CHAPTER IIIREVELATIONMiles Ingestre met his sister in the hall, and without a word drew her into the sitting-room and closed the door. His action had been so sudden, his grip upon her arm so fierce, that she stood looking at him, too startled to protest. In the half-darkness she could only see that he was very pale and that he vainly strove to control the nervous twitching of his lips."What is it?" she asked. "Has anything happened?""Some one has come," he said breathlessly.She did not answer. A black veil had fallen before her eyes, and an emotion to which she could give no name, but which was so powerful that she stretched out a groping hand for support, clutched at her throat and stifled her. She did not ask who had come. She knew by the very change in herself, by the violent shock which seemed to waken her stunned senses to a renewed and terrible capacity for suffering."Wolff—my husband!" she stammered. "Where is he?""It is not Wolff," Miles retorted rapidly. "It is that Hildegarde von Arnim. She arrived half an hour ago, and says she must see you at once. She won't speak to either of us.""Hildegarde? You must be dreaming! She is too ill to move.""She looks ill, but she can move all right. At any rate, she seems to have come a long way to find you.""I must go to her," Nora said dully. "Where is she? Why don't you let me pass?""Look here, Nora." He took her hand again, and his tone became half cajoling, half threatening. "I can guess what she has come about. She wants to get you back and put you against me—against us all. She will tell you all sorts of lies. But you won't believe her, and you'll stick to us this time? Swear, Nora!"She tried to shake herself free."Why should I swear? You know I shan't go back—I couldn't; and she would be the last person to want it. She has come about something else; perhaps about the——" She stopped with a quick breath of pain. "Let me go, Miles!"All right. But you'll stand by me, Nora? And you won't believe her lies?""I don't know what you mean. What are you afraid of?""Nothing; only I know they'll do anything to—to put us in the wrong. They hate us like the devil. I—I wanted to warn you, that's all."Nora did not understand him. His manner, over-excited as it was, frightened her even more than this strangest of all strange visits. What miracle had brought the feeble invalid over the sea to seek her—what miracle or what catastrophe? And as she entered the drawing-room and saw the beautiful, exhausted face and stern, unsmiling eyes which had once been all love and tenderness for her, the fear grew to something definite, so that she stopped short, hesitating, overwhelmed by that and by a sudden shame.But of shame Hildegarde Arnim saw no sign. She saw defiance in that waiting attitude, and not even the pathos of the black dress and pale, sad face could touch her. She rose, but gave no sign of greeting."My mother sent me to you," she said. "I am to tell you that your—that Wolff is dying."She seemed to take a cruel delight in the change which came over the other's face."Dying," she repeated deliberately. "Dying."Nora clasped her hands in an agonised movement of appeal."I know—I have heard you. For pity's sake, tell me——""You need not be afraid. I shall tell you everything, to the last detail." Hildegarde seated herself again. Her clenched hand rested on the table and her eyes fixed themselves on her companion with a detestation almost violent in its intensity. "It is over a year since you became engaged to my cousin," she went on. "It is not nine months since you became his wife. It is not a long time, but it was long enough for you to ruin the best, the noblest man whom I at least have ever met. You see, I declare openly what you no doubt know and have triumphed over. I love Wolff, and I have loved him all my life. If he had made me his wife, I should have deemed myself unworthy of so much happiness, and it would have been a joy to sacrifice myself for him. No doubt you find such an idea poor and contemptible; the idea of sacrifice for those one loves is perhaps out of fashion in your country. But, be that as it may, it was an idea which served you well at the time. Because I loved him, and because his happiness was really dearer to me than anything else on earth, I gave him up to you——""You gave him up tome!" Nora echoed blankly."On the same day that he asked you to be his wife I had given him his freedom from a bond which, though it had never been openly acknowledged, was still binding on him. You did not know that?"Nora sank down in the chair by which she had been standing. Her strength had left her; she looked broken, and there was something intensely piteous in the clasped hands upon her lap."How should I have known?" she asked almost inaudibly."You might have known," Hildegarde retorted. "You knew Wolff. He was a man of honour. He would never have yielded even to his love for you until he knew himself absolutely free."There was a cutting significance in her tone which could not be mistaken. Nora lifted her head and met the scornful eyes with despairing resolution."You say that against me, because I was not free," she said. "But you do not know everything; you have no right to judge. My heart was free—my heart belonged to Wolff and Wolff only.""You were bound to another man.""By a foolish letter written in a moment of despair. You have said that I despise all sacrifice. But that letter was my sacrifice to you, Hildegarde.""You must be mad," was the contemptuous answer."You have not spared me," Nora went on recklessly. "I shall not spare you. That night when you were delirious I learnt of your whole love for Wolff and all that you suffered. I also loved him—I also suffered, and I distrusted my own strength. I tried to raise a barrier between myself and him, so—so that we could never come together. I thought if I could say to him 'I belong to another,' that I should save you from heart-break and myself from a mean, ungrateful act. But the barrier was not high enough or strong enough to shield me from my own weakness. Believe me or not, as you will—that is the truth. In all my life I have loved only one man—my husband."There was a moment's silence. Hildegarde sat stiff and upright, her lips firmly compressed, her expression unchanged. But her voice betrayed the rising of a new emotion."I must believe what you have told me," she said. "In that case, what you did was pardonable—even generous. But that is not all. That was not what made me hate you. I hate you because you have ruined Wolff's life. For the first month or two you made him happy because you were happy yourself. Then I suppose you tired of it all—of the poverty and the restrictions and the sacrifices. It did not satisfy your grand English tastes to go poorly dressed and live in small, ill-furnished flats. It was beneath your dignity to see to your husband's dinner; it did not suit you to sit at home alone and wait for him, much less to make his friends your friends and join in their life. Though they were honourable, good people, who brought their sacrifices uncomplainingly, they were beneath you. You despised them because they could not afford to live as you considered necessary, because they cooked their husbands' supper and wore old clothes so that he might go into the world and represent his name and his profession worthily. You hated them——""Not till they hated me!" Nora broke in, with a movement of passionate protest."They did not hate you—I know that. They welcomed you as a sister and a comrade, until you showed that you would have none of them—until they saw that you despised their ways and their ideals. Yes; they have ideals, those poor dowdy women whom you looked down upon, and their first and highest ideal is their Duty. Mark this! They bore with you and your contempt and English arrogance until you insulted that ideal. They bore with you as a comrade until you proved yourself unworthy of their comradeship, until you brought disgrace upon your husband's name and profession with your profligate brother and your lover——""Hildegarde—how dare you!""I dare because it is the truth."Both women had risen and faced each other. And yet in that supreme moment of bitterness, something between them—their hatred and distrust—yielded. Accuser and accused read in each other's eyes a misery too great for hatred."I know everything," Hildegarde went on rapidly. "Wolff has not opened his lips, but Seleneck told us. We know that Wolff took upon his shoulders the consequences of your and your brother's conduct. He accepted the challenge that your brother refused, and he went to his death without a word of reproach or anger. And that same night you fled with the man whose name the whole world coupled with yours, and took with you the one thing of value which you could steal from your husband—his soldier's honour."Nora put her hand to her forehead."Please—please tell me what you mean!" she cried piteously. "I don't understand—his soldier's honour——?""You know nothing of the papers that were stolen on the same night of your flight?""Papers——?""Mobilisation papers—the papers on which Wolff had been working. When Seleneck came to see you and tell you what had happened, he found that you had gone, and that Wolff's room had been broken into. There was only one explanation.""Listen!" Nora leant against the table. She was breathing in broken gasps that were like sobs, but there was such clear resolution in her eyes that Hildegarde waited in stern, rigid patience for her to speak. "I will tell you all I can," she said at last, in a low, toneless voice from which she had driven every trace of emotion. "I can't tell you all, because I have not the strength—you must just believe me, Hildegarde, when I say that I loved Wolff and that I was true to him—yes, right to the bitter end. You must try and understand that I suffered. I was English. I couldn't help myself. I was English to the bottom of my heart. I loved my country as you love yours, and I could not give it up. When the trouble began I was miserable: everything goaded me. Oh, I was all wrong, I know. I let myself be carried away by it all. I let myself be influenced. There were the Bauers—you won't understand that, perhaps, but they flattered me. They offered me friendship where others only followed me with their criticism; and when I saw where it would all lead it was too late. Miles had fallen into their hands. There were terrible debts and money troubles, and I dared not tell Wolff. I knew he would send Miles away and—and I was afraid of the loneliness.""Of the loneliness!" Hildegarde echoed scornfully."Oh, can't you understand? I was a stranger among you. I was young and headstrong and had made so many enemies. I had no one to turn to—only Miles and Captain Arnold. They were English; they understood a little what I felt. And I suffered, Hildegarde. It was as though I had been infected with some frightful fever which left me no calm, which magnified every word and look into a taunt and an insult. Once Ididfight against it because Ididlove Wolff and because I knew that our whole happiness was at stake. But in the end it was too much for me. That night when we all thought war had been declared, I could bear it no longer. I rushed home. My brother had already gone——" She stopped a moment as though some terrible new thought had flashed through her brain, and the last trace of colour fled from her cheeks. "I followed him. At the station I could not find him, but Captain Arnold was there. He took me with him—home to my people. I did not go to him intentionally: I could not have done so, because I did not love him and never had loved him. I went home. That is all.""And the papers?"They looked each other in the eyes."I think I know. God pity me—thatdisgrace is indeed mine!""No, no, not yours! Nora——." The old tone of tenderness had crept into the shaken voice. She said no more, and they stood silently side by side, overwhelmed with the disgrace that was another's, but which yet seemed to surround them with its ugly shadow.It was Nora who at last broke the silence."He must have been mad!" she said, as though she were thinking aloud. "He must have thought that he was serving his country."But Hildegarde stopped her with a scornful gesture."He hated Wolff," she said, "and for the good reason that Wolff had helped and befriended him for your sake. He paid his debts with money which my mother had given him——""Don't, Hildegarde! Don't tell me any more—not now. I cannot bear it!"The agony in her voice silenced the reproach. Hildegarde Arnim turned away, as though she, too, had reached the limit of her strength."I am not here to hurt you, but to save Wolff," she said brokenly. "He will not save himself. Ever since he knew what had happened he has lain with his eyes closed and will say nothing. Only when Captain von Seleneck asked him about the papers, he said that he was to be held responsible. They will arrest him if they are not brought back in time.""Oh, no, no!"Hildegarde laughed harshly."It will be only a formality," she said. "They know that he is dying, and perhaps they will believe that he is innocent. But he has taken the responsibility upon himself and must bear the punishment. It was Captain von Seleneck who told me to go to you. He has taken Wolff to his house, where my mother and his wife are nursing him. Seleneck thought you might have pity, and the papers are valueless now that there is to be no war. Oh, I know that Wolff is suffering! He was so proud of his work and his duty and his great trust. You cannot understand all that it means to him. Oh, Nora, let him die in peace! Give him back his good name—he treasured it so——"All the hatred and cruelty had gone. She held out her hands to Nora in desperate, almost humble, pleading.Nora stood rigid, staring in front of her with blank, terrible eyes."He is dying!" she said under her breath. "He thinks I was so cruel and wicked! Oh, Wolff!""When he is asleep he calls your name," Hildegarde went on, "and once he was half delirious, and he told me that you were not to worry—that he was going to die—he wanted to die. And it is true: he wants to die. He has lost everything—everything. That is why I have come—to bring him back at least his honour. Oh, Nora, help me! Remember how he loved you!" She drew a letter from her pocket and forced it into Nora's powerless hands. "He wrote that before it all happened: it was his farewell to you. He is dying. Read it! Surely it will tell you how he loved you! Surely it will make you pitiful! Nora, if I have been unjust and cruel—forgive me. Think that I am mad with grief—I loved him so——"She broke off. Nora was reading her husband's letter, and a silence as of death seemed to hover in the little room."MY BELOVED WIFE," Wolff had written. "It seems strange and foolish that I should sit down and write to you when you are in the next room and I could go in to you and tell you all that I have in my heart. It seems all the more foolish because this letter may never come into your hands. Somehow, though, I think that it will, and that, though I am a clumsy fellow with my pen, you will understand better than if I spoke to you now. Now there is a terrible sea between us which neither of us can cross. You are bitter and angry with me because I am a soldier and must do my duty even if it is against the one I love most on earth. I am sad because I have lost my wife. You see, my dearest, I know everything. I have known quite a long time, and pitied you with all my heart. I pitied because I understood. You were too young to know your own heart or to measure the sacrifices which you would have to bring, and it was my fault that I did not measure for you and make you understand. Well, after it was too late, you found out for yourself, and the old love came back into your life, and I lost you. I never asked you about that 'old love.' I trusted you, and I believed that the day would come when you would tell me everything. Fate has ordained otherwise. I shall never understand anything, save that youdidlove me, and that for a time we were wonderfully happy in our love. Now that it is all over, I can still thank you for that time. It was worth all that it has cost, and perhaps you too will not regret it—now that it is over. My beloved wife! I suppose it had to end thus: there was too much between us. I suppose—oldStreberthat I am, with my cut-and-dried ways—that I could not fit into your life nor fill it as another might have done, and you could not understand that it was not want of love that made me fail. You could not understand that I could love you and yet ask you to sacrifice so much. If you had been a German woman you would have understood better. You would have seen that a soldier must belong to his duty, and that his wife must help him at whatever cost. But you were English, and there was no reason why you should have brought sacrifices to a country that was not your own. I can understand that: I always understood, but I could not help you."There was only one way for me to go, and you had to choose whether you would follow me or go back. I wonder how you would have chosen? Thank God, you need not be put to the test. I could not have borne to see you suffer. When you receive this you will know that you are free and can go back to your own people and your own country. It is that freedom from which I hope more than I would dare to hope if I went to you now. You will be able to forgive me because it is easy to forgive those who have passed out of one's life for ever. You see, I know that I need forgiveness. In my selfishness I tempted you into a life too full of sacrifice and hardship, and I failed you, my darling, sometimes because I was too miserable to see clearly, sometimes because I did not understand, but never because I did not love you. Forgive me, then, and perhaps—if you can—let a little of the old love revive. It can do no harm, and it makes me happy to think that it is possible."Do not try to find out how this has all happened. All you need know is that I am to fight a duel to-morrow, and that the chances are against me. I know you despise duelling, but this time it has at least its use—it will set you free."This is a poor letter, dearest, in which I have said only half of all I long to say. If you read in it one word of reproach or regret, believe that it is only my clumsy pen which has failed me, and that I have nothing in my heart but love for you. In all I am to blame, and I am glad that it has been spared me to see you suffer. Do not be sad over all that has happened; do not let it cast a shadow over your life. You have given a few months' happiness to a man who has never for one instant counted the price too high. You made me very happy. Let that be my thanks to you."God bless you, my little English wife! In my mind's eye I can see you sitting at your table in the next room, with your heart full of bitterness against me; or perhaps you are thinking of—— No, I will not believe that. I would rather believe that it is only bitterness, only sorrow because you are torn between your country and your husband, and can find no peace. The peace is yours now; and when the time comes for you to find your happiness in that old love, remember that I understood and that I blessed you."WOLFF VON ARNIM."P.S.—The Selenecks are your friends, and have promised to help you. Trust them implicitly."Nora lifted her eyes to Hildegarde's. The two women who a short half-hour before had confronted each other in hatred and defiance now met on the common ground of a great sorrow. The barriers between them were yielding fast, were being swept aside. Their hands met, and that touch broke down the last restraint. The next instant they were clasped in each other's arms."I loved him so!" Nora sobbed wildly. "I loved him so—and I have made him unhappy. I have killed him! Oh, Hildegarde, why did I come into his life? You would have made him happy. You loved him, and there was nothing to divide you. Why did you not keep him? Why did you give him back his freedom?""I could not have made him happy, Nora," Hildegarde answered. "I think there are some natures which must come together though the world stands between, and even if it be to their own ruin. Wolff belongs to you. He will belong to you to the very end."Nora lifted her face. She had become suddenly calm. She held herself with the dignity of resolution."And I to him," she said. "I belong to him and to no one else in the world. And whatever separates us, I shall find my way back. There must be—there is a bridge across. And when I have crossed it I shall atone as no woman ever atoned before. I shall blot out the past. Take me with you, Hildegarde; take me back to him—now, this hour!"Hildegarde kissed her. She could have said that there is a "too late" in life, and that that "too late" had come. But there was something in Nora's face—a hope, a confidence, a strange look of clarified happiness which held her silent. Without a word, Nora turned and left her. She seemed guided by a sure instinct, for she went straight to her brother's bedroom. As she entered he was hurriedly cramming some clothes into a portmanteau, and his white, foolish face was blank with fear."Well?" he asked.She came towards him, and he knew that no explanation was needed."Give me the papers you stole from my husband!" she said quietly. "Give them to me at once."A sullen, defiant answer trembled on his lips, but she stopped him with a single gesture."I do not ask you to explain or excuse yourself," she said. "I know what you are, Miles, and I should not believe you. Nor do I appeal to your better feelings. I appeal to your common sense. The papers are useless to you. They might only bring you into trouble. Give them to me!"He gave them to her without a word of protest. Her paralysed him; and only when she had reached the door he stammered a single question."Where are you going, Nora?""I am going home—to my husband," she answered, "and I pray with all my heart that I may never see your face again!"CHAPTER IVTHE BRIDGE ACROSSThe Selenecks' little drawing-room was almost in darkness. Only the pale, flickering reflection from the lights in the street beneath fell on the farther wall and threw into ghostly prominence the figures of the silent occupants. Frau von Seleneck was seated at the table, still bent over a letter which she had ceased to write long before the dusk had crept in upon them. Her husband knelt beside her, and his hand held hers in a strong, tender clasp.Thus they had been ever since a hard-drawn sob had told him that the letter was no more than a pretence. He had seen the tear-stains and the piteous smudges, and he had knelt down as though he knew that his closer presence comforted her. Neither had spoken. They seemed to be always listening, but the silence remained unbroken. Once, it is true, a carriage had rattled along the street and they had looked at each other, but it had gone on, and neither had made any observation.From where they sat they could see across the road into the rooms of the house opposite. They were brightly lit, and in one a noble young fir-tree glittered in all the glory of tinsel and golden spangles. Husband and wife glanced quickly away. It was Christmas Eve. A tiny little shrub stood in the corner, unadorned save with the candles and one single star. Frau von Seleneck had bought it at the last moment, because she could not bring herself to let the great evening pass without that time-honoured custom, but she had cried when she had fixed the star on the topmost branch, and since then she had never dared look at it because of the tears that rose in spite of every heroic effort.Presently the clock upon the mantelpiece began to chime. They counted the hurried, cheery little strokes under their breath. Seven o'clock."They must be here soon," she said in a whisper."If the train is not late," he answered, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. "They are usually late on Christmas Eve.""Yes," she said. "How terrible and long the journey must seem to her!""If she cares!" he said bitterly.His wife's hand tightened on his."I think she cares," she said with an almost awe-struck earnestness. "I am nearly sure. It is not alone that she is coming—it is something else. Kurt, haven't you ever had a letter—just an ordinary letter—from some one dear to you, and haven't you had the feeling that it contained a message of which the writer had written nothing—as though the words had absorbed the look of his eyes, the touch of his hand, and were trying to transmit to you all that which he had tried to hide behind them? That was how I felt when Nora's telegram came. It was just an ordinary, ugly telegram, and yet I knew that she cared—that she was sorry.""Pray God he may live to see her!" he answered."Pray God that he may live to be happy with her!" she added reverently.He shook his head."I don't pray that," he said. "I can't ask impossibilities of God. And how should Nora make Wolff happy now? She failed before, when her task was easy. What should give her the strength to succeed in the face of the distrust and hatred which she called to life by her own folly?""I shall help her," Elsa von Seleneck returned proudly. "I shall stand by her for Wolff's sake and because we were once friends. After all, she has atoned—she is coming back. That must be the hardest thing of all.""She will need more than your help," was the grave answer."Then God will give it her!"A tear splashed on to the note-paper, and he pressed her hand tighter."Steady, Frauchen!" he whispered. "I hear some one moving."They listened breathlessly. A second cab rumbled along the street, but this time they did not hear it. Their whole attention was concentrated on that neighbouring room, where life and death kept their silent vigil, and when suddenly the door was softly opened, both started as though an icy hand had touched them on the shoulder.A faint light came through the open doorway, and against the pale background Frau von Arnim's figure stood out in all its old noble stateliness. They could not see her face, but they felt that it was composed and resolute in its grief."I think they have come," she said. "I heard a cab outside."Somewhere downstairs a bell rang, and Seleneck rose softly to his feet."I will light the lamp," he said, but his hand shook, and his wife took the matches from him."Let me do it, Kurt. I am crying—I can't help it; but I am quite steady.Gnädige Frau, how is he?""Sleeping," was the answer.Poor Frau von Seleneck was not as good as her word. She could not manage the wick, and the glass shade threatened to fall from her nervous hands. In the end she lighted the little candles on the Christmas tree."We can at least see each other," she apologised humbly.Thus it was by this frail yet steady light of hope and happiness that Nora entered and stood before them. She was not alone, and yet, as though of intention, Hildegarde had drawn back from her so that she stood apart, looking silently from one to the other. No one spoke. They too looked at her without a gesture of greeting, even of recognition. It was as though she were a total stranger, an intruder, an enemy. And yet that haggard young face might have touched them. It was almost terrible in its look of suspense and agony."Have I come in time?" she whispered.Her voice broke the spell. Frau von Arnim nodded. Nothing had changed in her expression, but its very calm was a reproach and a punishment."He is alive," she said.Nora took a step forward so that she came within the pale circle of light. For the first time they saw each other full in the eyes."You have brought the papers—the proof that he is innocent?" Frau von Arnim asked."I have brought everything—more than you know; and I have come to be forgiven."A dead, blank silence. Suddenly she stretched out her hands in piteous, reckless appeal."Forgive me. I am guilty, but not so guilty as you think. I have been foolish and self-deceived, but not heartless, not wicked. Forgive me! Hildegarde has forgiven me!"It was like a broken-hearted child crying in helpless, lonely repentance, and with a quick movement Hildegarde slipped her arm about the trembling shoulders."You will know everything soon," she said. "Then you will see that we have all been to blame—that we all need to pardon and to receive pardon. Forgive now—for Wolff's sake!"Something quivered in Frau von Arnim's frozen face. The little woman by the tree was crying openly, and her husband turned away as though the light blinded him."Nora," Frau von Arnim said.That was all. Nora took a stumbling step forward; the elder woman caught her and held her. They clung to each other in a moment's agony of grief. Years of life would not have brought them together nor broken their stubborn pride. The hand of death had touched them, and pride and hatred vanished. The barriers had yielded and left free the road from heart to heart."Forgive?" Nora whispered brokenly.Very gently she was drawn towards the closed door."Let us go to him," Frau von Arnim said.It was her forgiveness, and they entered the room together, hand clasped in hand. For one instant Nora shrank back as she saw the white face on the pillow. Then she loosened herself from her companion's clasp and went forward alone. They did not follow her. It was as though at this hour of crisis she had claimed her right above them all, as though without a word she yet demanded back from them what was her own; and they watched her in awed, unbroken silence. She took the white, feeble hand upon the coverlet, and kissed it."Wolff!" she whispered. "Wolff!"No one before had been able to rouse him from that terrible, death-like slumber. His eyes opened, and he smiled peacefully at her."My little wife!" he answered faintly.She crept nearer. She put her arm beneath his head so that he rested like a child against her breast."I have come back," she said. "I have brought your papers and your honour. You are to be quite, quite happy. I will tell you everything——""Not now," he interrupted gently; "not now. I have so little time."His voice was pitifully thin and broken. It was as though the great, powerful body had become inhabited by the soul of a child. She drew him closer to her with a movement of infinite tenderness."Only one thing—I did not leave you because I did not love you—or because of—any one else. Wolff, you must understand that. I was mad—the thought of war and my own people made me forget all that you were to me. But now I know, and you must know too. You shall not think so badly, so wickedly of me."He shook his head."I think nothing bad of you, Nora.""You know I love you?""You have a good, warm heart," he answered faintly. "You are sorry for me—and I thank you. I am glad that I am going to set you free.""Wolff!"For the first time she understood. He did not believe her, and he was dying. The blow was almost annihilating in its force and cruelty. Hitherto she had defied Fate; it crushed her now beneath its inevitableness, and a cry of agonised revolt burst from her lips."Wolff, you must believe me! I can't begin life again without you—I can't! You must not leave me—you cannot leave me lonely!"He smiled."Don't you see that it is for the best, my darling? It was not your fault. The sea between is so broad and strong——" He broke off suddenly, and a curious, unsteady light flickered into his glazed eyes. "Don't let her know it is anything—serious," he whispered. "She will be frightened—and she must not be frightened. She has gone, you say? With Arnold? That is a lie. I knew she was going—I sent her. Her mother is ill. The papers——? Oh, my God! my God!"She clasped him tighter in her arms. The frightful outbreak of delirium—frightful because of its extraordinary yet heart-broken quietness—shook her to the soul. She looked about her, and in an instant Hildegarde was at her side."Nora is here," she said. "She will never leave you again. She has brought the papers. They are safe—the papers are safe."She repeated the words over and over again, as though she were striving to break through the cloud in which his mind was shrouded. He thrust her from him, dragging himself upright in a stiff attitude of salute."Herr General, I am responsible—alone responsible. No one else is to blame. The papers?—I can tell you nothing but that I am responsible. Tell him, Seleneck! Tell him I boasted about them and was careless—anything! Swear—give me your word of honour! I am dying—what does it matter? No, no; you are not to send for her. She is to be happy—and free—among her own people. You must not blame her. It was too hard. We—must forgive each other. Oh, Nora! Nora!"I am here, Wolff, my darling, my husband! I have come back—I will atone to you with my whole life. You don't know how I love you—more than people, more than country, more than the whole world! I have learnt just in the last hours that there is no one else who matters to me but you, and you alone. I will make you happy—so happy, my dearest!"In that moment she remembered the power that had been given her, and her voice rang with the exultation of victory. He heard it, and the painful excitement died out of his eyes. The mist of dreams shifted, and he picked up the thread as though the short burst of delirium had never been."Nora, why do you look at me like that? What is it you are trying to say to me? There is something new in your face. Nora, help me! I am groping in the dark——"She held him closer to her, and it seemed to her that the threatening hand of Fate sank, and that Death drew back as from a greater power."I am happy, Wolff—happier than I have ever been. I know that our happiness has begun at last.""It is too late—too late, Nora!""Not if you live, my darling. And you will live, because you will not leave me comfortless—because there is another to come who will need you——"She broke off. He was looking at her as he had once looked at her before—as though he were trying to pierce down to the uttermost depths of her soul. A look of dawning wonder was in his eyes."Nora—is it possible——?"She smiled at him triumphantly through the blinding tears."It is possible; it is true. And even if it were not true, I should hold you back alone—with my own hands. I have been through fire, Wolff. I have grown strong, and my strength is my love for you. Don't you know that?""Kleine Frau, it is so hard to believe, and yet—yes, I believe Iknow! It has come to me suddenly. It is as though a cloud were lifting. Before, you seemed afar off; a great distance separated us, and when you spoke I could not hear or understand what you were saying to me—what you were trying to tell me. Nora, I can hear and understand. Oh, Nora, how good it is to have you again, my little wife! How good God is!"A change had come over his face. It seemed illuminated from within, so that the shadow of death was forgotten, obliterated by the strength of his joy and love."Nora, I believe I have been living for this! I have been like Tristan—do you remember?—fighting back death until my Isolde came. I have been waiting and waiting as he waited. There was a great sea between us; but I knew that you would come in time. I saw you in my dreams—at first a long way off, and then nearer and nearer—Nora! I understand everything—you don't need to tell me: there is a bridge between us; you are quite close to me; you have crossed—my wife!"He tried to lift her hand, as though he would have kissed it, but his strength failed him and he lay still, with his head resting peacefully against her breast.Presently he sighed. And with that sigh something in the quiet room seemed to change. The shadows lifted, and through the open doorway the single glittering star upon the solemn fir-tree shone with a greater brightness. Hildegarde knelt down by the bed and buried her face in her hands. The sounds of her smothered sobs alone broke the peaceful hush about them. But Nora seemed not to hear her. She bent, and her lips rested on the quiet, untroubled forehead. A great calm and thankfulness had come over her. She knew that all was well.Love had pronounced the last triumphant word, and the sea between them had rolled away for ever.PRINTED BYHAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.LONDON AND AYLESBURY.* * * * * * * *
CHAPTER III
REVELATION
Miles Ingestre met his sister in the hall, and without a word drew her into the sitting-room and closed the door. His action had been so sudden, his grip upon her arm so fierce, that she stood looking at him, too startled to protest. In the half-darkness she could only see that he was very pale and that he vainly strove to control the nervous twitching of his lips.
"What is it?" she asked. "Has anything happened?"
"Some one has come," he said breathlessly.
She did not answer. A black veil had fallen before her eyes, and an emotion to which she could give no name, but which was so powerful that she stretched out a groping hand for support, clutched at her throat and stifled her. She did not ask who had come. She knew by the very change in herself, by the violent shock which seemed to waken her stunned senses to a renewed and terrible capacity for suffering.
"Wolff—my husband!" she stammered. "Where is he?"
"It is not Wolff," Miles retorted rapidly. "It is that Hildegarde von Arnim. She arrived half an hour ago, and says she must see you at once. She won't speak to either of us."
"Hildegarde? You must be dreaming! She is too ill to move."
"She looks ill, but she can move all right. At any rate, she seems to have come a long way to find you."
"I must go to her," Nora said dully. "Where is she? Why don't you let me pass?"
"Look here, Nora." He took her hand again, and his tone became half cajoling, half threatening. "I can guess what she has come about. She wants to get you back and put you against me—against us all. She will tell you all sorts of lies. But you won't believe her, and you'll stick to us this time? Swear, Nora!"
She tried to shake herself free.
"Why should I swear? You know I shan't go back—I couldn't; and she would be the last person to want it. She has come about something else; perhaps about the——" She stopped with a quick breath of pain. "Let me go, Miles!
"All right. But you'll stand by me, Nora? And you won't believe her lies?"
"I don't know what you mean. What are you afraid of?"
"Nothing; only I know they'll do anything to—to put us in the wrong. They hate us like the devil. I—I wanted to warn you, that's all."
Nora did not understand him. His manner, over-excited as it was, frightened her even more than this strangest of all strange visits. What miracle had brought the feeble invalid over the sea to seek her—what miracle or what catastrophe? And as she entered the drawing-room and saw the beautiful, exhausted face and stern, unsmiling eyes which had once been all love and tenderness for her, the fear grew to something definite, so that she stopped short, hesitating, overwhelmed by that and by a sudden shame.
But of shame Hildegarde Arnim saw no sign. She saw defiance in that waiting attitude, and not even the pathos of the black dress and pale, sad face could touch her. She rose, but gave no sign of greeting.
"My mother sent me to you," she said. "I am to tell you that your—that Wolff is dying."
She seemed to take a cruel delight in the change which came over the other's face.
"Dying," she repeated deliberately. "Dying."
Nora clasped her hands in an agonised movement of appeal.
"I know—I have heard you. For pity's sake, tell me——"
"You need not be afraid. I shall tell you everything, to the last detail." Hildegarde seated herself again. Her clenched hand rested on the table and her eyes fixed themselves on her companion with a detestation almost violent in its intensity. "It is over a year since you became engaged to my cousin," she went on. "It is not nine months since you became his wife. It is not a long time, but it was long enough for you to ruin the best, the noblest man whom I at least have ever met. You see, I declare openly what you no doubt know and have triumphed over. I love Wolff, and I have loved him all my life. If he had made me his wife, I should have deemed myself unworthy of so much happiness, and it would have been a joy to sacrifice myself for him. No doubt you find such an idea poor and contemptible; the idea of sacrifice for those one loves is perhaps out of fashion in your country. But, be that as it may, it was an idea which served you well at the time. Because I loved him, and because his happiness was really dearer to me than anything else on earth, I gave him up to you——"
"You gave him up tome!" Nora echoed blankly.
"On the same day that he asked you to be his wife I had given him his freedom from a bond which, though it had never been openly acknowledged, was still binding on him. You did not know that?"
Nora sank down in the chair by which she had been standing. Her strength had left her; she looked broken, and there was something intensely piteous in the clasped hands upon her lap.
"How should I have known?" she asked almost inaudibly.
"You might have known," Hildegarde retorted. "You knew Wolff. He was a man of honour. He would never have yielded even to his love for you until he knew himself absolutely free."
There was a cutting significance in her tone which could not be mistaken. Nora lifted her head and met the scornful eyes with despairing resolution.
"You say that against me, because I was not free," she said. "But you do not know everything; you have no right to judge. My heart was free—my heart belonged to Wolff and Wolff only."
"You were bound to another man."
"By a foolish letter written in a moment of despair. You have said that I despise all sacrifice. But that letter was my sacrifice to you, Hildegarde."
"You must be mad," was the contemptuous answer.
"You have not spared me," Nora went on recklessly. "I shall not spare you. That night when you were delirious I learnt of your whole love for Wolff and all that you suffered. I also loved him—I also suffered, and I distrusted my own strength. I tried to raise a barrier between myself and him, so—so that we could never come together. I thought if I could say to him 'I belong to another,' that I should save you from heart-break and myself from a mean, ungrateful act. But the barrier was not high enough or strong enough to shield me from my own weakness. Believe me or not, as you will—that is the truth. In all my life I have loved only one man—my husband."
There was a moment's silence. Hildegarde sat stiff and upright, her lips firmly compressed, her expression unchanged. But her voice betrayed the rising of a new emotion.
"I must believe what you have told me," she said. "In that case, what you did was pardonable—even generous. But that is not all. That was not what made me hate you. I hate you because you have ruined Wolff's life. For the first month or two you made him happy because you were happy yourself. Then I suppose you tired of it all—of the poverty and the restrictions and the sacrifices. It did not satisfy your grand English tastes to go poorly dressed and live in small, ill-furnished flats. It was beneath your dignity to see to your husband's dinner; it did not suit you to sit at home alone and wait for him, much less to make his friends your friends and join in their life. Though they were honourable, good people, who brought their sacrifices uncomplainingly, they were beneath you. You despised them because they could not afford to live as you considered necessary, because they cooked their husbands' supper and wore old clothes so that he might go into the world and represent his name and his profession worthily. You hated them——"
"Not till they hated me!" Nora broke in, with a movement of passionate protest.
"They did not hate you—I know that. They welcomed you as a sister and a comrade, until you showed that you would have none of them—until they saw that you despised their ways and their ideals. Yes; they have ideals, those poor dowdy women whom you looked down upon, and their first and highest ideal is their Duty. Mark this! They bore with you and your contempt and English arrogance until you insulted that ideal. They bore with you as a comrade until you proved yourself unworthy of their comradeship, until you brought disgrace upon your husband's name and profession with your profligate brother and your lover——"
"Hildegarde—how dare you!"
"I dare because it is the truth."
Both women had risen and faced each other. And yet in that supreme moment of bitterness, something between them—their hatred and distrust—yielded. Accuser and accused read in each other's eyes a misery too great for hatred.
"I know everything," Hildegarde went on rapidly. "Wolff has not opened his lips, but Seleneck told us. We know that Wolff took upon his shoulders the consequences of your and your brother's conduct. He accepted the challenge that your brother refused, and he went to his death without a word of reproach or anger. And that same night you fled with the man whose name the whole world coupled with yours, and took with you the one thing of value which you could steal from your husband—his soldier's honour."
Nora put her hand to her forehead.
"Please—please tell me what you mean!" she cried piteously. "I don't understand—his soldier's honour——?"
"You know nothing of the papers that were stolen on the same night of your flight?"
"Papers——?"
"Mobilisation papers—the papers on which Wolff had been working. When Seleneck came to see you and tell you what had happened, he found that you had gone, and that Wolff's room had been broken into. There was only one explanation."
"Listen!" Nora leant against the table. She was breathing in broken gasps that were like sobs, but there was such clear resolution in her eyes that Hildegarde waited in stern, rigid patience for her to speak. "I will tell you all I can," she said at last, in a low, toneless voice from which she had driven every trace of emotion. "I can't tell you all, because I have not the strength—you must just believe me, Hildegarde, when I say that I loved Wolff and that I was true to him—yes, right to the bitter end. You must try and understand that I suffered. I was English. I couldn't help myself. I was English to the bottom of my heart. I loved my country as you love yours, and I could not give it up. When the trouble began I was miserable: everything goaded me. Oh, I was all wrong, I know. I let myself be carried away by it all. I let myself be influenced. There were the Bauers—you won't understand that, perhaps, but they flattered me. They offered me friendship where others only followed me with their criticism; and when I saw where it would all lead it was too late. Miles had fallen into their hands. There were terrible debts and money troubles, and I dared not tell Wolff. I knew he would send Miles away and—and I was afraid of the loneliness."
"Of the loneliness!" Hildegarde echoed scornfully.
"Oh, can't you understand? I was a stranger among you. I was young and headstrong and had made so many enemies. I had no one to turn to—only Miles and Captain Arnold. They were English; they understood a little what I felt. And I suffered, Hildegarde. It was as though I had been infected with some frightful fever which left me no calm, which magnified every word and look into a taunt and an insult. Once Ididfight against it because Ididlove Wolff and because I knew that our whole happiness was at stake. But in the end it was too much for me. That night when we all thought war had been declared, I could bear it no longer. I rushed home. My brother had already gone——" She stopped a moment as though some terrible new thought had flashed through her brain, and the last trace of colour fled from her cheeks. "I followed him. At the station I could not find him, but Captain Arnold was there. He took me with him—home to my people. I did not go to him intentionally: I could not have done so, because I did not love him and never had loved him. I went home. That is all."
"And the papers?"
They looked each other in the eyes.
"I think I know. God pity me—thatdisgrace is indeed mine!"
"No, no, not yours! Nora——." The old tone of tenderness had crept into the shaken voice. She said no more, and they stood silently side by side, overwhelmed with the disgrace that was another's, but which yet seemed to surround them with its ugly shadow.
It was Nora who at last broke the silence.
"He must have been mad!" she said, as though she were thinking aloud. "He must have thought that he was serving his country."
But Hildegarde stopped her with a scornful gesture.
"He hated Wolff," she said, "and for the good reason that Wolff had helped and befriended him for your sake. He paid his debts with money which my mother had given him——"
"Don't, Hildegarde! Don't tell me any more—not now. I cannot bear it!"
The agony in her voice silenced the reproach. Hildegarde Arnim turned away, as though she, too, had reached the limit of her strength.
"I am not here to hurt you, but to save Wolff," she said brokenly. "He will not save himself. Ever since he knew what had happened he has lain with his eyes closed and will say nothing. Only when Captain von Seleneck asked him about the papers, he said that he was to be held responsible. They will arrest him if they are not brought back in time."
"Oh, no, no!"
Hildegarde laughed harshly.
"It will be only a formality," she said. "They know that he is dying, and perhaps they will believe that he is innocent. But he has taken the responsibility upon himself and must bear the punishment. It was Captain von Seleneck who told me to go to you. He has taken Wolff to his house, where my mother and his wife are nursing him. Seleneck thought you might have pity, and the papers are valueless now that there is to be no war. Oh, I know that Wolff is suffering! He was so proud of his work and his duty and his great trust. You cannot understand all that it means to him. Oh, Nora, let him die in peace! Give him back his good name—he treasured it so——"
All the hatred and cruelty had gone. She held out her hands to Nora in desperate, almost humble, pleading.
Nora stood rigid, staring in front of her with blank, terrible eyes.
"He is dying!" she said under her breath. "He thinks I was so cruel and wicked! Oh, Wolff!"
"When he is asleep he calls your name," Hildegarde went on, "and once he was half delirious, and he told me that you were not to worry—that he was going to die—he wanted to die. And it is true: he wants to die. He has lost everything—everything. That is why I have come—to bring him back at least his honour. Oh, Nora, help me! Remember how he loved you!" She drew a letter from her pocket and forced it into Nora's powerless hands. "He wrote that before it all happened: it was his farewell to you. He is dying. Read it! Surely it will tell you how he loved you! Surely it will make you pitiful! Nora, if I have been unjust and cruel—forgive me. Think that I am mad with grief—I loved him so——"
She broke off. Nora was reading her husband's letter, and a silence as of death seemed to hover in the little room.
"MY BELOVED WIFE," Wolff had written. "It seems strange and foolish that I should sit down and write to you when you are in the next room and I could go in to you and tell you all that I have in my heart. It seems all the more foolish because this letter may never come into your hands. Somehow, though, I think that it will, and that, though I am a clumsy fellow with my pen, you will understand better than if I spoke to you now. Now there is a terrible sea between us which neither of us can cross. You are bitter and angry with me because I am a soldier and must do my duty even if it is against the one I love most on earth. I am sad because I have lost my wife. You see, my dearest, I know everything. I have known quite a long time, and pitied you with all my heart. I pitied because I understood. You were too young to know your own heart or to measure the sacrifices which you would have to bring, and it was my fault that I did not measure for you and make you understand. Well, after it was too late, you found out for yourself, and the old love came back into your life, and I lost you. I never asked you about that 'old love.' I trusted you, and I believed that the day would come when you would tell me everything. Fate has ordained otherwise. I shall never understand anything, save that youdidlove me, and that for a time we were wonderfully happy in our love. Now that it is all over, I can still thank you for that time. It was worth all that it has cost, and perhaps you too will not regret it—now that it is over. My beloved wife! I suppose it had to end thus: there was too much between us. I suppose—oldStreberthat I am, with my cut-and-dried ways—that I could not fit into your life nor fill it as another might have done, and you could not understand that it was not want of love that made me fail. You could not understand that I could love you and yet ask you to sacrifice so much. If you had been a German woman you would have understood better. You would have seen that a soldier must belong to his duty, and that his wife must help him at whatever cost. But you were English, and there was no reason why you should have brought sacrifices to a country that was not your own. I can understand that: I always understood, but I could not help you.
"There was only one way for me to go, and you had to choose whether you would follow me or go back. I wonder how you would have chosen? Thank God, you need not be put to the test. I could not have borne to see you suffer. When you receive this you will know that you are free and can go back to your own people and your own country. It is that freedom from which I hope more than I would dare to hope if I went to you now. You will be able to forgive me because it is easy to forgive those who have passed out of one's life for ever. You see, I know that I need forgiveness. In my selfishness I tempted you into a life too full of sacrifice and hardship, and I failed you, my darling, sometimes because I was too miserable to see clearly, sometimes because I did not understand, but never because I did not love you. Forgive me, then, and perhaps—if you can—let a little of the old love revive. It can do no harm, and it makes me happy to think that it is possible.
"Do not try to find out how this has all happened. All you need know is that I am to fight a duel to-morrow, and that the chances are against me. I know you despise duelling, but this time it has at least its use—it will set you free.
"This is a poor letter, dearest, in which I have said only half of all I long to say. If you read in it one word of reproach or regret, believe that it is only my clumsy pen which has failed me, and that I have nothing in my heart but love for you. In all I am to blame, and I am glad that it has been spared me to see you suffer. Do not be sad over all that has happened; do not let it cast a shadow over your life. You have given a few months' happiness to a man who has never for one instant counted the price too high. You made me very happy. Let that be my thanks to you.
"God bless you, my little English wife! In my mind's eye I can see you sitting at your table in the next room, with your heart full of bitterness against me; or perhaps you are thinking of—— No, I will not believe that. I would rather believe that it is only bitterness, only sorrow because you are torn between your country and your husband, and can find no peace. The peace is yours now; and when the time comes for you to find your happiness in that old love, remember that I understood and that I blessed you.
"WOLFF VON ARNIM.
"P.S.—The Selenecks are your friends, and have promised to help you. Trust them implicitly."
Nora lifted her eyes to Hildegarde's. The two women who a short half-hour before had confronted each other in hatred and defiance now met on the common ground of a great sorrow. The barriers between them were yielding fast, were being swept aside. Their hands met, and that touch broke down the last restraint. The next instant they were clasped in each other's arms.
"I loved him so!" Nora sobbed wildly. "I loved him so—and I have made him unhappy. I have killed him! Oh, Hildegarde, why did I come into his life? You would have made him happy. You loved him, and there was nothing to divide you. Why did you not keep him? Why did you give him back his freedom?"
"I could not have made him happy, Nora," Hildegarde answered. "I think there are some natures which must come together though the world stands between, and even if it be to their own ruin. Wolff belongs to you. He will belong to you to the very end."
Nora lifted her face. She had become suddenly calm. She held herself with the dignity of resolution.
"And I to him," she said. "I belong to him and to no one else in the world. And whatever separates us, I shall find my way back. There must be—there is a bridge across. And when I have crossed it I shall atone as no woman ever atoned before. I shall blot out the past. Take me with you, Hildegarde; take me back to him—now, this hour!"
Hildegarde kissed her. She could have said that there is a "too late" in life, and that that "too late" had come. But there was something in Nora's face—a hope, a confidence, a strange look of clarified happiness which held her silent. Without a word, Nora turned and left her. She seemed guided by a sure instinct, for she went straight to her brother's bedroom. As she entered he was hurriedly cramming some clothes into a portmanteau, and his white, foolish face was blank with fear.
"Well?" he asked.
She came towards him, and he knew that no explanation was needed.
"Give me the papers you stole from my husband!" she said quietly. "Give them to me at once."
A sullen, defiant answer trembled on his lips, but she stopped him with a single gesture.
"I do not ask you to explain or excuse yourself," she said. "I know what you are, Miles, and I should not believe you. Nor do I appeal to your better feelings. I appeal to your common sense. The papers are useless to you. They might only bring you into trouble. Give them to me!"
He gave them to her without a word of protest. Her paralysed him; and only when she had reached the door he stammered a single question.
"Where are you going, Nora?"
"I am going home—to my husband," she answered, "and I pray with all my heart that I may never see your face again!"
CHAPTER IV
THE BRIDGE ACROSS
The Selenecks' little drawing-room was almost in darkness. Only the pale, flickering reflection from the lights in the street beneath fell on the farther wall and threw into ghostly prominence the figures of the silent occupants. Frau von Seleneck was seated at the table, still bent over a letter which she had ceased to write long before the dusk had crept in upon them. Her husband knelt beside her, and his hand held hers in a strong, tender clasp.
Thus they had been ever since a hard-drawn sob had told him that the letter was no more than a pretence. He had seen the tear-stains and the piteous smudges, and he had knelt down as though he knew that his closer presence comforted her. Neither had spoken. They seemed to be always listening, but the silence remained unbroken. Once, it is true, a carriage had rattled along the street and they had looked at each other, but it had gone on, and neither had made any observation.
From where they sat they could see across the road into the rooms of the house opposite. They were brightly lit, and in one a noble young fir-tree glittered in all the glory of tinsel and golden spangles. Husband and wife glanced quickly away. It was Christmas Eve. A tiny little shrub stood in the corner, unadorned save with the candles and one single star. Frau von Seleneck had bought it at the last moment, because she could not bring herself to let the great evening pass without that time-honoured custom, but she had cried when she had fixed the star on the topmost branch, and since then she had never dared look at it because of the tears that rose in spite of every heroic effort.
Presently the clock upon the mantelpiece began to chime. They counted the hurried, cheery little strokes under their breath. Seven o'clock.
"They must be here soon," she said in a whisper.
"If the train is not late," he answered, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. "They are usually late on Christmas Eve."
"Yes," she said. "How terrible and long the journey must seem to her!"
"If she cares!" he said bitterly.
His wife's hand tightened on his.
"I think she cares," she said with an almost awe-struck earnestness. "I am nearly sure. It is not alone that she is coming—it is something else. Kurt, haven't you ever had a letter—just an ordinary letter—from some one dear to you, and haven't you had the feeling that it contained a message of which the writer had written nothing—as though the words had absorbed the look of his eyes, the touch of his hand, and were trying to transmit to you all that which he had tried to hide behind them? That was how I felt when Nora's telegram came. It was just an ordinary, ugly telegram, and yet I knew that she cared—that she was sorry."
"Pray God he may live to see her!" he answered.
"Pray God that he may live to be happy with her!" she added reverently.
He shook his head.
"I don't pray that," he said. "I can't ask impossibilities of God. And how should Nora make Wolff happy now? She failed before, when her task was easy. What should give her the strength to succeed in the face of the distrust and hatred which she called to life by her own folly?"
"I shall help her," Elsa von Seleneck returned proudly. "I shall stand by her for Wolff's sake and because we were once friends. After all, she has atoned—she is coming back. That must be the hardest thing of all."
"She will need more than your help," was the grave answer.
"Then God will give it her!"
A tear splashed on to the note-paper, and he pressed her hand tighter.
"Steady, Frauchen!" he whispered. "I hear some one moving."
They listened breathlessly. A second cab rumbled along the street, but this time they did not hear it. Their whole attention was concentrated on that neighbouring room, where life and death kept their silent vigil, and when suddenly the door was softly opened, both started as though an icy hand had touched them on the shoulder.
A faint light came through the open doorway, and against the pale background Frau von Arnim's figure stood out in all its old noble stateliness. They could not see her face, but they felt that it was composed and resolute in its grief.
"I think they have come," she said. "I heard a cab outside."
Somewhere downstairs a bell rang, and Seleneck rose softly to his feet.
"I will light the lamp," he said, but his hand shook, and his wife took the matches from him.
"Let me do it, Kurt. I am crying—I can't help it; but I am quite steady.Gnädige Frau, how is he?"
"Sleeping," was the answer.
Poor Frau von Seleneck was not as good as her word. She could not manage the wick, and the glass shade threatened to fall from her nervous hands. In the end she lighted the little candles on the Christmas tree.
"We can at least see each other," she apologised humbly.
Thus it was by this frail yet steady light of hope and happiness that Nora entered and stood before them. She was not alone, and yet, as though of intention, Hildegarde had drawn back from her so that she stood apart, looking silently from one to the other. No one spoke. They too looked at her without a gesture of greeting, even of recognition. It was as though she were a total stranger, an intruder, an enemy. And yet that haggard young face might have touched them. It was almost terrible in its look of suspense and agony.
"Have I come in time?" she whispered.
Her voice broke the spell. Frau von Arnim nodded. Nothing had changed in her expression, but its very calm was a reproach and a punishment.
"He is alive," she said.
Nora took a step forward so that she came within the pale circle of light. For the first time they saw each other full in the eyes.
"You have brought the papers—the proof that he is innocent?" Frau von Arnim asked.
"I have brought everything—more than you know; and I have come to be forgiven."
A dead, blank silence. Suddenly she stretched out her hands in piteous, reckless appeal.
"Forgive me. I am guilty, but not so guilty as you think. I have been foolish and self-deceived, but not heartless, not wicked. Forgive me! Hildegarde has forgiven me!"
It was like a broken-hearted child crying in helpless, lonely repentance, and with a quick movement Hildegarde slipped her arm about the trembling shoulders.
"You will know everything soon," she said. "Then you will see that we have all been to blame—that we all need to pardon and to receive pardon. Forgive now—for Wolff's sake!"
Something quivered in Frau von Arnim's frozen face. The little woman by the tree was crying openly, and her husband turned away as though the light blinded him.
"Nora," Frau von Arnim said.
That was all. Nora took a stumbling step forward; the elder woman caught her and held her. They clung to each other in a moment's agony of grief. Years of life would not have brought them together nor broken their stubborn pride. The hand of death had touched them, and pride and hatred vanished. The barriers had yielded and left free the road from heart to heart.
"Forgive?" Nora whispered brokenly.
Very gently she was drawn towards the closed door.
"Let us go to him," Frau von Arnim said.
It was her forgiveness, and they entered the room together, hand clasped in hand. For one instant Nora shrank back as she saw the white face on the pillow. Then she loosened herself from her companion's clasp and went forward alone. They did not follow her. It was as though at this hour of crisis she had claimed her right above them all, as though without a word she yet demanded back from them what was her own; and they watched her in awed, unbroken silence. She took the white, feeble hand upon the coverlet, and kissed it.
"Wolff!" she whispered. "Wolff!"
No one before had been able to rouse him from that terrible, death-like slumber. His eyes opened, and he smiled peacefully at her.
"My little wife!" he answered faintly.
She crept nearer. She put her arm beneath his head so that he rested like a child against her breast.
"I have come back," she said. "I have brought your papers and your honour. You are to be quite, quite happy. I will tell you everything——"
"Not now," he interrupted gently; "not now. I have so little time."
His voice was pitifully thin and broken. It was as though the great, powerful body had become inhabited by the soul of a child. She drew him closer to her with a movement of infinite tenderness.
"Only one thing—I did not leave you because I did not love you—or because of—any one else. Wolff, you must understand that. I was mad—the thought of war and my own people made me forget all that you were to me. But now I know, and you must know too. You shall not think so badly, so wickedly of me."
He shook his head.
"I think nothing bad of you, Nora."
"You know I love you?"
"You have a good, warm heart," he answered faintly. "You are sorry for me—and I thank you. I am glad that I am going to set you free."
"Wolff!"
For the first time she understood. He did not believe her, and he was dying. The blow was almost annihilating in its force and cruelty. Hitherto she had defied Fate; it crushed her now beneath its inevitableness, and a cry of agonised revolt burst from her lips.
"Wolff, you must believe me! I can't begin life again without you—I can't! You must not leave me—you cannot leave me lonely!"
He smiled.
"Don't you see that it is for the best, my darling? It was not your fault. The sea between is so broad and strong——" He broke off suddenly, and a curious, unsteady light flickered into his glazed eyes. "Don't let her know it is anything—serious," he whispered. "She will be frightened—and she must not be frightened. She has gone, you say? With Arnold? That is a lie. I knew she was going—I sent her. Her mother is ill. The papers——? Oh, my God! my God!"
She clasped him tighter in her arms. The frightful outbreak of delirium—frightful because of its extraordinary yet heart-broken quietness—shook her to the soul. She looked about her, and in an instant Hildegarde was at her side.
"Nora is here," she said. "She will never leave you again. She has brought the papers. They are safe—the papers are safe."
She repeated the words over and over again, as though she were striving to break through the cloud in which his mind was shrouded. He thrust her from him, dragging himself upright in a stiff attitude of salute.
"Herr General, I am responsible—alone responsible. No one else is to blame. The papers?—I can tell you nothing but that I am responsible. Tell him, Seleneck! Tell him I boasted about them and was careless—anything! Swear—give me your word of honour! I am dying—what does it matter? No, no; you are not to send for her. She is to be happy—and free—among her own people. You must not blame her. It was too hard. We—must forgive each other. Oh, Nora! Nora!
"I am here, Wolff, my darling, my husband! I have come back—I will atone to you with my whole life. You don't know how I love you—more than people, more than country, more than the whole world! I have learnt just in the last hours that there is no one else who matters to me but you, and you alone. I will make you happy—so happy, my dearest!"
In that moment she remembered the power that had been given her, and her voice rang with the exultation of victory. He heard it, and the painful excitement died out of his eyes. The mist of dreams shifted, and he picked up the thread as though the short burst of delirium had never been.
"Nora, why do you look at me like that? What is it you are trying to say to me? There is something new in your face. Nora, help me! I am groping in the dark——"
She held him closer to her, and it seemed to her that the threatening hand of Fate sank, and that Death drew back as from a greater power.
"I am happy, Wolff—happier than I have ever been. I know that our happiness has begun at last."
"It is too late—too late, Nora!"
"Not if you live, my darling. And you will live, because you will not leave me comfortless—because there is another to come who will need you——"
She broke off. He was looking at her as he had once looked at her before—as though he were trying to pierce down to the uttermost depths of her soul. A look of dawning wonder was in his eyes.
"Nora—is it possible——?"
She smiled at him triumphantly through the blinding tears.
"It is possible; it is true. And even if it were not true, I should hold you back alone—with my own hands. I have been through fire, Wolff. I have grown strong, and my strength is my love for you. Don't you know that?"
"Kleine Frau, it is so hard to believe, and yet—yes, I believe Iknow! It has come to me suddenly. It is as though a cloud were lifting. Before, you seemed afar off; a great distance separated us, and when you spoke I could not hear or understand what you were saying to me—what you were trying to tell me. Nora, I can hear and understand. Oh, Nora, how good it is to have you again, my little wife! How good God is!"
A change had come over his face. It seemed illuminated from within, so that the shadow of death was forgotten, obliterated by the strength of his joy and love.
"Nora, I believe I have been living for this! I have been like Tristan—do you remember?—fighting back death until my Isolde came. I have been waiting and waiting as he waited. There was a great sea between us; but I knew that you would come in time. I saw you in my dreams—at first a long way off, and then nearer and nearer—Nora! I understand everything—you don't need to tell me: there is a bridge between us; you are quite close to me; you have crossed—my wife!"
He tried to lift her hand, as though he would have kissed it, but his strength failed him and he lay still, with his head resting peacefully against her breast.
Presently he sighed. And with that sigh something in the quiet room seemed to change. The shadows lifted, and through the open doorway the single glittering star upon the solemn fir-tree shone with a greater brightness. Hildegarde knelt down by the bed and buried her face in her hands. The sounds of her smothered sobs alone broke the peaceful hush about them. But Nora seemed not to hear her. She bent, and her lips rested on the quiet, untroubled forehead. A great calm and thankfulness had come over her. She knew that all was well.
Love had pronounced the last triumphant word, and the sea between them had rolled away for ever.
PRINTED BYHAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
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