Arnim smiled.

"You have a bad memory in so far as it retains foolish remarks, better

forgotten," she said. "I am sure I shall be very happy in our new home,

and in any case, I, too, have my pleasure from our 'plot.' I have just

been reckoning that if we are careful we shall be able to allow them at

least 1,000 marks more next year, and that will make all the difference

in the world to them. They will not have to worry so much over their

pfennige at any rate."

"If only Wolff will accept it!" Hildegarde said doubtfully. "He is like

the rest of us all; and if he thinks, as I suppose he must, that we are

giving up anything, he will call it a sacrifice and will refuse to

accept it."

"He will do just what I tell him!" Frau von Arnim retorted, with a touch

of half-laughing authority, which threw a sidelight on her conscious

power over her entourage. "He will let me humbug him because there will

be nothing else for him to do. I shall say that we have come to Berlin

to be near them--which is true; that we prefer the quiet quarters--which

is partly true; that we are doing our best to spend our money, but that,

do what we will, there is always a trouble--some 1,000 marks over, which

won't be got rid of--which is not true at all. I shall offer it him as

an indirect present to Nora, and Nora will secretly spend it on his

dinners, and both will be all the happier; you need not be afraid."

Hildegarde's eyes flashed with amusement. She loved her mother in her

triumphant, self-confident moods.

"I do not think I was afraid--really," she said. "I know by experience

that you can twist most people round your finger. And Wolff is no

exception."

She smiled to herself, and there was something wistful in her expression

which Frau von Arnim was quick to perceive. She bent lower as though

she wished to catch and interpret every shadow that crossed her

daughter's face.

"And you will be glad to see them again, Hildegarde? You are strong

enough? It will not make you unhappy?"

Hildegarde shook her head.

"It is true when I say that I am longing to see them," she said firmly.

"I am happier--far happier now than in the time when I knew that,

crippled though I was, Wolff would have married me, that I had only to

stretch out my hand, as it were, for him to take it. It was so hard

_not_ to stretch out my hand; I had to crush down my love for him, and

throw scorn on myself for daring to love at all. Every day I was afraid

that I might betray myself. Now it is different. I can love him openly

and honestly as my brother, and Nora I can love too without bitterness

or envy as the one woman who could make him happy, or who was worthy of

him. So you see, dearest, everything is for the best."

Frau von Arnim nodded, satisfied by the steady, cheerful voice.

"You have your reward," she said. "Rightly enough, Wolff traces all his

happiness back to you, and his love and gratitude are in proportion."

"To his happiness?" Hildegarde suggested, smiling. "In that case I ought

to be more than satisfied. Although, perhaps, for my sake he tries to

hide that fact, it is obvious from his letters that he never knew what

the real thing was until Nora became his wife. And I believe it will be

lasting. We know Nora so well. We know how good and loving and honest

she is. I do not think she will ever disappoint him or us."

"And Wolff, of course, could not disappoint any one, not even though he

were advertised as perfect," Frau von Arnim observed slyly. "So we need

feel no alarm for the future. And now I must go back to my accounts."

There was a long unbroken silence. Hildegarde seemed really asleep, or

at least too deep in her own thoughts to notice the significant

rumblings overhead, and her mother was frowning over the division of

income, or rather the stretching of income over the hundred-and-one

things necessary to the "keeping up of appearances." The latter

occupation had been the constant worry of Frau von Arnim's life. Her

poverty had always been of the brilliant kind, but it had been poverty

none the less for that, and now this change had come it was not even to

be brilliant. Not that she felt any regret. The "brilliancy" had only

been maintained as a sort of sop to the family traditions, and now that

the family honour seemed to concentrate itself on Wolff, it was only

natural that the other members would be ready to make every sacrifice to

support him and save him from the curse of pecuniary troubles, which is

the curse of two-thirds of the German nobility. So the old home was to

be given up, and the old pill-box brougham and such of the family relics

as would find no place in the narrow dimensions of an _etage_ were to

drift into the hands of strangers. Both Frau von Arnim and Hildegarde,

brought up in the stern code of their old race, found this course of

events perfectly correct, and they would have done no less even if they

had not cared for Wolff. Thus the frown upon Frau von Arnim's brow was

caused not so much by trouble or regret as by a natural dislike for the

consideration of pfennige, and it was with a movement of almost relief

that she looked up presently, aroused from her unloved task by the

ringing of the front-door bell.

"That must be Herr Sonnenthal again," she said. "He has probably come to

tell us how much the carriage has fetched. Would you mind if I saw him

in here?"

Hildegarde assented, but her mother's supposition proved incorrect. The

untidy charwoman who put in her head a minute later informed them that

there was a strange gentleman downstairs inquiring after a certain

Fraeulein whose name she, the charwoman, had not been able to grasp, and

that, failing her, he had requested the honour of a few minutes'

conversation with the _gnaedige Frau_ herself.

Frau von Arnim looked puzzled as she studied the card.

"I think there must be some mistake," she said. "However, show him up

here."

For some reason or other nothing was said of the unknown visitor. It is

possible that, as the wild beasts of the forest have an instinctive

prescience of an enemy's approach, so we, in our higher world of

sensitiveness, receive indefinable warnings when mischance is about to

overtake us or a personality to enter into our lives and change its

whole course. Certain it is that neither Frau von Arnim nor Hildegarde

were fully at their ease as their visitor entered the room, and their

response to his correct, somewhat stiff bow was marked by that frigidity

which seems to ask of itself "Who are you? What do you want with us?"

Hildegarde had drawn herself up into a sitting position. The last two

months had brought a marked change for the better in her health, and

with a revival of the old strength had come a revival of the old pride

and sensitiveness. She hated a stranger to see, and perhaps pity, her

infirmity, and, moreover, on this occasion she was conscious of an

inexplicable restlessness.

There was, at all events, nothing alarming in the stranger's appearance.

A tall, carefully dressed man, with a thin sunken face, and a manner

suggesting at once breeding and embarrassment, stood in the doorway,

evidently uncertain as to his own course of conduct. As the silence

threatened to grow awkward, Frau von Arnim took the initiative.

"From your card, and from what my servant tells me, I judge that you are

English, Captain Arnold," she said, motioning him to be seated.

The visitor's face immediately lightened, and he advanced into the room,

without, however, making further use of her invitation.

"I should be most thankful," he said. "If my German had not been of

such a negligible quality I should not have had to trouble you. Indeed,

until I heard you speak I feared my difficulties were by no means at an

end. I hope you will excuse my intrusion?"

His sentences, like his manner, were somewhat wooden, and not calculated

to inspire any particular warmth in his hearers. Having briefly

introduced him to Hildegarde, Frau von Arnim repeated her invitation,

which he now accepted, though with reluctance.

"I shall be glad to be of any service to you," Frau von Arnim said

graciously. "English people are bound to me by at least one tie, and it

is always a pleasure when I can assist any one of them. You need not

apologise therefore."

Arnold smiled, and his expression suggested that he accepted her words

as a formal politeness, and valued them as such.

"You are very kind," he said. "At the same time I trust that I need not

trespass too much on your good-nature. I must explain that I have just

returned from Africa, and Karlsburg lying on overland route, I stopped

in the hope that Miss Ingestre were still staying here. Your servant,

however, did not understand my German, or did not recognise the

name----"

"The latter is certain," Frau von Arnim interrupted calmly. "The girl

was not here when Miss Ingestre lived with us."

"Miss Ingestre has left, then?"

"Already--some months."

Captain Arnold rose abruptly. It was evident that his mission was at an

end.

"In that case I do not need to trouble you further," he said. "I came

on a mere supposition. Had I not travelled so quickly I should no doubt

have heard from Miss Ingestre herself, but I have been on the road night

and day, missing, apparently, every mail, and getting a good start on my

own letters. I shall now have to hurry on to England as fast as

possible."

"If you wish to meet Frau von Arnim your journey will be in vain,"

Hildegarde said. "She is at present in Berlin."

Arnold turned, and for the first time looked steadily at the speaker.

It was evident that the words had had no meaning for him, but there was

a curious, apparently causeless animosity and distrust in her steady

eyes which arrested his attention and aroused in him emotions of a like

nature. It was as though unconsciously they had hated each other before

all time, and that the hatred had now become a definite recognisable

quality.

"You spoke of Frau von Arnim," he said. "I am afraid I do not quite

understand."

Hildegarde shrugged her shoulders. The movement was slightly insolent

and utterly at variance with her usual gentle courtesy, but, like all

nervous invalids, she could be goaded beyond all self-control, and

something in this man's manner jarred on her as presumptuous,

overbearing, suggesting an impertinent familiarity with the woman who

was Wolff's wife.

"I think you must undoubtedly have missed your letters," she said;

"otherwise you would know that Miss Ingestre ceased to exist many months

ago."

The next minute she regretted her own clumsiness. The man's whole

bearing and expression had changed. His face was livid; it was obvious

that he had a hard task to control an extraordinary agitation.

"You must think me very stupid," he said, and his voice was painful to

listen to. "I beg of you to speak more clearly. You will perhaps

understand what it means to me when I tell you what you seem not to

know--that Miss Ingestre is to be my wife."

"Captain Arnold, you are labouring under some strange delusion. Miss

Ingestre is already married."

It was Frau von Arnim who spoke. She had advanced almost unconsciously,

and now stood half-way between him and Hildegarde, who had risen to her

feet.

Arnold said nothing. His eyes were fixed full on Frau von Arnim's face,

but his expression was absolutely blank, and he did not seem to see her.

She waited, too disturbed to move farther forward along the path of

inevitable explanation, and after a minute, in which the man's whole

moral strength seemed to be concentrated in the fight for self-mastery,

Arnold himself broke the silence.

"I can only believe that there is a misapprehension on both sides," he

said. "Are you speaking of Miss Nora Ingestre?"

"Of Miss Nora Ingestre that was."

"And you say she is already married?"

"In April--five months ago."

"To whom?"

"To Hauptmann von Arnim, at present officer on the Staff at Berlin."

"You are sure of what you say? There is no possible mistake?"

Frau von Arnim's brows contracted proudly. For a brief moment she had

sympathised with, and even pitied, his agitation. His rigid

self-control, entailing as it did an increased abruptness of manner,

impressed her disagreeably, hiding from her usually keen eyes the fact

that the man was really suffering. She answered therefore, with

considerable haughtiness:

"There is no possible mistake. You will see that for yourself when I

tell you that Herr von Arnim is my nephew, and that I myself was at the

wedding at Delford."

Arnold bowed. His expression was now normal, and it suggested no more

than the calm interest of an ordinary caller on an ordinary topic of

conversation.

"You are perfectly right," he said. "There is no possible mistake. I

am very grateful to you for your explanation."

He included Hildegarde in his curt salute, and turned towards the door.

Frau von Arnim detained him with a decided and indignant gesture.

"The matter cannot end there," she said. "You have suggested that Miss

Ingestre was engaged to you at the time of her betrothal with my nephew.

It is a suggestion intensely offensive to us all. It is now my turn to

point out to you that you are making a mistake--or worse."

Arnold coloured with anger.

"I am not likely to make a mistake of such magnitude," he said. "Of

your second insinuation I need take no notice."

"In that case I must ask you to be more explicit. I--we have a right to

an explanation."

"Excuse me--I fail to see that any one has a right in a matter which

concerns Miss Ingestre--Frau von Arnim, and myself alone."

"The matter concerns my nephew and us all."

Arnold smiled ironically.

"I regret that I cannot sympathise with your point of view," he said.

"In any case, I have no explanation to offer."

There was a blank silence. It was the more marked because it followed

on a sharp lightning-like exchange, kept within bounds of outward

courtesy only by the education and upbringing of the conflicting

personalities. Frau von Arnim, usually armed with a kindly wisdom which

had sympathy for all sorts and conditions of men, was brought nearer to

a display of uncontrolled anger than in all her life before. To her

mind, Arnold had, unwittingly perhaps, cast a slur upon the credit of

one who was a member of her family; and her family was Frau von Arnim's

fetish. He had done so, moreover, without offering proof or

justification, and the latter offences deepened his guilt, though their

omission would not have shielded him from her enmity.

Arnold, on his side, saw a haughty, domineering woman who claimed the

right to investigate a personal overwhelming calamity in which she had

no share, and with which he could as yet only grapple in blind,

half-incredulous pain. He disliked her instinctively, but also because

he could not understand the motives and principles which governed her

conduct towards himself. He continued speaking after a moment, and his

irritation was so intense that it helped him to overcome, almost forget,

his own misery.

"I think there is nothing more to be said," he observed, looking Frau

von Arnim coldly in the face. "It seems I have blundered, and it is only

right that I should bear the brunt of the consequences alone. I am sure

you will agree with me that it will be best for this--what has passed

between us--to be kept entirely to ourselves, to be forgotten. It can

only bring trouble to others, and, as I have said, I am alone to blame."

In spite of everything, he was thinking of Nora, seeking to shield her

from the results of his betrayal of a cruel duplicity.

Frau von Arnim was thinking of Wolff, and of the woman to whom he had

entrusted his happiness--above all things, their name.

"What you suggest is impossible," she said. "There are things one

cannot forget--at least not until they have been explained. We must

therefore look for the explanation."

"I have none to give," Arnold returned, with bitter truth.

"Then we must look elsewhere."

"It would be better to do as I suggest, and leave the matter alone, or

lay it to my account--to my own stupid muddle." He spoke hurriedly, for

he felt afraid of this woman, with her haughty, resolute face. It was

as though, unwittingly, he had roused to action a force which had passed

out of his control.

"If there is any shadow of wrong connected with my nephew's marriage, it

must be cleared," Frau von Arnim answered. "That is the only wisdom I

know."

Arnold bowed a second time, and went.

For a long time after he had gone the two women remained silent,

motionless, avoiding each other's eyes. The action seemed to imply that

nothing had happened.

Hildegarde had long since fallen wearily back upon her couch. She

roused herself then, and turned her white, troubled face towards her

mother.

"The man must be mad!" she said, almost violently. "Nora could never

have done such a thing. She is so frank and honest. She would have told

us from the beginning. I could have sworn that she never cared for a

man before she loved Wolff. I do not believe a word of it."

"Nor I," her mother answered calmly. "As you say, the man may be

mad--though he did not seem so--or there may really be some mistake.

But we must make sure, for our own peace of mind, and Nora is the only

one who can help us. Even so we must have patience and wait. We have

no right to trouble her so early in her married life with what, I pray,

may be a false alarm."

"You must ask her when we are in Berlin," Hildegarde said, in the same

sharp, determined tone. "I could not see her every day like that and

not know."

"You are quite right. When we are settled in Berlin I will tell her

everything that has happened. Until then we must believe the best."

"Yes, of course--believe the best," Hildegarde answered thoughtfully.

*CHAPTER V*

*THE CUB AS LION*

The express steamed in between the crowded platforms of the Potsdamer

Bahnhof, and from one of the windows of a carriage labelled "Vlissingen"

a rather sallow face and a loud voice announced the fact that Mr. Miles

Ingestre had made his triumphal entry into the Fatherland.

Nora, who had been threading her way through the crowd, with Wolff's arm

in hers, ran off and was received by her brother with that English

prosaicness which has the advantage of being equally admirable as

Spartan disguise for rich and noble emotions or as an expression of no

emotion at all.

"Hullo, old girl, how are you?"

"Very well, thanks. What was the journey like?"

"Might have been worse. There were a lot of beastly Germans in the

carriage, so of course the windows----" He caught sight of Wolff, who

had approached at a more leisurely pace, and his tone shaded down

somewhat. "Hullo, Wolff, how are you?"

They shook hands, and whilst the _Gepaecktraeger_ was bustling round in

the search for the new-comer's luggage, one of those painful silences

threatened to set in which are the ghosts at all meetings where joy is

too deep for words, or too shallow to stand much demonstration. Of the

three, Miles himself was the only one who was sincerely in high spirits.

They broke out in spurts and seemed regulated very much by how far he

was conscious of Wolff's presence. It was evident that his respect for

his brother-in-law had gone up several degrees since the afternoon when

he had criticised the latter's Karlsburg civilian clothes, though

whether that respect had its source in a juster appreciation of his

relative's character or in the knowledge that Wolff was now master in

his own country was hard to determine. Certain it is that he did his

best to be amiable after his own fashion.

"I assure you I have been simply wild to come," he said as they made

their way together towards the exit of the station. "It was as stale as

ditch-water at home, and I was getting fairly fed up with it all. So I

piled on my 'nerves,' as the pater calls them, and dropped a few hints

about the place, which the old man picked up quite brightly--for him.

He was really quite game about it, and sent all sorts of amiable

messages to you, Wolff."

"Thanks. By the way, how long does your leave extend? You seem pretty

liberal with that sort of thing in your Army."

Miles chuckled.

"My leave extends to all eternity," he said enigmatically, and then, as

he saw Nora's astonished face, he condescended to explanation. "I've

chucked the Army, you know. I thought the pater had told you. I was

fairly fed up with the drudgery and the routine of it all. It wasn't so

bad at first. It gave one a kind of standing, and as long as there was

plenty of money going a fellow could amuse himself fairly well. But

when the pater began drawing in the purse-strings I had enough of it.

Ugh! Imagine duty one half of the day and trying to make both ends meet

the other half! No, thanks!"

He shuddered, and Nora looked at him anxiously.

"Then what are you going to do afterwards?" she asked.

"Go into some business or other--something where one can make money as

fast as possible. By the way, Wolff, is it true that you are on the

general staff?"

"Yes; it is quite true, fortunately."

"I see--great gun. Hard work, though, I suppose?"

"Yes----" Arnim hesitated, as though on the point of making some

remark, and then added innocently enough, "Perhaps you would have found

it less of a drudgery than the usual routine, but scarcely remunerative

enough."

Miles glanced uneasily at his brother-in-law, and then subsided, to all

appearance suppressed, but Nora, who walked on his other side, caught a

fleeting grimace, which was all too easy to translate into Miles's

vernacular. She was secretly thankful when her husband had seen them

both into a cab and closed the door.

"I shall be home late to-night," he said. "Don't stay up for me, dear,

if you are tired."

He waited on the pavement until they drove off, and Nora's eyes sought

to convey to him an unusual tenderness. There was indeed something

remorseful and apologetic in her manner which she herself could hardly

have explained. For the first time she was conscious of being almost

glad that he was not coming home, and her sense of relief when at length

the _droschke_ actually started on its way was so keen that she felt

herself guilty of disloyalty. "It is only the first evening," she

thought in self-defence. "They are such strangers to each other. Wolff

might not understand Miles. It will be better when they know each other

and are friends."

"Where is Wolff to-night?" Miles inquired, breaking in upon her troubled

thoughts. "Any spree on?"

"It is his _Kriegsspiel_ night," Nora answered. "He has to go."

Miles chuckled sceptically.

"Rather good for us, anyhow," he said. "We can talk so much better,

can't we?"

Nora was thankful for the half-darkness. The angry colour had rushed to

her cheeks. And yet her brother's words, tacitly placing Wolff in the

position of an outsider as they did, were little more than a brutalised

edition of her own thoughts.

"I hate it when he is not at home," she said loyally. "Of course,

to-night it is different, but as a rule it is very lonely without him."

"But you have plenty of people who could come and see you?"

"Y--es. Still, there are evenings when there is no one."

"Well, you have got me now," said Miles consolingly. He was busy gazing

out of the carriage window, and for a time the bustling, lighted streets

occupied his whole attention. Nora made no attempt to distract him.

She was not feeling very happy not as happy as she knew she ought to

be--and the fact worried her. Presently they turned into a quiet street

and Miles sank back with a sigh of satisfaction.

"It seems a lively enough sort of place," he said. "I expect you have a

gay time, don't you?"

"I am very happy," said Nora, with unusual eagerness.

"Yes, of course, but I meant gay--dances and dinners and all that sort

of thing. The pater ran into some fellow who had just come back from a

trip to Berlin, and he said the officers had no end of a time--were

treated like the lords of creation, in fact, especially if they had a

bit of a title stuck on to their names. Wolff is a baron, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Nora abruptly.

"I thought so. Pater stuck him up a peg to this chap and said he was a

count. Barons aren't much in Germany, though. They're as common as

herrings."

"_They_ don't think so," Nora protested, hot with annoyance. "They

think a good deal of it."

"Yes--snobs. That's what this fellow said. However, I don't mind. The

good time is the only thing I care about, and you seem to have that all

right by your letters."

Nora's brows contracted. In a rapid mental review she passed over

everything she had ever written home, and reconsidered it in the light

of Miles's possible judgment. Frau von Seleneck gave dinners. There

were never more than four simple courses, whose creation, she proudly

admitted, was owed almost entirely to her own skill. The orderly waited

at table, and it was a standing joke that somebody's dress or uniform

had to pay for his too eager attentions. Nora remembered having written

home that she had enjoyed herself immensely, and she had written in

perfect truth. She had happened to like the people on that particular

occasion, and above all things Wolff himself had been there. This

wonderful fact of Wolff's presence was indeed sufficient to colour the

most dismal entertainment in Nora's opinion; but in Miles's opinion, she

felt with painful certainty, it would have less than no effect. He did

not love Wolff as she did, and without love her "brilliant life" might,

after all, be more correctly viewed as a hard if cheerful struggle

against necessity.

"There is always something going on," she said at length; "but you must

not expect anything too wonderful, dear. People in Germany live much

more simply than we--than in England, you know. And--we are not rich."

She made the last confession with an effort--not in the least because

she was ashamed, but because--Nora herself could have given no

explanation.

Miles laughed.

"I don't expect you live in a loft," he said.

Nora thought of their little fourth-floor flat and laughed too--also

with an effort for which there was no possible reason.

The droschke pulled up with a grind against the curbstone, and a gruff

voice informed them that they had arrived at their destination. Miles

jumped out and looked about him doubtfully.

"What a poky street!" he said, rather as though he thought the coachman

must have made a mistake. "Is this really your house?"

"Our flat is here," Nora said. "We--we like it because it is so quiet."

And then she was ashamed of herself, because she knew that she had not

been honest.

Miles showing no intention of paying the coachman, she paid him herself

out of her own slender purse, and they began the ascent of the narrow

stone steps which led to the heights of their _etage_. She knew that

Miles was rapidly becoming more puzzled, but she made no attempt to

elucidate matters--indeed, could not have done so. Never before had she

found the stairs so endless, so barren, so ugly. The chill atmosphere,

which yet succeeded in being stuffy, seemed to penetrate into every

corner of her heart and weight it down with a leaden depression. She

did not look at Miles when they stood crowded together on the narrow

landing, nor when her little maid-of-all-work, Anna, opened the door and

grinned a more than usually friendly welcome. She led the way into the

so-called drawing-room and switched on the electric light--their one

luxury--half-hoping that some miracle might have mercifully worked among

the plush chairs and covered them with a much-needed elegance. But they

stood as they had always stood, in spite of the most careful arranging

in the world--stiff and tasteless as though they had come out of the

front window of a cheap furniture shop--which, in point of fact, they

had--and would not forget that they were "reduced goods." Nora had a

kind of whimsical affection for them--they were so hopelessly atrocious

that it would have been uncharitable to criticise; but to-night

something like hatred welled up in her heart against their well-meaning

ugliness. She had felt much the same when Frau von Seleneck had first

visited her, but that lady had burst into such unfeigned raptures that

the feeling had passed. But Miles said nothing, and his silence was, if

exclamatory, not rapturous.

Nora turned to him. She was ashamed of her shame, but with all the will

in the world she could only meet his wide-open stare with a sort of

defiance which betrayed that she knew already what he was thinking, that

she had even foreseen it.

"This is the drawing-room," she said lamely. "We don't often use it,

though. It is not as--comfortable as the others."

"I should hope not," he said. He was looking around him with such real

and blank astonishment that poor Nora could have laughed if the tears of

bitter humiliation had not been so near the surface. Bravely, and with

the recklessness of one who feels that the worst is over and nothing

else matters, she pushed open the folding-doors.

"The dining-room," she said, as though she were introducing a poor

relation of whom she was trying not to be ashamed.

Miles inspected the imitation mahogany table and chairs with his

eyebrows still at an elevated angle, but now less with surprise as with

a supercilious disgust.

"Is this where you have your dinner parties?" he asked.

Nora heard and understood the irony, and it gave her back her nerve and

pride.

"Yes," she said. "We do not have them often, because we cannot afford

them. When we do we only have our best friends, and they find the room

big enough and good enough."

Miles made no further observation, though his silence was a work of art

in unexpressed things, and Nora led him to their little _Fremdenzimmer_.

She had prepared it with the greatest care. There was a jar of flowers

on the dressing-table, and everything smelt of freshness and

cleanliness, but she had not been able to stretch its dimensions, and it

was with unanswerable justice that Miles inquired where he was expected

to keep his things.

"You can keep one of your boxes under the bed," Nora said in some

confusion. "The others are being put in the corridor. I'm afraid

you'll have to go outside when you want anything. I am very sorry,

dear."

"That's all right," Miles said, with sudden and surprising amiability.

"I'll manage somehow."