Nora left him to make what toilette he chose, thankful to be alone for a

moment. She went straight back to the drawing-room and faced each chair

in turn with an unflinching eye. Her shame was over and her spirit was

up in arms. In that moment she cared nothing for Miles's opinion nor

the opinion of the whole world. This was her home--her and Wolff's

home--and he who chose to despise it could shake the dust off his feet

and go elsewhere. She could almost have embraced the ugliest chair, and

she was so proud of her own loyal enthusiasm that she did not recognise

it for what it really was--the last desperate refuge of her deeply

humbled pride. She went about her work singing to herself--a thing she

rarely did--and told herself that she was in excellent spirits. It cost

her no effort to leave the dining-room door open whilst she laid the

table. Let Miles see her! What did she care? And if he jeered and

asked if she waited at her own dinner parties or covered her little home

with the wealth of his contempt, had she not one triumphant answer?

"Small and poor it may be, but it contains everything I care for on this

earth!"

She felt so sure of herself that when her brother entered half an hour

later, she lifted a face from which a happy smile had brushed away every

sign of storm and conflict.

"How quick you have been!" she cried. "And, oh, Miles, what a

magnificent man!"

He laughed self-consciously and glanced down at his immaculate

evening-clothes.

"Not a bad fit, are they?" he said. "Poole's, you know. I suppose you

don't change here, do you?"

Nora flinched in spite of herself.

"We do when we can," she said, still cheerful; "but very often Wolff

comes back so late that he has no time to do more than wash and slip

into his _Litewka_. Poor fellow! He has to work so frightfully hard."

Again Miles said nothing, and again Nora felt that his silence was more

effective than the longest speech. But still borne on the high tide of

her enthusiasm, she went on arranging the knives and forks, and only her

burning cheeks betrayed that she was not so entirely at her ease.

Suddenly, to her complete bewilderment, she found Miles's arm about her

and her own head against his shoulder.

"Poor little Nora!" he said. "Poor little sister!"

Nora gasped. He had never been affectionate in his life before, and the

tone of manly tenderness was so new as to be almost incredible. She

threw back her head and looked into his face with mingled laughter and

wonder. He was perfectly serious, and for the first time it dawned on

her that there was a real change in him which went deeper than the

evening-dress, that he had in fact left boyhood behind him and assumed

something of the manners and bearing of a man, something, too, of his

father, the Rev. John Ingestre. Gradually her smile died away under the

undisturbed seriousness of his gaze.

"Why, what is the matter, Miles?" she asked. "I have never known you

like this before."

He bent his head and kissed her.

"It struck me when I was dressing that I had been a bit of a brute," he

said. "I am awfully sorry, dear. I had imagined everything so very

different that it fairly took my breath away, and I said--well, what had

no doubt been better left unsaid. I thought you had humbugged us and I

was inclined to be angry. When I thought it over I saw how it all was

and I was awfully sorry. Poor old girl!"

She caught her breath, seeking wildly for words to answer him, but none

came. She had been prepared for and armed against scorn, not against

this brotherly sympathy! Sympathy! What had she to do with sympathy?

Sympathy was an insult to Wolff--an insult to their love!

With an effort she tried to free herself.

"You don't understand," she stammered.

"Oh, yes, I think I do," he interrupted. "I understand all that you

won't tell me, because you are such a decent little soul; and I will say

this and no more: I wish to Heaven it had been another man, Nora, a fine

English fellow who would have given you a decent English home. I wish

it had been poor old Arnold----"

"Miles, let me go!"

She wrenched herself from his hands. She had seen what he had not

seen--Wolff standing in the open doorway, watching them with a curiously

pale, grave face. Had he heard, and if he had heard, had he understood?

Nora could not tell. Furious with Miles and with herself, she ran to

him and put her arms about his neck.

"Oh, how glad I am that you have come!" she cried incoherently. "You

are just in time for supper. How did you manage to get away so early?"

He kissed her upturned face. Lips and hands were icy.

"I got special leave," he said. "I thought"--a forced lightness

struggled through his gravity--"I thought it was not good manners to

desert my own table on the first evening. I am glad that I managed--to

come in time. I shall be ready in a minute."

He turned and went into his dressing-room, giving neither time to

answer. Nora stared blankly after him. She felt as though she had

allowed some one to strike him across the face without protest, and that

he had gone away, not angrily, but wounded--perhaps beyond her powers of

healing.

"What a pity!" she heard Miles say behind her. "I had looked forward to

our evening together."

Nora turned. In her anger and desperation, she could scarcely keep her

voice under control.

"Do not talk like that, Miles," she said. "What you think of Wolff does

not matter. I am his wife, and this is his home. Remember that!"

Miles put his hand in his pocket and smiled. His smile suggested a

perfect understanding.

"I have said what I want to say," he observed. "I shall not need to say

it again."

*CHAPTER VI*

*IN WHICH THE REV. JOHN RECEIVES A SHOCK*

A few days after his arrival, Miles wrote home in the following terms:

"MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

"I have landed safely, as you know by my telegram, and I expect you are

wondering why I have not written before. As a matter of fact, I wanted

to have a look round me to see how things were before I broke the news

to you. I tell you honestly, if it were not for Nora's sake, and

because, of course, I want to pick up some of the lingo, I should have

packed up my trunks and come home by the next train. You know how Nora

described things to us. You might have imagined them living in palatial

apartments with a footman and I don't know what to wait on them.

"Well, my palatial apartment measured eight by eight, and when I get out

of bed I have to take care that I don't fall out of the window or into

the water-jug. As to the footman, he is a scrubby-looking orderly, who

drops bits of potato down your collar whilst he is serving and can't

understand a word you say to him. So much for my share of the grandeur.

There are four other rooms and they have all about the same dimensions,

and have evidently been furnished out of some second-hand place by some

one who suffered from colour-blindness. As to the atmosphere! Imagine a

kitchen-range with the fat in the fire and you have an idea. Of course,

Nora, being English, keeps the windows open, but that's not much good,

because we look out on to houses in the front and dirty yards at the

back; in fact, I shouldn't think there was a breath of fresh air for

miles round. Well, I was fairly thunderstruck, I can tell you, and I

have been in varying stages of that condition ever since.

"My first dinner--I had an appetite like a wolf--would have made any

ordinary wolf turn tail. Nora said she had had to leave it to the cook,

and so everything had gone wrong. It _had_, and the only wonder is that

_I_ didn't go wrong afterwards. The soup was a miniature salt-lake, the

meat so tough I couldn't get my knife through it, and the pudding--I

never got to the bottom of that pudding, and I hope I never shall. It

was a ghastly meal; Wolff was as glum as an undertaker, and Nora as near

crying as she could be without coming to the real thing, and I wasn't

particularly sprightly, as you can imagine.

"However, at last I got to bed--or the thing which they call a bed--an

iron affair with no springs that I could find, and a rotten, puffed-out

air-cushion for a covering, which fell off five times in the night and

had to be fished up from the floor. At seven o'clock--seven o'clock if

you please!--I was thumped awake by the orderly, who had planted a

five-inch pot of lukewarm water in my basin. He jabbered a lot which I

didn't understand, and then of course I went to sleep again. At about

nine I yelled for my bath, and in came Nora, looking awfully tired and

worried. It seems she had been up ever since seven slaving at the

house--I mean loft--trying to get it shipshape before lunch. After a

lot of fuss I got hold of Wolff's hip-bath and had some sort of a wash,

getting down to breakfast at ten. Breakfast! Coffee and rolls! Coffee

and rolls! I wonder if I shall ever get a square meal again! Wolff had

already gone off and didn't get back till lunch, when we had a new

edition of supper (which, it appears, had been extra grand on my

account). He doesn't seem to mind what he eats, and is always talking

shop, which, I am sure, bores Nora as much as it does me.

"What a beastly lot these German fellows think of themselves and their

beastly army! He talks about it as though it were a sort of holy

institution compared to which nothing else mattered, and goes clattering

about the house with his spurs like a god on wheels. Thank Heaven he is

not at home much, or we should be having rows in no time. Yesterday,

for instance, I came down at ten for breakfast, and in the afternoon he

spoke to me about it as though I were a sort of raw recruit--said it

gave Nora a lot of extra work, and that he must ask me to be more

punctual. I held my tongue for Nora's sake, but I longed to give him a

bit of my mind in good English. I longed to ask him why, if he is so

keen on Nora being spared, he doesn't see that she has a proper cook and

housemaid, why he lets her work like a servant herself whilst he goes

off and amuses himself--as I know he does. He can't be badly off. His

uniforms are spotless, and he has a ripping horse, which he rides every

day. A lot of riding Nora gets--except now and again on borrowed

regimental hacks! As to the theatre, she has only been twice since they

were married--it's too expensive in Berlin forsooth! and I know for a

fact that she has not had a new dress. I suppose all Germans treat

their wives like that; but it makes my blood boil to think that Nora

should have to put up with it.

"As to their grand friends, I don't think much of them. They all seem

to live in the same poky style, and the dinner we were invited to the

other day fairly did for me. We sat something like two hours over three

courses, each one worse than the other, and the people shouted and

jabbered as though they were in a monkey-house. What with the food and

the bad wine and the row, I hardly knew whether I was on my head or my

heels. Wolff and I had a bit of a jar about it afterwards. He said it

was _gemuetlich_, or whatever the word is, and I said it was beastly and

that wild horses wouldn't drag me into such a show again, whereupon he

had the cheek to inform me that I probably wouldn't be asked and that he

thought it was bad form to criticise one's host because he didn't happen

to be rich. Nora was nearly in tears, so I held my tongue; but you can

guess what I felt like. Imagine that foreigner trying to teach _me_

good form! Of course, I know, mother, that you had a weakness for

Wolff, but you should see him in his own home--a selfish, bullying

martinet, whose head I should be heartily delighted to punch. Perhaps I

shall one day. Don't worry about me, though. I shall be able to look

after myself.

"There is one rather nice fellow here--a Captain Bauer, who has been

really decent to me and taken me about. He has rich relations with some

style about them--if you only knew what an oasis 'style' is in this

desert!--and I fancy they mean to give Nora and myself a good time.

Wolff tries not to show how wild he is about it, though why he should

mind I have no idea. Besides that, I have run up against some nice

English fellows, and when I can't stand things and feel in need of a

square meal, I go out with them and have a run round. In any case I

shall remain, for Nora's sake. At the bottom, I believe she is wishing

herself well out of the mess, and so I shall stay as long as possible to

help her."

In answer to this description of Nora's home life, the Rev. John wrote

to his daughter an epistle fulminating in grief, reproaches, sympathy,

and advice. Let it be said in praise of his epistolary abilities, that

without ever getting as far as "I told you so!" he implied that sentence

at least once on every one of the eight closely written sheets.

"My poor child!" he wrote at the close. "I cannot tell you how this

revelation has shocked and grieved me. Alas! I can hardly call it

revelation, for did not my father's instinct prophesy everything as it

has come to pass? I cannot but admire your noble silence, your generous

concealment of the true facts of your life. I can understand how you

wish to shield your husband from all reproach, and I am the last one to

attempt to turn you from your duty to him. Nevertheless, I beseech you,

give us your whole confidence. Let us help you to bear your burden, and

if it should grow too heavy, remember that your home awaits you and that

your father's arms are always open."

Mrs. Ingestre had added a brief note to this long oration. The

handwriting was less firm than of old, as though it had cost an effort,

but the short, concise sentences were full of strength and insight.

"Do you still love each other?" she asked. "For if you still love your

husband and he still loves you, I need offer neither sympathy nor pity.

You are to be envied, and I pray only that you will let no one--not even

those dearest to you--come between you and your great happiness. If

Miles is stupid and troubles you, send him home."

This little note was first wept over and then hidden away in a secret

drawer, but the letter went to the flames, thrown there by an angry,

indignant hand.

"How dare he!" Nora thought in a passion of resentment. "How dare any

one pity me!"

And she sat down in that same hour and wrote home a protest and a

defence which, it is to be feared, was often incoherent and still more

often lacking in respect. But her intention was clear. It was

condensed in the closing sentences:

"No one has the right to criticise my husband or my house. I love them

both, and for me they are the most perfect in the world. Those who

really love me will do well to remember this and spare me both advice

and misplaced sympathy."

After which this declaration of war, she went out to meet Wolff and

greeted him with a delight and tenderness which was almost feverish,

almost too marked. It was as though she were saying to herself: "See

how much I love him! And if I love him nothing else can matter."

*CHAPTER VII*

*WOLFF SELLS A HORSE AND NORA LOSES A FRIEND*

In the broad Exerzier-Platz of the Grenadier barracks a little group of

officers were watching the paces of a handsome chestnut thoroughbred,

which was being galloped and cantered past them for their inspection.

Occasionally they exchanged a terse criticism, but for the most part

they were silent, intent upon the business of the moment. The shorter

of the three men--a somewhat languid-looking captain of the

Hussars--followed the movements of the rider with a professional

admiration.

"Too bad, _Donnerwetter_! really too bad!" he exclaimed, as Arnim at

length rode up and swung himself out of the saddle. "That one fellow

should have brains and a seat like that as well is a direct injustice.

But you are wasted on the Staff, my dear Arnim; sheer wasted. They

don't know what to do with such material--the _langweilige Streber_! But

at the head of a Hussar squadron you would cut a figure--_auf Ehre_, I

would give a quarter's pay to have you with Us, and I know a

_Cavallerist_ when I see one. Here, let me try him. You would make an

old cab-horse step out!"

Wolff laughed shortly.

"By all means, Herr Graf," he said. "You will find that the credit of

the performance is more Bruno's than mine."

He stood aside and watched the Count mount and ride slowly off to the

other end of the square. His face had been flushed with the recent

exercise and the natural joy which a man takes in his own skill and

strength, but Seleneck, who was observing him closely, saw that the

momentary animation had covered over unusual weariness--even depression.

There were lines between the strongly marked brows which the elder man

did not like. They were new to Wolff's face, and betokened something

more than mere mental strain. They indicated trouble, and trouble also

of a new kind.

With an affectionate movement, Seleneck slipped his arm through Wolff's

and led him a little apart, as though to point out some special features

in the Count's equestrian performance. In reality he was indulging in

the grumble which had been choking him for the last hour.

"What a silly fellow you are!" he said. "You have a horse which most of

us would give our ears to possess, and you sell it for about half its

value. I could hardly believe my senses when I happened to come down on

you in the middle of the transaction. It was the shock of my life."

"Your life must be remarkably free from shocks, then," Wolff observed

grimly. "It was at any rate one that I had every intention of sparing

you."

"I have no doubt. You looked glum enough when I appeared. But that

makes it worse. It proves that you know you are doing a silly thing,

and are ashamed of it. Seriously, though, whatever has induced you to

part with Bruno? You told me only the other day that there wasn't

another horse like it in Berlin."

"That was perfectly true. But that is no reason why I should keep such

a paragon to myself."

Seleneck took another hasty inspection of his friend's face.

"Does it hurt to smile like that when you are losing your most treasured

possession?" he asked quizzically.

"You exaggerate things," Wolff returned, with a movement of impatience.

"If I find that I have no need of a horse in Berlin, that it is both a

trouble and an expense, there is no need to immediately adopt a tone of

high tragedy. Besides, Graf Stolwitz is giving a very fair price, from

his point of view. I cannot expect him to pay for my personal

attachment to his purchase."

"If I did not know you as I do, I should think you had been gambling,"

Seleneck said, in his turn slightly ruffled. "At any rate, I am not

going to stand by and see the deed. _Auf wiedersehen_."

Wolff's ears, quick to catch and interpret every shade of tone, had

heard the irritation in his friend's voice, and he turned quickly, as

though shaking off a weight of preoccupation.

"Forgive me, _lieber alter Kerl_," he said. "I'm a bear this afternoon,

and ready to snap off anybody's head. Don't take any notice of me. And

don't worry about Bruno. Everything has its reason."

"You are working too hard," Seleneck declared. "That's what's the matter

with you. I shall speak to your wife."

"Please do nothing of the sort," Wolff said firmly. "In the first place,

it isn't true; and in the second, it would only worry her. Every man

has his own battles to fight, and every man must fight them alone. Such

is the law of things, and I am no exception."

"If such _were_ the law of things I should have nothing more to say,"

Seleneck retorted, "but the man who will neither confide in his friend

or his wife is running full-tilt against nature, and must pay for the

consequences. If I did not let Elsa have her share of my fights, she

would be perfectly miserable--and with reason. I should be depriving

her of the one thing that keeps a woman happy--trouble."

Wolff laughed.

"You are an ideal couple," he said.

"And you--are you not an ideal couple?"

"Of course--ideal."

Seleneck waited a moment, as though he expected from Wolff's tone that

there was more to come, but the younger man remained silent, to all

appearances intent on watching the Count, who was walking his purchase

towards them. There was no irony or bitterness in his expression, but

also none of the happiness which one might have expected from the one

half of an "ideal couple," and Seleneck turned away with a sigh of

resignation.

"I think strategy and statistics and military secrets have gone to your

head," he said. "You are developing sphinx-like habits which are too

much for my childish intellect. Still, when you want me you will know

where to find me."

Wolff turned, as though struck by a sudden thought.

"I want you now, Seleneck," he said quickly. "At least, there is

something I want your advice about. You know, I suppose, that my wife's

brother is staying with us?"

"I heard something about it," Seleneck admitted, with a sudden

uneasiness. In truth, he had heard a great deal about it--from his

wife. Hitherto, neither Nora nor her brother had called at the little

flat, and this deliberate, inexplicable breach of etiquette had grown to

be something worse than a grievance in Frau von Seleneck's usually

pacific heart. But Seleneck knew himself to be no diplomatist, and held

his peace.

"Well, I fancy that time hangs pretty heavy on his hands. Of course, I

am too busy to do much in the entertaining line--and I have an idea that

I am too German for his taste. At any rate, my wife is very anxious

that he should see something more of Berlin life--the social life, you

know--and that he should have a--a good impression."

"I can quite understand that," Seleneck said slowly. "We'll do

everything we can. Let me see, Elsa was talking of giving a little

dinner next week. I'll tell her to include him in the invitation."

"Thank you," Wolff answered. He was staring hard in front of him, and

an uncomfortable flush had mounted his cheeks. "It's very good of you

both," he added, as though ashamed of his own lack of enthusiasm. "As a

matter of fact, Miles has found entertainment enough for the present.

He has picked up with Bauer, who appears to have some rich relations

here. My--my wife has got to know them too."

"Yes, so I heard," Seleneck observed grimly.

Wolff looked up, frowning.

"Is there any objection?" he demanded.

"I don't know, _alter Junge_." Seleneck hesitated, conscious again of a

failing diplomacy, but goaded on by a sense of duty. "The Bauers are

immensely wealthy, but they do not belong to our set, and Bauer himself

is not the sort of man to whom I should like to trust a young

fellow--or, indeed, any one," he added almost inaudibly.

"What do you mean by that?"

Seleneck faced the stern eyes with the courage of desperation.

"I mean--I feel I ought to tell you--your wife's intimacy with the

Bauers is causing ill-feeling. It is all nonsense, of course, but you

know how it is--people talk. Forgive me for putting it plainly--Bauer

has a bad reputation. They say he has already escaped dismissal from

the Army by a hair's-breadth. It is well to be careful." He waited a

moment, and then went on, "It has been on my mind some time, Wolff. I

felt I ought to warn you, but was afraid you might take it amiss."

Wolff shook his head.

"You have only told me what I already suspected," he said quietly; "and

of course, now that I know, I shall speak to Nora about it. She will

see how it is at once. It is all my fault--I should have taken more

care. And then, there is another thing----"

"Is it anything in which I can help?" Seleneck asked, as Wolff again

hesitated. "You know you have only got to say what it is. There need

be no humbug between us."

"No; that's true."

Seleneck waited patiently, seeing that whatever it was Wolff found it

hard to express the matter on his mind. He was digging his spurred heel

into the sand and frowning, not in anger, but with a curious shamefaced

embarrassment.

"It's this," he said at last. "You know how it was, Kurt, when we first

came here. Of course we did the duty round of visits and so on, and

went out in a quiet way, but we kept as clear as we could of the swell

affairs. I made my work the excuse, and it was quite an honest excuse,

though of course there were other reasons. Now I think it was a

mistake. I think, for my own advantage, I ought not to have refused

certain invitations--one gets a bad name at head-quarters--or is passed

over; and if it were possible I should like to get back on the lists

again----"

He stopped short, and Seleneck stared at him in puzzled silence. For

the first time he had the opportunity of studying Wolff in a state of

thorough confusion.

"Of course, that is easy enough," he said at last. "But all that sort of

thing entails heavy expense and----"

"I think the expense justified," Arnim broke in hastily. "I am

convinced that a certain outlay--a certain ostentation, if you like--is

necessary to a rapid career. And I should be immensely grateful to you

if you would help me."

"But your work--and the money?" Seleneck inquired bluntly.

"Both are my affairs," was the quick, irritable answer. The next minute

he repented, and held out an apologetic hand. "I don't know what is the

matter with me," he said. "I'm not fit companion for a savage. Don't

take me seriously, there's a good fellow, and lend me a helping hand

this once. I want it badly."

Seleneck shook his head.

"As you have just suggested, you know your own business best," he said

gravely, "and I shall certainly do what I can. My uncle, the General

Hulson, is giving a ball some time this winter. I and the wife aren't

going. We can't afford it. But I daresay I could get you invitations;

and once you are in the tide you will be able to swim on for yourselves.

All the same"--he laid a kindly hand on Wolff's shoulder--"I can only

tell you what you yourself know, that the officer who burns his mental

and financial resources at both ends is lost. _Es waere Schade um dich,

alter Junge!_"

Wolff smiled.

"Don't worry," he said. "I shall take care of myself, and, at any

rate--thanks for helping me."

The Hussar had by now finished his trial, and Seleneck, with a general

salute, hurried out of the barracks. He was a sensitive man who felt a

good many things acutely which his brain did not understand, and

something in his friend's manner caused him an unexplained distress. He

knew that Wolff had changed--his very actions were proof of the fact. It

was not like him to part with an animal to which he was attached with

the real affection of a good rider for a good horse; it was not like him

to seek steps to his advancement in the patronage of his superiors.

Wolff had never been a "place-hunter." Whilst always a favourite with

those under whom he served, he had not sought their favour by any other

means than his ready goodwill and the vigorous, unsparing fulfilment of

his duty. And now he was talking of dancing attendance at every

general's levee like any common _Streber_ for whom all means are good

enough so long as the end is attained.

Seleneck sighed as he hurried homewards. Yes, the change in his friend

was there right enough, and it had left its trace on the man's whole

bearing. He had been neither as frank nor as cheery nor as

self-confident as was his wont, and there had been a grim determination

in his voice and manner which warned against all interference. Above

all things, no laughter and forced good spirits had concealed the fact

that he was not at his ease. His whole newly born gravity had borne

more the stamp of the stiff-lipped recklessness of an adventurer than

the sober determination of a good soldier seeking a short cut to

success; and Seleneck, who felt for Wolff an ungrudging admiration,

boded no good for the future if the change continued. "I have seen a few

dozen fellows go like that," he thought to himself, "and it has always

ended in breakdown. Only in their case it was horses or cards, and I'll

wager that neither play any part in Wolff's trouble. I wonder what the

devil is the matter?"

He was still wondering when he reached home, after an unusually tedious

and disagreeable walk. More than once he had been tempted to take the

tram, in order to be quicker home to Elsa and the comfort of shifting on

to her willing shoulders the burden of his doubts; but the consideration

of expense held him back. After all, trams become too easily a habit.

Two trams a day cost 20 pf. and six days amount to 1.20, and 1.30 will

buy a bottle of Landwein good enough for the little "evenings" which one

is bound to give if one is a good comrade. So Freiherr von Seleneck had

walked, and those who had observed him had envied the immaculate uniform

and the lordly bearing, making no guess at the empty pockets of the one

and the entire innocence of the other. For lordliness and Seleneck were

unknown to each other; and if he bore himself with a certain unconscious

assertiveness, it was because he wore the King's uniform, and not in the

least because he thought himself a great man.

Somewhat to his surprise and disappointment, his wife was not at the

door to receive him when he arrived. The _Bursche_ who helped him off

with his coat told him the _gnaedige Frau_ had visitors and was in the

drawing-room. Thither Seleneck at once repaired. Usually a sociable

and hospitable man, he felt he could have dispensed with guests in the

one hour of the day when he was certain of his wife's undivided company,

but his slight annoyance evaporated as soon as he saw who the visitors

were. Nora herself occupied the sofa, and her fair young face, lit by a

faint, almost embarrassed, smile of greeting, inspired Seleneck with the

brilliant reflection that she had no doubt come to confide the trouble,

whatsoever it was, to his wife's sympathetic ears. The hope was

immediately dispelled, however, by Frau von Seleneck herself, who drew

his attention to the presence of a young man seated at the other end of

the room, nursing an elegantly booted foot with the air of profoundest

boredom.

"I do not think you have met before," she said. "This is Frau von

Arnim's brother--Mr. Ingestre."

Seleneck accepted the languidly outstretched hand with a feeling so akin

to alarm that he caught little more than a general impression of his

guest's appearance. It was not often that his good-natured, easy-going

wife rose to heights of real indignation, but when she did, the signs of

storm were not absent, and he had recognised them all too clearly in the

rather high-pitched voice and flushed face. Moreover, he became now

acutely aware of a certain strained politeness in the atmosphere which

had hitherto been unknown in the relations between the two women. Once

he even caught Nora's eyes fixed on his with such an expression of

trouble in their depths that he was convinced something unpleasant had

happened, and became almost indignant with his Elsa, who firmly refused

to allow the conversation to flow in any but the most cold and formal

channels. The young man took no part in the talk, halting and spasmodic

as it naturally became. He appeared to know no German; and as

Seleneck's English was of a limited description, intercourse between

them was more or less impossible. Seleneck took the opportunity to

study this new arrival, of whom he had indeed heard little that was

complimentary; but his cautious survey gave him no great satisfaction.

In truth, Berlin and the few weeks of unlimited freedom had not improved

Miles. He was, as always, scrupulously dressed and had a certain air of

the "man-about-town" which contrasted with his otherwise uneasy and

rather boorish manners. It was a little hard to imagine that he had

ever held a lieutenant's commission, still harder to believe that he was

Nora von Arnim's brother. There was no resemblance between the two, as

Seleneck noticed with satisfaction. Miles's face was round and sallow,

and he had a peculiar trick of furtively glancing about him which was

directly opposed to Nora's frank and at that moment defiant gaze. As a

matter of fact, though his critic did not know it, Miles had developed

on his father's lines, with the one difference that the Rev. John's

habits were those of a naturally nervous and diffident character,

whereas Miles, having no nerves to complain of, had still a rooted

objection to looking any one in the face. As he sat, alternately

staring at the carpet and casting curious, supercilious glances round

the poorly furnished drawing-room, Seleneck passed judgment on him.

"You drink, and can't stand it," he thought, and then, remembering

Bauer, added, "and probably gamble."

Which proved that Seneleck, though neither a diplomatist nor a

strategian, was at least something of a judge of character.

At that moment Nora rose hastily to her feet. The conversation had

languished beyond hope of recovery, and, moreover, she had seen

something in her host's expression which made her cheeks burn with a

curious mixture of shame and anger.

"We must really go," she said nervously. "We have stayed far too

long--I hope you will forgive us."

"It is always a pleasure to see you, _gnaedige Frau_," Seleneck answered

warmly. "You know that your welcome is always waiting you. And that

reminds me--we are giving a little dinner next week--quite _entre nous_,

you know--and of course it would not be complete without you and Wolff.

And your brother"--he turned to Miles with a bow, which was answered by

a blank stare--"I hope will do us the honour."

He had spoken with unusual kindness, because he felt that his thoughts

at least had not been altogether hospitable, and he had every desire to

atone to Nora as far as lay in his power. A cough from Frau von

Seleneck warned him that he had instead been guilty of a mysterious

_faux pas_. Nora's colour had deepened, and she was playing restlessly

with her gloves.

"It's very good of you," she stammered. "Frau von Seleneck has also

asked me--it was very kind. Of course I shall tell Wolff, and we will

let you know."

The puzzled officer saw a scornful, angry smile pass over his wife's

face; and feeling that he was altogether out of his depths, he kissed

the extended hand and prepared to show his guests to the door of the

flat.

At the general preparations for departure Miles Ingestre awoke from his

dreary contemplation of the imitation Turkish carpet and, extricating

one hand from his pocket, proffered it all round with signs of sincere

relief. Frau von Seleneck bowed and ignored the offer, and her farewell

with Nora was marked with a not less striking, if more inexplicable,

rigidity.

Five minutes later, when her husband returned from his host's duties, he

found her in floods of angry tears.

"_Mein liebes Kind!_" he exclaimed in despair. "Whatever is the matter?

Has anything serious happened?"

"I have been insulted in my own house!" the little woman retorted,

dabbing her eyes fiercely with a minute pocket-handkerchief. "I should

hope that was serious enough!"

"Insulted! By whom?"

"By that--that English creature!"

"Do you mean Frau von Arnim? But, _Menkenkind_!--she is your best

friend!"

"She is nothing of the kind. She is a conceited, pretentious,

arrogant--oh! I don't know what, but I know I hate her with all my

heart. And as for that brother----" With a determined effort she

swallowed down a torrent of adjectives and sobbed huskily instead.

Seleneck seated himself on the arm of her chair and patted her on the

shoulder.

"Perhaps one day you'll tell me all about it," he suggested, and waited

patiently for results.

After a moment, the desire to tell her story overcame the desire to have

a good cry, and Frau von Seleneck, leaning her head against her husband

and squeezing his hand violently at moments of more than usual

indignation, related the incidents which had led up to this climax. It

appeared, in the first place, that Nora had arrived at an entirely

inopportune moment.

"I was in the middle of making something extra for your supper," Elsa

von Seleneck explained. "I shan't tell you what it is, as it is a

surprise, and may still turn out all right, though I should think it was

very doubtful, because Bertha is such an unutterable fool. At any rate,

had it been any one else I should have been very angry, but as it was

Nora I didn't mind so much. I told Bertha to bring her into the

kitchen, but then she said she had brought her brother with her, so I

came out. Well, of course I wasn't as tidy as I might have been,

but--look at me, please, Kurt. Is there anything in my appearance to

warrant anybody giggling?"

Seleneck looked at his wife gravely. She was very flushed and hot, and

there was a suspicion of flour on the tip of her nose, which might have

aggravated a ticklish sense of humour; but Seleneck knew better than to

say so.

"Certainly not!" he said. "Who dared giggle, pray?"

"That--that boy!" Frau von Seleneck retorted. "Nora looked fearfully

upset, and at first I thought she was ashamed of him, but afterwards I

knew better--I knew she was ashamed of me!"

"My dear!" her husband protested.

"It's true--perfectly true. You wouldn't have recognised her. You know

how sweet she was when she first came--so nice and grateful and

simple--I really had quite a _Schwaermerei_ for her. Everybody

had--they couldn't help it. She won all hearts with her broken German

and her girlish, happy ways. Well, to-day she was intolerable--stiff as

a poker, my dear, and as disagreeable as a rheumatic old major on

half-pay. I couldn't get a friendly word out of her, and all the time I

could see her studying my dress and the furniture, as though she were

trying to find the prices on them. As for that boy, he went on

giggling. Every time I made an English mistake, he sniggered"--the

little woman's voice rose with exasperation. "He tried to hide it

behind his hand, but of course I saw, and it made me so angry I could

have boxed his ears!"

"Pity you didn't," said Seleneck. "_Dummer Junge!_"

"That wasn't the worst. I tried to be friendly. I asked them both to

dinner next week--and what do you think? She looked ever so

uncomfortable, and said she was very sorry, but she was afraid they

could not manage it. I don't know what excuse she meant to give, but

that--that boy went and blurted the truth out for her. It appears that

he had been to a dinner party last week and had been bored to

extinction. At any rate, he said that wild horses, or some such

creatures, wouldn't drag him to another business like that, and then he

set to work and made fun of everything. My dear, I don't know what

dinner it was, but it was exactly like ours will be--exactly, from the

soup to the cheese!"

Seleneck pulled his moustache thoughtfully.

"He wasn't to know that," he said in faint excuse.

"But Nora knew, and she never said a word, never even tried to stop him;

and when I said that I thought it was very bad manners to make fun of

people whose hospitality one had enjoyed, she flared up and said that

her brother was English, and that English people had different ways, and

couldn't help seeing the funny side of things--she saw them herself!"

Seleneck got up and paced about restlessly. The matter was more serious

than he thought, and an instinctive wisdom warned him that for the

present at any rate it would be better to keep his troubles about Wolff

to himself.

"I wonder what is the matter with them all?" he said at last. "Of

course, the brother is simply an ill-behaved cub, but I confess I do not

understand Frau von Arnim. She was always so amiable, and everybody

thought Wolff the luckiest fellow alive--except myself."

"I can tell you exactly what is the matter," his wife said more calmly

and with some shrewdness, "Marriage, after all, doesn't work miracles,

and Frau von Arnim is no more German than I am Chinese. She is English

right to the core, and at the bottom of everything she despises and

hates us and our ways. They are not good enough for her any more, and

she wants to go back to her own life and her own people. It was all

right so long as she was alone with Wolff in the first few months. One

didn't notice the gulf so much, but now she has her brother to remind

her and support her, it will widen and widen. See if what I say is not

true!"

"It's a very bad outlook for poor Wolff if it _is_ true," Seleneck said

gloomily. "He is absolutely devoted to her."

"Nevertheless, it will end badly," his wife answered, preparing to make

her departure. "It is I who tell you so. Race and nationality are

dividing oceans, and the man who tries to bridge them is a fool, and

deserves his fate."

And with these words of wisdom she disappeared into the mysterious

region of the kitchen.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*RISING SHADOWS*

Nora sat by the window and mended stockings. There was not very much

light, for although it was still early afternoon and the winter sun

stood high in the heavens, very few rays found their way into the

fourth-floor rooms of No. 22, Adler Strasse. As Miles had said more

than once, it was a poky hole. Nora remembered his words as she worked,

and she looked up and studied the tiny apartment with a wondering

regret. Yes; it was dark and poky; but why did the fact strike her so

clearly and so constantly? Why was she doomed to see everything and

everybody with another's eyes? For that was what had happened to her.

One short month ago, this place had been her paradise, her own

particular little Eden, and now it was a "poky hole"--because Miles had

said so and because her common sense told her that he was right. Had,

then, the magic which had blinded her against the reality ceased to act

its charm--or altogether lost its power? Surely not. Her eyes fell on

her husband's writing-table, with its burden of neatly arranged books

and papers, and something in her softened to wistful tenderness. In her

imagination she saw him sitting there, bent over his work in

all-absorbed interest. She saw the thoughtful, knitted brows, the

strong white hand guiding the pen through the intricacies of plans and

calculations, the keen, searching eyes which were never stern for her,

which, if they no longer flashed with the old unshadowed laughter, were

always filled with the same unshaken, unaltered love. And she in her

turn loved him. That she knew. There, and there alone, her brother's

barbed shafts had fallen short, or had broken harmless against the

steeled walls of defence. Her husband was still what he had always

been--the one and only man who had ever counted in her life. But there

was a difference. What the difference was she could not tell. Perhaps

just that change had come into her love which had come into his eyes.

It was still a great love, still unshaken, but it had lost the power of

glorying in itself, of being happy, of rejoicing in its own strength and

youth and unity. When Wolff entered the room her pulses quickened, but

it was with a curious, inexplicable pain, and when he went away she

breathed more easily. That most wonderful and rare of moments when they

had thought and felt and lived as though they were one mind, one body,

one soul had passed--perhaps for ever. They stood on different shores

and looked at each other over the dividing stream with sad eyes of love

and hopeless regret.

How had it all come? Whose fault was it? Poor Nora felt she knew. The

spectre had risen in the same hour when Miles had leant back in the

_Drotschke_ and sighed with relief because Wolff had not accompanied

them. She had been angry at first, but the rough words had revealed

something to her which she would never otherwise have believed,

something in herself which had lain dormant and which now awoke, never

to rest again. It was not Miles's fault. Had it been, she would not

have hesitated to follow her mother's advice. But to have sent him away

would be a sign of weakness--and it would be useless. The

evil--whatsoever it was--lay in herself. It had always been there, but

she had not recognised it. Miles had shown her what she must sooner or

later have seen for herself. She had married a stranger from a strange

land, and he had remained a stranger, and the land had not become her

home. That was the whole matter. That she loved him, that his country

had offered her love and welcome did not alter the one great fact that

the faintest cry, the faintest call from her own people had drawn from

her an irrepressible answer of unchanged allegiance. She loved Wolff,

but in every petty conflict between him and her brother her heart had

sided against him; she had had a sincere affection for the Selenecks,

and in cold blood she knew that Miles had behaved boorishly towards

them; but she had grown to hate them because they had shown their

disapproval, and because _he_ hated them.

In this strange, unseen conflict of influences Miles stood for more than

her brother; he stood for her whole race, for every inborn prejudice and

opinion, and his coming had revealed to her her own loneliness. She was

alone in a foreign land; she spoke a tongue which was not her tongue;

she lived a life in which she was, and must remain, a tolerated

stranger. Her seeming compliance had been no more than youth's

adaptability to a passing change. Her love and her ready enthusiasm had

blinded her, but Miles had torn down the scales from her eyes, and she

saw the life she lived as he saw it--as a weary round of dismal

pleasures, big sacrifices, endless struggle. She saw that her home was

poor and tasteless, that her friends were neither elegant nor

interesting, that they had other ideas, other conceptions of things

which to Nora were vitally important--that they were, in a word,

foreigners to her blood and up-bringing.

It had been a terribly painful awakening, and in her desperate flight

from the full realisation of the change in her she had broken through

the circle which hedged in her life, and sought her escape on the

turbulent sea of another, more gilded society. She had tried to

intoxicate herself with the splendour and popularity so easily acquired.

The Frau Commerzienrat Bauer had received her with open arms, had

showered upon her delicate and sometimes indelicate attentions; she had

been feted at the gorgeous entertainments given in her honour at the

over-decorated "palatial residence"; she had seen Miles's expression of

contemptuous criticism change for one of admiration, herself surrounded

by the adulation of men who, she was told, governed the world's finance;

she had heard the Frau Commerzienrat's loud voice proclaim her as "My

dear friend, Frau von Arnim"--and at the bottom of her heart she had

been nauseated, disgusted, wearied by it all. She had come back to the

close and humble quarters of her home with a sweet sense of its inner

purity and dignity, with the determination to make it the very centre of

her life. And then she had seen her husband's grave--as it seemed to

her, reproachful--face, the freezing disapproval of his circle, the

mocking satisfaction of her brother; and the momentary peace had gone.

She had felt herself an outcast, and, in hot, bitter defiance of the

order of things against which she had sinned, had returned thither,

where the opium flattery awaited her. But through it all she loved her

husband, desperately, sincerely. As she sat there bent over her work,

she thought of him in all the glamour of the first days of their

happiness, and a tear rolled down her cheek, only to be brushed quickly

away as she heard his footstep on the corridor outside.

"How tired he sounds!" she thought, and suddenly an immense pity mingled

with the rekindling tenderness, and shone out of her eyes as she rose to

greet him, like a reflex from earlier days.

He looked tired to exhaustion. The rim of his helmet had drawn a deep

red line across his broad forehead, and there were heavy lines under the

eyes. Nevertheless, his whole face lit up as he saw her.

"May I come in, Nora?" he asked, with a glance at his dusty

riding-boots. "We have been surveying, and I am not fit for a lady's

drawing-room; but if I tiptoed----"

"Of course you may come in," she cried cheerfully, thankful that the

light was behind her. "I have been waiting for you, and tea is quite

ready. Sit down, and I will bring you a cup."

He obeyed willingly, and followed her with his eyes as she bustled

around the room. It was like old times to find her alone, to see her so

eager to attend to his wants. When she came to him with his cup he drew

her gently down beside him, and she saw that his face was full of tender

gratitude.

"You kind little wife!" he said. "It's worth all the fatigue and worry

just to come back and be spoilt. What a long time it seems since we

were alone and since you 'fussed' over me, as you used to call it."

There was no reproach or complaint in his voice, and yet she felt

reproached. She lifted her face to his and kissed him remorsefully.

"Have I neglected you, Wolff?"

"Not a bit, dear. I only meant--of course, one can't go on being newly

married for ever, but it has its charm to go back and pretend; hasn't

it?"

"You talk as though we had been married for years!" she said in a

troubled tone. "And it is scarcely seven months."

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

on what happens."

She had her head against his shoulder, and suddenly, she knew not why

nor how, she was transported back to that magic hour when he had first

taken her in his arms and an unhoped for, unbelievable happiness had

risen above her dark horizon. In a swift-passing flash she realised

that this was the man for whom she had fought, who had been everything

to her, without whom life had been impossible, and that now he was hers,

her very own, and that she had been cruel, unfaithful, and ungrateful.

She flung her arms impetuously about his neck and drew his head down

till it rested against her own.

"Oh, Wolff, Wolff!" she cried. "Are you so very disappointed in me?

Has it only needed six months to show you what a hopeless little failure

I am?"

"You--a failure?" He passed his hand gently over her hair. "You could

never be a failure, and I should be an ungrateful fellow to talk of

'disappointment.' You are just everything I thought and loved, my

English Nora."

The name aroused her, startled her even. Was it only because it

emphasised what had already passed unspoken through her mind, or was it

because it seemed to have a pointed significance, perhaps an intended

significance?

"Why do you call me 'English Nora'?" she asked, with an unsteady laugh.

"I am not English any more. I am your wife, Wolff, and you are _ein

guter Deutscher_, as you say."

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

"Yes, I am German, bone and blood," he said. "That's true enough. And

you are my wife. I wonder, though----"

He stopped, and then suddenly he bent and lifted her like a child in his

arms and carried her to the big chair opposite.

"Now I can see you better," he said quietly. "I want to ask you

something which your face will tell me better than your words."

He had fallen on one knee beside her and was looking her earnestly in

the eyes. She bore his scrutiny, but only with a strong effort of the

will. She felt that he was looking straight into the secret places of

her heart, that he was reading the pain that her words, "I am not

English any more," had caused her and how little they were true.

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

disappointed?"

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

"All too easily--sometimes I think inevitably. I am not blind, Nora. I

see how petty and small your life must be compared to what you perhaps

thought--to what might have been. The people you meet are accustomed to

it all--at least they have learnt to make the best of what little they

have; but you have come from another world and another life. You are

accustomed to breadth and light and freedom. You have never known this

brilliant poverty which we know so well, and it is hard on you--too hard

on you. I have never seen it all so clearly as I see it now. If I had

seen it then I would have trampled my love for you underfoot rather than

have asked so great a sacrifice. But I was blinded--I did not

understand----"

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

"No, Nora. You have been very brave and good, but I have seen, and I

have reproached myself bitterly--terribly. When I came in to-night and

saw that you had been crying, I felt that I would do anything--that I

would give you up----"

He stopped short, and with a pang of indescribable pain she felt that

this soldier kneeling at her feet was fighting for his voice, that his

quick, broken sentences had been the outburst of a long-suppressed and

bitter struggle.

"I love you, Nora," he stammered roughly. "I love you with my life and

soul and body, but if your happiness required it I would give you up--to

your people----"

"Wolff!" she interrupted passionately.

"Listen, dear. I am not talking at random. I have thought it all over.

If I cannot make you happy, I will not make you unhappy. I will do

everything a man can do to atone for the one great wrong. Only tell me,

whilst I have the strength to part with you----"

He stopped again, and she felt that he was trembling. There was

something infinitely pathetic in his weakness, something which called to

life not only her love for him as her husband but a wealth of a new and

wonderful tenderness such as a mother might feel for a suffering child.

She put her arms about him and drew his head against her breast. For

that moment she forgot everything save that he was miserable and that

she had made him so.

"I will never leave you of my free will," she said. "Never! You will

have to chase me away, and then I shall come and sit on the doorstep and

wait for you to let me in. Oh, Wolff, my dearest, what foolish things

have you been thinking, and how long have you been brooding over them?

Don't you know that I could not live without you?"

He lifted his face, searching hers with keen, hungry eyes, in which she

read doubt and a dawning hope.

"Is that true, Nora?"

"Yes; it is true!"

"Be honest with me. Am I so much to you that you can be happy with

me--with my people and in my home and country?"

He had asked the question which she had asked herself in moments of

pitiless self-examination, but, like her, he asked it too late. She

answered now earnestly, passionately, swept beyond all selfish

considerations on a tide of deep, sincere feeling.

"Yes, I love you enough, Wolff. And if there have been any regrets, any

longings which have caused you pain, forgive them, my husband--above

all, understand them. They will pass--they must pass, because, at the

bottom, you are my all in all."

He made no answer. He lifted her hand to his lips, and in the movement

there was a joy, a gratitude deeper than words could have expressed.

She felt that she had satisfied him, and she, too, felt satisfied.

Thus they sat silent together, hand clasped in hand, his head against

her shoulder, whilst peace and a new happiness seemed to creep in about

them with the evening shadows. And in her young hope and confidence

Nora believed in this new happiness as she had believed in the old. It

seemed so strong, so invulnerable, the obstacles so petty, so mean.

They had been swept aside in a moment, like sand-castles before the

onrush of the sea, so that it seemed impossible, absurd, that she could

ever have thought of them as insurmountable. And yet, though heart and

mind believed in the change, another wider, less definable sense, which

we call instinct, remained doubtful and fearful. It was the one sign

that all was not as it had once been, that they had only outwardly

regained the past. Once they had lived for the future, longing for it

in their extravagant youth as for a time which must reveal to them new

wonders and joys. Now they clung anxiously to the present, scarcely

daring to move or speak lest the peace, the outward semblance of unity,

should be destroyed. Thus they sat silent together, each apparently

plunged in his own untroubled reflections, each in reality fighting back

thought as an enemy who might overshadow their victory.

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

gave them to her.

"The postman met me on the stairs," he said. "One is a disappointment

and the other the fulfilment of a wish. Which will you have first?"

"The disappointment," she said, turning over the letters anxiously. "I

always keep the _bonne bouche_ for the last. But it has grown so dark

that I cannot see. You must tell me what is in both."

"The one is from Aunt Magda," he answered. "It seems that the doctor has

ordered Hildegarde a longer trial of the baths at Baden-Baden, so that

their coming will be postponed a week or two at least. I am very sorry.

I had looked forward to the time when you would have them--to help you."

It was the one faint intimation that he knew that she still needed help

and that all had not gone well in the short period of their married

life. Nora's face fell. Her very real disappointment proved to her how

much she had longed for the two women who had always been her friends,

even in the darkest hours. She loved them as mother and sister. She

had never felt for them the antipathy, the enmity which had grown up

between her and the Selenecks, and, in lesser degrees, between her and

all the other women of her husband's circle, and she had longed for them

as for a refuge from her increasing isolation. And now they were not

coming--or, at least, not for some weeks. She was to be left alone

among these strangers, these foreigners, with only Miles to support and

uphold her. Only Miles? She remembered her husband with a pang of the

old remorse, and she bent and kissed him as though to atone for some

unintentional wrong.

"I am sorry they are not coming," she said; "but perhaps the baths will

do Hildegarde good, and as for me--why, have I not got my husband to

turn to?"

Wolff laughed happily.

"After that pretty speech, I must hold out some reward, so that the

practice may be encouraged," he said, waving the second letter in

triumph. "Behold! His Excellency General von Hulson has done himself

the honour to invite his future colleague, the Captain von Arnim,

_nebst_ his beautiful _Gemaehlin_ and honourable brother-in-law, to a

ball on the 17th of next month. Now, are you satisfied?"

"How good you are to me, dear!" She kissed him, guiltily conscious that

her joy had been but a poor feigning. Now, for the first time, she

realised clearly how far she had drifted from her husband's circle. She

shrank from that which had once been the goal of her ambition. Wolff

laughed at her, mistaking the cause of her hesitation.

"Verily, I am growing to be a wise husband!" he said gaily. "Are all

the fine dresses worn out, that my wife's fair face should be so

overcast? Well, there! Is that enough to cover future expenses,

Vanity?"

He had pressed a little bundle of paper-money into her hand, and she

looked at it, dazed with surprise. She did not know that it was Bruno's

price which he had given her, but again her eyes filled. She pitied him

in that moment more than herself.

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

"It's not generosity, little woman. It's only right that you should

have change and gaiety. You must not think that I do not understand how

dull and dreary it must sometimes be. I do understand--it goads me

sometimes to think how little I can do. Perhaps one day it will all be

better--when I am Field-Marshal, you know!"

He tried to laugh, but somehow a certain weariness rang through his

laughter. She heard it, and remorse mingled with her pity.

"You must not worry about all that," she said gently. "I must be a poor

kind of wife if I am not satisfied as I am." She repeated her words to

herself, and felt that there was bitter truth in them.

For a moment Wolff remained silent. She thought he was resting, but

presently he spoke again, and she knew that he had been preparing

himself to approach a graver subject.

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

to promise."

She looked anxiously down into his face.

"What is it, dear?"

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

"Why?"

The one word sounded a defiance. Wolff rose from his kneeling position

and stood at her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.

"Because he is a man I do not trust. It is not my way to speak against

a comrade or to accuse lightly, but I have sure reason for asking what I

do of you. No man and no woman is the better for Bauer's friendship."

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

She was angry now--without just cause or reason, simply because she saw

in him the embodiment of all the prejudices of the class which had dared

to look askance at her. A grave smile passed over her husband's face.

"You know I trust you, Nora; but in our position we must avoid even the

appearance of evil. Not so much as a breath of scandal must tarnish my

wife's name."

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

"----who is myself," he added.

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

"It is not only of you I was thinking, Nora. There is Miles to be

considered. He is very young, and possibly easily influenced. No one

can tell into what difficulties--what temptations he might be led by

unscrupulous hands. Surely you sympathise with me in this?"

"My brother is no more likely to act dishonourably than myself," she

answered, and again it was her race rather than Miles that she defended.

"Nor do I believe Captain Bauer to be the man you describe. He has been

very kind to me, and I know to what influence I must ascribe your

prejudices. The Selenecks have always hated my--my friendship with the

Bauers. No doubt they told you that the Commerzienrat has stolen his

wealth."

She regretted her words as soon as they had been spoken. In her angry

conviction that her conduct had been criticised--perhaps justly

criticised--she had allowed herself to say more than she had meant, more

even than she believed to be true.

"You are not just to me, Nora," Wolff answered quietly. "I have said

nothing against the Bauers--I know nothing against them. But they are

very rich, and it is their wealth which makes your association with them

undesirable. We are poor--our friends are poor. We cannot entertain as

they do. And we belong to another class--not a better class, perhaps,

but one with other aims and other ideals. You cannot belong to both."

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

scornfully.

"Perhaps I do--perhaps you do, when you are honest with yourself, dear.

You must know that the Bauers' friendship for you is not wholly

disinterested. It sounds rather brutal; but those sort of people who

talk of money as the one thing that counts and pretend to scorn family

and titles are just those who are most anxious to have a titled name

among their visitors."

Nora started as though she had been stung.

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

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

"Nora, you can't think it gives me pleasure to spoil anything for you.

Won't you trust me? Won't you give me your promise?"

She looked at him; she was honest enough to acknowledge to herself that

he had been right, but above all, his patience, his quiet tone of

pleading had moved and softened her.

"I give you my promise, Wolff."

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

all I can."

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

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

to the Hulsons."

He looked at her in blank surprise. He had sold his favourite horse to

satisfy her needs, he had humbled his pride, laid himself open to the

accusation of being a "place-hunter" in order to be able to lead her

into the brilliant world after which she had once craved, and now that

the sacrifices had been brought she would have none of them. He did not

understand--as how should he have done?--that she saw in his action an

attempt to bribe her, in his gift a sweetmeat offered to a disappointed

child. He felt, instead--though he would not have admitted it even in

his thoughts--that she had been capricious, inconsiderate.

He turned away and went over to the writing-table, throwing down the two

letters with a gesture of weariness.

"We must go now, whether we want to or not," he said. "I have worried

for the invitation, and it is impossible to refuse. The Selenecks would

have every right to be offended."

"They are that already," Nora said bitterly.

"Perhaps they have some reason to be, dear." He spoke quietly, but he

had implied that the fault was hers, and the angry blood rushed to her

cheeks.

"The Selenecks are absurd and ridiculously sensitive," she said. "They

have chosen to take offence at nothing, and----"

"Nora, they are my best friends!"

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

"Yes, I think so."

"And if I do not like them--if I find their manners and ways too

different to mine--what then?"

There was a faint sneer in tone and look which was intentional, and

which she knew was undeserved, but she could not help herself. She

hated the Selenecks and the whole crowd of small military nobodies

struggling for advancement and their daily bread. Why should she be

forced to live her life amongst them?

Wolff made no answer to her question. He was sufficiently calm to feel

with its full poignancy how fleeting and unstable their newly won

happiness had been. The barrier was raised again--the more formidable

because it had been once so easily overcome. Yet, with the tenacity of

despair he clung to the appearance of things, and kept his teeth

tight-clenched upon an angry, bitter retort. He was spared all further

temptation. The door-bell rang, and he turned to Nora with a quiet

question as though nothing had happened.

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

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

She, too, had recovered her self-possession and was grateful to him for

having ignored her outburst. Nevertheless she knew that he would not

forget, any more than she would be able to do.

"Where has he been, do you know?"

"I am not sure. He found it very dull here, and went out with some

English friends he has picked up. Is there any harm in that?"

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

averted.

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

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

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

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

He had no opportunity to reply. The door opened, and their little

maid-of-all-work entered, bearing a card.

"A gentleman to see the _gnaedige Frau_," she said. "Shall I show him

in?"

Nora took the card. She looked at it a long time. Even in the

half-darkness her pallor was so intense that it caught Wolff's

attention. He saw her stretch out her hand blindly as though seeking

support.

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

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

hardly saw him.

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

The sound of her own voice seemed to bring her to her senses. She

handed him the card, and her manner from stunned bewilderment changed to

something that was intensely defiant. There was a moment's silence.

Then Arnim turned to the waiting servant.

"Show him in here," he ordered.

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

"An old friend--who has come so far to see you? You surely cannot do

otherwise. Besides, why should you not want to see him?"

He looked at her in steady surprise, so that the suspicion which for one

moment had flashed up in her mind died down as quickly as it had come.

_He did not know--he could not know_. But the consciousness of coming

disaster weighed upon her like a crushing burden.

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

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

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

threshold.

*CHAPTER IX*

*ARNOLD RECEIVES HIS EXPLANATION*

A great physical change had come over him in the few months of his

absence. He was pale and gaunt-looking, as though he had but lately

risen from a serious illness, and his eyes, which fell at once on Nora's

face, were hollow and heavily underlined.

Nora noticed these details with the sort of mechanical minuteness of a

mind too stunned to grasp the full magnitude of the situation. One side

of her intellect kept on repeating: "Why has he come? Why has he come?"

whilst the other was engrossed in a trivial catalogue of the changes in

his appearance. "He stoops more--he is thinner," she thought, but she

could not rouse herself to action. Arnold, indeed, gave her little

opportunity. After the first moment's hesitation he advanced and held

out his hand.

"I ought to have let you know of my coming, Nora," he said, "but I could

not wait. I have just arrived in Berlin, and of course my first visit

had to be to you. I hope I have not chosen an inconvenient time?"

He was trying to speak conventionally, and was successful, insomuch that

Nora understood that she had at present nothing to fear from him. Not

that she felt any fear now that the first shock was over. It was with a

certain dignity and resolution that she looked from one man to the

other.

"This is my husband, Robert," she said, "and this, Wolff, is my old

playfellow, Captain Arnold."

Wolff held out his hand frankly.

"I am glad to meet you," he said. "I am glad for my wife's sake when

she has the chance of seeing her old friends. I hope, therefore, that

your stay in Berlin is to be a long one?"

Arnold bowed.

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

circumstances."

"May the circumstances be favourable, then!" Wolff returned. His tone

was warm--almost anxiously friendly, and Nora looked at him in surprise

and gratitude. His smiling face betrayed no sign of the devil which he

had grappled with and overcome in one short moment of struggle. He

nodded cheerfully at her.

"I am afraid you must play hostess alone for a little, dear," he said.

"Captain Arnold, as a soldier you will understand that duty can't be

neglected, and you will excuse me. I have no doubt you will have a

great deal to talk about, and at supper-time I shall hope to have the

pleasure of meeting you again. Whilst you are in Berlin you must

consider this your _pied-a-terre_."

"You are very kind," Arnold stammered. Like Nora, he too was

impressed--uncomfortably impressed--by the impetuous hospitality with

which Wolff greeted him. Like Nora, also, he had no means of knowing

that it was the natural revolt of a generous nature from the temptings

of jealousy and suspicion.

Wolff had lighted a small lamp, which he carried with him to the door,

together with a bundle of documents. For a moment he hesitated, looking

back at Nora, and the light thrown up into his face revealed an

expression of more than usual tenderness.

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

Nora smiled mechanically. She had had the feeling that the words were

nothing, that he had tried to convey an unspoken message to her which

she had neither understood nor answered. She gave herself no time to

think over it. She switched on the electric light, and turned to

Arnold, who was still standing watching her.

"Sit down, Robert," she said. "As Wolff said, we have a great deal to

say to each other--at least, I fancy you have come because you have a

great deal to say to me."

Her words contained a slight challenge, which, the next moment, she felt

had been out of place. Arnold sank down in the chair nearest to hand.

It was as though he had hitherto been acting a part, and now let the

mask fall from a face full of weary hopelessness.

"You are right," he said. "I have something to say, Nora--I suppose,

though, I ought to call you Frau von Arnim?"

"You ought," she answered, irritated by his tone. "But it does not

matter. I don't think Wolff minded."

A grim smile passed over Arnold's lips.

"Wolff seems a good-natured sort of fellow," he said. There was again

something disparaging in his tone which brought the colour to Nora's

cheeks.

"He is everything I could wish," she answered proudly. And then the

hollow cheeks and sunken eyes reminded her that she had done this man a

cruel injury, and her heart softened with pity and remorse.

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

"Very ill," he answered. "I caught some swamp fever or other out there

in the wilds, and it was months before they could get me back to the

coast. That is why you never heard from me. As soon as I reached port

I set straight off for home--to you."

"To me----!" she repeated blankly.

He nodded.

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

"Then you never got my second letter?"

"Did you write a second letter?"

He was looking her earnestly in the eyes, and there was a stifled,

tragic wretchedness in his own which was terrible to look on.

"I wrote and explained everything," Nora, answered, controlling her

voice with an effort. "I have behaved badly to you, but not so badly as

to leave you undeceived."

"You sent me an explanation," he said slowly. "Nora, it is that

explanation which I have come to seek. When I first heard of your

marriage, I made up my mind that you were not worth suffering for. I

thought that I would go back to the forest and forget you--if I could.

I meant never to see you again--I felt I could not bear it. But, Nora,

a man's love is not only a selfish desire for possession. If he loves

truly, he puts into that love something of himself which is a vital part

of his life and being--his ideals and his whole trust. I suffered--not

only because I had lost you, but because I had lost my faith in every

one. You seemed so good and true, Nora. I felt I could never trust

another woman again. That was unbearable. For my own sake I had to come

and ask you--if you could explain."

He stopped abruptly, and there was a little silence. He had spoken

without passion, simply in that weary monotone of those who have risen

from great physical or mental suffering; and Nora's heart ached with the

knowledge that she alone had brought this ruin upon him.

"You said, 'When I first heard of your marriage,'" she began at last.

"When and how was that?"

"From Frau von Arnim," he answered. "I thought you might still be with

her at Karlsburg, and the place lay on my route. It was Frau von Arnim

who told me."

"Then--she knows everything?"

He saw the alarm on her face.

"As much as I know. Forgive me, Nora; it was inevitable--I could not

believe what she told me. I am the more sorry because she is a hard,

cold woman who will make trouble. That is another reason why I have

come. I wanted to warn you."

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

"You misjudge her," she said. "She will forgive and understand, as you

must. Oh, Robert, it makes me miserable to think I have caused you so

much pain, but if I had to live my life again I could not have acted

otherwise than I did!"

Her voice had grown firmer, and as she spoke she turned from her

position by the window and faced him with quiet confidence.

"I acted for what I believed to be the best, Robert," she said. "It was

perhaps wrong what I did, but I did not mean it to be--I meant to be

just and honourable. But I was not strong enough. That was my one

fault."

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

watched her.

"I am glad," he said. "I am glad that you can explain. That is all I

have come for, Nora--to hear from your own lips that you are not

ashamed."

"I am not ashamed," she answered steadily. And then, in a few quick

sentences she told him everything that had led up to that final moment

when Wolff had taken her in his arms and the whole world had been

forgotten. As she spoke, the past revived before her own eyes, and she

felt again a faint vibration of that happiness which had once seemed

immortal, indestructible.

"I did not deceive you," she said at last, with convincing sincerity.

"I wrote and told you that I would marry you--not that I loved you. I

knew I did not love you, because my love was given elsewhere. I loved

Wolff already then, but there was a barrier between us which I believed

to be insurmountable. I consented to become your wife because it seemed

the best and safest thing to do. Afterwards--it was almost immediately

afterwards--the barrier proved unavailing against our love, and I forgot

you. That is the brutal truth. I forgot you until it was too late,

because, you see, I did not feel more for you than friendship, and

because I really loved. That was weak, no doubt, but I had never loved

before, and it was too strong for me. A wiser woman would have waited

until she was free. She would have written to you and told you that it

was all a mistake. I wrote to you afterwards. That is the only

difference. The letter did not reach you, and you believed the worst of

me. It was only natural, and I know I am to blame, but oh! if you

really love, surely you can understand?"

He smiled at her unconscious cruelty, and, rising, took the outstretched

hands in his.

"I do understand," he said, "and the blame is all mine. I should never

have accepted your generous gift of yourself without your love. I might

have known that it would end badly. But you were so young, dear. I

thought I should be able to teach you to love. Well, some one else was

cleverer and had a better chance, perhaps, than I had. I have no right

to blame, nor do you need to feel any remorse on my account. The worst

wound is healed now that I can understand. My one prayer is that you

may be very, very happy." He studied her upturned face. "You are

happy, aren't you, Nora?"

For the shortest part of a minute she wavered. She repeated the question

to herself and wondered.

"Yes, of course I am happy," she replied almost impatiently. "Why

should I not be?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I am over-anxious for you. You see"--his faint

smile betrayed how deep his emotion was, in spite of all

self-control--"I still love you."

"I am glad," she answered frankly. "I care for you too, Robert, quite

enough to make me very sad if I should lose your regard. It made me

miserable to think that you probably hated and despised me."

"I never did that, though I believe I tried," he said. "And now that I

may not give you my love, I may at least feel that I am your friend?

Grant me that much, Nora. It is very little that I ask--your trust and

friendship."

It was indeed very little that he asked, and he had been more generous

to her than she could have ever dared to hope. And yet she hesitated.

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

He was pleading as a beggar might have pleaded for the crumbs beneath

the table, and all that was generous in her responded. The hesitation,

the vague uneasiness passed. She gave him her hand.

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

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

come into my life."

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

spoilt your life."

"But you haven't, Nora. You are just the only woman I could ever have

loved, and if I had not met you I should be even lonelier than I am. At

least I have your friendship."

His tone was composed, almost cheerful, but she felt that he was at the

end of his strength, and when, after a quick pressure of the hand, he

went towards the door, she made no effort to recall him. Her own voice

was strangled, and perhaps her face revealed more than she knew, more

than she was actually conscious of feeling--a regret, an appeal, an

almost childish loneliness. As though answering an unexpected cry of

pain, he turned suddenly and looked at her. He saw the all-betraying

tears, and the next minute he had come back to her side and had taken

her hands and kissed them.

"You must not!" he said gently. "You are to be happy--as I am. Forgive

me; it is the seal upon our friendship--and a farewell."

She had not resisted. She would have forgiven him, because she

understood; she would have put the moment's surrender to passion from

her memory as something pardoned, but fate took the power of forgiving

and forgetting from her. For the door had opened, and Miles stood on

the threshold, watching them with an expression of blank amazement on

his flushed, excited face.

Arnold turned, too late conscious that they were not alone, and Miles's

amazement changed to a loud delight.

"If it isn't old Arnold!" he exclaimed, flinging coat and hat on to the

nearest chair and stretching out an unsteady hand. "Why, we thought you

were dead and buried in some African wilderness, didn't we, Nora?"

"You were not far wrong, then," Arnold answered. "I was pretty well done

for once, and am only just beginning to feel that I really belong to

this world again." He had recovered his self-possession with an effort,

and he went on quickly, almost as though he were afraid of Miles's next

words: "I was on my way home, and took Berlin as a break. Of course I

had to come and see you all."

Miles nodded.

"Decent of you," he said thickly. "Nora will be glad to have you in

this foreign hole. It's a sickening shame----" He stumbled and reeled

up against Arnold with an impatient curse. The momentary excitement

over the unexpected arrival had passed, leaving him bemuddled, in a dull

but unmistakable state of intoxication. Arnold took him by the arm and

helped him to the nearest chair.

"You are a young fool," he said good-naturedly. "German beer isn't so

harmless as you seem to think. What have you been doing with yourself?"

Miles passed his hand over his forehead with a helpless movement, as

though he were awakening from a dream.

"It's not the drink," he stammered. "It's not the drink, I tell you.

It's--it's the money. I'm in a devil of a mess. These dirty

foreigners----"

"Oh, hush!" Nora cried. For the moment disgust and anger had passed.

She had heard Wolff's footstep in the adjoining room, and a sudden

terror had come over her. "Robert, take him away--quick! And come back

afterwards--Wolff may not ask for him whilst you are here. Oh, help

me!"

Arnold nodded silently. He lifted the hapless Miles and half dragged,

half carried him from the room. He had no thought as yet of the future.

It had been revealed to him in a flash that all was not well in Nora's

life; he had seen something like despair in her face, and knew that she

needed the strong hand of a friend.

"And I am that--nothing else," he thought as he closed Miles's door

behind him. "No one can blame me if I claim the rights of friendship

and help her--no one!"

But Captain Robert Arnold, sure of his own honour, forgot that the

world, being less honourable, might also be of another opinion.

*CHAPTER X*

*NEMESIS*

It was her at-home day. As she sat there, with her hands clasped

listlessly on her lap, it seemed as though in imagination she saw the

ghosts of other days arise--days where the little room had been crowded

with eager, chattering friends who had come to tell her and each other

the latest news of their servants, their husbands or the service, or to

be "intellectual," as the case might be. She thought she saw Frau von

Seleneck seated on the sofa opposite her, her round, rosy face bright

with an irrepressible optimism; she thought she heard the rich,

contented chuckle, and felt the maternal pat upon her arm. Then her

vision cleared, and the ghosts vanished. The little room was empty of

all but shadows, and she was alone.

Presently the door of her husband's study opened. She heard him come

towards her, and knew that he was standing at her side; but she did not

look up. She felt for the moment too listless, too weary, above all too

proud to let him see how deeply her new isolation wounded her.

"All alone, dear?"

"Yes, all alone."

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

She tried to laugh.

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

"How is that?"

Then she looked up at him.

"You know quite well. Everybody hates me."

"Nora! That is not true."

She nodded.

"It is quite true. The Selenecks have taken care that none of my

misdeeds should go forgotten. They can't forgive my--my intimacy with

other people, or my nationality."

"Your nationality?"

She got up with an impetuous, angry movement.

"Yes, my nationality."

He stood looking at her. A new expression had come into his grave

face--an expression of sudden understanding, of indescribable pain.

Then he came towards her and put his arm about her shoulders.

"My little wife, don't, for God's sake, don't let that come between us!

Be brave, fight it down. It will only be for a time. Our--my people

are easily hurt. They think, perhaps, you despise them for their sober

ways--that they are not good enough for you. Be kind to them, and they

will come back. They would forgive you anything."

She drew back from him.

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

alone."

He made no answer, but went slowly towards the door. She knew that she

had hurt him, and in her bitterness and wounded pride it gave her a

painful satisfaction to know that he too suffered. Yet she loved him;

she knew, as he stood there with bent head, that she would give her life

for him--only she could not surrender herself, her individuality, the

old ties of blood and instinct. She could not, would not break down the

barrier which her race built between them. She was too proud, perhaps

too hurt to try.

Suddenly Arnim looked up. His features were quiet and composed, and the

gathering twilight hid the expression in his eyes.

"Nora, where is Miles?"

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

"The effects of yesterday?" He laughed grimly. "It seems to me, dear,

that your brother would be the better for some occupation--in his own

country."

"You wish him to go?"

He met her challenge with an unfaltering determination that was yet

mingled with tenderness and pity.

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

"What do you mean?"

"Before he ruins himself--or us."

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

He smiled sadly.

"I hope I am. Good-bye, little woman. I shall try and be back early.

But perhaps Arnold will come--and then you will not be alone."

He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. The protest died on

her lips; an icy sense of isolation crept over her, obliterating for the

moment all thought of his injustice, of the slight which he had cast

upon her brother. In her sudden weakness she held out her arms towards

the closed door and called his name, feebly, like a frightened child

crying in the dark. But he did not come back. She heard his spurs

jingle with a mocking cheerfulness--and then silence. So she went back

to her place by the window and sat there, holding back with a pitiful

pride the tears that burnt her eyes.

Presently the door opened again. She thought he had come back, and with

all her pride her heart beat faster with a momentary, reasonless hope.

Then she heard the click of the electric light and a man's voice

speaking to her.

"_Gnaedige Frau_, may I come in?"

She sprang to her feet as though the voice had been a blow, and saw

Bauer standing on the threshold, bowing, a curious half-ironical smile

playing about his mouth. For the moment she could neither think nor

speak, but out of the depths of her consciousness arose the old

aversion, the old instinctive dread. She knew then, warned by that same

occult power, that the time had come when the dread should receive its

justification.

"I found the door open, and ventured to enter unannounced," Bauer went

on calmly. "I knew from experience that the usual formalities would

lead to no result. You have been 'out' a great deal of late, _gnaedige

Frau_." He came towards her without hesitation, and, taking her passive

hand, kissed it. "Am I forgiven?"

His absolute ease of manner checked the rise of her indignation. She

felt herself strangely helpless. Yet her dignity--her dignity as

Wolff's wife--came to her rescue. She looked steadily into the still

smiling face.

"If I have been often out, it has not been a mere chance, Herr

Rittmeister," she answered. "It has been of intention--an intention

which you would have been wiser to respect."

"I see no good reason why I should respect your husband's 'intentions,'

_gnaedige Frau_," he retorted calmly.

"My husband's wishes are mine."

"Really?" He laughed, and then grew suddenly serious. "In any case, it

seems to me that I--we have a right to some sort of an explanation. To

put it baldly--there was a time when it pleased you to accept my

sister-in-law's hospitality and friendship. Now, it seems, neither she

nor I are good enough for you."

Nora flinched involuntarily. She knew that the reproach was a just one,

but she knew too that Wolff had been right and only she to blame.

Instinct again warned her. She saw danger in this man's cold eyes, in

which there yet flickered the light of some controlled passion either of

hatred or some other feeling to which she dared give no name.

"You have a right to an explanation," she said at last, with an effort

controlling her unsteady voice. "Indeed, I owe you more than that--I owe

you an apology. It was a mistake for me to enter into a circle to which

I did not belong; only you will do me the justice to remember that it

was a mistake not altogether of my making."

"_Gott, gnaedige Frau!_" He laughed angrily. "You talk as though we

were the dirt under your feet. Is it your husband's petty nobility

which gives you the right to look at me like that? I too wear the

King's uniform--that is a point which you would do well to remember."

"I have not forgotten it. And there is no question of contempt--I feel

myself, Heaven knows, superior to no one; but I repeat, it was a mistake

to accept kindness which could not be returned. Surely you can

understand----" She crushed down her pride, and in the effort her

bearing became prouder and colder. "We are poor, Herr Rittmeister, your

relations are rich and live as we cannot live. That alone is a barrier

between us."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"An excuse, _gnaedige Frau_, an excuse! I know the opinions of your

husband's class too well not to know perfectly what you prefer not to

tell me. In any case, your considerations are a little belated. You

should have thought of all that before you allowed your brother to enter

into a circle"--he echoed her words with a kind of mocking

satisfaction--"in which he could not sustain his position."

Nora started. She knew now that there was a menace in this man's looks

and words. She understood that he would never have acted as he had done

without the sure conviction that the power was in his hands. What that

power was she did not know--she only knew that she was afraid.

"Sit down, _gnaedige Frau_," he went on more calmly. "You look pale, and

I have something of importance to tell you. But before everything, I

want you to believe that I come to you as your friend."

He motioned her to be seated in the chair which he had pushed towards

her, and she obeyed him passively. A sharply defined recollection of

their first meeting came back to her as she did so. Then, too, he had

acted with the insolent assurance of a man who knows himself master of

the situation; but then she had had the power of her independence. Now

she felt herself bound, helpless in the bonds of circumstance--and her

own folly.

"It is of your brother I have come to speak," Bauer went on, taking his

place before her. "Nothing should prove my friendship better than the

fact that I have come in spite of the rebuff to which I knew I should

lay myself open. But I could not see the crisis break over you without

a word of warning--without offering you a helping hand."

She looked at him in mingled astonishment and anger. His familiarity was

more terrible to her than his previous tone of menacing resentment.

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

"Perhaps not. But you must surely be aware that your brother has not

been living the most austere of lives since his arrival in Berlin. It

may be that I am a little to blame. I thought by the way he talked that

he could well afford it, and encouraged him to share my life with me.

Well, it appears now that he bragged more than circumstances justified.

I do not speak of the money he owes me nor his gambling-debts to my

friends. Those I have already paid. It was not pleasant for me to be

associated with a defaulting gambler, and what I did I did for my own

sake. I ask no thanks or credit for it. But there are other matters."

He had undone the buttons of his military coat, and drew out a folded

sheet of paper, which he laid before her. "That is a rough list of your

brother's creditors, with the amounts attached," he said. "You will see

for yourself that he has understood the art of amusing himself."

She took the list from him. The figures swam before her eyes and she

fought against a deadly faintness. From afar off she heard Bauer's voice

roll on with the unchanged calm of a lawyer for whom the matter had only

a professional interest.

"At the bottom you will see the sum-total, _gnaedige Frau_. It runs

into three figures, and it is possible that my list is not complete.

The worst of it is that your husband will be held responsible. The

credit would never have been given to Mr. Ingestre if his brother-in-law

had not been Herr von Arnim, captain on the general staff."

Nora rose unsteadily to her feet.

"It is impossible," she stammered incoherently. "I know--Wolff hasn't

the money--it is impossible. Oh, how could he have been so foolish--so

wicked!" And it was curious that in that moment she thought less of the

ruin which was bearing down upon her husband than of the disgrace which

had fallen upon her brother, of Wolff's justified contempt and the

triumph of his friends. Bauer had also risen and now took a quick step

to her side.

"_Gnaedige Frau_, your brother has only done what hundreds of young

fellows do. No doubt he hoped that he would have time enough allowed

him to pay. Unfortunately, there are war-scares flying about, and the

tradespeople are a little shy of English customers. I fear they will

press payment. But there is no need for you to worry. Your husband

need never even know that these debts existed. A word from you and they

are paid and forgotten."

"What do you mean?"

"I will pay them."

"You?"

"Yes, I." He came still closer, so that she could hear his quick,

irregular breathing. "You English are practical people," he went on,

with an attempted laugh. "You know that there is precious little done

out of pure charity in this world. If I help you out of this difficulty

it is on certain conditions."

"I do not want to hear them----"

"Why not? They are simple enough. The one is that you should renew

your friendship with my sister-in-law. It is awkward for her--this

sudden cooling off; and she has a right to expect some consideration

from you. The other concerns myself. I too must have your

friendship--more than that--you, your regard." He took her hands and

held them in a brutal, masterful grip. "You can't pretend you don't

know--you must have known I cared--from the beginning--you----"

She wrenched herself free. She had seen his eyes and the hell in them,

and, inexperienced though she was, she knew that it was not even a

so-called love which he experienced, but a cruel thirst for conquest,

the hunger for revenge, the desire to retaliate where he had been

slighted and thwarted. She reached the door before he could restrain

her, and with her hand on the bell stood there facing him. She seemed

unnaturally calm, and her scorn for the man who had tried to trap her

lent her a dignity, a look of triumph which curbed his passion and held

him for the moment speechless.

"Please go," she said.

He bowed.

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

"My husband will answer you--not I."

"Do you know what that will mean?"

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

"You misunderstand me. Do you know the consequences? Your husband, as

a man of honour, will challenge me. I shall have the choice of weapons,

and I swear to you that I will kill him."

She said nothing. Her eyes had dilated, and every trace of colour had

left her face; but she retained her attitude of proud defiance, and he

went past her through the open door.

"You see, I can be patient," he said, looking back at her. "My

sister-in-law is giving a ball on the 18th. If you are there I shall

understand. If not----" He shrugged his shoulders. "No doubt your

husband will see his way to settling Mr. Ingestre's troubles. As they

stand, they are likely to cost him his collar. _Auf Wiedersehen,

gnaedige Frau_."

He was gone. She waited until the last echo of his steps had died on

the wooden stairway, then she tottered forward and sank into Wolff's

chair, her face buried in her hands. She did not cry, and no sound

escaped her lips. She sat there motionless, bereft of thought, of hope,

almost of feeling. The end, the crisis to which she had been slowly

drifting was at hand. It seemed to her that she heard the roar of the

cataract which was to engulf her. And there was no help, no hope.

It was thus Miles Ingestre found her an hour later. Knowing that Arnim

was out, he had donned a dressing-gown and now stood staring blankly at

his sister, his hair disordered, his yellow face a shade yellower from

the last day's dissipation.

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

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

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

true?"

He took the paper which she held towards him and studied it, rocking on

his heels the while in an uneasy silence.

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

"He says the creditors are likely to press payment--and--and--Wolff will

be held responsible. Oh, Miles, what have you done? What have you

done?"

The last words broke from her like a cry of despair. They seemed to

penetrate the thickness of Miles's phlegm, for he laid his hand on her

shoulder, his lips twitching with a maudlin self-pity.

"It wasn't my fault, Nora. I didn't know what they were leading me

into. If Wolff had only helped me a bit--if he hadn't been such a

stuck-up prig, so beastly self-righteous. There, you needn't break out!

I can't help it--it's the truth; it's not all my fault." He ran his

shaky hand through his hair. "And, after all, there isn't so much to

make a fuss about. Everybody in our set does that sort of thing, and I

dare say Bauer will tide me over the worst. He's a decent fellow, and

beastly rich. Look here, Nora"--his shifty eyes took an expression of

stupid cunning--"if you asked him--you know he's a friend of yours--I'll

be bound he'd help me."

Nora turned and looked at him. In that moment he seemed to her a

complete stranger. Then she gently loosened herself from his hand. She

did not answer. It was too useless. She rose and left him standing

there, the silly smile still playing about his lips.

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE FETISH*

"Your mother is very ill," the Rev. John had written, "and I am in an

indescribable state of anxiety both on her account and yours. Everybody

here is quite certain that there is going to be war between us and

Germany. Only yesterday the squire was down here talking to me about

it. He says there is no hope, and that the conflict is bound to come.

I do not understand politics myself, but it seems the Germans are

determined to destroy us and get our power. It is very dreadful that a

whole nation should show itself so avaricious, and I am sure God will

help us punish so wicked and wanton an attack. All Delford is already on

foot, and quite a number of young men are thinking of enlisting in the

Territorials. The squire says it is a magnificent sight to see how the

whole country rises at the call of danger. He himself has done not a

little to help the general patriotic movement, and has opened a

shooting-range in a field, where he is teaching his men to shoot. The

sound of the guns makes me quite nervous, and is very bad for your poor

mother, but the squire says it is helping to produce the best shots in

Europe, so we must not complain, but bring our sacrifice to the

motherland with a cheerful countenance. Nevertheless, I am terribly

troubled. If war should break out--which God forbid!--what will become

of you, my poor child, out there in the enemy's country? Could you not

make your mother's health an excuse to come back to us, at any rate

until the present crisis is over? Wolff will surely understand that you

cannot stay in Germany if there is war. Find out from him what he

thinks of the chances, and notice if there are any signs of preparation.

If you can, come home. Your mother is very much against it, but she is

ill and hardly understands the seriousness of the situation. We must

all stand together in the moment of danger, and I am sure your heart is

aching for the dear old country, and that you are longing to be with us.

I have written to Miles that he is to return as soon as ever he thinks

fit. He seems to be very tied by his studies, so that I do not like to

press a hasty decision. You must talk it over together."

Nora had received this letter by the afternoon's post. She was reading

it a second time when Wolff entered the room. He had on his parade

uniform, and the cheery clatter of his sword and spurs jarred on her

overstrung nerves.

"Why this magnificence?" she asked, trying to disguise her unreasonable

irritability. "Is there anything unusual?"

"A review to which I am commanded," he answered quietly. "I may be home

a little late for supper. I expect you will go and see Aunt Magda and

Hildegarde. They will think it curious if you do not go soon."

"They have only just arrived," Nora said in the same tone of smothered

irritation. "I could not have gone before."

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

"Please go!" he said coaxingly. "You used to be fond of them both, and

they have been very good to us. Be nice to them--for my sake."

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

nodded.

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

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

expecting him?"

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

She had heard the colder, graver note in his voice, and it stung her.

Was Arnold also to come between them--Arnold, in whose hands lay the one

chance of rescue from the coming catastrophe? Was her last friend to be

taken from her by a reasonless, unworthy distrust? She looked up into

her husband's tanned face with a directness which was not unlike

defiance.

"_I_ have no objection," he answered her at last. "You know everything

pleases me that makes you happy. I only beg of you to be careful."

"Careful!" she echoed.

"Captain Arnold has been in Berlin a month," he went on. "It is obvious

that he has stayed for your sake, and for my part I am glad enough. But

there are the evil tongues, little wife."

She sprang to her feet. If she could only have told him, only

unburdened her heart of its crushing trouble, then perhaps he would

understand, and the widening cleft between them be bridged. The words

of a reckless confession trembled on her lips; but she remembered Bauer

and his promise: "I swear I will kill him"; and the confession turned to

bitterness, to an impotent revolt against the circumstances of her life.

"The evil tongues!" she echoed scornfully. "Why should I mind what they

say now? They have taken everything from me--all my friends. I have

only Robert left. Is it wrong to have friends in this country--friends

who do not listen to the verdict of--of enemies?"

"It is not wrong, but it can be dangerous," he answered. "You have no

enemies, Nora, only people who do not understand you and whom you have

hurt. You have always been unfortunate in your friends. They have all

stood between you and those to whom, by your position, you belong."

"You mean that if Arnold were German--'one of us,' as you would say--it

would not matter?"

"Not so much."

She laughed angrily.

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