CHAPTER II—AND THE NEW LIFENora sank with a triumphant sigh into her favourite arm-chair by the window. The much-dreaded visit to the Mayos was an accomplished fact, the day's household work at an end, and for a breathing-space she was at liberty to enjoy the luxury of an unobserved idleness. Dusk had set in, and dusk is the time of memories and dreams. And this evening Nora recalled the near past. She could not have explained why of late her thoughts reverted so constantly to the glowing period which had stood, as it were, beyond the first entry of her marriage and divided it from the dull grey of everyday life. The glorious month in the Black Forest, the visit to Karlsburg, the princely reception by her husband's old regiment, the military serenades, the military visits, the endless flood of bouquets fromKameradenthe wild enthusiasm of poor little Fräulein Müller, who felt as though "it were my own wedding-day, you know,liebes Kind," and behaved as though such were really the case, the happy hours with Hildegarde and her mother—all this awoke in Nora's memory like some brilliant, intoxicating dream in whose reality she could scarcely believe. Then had come the house-hunting—or, rather, flat-hunting in the stifling heat of a Berlin July, and at last this—the slow settling down to her new life.Nora sighed. She was feeling very tired and possibly slightly depressed. In truth, she was very often depressed in that hour which divided the close of her day's duties and Wolff's return, and sometimes there was even a touch of irritability in her depression. The constant round of "teas," the constant meeting of the same people, the constant repetitions, the unfailing discussions onDienstandDienstangelegenheitenwearied her to exasperation. Some of the women she liked, some she tolerated, some she hated; but, hated or loved or tolerated, these women formed her "circle," from which there was no possible escape. On the whole, she bore the burden of their good-natured dullness with apparent equanimity, so that Frau von Seleneck had told her, with the satisfaction of a successful monitor, that she was really "one of them." But there were also moments when weariness overcame her determined courage, and only the rallying-cry "For Wolff's sake" could bring light to her eyes. They were for the most part lonely moments, when she wandered about the tiny flat seeking some occupation which would help to pass the time till Wolff's return, or whenKriegspielcarried him away in the evenings and left her to solitude, a vague home-sickness—and fear. For fear had not been altogether banished from Nora's life, though she held it under with a firm hand. It haunted her now as she sat there watching the lights spring up in the windows opposite; it asked her what had happened, and what might still happen; it reminded her of the man she had deceived. No, not deceived. After all, she had offered her life, not her love, to Robert Arnold, because he had needed her, and because she in her turn had needed him as a barrier between herself and the man she really loved. When the barrier had proved useless she had flung it aside, and she knew that if she could live over again that hour when Wolff von Arnim had come to her with love and happiness in his hands, she would not act otherwise than she had done. And to Robert Arnold she had offered the one possible atonement—she had told him the truth. He had not answered her, and she had tried to put him out of her life, regretfully and remorsefully, as a friend whom she had wronged beyond forgiveness. Nevertheless, the power to forget had not been granted her. Memory, like some old mythological Fury seeking an expiatory sacrifice, haunted her and would haunt her, as she knew, until such time as the sacrifice was paid. And the sacrifice was a confession to her husband—an impossibility, since her lips were sealed by a lie and by the fear of losing that which was most precious to her—his love."But there shall be no more secrets in my life," she thought as she heard his step on the stairs outside, and perhaps at the bottom of her heart there lurked a superstitious hope that Nemesis had heard her promise and accepted it as an atonement. The next minute she was in her husband's arms, and Nemesis, conscience, Robert Arnold, and all the petty trials of the day were forgotten, overwhelmed by a passionate joy which filled her heart and the dusky room with sunshine."Why, Nora!" he exclaimed. "You are like a little hobgoblin, springing at one out of the shadows. What have you been doing all alone in the dark?""Dreaming—and waiting for you," she answered gaily. "Wait a moment till I have lit the lamp. I had forgotten that weary warriors do not care for the dim religious light which goes with dreaming."He sank down into his chair with a tired sigh of contentment and watched her as she busied about the room, putting away his gloves and the officer's cap which he had thrown upon the table. There was no trace of depression in her face, nor, indeed, in her heart—only an almost childish happiness, and gradually the lines of worry and exhaustion faded from about the man's strong mouth."How good it is to come home, Nora!" he said under his breath. "When I think of how I used to feel after a long day's work—why, I can't imagine how I existed.""Do I make all the difference?""All the difference, my little wife."She came and kissed him, and then stood looking down into his face with tender concern."You look so tired. Has anything been worrying you?""No, nothing—only the head-work is rather a strain. One has to give mind and soul to it; there is no slacking possible, even if one were inclined that way.""Which you are not, you terrible man of iron and blood! Sometimes I am quite jealous of your work: I believe you love it more than you do me.""It is my duty," he answered gravely. And then, after a moment, he added in a lighter tone, "By the way, an old friend of yours has arrived in Berlin."Nora started."Who?""Bauer!"She was conscious of a sensation of relief as reasonless as it was acute. Of what had she been afraid? She herself could not have told."I used to look upon that man as my evil genius," she said gaily, "but now I think he must have been sent as an angel in disguise. If it had not been for him I should not have known you loved me—do you remember—that day, in the forest?""I am never likely to forget," he answered, with a sudden movement of pain. "When I think what might have happened to you——""You mustn't think. Nothingdidhappen to me—or only something nice. But now you must listen to my news. Imagine what I have done to-day?""Nora, is that fair? Do you really expect my exhausted brains to tackle a problem like that!""Don't be rude! Think—I have called on the whole family Mayo, and been so polite and amiable that her ladyship only found it in her heart to be rude once. What have you to say to that?""What have I to say?" He took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, dear."She looked at him in surprise."Why, Wolff, does it mean so much to you?""Yes, a good deal. You see—one gets a bad name if one neglects certain people.""Then why didn't you insist?"He hesitated, avoiding her eyes."I didn't want to bother you more than I could help. Sometimes I am afraid it must be very hard on you, little woman."Intuitively she guessed his thoughts, and without a word she gathered up some sheets of closely written notepaper lying on the table and thrust them into his hands."There, read that, you extremely foolish husband of mine!" she cried triumphantly. "I have been writing home, so you can judge for yourself."He obeyed, and she stood watching him, knowing that he could but be satisfied. Indeed, her letters home were full of her happiness and of Wolff—the two things were synonymous—and if she did not mention that their home was small and stuffy, that she did most of the household work herself, and that a strict, painful economy watched over every item of their daily life, it was partly because she told herself that these details played no part in her estimation and partly because she shrank instinctively from the criticism which she knew would inevitably result. She gave, instead, glowing descriptions of the dinner-parties, of the whist-parties, even of the four-hour tea-parties with their unbroken conversational circle ofDienstangelegenheitenand "Dienst-mädchen." And in all this there was no hypocrisy. Her momentary depression and distaste were sub-conscious; she did not recognise them as such. She called them "moods," which vanished like mists in the sunshine of her husband's presence."Well?" she demanded, as he put the letters aside.He shook his finger at her."Frauchen, Frauchen!" he said, laughing, "I am afraid you are what English people would call a humbug. From this epistle one would really imagine that Frau von Seleneck had received you in a palace, and that you had associated with all thebelles espritsin Berlin, instead of—well, I imagine something very different. If I remember rightly, on that particular evening I found a very pale-faced wife waiting for me, with a bad headache and an apologetic description of an afternoon spent in an overheated cupboard, with six other unhappy sufferers. And then you sit down and write that you enjoyed yourself immensely. Oh, Nora, Nora!""Ididenjoy myself!" Nora affirmed, perching herself on the arm of her chair. "You know very well that the anticipation of happiness is almost as good as the thing itself, and every time that I felt I was going to suffocate I thought of the evening we were to spend together afterwards, and felt as happy as I have described myself. After all, everything helps to pass the time till we are together again."He put his arm about her and was silent a moment, gazing thoughtfully before him. Then he looked up at her."It strikes me sometimes what a poor life I have to offer you, Nora," he said abruptly. "I don't think I would have noticed it so much, had I not seen your home. Poverty is such a relative conception. There are hundreds of officers' wives who are no better off than you, and who think themselves comfortably situated. But your father talked of poverty, and lived—for our ideas—like a lord. When I compare things I feel as though I had wronged you, and tempted you into a life of sacrifice to which you were never born."Nora bent her head and kissed him."You are a very foolish fellow!" she said. "If you were not so filled with fortifications and tactics, you would know quite well that I would rather live in a rabbit-hutch with my husband, than in a palace with a prince."Arnim laughed, and it was obvious that her words had lifted a very real burden from his mind."I'm afraid you would never get your husband into a rabbit-hutch," he said, with a self-satisfied glance at his own long, powerful limbs. "Still, it is a comfort to know that you would be ready to make the attempt. I think, though, if your people knew, and were not blinded by a certain deceitful young person, they would feel very differently. I think they would have a good many disagreeable things to say on the subject of your German home. Don't you?""No, I don't!" said Nora, privately determined that they should never have the chance. "I think they would be very glad to see for themselves how happy I am."Wolff drew a letter from the pocket of hisLitewka, and handed it to her."In that case there seems every likelihood of them enjoying that spectacle in the near future," he said. "I had this letter from your father by the evening post. Read it and see what you think."Nora's beaming face clouded over somewhat. Letters from her father were always a mixed pleasure, and Wolff's words had warned her that this particular one contained something more than the usual condensed sermon. Her supposition was correct. After a long-winded preamble, the Rev. John plunged into the matter which was really on his mind. It appeared that Miles, having broken down under the strain of his military duties, had been granted a few months' leave, and it was proposed that he should spend the time abroad—for the benefit of his education. And whither was it more natural that he should go than to his own dear sister?"You can imagine," the Rev. John had written, "that apart from the fact that we shall miss our boy terribly, the expense of the undertaking weighs heavily upon our minds. I am prepared, however, to make every possible sacrifice in order that he should obtain his wish, and am anxious to know if you could help me. Being on the spot, you will know best where and at what cost he could remain during his stay in your fine capital and, as one of the family, I feel sure that we shall be able to trust him to your care and surveillance. I should be most grateful, my dear Wolff, if you would give me your reply as soon as possible, as Miles is most eager to join you, and my wife, whose health, I regret to say, is far from satisfactory, feels that it would be good for her to be able to enjoy perfect quiet."Nora put the letter down. It was the first time that the Rev. John had ever spoken of his son-in-law as "My dear Wolff" or admitted that he was "one of the family," and Nora felt vaguely ashamed—so much so, that she did not meet her husband's eyes, but sat twisting the carefully written epistle into a torn screw, as though she would have preferred to throw it in the fire, but was restrained by a sense of respect."I have certainly overdone it with my descriptions," she admitted frankly. "Miles is getting bored at home, and imagines that we can procure a good time for him here. What are you going to do, Wolff?""I think there is only one thing for us to do," Wolff answered, with a somewhat grim smile, "and that is—our duty. I shall write to your father and invite Miles to stay with us, so long as he is in Berlin."Nora got up. The movement was abrupt enough to suggest a sudden disquiet amounting to actual fear, and her face had become crimson."Wouldn't you like it, Nora?" her husband asked. He was watching her keenly, and his gaze seemed to increase her uneasiness."Miles is so young—a mere boy," she stammered. "We can't tell what trouble he will get into. And besides, where have we to put him? We have no room?""There is theFremdenzimmer," Wolff answered quietly; "and as to your other objection, I can only say that at his age I was already lieutenant, and free to govern my own life as I chose.""One can't compare you with Miles," Nora interposed. "I think your people must have been able to trust you when you were in the cradle."Wolff laughed, but the gravity in his eyes remained unchanged. He got up, and put his hands on Nora's shoulders."You do not want your brother to come," he said. "Is it not a little because you are ashamed—of the way we live?"Nora met his eyes steadily, but for a moment she was silent, deep in her own thoughts. She was trying to find out exactly why a weight had fallen upon her mind, why the atmosphere in the little room had become close and stifling. Was it really shame, or was it something else—a foreboding of resulting evil, too vague to be defined in words?"I want an answer, Nora," Wolff continued firmly. "The thought that you might be hiding the truth from your people out of loyalty towards me is intensely painful. Heaven knows, I would bring every possible sacrifice——""Hush!" Nora interrupted, and there was a curious note of sternness in her young voice. "I hate to hear you talk like that. It sounds as thoughIhad brought some sacrifice, or had lowered myself to become your wife. I married you, Wolff, because I loved you, and because I knew that you were the only man with whom I could be happy. You have given me everything my most sanguine hopes could ask of life. That is the truth. What more can I say?"He bent and kissed her."Thank you, dear," he said. "Then I may write to your father?""Yes—of course. I shall miss our quiet evenings alone, Wolff; but if you think it right——""I think there is nothing else for us to do," her husband answered. "After all, I do not expect it will be for long. We must not be selfish, dearest."Nora smiled cheerfully; but for the first time in her married life the cheerfulness was forced. She could not shake off the feeling that a change had come, and one which was to bring no good with it.CHAPTER IIIA MEETINGFrau von Seleneck was engaged with her toilet before the looking-glass, and Nora, seated in the place of honour on the sofa, watched her with a critical interest. Hitherto she had not troubled herself much with the dowdiness or the smartness of her friends' apparel; she had accepted the general principle that "those sort of things did not matter so long as everybody knew who you were"; but something or other had occurred of late to change her attitude—a something which she had successfully avoided analysing. Only when Frau von Seleneck drew on her white silk mittens, Nora found herself wondering what Miles would think of her and, indeed, of everything. Not that Miles's opinion was of the slightest importance, but the possibility of criticism roused her to criticise; she was beginning to consider her surroundings without the aid of love-tinted glasses, and the results, if hitherto painless, were somewhat disconcerting."Now I am really ready!" Elsa von Seleneck declared, considering her bemittened hands. "How do you like my dress, Nora?" She lifted the ends of her mouse-coloured evening cloak and displayed herself with complacency. "No one would believe I had had it three years. Frau von Schilling said she thought it was quite a marvel. But you English have such good taste—I should like to know what you think."Nora took a deep breath, and then, having seen the round, good-natured face turn to her with an expression of almost wistful appeal, plunged."I think it is a marvel, too," she said slowly. "I am so glad. You know, the first year I had it it was cream, the second year mauve, the third year black. Such a beautiful black, too! Of course, the fashion——" she looked at the puff sleeves regretfully—"they are rather out of date, are they not?""That doesn't matter," Nora assured her. "The fashions are anyhow so ugly——" she was going to add "here," but stopped in time.Frau von Seleneck laughed her comfortable laugh. It was one of her virtues that she never gave or suspected offence."Quite right, Norachen. How wonderfully sensible and practical you English are—at least, I should not say 'You English,' for you are a good German now, my dear!" It was evident that she had intended the remark as a compliment, and Nora was annoyed with herself for her own rather grim silence. "But there!" her friend went on with a sudden gust of energy, "here I stand and chatter, and it is getting so late! If there is one thing Her Excellency dislikes it is unpunctuality, and at this rate we are certain to miss the tram. Now, isn't that annoying! Bertha has hidden my goloshes again!"In response to a heated summons, the little maid-of-all-work made her appearance, and after a long scramble around the hall hatstand the required articles were discovered and donned."Now I amreallyready!" Frau von Seleneck declared for the twentieth time, and to confirm the statement proceeded to lead the way downstairs. Nora followed resignedly. She knew that it was raining, and she knew also that the very idea of taking a cab would be crushed instantly as a heinous extravagance, so she gathered up the frail skirt of her chiffon dress and prepared for the worst with a humorous despair.Fortunately, though they indeed missed the tram, the road to Her Excellency Frau von Gersdorf's flat was not a long one, and only Nora's temper suffered in the transit. And even that circumstance passed unnoticed. Frau von Seleneck had walked very fast, and by the time they had mounted the flight of stone stairs leading to their destination she was hopelessly out of breath and in no mood to notice Nora's ruffled condition."Ah, but it is good to be arrived!" she sighed in English as she yielded her cloak to the attendant housemaid. "Now, my dear!"The "now, my dear" was uttered in an awe-struck tone which suggested a solemnal entry into the Imperial Presence, and Nora, following her lead towards the drawing-room, experienced the bliss of a short-lived hope. She knew that it was a great honour to be invited to "Her Excellency's Evenings"; was it not possible that they might be different to the other "evenings" which she knew so well? Was it not possible that she was to see new faces and learn to know a brilliant world which she could show to Miles without—— She did not finish the thought, and indeed the hope had died at birth.The door was thrown open, and she found herself in a small library, which appeared to form a kind of backwater for the two adjoining and equally over-crowded rooms. Nora sighed. There was no one in that moving stream whom she had not met before—the very sandwiches arranged in symmetrical order on the table under the window seemed to welcome her with the silent greeting of a long-established friendship. She knew their history so well. Had she not made them herself as many times as it had been her fate to give a so-called "evening"? As to the rest of the company, there was the usual sprinkling of elderly officers and their wives and an apparently limitless number of stray lieutenants who, commanded temporarily to Berlin, had been brought together by the natural law which unites exiles and outcasts. Her Excellency's son himself belonged to a regiment stationed in a southern state—hence the familiar "clique" which crowded his mother's rooms. Nora had seen enough to resign all hope before their hostess bore down upon them. The little old lady, who had been holding a veritable levee at the folding-doors, displayed all the naïve cordiality which belonged to her South German blood."How good of you to come!" she exclaimed, taking Nora's hand between both her own. "It is such a delightful evening—everybody is here, you know. And where is Herr von Arnim?"Nora looked down smiling into the alert but deeply lined face. In any other country Her Excellency von Gersdorf would have cut rather a ridiculous figure. She had once been a great beauty, and though there were but few traces left of her former splendour, she had still retained the long ringlets and the flowered brocades of her youth. These and other eccentricities—she had a passion for reciting her own and other people's poetry on all possible and impossible occasions—were respectfully accepted by the mighty circle of her acquaintances. She was Her Excellency von Gersdorf, the widow of a high-standing Court official, and by birth a countess with sixteen untarnished quarterings; consequently at liberty to do, say, and dress exactly what and how she pleased, without exciting the slightest criticism. Nora knew all this; but in the brief pause between her hostess's question and her own answer she found herself again wondering what her English friends would say—what Miles would say."My husband sends his greetings and begs that your Excellency will excuse him," she answered. "He has some important work to-night and could not accompany me."Frau von Gersdorf nodded, whilst her bright, bird-like eyes wandered over her guests."I know, I know; these General-Staff husbands are totally unreliable. But there, I dare say you will be able to amuse yourself without him. I think you must know everybody here?""Everybody," Nora responded gravely."And—ach, ja, naturlich! There is a countryman of yours who is most anxious to meet you again." She saw Nora's colour change, and added quickly, "I do not mean an Englishman—a captain from the dragoons in Karlsburg—Herr Rittmeister!"A tall figure in a pale-blue uniform disengaged itself from a group of officers by the window and came towards them. Nora recognised Bauer instantly, but this time his good-looking face, with its expression of almost insolent indifference, aroused no feeling either of aversion or alarm. She determined to treat him as she would have treated any other acquaintance, satisfied that a great change divided the hot-headed child of then from the dignified married woman of now. Bauer's manner also reassured her. He kissed her extended hand with a grave respect which was almost apologetic and caused her to answer his greeting with an impulsive friendliness worthy of a younger and less experienced Nora.Frau von Gersdorf nodded her satisfaction. She evidently felt that two of her guests were settled for the evening, and patted Nora's arm with a hand whose white beauty was one of the few remaining traces of the past."You two can talk Karlsburg news as soon as Herr Rebenski has finished his sonata," she said as she prepared to bustle off. "He is one of my protégés—a real genius, you know."Bauer looked at Nora with a faint, whimsical grimace."Her Excellency has always a genius on hand," he said. "It is part of her own genius—this 'discovering' instinct. Apparently the latest belongs to the pianovirtuosoclass. We shall have to listen in respectful silence."To confirm his statement, a profound hush fell upon the assembly. Those who could find chairs sat down, the others lined themselves along the wall and stood in various attitudes of attention or indifference. Bauer had discovered an empty alcove at the back of the room, and from this point of vantage Nora studied her surroundings with the keenness of her new vision. She had written home of her "brilliant life" and had not been hypocritical. For her it had at first been brilliant. The resplendent uniforms, the constant social intercourse, the courtly gallantry of her husband's comrades, the ring of grand names—all these features in her daily life had bewildered her, accustomed as she was to the stagnation and general dullness of Delford society. Now the thought of Miles's advent steadied her critical faculties. She saw behind the first glamour an almost extraordinary simplicity, a total indifference to what she had always looked upon as the refinements of life. These people cared for other things: the women thought little of their appearance—they gloried in their name and position; the men, beneath the polish of their manners, were something primitive in their tastes. Nora thought suddenly of her husband. How little he seemed to mind the narrow dimensions of his home, the ugliness of the furniture! How satisfied the elegant staff-officer seemed with his supper of cheap wine and sausage! Nora's sense of humour won the upper hand. She laughed to herself, and suddenly realised that the long sonata was at an end and that Bauer was speaking to her under cover of the renewed hubbub."Gnädige Frau, do you know why I am here to-night?" he asked.Nora looked up."Probably because you were invited, and wished to enjoy a pleasant evening," she said, still smiling at her own thoughts."A pleasant evening!" he laughed. "Gnädige Frau, in an ordinary way I avoid these festivities like the plague. I came to-night because I had heard that you were coming. Please, do not frown like that—the statement is wholly innocent of impertinence. I wanted to meet you again because I wanted to apologise.""To me?""Yes. Do you remember a certain morning in the forest at Karlsburg—a few weeks before your return to England? You were out riding with Captain von Arnim, and I galloped past you. I was told after wards that my furious riding had frightened your horse and that but for your future husband's presence of mind there might have been an accident. The thought has troubled me ever since."Nora felt a pang of remorse. She felt that she had misjudged this man. Her previous conduct to him appeared inexcusably childish and prejudiced."You did not do it on purpose," she said gently."No; that is true. I did not see you until it was too late. Still, I had no business to ride like that—I was in the devil's own mood that morning.""With a reason?""Yes; with a reason. Perhaps one day I will tell you about it—but not now. Am I forgiven?"Nora nodded. She was reliving the moment when she had felt Wolff's arm snatch her, as it had seemed, from the brink of death; she saw again his white, frightened face, and answered truthfully:"I have nothing to forgive. You did me no harm.""No; I know," he said, as though he had divined her thoughts. Nora caught a glance of his face in the long mirror opposite, and was struck for a moment by the bitterness of his expression. He looked less indifferent than usual—almost disturbed."They say that if you give the devil a finger he takes the whole hand," he went on after a pause, and in a lighter tone. "Having obtained your forgiveness, I now come with a request,gnädige Frau.""May it be as easily granted!" Nora answered, laughing."At any rate, it is not for myself this time. My sister-in-law, Frau Commerzienrat Bauer, has asked me to be a suppliant on her behalf. Perhaps you remember her? You met her at the Charity Bazaar last month."Nora shook her head."I am a disgrace—I forget people's names so quickly," she said apologetically."My relation has a better memory—especially for those to whom she has taken a fancy. She has a special weakness for English people, and it seems she is most anxious to meet you again. She has, of course, quite another circle of acquaintances, and so is driven to the expedient of calling on you herself. Has she your permission?"Something in the request or in the manner of its making jarred on Nora. She hesitated, not knowing why, and Bauer went on quickly:"I know this form of proceeding is unusual,gnädige Frau, and I confess I should not have undertaken to be my sister-in-law's messenger if it had not been that I had heard you were expecting your brother. The two things do not seem to have much connection, but it struck me that it might interest him—and perhaps you—to see something of another side of German life. Thereisanother side,gnädige Frau.""I am very content with the one I know," Nora answered. She was conscious of a rising repugnance—and a rising curiosity.Bauer laughed."That is natural enough. You have married an officer, and have made his set yours. But for your brother it will be different. I know a little of English life and of English tastes, and I fancy he will find all this—this sort of thing cramped and dull, not to say shabby. These people"—his tone became faintly tinged with condescension—"belong to the class which prides itself on being poor but noble, and on despising those who have acquired riches. When they have not enough to eat, they feast on the memory of their ancestors and are satisfied. But there is another class, thank Heaven, one which has taken your people as an example,gnädige Frau. The great commercial and financial potentates, who have flung off the foolish, narrow-hearted prejudices of the past—it is of them and of their lives which you should see something before you pass judgment."Nora rose suddenly to her feet. She felt vaguely that a bribe had been offered her, and, what was worse, a bribe whose cunning effectiveness had been based on some instinctive knowledge of her mind. All her natural loyalty rose up in arms against it."I have not passed judgment," she said proudly. "I should never pass judgment on a people to whom I belong." Then the old impulsive kindness moved her to add: "All the same, I shall be pleased to renew my acquaintance with your sister-in-law at any time convenient to her."She gave him her hand, a little ashamed of her previous outburst, and he bent over it and kissed it respectfully."Thank you,gnädige Frau."She left him, and he stood there stroking his fair moustache and looking after her with amused and admiring eyes. Nor was he the only one to watch her quiet progress, for, little as she knew it, the child Nora had become a beautiful woman, and the charm of her new womanhood hung about her like a veil.Later on, when the last of Her Excellency's protégés had performed their uttermost, and Frau von Seleneck and Nora had started on the home passage, the latter ventured a question concerning Frau Commerzienrat Bauer. She did not know why she asked, and Frau von Seleneck's answer did not encourage further curiosity."I believe her father had a big furniture-shop somewhere," she said, "and her husband is something or the other on the money-market. I cannot imagine how the captain got into such a good regiment.""He may be a very good officer," Nora said, conscious of a slight feeling of irritation.Frau von Seleneck shrugged her shoulders."He may be. At any rate, I know nothing more about his relations." She lifted her skirts a little higher, though whether to avoid contamination with the mud or as a sign of her general disapproval was not clear. "They are very rich," she added indifferently.CHAPTER IVA VISITOR ARRIVES IN KARLSBURGThe square-built house in the Moltke Strasse was to let. A big notice in the front windows published the fact, although the curtains were still hanging, and the air of desolation which usually envelops "desirable residences," or their German equivalents, was not yet noticeable.Inside, the signals of departure were more evident. The hall had been stripped bare of its scanty decorations, and in the disordered rooms a person of obviously Hebrew origin was to be seen roaming about with a pencil and a greasy note-book, making a careful inventory of the valuables. There was, indeed, only one room where the bustle and the confusion had been vigorously excluded and where the Hebrew gentleman's foot had not yet ventured to tread. This was Frau von Arnim's boudoir, and Hildegarde had taken refuge there like a shipwrecked mariner on a friendly island. She lay on her sofa with closed eyes and listened to the hammering and bumping of furniture over the bare boards. Only an occasional contraction of the fine brows and a tightening of the lips betrayed that she was awake, and that the sounds were painful to her.Frau von Arnim, who was working at her accounts by the window, never failed to catch that fleeting expression of suffering. It was as though some invisible nerve of sympathy existed between her and the invalid, and that she knew when the dull ache kindled to poignant pain. For a time she remained silent, ignoring what she saw. Then she rose, and coming to Hildegarde's side, laid her hand tenderly upon the white forehead."Does it cost so much?" she asked. "Does it cost too much? Ought I never to have allowed so great a sacrifice?"Instantly Hildegarde's eyes opened and revealed a brightness that they had not shown since the days when she had ridden at Wolff's side through the forest, and known neither suffering nor loss."It's not a sacrifice," she said, taking her mother's hand, and holding it in her own. "When I think of what we are going to do, and why we are doing it, I feel as though I were giving myself some selfish pleasure and making you pay the price. After all, from my sofa the world will look much the same in Berlin as it does here, and if I am sorry to leave, it is only because every room has its dear associations. You see, on my side it is only a sentimental sort of pain, which is rather agreeable than otherwise. But for you it is different. It will be so lonely for you, and I know how you hate flats—a suite of lofts in a badly managed hotel is what you used to call them."Frau von Arnim smiled."You have a bad memory in so far as it retains foolish remarks, better forgotten," she said. "I am sure I shall be very happy in our new home, and in any case, I, too, have my pleasure from our 'plot.' I have just been reckoning that if we are careful we shall be able to allow them at least 1,000 marks more next year, and that will make all the difference in the world to them. They will not have to worry so much over their pfennige at any rate.""If only Wolff will accept it!" Hildegarde said doubtfully. "He is like the rest of us all; and if he thinks, as I suppose he must, that we are giving up anything, he will call it a sacrifice and will refuse to accept it.""He will do just what I tell him!" Frau von Arnim retorted, with a touch of half-laughing authority, which threw a sidelight on her conscious power over her entourage. "He will let me humbug him because there will be nothing else for him to do. I shall say that we have come to Berlin to be near them—which is true; that we prefer the quiet quarters—which is partly true; that we are doing our best to spend our money, but that, do what we will, there is always a trouble—some 1,000 marks over, which won't be got rid of—which is not true at all. I shall offer it him as an indirect present to Nora, and Nora will secretly spend it on his dinners, and both will be all the happier; you need not be afraid."Hildegarde's eyes flashed with amusement. She loved her mother in her triumphant, self-confident moods."I do not think I was afraid—really," she said. "I know by experience that you can twist most people round your finger. And Wolff is no exception."She smiled to herself, and there was something wistful in her expression which Frau von Arnim was quick to perceive. She bent lower as though she wished to catch and interpret every shadow that crossed her daughter's face."And you will be glad to see them again, Hildegarde? You are strong enough? It will not make you unhappy?"Hildegarde shook her head."It is true when I say that I am longing to see them," she said firmly. "I am happier—far happier now than in the time when I knew that, crippled though I was, Wolff would have married me, that I had only to stretch out my hand, as it were, for him to take it. It was so hardnotto stretch out my hand; I had to crush down my love for him, and throw scorn on myself for daring to love at all. Every day I was afraid that I might betray myself. Now it is different. I can love him openly and honestly as my brother, and Nora I can love too without bitterness or envy as the one woman who could make him happy, or who was worthy of him. So you see, dearest, everything is for the best."Frau von Arnim nodded, satisfied by the steady, cheerful voice."You have your reward," she said. "Rightly enough, Wolff traces all his happiness back to you, and his love and gratitude are in proportion.""To his happiness?" Hildegarde suggested, smiling. "In that case I ought to be more than satisfied. Although, perhaps, for my sake he tries to hide that fact, it is obvious from his letters that he never knew what the real thing was until Nora became his wife. And I believe it will be lasting. We know Nora so well. We know how good and loving and honest she is. I do not think she will ever disappoint him or us.""And Wolff, of course, could not disappoint any one, not even though he were advertised as perfect," Frau von Arnim observed slyly. "So we need feel no alarm for the future. And now I must go back to my accounts."There was a long unbroken silence. Hildegarde seemed really asleep, or at least too deep in her own thoughts to notice the significant rumblings overhead, and her mother was frowning over the division of income, or rather the stretching of income over the hundred-and-one things necessary to the "keeping up of appearances." The latter occupation had been the constant worry of Frau von Arnim's life. Her poverty had always been of the brilliant kind, but it had been poverty none the less for that, and now this change had come it was not even to be brilliant. Not that she felt any regret. The "brilliancy" had only been maintained as a sort of sop to the family traditions, and now that the family honour seemed to concentrate itself on Wolff, it was only natural that the other members would be ready to make every sacrifice to support him and save him from the curse of pecuniary troubles, which is the curse of two-thirds of the German nobility. So the old home was to be given up, and the old pill-box brougham and such of the family relics as would find no place in the narrow dimensions of anétagewere to drift into the hands of strangers. Both Frau von Arnim and Hildegarde, brought up in the stern code of their old race, found this course of events perfectly correct, and they would have done no less even if they had not cared for Wolff. Thus the frown upon Frau von Arnim's brow was caused not so much by trouble or regret as by a natural dislike for the consideration of pfennige, and it was with a movement of almost relief that she looked up presently, aroused from her unloved task by the ringing of the front-door bell."That must be Herr Sonnenthal again," she said. "He has probably come to tell us how much the carriage has fetched. Would you mind if I saw him in here?"Hildegarde assented, but her mother's supposition proved incorrect. The untidy charwoman who put in her head a minute later informed them that there was a strange gentleman downstairs inquiring after a certain Fräulein whose name she, the charwoman, had not been able to grasp, and that, failing her, he had requested the honour of a few minutes' conversation with thegnädige Frauherself.Frau von Arnim looked puzzled as she studied the card."I think there must be some mistake," she said. "However, show him up here."For some reason or other nothing was said of the unknown visitor. It is possible that, as the wild beasts of the forest have an instinctive prescience of an enemy's approach, so we, in our higher world of sensitiveness, receive indefinable warnings when mischance is about to overtake us or a personality to enter into our lives and change its whole course. Certain it is that neither Frau von Arnim nor Hildegarde were fully at their ease as their visitor entered the room, and their response to his correct, somewhat stiff bow was marked by that frigidity which seems to ask of itself "Who are you? What do you want with us?"Hildegarde had drawn herself up into a sitting position. The last two months had brought a marked change for the better in her health, and with a revival of the old strength had come a revival of the old pride and sensitiveness. She hated a stranger to see, and perhaps pity, her infirmity, and, moreover, on this occasion she was conscious of an inexplicable restlessness.There was, at all events, nothing alarming in the stranger's appearance. A tall, carefully dressed man, with a thin sunken face, and a manner suggesting at once breeding and embarrassment, stood in the doorway, evidently uncertain as to his own course of conduct. As the silence threatened to grow awkward, Frau von Arnim took the initiative."From your card, and from what my servant tells me, I judge that you are English, Captain Arnold," she said, motioning him to be seated.The visitor's face immediately lightened, and he advanced into the room, without, however, making further use of her invitation."I should be most thankful," he said. "If my German had not been of such a negligible quality I should not have had to trouble you. Indeed, until I heard you speak I feared my difficulties were by no means at an end. I hope you will excuse my intrusion?"His sentences, like his manner, were somewhat wooden, and not calculated to inspire any particular warmth in his hearers. Having briefly introduced him to Hildegarde, Frau von Arnim repeated her invitation, which he now accepted, though with reluctance."I shall be glad to be of any service to you," Frau von Arnim said graciously. "English people are bound to me by at least one tie, and it is always a pleasure when I can assist any one of them. You need not apologise therefore."Arnold smiled, and his expression suggested that he accepted her words as a formal politeness, and valued them as such."You are very kind," he said. "At the same time I trust that I need not trespass too much on your good-nature. I must explain that I have just returned from Africa, and Karlsburg lying on overland route, I stopped in the hope that Miss Ingestre were still staying here. Your servant, however, did not understand my German, or did not recognise the name——""The latter is certain," Frau von Arnim interrupted calmly. "The girl was not here when Miss Ingestre lived with us.""Miss Ingestre has left, then?""Already—some months."Captain Arnold rose abruptly. It was evident that his mission was at an end."In that case I do not need to trouble you further," he said. "I came on a mere supposition. Had I not travelled so quickly I should no doubt have heard from Miss Ingestre herself, but I have been on the road night and day, missing, apparently, every mail, and getting a good start on my own letters. I shall now have to hurry on to England as fast as possible.""If you wish to meet Frau von Arnim your journey will be in vain," Hildegarde said. "She is at present in Berlin."Arnold turned, and for the first time looked steadily at the speaker. It was evident that the words had had no meaning for him, but there was a curious, apparently causeless animosity and distrust in her steady eyes which arrested his attention and aroused in him emotions of a like nature. It was as though unconsciously they had hated each other before all time, and that the hatred had now become a definite recognisable quality."You spoke of Frau von Arnim," he said. "I am afraid I do not quite understand."Hildegarde shrugged her shoulders. The movement was slightly insolent and utterly at variance with her usual gentle courtesy, but, like all nervous invalids, she could be goaded beyond all self-control, and something in this man's manner jarred on her as presumptuous, overbearing, suggesting an impertinent familiarity with the woman who was Wolff's wife."I think you must undoubtedly have missed your letters," she said; "otherwise you would know that Miss Ingestre ceased to exist many months ago."The next minute she regretted her own clumsiness. The man's whole bearing and expression had changed. His face was livid; it was obvious that he had a hard task to control an extraordinary agitation."You must think me very stupid," he said, and his voice was painful to listen to. "I beg of you to speak more clearly. You will perhaps understand what it means to me when I tell you what you seem not to know—that Miss Ingestre is to be my wife.""Captain Arnold, you are labouring under some strange delusion. Miss Ingestre is already married."It was Frau von Arnim who spoke. She had advanced almost unconsciously, and now stood half-way between him and Hildegarde, who had risen to her feet.Arnold said nothing. His eyes were fixed full on Frau von Arnim's face, but his expression was absolutely blank, and he did not seem to see her. She waited, too disturbed to move farther forward along the path of inevitable explanation, and after a minute, in which the man's whole moral strength seemed to be concentrated in the fight for self-mastery, Arnold himself broke the silence."I can only believe that there is a misapprehension on both sides," he said. "Are you speaking of Miss Nora Ingestre?""Of Miss Nora Ingestre that was.""And you say she is already married?""In April—five months ago.""To whom?""To Hauptmann von Arnim, at present officer on the Staff at Berlin.""You are sure of what you say? There is no possible mistake?"Frau von Arnim's brows contracted proudly. For a brief moment she had sympathised with, and even pitied, his agitation. His rigid self-control, entailing as it did an increased abruptness of manner, impressed her disagreeably, hiding from her usually keen eyes the fact that the man was really suffering. She answered therefore, with considerable haughtiness:"There is no possible mistake. You will see that for yourself when I tell you that Herr von Arnim is my nephew, and that I myself was at the wedding at Delford."Arnold bowed. His expression was now normal, and it suggested no more than the calm interest of an ordinary caller on an ordinary topic of conversation."You are perfectly right," he said. "There is no possible mistake. I am very grateful to you for your explanation."He included Hildegarde in his curt salute, and turned towards the door.Frau von Arnim detained him with a decided and indignant gesture."The matter cannot end there," she said. "You have suggested that Miss Ingestre was engaged to you at the time of her betrothal with my nephew. It is a suggestion intensely offensive to us all. It is now my turn to point out to you that you are making a mistake—or worse."Arnold coloured with anger."I am not likely to make a mistake of such magnitude," he said. "Of your second insinuation I need take no notice.""In that case I must ask you to be more explicit. I—we have a right to an explanation.""Excuse me—I fail to see that any one has a right in a matter which concerns Miss Ingestre—Frau von Arnim, and myself alone.""The matter concerns my nephew and us all."Arnold smiled ironically."I regret that I cannot sympathise with your point of view," he said. "In any case, I have no explanation to offer."There was a blank silence. It was the more marked because it followed on a sharp lightning-like exchange, kept within bounds of outward courtesy only by the education and upbringing of the conflicting personalities. Frau von Arnim, usually armed with a kindly wisdom which had sympathy for all sorts and conditions of men, was brought nearer to a display of uncontrolled anger than in all her life before. To her mind, Arnold had, unwittingly perhaps, cast a slur upon the credit of one who was a member of her family; and her family was Frau von Arnim's fetish. He had done so, moreover, without offering proof or justification, and the latter offences deepened his guilt, though their omission would not have shielded him from her enmity.Arnold, on his side, saw a haughty, domineering woman who claimed the right to investigate a personal overwhelming calamity in which she had no share, and with which he could as yet only grapple in blind, half-incredulous pain. He disliked her instinctively, but also because he could not understand the motives and principles which governed her conduct towards himself. He continued speaking after a moment, and his irritation was so intense that it helped him to overcome, almost forget, his own misery."I think there is nothing more to be said," he observed, looking Frau von Arnim coldly in the face. "It seems I have blundered, and it is only right that I should bear the brunt of the consequences alone. I am sure you will agree with me that it will be best for this—what has passed between us—to be kept entirely to ourselves, to be forgotten. It can only bring trouble to others, and, as I have said, I am alone to blame."In spite of everything, he was thinking of Nora, seeking to shield her from the results of his betrayal of a cruel duplicity.Frau von Arnim was thinking of Wolff, and of the woman to whom he had entrusted his happiness—above all things, their name."What you suggest is impossible," she said. "There are things one cannot forget—at least not until they have been explained. We must therefore look for the explanation.""I have none to give," Arnold returned, with bitter truth."Then we must look elsewhere.""It would be better to do as I suggest, and leave the matter alone, or lay it to my account—to my own stupid muddle." He spoke hurriedly, for he felt afraid of this woman, with her haughty, resolute face. It was as though, unwittingly, he had roused to action a force which had passed out of his control."If there is any shadow of wrong connected with my nephew's marriage, it must be cleared," Frau von Arnim answered. "That is the only wisdom I know."Arnold bowed a second time, and went.For a long time after he had gone the two women remained silent, motionless, avoiding each other's eyes. The action seemed to imply that nothing had happened.Hildegarde had long since fallen wearily back upon her couch. She roused herself then, and turned her white, troubled face towards her mother."The man must be mad!" she said, almost violently. "Nora could never have done such a thing. She is so frank and honest. She would have told us from the beginning. I could have sworn that she never cared for a man before she loved Wolff. I do not believe a word of it.""Nor I," her mother answered calmly. "As you say, the man may be mad—though he did not seem so—or there may really be some mistake. But we must make sure, for our own peace of mind, and Nora is the only one who can help us. Even so we must have patience and wait. We have no right to trouble her so early in her married life with what, I pray, may be a false alarm.""You must ask her when we are in Berlin," Hildegarde said, in the same sharp, determined tone. "I could not see her every day like that and not know.""You are quite right. When we are settled in Berlin I will tell her everything that has happened. Until then we must believe the best.""Yes, of course—believe the best," Hildegarde answered thoughtfully.
CHAPTER II
—AND THE NEW LIFE
Nora sank with a triumphant sigh into her favourite arm-chair by the window. The much-dreaded visit to the Mayos was an accomplished fact, the day's household work at an end, and for a breathing-space she was at liberty to enjoy the luxury of an unobserved idleness. Dusk had set in, and dusk is the time of memories and dreams. And this evening Nora recalled the near past. She could not have explained why of late her thoughts reverted so constantly to the glowing period which had stood, as it were, beyond the first entry of her marriage and divided it from the dull grey of everyday life. The glorious month in the Black Forest, the visit to Karlsburg, the princely reception by her husband's old regiment, the military serenades, the military visits, the endless flood of bouquets fromKameradenthe wild enthusiasm of poor little Fräulein Müller, who felt as though "it were my own wedding-day, you know,liebes Kind," and behaved as though such were really the case, the happy hours with Hildegarde and her mother—all this awoke in Nora's memory like some brilliant, intoxicating dream in whose reality she could scarcely believe. Then had come the house-hunting—or, rather, flat-hunting in the stifling heat of a Berlin July, and at last this—the slow settling down to her new life.
Nora sighed. She was feeling very tired and possibly slightly depressed. In truth, she was very often depressed in that hour which divided the close of her day's duties and Wolff's return, and sometimes there was even a touch of irritability in her depression. The constant round of "teas," the constant meeting of the same people, the constant repetitions, the unfailing discussions onDienstandDienstangelegenheitenwearied her to exasperation. Some of the women she liked, some she tolerated, some she hated; but, hated or loved or tolerated, these women formed her "circle," from which there was no possible escape. On the whole, she bore the burden of their good-natured dullness with apparent equanimity, so that Frau von Seleneck had told her, with the satisfaction of a successful monitor, that she was really "one of them." But there were also moments when weariness overcame her determined courage, and only the rallying-cry "For Wolff's sake" could bring light to her eyes. They were for the most part lonely moments, when she wandered about the tiny flat seeking some occupation which would help to pass the time till Wolff's return, or whenKriegspielcarried him away in the evenings and left her to solitude, a vague home-sickness—and fear. For fear had not been altogether banished from Nora's life, though she held it under with a firm hand. It haunted her now as she sat there watching the lights spring up in the windows opposite; it asked her what had happened, and what might still happen; it reminded her of the man she had deceived. No, not deceived. After all, she had offered her life, not her love, to Robert Arnold, because he had needed her, and because she in her turn had needed him as a barrier between herself and the man she really loved. When the barrier had proved useless she had flung it aside, and she knew that if she could live over again that hour when Wolff von Arnim had come to her with love and happiness in his hands, she would not act otherwise than she had done. And to Robert Arnold she had offered the one possible atonement—she had told him the truth. He had not answered her, and she had tried to put him out of her life, regretfully and remorsefully, as a friend whom she had wronged beyond forgiveness. Nevertheless, the power to forget had not been granted her. Memory, like some old mythological Fury seeking an expiatory sacrifice, haunted her and would haunt her, as she knew, until such time as the sacrifice was paid. And the sacrifice was a confession to her husband—an impossibility, since her lips were sealed by a lie and by the fear of losing that which was most precious to her—his love.
"But there shall be no more secrets in my life," she thought as she heard his step on the stairs outside, and perhaps at the bottom of her heart there lurked a superstitious hope that Nemesis had heard her promise and accepted it as an atonement. The next minute she was in her husband's arms, and Nemesis, conscience, Robert Arnold, and all the petty trials of the day were forgotten, overwhelmed by a passionate joy which filled her heart and the dusky room with sunshine.
"Why, Nora!" he exclaimed. "You are like a little hobgoblin, springing at one out of the shadows. What have you been doing all alone in the dark?"
"Dreaming—and waiting for you," she answered gaily. "Wait a moment till I have lit the lamp. I had forgotten that weary warriors do not care for the dim religious light which goes with dreaming."
He sank down into his chair with a tired sigh of contentment and watched her as she busied about the room, putting away his gloves and the officer's cap which he had thrown upon the table. There was no trace of depression in her face, nor, indeed, in her heart—only an almost childish happiness, and gradually the lines of worry and exhaustion faded from about the man's strong mouth.
"How good it is to come home, Nora!" he said under his breath. "When I think of how I used to feel after a long day's work—why, I can't imagine how I existed."
"Do I make all the difference?"
"All the difference, my little wife."
She came and kissed him, and then stood looking down into his face with tender concern.
"You look so tired. Has anything been worrying you?"
"No, nothing—only the head-work is rather a strain. One has to give mind and soul to it; there is no slacking possible, even if one were inclined that way."
"Which you are not, you terrible man of iron and blood! Sometimes I am quite jealous of your work: I believe you love it more than you do me."
"It is my duty," he answered gravely. And then, after a moment, he added in a lighter tone, "By the way, an old friend of yours has arrived in Berlin."
Nora started.
"Who?"
"Bauer!"
She was conscious of a sensation of relief as reasonless as it was acute. Of what had she been afraid? She herself could not have told.
"I used to look upon that man as my evil genius," she said gaily, "but now I think he must have been sent as an angel in disguise. If it had not been for him I should not have known you loved me—do you remember—that day, in the forest?"
"I am never likely to forget," he answered, with a sudden movement of pain. "When I think what might have happened to you——"
"You mustn't think. Nothingdidhappen to me—or only something nice. But now you must listen to my news. Imagine what I have done to-day?"
"Nora, is that fair? Do you really expect my exhausted brains to tackle a problem like that!"
"Don't be rude! Think—I have called on the whole family Mayo, and been so polite and amiable that her ladyship only found it in her heart to be rude once. What have you to say to that?"
"What have I to say?" He took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, dear."
She looked at him in surprise.
"Why, Wolff, does it mean so much to you?"
"Yes, a good deal. You see—one gets a bad name if one neglects certain people."
"Then why didn't you insist?"
He hesitated, avoiding her eyes.
"I didn't want to bother you more than I could help. Sometimes I am afraid it must be very hard on you, little woman."
Intuitively she guessed his thoughts, and without a word she gathered up some sheets of closely written notepaper lying on the table and thrust them into his hands.
"There, read that, you extremely foolish husband of mine!" she cried triumphantly. "I have been writing home, so you can judge for yourself."
He obeyed, and she stood watching him, knowing that he could but be satisfied. Indeed, her letters home were full of her happiness and of Wolff—the two things were synonymous—and if she did not mention that their home was small and stuffy, that she did most of the household work herself, and that a strict, painful economy watched over every item of their daily life, it was partly because she told herself that these details played no part in her estimation and partly because she shrank instinctively from the criticism which she knew would inevitably result. She gave, instead, glowing descriptions of the dinner-parties, of the whist-parties, even of the four-hour tea-parties with their unbroken conversational circle ofDienstangelegenheitenand "Dienst-mädchen." And in all this there was no hypocrisy. Her momentary depression and distaste were sub-conscious; she did not recognise them as such. She called them "moods," which vanished like mists in the sunshine of her husband's presence.
"Well?" she demanded, as he put the letters aside.
He shook his finger at her.
"Frauchen, Frauchen!" he said, laughing, "I am afraid you are what English people would call a humbug. From this epistle one would really imagine that Frau von Seleneck had received you in a palace, and that you had associated with all thebelles espritsin Berlin, instead of—well, I imagine something very different. If I remember rightly, on that particular evening I found a very pale-faced wife waiting for me, with a bad headache and an apologetic description of an afternoon spent in an overheated cupboard, with six other unhappy sufferers. And then you sit down and write that you enjoyed yourself immensely. Oh, Nora, Nora!"
"Ididenjoy myself!" Nora affirmed, perching herself on the arm of her chair. "You know very well that the anticipation of happiness is almost as good as the thing itself, and every time that I felt I was going to suffocate I thought of the evening we were to spend together afterwards, and felt as happy as I have described myself. After all, everything helps to pass the time till we are together again."
He put his arm about her and was silent a moment, gazing thoughtfully before him. Then he looked up at her.
"It strikes me sometimes what a poor life I have to offer you, Nora," he said abruptly. "I don't think I would have noticed it so much, had I not seen your home. Poverty is such a relative conception. There are hundreds of officers' wives who are no better off than you, and who think themselves comfortably situated. But your father talked of poverty, and lived—for our ideas—like a lord. When I compare things I feel as though I had wronged you, and tempted you into a life of sacrifice to which you were never born."
Nora bent her head and kissed him.
"You are a very foolish fellow!" she said. "If you were not so filled with fortifications and tactics, you would know quite well that I would rather live in a rabbit-hutch with my husband, than in a palace with a prince."
Arnim laughed, and it was obvious that her words had lifted a very real burden from his mind.
"I'm afraid you would never get your husband into a rabbit-hutch," he said, with a self-satisfied glance at his own long, powerful limbs. "Still, it is a comfort to know that you would be ready to make the attempt. I think, though, if your people knew, and were not blinded by a certain deceitful young person, they would feel very differently. I think they would have a good many disagreeable things to say on the subject of your German home. Don't you?"
"No, I don't!" said Nora, privately determined that they should never have the chance. "I think they would be very glad to see for themselves how happy I am."
Wolff drew a letter from the pocket of hisLitewka, and handed it to her.
"In that case there seems every likelihood of them enjoying that spectacle in the near future," he said. "I had this letter from your father by the evening post. Read it and see what you think."
Nora's beaming face clouded over somewhat. Letters from her father were always a mixed pleasure, and Wolff's words had warned her that this particular one contained something more than the usual condensed sermon. Her supposition was correct. After a long-winded preamble, the Rev. John plunged into the matter which was really on his mind. It appeared that Miles, having broken down under the strain of his military duties, had been granted a few months' leave, and it was proposed that he should spend the time abroad—for the benefit of his education. And whither was it more natural that he should go than to his own dear sister?
"You can imagine," the Rev. John had written, "that apart from the fact that we shall miss our boy terribly, the expense of the undertaking weighs heavily upon our minds. I am prepared, however, to make every possible sacrifice in order that he should obtain his wish, and am anxious to know if you could help me. Being on the spot, you will know best where and at what cost he could remain during his stay in your fine capital and, as one of the family, I feel sure that we shall be able to trust him to your care and surveillance. I should be most grateful, my dear Wolff, if you would give me your reply as soon as possible, as Miles is most eager to join you, and my wife, whose health, I regret to say, is far from satisfactory, feels that it would be good for her to be able to enjoy perfect quiet."
Nora put the letter down. It was the first time that the Rev. John had ever spoken of his son-in-law as "My dear Wolff" or admitted that he was "one of the family," and Nora felt vaguely ashamed—so much so, that she did not meet her husband's eyes, but sat twisting the carefully written epistle into a torn screw, as though she would have preferred to throw it in the fire, but was restrained by a sense of respect.
"I have certainly overdone it with my descriptions," she admitted frankly. "Miles is getting bored at home, and imagines that we can procure a good time for him here. What are you going to do, Wolff?"
"I think there is only one thing for us to do," Wolff answered, with a somewhat grim smile, "and that is—our duty. I shall write to your father and invite Miles to stay with us, so long as he is in Berlin."
Nora got up. The movement was abrupt enough to suggest a sudden disquiet amounting to actual fear, and her face had become crimson.
"Wouldn't you like it, Nora?" her husband asked. He was watching her keenly, and his gaze seemed to increase her uneasiness.
"Miles is so young—a mere boy," she stammered. "We can't tell what trouble he will get into. And besides, where have we to put him? We have no room?"
"There is theFremdenzimmer," Wolff answered quietly; "and as to your other objection, I can only say that at his age I was already lieutenant, and free to govern my own life as I chose."
"One can't compare you with Miles," Nora interposed. "I think your people must have been able to trust you when you were in the cradle."
Wolff laughed, but the gravity in his eyes remained unchanged. He got up, and put his hands on Nora's shoulders.
"You do not want your brother to come," he said. "Is it not a little because you are ashamed—of the way we live?"
Nora met his eyes steadily, but for a moment she was silent, deep in her own thoughts. She was trying to find out exactly why a weight had fallen upon her mind, why the atmosphere in the little room had become close and stifling. Was it really shame, or was it something else—a foreboding of resulting evil, too vague to be defined in words?
"I want an answer, Nora," Wolff continued firmly. "The thought that you might be hiding the truth from your people out of loyalty towards me is intensely painful. Heaven knows, I would bring every possible sacrifice——"
"Hush!" Nora interrupted, and there was a curious note of sternness in her young voice. "I hate to hear you talk like that. It sounds as thoughIhad brought some sacrifice, or had lowered myself to become your wife. I married you, Wolff, because I loved you, and because I knew that you were the only man with whom I could be happy. You have given me everything my most sanguine hopes could ask of life. That is the truth. What more can I say?"
He bent and kissed her.
"Thank you, dear," he said. "Then I may write to your father?"
"Yes—of course. I shall miss our quiet evenings alone, Wolff; but if you think it right——"
"I think there is nothing else for us to do," her husband answered. "After all, I do not expect it will be for long. We must not be selfish, dearest."
Nora smiled cheerfully; but for the first time in her married life the cheerfulness was forced. She could not shake off the feeling that a change had come, and one which was to bring no good with it.
CHAPTER III
A MEETING
Frau von Seleneck was engaged with her toilet before the looking-glass, and Nora, seated in the place of honour on the sofa, watched her with a critical interest. Hitherto she had not troubled herself much with the dowdiness or the smartness of her friends' apparel; she had accepted the general principle that "those sort of things did not matter so long as everybody knew who you were"; but something or other had occurred of late to change her attitude—a something which she had successfully avoided analysing. Only when Frau von Seleneck drew on her white silk mittens, Nora found herself wondering what Miles would think of her and, indeed, of everything. Not that Miles's opinion was of the slightest importance, but the possibility of criticism roused her to criticise; she was beginning to consider her surroundings without the aid of love-tinted glasses, and the results, if hitherto painless, were somewhat disconcerting.
"Now I am really ready!" Elsa von Seleneck declared, considering her bemittened hands. "How do you like my dress, Nora?" She lifted the ends of her mouse-coloured evening cloak and displayed herself with complacency. "No one would believe I had had it three years. Frau von Schilling said she thought it was quite a marvel. But you English have such good taste—I should like to know what you think."
Nora took a deep breath, and then, having seen the round, good-natured face turn to her with an expression of almost wistful appeal, plunged.
"I think it is a marvel, too," she said slowly. "I am so glad. You know, the first year I had it it was cream, the second year mauve, the third year black. Such a beautiful black, too! Of course, the fashion——" she looked at the puff sleeves regretfully—"they are rather out of date, are they not?"
"That doesn't matter," Nora assured her. "The fashions are anyhow so ugly——" she was going to add "here," but stopped in time.
Frau von Seleneck laughed her comfortable laugh. It was one of her virtues that she never gave or suspected offence.
"Quite right, Norachen. How wonderfully sensible and practical you English are—at least, I should not say 'You English,' for you are a good German now, my dear!" It was evident that she had intended the remark as a compliment, and Nora was annoyed with herself for her own rather grim silence. "But there!" her friend went on with a sudden gust of energy, "here I stand and chatter, and it is getting so late! If there is one thing Her Excellency dislikes it is unpunctuality, and at this rate we are certain to miss the tram. Now, isn't that annoying! Bertha has hidden my goloshes again!"
In response to a heated summons, the little maid-of-all-work made her appearance, and after a long scramble around the hall hatstand the required articles were discovered and donned.
"Now I amreallyready!" Frau von Seleneck declared for the twentieth time, and to confirm the statement proceeded to lead the way downstairs. Nora followed resignedly. She knew that it was raining, and she knew also that the very idea of taking a cab would be crushed instantly as a heinous extravagance, so she gathered up the frail skirt of her chiffon dress and prepared for the worst with a humorous despair.
Fortunately, though they indeed missed the tram, the road to Her Excellency Frau von Gersdorf's flat was not a long one, and only Nora's temper suffered in the transit. And even that circumstance passed unnoticed. Frau von Seleneck had walked very fast, and by the time they had mounted the flight of stone stairs leading to their destination she was hopelessly out of breath and in no mood to notice Nora's ruffled condition.
"Ah, but it is good to be arrived!" she sighed in English as she yielded her cloak to the attendant housemaid. "Now, my dear!"
The "now, my dear" was uttered in an awe-struck tone which suggested a solemnal entry into the Imperial Presence, and Nora, following her lead towards the drawing-room, experienced the bliss of a short-lived hope. She knew that it was a great honour to be invited to "Her Excellency's Evenings"; was it not possible that they might be different to the other "evenings" which she knew so well? Was it not possible that she was to see new faces and learn to know a brilliant world which she could show to Miles without—— She did not finish the thought, and indeed the hope had died at birth.
The door was thrown open, and she found herself in a small library, which appeared to form a kind of backwater for the two adjoining and equally over-crowded rooms. Nora sighed. There was no one in that moving stream whom she had not met before—the very sandwiches arranged in symmetrical order on the table under the window seemed to welcome her with the silent greeting of a long-established friendship. She knew their history so well. Had she not made them herself as many times as it had been her fate to give a so-called "evening"? As to the rest of the company, there was the usual sprinkling of elderly officers and their wives and an apparently limitless number of stray lieutenants who, commanded temporarily to Berlin, had been brought together by the natural law which unites exiles and outcasts. Her Excellency's son himself belonged to a regiment stationed in a southern state—hence the familiar "clique" which crowded his mother's rooms. Nora had seen enough to resign all hope before their hostess bore down upon them. The little old lady, who had been holding a veritable levee at the folding-doors, displayed all the naïve cordiality which belonged to her South German blood.
"How good of you to come!" she exclaimed, taking Nora's hand between both her own. "It is such a delightful evening—everybody is here, you know. And where is Herr von Arnim?"
Nora looked down smiling into the alert but deeply lined face. In any other country Her Excellency von Gersdorf would have cut rather a ridiculous figure. She had once been a great beauty, and though there were but few traces left of her former splendour, she had still retained the long ringlets and the flowered brocades of her youth. These and other eccentricities—she had a passion for reciting her own and other people's poetry on all possible and impossible occasions—were respectfully accepted by the mighty circle of her acquaintances. She was Her Excellency von Gersdorf, the widow of a high-standing Court official, and by birth a countess with sixteen untarnished quarterings; consequently at liberty to do, say, and dress exactly what and how she pleased, without exciting the slightest criticism. Nora knew all this; but in the brief pause between her hostess's question and her own answer she found herself again wondering what her English friends would say—what Miles would say.
"My husband sends his greetings and begs that your Excellency will excuse him," she answered. "He has some important work to-night and could not accompany me."
Frau von Gersdorf nodded, whilst her bright, bird-like eyes wandered over her guests.
"I know, I know; these General-Staff husbands are totally unreliable. But there, I dare say you will be able to amuse yourself without him. I think you must know everybody here?"
"Everybody," Nora responded gravely.
"And—ach, ja, naturlich! There is a countryman of yours who is most anxious to meet you again." She saw Nora's colour change, and added quickly, "I do not mean an Englishman—a captain from the dragoons in Karlsburg—Herr Rittmeister!"
A tall figure in a pale-blue uniform disengaged itself from a group of officers by the window and came towards them. Nora recognised Bauer instantly, but this time his good-looking face, with its expression of almost insolent indifference, aroused no feeling either of aversion or alarm. She determined to treat him as she would have treated any other acquaintance, satisfied that a great change divided the hot-headed child of then from the dignified married woman of now. Bauer's manner also reassured her. He kissed her extended hand with a grave respect which was almost apologetic and caused her to answer his greeting with an impulsive friendliness worthy of a younger and less experienced Nora.
Frau von Gersdorf nodded her satisfaction. She evidently felt that two of her guests were settled for the evening, and patted Nora's arm with a hand whose white beauty was one of the few remaining traces of the past.
"You two can talk Karlsburg news as soon as Herr Rebenski has finished his sonata," she said as she prepared to bustle off. "He is one of my protégés—a real genius, you know."
Bauer looked at Nora with a faint, whimsical grimace.
"Her Excellency has always a genius on hand," he said. "It is part of her own genius—this 'discovering' instinct. Apparently the latest belongs to the pianovirtuosoclass. We shall have to listen in respectful silence."
To confirm his statement, a profound hush fell upon the assembly. Those who could find chairs sat down, the others lined themselves along the wall and stood in various attitudes of attention or indifference. Bauer had discovered an empty alcove at the back of the room, and from this point of vantage Nora studied her surroundings with the keenness of her new vision. She had written home of her "brilliant life" and had not been hypocritical. For her it had at first been brilliant. The resplendent uniforms, the constant social intercourse, the courtly gallantry of her husband's comrades, the ring of grand names—all these features in her daily life had bewildered her, accustomed as she was to the stagnation and general dullness of Delford society. Now the thought of Miles's advent steadied her critical faculties. She saw behind the first glamour an almost extraordinary simplicity, a total indifference to what she had always looked upon as the refinements of life. These people cared for other things: the women thought little of their appearance—they gloried in their name and position; the men, beneath the polish of their manners, were something primitive in their tastes. Nora thought suddenly of her husband. How little he seemed to mind the narrow dimensions of his home, the ugliness of the furniture! How satisfied the elegant staff-officer seemed with his supper of cheap wine and sausage! Nora's sense of humour won the upper hand. She laughed to herself, and suddenly realised that the long sonata was at an end and that Bauer was speaking to her under cover of the renewed hubbub.
"Gnädige Frau, do you know why I am here to-night?" he asked.
Nora looked up.
"Probably because you were invited, and wished to enjoy a pleasant evening," she said, still smiling at her own thoughts.
"A pleasant evening!" he laughed. "Gnädige Frau, in an ordinary way I avoid these festivities like the plague. I came to-night because I had heard that you were coming. Please, do not frown like that—the statement is wholly innocent of impertinence. I wanted to meet you again because I wanted to apologise."
"To me?"
"Yes. Do you remember a certain morning in the forest at Karlsburg—a few weeks before your return to England? You were out riding with Captain von Arnim, and I galloped past you. I was told after wards that my furious riding had frightened your horse and that but for your future husband's presence of mind there might have been an accident. The thought has troubled me ever since."
Nora felt a pang of remorse. She felt that she had misjudged this man. Her previous conduct to him appeared inexcusably childish and prejudiced.
"You did not do it on purpose," she said gently.
"No; that is true. I did not see you until it was too late. Still, I had no business to ride like that—I was in the devil's own mood that morning."
"With a reason?"
"Yes; with a reason. Perhaps one day I will tell you about it—but not now. Am I forgiven?"
Nora nodded. She was reliving the moment when she had felt Wolff's arm snatch her, as it had seemed, from the brink of death; she saw again his white, frightened face, and answered truthfully:
"I have nothing to forgive. You did me no harm."
"No; I know," he said, as though he had divined her thoughts. Nora caught a glance of his face in the long mirror opposite, and was struck for a moment by the bitterness of his expression. He looked less indifferent than usual—almost disturbed.
"They say that if you give the devil a finger he takes the whole hand," he went on after a pause, and in a lighter tone. "Having obtained your forgiveness, I now come with a request,gnädige Frau."
"May it be as easily granted!" Nora answered, laughing.
"At any rate, it is not for myself this time. My sister-in-law, Frau Commerzienrat Bauer, has asked me to be a suppliant on her behalf. Perhaps you remember her? You met her at the Charity Bazaar last month."
Nora shook her head.
"I am a disgrace—I forget people's names so quickly," she said apologetically.
"My relation has a better memory—especially for those to whom she has taken a fancy. She has a special weakness for English people, and it seems she is most anxious to meet you again. She has, of course, quite another circle of acquaintances, and so is driven to the expedient of calling on you herself. Has she your permission?"
Something in the request or in the manner of its making jarred on Nora. She hesitated, not knowing why, and Bauer went on quickly:
"I know this form of proceeding is unusual,gnädige Frau, and I confess I should not have undertaken to be my sister-in-law's messenger if it had not been that I had heard you were expecting your brother. The two things do not seem to have much connection, but it struck me that it might interest him—and perhaps you—to see something of another side of German life. Thereisanother side,gnädige Frau."
"I am very content with the one I know," Nora answered. She was conscious of a rising repugnance—and a rising curiosity.
Bauer laughed.
"That is natural enough. You have married an officer, and have made his set yours. But for your brother it will be different. I know a little of English life and of English tastes, and I fancy he will find all this—this sort of thing cramped and dull, not to say shabby. These people"—his tone became faintly tinged with condescension—"belong to the class which prides itself on being poor but noble, and on despising those who have acquired riches. When they have not enough to eat, they feast on the memory of their ancestors and are satisfied. But there is another class, thank Heaven, one which has taken your people as an example,gnädige Frau. The great commercial and financial potentates, who have flung off the foolish, narrow-hearted prejudices of the past—it is of them and of their lives which you should see something before you pass judgment."
Nora rose suddenly to her feet. She felt vaguely that a bribe had been offered her, and, what was worse, a bribe whose cunning effectiveness had been based on some instinctive knowledge of her mind. All her natural loyalty rose up in arms against it.
"I have not passed judgment," she said proudly. "I should never pass judgment on a people to whom I belong." Then the old impulsive kindness moved her to add: "All the same, I shall be pleased to renew my acquaintance with your sister-in-law at any time convenient to her."
She gave him her hand, a little ashamed of her previous outburst, and he bent over it and kissed it respectfully.
"Thank you,gnädige Frau."
She left him, and he stood there stroking his fair moustache and looking after her with amused and admiring eyes. Nor was he the only one to watch her quiet progress, for, little as she knew it, the child Nora had become a beautiful woman, and the charm of her new womanhood hung about her like a veil.
Later on, when the last of Her Excellency's protégés had performed their uttermost, and Frau von Seleneck and Nora had started on the home passage, the latter ventured a question concerning Frau Commerzienrat Bauer. She did not know why she asked, and Frau von Seleneck's answer did not encourage further curiosity.
"I believe her father had a big furniture-shop somewhere," she said, "and her husband is something or the other on the money-market. I cannot imagine how the captain got into such a good regiment."
"He may be a very good officer," Nora said, conscious of a slight feeling of irritation.
Frau von Seleneck shrugged her shoulders.
"He may be. At any rate, I know nothing more about his relations." She lifted her skirts a little higher, though whether to avoid contamination with the mud or as a sign of her general disapproval was not clear. "They are very rich," she added indifferently.
CHAPTER IV
A VISITOR ARRIVES IN KARLSBURG
The square-built house in the Moltke Strasse was to let. A big notice in the front windows published the fact, although the curtains were still hanging, and the air of desolation which usually envelops "desirable residences," or their German equivalents, was not yet noticeable.
Inside, the signals of departure were more evident. The hall had been stripped bare of its scanty decorations, and in the disordered rooms a person of obviously Hebrew origin was to be seen roaming about with a pencil and a greasy note-book, making a careful inventory of the valuables. There was, indeed, only one room where the bustle and the confusion had been vigorously excluded and where the Hebrew gentleman's foot had not yet ventured to tread. This was Frau von Arnim's boudoir, and Hildegarde had taken refuge there like a shipwrecked mariner on a friendly island. She lay on her sofa with closed eyes and listened to the hammering and bumping of furniture over the bare boards. Only an occasional contraction of the fine brows and a tightening of the lips betrayed that she was awake, and that the sounds were painful to her.
Frau von Arnim, who was working at her accounts by the window, never failed to catch that fleeting expression of suffering. It was as though some invisible nerve of sympathy existed between her and the invalid, and that she knew when the dull ache kindled to poignant pain. For a time she remained silent, ignoring what she saw. Then she rose, and coming to Hildegarde's side, laid her hand tenderly upon the white forehead.
"Does it cost so much?" she asked. "Does it cost too much? Ought I never to have allowed so great a sacrifice?"
Instantly Hildegarde's eyes opened and revealed a brightness that they had not shown since the days when she had ridden at Wolff's side through the forest, and known neither suffering nor loss.
"It's not a sacrifice," she said, taking her mother's hand, and holding it in her own. "When I think of what we are going to do, and why we are doing it, I feel as though I were giving myself some selfish pleasure and making you pay the price. After all, from my sofa the world will look much the same in Berlin as it does here, and if I am sorry to leave, it is only because every room has its dear associations. You see, on my side it is only a sentimental sort of pain, which is rather agreeable than otherwise. But for you it is different. It will be so lonely for you, and I know how you hate flats—a suite of lofts in a badly managed hotel is what you used to call them."
Frau von Arnim smiled.
"You have a bad memory in so far as it retains foolish remarks, better forgotten," she said. "I am sure I shall be very happy in our new home, and in any case, I, too, have my pleasure from our 'plot.' I have just been reckoning that if we are careful we shall be able to allow them at least 1,000 marks more next year, and that will make all the difference in the world to them. They will not have to worry so much over their pfennige at any rate."
"If only Wolff will accept it!" Hildegarde said doubtfully. "He is like the rest of us all; and if he thinks, as I suppose he must, that we are giving up anything, he will call it a sacrifice and will refuse to accept it."
"He will do just what I tell him!" Frau von Arnim retorted, with a touch of half-laughing authority, which threw a sidelight on her conscious power over her entourage. "He will let me humbug him because there will be nothing else for him to do. I shall say that we have come to Berlin to be near them—which is true; that we prefer the quiet quarters—which is partly true; that we are doing our best to spend our money, but that, do what we will, there is always a trouble—some 1,000 marks over, which won't be got rid of—which is not true at all. I shall offer it him as an indirect present to Nora, and Nora will secretly spend it on his dinners, and both will be all the happier; you need not be afraid."
Hildegarde's eyes flashed with amusement. She loved her mother in her triumphant, self-confident moods.
"I do not think I was afraid—really," she said. "I know by experience that you can twist most people round your finger. And Wolff is no exception."
She smiled to herself, and there was something wistful in her expression which Frau von Arnim was quick to perceive. She bent lower as though she wished to catch and interpret every shadow that crossed her daughter's face.
"And you will be glad to see them again, Hildegarde? You are strong enough? It will not make you unhappy?"
Hildegarde shook her head.
"It is true when I say that I am longing to see them," she said firmly. "I am happier—far happier now than in the time when I knew that, crippled though I was, Wolff would have married me, that I had only to stretch out my hand, as it were, for him to take it. It was so hardnotto stretch out my hand; I had to crush down my love for him, and throw scorn on myself for daring to love at all. Every day I was afraid that I might betray myself. Now it is different. I can love him openly and honestly as my brother, and Nora I can love too without bitterness or envy as the one woman who could make him happy, or who was worthy of him. So you see, dearest, everything is for the best."
Frau von Arnim nodded, satisfied by the steady, cheerful voice.
"You have your reward," she said. "Rightly enough, Wolff traces all his happiness back to you, and his love and gratitude are in proportion."
"To his happiness?" Hildegarde suggested, smiling. "In that case I ought to be more than satisfied. Although, perhaps, for my sake he tries to hide that fact, it is obvious from his letters that he never knew what the real thing was until Nora became his wife. And I believe it will be lasting. We know Nora so well. We know how good and loving and honest she is. I do not think she will ever disappoint him or us."
"And Wolff, of course, could not disappoint any one, not even though he were advertised as perfect," Frau von Arnim observed slyly. "So we need feel no alarm for the future. And now I must go back to my accounts."
There was a long unbroken silence. Hildegarde seemed really asleep, or at least too deep in her own thoughts to notice the significant rumblings overhead, and her mother was frowning over the division of income, or rather the stretching of income over the hundred-and-one things necessary to the "keeping up of appearances." The latter occupation had been the constant worry of Frau von Arnim's life. Her poverty had always been of the brilliant kind, but it had been poverty none the less for that, and now this change had come it was not even to be brilliant. Not that she felt any regret. The "brilliancy" had only been maintained as a sort of sop to the family traditions, and now that the family honour seemed to concentrate itself on Wolff, it was only natural that the other members would be ready to make every sacrifice to support him and save him from the curse of pecuniary troubles, which is the curse of two-thirds of the German nobility. So the old home was to be given up, and the old pill-box brougham and such of the family relics as would find no place in the narrow dimensions of anétagewere to drift into the hands of strangers. Both Frau von Arnim and Hildegarde, brought up in the stern code of their old race, found this course of events perfectly correct, and they would have done no less even if they had not cared for Wolff. Thus the frown upon Frau von Arnim's brow was caused not so much by trouble or regret as by a natural dislike for the consideration of pfennige, and it was with a movement of almost relief that she looked up presently, aroused from her unloved task by the ringing of the front-door bell.
"That must be Herr Sonnenthal again," she said. "He has probably come to tell us how much the carriage has fetched. Would you mind if I saw him in here?"
Hildegarde assented, but her mother's supposition proved incorrect. The untidy charwoman who put in her head a minute later informed them that there was a strange gentleman downstairs inquiring after a certain Fräulein whose name she, the charwoman, had not been able to grasp, and that, failing her, he had requested the honour of a few minutes' conversation with thegnädige Frauherself.
Frau von Arnim looked puzzled as she studied the card.
"I think there must be some mistake," she said. "However, show him up here."
For some reason or other nothing was said of the unknown visitor. It is possible that, as the wild beasts of the forest have an instinctive prescience of an enemy's approach, so we, in our higher world of sensitiveness, receive indefinable warnings when mischance is about to overtake us or a personality to enter into our lives and change its whole course. Certain it is that neither Frau von Arnim nor Hildegarde were fully at their ease as their visitor entered the room, and their response to his correct, somewhat stiff bow was marked by that frigidity which seems to ask of itself "Who are you? What do you want with us?"
Hildegarde had drawn herself up into a sitting position. The last two months had brought a marked change for the better in her health, and with a revival of the old strength had come a revival of the old pride and sensitiveness. She hated a stranger to see, and perhaps pity, her infirmity, and, moreover, on this occasion she was conscious of an inexplicable restlessness.
There was, at all events, nothing alarming in the stranger's appearance. A tall, carefully dressed man, with a thin sunken face, and a manner suggesting at once breeding and embarrassment, stood in the doorway, evidently uncertain as to his own course of conduct. As the silence threatened to grow awkward, Frau von Arnim took the initiative.
"From your card, and from what my servant tells me, I judge that you are English, Captain Arnold," she said, motioning him to be seated.
The visitor's face immediately lightened, and he advanced into the room, without, however, making further use of her invitation.
"I should be most thankful," he said. "If my German had not been of such a negligible quality I should not have had to trouble you. Indeed, until I heard you speak I feared my difficulties were by no means at an end. I hope you will excuse my intrusion?"
His sentences, like his manner, were somewhat wooden, and not calculated to inspire any particular warmth in his hearers. Having briefly introduced him to Hildegarde, Frau von Arnim repeated her invitation, which he now accepted, though with reluctance.
"I shall be glad to be of any service to you," Frau von Arnim said graciously. "English people are bound to me by at least one tie, and it is always a pleasure when I can assist any one of them. You need not apologise therefore."
Arnold smiled, and his expression suggested that he accepted her words as a formal politeness, and valued them as such.
"You are very kind," he said. "At the same time I trust that I need not trespass too much on your good-nature. I must explain that I have just returned from Africa, and Karlsburg lying on overland route, I stopped in the hope that Miss Ingestre were still staying here. Your servant, however, did not understand my German, or did not recognise the name——"
"The latter is certain," Frau von Arnim interrupted calmly. "The girl was not here when Miss Ingestre lived with us."
"Miss Ingestre has left, then?"
"Already—some months."
Captain Arnold rose abruptly. It was evident that his mission was at an end.
"In that case I do not need to trouble you further," he said. "I came on a mere supposition. Had I not travelled so quickly I should no doubt have heard from Miss Ingestre herself, but I have been on the road night and day, missing, apparently, every mail, and getting a good start on my own letters. I shall now have to hurry on to England as fast as possible."
"If you wish to meet Frau von Arnim your journey will be in vain," Hildegarde said. "She is at present in Berlin."
Arnold turned, and for the first time looked steadily at the speaker. It was evident that the words had had no meaning for him, but there was a curious, apparently causeless animosity and distrust in her steady eyes which arrested his attention and aroused in him emotions of a like nature. It was as though unconsciously they had hated each other before all time, and that the hatred had now become a definite recognisable quality.
"You spoke of Frau von Arnim," he said. "I am afraid I do not quite understand."
Hildegarde shrugged her shoulders. The movement was slightly insolent and utterly at variance with her usual gentle courtesy, but, like all nervous invalids, she could be goaded beyond all self-control, and something in this man's manner jarred on her as presumptuous, overbearing, suggesting an impertinent familiarity with the woman who was Wolff's wife.
"I think you must undoubtedly have missed your letters," she said; "otherwise you would know that Miss Ingestre ceased to exist many months ago."
The next minute she regretted her own clumsiness. The man's whole bearing and expression had changed. His face was livid; it was obvious that he had a hard task to control an extraordinary agitation.
"You must think me very stupid," he said, and his voice was painful to listen to. "I beg of you to speak more clearly. You will perhaps understand what it means to me when I tell you what you seem not to know—that Miss Ingestre is to be my wife."
"Captain Arnold, you are labouring under some strange delusion. Miss Ingestre is already married."
It was Frau von Arnim who spoke. She had advanced almost unconsciously, and now stood half-way between him and Hildegarde, who had risen to her feet.
Arnold said nothing. His eyes were fixed full on Frau von Arnim's face, but his expression was absolutely blank, and he did not seem to see her. She waited, too disturbed to move farther forward along the path of inevitable explanation, and after a minute, in which the man's whole moral strength seemed to be concentrated in the fight for self-mastery, Arnold himself broke the silence.
"I can only believe that there is a misapprehension on both sides," he said. "Are you speaking of Miss Nora Ingestre?"
"Of Miss Nora Ingestre that was."
"And you say she is already married?"
"In April—five months ago."
"To whom?"
"To Hauptmann von Arnim, at present officer on the Staff at Berlin."
"You are sure of what you say? There is no possible mistake?"
Frau von Arnim's brows contracted proudly. For a brief moment she had sympathised with, and even pitied, his agitation. His rigid self-control, entailing as it did an increased abruptness of manner, impressed her disagreeably, hiding from her usually keen eyes the fact that the man was really suffering. She answered therefore, with considerable haughtiness:
"There is no possible mistake. You will see that for yourself when I tell you that Herr von Arnim is my nephew, and that I myself was at the wedding at Delford."
Arnold bowed. His expression was now normal, and it suggested no more than the calm interest of an ordinary caller on an ordinary topic of conversation.
"You are perfectly right," he said. "There is no possible mistake. I am very grateful to you for your explanation."
He included Hildegarde in his curt salute, and turned towards the door.
Frau von Arnim detained him with a decided and indignant gesture.
"The matter cannot end there," she said. "You have suggested that Miss Ingestre was engaged to you at the time of her betrothal with my nephew. It is a suggestion intensely offensive to us all. It is now my turn to point out to you that you are making a mistake—or worse."
Arnold coloured with anger.
"I am not likely to make a mistake of such magnitude," he said. "Of your second insinuation I need take no notice."
"In that case I must ask you to be more explicit. I—we have a right to an explanation."
"Excuse me—I fail to see that any one has a right in a matter which concerns Miss Ingestre—Frau von Arnim, and myself alone."
"The matter concerns my nephew and us all."
Arnold smiled ironically.
"I regret that I cannot sympathise with your point of view," he said. "In any case, I have no explanation to offer."
There was a blank silence. It was the more marked because it followed on a sharp lightning-like exchange, kept within bounds of outward courtesy only by the education and upbringing of the conflicting personalities. Frau von Arnim, usually armed with a kindly wisdom which had sympathy for all sorts and conditions of men, was brought nearer to a display of uncontrolled anger than in all her life before. To her mind, Arnold had, unwittingly perhaps, cast a slur upon the credit of one who was a member of her family; and her family was Frau von Arnim's fetish. He had done so, moreover, without offering proof or justification, and the latter offences deepened his guilt, though their omission would not have shielded him from her enmity.
Arnold, on his side, saw a haughty, domineering woman who claimed the right to investigate a personal overwhelming calamity in which she had no share, and with which he could as yet only grapple in blind, half-incredulous pain. He disliked her instinctively, but also because he could not understand the motives and principles which governed her conduct towards himself. He continued speaking after a moment, and his irritation was so intense that it helped him to overcome, almost forget, his own misery.
"I think there is nothing more to be said," he observed, looking Frau von Arnim coldly in the face. "It seems I have blundered, and it is only right that I should bear the brunt of the consequences alone. I am sure you will agree with me that it will be best for this—what has passed between us—to be kept entirely to ourselves, to be forgotten. It can only bring trouble to others, and, as I have said, I am alone to blame."
In spite of everything, he was thinking of Nora, seeking to shield her from the results of his betrayal of a cruel duplicity.
Frau von Arnim was thinking of Wolff, and of the woman to whom he had entrusted his happiness—above all things, their name.
"What you suggest is impossible," she said. "There are things one cannot forget—at least not until they have been explained. We must therefore look for the explanation."
"I have none to give," Arnold returned, with bitter truth.
"Then we must look elsewhere."
"It would be better to do as I suggest, and leave the matter alone, or lay it to my account—to my own stupid muddle." He spoke hurriedly, for he felt afraid of this woman, with her haughty, resolute face. It was as though, unwittingly, he had roused to action a force which had passed out of his control.
"If there is any shadow of wrong connected with my nephew's marriage, it must be cleared," Frau von Arnim answered. "That is the only wisdom I know."
Arnold bowed a second time, and went.
For a long time after he had gone the two women remained silent, motionless, avoiding each other's eyes. The action seemed to imply that nothing had happened.
Hildegarde had long since fallen wearily back upon her couch. She roused herself then, and turned her white, troubled face towards her mother.
"The man must be mad!" she said, almost violently. "Nora could never have done such a thing. She is so frank and honest. She would have told us from the beginning. I could have sworn that she never cared for a man before she loved Wolff. I do not believe a word of it."
"Nor I," her mother answered calmly. "As you say, the man may be mad—though he did not seem so—or there may really be some mistake. But we must make sure, for our own peace of mind, and Nora is the only one who can help us. Even so we must have patience and wait. We have no right to trouble her so early in her married life with what, I pray, may be a false alarm."
"You must ask her when we are in Berlin," Hildegarde said, in the same sharp, determined tone. "I could not see her every day like that and not know."
"You are quite right. When we are settled in Berlin I will tell her everything that has happened. Until then we must believe the best."
"Yes, of course—believe the best," Hildegarde answered thoughtfully.