CHAPTER VIIIRISING SHADOWSNora sat by the window and mended stockings. There was not very much light, for although it was still early afternoon and the winter sun stood high in the heavens, very few rays found their way into the fourth-floor rooms of No. 22, Adler Strasse. As Miles had said more than once, it was a poky hole. Nora remembered his words as she worked, and she looked up and studied the tiny apartment with a wondering regret. Yes; it was dark and poky; but why did the fact strike her so clearly and so constantly? Why was she doomed to see everything and everybody with another's eyes? For that was what had happened to her. One short month ago, this place had been her paradise, her own particular little Eden, and now it was a "poky hole"—because Miles had said so and because her common sense told her that he was right. Had, then, the magic which had blinded her against the reality ceased to act its charm—or altogether lost its power? Surely not. Her eyes fell on her husband's writing-table, with its burden of neatly arranged books and papers, and something in her softened to wistful tenderness. In her imagination she saw him sitting there, bent over his work in all-absorbed interest. She saw the thoughtful, knitted brows, the strong white hand guiding the pen through the intricacies of plans and calculations, the keen, searching eyes which were never stern for her, which, if they no longer flashed with the old unshadowed laughter, were always filled with the same unshaken, unaltered love. And she in her turn loved him. That she knew. There, and there alone, her brother's barbed shafts had fallen short, or had broken harmless against the steeled walls of defence. Her husband was still what he had always been—the one and only man who had ever counted in her life. But there was a difference. What the difference was she could not tell. Perhaps just that change had come into her love which had come into his eyes. It was still a great love, still unshaken, but it had lost the power of glorying in itself, of being happy, of rejoicing in its own strength and youth and unity. When Wolff entered the room her pulses quickened, but it was with a curious, inexplicable pain, and when he went away she breathed more easily. That most wonderful and rare of moments when they had thought and felt and lived as though they were one mind, one body, one soul had passed—perhaps for ever. They stood on different shores and looked at each other over the dividing stream with sad eyes of love and hopeless regret.How had it all come? Whose fault was it? Poor Nora felt she knew. The spectre had risen in the same hour when Miles had leant back in theDrotschkeand sighed with relief because Wolff had not accompanied them. She had been angry at first, but the rough words had revealed something to her which she would never otherwise have believed, something in herself which had lain dormant and which now awoke, never to rest again. It was not Miles's fault. Had it been, she would not have hesitated to follow her mother's advice. But to have sent him away would be a sign of weakness—and it would be useless. The evil—whatsoever it was—lay in herself. It had always been there, but she had not recognised it. Miles had shown her what she must sooner or later have seen for herself. She had married a stranger from a strange land, and he had remained a stranger, and the land had not become her home. That was the whole matter. That she loved him, that his country had offered her love and welcome did not alter the one great fact that the faintest cry, the faintest call from her own people had drawn from her an irrepressible answer of unchanged allegiance. She loved Wolff, but in every petty conflict between him and her brother her heart had sided against him; she had had a sincere affection for the Selenecks, and in cold blood she knew that Miles had behaved boorishly towards them; but she had grown to hate them because they had shown their disapproval, and becausehehated them.In this strange, unseen conflict of influences Miles stood for more than her brother; he stood for her whole race, for every inborn prejudice and opinion, and his coming had revealed to her her own loneliness. She was alone in a foreign land; she spoke a tongue which was not her tongue; she lived a life in which she was, and must remain, a tolerated stranger. Her seeming compliance had been no more than youth's adaptability to a passing change. Her love and her ready enthusiasm had blinded her, but Miles had torn down the scales from her eyes, and she saw the life she lived as he saw it—as a weary round of dismal pleasures, big sacrifices, endless struggle. She saw that her home was poor and tasteless, that her friends were neither elegant nor interesting, that they had other ideas, other conceptions of things which to Nora were vitally important—that they were, in a word, foreigners to her blood and up-bringing.It had been a terribly painful awakening, and in her desperate flight from the full realisation of the change in her she had broken through the circle which hedged in her life, and sought her escape on the turbulent sea of another, more gilded society. She had tried to intoxicate herself with the splendour and popularity so easily acquired. The Frau Commerzienrat Bauer had received her with open arms, had showered upon her delicate and sometimes indelicate attentions; she had been fêted at the gorgeous entertainments given in her honour at the over-decorated "palatial residence"; she had seen Miles's expression of contemptuous criticism change for one of admiration, herself surrounded by the adulation of men who, she was told, governed the world's finance; she had heard the Frau Commerzienrat's loud voice proclaim her as "My dear friend, Frau von Arnim"—and at the bottom of her heart she had been nauseated, disgusted, wearied by it all. She had come back to the close and humble quarters of her home with a sweet sense of its inner purity and dignity, with the determination to make it the very centre of her life. And then she had seen her husband's grave—as it seemed to her, reproachful—face, the freezing disapproval of his circle, the mocking satisfaction of her brother; and the momentary peace had gone. She had felt herself an outcast, and, in hot, bitter defiance of the order of things against which she had sinned, had returned thither, where the opium flattery awaited her. But through it all she loved her husband, desperately, sincerely. As she sat there bent over her work, she thought of him in all the glamour of the first days of their happiness, and a tear rolled down her cheek, only to be brushed quickly away as she heard his footstep on the corridor outside."How tired he sounds!" she thought, and suddenly an immense pity mingled with the rekindling tenderness, and shone out of her eyes as she rose to greet him, like a reflex from earlier days.He looked tired to exhaustion. The rim of his helmet had drawn a deep red line across his broad forehead, and there were heavy lines under the eyes. Nevertheless, his whole face lit up as he saw her."May I come in, Nora?" he asked, with a glance at his dusty riding-boots. "We have been surveying, and I am not fit for a lady's drawing-room; but if I tiptoed——""Of course you may come in," she cried cheerfully, thankful that the light was behind her. "I have been waiting for you, and tea is quite ready. Sit down, and I will bring you a cup."He obeyed willingly, and followed her with his eyes as she bustled around the room. It was like old times to find her alone, to see her so eager to attend to his wants. When she came to him with his cup he drew her gently down beside him, and she saw that his face was full of tender gratitude."You kind little wife!" he said. "It's worth all the fatigue and worry just to come back and be spoilt. What a long time it seems since we were alone and since you 'fussed' over me, as you used to call it."There was no reproach or complaint in his voice, and yet she felt reproached. She lifted her face to his and kissed him remorsefully."Have I neglected you, Wolff?""Not a bit, dear. I only meant—of course, one can't go on being newly married for ever, but it has its charm to go back and pretend; hasn't it?""You talk as though we had been married for years!" she said in a troubled tone. "And it is scarcely seven months.""Seven months can be a long time," he answered gravely. "It all depends on what happens."She had her head against his shoulder, and suddenly, she knew not why nor how, she was transported back to that magic hour when he had first taken her in his arms and an unhoped for, unbelievable happiness had risen above her dark horizon. In a swift-passing flash she realised that this was the man for whom she had fought, who had been everything to her, without whom life had been impossible, and that now he was hers, her very own, and that she had been cruel, unfaithful, and ungrateful. She flung her arms impetuously about his neck and drew his head down till it rested against her own."Oh, Wolff, Wolff!" she cried. "Are you so very disappointed in me? Has it only needed six months to show you what a hopeless little failure I am?""You—a failure?" He passed his hand gently over her hair. "You could never be a failure, and I should be an ungrateful fellow to talk of 'disappointment.' You are just everything I thought and loved, my English Nora."The name aroused her, startled her even. Was it only because it emphasised what had already passed unspoken through her mind, or was it because it seemed to have a pointed significance, perhaps an intended significance?"Why do you call me 'English Nora'?" she asked, with an unsteady laugh. "I am not English any more. I am your wife, Wolff, and you areein guter Deutscher, as you say."He nodded, his eyes fixed thoughtfully in front of him."Yes, I am German, bone and blood," he said. "That's true enough. And you are my wife. I wonder, though——"He stopped, and then suddenly he bent and lifted her like a child in his arms and carried her to the big chair opposite."Now I can see you better," he said quietly. "I want to ask you something which your face will tell me better than your words."He had fallen on one knee beside her and was looking her earnestly in the eyes. She bore his scrutiny, but only with a strong effort of the will. She felt that he was looking straight into the secret places of her heart, that he was reading the pain that her words, "I am not English any more," had caused her and how little they were true."Tell me," he said, "are you happy, Nora? Are you not the one who is disappointed?""I? Wolff, how should I be? how could I be?""All too easily—sometimes I think inevitably. I am not blind, Nora. I see how petty and small your life must be compared to what you perhaps thought—to what might have been. The people you meet are accustomed to it all—at least they have learnt to make the best of what little they have; but you have come from another world and another life. You are accustomed to breadth and light and freedom. You have never known this brilliant poverty which we know so well, and it is hard on you—too hard on you. I have never seen it all so clearly as I see it now. If I had seen it then I would have trampled my love for you underfoot rather than have asked so great a sacrifice. But I was blinded—I did not understand——""Wolff, have I complained? Have I been so ungrateful—so wicked?""No, Nora. You have been very brave and good, but I have seen, and I have reproached myself bitterly—terribly. When I came in to-night and saw that you had been crying, I felt that I would do anything—that I would give you up——"He stopped short, and with a pang of indescribable pain she felt that this soldier kneeling at her feet was fighting for his voice, that his quick, broken sentences had been the outburst of a long-suppressed and bitter struggle."I love you, Nora," he stammered roughly. "I love you with my life and soul and body, but if your happiness required it I would give you up—to your people——""Wolff!" she interrupted passionately."Listen, dear. I am not talking at random. I have thought it all over. If I cannot make you happy, I will not make you unhappy. I will do everything a man can do to atone for the one great wrong. Only tell me, whilst I have the strength to part with you——"He stopped again, and she felt that he was trembling. There was something infinitely pathetic in his weakness, something which called to life not only her love for him as her husband but a wealth of a new and wonderful tenderness such as a mother might feel for a suffering child. She put her arms about him and drew his head against her breast. For that moment she forgot everything save that he was miserable and that she had made him so."I will never leave you of my free will," she said. "Never! You will have to chase me away, and then I shall come and sit on the doorstep and wait for you to let me in. Oh, Wolff, my dearest, what foolish things have you been thinking, and how long have you been brooding over them? Don't you know that I could not live without you?"He lifted his face, searching hers with keen, hungry eyes, in which she read doubt and a dawning hope."Is that true, Nora?""Yes; it is true!""Be honest with me. Am I so much to you that you can be happy with me—with my people and in my home and country?"He had asked the question which she had asked herself in moments of pitiless self-examination, but, like her, he asked it too late. She answered now earnestly, passionately, swept beyond all selfish considerations on a tide of deep, sincere feeling."Yes, I love you enough, Wolff. And if there have been any regrets, any longings which have caused you pain, forgive them, my husband—above all, understand them. They will pass—they must pass, because, at the bottom, you are my all in all."He made no answer. He lifted her hand to his lips, and in the movement there was a joy, a gratitude deeper than words could have expressed. She felt that she had satisfied him, and she, too, felt satisfied.Thus they sat silent together, hand clasped in hand, his head against her shoulder, whilst peace and a new happiness seemed to creep in about them with the evening shadows. And in her young hope and confidence Nora believed in this new happiness as she had believed in the old. It seemed so strong, so invulnerable, the obstacles so petty, so mean. They had been swept aside in a moment, like sand-castles before the onrush of the sea, so that it seemed impossible, absurd, that she could ever have thought of them as insurmountable. And yet, though heart and mind believed in the change, another wider, less definable sense, which we call instinct, remained doubtful and fearful. It was the one sign that all was not as it had once been, that they had only outwardly regained the past. Once they had lived for the future, longing for it in their extravagant youth as for a time which must reveal to them new wonders and joys. Now they clung anxiously to the present, scarcely daring to move or speak lest the peace, the outward semblance of unity, should be destroyed. Thus they sat silent together, each apparently plunged in his own untroubled reflections, each in reality fighting back thought as an enemy who might overshadow their victory.It was Arnim who at last spoke. He drew two letters from his pocket and gave them to her."The postman met me on the stairs," he said. "One is a disappointment and the other the fulfilment of a wish. Which will you have first?""The disappointment," she said, turning over the letters anxiously. "I always keep thebonne bouchefor the last. But it has grown so dark that I cannot see. You must tell me what is in both.""The one is from Aunt Magda," he answered. "It seems that the doctor has ordered Hildegarde a longer trial of the baths at Baden-Baden, so that their coming will be postponed a week or two at least. I am very sorry. I had looked forward to the time when you would have them—to help you."It was the one faint intimation that he knew that she still needed help and that all had not gone well in the short period of their married life. Nora's face fell. Her very real disappointment proved to her how much she had longed for the two women who had always been her friends, even in the darkest hours. She loved them as mother and sister. She had never felt for them the antipathy, the enmity which had grown up between her and the Selenecks, and, in lesser degrees, between her and all the other women of her husband's circle, and she had longed for them as for a refuge from her increasing isolation. And now they were not coming—or, at least, not for some weeks. She was to be left alone among these strangers, these foreigners, with only Miles to support and uphold her. Only Miles? She remembered her husband with a pang of the old remorse, and she bent and kissed him as though to atone for some unintentional wrong."I am sorry they are not coming," she said; "but perhaps the baths will do Hildegarde good, and as for me—why, have I not got my husband to turn to?"Wolff laughed happily."After that pretty speech, I must hold out some reward, so that the practice may be encouraged," he said, waving the second letter in triumph. "Behold! His Excellency General von Hulson has done himself the honour to invite his future colleague, the Captain von Arnim,nebsthis beautifulGemählinand honourable brother-in-law, to a ball on the 17th of next month. Now, are you satisfied?""How good you are to me, dear!" She kissed him, guiltily conscious that her joy had been but a poor feigning. Now, for the first time, she realised clearly how far she had drifted from her husband's circle. She shrank from that which had once been the goal of her ambition. Wolff laughed at her, mistaking the cause of her hesitation."Verily, I am growing to be a wise husband!" he said gaily. "Are all the fine dresses worn out, that my wife's fair face should be so overcast? Well, there! Is that enough to cover future expenses, Vanity?"He had pressed a little bundle of paper-money into her hand, and she looked at it, dazed with surprise. She did not know that it was Bruno's price which he had given her, but again her eyes filled. She pitied him in that moment more than herself."You dear, generous fellow!" she stammered mechanically."It's not generosity, little woman. It's only right that you should have change and gaiety. You must not think that I do not understand how dull and dreary it must sometimes be. I do understand—it goads me sometimes to think how little I can do. Perhaps one day it will all be better—when I am Field-Marshal, you know!"He tried to laugh, but somehow a certain weariness rang through his laughter. She heard it, and remorse mingled with her pity."You must not worry about all that," she said gently. "I must be a poor kind of wife if I am not satisfied as I am." She repeated her words to herself, and felt that there was bitter truth in them.For a moment Wolff remained silent. She thought he was resting, but presently he spoke again, and she knew that he had been preparing himself to approach a graver subject."Nora, there is something I want you to do for me, something I want you to promise."She looked anxiously down into his face."What is it, dear?""I want you to associate less with Bauer—and with Bauer's relations.""Why?"The one word sounded a defiance. Wolff rose from his kneeling position and stood at her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder."Because he is a man I do not trust. It is not my way to speak against a comrade or to accuse lightly, but I have sure reason for asking what I do of you. No man and no woman is the better for Bauer's friendship.""Does that mean that you do not trust me?"She was angry now—without just cause or reason, simply because she saw in him the embodiment of all the prejudices of the class which had dared to look askance at her. A grave smile passed over her husband's face."You know I trust you, Nora; but in our position we must avoid even the appearance of evil. Not so much as a breath of scandal must tarnish my wife's name.""Ah, 'yourwife'!" she said bitterly."——who is myself," he added.There was a moment's silence before he went on:"It is not only of you I was thinking, Nora. There is Miles to be considered. He is very young, and possibly easily influenced. No one can tell into what difficulties—what temptations he might be led by unscrupulous hands. Surely you sympathise with me in this?""My brother is no more likely to act dishonourably than myself," she answered, and again it was her race rather than Miles that she defended. "Nor do I believe Captain Bauer to be the man you describe. He has been very kind to me, and I know to what influence I must ascribe your prejudices. The Selenecks have always hated my—my friendship with the Bauers. No doubt they told you that the Commerzienrat has stolen his wealth."She regretted her words as soon as they had been spoken. In her angry conviction that her conduct had been criticised—perhaps justly criticised—she had allowed herself to say more than she had meant, more even than she believed to be true."You are not just to me, Nora," Wolff answered quietly. "I have said nothing against the Bauers—I know nothing against them. But they are very rich, and it is their wealth which makes your association with them undesirable. We are poor—our friends are poor. We cannot entertain as they do. And we belong to another class—not a better class, perhaps, but one with other aims and other ideals. You cannot belong to both.""At the bottom, you do think your class superior," Nora interposed scornfully."Perhaps I do—perhaps you do, when you are honest with yourself, dear. You must know that the Bauers' friendship for you is not wholly disinterested. It sounds rather brutal; but those sort of people who talk of money as the one thing that counts and pretend to scorn family and titles are just those who are most anxious to have a titled name among their visitors."Nora started as though she had been stung."I think you overestimate your—our importance," she said.He did not retort. He simply held out his hands to her."Nora, you can't think it gives me pleasure to spoil anything for you. Won't you trust me? Won't you give me your promise?"She looked at him; she was honest enough to acknowledge to herself that he had been right, but above all, his patience, his quiet tone of pleading had moved and softened her."I give you my promise, Wolff.""Thank you, dear. Goodness knows, I will try and make it up to you in all I can."He kissed her, and then suddenly she drew away from him."You don't need to make up for it. And I think, after all, I won't go to the Hulsons."He looked at her in blank surprise. He had sold his favourite horse to satisfy her needs, he had humbled his pride, laid himself open to the accusation of being a "place-hunter" in order to be able to lead her into the brilliant world after which she had once craved, and now that the sacrifices had been brought she would have none of them. He did not understand—as how should he have done?—that she saw in his action an attempt to bribe her, in his gift a sweetmeat offered to a disappointed child. He felt, instead—though he would not have admitted it even in his thoughts—that she had been capricious, inconsiderate.He turned away and went over to the writing-table, throwing down the two letters with a gesture of weariness."We must go now, whether we want to or not," he said. "I have worried for the invitation, and it is impossible to refuse. The Selenecks would have every right to be offended.""They are that already," Nora said bitterly."Perhaps they have some reason to be, dear." He spoke quietly, but he had implied that the fault was hers, and the angry blood rushed to her cheeks."The Selenecks are absurd and ridiculously sensitive," she said. "They have chosen to take offence at nothing, and——""Nora, they are my best friends!""Is that any reason why they should be mine?""Yes, I think so.""And if I do not like them—if I find their manners and ways too different to mine—what then?"There was a faint sneer in tone and look which was intentional, and which she knew was undeserved, but she could not help herself. She hated the Selenecks and the whole crowd of small military nobodies struggling for advancement and their daily bread. Why should she be forced to live her life amongst them?Wolff made no answer to her question. He was sufficiently calm to feel with its full poignancy how fleeting and unstable their newly won happiness had been. The barrier was raised again—the more formidable because it had been once so easily overcome. Yet, with the tenacity of despair he clung to the appearance of things, and kept his teeth tight-clenched upon an angry, bitter retort. He was spared all further temptation. The door-bell rang, and he turned to Nora with a quiet question as though nothing had happened."Is that Miles, or is he at home?""It is Miles, probably. He has been out all the afternoon."She, too, had recovered her self-possession and was grateful to him for having ignored her outburst. Nevertheless she knew that he would not forget, any more than she would be able to do."Where has he been, do you know?""I am not sure. He found it very dull here, and went out with some English friends he has picked up. Is there any harm in that?"Again the same note of sneering defiance! Wolff kept his face steadily averted."Not so far. But I do not like his English friends.""I suppose not," she retorted. "Everybody here hates us.""Us——?" He turned at last and looked at her."——the English, I mean," she stammered.He had no opportunity to reply. The door opened, and their little maid-of-all-work entered, bearing a card."A gentleman to see thegnädige Frau," she said. "Shall I show him in?"Nora took the card. She looked at it a long time. Even in the half-darkness her pallor was so intense that it caught Wolff's attention. He saw her stretch out her hand blindly as though seeking support."What is it? What is the matter?" he asked.She lifted her eyes to his, staringly, stupidly. He felt that she hardly saw him."Nothing—it is an old friend—from England."The sound of her own voice seemed to bring her to her senses. She handed him the card, and her manner from stunned bewilderment changed to something that was intensely defiant. There was a moment's silence. Then Arnim turned to the waiting servant."Show him in here," he ordered."Wolff—how do you know I wish to see him?""An old friend—who has come so far to see you? You surely cannot do otherwise. Besides, why should you not want to see him?"He looked at her in steady surprise, so that the suspicion which for one moment had flashed up in her mind died down as quickly as it had come.He did not know—he could not know. But the consciousness of coming disaster weighed upon her like a crushing burden."There is no reason. Only I thought you might not wish it.""Your friends are my friends," he answered gravely.And then the door opened a second time, and Robert Arnold stood on the threshold.CHAPTER IXARNOLD RECEIVES HIS EXPLANATIONA great physical change had come over him in the few months of his absence. He was pale and gaunt-looking, as though he had but lately risen from a serious illness, and his eyes, which fell at once on Nora's face, were hollow and heavily underlined.Nora noticed these details with the sort of mechanical minuteness of a mind too stunned to grasp the full magnitude of the situation. One side of her intellect kept on repeating: "Why has he come? Why has he come?" whilst the other was engrossed in a trivial catalogue of the changes in his appearance. "He stoops more—he is thinner," she thought, but she could not rouse herself to action. Arnold, indeed, gave her little opportunity. After the first moment's hesitation he advanced and held out his hand."I ought to have let you know of my coming, Nora," he said, "but I could not wait. I have just arrived in Berlin, and of course my first visit had to be to you. I hope I have not chosen an inconvenient time?"He was trying to speak conventionally, and was successful, insomuch that Nora understood that she had at present nothing to fear from him. Not that she felt any fear now that the first shock was over. It was with a certain dignity and resolution that she looked from one man to the other."This is my husband, Robert," she said, "and this, Wolff, is my old playfellow, Captain Arnold."Wolff held out his hand frankly."I am glad to meet you," he said. "I am glad for my wife's sake when she has the chance of seeing her old friends. I hope, therefore, that your stay in Berlin is to be a long one?"Arnold bowed."I am on my way home to England," he said. "How long I remain depends on circumstances.""May the circumstances be favourable, then!" Wolff returned. His tone was warm—almost anxiously friendly, and Nora looked at him in surprise and gratitude. His smiling face betrayed no sign of the devil which he had grappled with and overcome in one short moment of struggle. He nodded cheerfully at her."I am afraid you must play hostess alone for a little, dear," he said. "Captain Arnold, as a soldier you will understand that duty can't be neglected, and you will excuse me. I have no doubt you will have a great deal to talk about, and at supper-time I shall hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again. Whilst you are in Berlin you must consider this yourpied-à-terre.""You are very kind," Arnold stammered. Like Nora, he too was impressed—uncomfortably impressed—by the impetuous hospitality with which Wolff greeted him. Like Nora, also, he had no means of knowing that it was the natural revolt of a generous nature from the temptings of jealousy and suspicion.Wolff had lighted a small lamp, which he carried with him to the door, together with a bundle of documents. For a moment he hesitated, looking back at Nora, and the light thrown up into his face revealed an expression of more than usual tenderness."Don't talk yourself tired, Frauchen," he said as he went out.Nora smiled mechanically. She had had the feeling that the words were nothing, that he had tried to convey an unspoken message to her which she had neither understood nor answered. She gave herself no time to think over it. She switched on the electric light, and turned to Arnold, who was still standing watching her."Sit down, Robert," she said. "As Wolff said, we have a great deal to say to each other—at least, I fancy you have come because you have a great deal to say to me."Her words contained a slight challenge, which, the next moment, she felt had been out of place. Arnold sank down in the chair nearest to hand. It was as though he had hitherto been acting a part, and now let the mask fall from a face full of weary hopelessness."You are right," he said. "I have something to say, Nora—I suppose, though, I ought to call you Frau von Arnim?""You ought," she answered, irritated by his tone. "But it does not matter. I don't think Wolff minded."A grim smile passed over Arnold's lips."Wolff seems a good-natured sort of fellow," he said. There was again something disparaging in his tone which brought the colour to Nora's cheeks."He is everything I could wish," she answered proudly. And then the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes reminded her that she had done this man a cruel injury, and her heart softened with pity and remorse."How pale and thin you have grown!" she exclaimed. "Have you been ill?""Very ill," he answered. "I caught some swamp fever or other out there in the wilds, and it was months before they could get me back to the coast. That is why you never heard from me. As soon as I reached port I set straight off for home—to you.""To me——!" she repeated blankly.He nodded."Yes; to the woman I believed was to be my wife.""Then you never got my second letter?""Did you write a second letter?"He was looking her earnestly in the eyes, and there was a stifled, tragic wretchedness in his own which was terrible to look on."I wrote and explained everything," Nora, answered, controlling her voice with an effort. "I have behaved badly to you, but not so badly as to leave you undeceived.""You sent me an explanation," he said slowly. "Nora, it is that explanation which I have come to seek. When I first heard of your marriage, I made up my mind that you were not worth suffering for. I thought that I would go back to the forest and forget you—if I could. I meant never to see you again—I felt I could not bear it. But, Nora, a man's love is not only a selfish desire for possession. If he loves truly, he puts into that love something of himself which is a vital part of his life and being—his ideals and his whole trust. I suffered—not only because I had lost you, but because I had lost my faith in every one. You seemed so good and true, Nora. I felt I could never trust another woman again. That was unbearable. For my own sake I had to come and ask you—if you could explain."He stopped abruptly, and there was a little silence. He had spoken without passion, simply in that weary monotone of those who have risen from great physical or mental suffering; and Nora's heart ached with the knowledge that she alone had brought this ruin upon him."You said, 'When I first heard of your marriage,'" she began at last. "When and how was that?""From Frau von Arnim," he answered. "I thought you might still be with her at Karlsburg, and the place lay on my route. It was Frau von Arnim who told me.""Then—she knows everything?"He saw the alarm on her face."As much as I know. Forgive me, Nora; it was inevitable—I could not believe what she told me. I am the more sorry because she is a hard, cold woman who will make trouble. That is another reason why I have come. I wanted to warn you."Nora made a quick gesture—half of dissent, half of doubt."You misjudge her," she said. "She will forgive and understand, as you must. Oh, Robert, it makes me miserable to think I have caused you so much pain, but if I had to live my life again I could not have acted otherwise than I did!"Her voice had grown firmer, and as she spoke she turned from her position by the window and faced him with quiet confidence."I acted for what I believed to be the best, Robert," she said. "It was perhaps wrong what I did, but I did not mean it to be—I meant to be just and honourable. But I was not strong enough. That was my one fault."Her clear, earnest tones brought back the light to the tired eyes that watched her."I am glad," he said. "I am glad that you can explain. That is all I have come for, Nora—to hear from your own lips that you are not ashamed.""I am not ashamed," she answered steadily. And then, in a few quick sentences she told him everything that had led up to that final moment when Wolff had taken her in his arms and the whole world had been forgotten. As she spoke, the past revived before her own eyes, and she felt again a faint vibration of that happiness which had once seemed immortal, indestructible."I did not deceive you," she said at last, with convincing sincerity. "I wrote and told you that I would marry you—not that I loved you. I knew I did not love you, because my love was given elsewhere. I loved Wolff already then, but there was a barrier between us which I believed to be insurmountable. I consented to become your wife because it seemed the best and safest thing to do. Afterwards—it was almost immediately afterwards—the barrier proved unavailing against our love, and I forgot you. That is the brutal truth. I forgot you until it was too late, because, you see, I did not feel more for you than friendship, and because I really loved. That was weak, no doubt, but I had never loved before, and it was too strong for me. A wiser woman would have waited until she was free. She would have written to you and told you that it was all a mistake. I wrote to you afterwards. That is the only difference. The letter did not reach you, and you believed the worst of me. It was only natural, and I know I am to blame, but oh! if you really love, surely you can understand?"He smiled at her unconscious cruelty, and, rising, took the outstretched hands in his."I do understand," he said, "and the blame is all mine. I should never have accepted your generous gift of yourself without your love. I might have known that it would end badly. But you were so young, dear. I thought I should be able to teach you to love. Well, some one else was cleverer and had a better chance, perhaps, than I had. I have no right to blame, nor do you need to feel any remorse on my account. The worst wound is healed now that I can understand. My one prayer is that you may be very, very happy." He studied her upturned face. "You are happy, aren't you, Nora?"For the shortest part of a minute she wavered. She repeated the question to herself and wondered."Yes, of course I am happy," she replied almost impatiently. "Why should I not be?""I don't know. Perhaps I am over-anxious for you. You see"—his faint smile betrayed how deep his emotion was, in spite of all self-control—"I still love you.""I am glad," she answered frankly. "I care for you too, Robert, quite enough to make me very sad if I should lose your regard. It made me miserable to think that you probably hated and despised me.""I never did that, though I believe I tried," he said. "And now that I may not give you my love, I may at least feel that I am your friend? Grant me that much, Nora. It is very little that I ask—your trust and friendship."It was indeed very little that he asked, and he had been more generous to her than she could have ever dared to hope. And yet she hesitated."Nora!" he cried "Surely I have not deserved to lose everything!"He was pleading as a beggar might have pleaded for the crumbs beneath the table, and all that was generous in her responded. The hesitation, the vague uneasiness passed. She gave him her hand."Of course! We have always been friends—we must always be friends.""Thank you, dear. That is a great deal to me. No other woman will ever come into my life.""Don't!" she exclaimed, painfully moved. "You make me feel that I have spoilt your life.""But you haven't, Nora. You are just the only woman I could ever have loved, and if I had not met you I should be even lonelier than I am. At least I have your friendship."His tone was composed, almost cheerful, but she felt that he was at the end of his strength, and when, after a quick pressure of the hand, he went towards the door, she made no effort to recall him. Her own voice was strangled, and perhaps her face revealed more than she knew, more than she was actually conscious of feeling—a regret, an appeal, an almost childish loneliness. As though answering an unexpected cry of pain, he turned suddenly and looked at her. He saw the all-betraying tears, and the next minute he had come back to her side and had taken her hands and kissed them."You must not!" he said gently. "You are to be happy—as I am. Forgive me; it is the seal upon our friendship—and a farewell."She had not resisted. She would have forgiven him, because she understood; she would have put the moment's surrender to passion from her memory as something pardoned, but fate took the power of forgiving and forgetting from her. For the door had opened, and Miles stood on the threshold, watching them with an expression of blank amazement on his flushed, excited face.Arnold turned, too late conscious that they were not alone, and Miles's amazement changed to a loud delight."If it isn't old Arnold!" he exclaimed, flinging coat and hat on to the nearest chair and stretching out an unsteady hand. "Why, we thought you were dead and buried in some African wilderness, didn't we, Nora?""You were not far wrong, then," Arnold answered. "I was pretty well done for once, and am only just beginning to feel that I really belong to this world again." He had recovered his self-possession with an effort, and he went on quickly, almost as though he were afraid of Miles's next words: "I was on my way home, and took Berlin as a break. Of course I had to come and see you all."Miles nodded."Decent of you," he said thickly. "Nora will be glad to have you in this foreign hole. It's a sickening shame——" He stumbled and reeled up against Arnold with an impatient curse. The momentary excitement over the unexpected arrival had passed, leaving him bemuddled, in a dull but unmistakable state of intoxication. Arnold took him by the arm and helped him to the nearest chair."You are a young fool," he said good-naturedly. "German beer isn't so harmless as you seem to think. What have you been doing with yourself?"Miles passed his hand over his forehead with a helpless movement, as though he were awakening from a dream."It's not the drink," he stammered. "It's not the drink, I tell you. It's—it's the money. I'm in a devil of a mess. These dirty foreigners——""Oh, hush!" Nora cried. For the moment disgust and anger had passed. She had heard Wolff's footstep in the adjoining room, and a sudden terror had come over her. "Robert, take him away—quick! And come back afterwards—Wolff may not ask for him whilst you are here. Oh, help me!"Arnold nodded silently. He lifted the hapless Miles and half dragged, half carried him from the room. He had no thought as yet of the future. It had been revealed to him in a flash that all was not well in Nora's life; he had seen something like despair in her face, and knew that she needed the strong hand of a friend."And I am that—nothing else," he thought as he closed Miles's door behind him. "No one can blame me if I claim the rights of friendship and help her—no one!"But Captain Robert Arnold, sure of his own honour, forgot that the world, being less honourable, might also be of another opinion.
CHAPTER VIII
RISING SHADOWS
Nora sat by the window and mended stockings. There was not very much light, for although it was still early afternoon and the winter sun stood high in the heavens, very few rays found their way into the fourth-floor rooms of No. 22, Adler Strasse. As Miles had said more than once, it was a poky hole. Nora remembered his words as she worked, and she looked up and studied the tiny apartment with a wondering regret. Yes; it was dark and poky; but why did the fact strike her so clearly and so constantly? Why was she doomed to see everything and everybody with another's eyes? For that was what had happened to her. One short month ago, this place had been her paradise, her own particular little Eden, and now it was a "poky hole"—because Miles had said so and because her common sense told her that he was right. Had, then, the magic which had blinded her against the reality ceased to act its charm—or altogether lost its power? Surely not. Her eyes fell on her husband's writing-table, with its burden of neatly arranged books and papers, and something in her softened to wistful tenderness. In her imagination she saw him sitting there, bent over his work in all-absorbed interest. She saw the thoughtful, knitted brows, the strong white hand guiding the pen through the intricacies of plans and calculations, the keen, searching eyes which were never stern for her, which, if they no longer flashed with the old unshadowed laughter, were always filled with the same unshaken, unaltered love. And she in her turn loved him. That she knew. There, and there alone, her brother's barbed shafts had fallen short, or had broken harmless against the steeled walls of defence. Her husband was still what he had always been—the one and only man who had ever counted in her life. But there was a difference. What the difference was she could not tell. Perhaps just that change had come into her love which had come into his eyes. It was still a great love, still unshaken, but it had lost the power of glorying in itself, of being happy, of rejoicing in its own strength and youth and unity. When Wolff entered the room her pulses quickened, but it was with a curious, inexplicable pain, and when he went away she breathed more easily. That most wonderful and rare of moments when they had thought and felt and lived as though they were one mind, one body, one soul had passed—perhaps for ever. They stood on different shores and looked at each other over the dividing stream with sad eyes of love and hopeless regret.
How had it all come? Whose fault was it? Poor Nora felt she knew. The spectre had risen in the same hour when Miles had leant back in theDrotschkeand sighed with relief because Wolff had not accompanied them. She had been angry at first, but the rough words had revealed something to her which she would never otherwise have believed, something in herself which had lain dormant and which now awoke, never to rest again. It was not Miles's fault. Had it been, she would not have hesitated to follow her mother's advice. But to have sent him away would be a sign of weakness—and it would be useless. The evil—whatsoever it was—lay in herself. It had always been there, but she had not recognised it. Miles had shown her what she must sooner or later have seen for herself. She had married a stranger from a strange land, and he had remained a stranger, and the land had not become her home. That was the whole matter. That she loved him, that his country had offered her love and welcome did not alter the one great fact that the faintest cry, the faintest call from her own people had drawn from her an irrepressible answer of unchanged allegiance. She loved Wolff, but in every petty conflict between him and her brother her heart had sided against him; she had had a sincere affection for the Selenecks, and in cold blood she knew that Miles had behaved boorishly towards them; but she had grown to hate them because they had shown their disapproval, and becausehehated them.
In this strange, unseen conflict of influences Miles stood for more than her brother; he stood for her whole race, for every inborn prejudice and opinion, and his coming had revealed to her her own loneliness. She was alone in a foreign land; she spoke a tongue which was not her tongue; she lived a life in which she was, and must remain, a tolerated stranger. Her seeming compliance had been no more than youth's adaptability to a passing change. Her love and her ready enthusiasm had blinded her, but Miles had torn down the scales from her eyes, and she saw the life she lived as he saw it—as a weary round of dismal pleasures, big sacrifices, endless struggle. She saw that her home was poor and tasteless, that her friends were neither elegant nor interesting, that they had other ideas, other conceptions of things which to Nora were vitally important—that they were, in a word, foreigners to her blood and up-bringing.
It had been a terribly painful awakening, and in her desperate flight from the full realisation of the change in her she had broken through the circle which hedged in her life, and sought her escape on the turbulent sea of another, more gilded society. She had tried to intoxicate herself with the splendour and popularity so easily acquired. The Frau Commerzienrat Bauer had received her with open arms, had showered upon her delicate and sometimes indelicate attentions; she had been fêted at the gorgeous entertainments given in her honour at the over-decorated "palatial residence"; she had seen Miles's expression of contemptuous criticism change for one of admiration, herself surrounded by the adulation of men who, she was told, governed the world's finance; she had heard the Frau Commerzienrat's loud voice proclaim her as "My dear friend, Frau von Arnim"—and at the bottom of her heart she had been nauseated, disgusted, wearied by it all. She had come back to the close and humble quarters of her home with a sweet sense of its inner purity and dignity, with the determination to make it the very centre of her life. And then she had seen her husband's grave—as it seemed to her, reproachful—face, the freezing disapproval of his circle, the mocking satisfaction of her brother; and the momentary peace had gone. She had felt herself an outcast, and, in hot, bitter defiance of the order of things against which she had sinned, had returned thither, where the opium flattery awaited her. But through it all she loved her husband, desperately, sincerely. As she sat there bent over her work, she thought of him in all the glamour of the first days of their happiness, and a tear rolled down her cheek, only to be brushed quickly away as she heard his footstep on the corridor outside.
"How tired he sounds!" she thought, and suddenly an immense pity mingled with the rekindling tenderness, and shone out of her eyes as she rose to greet him, like a reflex from earlier days.
He looked tired to exhaustion. The rim of his helmet had drawn a deep red line across his broad forehead, and there were heavy lines under the eyes. Nevertheless, his whole face lit up as he saw her.
"May I come in, Nora?" he asked, with a glance at his dusty riding-boots. "We have been surveying, and I am not fit for a lady's drawing-room; but if I tiptoed——"
"Of course you may come in," she cried cheerfully, thankful that the light was behind her. "I have been waiting for you, and tea is quite ready. Sit down, and I will bring you a cup."
He obeyed willingly, and followed her with his eyes as she bustled around the room. It was like old times to find her alone, to see her so eager to attend to his wants. When she came to him with his cup he drew her gently down beside him, and she saw that his face was full of tender gratitude.
"You kind little wife!" he said. "It's worth all the fatigue and worry just to come back and be spoilt. What a long time it seems since we were alone and since you 'fussed' over me, as you used to call it."
There was no reproach or complaint in his voice, and yet she felt reproached. She lifted her face to his and kissed him remorsefully.
"Have I neglected you, Wolff?"
"Not a bit, dear. I only meant—of course, one can't go on being newly married for ever, but it has its charm to go back and pretend; hasn't it?"
"You talk as though we had been married for years!" she said in a troubled tone. "And it is scarcely seven months."
"Seven months can be a long time," he answered gravely. "It all depends on what happens."
She had her head against his shoulder, and suddenly, she knew not why nor how, she was transported back to that magic hour when he had first taken her in his arms and an unhoped for, unbelievable happiness had risen above her dark horizon. In a swift-passing flash she realised that this was the man for whom she had fought, who had been everything to her, without whom life had been impossible, and that now he was hers, her very own, and that she had been cruel, unfaithful, and ungrateful. She flung her arms impetuously about his neck and drew his head down till it rested against her own.
"Oh, Wolff, Wolff!" she cried. "Are you so very disappointed in me? Has it only needed six months to show you what a hopeless little failure I am?"
"You—a failure?" He passed his hand gently over her hair. "You could never be a failure, and I should be an ungrateful fellow to talk of 'disappointment.' You are just everything I thought and loved, my English Nora."
The name aroused her, startled her even. Was it only because it emphasised what had already passed unspoken through her mind, or was it because it seemed to have a pointed significance, perhaps an intended significance?
"Why do you call me 'English Nora'?" she asked, with an unsteady laugh. "I am not English any more. I am your wife, Wolff, and you areein guter Deutscher, as you say."
He nodded, his eyes fixed thoughtfully in front of him.
"Yes, I am German, bone and blood," he said. "That's true enough. And you are my wife. I wonder, though——"
He stopped, and then suddenly he bent and lifted her like a child in his arms and carried her to the big chair opposite.
"Now I can see you better," he said quietly. "I want to ask you something which your face will tell me better than your words."
He had fallen on one knee beside her and was looking her earnestly in the eyes. She bore his scrutiny, but only with a strong effort of the will. She felt that he was looking straight into the secret places of her heart, that he was reading the pain that her words, "I am not English any more," had caused her and how little they were true.
"Tell me," he said, "are you happy, Nora? Are you not the one who is disappointed?"
"I? Wolff, how should I be? how could I be?"
"All too easily—sometimes I think inevitably. I am not blind, Nora. I see how petty and small your life must be compared to what you perhaps thought—to what might have been. The people you meet are accustomed to it all—at least they have learnt to make the best of what little they have; but you have come from another world and another life. You are accustomed to breadth and light and freedom. You have never known this brilliant poverty which we know so well, and it is hard on you—too hard on you. I have never seen it all so clearly as I see it now. If I had seen it then I would have trampled my love for you underfoot rather than have asked so great a sacrifice. But I was blinded—I did not understand——"
"Wolff, have I complained? Have I been so ungrateful—so wicked?"
"No, Nora. You have been very brave and good, but I have seen, and I have reproached myself bitterly—terribly. When I came in to-night and saw that you had been crying, I felt that I would do anything—that I would give you up——"
He stopped short, and with a pang of indescribable pain she felt that this soldier kneeling at her feet was fighting for his voice, that his quick, broken sentences had been the outburst of a long-suppressed and bitter struggle.
"I love you, Nora," he stammered roughly. "I love you with my life and soul and body, but if your happiness required it I would give you up—to your people——"
"Wolff!" she interrupted passionately.
"Listen, dear. I am not talking at random. I have thought it all over. If I cannot make you happy, I will not make you unhappy. I will do everything a man can do to atone for the one great wrong. Only tell me, whilst I have the strength to part with you——"
He stopped again, and she felt that he was trembling. There was something infinitely pathetic in his weakness, something which called to life not only her love for him as her husband but a wealth of a new and wonderful tenderness such as a mother might feel for a suffering child. She put her arms about him and drew his head against her breast. For that moment she forgot everything save that he was miserable and that she had made him so.
"I will never leave you of my free will," she said. "Never! You will have to chase me away, and then I shall come and sit on the doorstep and wait for you to let me in. Oh, Wolff, my dearest, what foolish things have you been thinking, and how long have you been brooding over them? Don't you know that I could not live without you?"
He lifted his face, searching hers with keen, hungry eyes, in which she read doubt and a dawning hope.
"Is that true, Nora?"
"Yes; it is true!"
"Be honest with me. Am I so much to you that you can be happy with me—with my people and in my home and country?"
He had asked the question which she had asked herself in moments of pitiless self-examination, but, like her, he asked it too late. She answered now earnestly, passionately, swept beyond all selfish considerations on a tide of deep, sincere feeling.
"Yes, I love you enough, Wolff. And if there have been any regrets, any longings which have caused you pain, forgive them, my husband—above all, understand them. They will pass—they must pass, because, at the bottom, you are my all in all."
He made no answer. He lifted her hand to his lips, and in the movement there was a joy, a gratitude deeper than words could have expressed. She felt that she had satisfied him, and she, too, felt satisfied.
Thus they sat silent together, hand clasped in hand, his head against her shoulder, whilst peace and a new happiness seemed to creep in about them with the evening shadows. And in her young hope and confidence Nora believed in this new happiness as she had believed in the old. It seemed so strong, so invulnerable, the obstacles so petty, so mean. They had been swept aside in a moment, like sand-castles before the onrush of the sea, so that it seemed impossible, absurd, that she could ever have thought of them as insurmountable. And yet, though heart and mind believed in the change, another wider, less definable sense, which we call instinct, remained doubtful and fearful. It was the one sign that all was not as it had once been, that they had only outwardly regained the past. Once they had lived for the future, longing for it in their extravagant youth as for a time which must reveal to them new wonders and joys. Now they clung anxiously to the present, scarcely daring to move or speak lest the peace, the outward semblance of unity, should be destroyed. Thus they sat silent together, each apparently plunged in his own untroubled reflections, each in reality fighting back thought as an enemy who might overshadow their victory.
It was Arnim who at last spoke. He drew two letters from his pocket and gave them to her.
"The postman met me on the stairs," he said. "One is a disappointment and the other the fulfilment of a wish. Which will you have first?"
"The disappointment," she said, turning over the letters anxiously. "I always keep thebonne bouchefor the last. But it has grown so dark that I cannot see. You must tell me what is in both."
"The one is from Aunt Magda," he answered. "It seems that the doctor has ordered Hildegarde a longer trial of the baths at Baden-Baden, so that their coming will be postponed a week or two at least. I am very sorry. I had looked forward to the time when you would have them—to help you."
It was the one faint intimation that he knew that she still needed help and that all had not gone well in the short period of their married life. Nora's face fell. Her very real disappointment proved to her how much she had longed for the two women who had always been her friends, even in the darkest hours. She loved them as mother and sister. She had never felt for them the antipathy, the enmity which had grown up between her and the Selenecks, and, in lesser degrees, between her and all the other women of her husband's circle, and she had longed for them as for a refuge from her increasing isolation. And now they were not coming—or, at least, not for some weeks. She was to be left alone among these strangers, these foreigners, with only Miles to support and uphold her. Only Miles? She remembered her husband with a pang of the old remorse, and she bent and kissed him as though to atone for some unintentional wrong.
"I am sorry they are not coming," she said; "but perhaps the baths will do Hildegarde good, and as for me—why, have I not got my husband to turn to?"
Wolff laughed happily.
"After that pretty speech, I must hold out some reward, so that the practice may be encouraged," he said, waving the second letter in triumph. "Behold! His Excellency General von Hulson has done himself the honour to invite his future colleague, the Captain von Arnim,nebsthis beautifulGemählinand honourable brother-in-law, to a ball on the 17th of next month. Now, are you satisfied?"
"How good you are to me, dear!" She kissed him, guiltily conscious that her joy had been but a poor feigning. Now, for the first time, she realised clearly how far she had drifted from her husband's circle. She shrank from that which had once been the goal of her ambition. Wolff laughed at her, mistaking the cause of her hesitation.
"Verily, I am growing to be a wise husband!" he said gaily. "Are all the fine dresses worn out, that my wife's fair face should be so overcast? Well, there! Is that enough to cover future expenses, Vanity?"
He had pressed a little bundle of paper-money into her hand, and she looked at it, dazed with surprise. She did not know that it was Bruno's price which he had given her, but again her eyes filled. She pitied him in that moment more than herself.
"You dear, generous fellow!" she stammered mechanically.
"It's not generosity, little woman. It's only right that you should have change and gaiety. You must not think that I do not understand how dull and dreary it must sometimes be. I do understand—it goads me sometimes to think how little I can do. Perhaps one day it will all be better—when I am Field-Marshal, you know!"
He tried to laugh, but somehow a certain weariness rang through his laughter. She heard it, and remorse mingled with her pity.
"You must not worry about all that," she said gently. "I must be a poor kind of wife if I am not satisfied as I am." She repeated her words to herself, and felt that there was bitter truth in them.
For a moment Wolff remained silent. She thought he was resting, but presently he spoke again, and she knew that he had been preparing himself to approach a graver subject.
"Nora, there is something I want you to do for me, something I want you to promise."
She looked anxiously down into his face.
"What is it, dear?"
"I want you to associate less with Bauer—and with Bauer's relations."
"Why?"
The one word sounded a defiance. Wolff rose from his kneeling position and stood at her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.
"Because he is a man I do not trust. It is not my way to speak against a comrade or to accuse lightly, but I have sure reason for asking what I do of you. No man and no woman is the better for Bauer's friendship."
"Does that mean that you do not trust me?"
She was angry now—without just cause or reason, simply because she saw in him the embodiment of all the prejudices of the class which had dared to look askance at her. A grave smile passed over her husband's face.
"You know I trust you, Nora; but in our position we must avoid even the appearance of evil. Not so much as a breath of scandal must tarnish my wife's name."
"Ah, 'yourwife'!" she said bitterly.
"——who is myself," he added.
There was a moment's silence before he went on:
"It is not only of you I was thinking, Nora. There is Miles to be considered. He is very young, and possibly easily influenced. No one can tell into what difficulties—what temptations he might be led by unscrupulous hands. Surely you sympathise with me in this?"
"My brother is no more likely to act dishonourably than myself," she answered, and again it was her race rather than Miles that she defended. "Nor do I believe Captain Bauer to be the man you describe. He has been very kind to me, and I know to what influence I must ascribe your prejudices. The Selenecks have always hated my—my friendship with the Bauers. No doubt they told you that the Commerzienrat has stolen his wealth."
She regretted her words as soon as they had been spoken. In her angry conviction that her conduct had been criticised—perhaps justly criticised—she had allowed herself to say more than she had meant, more even than she believed to be true.
"You are not just to me, Nora," Wolff answered quietly. "I have said nothing against the Bauers—I know nothing against them. But they are very rich, and it is their wealth which makes your association with them undesirable. We are poor—our friends are poor. We cannot entertain as they do. And we belong to another class—not a better class, perhaps, but one with other aims and other ideals. You cannot belong to both."
"At the bottom, you do think your class superior," Nora interposed scornfully.
"Perhaps I do—perhaps you do, when you are honest with yourself, dear. You must know that the Bauers' friendship for you is not wholly disinterested. It sounds rather brutal; but those sort of people who talk of money as the one thing that counts and pretend to scorn family and titles are just those who are most anxious to have a titled name among their visitors."
Nora started as though she had been stung.
"I think you overestimate your—our importance," she said.
He did not retort. He simply held out his hands to her.
"Nora, you can't think it gives me pleasure to spoil anything for you. Won't you trust me? Won't you give me your promise?"
She looked at him; she was honest enough to acknowledge to herself that he had been right, but above all, his patience, his quiet tone of pleading had moved and softened her.
"I give you my promise, Wolff."
"Thank you, dear. Goodness knows, I will try and make it up to you in all I can."
He kissed her, and then suddenly she drew away from him.
"You don't need to make up for it. And I think, after all, I won't go to the Hulsons."
He looked at her in blank surprise. He had sold his favourite horse to satisfy her needs, he had humbled his pride, laid himself open to the accusation of being a "place-hunter" in order to be able to lead her into the brilliant world after which she had once craved, and now that the sacrifices had been brought she would have none of them. He did not understand—as how should he have done?—that she saw in his action an attempt to bribe her, in his gift a sweetmeat offered to a disappointed child. He felt, instead—though he would not have admitted it even in his thoughts—that she had been capricious, inconsiderate.
He turned away and went over to the writing-table, throwing down the two letters with a gesture of weariness.
"We must go now, whether we want to or not," he said. "I have worried for the invitation, and it is impossible to refuse. The Selenecks would have every right to be offended."
"They are that already," Nora said bitterly.
"Perhaps they have some reason to be, dear." He spoke quietly, but he had implied that the fault was hers, and the angry blood rushed to her cheeks.
"The Selenecks are absurd and ridiculously sensitive," she said. "They have chosen to take offence at nothing, and——"
"Nora, they are my best friends!"
"Is that any reason why they should be mine?"
"Yes, I think so."
"And if I do not like them—if I find their manners and ways too different to mine—what then?"
There was a faint sneer in tone and look which was intentional, and which she knew was undeserved, but she could not help herself. She hated the Selenecks and the whole crowd of small military nobodies struggling for advancement and their daily bread. Why should she be forced to live her life amongst them?
Wolff made no answer to her question. He was sufficiently calm to feel with its full poignancy how fleeting and unstable their newly won happiness had been. The barrier was raised again—the more formidable because it had been once so easily overcome. Yet, with the tenacity of despair he clung to the appearance of things, and kept his teeth tight-clenched upon an angry, bitter retort. He was spared all further temptation. The door-bell rang, and he turned to Nora with a quiet question as though nothing had happened.
"Is that Miles, or is he at home?"
"It is Miles, probably. He has been out all the afternoon."
She, too, had recovered her self-possession and was grateful to him for having ignored her outburst. Nevertheless she knew that he would not forget, any more than she would be able to do.
"Where has he been, do you know?"
"I am not sure. He found it very dull here, and went out with some English friends he has picked up. Is there any harm in that?"
Again the same note of sneering defiance! Wolff kept his face steadily averted.
"Not so far. But I do not like his English friends."
"I suppose not," she retorted. "Everybody here hates us."
"Us——?" He turned at last and looked at her.
"——the English, I mean," she stammered.
He had no opportunity to reply. The door opened, and their little maid-of-all-work entered, bearing a card.
"A gentleman to see thegnädige Frau," she said. "Shall I show him in?"
Nora took the card. She looked at it a long time. Even in the half-darkness her pallor was so intense that it caught Wolff's attention. He saw her stretch out her hand blindly as though seeking support.
"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked.
She lifted her eyes to his, staringly, stupidly. He felt that she hardly saw him.
"Nothing—it is an old friend—from England."
The sound of her own voice seemed to bring her to her senses. She handed him the card, and her manner from stunned bewilderment changed to something that was intensely defiant. There was a moment's silence. Then Arnim turned to the waiting servant.
"Show him in here," he ordered.
"Wolff—how do you know I wish to see him?"
"An old friend—who has come so far to see you? You surely cannot do otherwise. Besides, why should you not want to see him?"
He looked at her in steady surprise, so that the suspicion which for one moment had flashed up in her mind died down as quickly as it had come.He did not know—he could not know. But the consciousness of coming disaster weighed upon her like a crushing burden.
"There is no reason. Only I thought you might not wish it."
"Your friends are my friends," he answered gravely.
And then the door opened a second time, and Robert Arnold stood on the threshold.
CHAPTER IX
ARNOLD RECEIVES HIS EXPLANATION
A great physical change had come over him in the few months of his absence. He was pale and gaunt-looking, as though he had but lately risen from a serious illness, and his eyes, which fell at once on Nora's face, were hollow and heavily underlined.
Nora noticed these details with the sort of mechanical minuteness of a mind too stunned to grasp the full magnitude of the situation. One side of her intellect kept on repeating: "Why has he come? Why has he come?" whilst the other was engrossed in a trivial catalogue of the changes in his appearance. "He stoops more—he is thinner," she thought, but she could not rouse herself to action. Arnold, indeed, gave her little opportunity. After the first moment's hesitation he advanced and held out his hand.
"I ought to have let you know of my coming, Nora," he said, "but I could not wait. I have just arrived in Berlin, and of course my first visit had to be to you. I hope I have not chosen an inconvenient time?"
He was trying to speak conventionally, and was successful, insomuch that Nora understood that she had at present nothing to fear from him. Not that she felt any fear now that the first shock was over. It was with a certain dignity and resolution that she looked from one man to the other.
"This is my husband, Robert," she said, "and this, Wolff, is my old playfellow, Captain Arnold."
Wolff held out his hand frankly.
"I am glad to meet you," he said. "I am glad for my wife's sake when she has the chance of seeing her old friends. I hope, therefore, that your stay in Berlin is to be a long one?"
Arnold bowed.
"I am on my way home to England," he said. "How long I remain depends on circumstances."
"May the circumstances be favourable, then!" Wolff returned. His tone was warm—almost anxiously friendly, and Nora looked at him in surprise and gratitude. His smiling face betrayed no sign of the devil which he had grappled with and overcome in one short moment of struggle. He nodded cheerfully at her.
"I am afraid you must play hostess alone for a little, dear," he said. "Captain Arnold, as a soldier you will understand that duty can't be neglected, and you will excuse me. I have no doubt you will have a great deal to talk about, and at supper-time I shall hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again. Whilst you are in Berlin you must consider this yourpied-à-terre."
"You are very kind," Arnold stammered. Like Nora, he too was impressed—uncomfortably impressed—by the impetuous hospitality with which Wolff greeted him. Like Nora, also, he had no means of knowing that it was the natural revolt of a generous nature from the temptings of jealousy and suspicion.
Wolff had lighted a small lamp, which he carried with him to the door, together with a bundle of documents. For a moment he hesitated, looking back at Nora, and the light thrown up into his face revealed an expression of more than usual tenderness.
"Don't talk yourself tired, Frauchen," he said as he went out.
Nora smiled mechanically. She had had the feeling that the words were nothing, that he had tried to convey an unspoken message to her which she had neither understood nor answered. She gave herself no time to think over it. She switched on the electric light, and turned to Arnold, who was still standing watching her.
"Sit down, Robert," she said. "As Wolff said, we have a great deal to say to each other—at least, I fancy you have come because you have a great deal to say to me."
Her words contained a slight challenge, which, the next moment, she felt had been out of place. Arnold sank down in the chair nearest to hand. It was as though he had hitherto been acting a part, and now let the mask fall from a face full of weary hopelessness.
"You are right," he said. "I have something to say, Nora—I suppose, though, I ought to call you Frau von Arnim?"
"You ought," she answered, irritated by his tone. "But it does not matter. I don't think Wolff minded."
A grim smile passed over Arnold's lips.
"Wolff seems a good-natured sort of fellow," he said. There was again something disparaging in his tone which brought the colour to Nora's cheeks.
"He is everything I could wish," she answered proudly. And then the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes reminded her that she had done this man a cruel injury, and her heart softened with pity and remorse.
"How pale and thin you have grown!" she exclaimed. "Have you been ill?"
"Very ill," he answered. "I caught some swamp fever or other out there in the wilds, and it was months before they could get me back to the coast. That is why you never heard from me. As soon as I reached port I set straight off for home—to you."
"To me——!" she repeated blankly.
He nodded.
"Yes; to the woman I believed was to be my wife."
"Then you never got my second letter?"
"Did you write a second letter?"
He was looking her earnestly in the eyes, and there was a stifled, tragic wretchedness in his own which was terrible to look on.
"I wrote and explained everything," Nora, answered, controlling her voice with an effort. "I have behaved badly to you, but not so badly as to leave you undeceived."
"You sent me an explanation," he said slowly. "Nora, it is that explanation which I have come to seek. When I first heard of your marriage, I made up my mind that you were not worth suffering for. I thought that I would go back to the forest and forget you—if I could. I meant never to see you again—I felt I could not bear it. But, Nora, a man's love is not only a selfish desire for possession. If he loves truly, he puts into that love something of himself which is a vital part of his life and being—his ideals and his whole trust. I suffered—not only because I had lost you, but because I had lost my faith in every one. You seemed so good and true, Nora. I felt I could never trust another woman again. That was unbearable. For my own sake I had to come and ask you—if you could explain."
He stopped abruptly, and there was a little silence. He had spoken without passion, simply in that weary monotone of those who have risen from great physical or mental suffering; and Nora's heart ached with the knowledge that she alone had brought this ruin upon him.
"You said, 'When I first heard of your marriage,'" she began at last. "When and how was that?"
"From Frau von Arnim," he answered. "I thought you might still be with her at Karlsburg, and the place lay on my route. It was Frau von Arnim who told me."
"Then—she knows everything?"
He saw the alarm on her face.
"As much as I know. Forgive me, Nora; it was inevitable—I could not believe what she told me. I am the more sorry because she is a hard, cold woman who will make trouble. That is another reason why I have come. I wanted to warn you."
Nora made a quick gesture—half of dissent, half of doubt.
"You misjudge her," she said. "She will forgive and understand, as you must. Oh, Robert, it makes me miserable to think I have caused you so much pain, but if I had to live my life again I could not have acted otherwise than I did!"
Her voice had grown firmer, and as she spoke she turned from her position by the window and faced him with quiet confidence.
"I acted for what I believed to be the best, Robert," she said. "It was perhaps wrong what I did, but I did not mean it to be—I meant to be just and honourable. But I was not strong enough. That was my one fault."
Her clear, earnest tones brought back the light to the tired eyes that watched her.
"I am glad," he said. "I am glad that you can explain. That is all I have come for, Nora—to hear from your own lips that you are not ashamed."
"I am not ashamed," she answered steadily. And then, in a few quick sentences she told him everything that had led up to that final moment when Wolff had taken her in his arms and the whole world had been forgotten. As she spoke, the past revived before her own eyes, and she felt again a faint vibration of that happiness which had once seemed immortal, indestructible.
"I did not deceive you," she said at last, with convincing sincerity. "I wrote and told you that I would marry you—not that I loved you. I knew I did not love you, because my love was given elsewhere. I loved Wolff already then, but there was a barrier between us which I believed to be insurmountable. I consented to become your wife because it seemed the best and safest thing to do. Afterwards—it was almost immediately afterwards—the barrier proved unavailing against our love, and I forgot you. That is the brutal truth. I forgot you until it was too late, because, you see, I did not feel more for you than friendship, and because I really loved. That was weak, no doubt, but I had never loved before, and it was too strong for me. A wiser woman would have waited until she was free. She would have written to you and told you that it was all a mistake. I wrote to you afterwards. That is the only difference. The letter did not reach you, and you believed the worst of me. It was only natural, and I know I am to blame, but oh! if you really love, surely you can understand?"
He smiled at her unconscious cruelty, and, rising, took the outstretched hands in his.
"I do understand," he said, "and the blame is all mine. I should never have accepted your generous gift of yourself without your love. I might have known that it would end badly. But you were so young, dear. I thought I should be able to teach you to love. Well, some one else was cleverer and had a better chance, perhaps, than I had. I have no right to blame, nor do you need to feel any remorse on my account. The worst wound is healed now that I can understand. My one prayer is that you may be very, very happy." He studied her upturned face. "You are happy, aren't you, Nora?"
For the shortest part of a minute she wavered. She repeated the question to herself and wondered.
"Yes, of course I am happy," she replied almost impatiently. "Why should I not be?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I am over-anxious for you. You see"—his faint smile betrayed how deep his emotion was, in spite of all self-control—"I still love you."
"I am glad," she answered frankly. "I care for you too, Robert, quite enough to make me very sad if I should lose your regard. It made me miserable to think that you probably hated and despised me."
"I never did that, though I believe I tried," he said. "And now that I may not give you my love, I may at least feel that I am your friend? Grant me that much, Nora. It is very little that I ask—your trust and friendship."
It was indeed very little that he asked, and he had been more generous to her than she could have ever dared to hope. And yet she hesitated.
"Nora!" he cried "Surely I have not deserved to lose everything!"
He was pleading as a beggar might have pleaded for the crumbs beneath the table, and all that was generous in her responded. The hesitation, the vague uneasiness passed. She gave him her hand.
"Of course! We have always been friends—we must always be friends."
"Thank you, dear. That is a great deal to me. No other woman will ever come into my life."
"Don't!" she exclaimed, painfully moved. "You make me feel that I have spoilt your life."
"But you haven't, Nora. You are just the only woman I could ever have loved, and if I had not met you I should be even lonelier than I am. At least I have your friendship."
His tone was composed, almost cheerful, but she felt that he was at the end of his strength, and when, after a quick pressure of the hand, he went towards the door, she made no effort to recall him. Her own voice was strangled, and perhaps her face revealed more than she knew, more than she was actually conscious of feeling—a regret, an appeal, an almost childish loneliness. As though answering an unexpected cry of pain, he turned suddenly and looked at her. He saw the all-betraying tears, and the next minute he had come back to her side and had taken her hands and kissed them.
"You must not!" he said gently. "You are to be happy—as I am. Forgive me; it is the seal upon our friendship—and a farewell."
She had not resisted. She would have forgiven him, because she understood; she would have put the moment's surrender to passion from her memory as something pardoned, but fate took the power of forgiving and forgetting from her. For the door had opened, and Miles stood on the threshold, watching them with an expression of blank amazement on his flushed, excited face.
Arnold turned, too late conscious that they were not alone, and Miles's amazement changed to a loud delight.
"If it isn't old Arnold!" he exclaimed, flinging coat and hat on to the nearest chair and stretching out an unsteady hand. "Why, we thought you were dead and buried in some African wilderness, didn't we, Nora?"
"You were not far wrong, then," Arnold answered. "I was pretty well done for once, and am only just beginning to feel that I really belong to this world again." He had recovered his self-possession with an effort, and he went on quickly, almost as though he were afraid of Miles's next words: "I was on my way home, and took Berlin as a break. Of course I had to come and see you all."
Miles nodded.
"Decent of you," he said thickly. "Nora will be glad to have you in this foreign hole. It's a sickening shame——" He stumbled and reeled up against Arnold with an impatient curse. The momentary excitement over the unexpected arrival had passed, leaving him bemuddled, in a dull but unmistakable state of intoxication. Arnold took him by the arm and helped him to the nearest chair.
"You are a young fool," he said good-naturedly. "German beer isn't so harmless as you seem to think. What have you been doing with yourself?"
Miles passed his hand over his forehead with a helpless movement, as though he were awakening from a dream.
"It's not the drink," he stammered. "It's not the drink, I tell you. It's—it's the money. I'm in a devil of a mess. These dirty foreigners——"
"Oh, hush!" Nora cried. For the moment disgust and anger had passed. She had heard Wolff's footstep in the adjoining room, and a sudden terror had come over her. "Robert, take him away—quick! And come back afterwards—Wolff may not ask for him whilst you are here. Oh, help me!"
Arnold nodded silently. He lifted the hapless Miles and half dragged, half carried him from the room. He had no thought as yet of the future. It had been revealed to him in a flash that all was not well in Nora's life; he had seen something like despair in her face, and knew that she needed the strong hand of a friend.
"And I am that—nothing else," he thought as he closed Miles's door behind him. "No one can blame me if I claim the rights of friendship and help her—no one!"
But Captain Robert Arnold, sure of his own honour, forgot that the world, being less honourable, might also be of another opinion.