CHAPTER IXRENUNCIATIONFrau von Arnim was waiting at the door of Hildegarde's bedroom. In the half-light Nora saw only the dim outline of the usually grave and composed face, but the hand that took hers betrayed more than the brightest searchlight could have done. It was icy cold, steady, but with something desperate in its clasp."Nora, are you accustomed to people who are very ill?""My mother is often ill," Nora answered, and the fear at her heart seemed to pass into her very blood. "But surely Hildegarde—it is not serious?"Frau von Arnim shook her head."I do not know," she said. "She fainted suddenly, and since then she has been in a feverish state which I do not understand. Poor little Hildegarde!"She spoke half to herself, quietly, almost coldly. Only Nora, strung to that pitch of sensitiveness where the very atmosphere seems to vibrate in sympathy, knew all the stifled pain, the infinite mother-tenderness which the elder woman cloaked behind a stern reserve. And because the best of human hearts is a complicated thing answering at once to a dozen cross-influences, Nora's pity was intensified by the swift realisation that even her wonderful new happiness might be struck down in an hour, a minute, as this woman's had been."Let me look after her," she pleaded. "I can be such a good nurse. I understand illness—and I love Hildegarde."Something like a smile relaxed Frau von Arnim's set features. The words had been so girlish in their enthusiasm and self-confidence."I know," she said, "and Hildegarde loves you. She has been asking after you ever since she recovered consciousness. Let us go in."She opened the door softly and led the way into the silent room. The blinds had been drawn down, and the great four-posted bed loomed up grim and immense at the far end, seeming to swallow up the frail, motionless figure in its shadow.Nora tiptoed across the heavy carpet."Hildegarde," she whispered, "are you better?"The closed eyes opened full and looked at her."Yes, I am better. It is nothing. I fainted—only a little time after you had gone—and since then I have not been well." She stopped, her gaze, curiously intense and steadfast, still fixed on Nora's face. Her sentences had come in jerks in a rough, dry voice. She now stretched out her hand and caught Nora's arm."You enjoyed your ride?" she whispered. "Nothing happened?"Troubled by the steady eyes and the feverish clasp, which seemed to burn through to her very bone, Nora answered hastily and with a forced carelessness."Nothing very much. Bruno bolted with me in the woods, and I do not know what might have happened if Herr von Arnim had not come to my rescue. It was all my fault."Hildegarde turned her flushed face a little on one side."I knew something had happened," she said almost to herself. "It all came over me when I fainted. I knew everything."Nora made no answer. She was thankful for the half-light, thankful that the large, dark eyes had closed as though in utter weariness. They had frightened her just as the conclusive "I know everything" had done by their infallible mysterious knowledge. "And even if you do know everything," she thought, "why should I mind?—why should I be afraid?" Nevertheless, fear was hammering at her heart as she turned away. Frau von Arnim took her by the hand."She seems asleep," she whispered. "Let us leave her until the doctor comes. Then we shall know better what to do."It was as though she had become suddenly anxious to get Nora away from the sick girl's bedside, and Nora yielded without protest. She felt that Hildegarde's need of her had passed; that she had indeed only waited to ask that one question, "Did anything happen?" before sinking into a feverish stupor. Silent, and strangely sick at heart, Nora followed Frau von Arnim from the room into the passage. There the elder woman took the troubled young face between her hands and kissed it."Hildegarde loves you," she said gravely. "I perhaps know best how much; but she has lost a great deal that makes life worth living, Nora, and sometimes bitterness rises above every other feeling. When that happens you must have pity and understanding. You must try and imagine what it would be like if you lost health and strength——" She stopped short, but Nora, struggling with the hard, painful lump in her throat, did not notice the break. She saw only in the sad eyes the same appeal that had met her on the first evening, "Be pitiful!" and, obeying an irresistible impulse, she put her arms about Frau von Arnim's neck in an outburst of conflicting feeling."I do understand!" she cried brokenly. "And I am so dreadfully sorry. I would do anything to help her—to make her happy!""I know you would, dear Nora; but that is not in your power or mine. She must learn happiness out of herself, as soon or late we all must do. We can only wait and be patient."They said no more, but they kept together, as people do who find an instinctive consolation in each other's presence. An hour later the doctor arrived. He pronounced high fever, apparently without any direct cause, and ordered quiet and close watching."So far, it seems nothing serious," he said, with a thoughtful shake of the head, "but she is delicate and over-sensitive. Every mental excitement will work inevitably upon her health. She must be spared all trouble and irritation."According to his suggestion, Frau von Arnim and Nora shared the task of watching in the sick-room. There was nothing for them to do, for Hildegarde lay inert and silent, apparently unconscious of their presence, and the hours slipped heavily past. At ten o'clock Nora took up her post. She had slept a little, and the dark rings beneath Frau von Arnim's eyes caused her to say gently:"You must rest as long as you can. I am not tired. I could watch all night."Frau von Arnim shook her head."I will come again at twelve," she said, with a faint smile. "Youth must have its sleep, and I shall be too anxious to be away long."The door closed softly, and Nora was left to her lonely vigil. She stood for a moment in the centre of the room, overcome by a sudden uneasiness and fear. She had watched before, but never before had the silence seemed so intense, the room so full of moving shadows. Except for the reflection from the log fire and the thin ray of a shaded night-light, the apartment was in darkness, but to Nora's excited imagination the darkness was alive and only the outstretched figure beneath the canopy dead. The illusion was so strong that she crept closer, listening with beating heart. There was no sound. For one sickening moment it seemed as though her fear had become a reality—then a stifled sigh broke upon the stillness. Hildegarde stirred restlessly, and again there was silence, but no longer the same, no longer so oppressive. Death was as yet far off, and, relieved and comforted, Nora drew an arm-chair into the circle of firelight. From where she sat she could observe every movement of her charge without herself changing position, and for some time she watched anxiously, self-forgetful in the fulfilment of her duty. But then the fascination of the glowing logs drew her eyes away, and almost without her knowledge her thoughts slipped their leash and escaped from the gloomy room with its atmosphere of pain, out into the forest, back to the moment when life had broken out into full sunshine and happiness such as she had never known, and love incomparable, irresistible, swept down upon her and bore her with them into a new paradise. Who shall blame her if she saw in the bright flames not Hildegarde's pale, suffering face, but the features of the man who had wrought in her the great miracle which occurs once, surely, in every woman's life? Who shall blame her if a half-read letter and its writer were forgotten, or, if remembered, only with a tender pity such as all good women must feel for honest failure? And in that pity there was mingled a certain wonder at herself that she could ever have supposed her feeling for Robert Arnold to be love. What was the childish regret at parting, the casual affection for an old comrade, blown to a warmer glow by the first harsh winds of exile, compared to this—this wonderful Thing which in an instant had revealed to her the possibility of a union where the loneliness, conscious or unconscious, surrounding each individual life is bridged and the barriers between mind and mind, heart and heart, are burnt down by the flames of a pure and noble passion? Poor Arnold! It was well for him that he could not know what was passing in Nora's mind nor see her face as she gazed into the fire. He might then have wished that his letter, with its bold self-confidence, had never been written. For the glow upon the young features was not all fire-shine, the starlight in the dreamy eyes not all reflected gleams from the burning logs upon the hearth. Both had their birth within, where the greatest of all human happiness had been kindled—but not by Arnold's hand.Thus half an hour, and then an hour, slipped past. Lulled by her thoughts and the absolute quiet about her, Nora sank into a doze. The firelight faded into the distance, and half-dreaming, half-waking, she drifted into a chaotic world of fancies and realities. She dreamed at last that some one called her by name. She did not answer, and the call grew louder, more persistent. It seemed to drag her against her will back to full sensibility, and with a violent start Nora's eyes opened, and she knew that the voice had not been part of her dreams, but that Hildegarde was calling her with monotonous reiteration."Nora! Nora!""Yes, I am here. What is it?"Nora drew softly to the bedside and took the outstretched hand in hers. It burnt, as though the feverish sparkle in the wide-opened eyes was but a signal of an inner devouring fire, and there was something, too, in the feeble smile which hurt Nora by reason of its very piteousness."I ought not to have disturbed you," Hildegarde said in a dry whisper. "It was selfish of me, but you looked so happy that I thought you could spare me a moment. I have been so frightened.""Frightened, dear? Of what?""I do not know—of myself, I think."She turned her fair head restlessly on the pillow, as though seeking to retrace some thought, and then once more she lifted her eyes to Nora. They seemed unnaturally large in the half-darkness, and their expression strangely penetrating. Nevertheless, when she spoke again Nora felt that they sought rather to convey a message than to question."Nora, you will laugh at me—I want to know, have I been talking—in my sleep, I mean?""No.""I am glad." Again the same half-pleading, half-frightened smile played about the colourless lips. "I have been having such mad dreams—not bad dreams—only so—so untrue, so unreal. I should not have liked you to know them. You might have thought——" She stopped, and her clasp tightened."You know how I love you, don't you, Nora?""Yes, I think so—more than I deserve.""Not as much, but still, very dearly. That was what I wanted to tell you. It seems foolish—in the middle of the night like this; but I was so afraid you would not understand. You do, though, don't you?""Of course." Nora spoke soothingly, but with a dim knowledge that she had not wholly understood. There was, indeed, a message in those broken sentences, but one to which she had no key."You have been good to me," Hildegarde went on rapidly. "Though you possess all that makes life worth living, you have not jarred on me with your wealth. You have not tried to comfort me with the truism that there are others more suffering than I—such a poor sort of comfort, isn't it? As though it made me happy to think that more suffering was possible—inevitable! When I am ill, I like to think that I am the exception—that the great law of life is happiness. And you are life and happiness personified, Nora, and so I love you. I love you so that I grudge you nothing—shall never grudge you anything. That is—what—I want—you to understand!" The last words came like a sigh, and there was a long silence. The earnest eyes had closed, and she seemed to sleep. Nora knelt down by the bedside, still holding the thin white hand between her own, and so remained until, overcome by weariness, her head sank on to the coverlet. Half an hour passed, and then suddenly a rough movement startled her from her dreams. Again she heard her name called, this time desperately, wildly, as though the caller stood at the brink of some hideous chasm."Nora! Nora!"Nora made no answer. She stumbled to her feet and stood half-paralysed, looking at the features which in an instant had undergone so terrible a change. Hildegarde sat bolt upright. Her hair was disordered, her eyes, gleaming out of the ashy face, were fixed on the darkness behind Nora with a terrible entreaty in their depths."Nora! Nora! what have you done?"Nora recovered herself with an effort. Usually strong of nerve, there was something in the voice, in the words, which terrified her."Hildegarde, what do you mean? What is the matter?""Oh, Nora, Nora, what have you done?"The voice had sunk to a moan so piteous, so wretched, that Nora forgot the cold fear which for a moment held her paralysed. She tried to press the frail figure gently back among the pillows."Dear, I don't know what you mean. But you must lie quiet. To-morrow you can tell me everything——"Hildegarde pushed her back and put her hand wildly to her head."Of course, you can't help it. You don't even know. How should you? A cripple—you would never even think of it. Nobody would—they would laugh at me or pity me. Wolff pities me now—but not then. Oh, Wolff! Wolff!"The name burst from the dry lips in a low cry of pain. Hitherto she had spoken in English; she went on in German, but so clearly and with such vivid meaning in tone and gesture that Nora, cowering at the foot of the bed, felt that she would have understood had it been in some dead, unknown language."Wolff, how good you are to me! Shall we gallop over there to the bridge? How splendid it is to be alive, isn't it? Yes, of course I shall keep the supper waltz for you, if you really want it. We always have such fun together. Look! There is the Kaiser on the brown horse! And Wolff is leading the battery with Seleneck! How splendid he looks! Oh, Wolff! Wolff!"Again the old cry, vibrating with all the unspoken love and pride and happiness which the short, disjointed sentences had but indicated! They had painted for the dazed, heart-stricken listener vivid pictures from the past—the long, joyous gallops over the open country, the brilliant ballroom, the parade, all the laughter, the music, the lights, and chivalresque clash of arms—but in that one name a life had been revealed, the inner life of a girl ripening to a pure and loving woman.The tears burned Nora's eyes. Every word that fell from the delirious lips struck a deeper, more fatal blow at her own happiness, yet she could not have fled, could not have stopped her ears against their message."You must work hard, Wolff," the voice went on, sunk to a sudden gentleness. "Perhaps one day you will do something wonderful—something that will help to make us the greatest country in the world. How proud we shall be of you! I am proud already! Steady, Bruno! How wild you are this morning! One last gallop! Oh, Wolff, don't look like that! It is nothing—nothing at all! Only my back hurts. Am I not too heavy? You are so strong." And then, with a smothered exclamation of anguish: "Wolff, the doctor says I shall never ride again!"A long, unbroken silence. The young, suffering face had grown grey and pinched. There were lines about the mouth which made it look like that of an old woman. A log fell with a crash into the fireplace. The voice went on, toneless, expressionless:"How the light shines on her face! She is so pretty, and she can walk and ride. She is not half dead, like I am. No wonder he stands and watches her! Wolff, why do you stand there? Why do you look like that? Won't you come and sit by me? No, no, why should you? It is better so. You play well together.Tristan und Isolde—I wonder if it is Fate. They have gone out riding. I am glad. I wished it. When one is a cripple one must conquer oneself. I can see them riding through the park gates. They look splendid together—so handsome and young and strong. Now they are galloping. Oh, my God, my God! Nora, what are you doing? Something has happened! Oh, Wolff, Wolff! I know—I know you love her!"The voice, which had risen from note to note as though urged by some frightful inner tumult of fear, now sank to silence. Hildegarde fell back among the pillows. With that final tragic recognition her mind seemed once more to be shrouded in oblivion. The look of agony passed from her features. She was young again, young and beautiful and at peace.Nora stumbled. She would have fallen at the bedside had not a hand, seeming to stretch out of the darkness, caught her and held her. It was Frau von Arnim. How long she had been there Nora could not tell. She felt herself being drawn gently but firmly away."Go to your room, Nora. Lie down and sleep. I should never have left you. Poor child!"In the midst of her grief the tones of deep, generous pity awoke in Nora's heart a strange awe and wonder. She did not dare meet Frau von Arnim's eyes. It was as though she knew she would see there a tragedy greater than her own, a pain too sacred for words of comfort. She crept from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone."Nora, Nora, what have you done?"The words followed her; they rang in her ears as she flung herself down by her table, burying her face in her arms in a passion of despair."What have I done?" she asked again and again. And all that was generous and chivalrous in her answered:"She loved you, and you have stolen her one happiness from her. You are a thief. You have done the cruellest, meanest thing of your life."Justice protested:"How could you have known? You did not even know thatyouloved, or were loved—not till this morning."Then the memory of that morning, that short-lived happiness already crumbled and in ruins, swept over her and bore down the last barriers of her self-control. Poor Nora! She sobbed as only youth can sob face to face with its first great grief, desperately, unrestrainedly, believing that for her at least life and hope were at an end. Another less passionate, less governed by emotion would have reasoned, "It is not your fault. You need not suffer!" Nora only saw that, wittingly or unwittingly, she had helped to heap sorrow upon sorrow for a being who had shown her only kindness and love. She had brought fresh misfortune where she should have brought consolation; she had dared to love where she had no right to love; she had kindled a love in return which could only mean pain—perhaps worse—to those who had given her their whole trust and affection. She had done wrong, and for her there was only one punishment—atonement by renunciation.The grey winter dawn crept into the little bedroom, and Nora still sat at her table. She was no longer crying. Her eyes were wide open and tearless. Only an occasional shudder, a rough, uneven sigh, told of the storm that had passed over her. As the light grew stronger she took up a crumpled letter and read it through, very slowly, as though each word cost her an effort. When she had finished she copied an address on to an envelope and began to write to Robert Arnold. Her hand shook so that she had to tear up the first sheet and begin afresh, and even then the words were scarcely legible. Once her courage almost failed her, but she pulled herself back to her task with a pathetic tightening of the lips."I know now that I do not love you," she wrote. "I know, because I have been taught what love really is; but if you will take me with the little I have to give, I will be your wife."And with that she believed that she had raised an insurmountable barrier between herself and the love which fate had made sinful.CHAPTER XYOUTH AND THE BARRIERIt was Hildegarde's birthday. The November sunshine had come out to do her honour, and in every corner of her room rich masses of winter flowers rejoiced in the cold brightness which flooded in through the open window. Hildegarde herself lay on the sofa, where the light fell strongest. The two long weeks in which she had hung between life and death had wrought curiously little change in her, and what change there was lay rather in her expression than in her features. Her cheeks were colourless, but she had always been pale, and the ethereal delicacy which had become a very part of herself, and which seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of peaceful sanctity, was more spiritual than physical. Nora, who stood beside her, watching the sunlight as it made a halo of the fair hair, could not think of her as a suffering human being. It was surely a spirit that lay there, with the bunch of violets clasped in the white hands—a spirit far removed from all earthly conflict, upheld by some inner strength and softened by a grave, serene wisdom. And yet, Nora knew, it was only an heroic "seeming." She knew what pictures passed before the quiet eyes, what emotions lay hidden in the steady-beating heart, what pain the gentle lips held back from utterance. Admiration, pity, and love struggled in Nora's soul with the realisation of her own loss and the total ruin of her own happiness. "But I have done right," she repeated to herself, with a kind of desperate defiance, "and one day, if you are happy, it will be because I also brought my sacrifice in silence." It was her one consolation—a childish one enough, perhaps—the conviction that she had done right. It was the one thing which upheld her when she thought of the letter speeding to its destination and of the fate she had chosen for herself. But it had not prevented the change with which grief and struggle mark the faces of the youngest and the bravest.Down below in the street the two quiet listeners heard the tramp of marching feet which stopped beneath their window, and presently a knock at the door heralded a strange apparition. A burly under-officer in full dress stood saluting on the threshold."The regiment bringsGnädiges Fräuleinits best wishes for her birthday," he thundered, as though a dozen luckless recruits stood before him. "The regiment wishesGnädiges Fräuleinhealth and happiness, and hopes that she will approve of the selection which has been made." He advanced with jingling spurs and held out a sheet of paper, which Hildegarde accepted with a gentle smile of thanks."It is a nice programme, isn't it?" she said, as she handed the list to Nora. "All my favourites.""It was the Herr Hauptmann who told us whatGnädiges Fräuleinliked," the gruff soldier said, still in an attitude of rigid military correctness. "The Herr Hauptmann will be here himself before long. He commanded me to tellGnädiges Fräulein.""Thank you, Huber—and thank the regiment for its good wishes. Afterwards—when the concert is over—well, you know what is waiting for you and your men in the kitchen."He bowed stiffly over her extended hand."Danke, Gnädiges Fräulein." He strode back to the door, and then turned and hesitated, his weather-beaten face a shade redder."The regiment will lose the Herr Hauptmann soon," he said abruptly."Yes, Huber. And then what will you do?""Go too,Gnädiges Fräulein. I have served my country many years, and when the Herr Hauptmann leaves the regiment I have had enough. One gets old and stiff, and the time comes when one must take off the helmet.""That is true, Huber."Still he hesitated."AndGnädiges Fräulein——?""I, Huber?""Gnädiges Fräuleinwill go with the Herr Hauptmann?"A deep wave of colour mounted the pale cheeks."It is possible we may go to Berlin for a few months.""Ja,ja, for a few months!" He laughed, and his laugh was like the rumble of distant thunder. "It is well,Gnädiges Fräulein; it is well." Then suddenly he stiffened, growled an "Empfehle mich gehorsamst," and was gone.Hildegarde bowed her head over the violets and there was a long silence. Then she too laughed so naturally and gaily that Nora forgot herself and looked at her in wondering surprise."He is such a strange old fellow," Hildegarde explained. "Wolff calls him his nurse. Once in the manoeuvres he saved Wolff's life, and ever since then he has attached himself to the family, and looks upon us all more or less as his children. He is never disrespectful, and so we allow him his little idiosyncrasies. One of his pet ideas is that Wolff should marry me."Nora repressed a start. What strange thing was this that Hildegarde should speak so lightly, so carelessly, of the tragic loss overshadowing both their lives?"I think it would quite break his heart if we disappointed him," Hildegarde added quietly. "Is it not amusing?""Amusing?" Nora's hand gripped the back of the sofa. "I do not see why it should be amusing—it is natural. Of course"—she struggled to overcome the roughness in her voice—"every one sees how much your—your cousin cares for you."Again the same easy laugh answered her."Why, Nora, you are as bad as our military matchmaker! Of course, Wolff is fond of me just as I am of him. We are like brother and sister; but marriage—that is quite another matter. I am afraid I could never bring myself to marry a man whose heart-affairs I have known ever since he was an absurd little cadet."Nora pushed the hair from her forehead. She felt as though the ground had suddenly been torn from under her feet. Every resolution, every principle, the very spirit of sacrifice to which she had clung, had been shaken by those few simple words. Had she dreamed, then, that night when delirium had broken open the innermost sanctuary of Hildegarde's heart? Had it all been a wild fancy, and was this the truth? Or—— She looked full into the face raised to hers. There was a quiet merriment in the steady eyes—a merriment which yielded gradually to concern, but there was no sign of pain, no trace of struggle. It was impossible to believe that those eyes held their secret, or that the smiling lips had once uttered a cry of the greatest human agony. Yes, it was impossible, and if impossible, why, then—— Nora could think no further. She turned and walked mechanically to the window. The military band had begun the wedding-march out ofLohengrin, but for her it was no more than a confused sound beating against her brains. She heard the house-gate click, and saw a well-known figure slowly mount the steps, but she could not rouse herself to speak or think. She stood stunned and helpless, knowing nothing of the pitying eyes that watched her. In those moments a faint change had come over Hildegarde von Arnim's features. The smile had died, and in its place had come a grave peace—a peace such as is given sometimes with renunciation. Then her eyes closed and she seemed to sleep, but her hands held fast to the purple violets, and the sunlight falling upon the quiet face revealed a line that is also renunciation's heritage.Meanwhile Wolff von Arnim had entered the state drawing-room, whither the little housemaid, overwhelmed by the plumes and glittering epaulettes, had considered fit to conduct him. It was the one spot in the whole house which Frau von Arnim had not been able to stamp with her own grace and elegance. The very chairs seemed to have entered into a conspiracy to appear stiff, and stood in comfortless symmetrical order, and the fire smouldering upon the hearth could do nothing against the chill atmosphere of an unloved and seldom inhabited dwelling-room.Arnim went straight to the window. It was as though his surroundings pressed upon him with an intolerable burden, and he remained staring sightlessly out into the grey morning until the quiet opening of a door told him that he was no longer alone. Even then he did not at once turn. Only the slight convulsive tightening of the hand upon the sword-hilt betrayed that he had heard, and Frau von Arnim had almost reached his side before he swung round to greet her."Aunt Magda!" he exclaimed.She gave him her hand, and he bent over it—remained so long with his head bowed that it seemed a conscious prolongation of the time before their eyes must meet."I hardly expected you this afternoon," she said gently, "certainly not in suchgrande tenue. Are you on special duty?"He did not answer at once. He stood looking at her with a curiously absent expression."I came to ask after Hildegarde," he said. "Is she better?""Yes, much better—still very weak, of course. A fever like that is not quickly forgotten."She had slipped her arm through his and led him to the sofa before the fire."The violets you sent are most beautiful," she went on. "They gave Hildegarde so much pleasure. She asked me to thank you for them."He sat down beside her and for a moment was silent, gazing into the fire."Aunt Magda," he then began abruptly, "you have never told me what it was that caused Hildegarde's illness—nor even what was the matter with her. I—I want to know."A faint, rather weary smile passed over Frau von Arnim's lips."Illness with Hildegarde is never far off,lieber Junge," she said. "She is like an ungarrisoned castle exposed to the attack of every enemy. The least thing—something which leaves you and me unharmed—throws her off her balance no one knows how or why.""And she was once so strong!" he said, half to himself. "Nothing could tire her, and she was never ill—never.""Wolff, there is no good in remembering what was and can never be again.""Never?" he queried."Not so far as we can see."His strongly marked brows knitted themselves in pain."Would to God it had all happened to me!" he broke out impulsively. "Then it would not have been so bad.""It would have been much worse," Frau von Arnim answered. "Women suffer better than men, Wolff. It is one of their talents. After a time, Hildegarde will find consolation where you would only have found bitterness.""After a time!" he repeated. "Then she is not happy? Poor Hildegarde!""Even women cannot learn patience and resignation in a day."He sprang up as though inactivity had become unbearable."Aunt Magda—if she is strong enough—I want to see Hildegarde.""Why?"Involuntarily their eyes met in a quick flash of understanding."Because I think that it is time for our relationship to each other to be clearly settled," he said. "Ever since our childhood it has been an unwritten understanding that if Hildegarde would have me we should marry; and so I have come to ask her—if she will be my wife."He spoke bluntly, coldly, not as he had meant to speak, but the steady gaze on his face shook his composure."Have you the right to ask her that?""Aunt Magda!""Or, after all, have you been playing with the affections of a girl who has the right to my protection?""Aunt Magda—that is not true—that——"He stopped short, pale with agitation, his lips close compressed on the hot words of self-vindication.For a minute Frau von Arnim waited as though giving him time to speak, and then she went on quietly:"Wolff, we Arnims are not fond of charity. We prefer to eat out our hearts in silence rather than be objects of the world's pity. And Hildegarde is like the rest of us. She will not ask for your sympathy nor your care nor your devotion. She will ask you for your whole heart. Can you give her that?"He made a gesture as though about to give a hasty answer, but her eyes stopped him."I—love Hildegarde," he stammered. "We have been friends all our lives.""Friends, Wolff! I said 'your whole heart.'"And then he saw that she knew; and suddenly the tall, broad-shouldered man dropped down, sword-clattering, at her side and buried his face in his hands. The smile in Frau von Arnim's eyes deepened. So he had done in the earlier days when youthful scrapes and disappointments had sent the usually proud, reserved boy to the one unfailing source of understanding and consolation. Very gently she rested her hand upon his shoulder."Shall you never grow up, Wolff?" she said with tender mockery. "Shall you always be a big schoolboy, with the one difference that you have grown conceited and believe that you can hide behind a full-dress uniform and a gruff military voice—even from my eyes?"He lifted his flushed, troubled face to hers."You know—everything?" he asked."Everything,lieber Junge. Hildegarde knows, Johann knows, the cook knows. I should not be surprised if the very sparrows make it a subject of their chattering. And you can go about with that stern face and mysterious, close-shut mouth and think you have deceived us all! Oh, Wolff, Wolff!""You are laughing at me," he said. "God knows I am in deadly earnest."She took his hand between her own."If I laugh at you it is because I must," she said; "because it is the only thing to do. There are some forms of quixotic madness which it is dangerous to take seriously, and this is one of them. Wolff, you have tortured yourself with an uncalled-for remorse until you are ready to throw your own life and the lives of others into a huge catastrophe. In all this, have you thought what it might mean to Nora?"He started, and the colour ebbed out of his face, leaving it curiously pale and haggard."I think of her day and night," he said hoarsely. "I pray God that she does not know—that I shall pass out of her life and leave no trace behind me.""You believe that that is possible? You deceive yourself so well? You pretend you do not love Nora, and you do not know that she loves you?""That I love her? Yes, I know that," he confessed desperately. "But that she loves me—how should I know?""Any one would know—you must know." She put both her hands on his shoulders and looked him firmly in the face. "Wolff, if you were honest you would admit it. You would see that you have acted cruelly—without intention, but still cruelly.""Then if I have been cruel, I have been most cruel against myself," he answered. "But I meant to do what was right—I meant to act honestly. It is true when I say I love Hildegarde. I do love her—not perhaps as a man should love his wife, but enough, and I had sworn that I would make her happy, that I would compensate her for all that she has lost. I swore that to myself months ago—before Nora came. When Nora came, Aunt Magda"—his voice grew rough—"there are some things over which one has no power, no control. It was all done in a minute. If I had been honest, I should have gone away, but it would have been too late. And as it was I deceived myself with a dozen lies. I stayed on and saw her daily, and the thing grew until that morning when Bruno bolted. I lost my head then. When it was all over I could not lie and humbug any more. I had to face the truth. It was then Hildegarde fell ill. I felt it as a sort of judgment."He spoke in short, jerky sentences, his face set and grey with the memory of a past struggle. He sprang to his feet and stood erect at Frau von Arnim's side."Whatever else I am, I am not consciously a cad," he said. "What I had done wrong I was determined to put right at all costs. I loved Hildegarde, and I had dedicated my life to her happiness. Nothing and no one must turn me from my purpose. That is why I am here this morning." He made an impatient gesture. "I have been a fool. You have seen through me—you have made me tell you what torture would not have dragged out of me. But that can alter nothing."For a moment Frau von Arnim watched his stern, half-averted face in silence. Then she too rose."I have a message for you from Hildegarde," she said quietly.He started."For me?""Yes. Those who suffer have quick eyes, quicker intuitions. She saw this coming, and she asked me to tell you—should it come—that she loved you too much to accept a useless sacrifice. For it would have been useless, Wolff. You deceive yourself doubly if you believe you could have made Hildegarde happy. Yes, if you had brought your whole heart—then, perhaps; but it is almost an insult to have supposed that she would have been satisfied with less. Since her illness she has told me everything, and we have talked it over, and this is our answer to you: Take the woman you love; be happy, and be to us what you always were. In any other form we will have nothing to do with you!"She was smiling again, but Arnim turned away from the outstretched hands."It is awful!" he said roughly. "I cannot do it—I cannot!""You must, Wolff. Let time pass over it if you will, but in the end you must yield. You dare not trample on your own happiness, on Nora's, on Hildegarde's—yes, Hildegarde's," she repeated emphatically. "In the end she will find happiness in her own renunciation. She loves you both, and the first bitterness is already past. And why wait? There may be struggles enough before you both, though I shall do my best to help you. Go to Nora and make her happy. Believe me,lieber Junge, the heart-ache has not been all on your side."He had taken her hands now and was kissing them with a passionate, shame-faced gratitude."You make me feel the lowest, meanest thing on earth," he said. "And Hildegarde is an angel—far too good for me.""Yes; that is the best way to put it," she said. "Hildegarde is too good for you. And now perhaps it would be wise for you to go in search of the woman who is your equal.""Not now," he said. "I could not. I must be alone a little. It has all happened so suddenly. My whole life and future has changed in a minute.""Do as you think best, dear Wolff. But do not wait long."He pressed her hand again in farewell."You love Nora?" he asked."Yes; otherwise I would not have let things drift. There are many barriers between you—race and language are not the least—and we had thought of a match—since Hildegarde's illness—more, perhaps, in accordance with our family traditions. But Nora is a dear, sweet child, and, I believe, will make you a good wife. At any rate, I shall do all I can to smooth your path, and Hildegarde and I will be happy to welcome her as one of us."He smiled, half in gratitude, half in doubt."You seem very sure that she will have me," he said. "Everybody does not think me such a fine fellow as you do.""Lieber Junge, I am a woman, and when I see a girl grow thin and pale without apparent cause—well, I look for the cause. Nora has been very unhappy in the last days. I suspect strongly she has been suffering from your conflict, and no doubt looks upon her life and happiness as ruined. That is why I tell you not to wait too long."There was so much affection in her tone that the faint mockery in her words left no sting."I will not wait long, I promise you," Wolff said.At the door he turned and looked back at her. It was almost as though he had meant to surprise her into a betrayal of some hidden feeling; but Frau von Arnim had not moved, nor was there any change in the grave face."Tell Hildegarde that I shall never forget," he said earnestly, "that I owe her my happiness, and that I thank her.""I shall give her your message," Frau von Arnim answered.The fate that arranges the insignificant, all-important chances of our lives ordained that at the same moment when Wolff von Arnim passed out of the drawing-room Nora Ingestre came down the stairs. She held an open telegram in her hand, and the light from the hall window fell on a face white with grief and fear.Arnim strode to meet her."What is it?" he demanded. "What has happened?""My mother is very ill," she answered faintly. "They have sent for me."She had descended the last step. The next instant Wolff von Arnim was at her side, and had taken her in his arms."Mein Liebling!" he whispered. "Mein armes Liebling!"She yielded, overwhelmed by the swiftness of his action, by her own wild heart-throb of uncontrollable joy. Then she tried to free herself."You must not!" she cried. "It is not right!""My wife!" he retorted triumphantly. "My wife!"She looked up into his face. At no time had he been dearer to her, seemed more worthy of her whole love, than he did then, with his own joy subdued by an infinite tenderness and pity. But the name "wife" had rung like a trumpet-call, reminding and threatening even as it tempted."Oh, Wolff!" she said, "you must let me go. It is not possible—you do not understand. I——"She was going to tell him of the barrier she had raised with her own hands, of the letter that was on its way. She was going to say to him, "I am not free. My word is given to another. Seek your happiness where it awaits you." In some such words she meant to shatter her own life and lay the first stones of the atonement to the girl whose happiness she had stolen. Or, after all, had it been no theft? Was it not possible that she had been deceived? And even if it were true, had it not been said, "A useless sacrifice is no sacrifice at all"? Had she not a right to her happiness? And Wolff was speaking, and it seemed to her that his joy and triumph answered her."Nothing can come between us and our love!" he said. "Nothing and no one! Oh, Nora,ich habe dich so endlos lieb!"The barrier, the letter, Hildegarde, every heroic resolution was forgotten, swept away by the man's passion and her own exulting love. Nora leant her head against the dark-blue coat in reckless, thankful surrender."Ich habe dich so endlos lieb!" he repeated. "Kannst du mich auch lieb haben?"And she answered fearlessly:"I love you!" and kissed him.Such was Nora Ingestre's brief courtship and betrothal.
CHAPTER IX
RENUNCIATION
Frau von Arnim was waiting at the door of Hildegarde's bedroom. In the half-light Nora saw only the dim outline of the usually grave and composed face, but the hand that took hers betrayed more than the brightest searchlight could have done. It was icy cold, steady, but with something desperate in its clasp.
"Nora, are you accustomed to people who are very ill?"
"My mother is often ill," Nora answered, and the fear at her heart seemed to pass into her very blood. "But surely Hildegarde—it is not serious?"
Frau von Arnim shook her head.
"I do not know," she said. "She fainted suddenly, and since then she has been in a feverish state which I do not understand. Poor little Hildegarde!"
She spoke half to herself, quietly, almost coldly. Only Nora, strung to that pitch of sensitiveness where the very atmosphere seems to vibrate in sympathy, knew all the stifled pain, the infinite mother-tenderness which the elder woman cloaked behind a stern reserve. And because the best of human hearts is a complicated thing answering at once to a dozen cross-influences, Nora's pity was intensified by the swift realisation that even her wonderful new happiness might be struck down in an hour, a minute, as this woman's had been.
"Let me look after her," she pleaded. "I can be such a good nurse. I understand illness—and I love Hildegarde."
Something like a smile relaxed Frau von Arnim's set features. The words had been so girlish in their enthusiasm and self-confidence.
"I know," she said, "and Hildegarde loves you. She has been asking after you ever since she recovered consciousness. Let us go in."
She opened the door softly and led the way into the silent room. The blinds had been drawn down, and the great four-posted bed loomed up grim and immense at the far end, seeming to swallow up the frail, motionless figure in its shadow.
Nora tiptoed across the heavy carpet.
"Hildegarde," she whispered, "are you better?"
The closed eyes opened full and looked at her.
"Yes, I am better. It is nothing. I fainted—only a little time after you had gone—and since then I have not been well." She stopped, her gaze, curiously intense and steadfast, still fixed on Nora's face. Her sentences had come in jerks in a rough, dry voice. She now stretched out her hand and caught Nora's arm.
"You enjoyed your ride?" she whispered. "Nothing happened?"
Troubled by the steady eyes and the feverish clasp, which seemed to burn through to her very bone, Nora answered hastily and with a forced carelessness.
"Nothing very much. Bruno bolted with me in the woods, and I do not know what might have happened if Herr von Arnim had not come to my rescue. It was all my fault."
Hildegarde turned her flushed face a little on one side.
"I knew something had happened," she said almost to herself. "It all came over me when I fainted. I knew everything."
Nora made no answer. She was thankful for the half-light, thankful that the large, dark eyes had closed as though in utter weariness. They had frightened her just as the conclusive "I know everything" had done by their infallible mysterious knowledge. "And even if you do know everything," she thought, "why should I mind?—why should I be afraid?" Nevertheless, fear was hammering at her heart as she turned away. Frau von Arnim took her by the hand.
"She seems asleep," she whispered. "Let us leave her until the doctor comes. Then we shall know better what to do."
It was as though she had become suddenly anxious to get Nora away from the sick girl's bedside, and Nora yielded without protest. She felt that Hildegarde's need of her had passed; that she had indeed only waited to ask that one question, "Did anything happen?" before sinking into a feverish stupor. Silent, and strangely sick at heart, Nora followed Frau von Arnim from the room into the passage. There the elder woman took the troubled young face between her hands and kissed it.
"Hildegarde loves you," she said gravely. "I perhaps know best how much; but she has lost a great deal that makes life worth living, Nora, and sometimes bitterness rises above every other feeling. When that happens you must have pity and understanding. You must try and imagine what it would be like if you lost health and strength——" She stopped short, but Nora, struggling with the hard, painful lump in her throat, did not notice the break. She saw only in the sad eyes the same appeal that had met her on the first evening, "Be pitiful!" and, obeying an irresistible impulse, she put her arms about Frau von Arnim's neck in an outburst of conflicting feeling.
"I do understand!" she cried brokenly. "And I am so dreadfully sorry. I would do anything to help her—to make her happy!"
"I know you would, dear Nora; but that is not in your power or mine. She must learn happiness out of herself, as soon or late we all must do. We can only wait and be patient."
They said no more, but they kept together, as people do who find an instinctive consolation in each other's presence. An hour later the doctor arrived. He pronounced high fever, apparently without any direct cause, and ordered quiet and close watching.
"So far, it seems nothing serious," he said, with a thoughtful shake of the head, "but she is delicate and over-sensitive. Every mental excitement will work inevitably upon her health. She must be spared all trouble and irritation."
According to his suggestion, Frau von Arnim and Nora shared the task of watching in the sick-room. There was nothing for them to do, for Hildegarde lay inert and silent, apparently unconscious of their presence, and the hours slipped heavily past. At ten o'clock Nora took up her post. She had slept a little, and the dark rings beneath Frau von Arnim's eyes caused her to say gently:
"You must rest as long as you can. I am not tired. I could watch all night."
Frau von Arnim shook her head.
"I will come again at twelve," she said, with a faint smile. "Youth must have its sleep, and I shall be too anxious to be away long."
The door closed softly, and Nora was left to her lonely vigil. She stood for a moment in the centre of the room, overcome by a sudden uneasiness and fear. She had watched before, but never before had the silence seemed so intense, the room so full of moving shadows. Except for the reflection from the log fire and the thin ray of a shaded night-light, the apartment was in darkness, but to Nora's excited imagination the darkness was alive and only the outstretched figure beneath the canopy dead. The illusion was so strong that she crept closer, listening with beating heart. There was no sound. For one sickening moment it seemed as though her fear had become a reality—then a stifled sigh broke upon the stillness. Hildegarde stirred restlessly, and again there was silence, but no longer the same, no longer so oppressive. Death was as yet far off, and, relieved and comforted, Nora drew an arm-chair into the circle of firelight. From where she sat she could observe every movement of her charge without herself changing position, and for some time she watched anxiously, self-forgetful in the fulfilment of her duty. But then the fascination of the glowing logs drew her eyes away, and almost without her knowledge her thoughts slipped their leash and escaped from the gloomy room with its atmosphere of pain, out into the forest, back to the moment when life had broken out into full sunshine and happiness such as she had never known, and love incomparable, irresistible, swept down upon her and bore her with them into a new paradise. Who shall blame her if she saw in the bright flames not Hildegarde's pale, suffering face, but the features of the man who had wrought in her the great miracle which occurs once, surely, in every woman's life? Who shall blame her if a half-read letter and its writer were forgotten, or, if remembered, only with a tender pity such as all good women must feel for honest failure? And in that pity there was mingled a certain wonder at herself that she could ever have supposed her feeling for Robert Arnold to be love. What was the childish regret at parting, the casual affection for an old comrade, blown to a warmer glow by the first harsh winds of exile, compared to this—this wonderful Thing which in an instant had revealed to her the possibility of a union where the loneliness, conscious or unconscious, surrounding each individual life is bridged and the barriers between mind and mind, heart and heart, are burnt down by the flames of a pure and noble passion? Poor Arnold! It was well for him that he could not know what was passing in Nora's mind nor see her face as she gazed into the fire. He might then have wished that his letter, with its bold self-confidence, had never been written. For the glow upon the young features was not all fire-shine, the starlight in the dreamy eyes not all reflected gleams from the burning logs upon the hearth. Both had their birth within, where the greatest of all human happiness had been kindled—but not by Arnold's hand.
Thus half an hour, and then an hour, slipped past. Lulled by her thoughts and the absolute quiet about her, Nora sank into a doze. The firelight faded into the distance, and half-dreaming, half-waking, she drifted into a chaotic world of fancies and realities. She dreamed at last that some one called her by name. She did not answer, and the call grew louder, more persistent. It seemed to drag her against her will back to full sensibility, and with a violent start Nora's eyes opened, and she knew that the voice had not been part of her dreams, but that Hildegarde was calling her with monotonous reiteration.
"Nora! Nora!"
"Yes, I am here. What is it?"
Nora drew softly to the bedside and took the outstretched hand in hers. It burnt, as though the feverish sparkle in the wide-opened eyes was but a signal of an inner devouring fire, and there was something, too, in the feeble smile which hurt Nora by reason of its very piteousness.
"I ought not to have disturbed you," Hildegarde said in a dry whisper. "It was selfish of me, but you looked so happy that I thought you could spare me a moment. I have been so frightened."
"Frightened, dear? Of what?"
"I do not know—of myself, I think."
She turned her fair head restlessly on the pillow, as though seeking to retrace some thought, and then once more she lifted her eyes to Nora. They seemed unnaturally large in the half-darkness, and their expression strangely penetrating. Nevertheless, when she spoke again Nora felt that they sought rather to convey a message than to question.
"Nora, you will laugh at me—I want to know, have I been talking—in my sleep, I mean?"
"No."
"I am glad." Again the same half-pleading, half-frightened smile played about the colourless lips. "I have been having such mad dreams—not bad dreams—only so—so untrue, so unreal. I should not have liked you to know them. You might have thought——" She stopped, and her clasp tightened.
"You know how I love you, don't you, Nora?"
"Yes, I think so—more than I deserve."
"Not as much, but still, very dearly. That was what I wanted to tell you. It seems foolish—in the middle of the night like this; but I was so afraid you would not understand. You do, though, don't you?"
"Of course." Nora spoke soothingly, but with a dim knowledge that she had not wholly understood. There was, indeed, a message in those broken sentences, but one to which she had no key.
"You have been good to me," Hildegarde went on rapidly. "Though you possess all that makes life worth living, you have not jarred on me with your wealth. You have not tried to comfort me with the truism that there are others more suffering than I—such a poor sort of comfort, isn't it? As though it made me happy to think that more suffering was possible—inevitable! When I am ill, I like to think that I am the exception—that the great law of life is happiness. And you are life and happiness personified, Nora, and so I love you. I love you so that I grudge you nothing—shall never grudge you anything. That is—what—I want—you to understand!" The last words came like a sigh, and there was a long silence. The earnest eyes had closed, and she seemed to sleep. Nora knelt down by the bedside, still holding the thin white hand between her own, and so remained until, overcome by weariness, her head sank on to the coverlet. Half an hour passed, and then suddenly a rough movement startled her from her dreams. Again she heard her name called, this time desperately, wildly, as though the caller stood at the brink of some hideous chasm.
"Nora! Nora!"
Nora made no answer. She stumbled to her feet and stood half-paralysed, looking at the features which in an instant had undergone so terrible a change. Hildegarde sat bolt upright. Her hair was disordered, her eyes, gleaming out of the ashy face, were fixed on the darkness behind Nora with a terrible entreaty in their depths.
"Nora! Nora! what have you done?"
Nora recovered herself with an effort. Usually strong of nerve, there was something in the voice, in the words, which terrified her.
"Hildegarde, what do you mean? What is the matter?"
"Oh, Nora, Nora, what have you done?"
The voice had sunk to a moan so piteous, so wretched, that Nora forgot the cold fear which for a moment held her paralysed. She tried to press the frail figure gently back among the pillows.
"Dear, I don't know what you mean. But you must lie quiet. To-morrow you can tell me everything——"
Hildegarde pushed her back and put her hand wildly to her head.
"Of course, you can't help it. You don't even know. How should you? A cripple—you would never even think of it. Nobody would—they would laugh at me or pity me. Wolff pities me now—but not then. Oh, Wolff! Wolff!"
The name burst from the dry lips in a low cry of pain. Hitherto she had spoken in English; she went on in German, but so clearly and with such vivid meaning in tone and gesture that Nora, cowering at the foot of the bed, felt that she would have understood had it been in some dead, unknown language.
"Wolff, how good you are to me! Shall we gallop over there to the bridge? How splendid it is to be alive, isn't it? Yes, of course I shall keep the supper waltz for you, if you really want it. We always have such fun together. Look! There is the Kaiser on the brown horse! And Wolff is leading the battery with Seleneck! How splendid he looks! Oh, Wolff! Wolff!"
Again the old cry, vibrating with all the unspoken love and pride and happiness which the short, disjointed sentences had but indicated! They had painted for the dazed, heart-stricken listener vivid pictures from the past—the long, joyous gallops over the open country, the brilliant ballroom, the parade, all the laughter, the music, the lights, and chivalresque clash of arms—but in that one name a life had been revealed, the inner life of a girl ripening to a pure and loving woman.
The tears burned Nora's eyes. Every word that fell from the delirious lips struck a deeper, more fatal blow at her own happiness, yet she could not have fled, could not have stopped her ears against their message.
"You must work hard, Wolff," the voice went on, sunk to a sudden gentleness. "Perhaps one day you will do something wonderful—something that will help to make us the greatest country in the world. How proud we shall be of you! I am proud already! Steady, Bruno! How wild you are this morning! One last gallop! Oh, Wolff, don't look like that! It is nothing—nothing at all! Only my back hurts. Am I not too heavy? You are so strong." And then, with a smothered exclamation of anguish: "Wolff, the doctor says I shall never ride again!"
A long, unbroken silence. The young, suffering face had grown grey and pinched. There were lines about the mouth which made it look like that of an old woman. A log fell with a crash into the fireplace. The voice went on, toneless, expressionless:
"How the light shines on her face! She is so pretty, and she can walk and ride. She is not half dead, like I am. No wonder he stands and watches her! Wolff, why do you stand there? Why do you look like that? Won't you come and sit by me? No, no, why should you? It is better so. You play well together.Tristan und Isolde—I wonder if it is Fate. They have gone out riding. I am glad. I wished it. When one is a cripple one must conquer oneself. I can see them riding through the park gates. They look splendid together—so handsome and young and strong. Now they are galloping. Oh, my God, my God! Nora, what are you doing? Something has happened! Oh, Wolff, Wolff! I know—I know you love her!"
The voice, which had risen from note to note as though urged by some frightful inner tumult of fear, now sank to silence. Hildegarde fell back among the pillows. With that final tragic recognition her mind seemed once more to be shrouded in oblivion. The look of agony passed from her features. She was young again, young and beautiful and at peace.
Nora stumbled. She would have fallen at the bedside had not a hand, seeming to stretch out of the darkness, caught her and held her. It was Frau von Arnim. How long she had been there Nora could not tell. She felt herself being drawn gently but firmly away.
"Go to your room, Nora. Lie down and sleep. I should never have left you. Poor child!"
In the midst of her grief the tones of deep, generous pity awoke in Nora's heart a strange awe and wonder. She did not dare meet Frau von Arnim's eyes. It was as though she knew she would see there a tragedy greater than her own, a pain too sacred for words of comfort. She crept from the room, leaving mother and daughter alone.
"Nora, Nora, what have you done?"
The words followed her; they rang in her ears as she flung herself down by her table, burying her face in her arms in a passion of despair.
"What have I done?" she asked again and again. And all that was generous and chivalrous in her answered:
"She loved you, and you have stolen her one happiness from her. You are a thief. You have done the cruellest, meanest thing of your life."
Justice protested:
"How could you have known? You did not even know thatyouloved, or were loved—not till this morning."
Then the memory of that morning, that short-lived happiness already crumbled and in ruins, swept over her and bore down the last barriers of her self-control. Poor Nora! She sobbed as only youth can sob face to face with its first great grief, desperately, unrestrainedly, believing that for her at least life and hope were at an end. Another less passionate, less governed by emotion would have reasoned, "It is not your fault. You need not suffer!" Nora only saw that, wittingly or unwittingly, she had helped to heap sorrow upon sorrow for a being who had shown her only kindness and love. She had brought fresh misfortune where she should have brought consolation; she had dared to love where she had no right to love; she had kindled a love in return which could only mean pain—perhaps worse—to those who had given her their whole trust and affection. She had done wrong, and for her there was only one punishment—atonement by renunciation.
The grey winter dawn crept into the little bedroom, and Nora still sat at her table. She was no longer crying. Her eyes were wide open and tearless. Only an occasional shudder, a rough, uneven sigh, told of the storm that had passed over her. As the light grew stronger she took up a crumpled letter and read it through, very slowly, as though each word cost her an effort. When she had finished she copied an address on to an envelope and began to write to Robert Arnold. Her hand shook so that she had to tear up the first sheet and begin afresh, and even then the words were scarcely legible. Once her courage almost failed her, but she pulled herself back to her task with a pathetic tightening of the lips.
"I know now that I do not love you," she wrote. "I know, because I have been taught what love really is; but if you will take me with the little I have to give, I will be your wife."
And with that she believed that she had raised an insurmountable barrier between herself and the love which fate had made sinful.
CHAPTER X
YOUTH AND THE BARRIER
It was Hildegarde's birthday. The November sunshine had come out to do her honour, and in every corner of her room rich masses of winter flowers rejoiced in the cold brightness which flooded in through the open window. Hildegarde herself lay on the sofa, where the light fell strongest. The two long weeks in which she had hung between life and death had wrought curiously little change in her, and what change there was lay rather in her expression than in her features. Her cheeks were colourless, but she had always been pale, and the ethereal delicacy which had become a very part of herself, and which seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of peaceful sanctity, was more spiritual than physical. Nora, who stood beside her, watching the sunlight as it made a halo of the fair hair, could not think of her as a suffering human being. It was surely a spirit that lay there, with the bunch of violets clasped in the white hands—a spirit far removed from all earthly conflict, upheld by some inner strength and softened by a grave, serene wisdom. And yet, Nora knew, it was only an heroic "seeming." She knew what pictures passed before the quiet eyes, what emotions lay hidden in the steady-beating heart, what pain the gentle lips held back from utterance. Admiration, pity, and love struggled in Nora's soul with the realisation of her own loss and the total ruin of her own happiness. "But I have done right," she repeated to herself, with a kind of desperate defiance, "and one day, if you are happy, it will be because I also brought my sacrifice in silence." It was her one consolation—a childish one enough, perhaps—the conviction that she had done right. It was the one thing which upheld her when she thought of the letter speeding to its destination and of the fate she had chosen for herself. But it had not prevented the change with which grief and struggle mark the faces of the youngest and the bravest.
Down below in the street the two quiet listeners heard the tramp of marching feet which stopped beneath their window, and presently a knock at the door heralded a strange apparition. A burly under-officer in full dress stood saluting on the threshold.
"The regiment bringsGnädiges Fräuleinits best wishes for her birthday," he thundered, as though a dozen luckless recruits stood before him. "The regiment wishesGnädiges Fräuleinhealth and happiness, and hopes that she will approve of the selection which has been made." He advanced with jingling spurs and held out a sheet of paper, which Hildegarde accepted with a gentle smile of thanks.
"It is a nice programme, isn't it?" she said, as she handed the list to Nora. "All my favourites."
"It was the Herr Hauptmann who told us whatGnädiges Fräuleinliked," the gruff soldier said, still in an attitude of rigid military correctness. "The Herr Hauptmann will be here himself before long. He commanded me to tellGnädiges Fräulein."
"Thank you, Huber—and thank the regiment for its good wishes. Afterwards—when the concert is over—well, you know what is waiting for you and your men in the kitchen."
He bowed stiffly over her extended hand.
"Danke, Gnädiges Fräulein." He strode back to the door, and then turned and hesitated, his weather-beaten face a shade redder.
"The regiment will lose the Herr Hauptmann soon," he said abruptly.
"Yes, Huber. And then what will you do?"
"Go too,Gnädiges Fräulein. I have served my country many years, and when the Herr Hauptmann leaves the regiment I have had enough. One gets old and stiff, and the time comes when one must take off the helmet."
"That is true, Huber."
Still he hesitated.
"AndGnädiges Fräulein——?"
"I, Huber?"
"Gnädiges Fräuleinwill go with the Herr Hauptmann?"
A deep wave of colour mounted the pale cheeks.
"It is possible we may go to Berlin for a few months."
"Ja,ja, for a few months!" He laughed, and his laugh was like the rumble of distant thunder. "It is well,Gnädiges Fräulein; it is well." Then suddenly he stiffened, growled an "Empfehle mich gehorsamst," and was gone.
Hildegarde bowed her head over the violets and there was a long silence. Then she too laughed so naturally and gaily that Nora forgot herself and looked at her in wondering surprise.
"He is such a strange old fellow," Hildegarde explained. "Wolff calls him his nurse. Once in the manoeuvres he saved Wolff's life, and ever since then he has attached himself to the family, and looks upon us all more or less as his children. He is never disrespectful, and so we allow him his little idiosyncrasies. One of his pet ideas is that Wolff should marry me."
Nora repressed a start. What strange thing was this that Hildegarde should speak so lightly, so carelessly, of the tragic loss overshadowing both their lives?
"I think it would quite break his heart if we disappointed him," Hildegarde added quietly. "Is it not amusing?"
"Amusing?" Nora's hand gripped the back of the sofa. "I do not see why it should be amusing—it is natural. Of course"—she struggled to overcome the roughness in her voice—"every one sees how much your—your cousin cares for you."
Again the same easy laugh answered her.
"Why, Nora, you are as bad as our military matchmaker! Of course, Wolff is fond of me just as I am of him. We are like brother and sister; but marriage—that is quite another matter. I am afraid I could never bring myself to marry a man whose heart-affairs I have known ever since he was an absurd little cadet."
Nora pushed the hair from her forehead. She felt as though the ground had suddenly been torn from under her feet. Every resolution, every principle, the very spirit of sacrifice to which she had clung, had been shaken by those few simple words. Had she dreamed, then, that night when delirium had broken open the innermost sanctuary of Hildegarde's heart? Had it all been a wild fancy, and was this the truth? Or—— She looked full into the face raised to hers. There was a quiet merriment in the steady eyes—a merriment which yielded gradually to concern, but there was no sign of pain, no trace of struggle. It was impossible to believe that those eyes held their secret, or that the smiling lips had once uttered a cry of the greatest human agony. Yes, it was impossible, and if impossible, why, then—— Nora could think no further. She turned and walked mechanically to the window. The military band had begun the wedding-march out ofLohengrin, but for her it was no more than a confused sound beating against her brains. She heard the house-gate click, and saw a well-known figure slowly mount the steps, but she could not rouse herself to speak or think. She stood stunned and helpless, knowing nothing of the pitying eyes that watched her. In those moments a faint change had come over Hildegarde von Arnim's features. The smile had died, and in its place had come a grave peace—a peace such as is given sometimes with renunciation. Then her eyes closed and she seemed to sleep, but her hands held fast to the purple violets, and the sunlight falling upon the quiet face revealed a line that is also renunciation's heritage.
Meanwhile Wolff von Arnim had entered the state drawing-room, whither the little housemaid, overwhelmed by the plumes and glittering epaulettes, had considered fit to conduct him. It was the one spot in the whole house which Frau von Arnim had not been able to stamp with her own grace and elegance. The very chairs seemed to have entered into a conspiracy to appear stiff, and stood in comfortless symmetrical order, and the fire smouldering upon the hearth could do nothing against the chill atmosphere of an unloved and seldom inhabited dwelling-room.
Arnim went straight to the window. It was as though his surroundings pressed upon him with an intolerable burden, and he remained staring sightlessly out into the grey morning until the quiet opening of a door told him that he was no longer alone. Even then he did not at once turn. Only the slight convulsive tightening of the hand upon the sword-hilt betrayed that he had heard, and Frau von Arnim had almost reached his side before he swung round to greet her.
"Aunt Magda!" he exclaimed.
She gave him her hand, and he bent over it—remained so long with his head bowed that it seemed a conscious prolongation of the time before their eyes must meet.
"I hardly expected you this afternoon," she said gently, "certainly not in suchgrande tenue. Are you on special duty?"
He did not answer at once. He stood looking at her with a curiously absent expression.
"I came to ask after Hildegarde," he said. "Is she better?"
"Yes, much better—still very weak, of course. A fever like that is not quickly forgotten."
She had slipped her arm through his and led him to the sofa before the fire.
"The violets you sent are most beautiful," she went on. "They gave Hildegarde so much pleasure. She asked me to thank you for them."
He sat down beside her and for a moment was silent, gazing into the fire.
"Aunt Magda," he then began abruptly, "you have never told me what it was that caused Hildegarde's illness—nor even what was the matter with her. I—I want to know."
A faint, rather weary smile passed over Frau von Arnim's lips.
"Illness with Hildegarde is never far off,lieber Junge," she said. "She is like an ungarrisoned castle exposed to the attack of every enemy. The least thing—something which leaves you and me unharmed—throws her off her balance no one knows how or why."
"And she was once so strong!" he said, half to himself. "Nothing could tire her, and she was never ill—never."
"Wolff, there is no good in remembering what was and can never be again."
"Never?" he queried.
"Not so far as we can see."
His strongly marked brows knitted themselves in pain.
"Would to God it had all happened to me!" he broke out impulsively. "Then it would not have been so bad."
"It would have been much worse," Frau von Arnim answered. "Women suffer better than men, Wolff. It is one of their talents. After a time, Hildegarde will find consolation where you would only have found bitterness."
"After a time!" he repeated. "Then she is not happy? Poor Hildegarde!"
"Even women cannot learn patience and resignation in a day."
He sprang up as though inactivity had become unbearable.
"Aunt Magda—if she is strong enough—I want to see Hildegarde."
"Why?"
Involuntarily their eyes met in a quick flash of understanding.
"Because I think that it is time for our relationship to each other to be clearly settled," he said. "Ever since our childhood it has been an unwritten understanding that if Hildegarde would have me we should marry; and so I have come to ask her—if she will be my wife."
He spoke bluntly, coldly, not as he had meant to speak, but the steady gaze on his face shook his composure.
"Have you the right to ask her that?"
"Aunt Magda!"
"Or, after all, have you been playing with the affections of a girl who has the right to my protection?"
"Aunt Magda—that is not true—that——"
He stopped short, pale with agitation, his lips close compressed on the hot words of self-vindication.
For a minute Frau von Arnim waited as though giving him time to speak, and then she went on quietly:
"Wolff, we Arnims are not fond of charity. We prefer to eat out our hearts in silence rather than be objects of the world's pity. And Hildegarde is like the rest of us. She will not ask for your sympathy nor your care nor your devotion. She will ask you for your whole heart. Can you give her that?"
He made a gesture as though about to give a hasty answer, but her eyes stopped him.
"I—love Hildegarde," he stammered. "We have been friends all our lives."
"Friends, Wolff! I said 'your whole heart.'"
And then he saw that she knew; and suddenly the tall, broad-shouldered man dropped down, sword-clattering, at her side and buried his face in his hands. The smile in Frau von Arnim's eyes deepened. So he had done in the earlier days when youthful scrapes and disappointments had sent the usually proud, reserved boy to the one unfailing source of understanding and consolation. Very gently she rested her hand upon his shoulder.
"Shall you never grow up, Wolff?" she said with tender mockery. "Shall you always be a big schoolboy, with the one difference that you have grown conceited and believe that you can hide behind a full-dress uniform and a gruff military voice—even from my eyes?"
He lifted his flushed, troubled face to hers.
"You know—everything?" he asked.
"Everything,lieber Junge. Hildegarde knows, Johann knows, the cook knows. I should not be surprised if the very sparrows make it a subject of their chattering. And you can go about with that stern face and mysterious, close-shut mouth and think you have deceived us all! Oh, Wolff, Wolff!"
"You are laughing at me," he said. "God knows I am in deadly earnest."
She took his hand between her own.
"If I laugh at you it is because I must," she said; "because it is the only thing to do. There are some forms of quixotic madness which it is dangerous to take seriously, and this is one of them. Wolff, you have tortured yourself with an uncalled-for remorse until you are ready to throw your own life and the lives of others into a huge catastrophe. In all this, have you thought what it might mean to Nora?"
He started, and the colour ebbed out of his face, leaving it curiously pale and haggard.
"I think of her day and night," he said hoarsely. "I pray God that she does not know—that I shall pass out of her life and leave no trace behind me."
"You believe that that is possible? You deceive yourself so well? You pretend you do not love Nora, and you do not know that she loves you?"
"That I love her? Yes, I know that," he confessed desperately. "But that she loves me—how should I know?"
"Any one would know—you must know." She put both her hands on his shoulders and looked him firmly in the face. "Wolff, if you were honest you would admit it. You would see that you have acted cruelly—without intention, but still cruelly."
"Then if I have been cruel, I have been most cruel against myself," he answered. "But I meant to do what was right—I meant to act honestly. It is true when I say I love Hildegarde. I do love her—not perhaps as a man should love his wife, but enough, and I had sworn that I would make her happy, that I would compensate her for all that she has lost. I swore that to myself months ago—before Nora came. When Nora came, Aunt Magda"—his voice grew rough—"there are some things over which one has no power, no control. It was all done in a minute. If I had been honest, I should have gone away, but it would have been too late. And as it was I deceived myself with a dozen lies. I stayed on and saw her daily, and the thing grew until that morning when Bruno bolted. I lost my head then. When it was all over I could not lie and humbug any more. I had to face the truth. It was then Hildegarde fell ill. I felt it as a sort of judgment."
He spoke in short, jerky sentences, his face set and grey with the memory of a past struggle. He sprang to his feet and stood erect at Frau von Arnim's side.
"Whatever else I am, I am not consciously a cad," he said. "What I had done wrong I was determined to put right at all costs. I loved Hildegarde, and I had dedicated my life to her happiness. Nothing and no one must turn me from my purpose. That is why I am here this morning." He made an impatient gesture. "I have been a fool. You have seen through me—you have made me tell you what torture would not have dragged out of me. But that can alter nothing."
For a moment Frau von Arnim watched his stern, half-averted face in silence. Then she too rose.
"I have a message for you from Hildegarde," she said quietly.
He started.
"For me?"
"Yes. Those who suffer have quick eyes, quicker intuitions. She saw this coming, and she asked me to tell you—should it come—that she loved you too much to accept a useless sacrifice. For it would have been useless, Wolff. You deceive yourself doubly if you believe you could have made Hildegarde happy. Yes, if you had brought your whole heart—then, perhaps; but it is almost an insult to have supposed that she would have been satisfied with less. Since her illness she has told me everything, and we have talked it over, and this is our answer to you: Take the woman you love; be happy, and be to us what you always were. In any other form we will have nothing to do with you!"
She was smiling again, but Arnim turned away from the outstretched hands.
"It is awful!" he said roughly. "I cannot do it—I cannot!"
"You must, Wolff. Let time pass over it if you will, but in the end you must yield. You dare not trample on your own happiness, on Nora's, on Hildegarde's—yes, Hildegarde's," she repeated emphatically. "In the end she will find happiness in her own renunciation. She loves you both, and the first bitterness is already past. And why wait? There may be struggles enough before you both, though I shall do my best to help you. Go to Nora and make her happy. Believe me,lieber Junge, the heart-ache has not been all on your side."
He had taken her hands now and was kissing them with a passionate, shame-faced gratitude.
"You make me feel the lowest, meanest thing on earth," he said. "And Hildegarde is an angel—far too good for me."
"Yes; that is the best way to put it," she said. "Hildegarde is too good for you. And now perhaps it would be wise for you to go in search of the woman who is your equal."
"Not now," he said. "I could not. I must be alone a little. It has all happened so suddenly. My whole life and future has changed in a minute."
"Do as you think best, dear Wolff. But do not wait long."
He pressed her hand again in farewell.
"You love Nora?" he asked.
"Yes; otherwise I would not have let things drift. There are many barriers between you—race and language are not the least—and we had thought of a match—since Hildegarde's illness—more, perhaps, in accordance with our family traditions. But Nora is a dear, sweet child, and, I believe, will make you a good wife. At any rate, I shall do all I can to smooth your path, and Hildegarde and I will be happy to welcome her as one of us."
He smiled, half in gratitude, half in doubt.
"You seem very sure that she will have me," he said. "Everybody does not think me such a fine fellow as you do."
"Lieber Junge, I am a woman, and when I see a girl grow thin and pale without apparent cause—well, I look for the cause. Nora has been very unhappy in the last days. I suspect strongly she has been suffering from your conflict, and no doubt looks upon her life and happiness as ruined. That is why I tell you not to wait too long."
There was so much affection in her tone that the faint mockery in her words left no sting.
"I will not wait long, I promise you," Wolff said.
At the door he turned and looked back at her. It was almost as though he had meant to surprise her into a betrayal of some hidden feeling; but Frau von Arnim had not moved, nor was there any change in the grave face.
"Tell Hildegarde that I shall never forget," he said earnestly, "that I owe her my happiness, and that I thank her."
"I shall give her your message," Frau von Arnim answered.
The fate that arranges the insignificant, all-important chances of our lives ordained that at the same moment when Wolff von Arnim passed out of the drawing-room Nora Ingestre came down the stairs. She held an open telegram in her hand, and the light from the hall window fell on a face white with grief and fear.
Arnim strode to meet her.
"What is it?" he demanded. "What has happened?"
"My mother is very ill," she answered faintly. "They have sent for me."
She had descended the last step. The next instant Wolff von Arnim was at her side, and had taken her in his arms.
"Mein Liebling!" he whispered. "Mein armes Liebling!"
She yielded, overwhelmed by the swiftness of his action, by her own wild heart-throb of uncontrollable joy. Then she tried to free herself.
"You must not!" she cried. "It is not right!"
"My wife!" he retorted triumphantly. "My wife!"
She looked up into his face. At no time had he been dearer to her, seemed more worthy of her whole love, than he did then, with his own joy subdued by an infinite tenderness and pity. But the name "wife" had rung like a trumpet-call, reminding and threatening even as it tempted.
"Oh, Wolff!" she said, "you must let me go. It is not possible—you do not understand. I——"
She was going to tell him of the barrier she had raised with her own hands, of the letter that was on its way. She was going to say to him, "I am not free. My word is given to another. Seek your happiness where it awaits you." In some such words she meant to shatter her own life and lay the first stones of the atonement to the girl whose happiness she had stolen. Or, after all, had it been no theft? Was it not possible that she had been deceived? And even if it were true, had it not been said, "A useless sacrifice is no sacrifice at all"? Had she not a right to her happiness? And Wolff was speaking, and it seemed to her that his joy and triumph answered her.
"Nothing can come between us and our love!" he said. "Nothing and no one! Oh, Nora,ich habe dich so endlos lieb!"
The barrier, the letter, Hildegarde, every heroic resolution was forgotten, swept away by the man's passion and her own exulting love. Nora leant her head against the dark-blue coat in reckless, thankful surrender.
"Ich habe dich so endlos lieb!" he repeated. "Kannst du mich auch lieb haben?"
And she answered fearlessly:
"I love you!" and kissed him.
Such was Nora Ingestre's brief courtship and betrothal.