CHAPTER XNEMESISIt was her at-home day. As she sat there, with her hands clasped listlessly on her lap, it seemed as though in imagination she saw the ghosts of other days arise—days where the little room had been crowded with eager, chattering friends who had come to tell her and each other the latest news of their servants, their husbands or the service, or to be "intellectual," as the case might be. She thought she saw Frau von Seleneck seated on the sofa opposite her, her round, rosy face bright with an irrepressible optimism; she thought she heard the rich, contented chuckle, and felt the maternal pat upon her arm. Then her vision cleared, and the ghosts vanished. The little room was empty of all but shadows, and she was alone.Presently the door of her husband's study opened. She heard him come towards her, and knew that he was standing at her side; but she did not look up. She felt for the moment too listless, too weary, above all too proud to let him see how deeply her new isolation wounded her."All alone, dear?""Yes, all alone.""I thought it was your at-home day?"She tried to laugh."Yes, so it is. But no one has come, you see.""How is that?"Then she looked up at him."You know quite well. Everybody hates me.""Nora! That is not true."She nodded."It is quite true. The Selenecks have taken care that none of my misdeeds should go forgotten. They can't forgive my—my intimacy with other people, or my nationality.""Your nationality?"She got up with an impetuous, angry movement."Yes, my nationality."He stood looking at her. A new expression had come into his grave face—an expression of sudden understanding, of indescribable pain. Then he came towards her and put his arm about her shoulders."My little wife, don't, for God's sake, don't let that come between us! Be brave, fight it down. It will only be for a time. Our—my people are easily hurt. They think, perhaps, you despise them for their sober ways—that they are not good enough for you. Be kind to them, and they will come back. They would forgive you anything."She drew back from him."I do not want their forgiveness. I do not want them. I am happiest alone."He made no answer, but went slowly towards the door. She knew that she had hurt him, and in her bitterness and wounded pride it gave her a painful satisfaction to know that he too suffered. Yet she loved him; she knew, as he stood there with bent head, that she would give her life for him—only she could not surrender herself, her individuality, the old ties of blood and instinct. She could not, would not break down the barrier which her race built between them. She was too proud, perhaps too hurt to try.Suddenly Arnim looked up. His features were quiet and composed, and the gathering twilight hid the expression in his eyes."Nora, where is Miles?""Still in bed. He—he is not feeling well.""The effects of yesterday?" He laughed grimly. "It seems to me, dear, that your brother would be the better for some occupation—in his own country.""You wish him to go?"He met her challenge with an unfaltering determination that was yet mingled with tenderness and pity."I think it better—before it is too late.""What do you mean?""Before he ruins himself—or us.""Wolff, you are not fair. You are unjust."He smiled sadly."I hope I am. Good-bye, little woman. I shall try and be back early. But perhaps Arnold will come—and then you will not be alone."He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. The protest died on her lips; an icy sense of isolation crept over her, obliterating for the moment all thought of his injustice, of the slight which he had cast upon her brother. In her sudden weakness she held out her arms towards the closed door and called his name, feebly, like a frightened child crying in the dark. But he did not come back. She heard his spurs jingle with a mocking cheerfulness—and then silence. So she went back to her place by the window and sat there, holding back with a pitiful pride the tears that burnt her eyes.Presently the door opened again. She thought he had come back, and with all her pride her heart beat faster with a momentary, reasonless hope. Then she heard the click of the electric light and a man's voice speaking to her."Gnädige Frau, may I come in?"She sprang to her feet as though the voice had been a blow, and saw Bauer standing on the threshold, bowing, a curious half-ironical smile playing about his mouth. For the moment she could neither think nor speak, but out of the depths of her consciousness arose the old aversion, the old instinctive dread. She knew then, warned by that same occult power, that the time had come when the dread should receive its justification."I found the door open, and ventured to enter unannounced," Bauer went on calmly. "I knew from experience that the usual formalities would lead to no result. You have been 'out' a great deal of late,gnädige Frau." He came towards her without hesitation, and, taking her passive hand, kissed it. "Am I forgiven?"His absolute ease of manner checked the rise of her indignation. She felt herself strangely helpless. Yet her dignity—her dignity as Wolff's wife—came to her rescue. She looked steadily into the still smiling face."If I have been often out, it has not been a mere chance, Herr Rittmeister," she answered. "It has been of intention—an intention which you would have been wiser to respect.""I see no good reason why I should respect your husband's 'intentions,'gnädige Frau," he retorted calmly."My husband's wishes are mine.""Really?" He laughed, and then grew suddenly serious. "In any case, it seems to me that I—we have a right to some sort of an explanation. To put it baldly—there was a time when it pleased you to accept my sister-in-law's hospitality and friendship. Now, it seems, neither she nor I are good enough for you."Nora flinched involuntarily. She knew that the reproach was a just one, but she knew too that Wolff had been right and only she to blame. Instinct again warned her. She saw danger in this man's cold eyes, in which there yet flickered the light of some controlled passion either of hatred or some other feeling to which she dared give no name."You have a right to an explanation," she said at last, with an effort controlling her unsteady voice. "Indeed, I owe you more than that—I owe you an apology. It was a mistake for me to enter into a circle to which I did not belong; only you will do me the justice to remember that it was a mistake not altogether of my making.""Gott, gnädige Frau!" He laughed angrily. "You talk as though we were the dirt under your feet. Is it your husband's petty nobility which gives you the right to look at me like that? I too wear the King's uniform—that is a point which you would do well to remember.""I have not forgotten it. And there is no question of contempt—I feel myself, Heaven knows, superior to no one; but I repeat, it was a mistake to accept kindness which could not be returned. Surely you can understand——" She crushed down her pride, and in the effort her bearing became prouder and colder. "We are poor, Herr Rittmeister, your relations are rich and live as we cannot live. That alone is a barrier between us."He shrugged his shoulders."An excuse,gnädige Frau, an excuse! I know the opinions of your husband's class too well not to know perfectly what you prefer not to tell me. In any case, your considerations are a little belated. You should have thought of all that before you allowed your brother to enter into a circle"—he echoed her words with a kind of mocking satisfaction—"in which he could not sustain his position."Nora started. She knew now that there was a menace in this man's looks and words. She understood that he would never have acted as he had done without the sure conviction that the power was in his hands. What that power was she did not know—she only knew that she was afraid."Sit down,gnädige Frau," he went on more calmly. "You look pale, and I have something of importance to tell you. But before everything, I want you to believe that I come to you as your friend."He motioned her to be seated in the chair which he had pushed towards her, and she obeyed him passively. A sharply defined recollection of their first meeting came back to her as she did so. Then, too, he had acted with the insolent assurance of a man who knows himself master of the situation; but then she had had the power of her independence. Now she felt herself bound, helpless in the bonds of circumstance—and her own folly."It is of your brother I have come to speak," Bauer went on, taking his place before her. "Nothing should prove my friendship better than the fact that I have come in spite of the rebuff to which I knew I should lay myself open. But I could not see the crisis break over you without a word of warning—without offering you a helping hand."She looked at him in mingled astonishment and anger. His familiarity was more terrible to her than his previous tone of menacing resentment."I do not understand you," she said coldly."Perhaps not. But you must surely be aware that your brother has not been living the most austere of lives since his arrival in Berlin. It may be that I am a little to blame. I thought by the way he talked that he could well afford it, and encouraged him to share my life with me. Well, it appears now that he bragged more than circumstances justified. I do not speak of the money he owes me nor his gambling-debts to my friends. Those I have already paid. It was not pleasant for me to be associated with a defaulting gambler, and what I did I did for my own sake. I ask no thanks or credit for it. But there are other matters." He had undone the buttons of his military coat, and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he laid before her. "That is a rough list of your brother's creditors, with the amounts attached," he said. "You will see for yourself that he has understood the art of amusing himself."She took the list from him. The figures swam before her eyes and she fought against a deadly faintness. From afar off she heard Bauer's voice roll on with the unchanged calm of a lawyer for whom the matter had only a professional interest."At the bottom you will see the sum-total,gnädige Frau. It runs into three figures, and it is possible that my list is not complete. The worst of it is that your husband will be held responsible. The credit would never have been given to Mr. Ingestre if his brother-in-law had not been Herr von Arnim, captain on the general staff."Nora rose unsteadily to her feet."It is impossible," she stammered incoherently. "I know—Wolff hasn't the money—it is impossible. Oh, how could he have been so foolish—so wicked!" And it was curious that in that moment she thought less of the ruin which was bearing down upon her husband than of the disgrace which had fallen upon her brother, of Wolff's justified contempt and the triumph of his friends. Bauer had also risen and now took a quick step to her side."Gnädige Frau, your brother has only done what hundreds of young fellows do. No doubt he hoped that he would have time enough allowed him to pay. Unfortunately, there are war-scares flying about, and the tradespeople are a little shy of English customers. I fear they will press payment. But there is no need for you to worry. Your husband need never even know that these debts existed. A word from you and they are paid and forgotten.""What do you mean?""I will pay them.""You?""Yes, I." He came still closer, so that she could hear his quick, irregular breathing. "You English are practical people," he went on, with an attempted laugh. "You know that there is precious little done out of pure charity in this world. If I help you out of this difficulty it is on certain conditions.""I do not want to hear them——""Why not? They are simple enough. The one is that you should renew your friendship with my sister-in-law. It is awkward for her—this sudden cooling off; and she has a right to expect some consideration from you. The other concerns myself. I too must have your friendship—more than that—you, your regard." He took her hands and held them in a brutal, masterful grip. "You can't pretend you don't know—you must have known I cared—from the beginning—you——"She wrenched herself free. She had seen his eyes and the hell in them, and, inexperienced though she was, she knew that it was not even a so-called love which he experienced, but a cruel thirst for conquest, the hunger for revenge, the desire to retaliate where he had been slighted and thwarted. She reached the door before he could restrain her, and with her hand on the bell stood there facing him. She seemed unnaturally calm, and her scorn for the man who had tried to trap her lent her a dignity, a look of triumph which curbed his passion and held him for the moment speechless."Please go," she said.He bowed."By all means. But I shall not take this as your final answer.""My husband will answer you—not I.""Do you know what that will mean?""It will mean that I intend to have no secrets from him.""You misunderstand me. Do you know the consequences? Your husband, as a man of honour, will challenge me. I shall have the choice of weapons, and I swear to you that I will kill him."She said nothing. Her eyes had dilated, and every trace of colour had left her face; but she retained her attitude of proud defiance, and he went past her through the open door."You see, I can be patient," he said, looking back at her. "My sister-in-law is giving a ball on the 18th. If you are there I shall understand. If not——" He shrugged his shoulders. "No doubt your husband will see his way to settling Mr. Ingestre's troubles. As they stand, they are likely to cost him his collar.Auf Wiedersehen, gnädige Frau."He was gone. She waited until the last echo of his steps had died on the wooden stairway, then she tottered forward and sank into Wolff's chair, her face buried in her hands. She did not cry, and no sound escaped her lips. She sat there motionless, bereft of thought, of hope, almost of feeling. The end, the crisis to which she had been slowly drifting was at hand. It seemed to her that she heard the roar of the cataract which was to engulf her. And there was no help, no hope.It was thus Miles Ingestre found her an hour later. Knowing that Arnim was out, he had donned a dressing-gown and now stood staring blankly at his sister, his hair disordered, his yellow face a shade yellower from the last day's dissipation."Why, Nora!" he said sleepily. "What's the matter, old girl?"She looked up. His voice gave her back the power at least to act."Rittmeister Bauer has been here," she said. "He gave me this. Is it true?"He took the paper which she held towards him and studied it, rocking on his heels the while in an uneasy silence."Yes, it seems true enough. What the devil did he give it you for?""He says the creditors are likely to press payment—and—and—Wolff will be held responsible. Oh, Miles, what have you done? What have you done?"The last words broke from her like a cry of despair. They seemed to penetrate the thickness of Miles's phlegm, for he laid his hand on her shoulder, his lips twitching with a maudlin self-pity."It wasn't my fault, Nora. I didn't know what they were leading me into. If Wolff had only helped me a bit—if he hadn't been such a stuck-up prig, so beastly self-righteous. There, you needn't break out! I can't help it—it's the truth; it's not all my fault." He ran his shaky hand through his hair. "And, after all, there isn't so much to make a fuss about. Everybody in our set does that sort of thing, and I dare say Bauer will tide me over the worst. He's a decent fellow, and beastly rich. Look here, Nora"—his shifty eyes took an expression of stupid cunning—"if you asked him—you know he's a friend of yours—I'll be bound he'd help me."Nora turned and looked at him. In that moment he seemed to her a complete stranger. Then she gently loosened herself from his hand. She did not answer. It was too useless. She rose and left him standing there, the silly smile still playing about his lips.CHAPTER XITHE FETISH"Your mother is very ill," the Rev. John had written, "and I am in an indescribable state of anxiety both on her account and yours. Everybody here is quite certain that there is going to be war between us and Germany. Only yesterday the squire was down here talking to me about it. He says there is no hope, and that the conflict is bound to come. I do not understand politics myself, but it seems the Germans are determined to destroy us and get our power. It is very dreadful that a whole nation should show itself so avaricious, and I am sure God will help us punish so wicked and wanton an attack. All Delford is already on foot, and quite a number of young men are thinking of enlisting in the Territorials. The squire says it is a magnificent sight to see how the whole country rises at the call of danger. He himself has done not a little to help the general patriotic movement, and has opened a shooting-range in a field, where he is teaching his men to shoot. The sound of the guns makes me quite nervous, and is very bad for your poor mother, but the squire says it is helping to produce the best shots in Europe, so we must not complain, but bring our sacrifice to the motherland with a cheerful countenance. Nevertheless, I am terribly troubled. If war should break out—which God forbid!—what will become of you, my poor child, out there in the enemy's country? Could you not make your mother's health an excuse to come back to us, at any rate until the present crisis is over? Wolff will surely understand that you cannot stay in Germany if there is war. Find out from him what he thinks of the chances, and notice if there are any signs of preparation. If you can, come home. Your mother is very much against it, but she is ill and hardly understands the seriousness of the situation. We must all stand together in the moment of danger, and I am sure your heart is aching for the dear old country, and that you are longing to be with us. I have written to Miles that he is to return as soon as ever he thinks fit. He seems to be very tied by his studies, so that I do not like to press a hasty decision. You must talk it over together."Nora had received this letter by the afternoon's post. She was reading it a second time when Wolff entered the room. He had on his parade uniform, and the cheery clatter of his sword and spurs jarred on her overstrung nerves."Why this magnificence?" she asked, trying to disguise her unreasonable irritability. "Is there anything unusual?""A review to which I am commanded," he answered quietly. "I may be home a little late for supper. I expect you will go and see Aunt Magda and Hildegarde. They will think it curious if you do not go soon.""They have only just arrived," Nora said in the same tone of smothered irritation. "I could not have gone before."Wolff bent over the back of her chair and kissed her."Please go!" he said coaxingly. "You used to be fond of them both, and they have been very good to us. Be nice to them—for my sake."She was silent a moment, as though struck by a new thought. Then she nodded."I shall go this afternoon. Robert was coming, but it does not matter.""Captain Arnold?" Wolff drew himself suddenly upright. "Were you expecting him?""Yes; he was coming to see me. Have you any objection?"She had heard the colder, graver note in his voice, and it stung her. Was Arnold also to come between them—Arnold, in whose hands lay the one chance of rescue from the coming catastrophe? Was her last friend to be taken from her by a reasonless, unworthy distrust? She looked up into her husband's tanned face with a directness which was not unlike defiance."Ihave no objection," he answered her at last. "You know everything pleases me that makes you happy. I only beg of you to be careful.""Careful!" she echoed."Captain Arnold has been in Berlin a month," he went on. "It is obvious that he has stayed for your sake, and for my part I am glad enough. But there are the evil tongues, little wife."She sprang to her feet. If she could only have told him, only unburdened her heart of its crushing trouble, then perhaps he would understand, and the widening cleft between them be bridged. The words of a reckless confession trembled on her lips; but she remembered Bauer and his promise: "I swear I will kill him"; and the confession turned to bitterness, to an impotent revolt against the circumstances of her life."The evil tongues!" she echoed scornfully. "Why should I mind what they say now? They have taken everything from me—all my friends. I have only Robert left. Is it wrong to have friends in this country—friends who do not listen to the verdict of—of enemies?""It is not wrong, but it can be dangerous," he answered. "You have no enemies, Nora, only people who do not understand you and whom you have hurt. You have always been unfortunate in your friends. They have all stood between you and those to whom, by your position, you belong.""You mean that if Arnold were German—'one of us,' as you would say—it would not matter?""Not so much."She laughed angrily."How jealous you are!" she exclaimed. "How petty and jealous!""Nora!" He was white to the lips, and the hand which had fallen involuntarily on his sword-hilt showed every bone of the knuckles, so tense was the grip. Something in his expression frightened her."I do not mean you alone," she stammered, "but all of you. You are jealous of us and you hate us. When you marry one of us, you do your best to isolate her, to cut her off from her country and her people.""Is that not inevitable—right, even? But have I done that?""No."Her conscience smote her as she looked up at him standing erect and stern before her. She realised that another and graver issue had arisen between them—an issue that was perhaps the source of all. She realised that there had been something more than fear and a consequent irritability in her attitude towards him. She had not seen her husband in him, but only the representative of thousands who might soon be marching against her country, and for one short minute at least she had hated him. The realisation horrified her, drove her to a reckless attempt at atonement."Oh, forgive me, Wolff!" she cried eagerly. "I am simply unbearable this afternoon. Father has written a worrying letter—about mother—and that made me nervous and bad-tempered. Forgive me, dear. Don't be angry at the silly things I have said."He yielded to the hands that drew him towards her, and kissed her, but rather gravely, as though he more than half-doubted her explanation."I am not angry, Nora. I only ask you to try and understand. God knows"—she thought his voice changed, and grew less certain—"I would never willingly come between you and any one you cared for, but I have my honour to protect, and your honour is mine.""Wolff, what do you mean? Have I done anything dishonourable?""No, dear. You cannot see things from my standpoint. You have been brought up with other ideas. I have tried to explain before. We have a double task. For our names' sake and for the sake of the uniform we wear we must keep ourselves from the very breath of evil. And that applies to every one connected with us."Nora drew her hands away."I think I understand," she said. "For those two fetishes everything must be sacrificed. I will do my best to satisfy them and you.""Thank you, Nora. I trust you implicitly."She went to the door, hesitated, and then stole out. But in that moment's hesitation she had caught a glimpse of him standing at his table in an attitude of dejection, and had heard a smothered sigh of pain."I am miserable," she thought, "and I have made him miserable. How will it all end?"In trembling haste she dressed and hurried out. She had a one all-dominating desire to seek help and comfort from some one who could understand her, some one, too, who held Wolff's happiness higher than her own and could be just to both. She needed a woman's comfort, and she turned now to Frau von Arnim. Hitherto she had shrunk from the inevitable meeting, now she sought it with the desperation of one who knows no other course. She had indeed no one else to turn to. Before Wolff she was tongue-tied. It was not only that silence was forced upon her by a mingled pride and fear; the subtle understanding between them had been rudely broken, and though their love for each other remained, they had inwardly become something worse than strangers. For there is no reserve so complete, so insurmountable, so surcharged with bitterness as that which follows on a great passion. And then, too, what had she to say to him? "I love you; but I have brought ruin upon your life. I love you; but I am not happy with you." Had she even the right to say that to him? Was it not, in any case, useless? Yet she knew she must unburden her heart, if for no other reason than that the power to keep silence was passing out of her hands.Thus it was natural that her footsteps turned for the first time towards the little flat near the Brandenburger Tor. And on her road she met Arnold himself. It was as though fate pursued her."I was on my way to you," he said quietly, as he turned to walk by her side. "I have something to tell you, and should have been sorry if we had missed. It is about Miles."Nora glanced at him, and her eyes were full of a miserable gratitude."How good you are to me!" she said. "I have not deserved it; you are my only friend here.""Surely not," he answered. "What I can do is little enough. I have found out the full extent of Miles's liabilities and have endeavoured to persuade his creditors to wait. Unfortunately, they are obdurate on the subject. They believe there is going to be war and that your brother might leave Berlin suddenly. It seems to me that you should do one of two things, Nora—either allow me to—to advance the money, or to tell your husband the truth."She put up her hand with a movement of involuntary protest."You know that the first is out of the question," she said proudly. "And the second! Oh, Robert, I am afraid! It may ruin Wolff, and then—they hate each other so. Wolff will send him away, and——"She broke off with a quick breath that was like a sob."Isn't that the best thing that can happen?" Arnold answered. "Your brother will never do any good here. He is better in England.""Yes, I know, I know. He has been weak and foolish. He is so—young." Her voice was full of a piteous apology. "And perhaps it was my fault—a little, at least. But I can't let him go, Robert. Whatever else he is, he is my brother, and I am so alone.""Alone!" He looked at her aghast. "What do you mean?""Don't you understand? It's so easy—so simple. I am a stranger here. I am hated and distrusted. I suppose it was inevitable. In a few days you will have gone, and if Miles goes too I shall have no one left——""Nora!" he interrupted sternly. "There is your husband.""Wolff—yes, there is Wolff. Robert, they say there will be war. Is it true?"He frowned with perplexity. For the moment he could not follow her thought, and her question seemed to him erratic and purposeless."It is possible. For my part, I hope it may come to that. Things have been drifting to a crisis for a long time, and we must assert ourselves once and for all. These beggars are beginning to suspect us of fear or incompetence, and the sooner they are disillusioned the better." Suddenly he caught a glimpse of her face, and stopped short. "Nora, what is the matter?""You forget," she said hoarsely. "I am not English any more."They walked on in silence, Arnold too startled and overwhelmed by the conflict which she in one short sentence had revealed to him to speak or think."I was a thoughtless fool," he said at last. "For the moment I could not imagine you as anything but my own countrywoman. Now I see; and it is terrible for you—terrible. Even marriage cannot blot out one's nationality."They had reached the door of the Arnims' flat, and she stopped and faced him with wide-open, desperate eyes."Nothing can!" she said. "And I know this—if there is war it will break my heart, or drive me mad. I don't know which."Never before had she felt so drawn to him by all the ties of friendship and blood, and yet she went up the steps without a word of farewell. Arnold understood, and looked after her with a tender pity. He believed that he had crushed all passion out of his heart, but that a love remained which was infinitely greater, purified, as it seemed, from the dross of selfish desire. He felt as he stood there that he would willingly have given his life to save her from the threatening struggle, and yet—such is the irony of things—in that same moment he unconsciously brought her even deeper into the complicated tangle of her life. The door had opened, and a short, plump little woman stood on the threshold. She saw Nora, bowed, hesitated as though she would have spoken; then her eyes fell on Arnold, and she passed on down the steps with a cold, blank stare."Who was she, I wonder?" Arnold thought indifferently. "What was the matter?"Poor Nora could have answered both questions, and a numbing sense of hopelessness crept over her as she toiled slowly up the stone stairs. She felt already, without knowing why, that she had come in vain. They were all her enemies, they all hated her. Why should Frau von Arnim be different from the rest? Had not Arnold said, "She is a cold, hard woman who will make trouble"? And yet, as she entered the narrow sitting-room of her aunt's new home, something of her first hope revived. Frau von Arnim was alone. She stood at the writing-table by the window, apparently looking out into the street, and Nora saw the resolute, aristocratic profile and graceful figure with a heart-throb of relief. This woman was like her mother in all that was noble and generous—perhaps she would be to her as a mother, perhaps she would really understand and help her in her great need."Aunt Magda!" she said. Her voice sounded breathless. A curious excitement possessed her, so that she could say no more. She felt that everything, her whole future life, depended on Frau von Arnim's first words.The elder woman turned slowly. Had the faintest warmth of kindness brightened her face, Nora might have flung herself into her arms and poured out the whole story of her errors, her sorrows, her aching sense of divided duty; but Frau von Arnim's face was cold, impassive, and the hand she extended indifferent, her kiss icy. Nora drew back. In an instant everything in her had frozen. A dawning bitterness and resentment shut the gates of her heart against all confidence, all affection. She felt that here was an enemy from whom she need expect neither help nor mercy, and she seated herself with the hard, set face of a criminal who knows that he is before an unjust judge."I am glad that you have come at last, Nora," Frau von Arnim said calmly. "We had been hoping to see you some days ago. No doubt you have a great many friends who claim your attention."Her quiet words were free from all sarcasm, and, indeed, every trace of feeling, but they stung Nora by their very indifference."I came as soon as I thought you would be glad to see me," she said. "I did not think you would want visitors whilst you were settling down."Frau von Arnim studied the sullen girlish face opposite. She might well have retorted that a helping hand is always welcome, even in "settling down," and that Frau von Seleneck, despite her own household cares, had been daily to lend her advice and assistance. But it was not Magda von Arnim's custom to reproach for neglect, and, moreover, she had another and more important matter on her mind."Hildegarde is lying down at present," she said in answer to Nora's question, "and perhaps it is just as well. I have something I wish to speak to you about whilst we are alone."Nora stiffened in her chair. She felt already trapped and browbeaten, and her eyes were bright with defiance as they met Frau von Arnim's steady gaze."I would have written to you," Frau von Arnim went on, in the same judicial tone, "but I knew that my letters would find their way into Wolff's hands, and at that time I felt sure that you have some sufficient explanation to offer us for the unbelievable story which your friend, Captain Arnold, was clumsy enough to relate to us. I felt, as I say, sure that there was some painful mistake, and one which it would be unkind and useless to tell Wolff. Besides, for your sake I thought it better to wait. If there was some mistake, as I firmly believed, a letter could only have troubled and puzzled you. So I waited, meaning to ask you privately for an explanation. Since I have been in Berlin I have heard enough to see that my caution was altogether unnecessary.""Aunt Magda!"Frau von Arnim lifted a quiet hand, as though to command silence."It is obvious that Captain Arnold must have told you of our interview," she said, "and obvious that you have remained his friend. I hear that he is constantly at your house. I do not know what Wolff thinks and feels on the matter. He loves you, and is himself too honourable not to have a blind confidence in you. That, however, is not sufficient.Imust know whether that confidence is justified."Nora wondered afterwards that she did not get up then and go. Every inflection of the calm voice was a fresh insult, and yet she felt spell-bound, incapable of either attack or self-defence. In her mind she kept on repeating, "YOU are cruel, wicked, and unjust!" but the words were never spoken; they were stifled by the very violence of her indignation and growing hatred.Frau von Arnim saw the hatred and interpreted it in the light of her own bitterness. For, little as Nora knew it, her "enemy" was suffering intensely. There were in Frau von Arnim's heart two things worth more to her than love or happiness: they were the fetishes against which Nora had railed in scorn and anger—"Standesehre" and pride of name. Since her arrival in Berlin a scandal had drifted to Frau von Arnim's ears which had been like a vital blow at the two great principles on which her life was built; and had Wolff been the cause instead of Nora she would not have been less severe, less indignant. As it was, she saw in his wife a careless, perhaps unworthy bearer of her name and her scorn and disappointment smothered what had been, and might still have been, a deep affection."I must ask you to answer one question," she continued. "Was it true what Captain Arnold told me? Were you his promised wife at the time when you married Wolff?"Nora's lips parted as though in an impulsive answer, then closed again, and for a moment she sat silent, with her eyes fixed full on her interlocutor's face. The time had surely come to give her explanation, to appeal to the other's pity and sympathy for what had, after all, been no more than an act of youthful folly—even generous in its impulse. But she could say nothing. The stern, cold face froze her in a prison of ice, and she could do no more than answer in a reckless affirmative."Yes; it was perfectly true.""Do you think your conduct was honourable, or fair to Wolff? Have you no explanation to offer?"Nora rose to her feet. She was white with anger and indignation."None that I need offer you, Frau von Arnim," she said. Unconsciously she had reverted to the old formal title, and in her blind sense of injury and injustice she did not see the spasm of pain which passed over the elder woman's face.Frau von Arnim also rose. She appeared calm almost to the point of indifference, but in reality her whole strength was concentrated on the suppression of her own emotion, and for once in a way the generous-minded, broad-hearted woman saw and understood nothing but herself."You force me to speak openly, Nora," she said. "I must point out to you that you have done something which in our eyes is nearly unpardonable. An engagement is almost as binding as a marriage and until it is dissolved no honourable woman or man has the right to enter into another alliance. But that is what you did; and whether you have an explanation to offer or not, makes, after all, no difference. What is done cannot be undone. But you are now no longer the Miss Ingestre who was free to act as she chose in such matters. You are my nephew's wife, and you bear our name and the responsibility which it implies. Whatsoever you do reflects itself for good or evil upon him and upon us all. Therefore we have the right to control your conduct and to make this demand—that you keep our name from scandal. That you have not done. From every quarter I hear the same warnings, the same insinuations. It is not only Captain Arnold who has caused them—I alone know the worst—it is your friendship with people outside our circle, your neglect of those to whom you are at least bound by duty, if not by affection. Before it goes too far to be mended, I ask—I demand that your intimacy with these people and with this Captain Arnold should cease.""Captain Arnold is my friend," Nora exclaimed. "The only friend I have."Had Frau von Arnim been less self-absorbed that one sentence might have opened her eyes and shown her a pitiful figure enough, overburdened with trouble and loneliness. But Nora's head was thrown back, and the defiant attitude blinded the other to the tears that were gathered in the stormy, miserable eyes."You appear only to consider yourself and your own pleasure," Frau von Arnim answered, "and that is not the point. The point is, what is good for Wolff and Wolff's reputation? It is not good for either that your name should be coupled with another man's, or that his brother-in-law should, in a few weeks, make himself renowned as a drunkard and a reprobate."Nora took an impulsive step forward. She had come to make her confession, her explanation, to throw the burden of her brother's delinquencies upon these stronger shoulders. Now everything was forgotten save resentment, the passionate need to defend herself and her blood from insult."That is not true!" she stammered. "Nothing that you have said is true. I have not been dishonourable, and Miles——" She broke off because her conscience accused her, and a smile of bitterness passed over Frau von Arnim's pale features."Then all I can say is that English people must have an extraordinary sense of honour," she said.Perhaps she regretted her own hasty words, but it was too late to recall them. A blank silence followed. Both felt that the straining bond between them had snapped and that they stood opposite each other like two people separated by an untraversable river.Nora went to the door and from thence looked back at the proud figure of her adversary."You have no right to speak to me as you have done," she said in a voice that she strove in vain to steady. "What I do concerns no one but Wolff and myself, and I need not and shall not alter my life because of what you have said. You can do what you like—tell Wolff everything: I am not afraid. As to what you said about us—the English—it only proves what I already knew—you hate us because you envy us!"And with this explosion of youthful jingoism she closed the door upon her last hope of help and comfort. But outside in the narrow, dusky hall she broke down. A strange faintness came over her, which numbed her limbs and senses and drew a veil before her eyes. A cry rose to her lips, and had that cry been uttered it might have changed the whole course of her life, sweeping down the barrier between her and the stern-faced woman by its very weakness, its very pitifulness. But she crushed it back and, calling upon the last reserves of her strength, went her way, too proud to plead for pity where she had already found judgment.
CHAPTER X
NEMESIS
It was her at-home day. As she sat there, with her hands clasped listlessly on her lap, it seemed as though in imagination she saw the ghosts of other days arise—days where the little room had been crowded with eager, chattering friends who had come to tell her and each other the latest news of their servants, their husbands or the service, or to be "intellectual," as the case might be. She thought she saw Frau von Seleneck seated on the sofa opposite her, her round, rosy face bright with an irrepressible optimism; she thought she heard the rich, contented chuckle, and felt the maternal pat upon her arm. Then her vision cleared, and the ghosts vanished. The little room was empty of all but shadows, and she was alone.
Presently the door of her husband's study opened. She heard him come towards her, and knew that he was standing at her side; but she did not look up. She felt for the moment too listless, too weary, above all too proud to let him see how deeply her new isolation wounded her.
"All alone, dear?"
"Yes, all alone."
"I thought it was your at-home day?"
She tried to laugh.
"Yes, so it is. But no one has come, you see."
"How is that?"
Then she looked up at him.
"You know quite well. Everybody hates me."
"Nora! That is not true."
She nodded.
"It is quite true. The Selenecks have taken care that none of my misdeeds should go forgotten. They can't forgive my—my intimacy with other people, or my nationality."
"Your nationality?"
She got up with an impetuous, angry movement.
"Yes, my nationality."
He stood looking at her. A new expression had come into his grave face—an expression of sudden understanding, of indescribable pain. Then he came towards her and put his arm about her shoulders.
"My little wife, don't, for God's sake, don't let that come between us! Be brave, fight it down. It will only be for a time. Our—my people are easily hurt. They think, perhaps, you despise them for their sober ways—that they are not good enough for you. Be kind to them, and they will come back. They would forgive you anything."
She drew back from him.
"I do not want their forgiveness. I do not want them. I am happiest alone."
He made no answer, but went slowly towards the door. She knew that she had hurt him, and in her bitterness and wounded pride it gave her a painful satisfaction to know that he too suffered. Yet she loved him; she knew, as he stood there with bent head, that she would give her life for him—only she could not surrender herself, her individuality, the old ties of blood and instinct. She could not, would not break down the barrier which her race built between them. She was too proud, perhaps too hurt to try.
Suddenly Arnim looked up. His features were quiet and composed, and the gathering twilight hid the expression in his eyes.
"Nora, where is Miles?"
"Still in bed. He—he is not feeling well."
"The effects of yesterday?" He laughed grimly. "It seems to me, dear, that your brother would be the better for some occupation—in his own country."
"You wish him to go?"
He met her challenge with an unfaltering determination that was yet mingled with tenderness and pity.
"I think it better—before it is too late."
"What do you mean?"
"Before he ruins himself—or us."
"Wolff, you are not fair. You are unjust."
He smiled sadly.
"I hope I am. Good-bye, little woman. I shall try and be back early. But perhaps Arnold will come—and then you will not be alone."
He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. The protest died on her lips; an icy sense of isolation crept over her, obliterating for the moment all thought of his injustice, of the slight which he had cast upon her brother. In her sudden weakness she held out her arms towards the closed door and called his name, feebly, like a frightened child crying in the dark. But he did not come back. She heard his spurs jingle with a mocking cheerfulness—and then silence. So she went back to her place by the window and sat there, holding back with a pitiful pride the tears that burnt her eyes.
Presently the door opened again. She thought he had come back, and with all her pride her heart beat faster with a momentary, reasonless hope. Then she heard the click of the electric light and a man's voice speaking to her.
"Gnädige Frau, may I come in?"
She sprang to her feet as though the voice had been a blow, and saw Bauer standing on the threshold, bowing, a curious half-ironical smile playing about his mouth. For the moment she could neither think nor speak, but out of the depths of her consciousness arose the old aversion, the old instinctive dread. She knew then, warned by that same occult power, that the time had come when the dread should receive its justification.
"I found the door open, and ventured to enter unannounced," Bauer went on calmly. "I knew from experience that the usual formalities would lead to no result. You have been 'out' a great deal of late,gnädige Frau." He came towards her without hesitation, and, taking her passive hand, kissed it. "Am I forgiven?"
His absolute ease of manner checked the rise of her indignation. She felt herself strangely helpless. Yet her dignity—her dignity as Wolff's wife—came to her rescue. She looked steadily into the still smiling face.
"If I have been often out, it has not been a mere chance, Herr Rittmeister," she answered. "It has been of intention—an intention which you would have been wiser to respect."
"I see no good reason why I should respect your husband's 'intentions,'gnädige Frau," he retorted calmly.
"My husband's wishes are mine."
"Really?" He laughed, and then grew suddenly serious. "In any case, it seems to me that I—we have a right to some sort of an explanation. To put it baldly—there was a time when it pleased you to accept my sister-in-law's hospitality and friendship. Now, it seems, neither she nor I are good enough for you."
Nora flinched involuntarily. She knew that the reproach was a just one, but she knew too that Wolff had been right and only she to blame. Instinct again warned her. She saw danger in this man's cold eyes, in which there yet flickered the light of some controlled passion either of hatred or some other feeling to which she dared give no name.
"You have a right to an explanation," she said at last, with an effort controlling her unsteady voice. "Indeed, I owe you more than that—I owe you an apology. It was a mistake for me to enter into a circle to which I did not belong; only you will do me the justice to remember that it was a mistake not altogether of my making."
"Gott, gnädige Frau!" He laughed angrily. "You talk as though we were the dirt under your feet. Is it your husband's petty nobility which gives you the right to look at me like that? I too wear the King's uniform—that is a point which you would do well to remember."
"I have not forgotten it. And there is no question of contempt—I feel myself, Heaven knows, superior to no one; but I repeat, it was a mistake to accept kindness which could not be returned. Surely you can understand——" She crushed down her pride, and in the effort her bearing became prouder and colder. "We are poor, Herr Rittmeister, your relations are rich and live as we cannot live. That alone is a barrier between us."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"An excuse,gnädige Frau, an excuse! I know the opinions of your husband's class too well not to know perfectly what you prefer not to tell me. In any case, your considerations are a little belated. You should have thought of all that before you allowed your brother to enter into a circle"—he echoed her words with a kind of mocking satisfaction—"in which he could not sustain his position."
Nora started. She knew now that there was a menace in this man's looks and words. She understood that he would never have acted as he had done without the sure conviction that the power was in his hands. What that power was she did not know—she only knew that she was afraid.
"Sit down,gnädige Frau," he went on more calmly. "You look pale, and I have something of importance to tell you. But before everything, I want you to believe that I come to you as your friend."
He motioned her to be seated in the chair which he had pushed towards her, and she obeyed him passively. A sharply defined recollection of their first meeting came back to her as she did so. Then, too, he had acted with the insolent assurance of a man who knows himself master of the situation; but then she had had the power of her independence. Now she felt herself bound, helpless in the bonds of circumstance—and her own folly.
"It is of your brother I have come to speak," Bauer went on, taking his place before her. "Nothing should prove my friendship better than the fact that I have come in spite of the rebuff to which I knew I should lay myself open. But I could not see the crisis break over you without a word of warning—without offering you a helping hand."
She looked at him in mingled astonishment and anger. His familiarity was more terrible to her than his previous tone of menacing resentment.
"I do not understand you," she said coldly.
"Perhaps not. But you must surely be aware that your brother has not been living the most austere of lives since his arrival in Berlin. It may be that I am a little to blame. I thought by the way he talked that he could well afford it, and encouraged him to share my life with me. Well, it appears now that he bragged more than circumstances justified. I do not speak of the money he owes me nor his gambling-debts to my friends. Those I have already paid. It was not pleasant for me to be associated with a defaulting gambler, and what I did I did for my own sake. I ask no thanks or credit for it. But there are other matters." He had undone the buttons of his military coat, and drew out a folded sheet of paper, which he laid before her. "That is a rough list of your brother's creditors, with the amounts attached," he said. "You will see for yourself that he has understood the art of amusing himself."
She took the list from him. The figures swam before her eyes and she fought against a deadly faintness. From afar off she heard Bauer's voice roll on with the unchanged calm of a lawyer for whom the matter had only a professional interest.
"At the bottom you will see the sum-total,gnädige Frau. It runs into three figures, and it is possible that my list is not complete. The worst of it is that your husband will be held responsible. The credit would never have been given to Mr. Ingestre if his brother-in-law had not been Herr von Arnim, captain on the general staff."
Nora rose unsteadily to her feet.
"It is impossible," she stammered incoherently. "I know—Wolff hasn't the money—it is impossible. Oh, how could he have been so foolish—so wicked!" And it was curious that in that moment she thought less of the ruin which was bearing down upon her husband than of the disgrace which had fallen upon her brother, of Wolff's justified contempt and the triumph of his friends. Bauer had also risen and now took a quick step to her side.
"Gnädige Frau, your brother has only done what hundreds of young fellows do. No doubt he hoped that he would have time enough allowed him to pay. Unfortunately, there are war-scares flying about, and the tradespeople are a little shy of English customers. I fear they will press payment. But there is no need for you to worry. Your husband need never even know that these debts existed. A word from you and they are paid and forgotten."
"What do you mean?"
"I will pay them."
"You?"
"Yes, I." He came still closer, so that she could hear his quick, irregular breathing. "You English are practical people," he went on, with an attempted laugh. "You know that there is precious little done out of pure charity in this world. If I help you out of this difficulty it is on certain conditions."
"I do not want to hear them——"
"Why not? They are simple enough. The one is that you should renew your friendship with my sister-in-law. It is awkward for her—this sudden cooling off; and she has a right to expect some consideration from you. The other concerns myself. I too must have your friendship—more than that—you, your regard." He took her hands and held them in a brutal, masterful grip. "You can't pretend you don't know—you must have known I cared—from the beginning—you——"
She wrenched herself free. She had seen his eyes and the hell in them, and, inexperienced though she was, she knew that it was not even a so-called love which he experienced, but a cruel thirst for conquest, the hunger for revenge, the desire to retaliate where he had been slighted and thwarted. She reached the door before he could restrain her, and with her hand on the bell stood there facing him. She seemed unnaturally calm, and her scorn for the man who had tried to trap her lent her a dignity, a look of triumph which curbed his passion and held him for the moment speechless.
"Please go," she said.
He bowed.
"By all means. But I shall not take this as your final answer."
"My husband will answer you—not I."
"Do you know what that will mean?"
"It will mean that I intend to have no secrets from him."
"You misunderstand me. Do you know the consequences? Your husband, as a man of honour, will challenge me. I shall have the choice of weapons, and I swear to you that I will kill him."
She said nothing. Her eyes had dilated, and every trace of colour had left her face; but she retained her attitude of proud defiance, and he went past her through the open door.
"You see, I can be patient," he said, looking back at her. "My sister-in-law is giving a ball on the 18th. If you are there I shall understand. If not——" He shrugged his shoulders. "No doubt your husband will see his way to settling Mr. Ingestre's troubles. As they stand, they are likely to cost him his collar.Auf Wiedersehen, gnädige Frau."
He was gone. She waited until the last echo of his steps had died on the wooden stairway, then she tottered forward and sank into Wolff's chair, her face buried in her hands. She did not cry, and no sound escaped her lips. She sat there motionless, bereft of thought, of hope, almost of feeling. The end, the crisis to which she had been slowly drifting was at hand. It seemed to her that she heard the roar of the cataract which was to engulf her. And there was no help, no hope.
It was thus Miles Ingestre found her an hour later. Knowing that Arnim was out, he had donned a dressing-gown and now stood staring blankly at his sister, his hair disordered, his yellow face a shade yellower from the last day's dissipation.
"Why, Nora!" he said sleepily. "What's the matter, old girl?"
She looked up. His voice gave her back the power at least to act.
"Rittmeister Bauer has been here," she said. "He gave me this. Is it true?"
He took the paper which she held towards him and studied it, rocking on his heels the while in an uneasy silence.
"Yes, it seems true enough. What the devil did he give it you for?"
"He says the creditors are likely to press payment—and—and—Wolff will be held responsible. Oh, Miles, what have you done? What have you done?"
The last words broke from her like a cry of despair. They seemed to penetrate the thickness of Miles's phlegm, for he laid his hand on her shoulder, his lips twitching with a maudlin self-pity.
"It wasn't my fault, Nora. I didn't know what they were leading me into. If Wolff had only helped me a bit—if he hadn't been such a stuck-up prig, so beastly self-righteous. There, you needn't break out! I can't help it—it's the truth; it's not all my fault." He ran his shaky hand through his hair. "And, after all, there isn't so much to make a fuss about. Everybody in our set does that sort of thing, and I dare say Bauer will tide me over the worst. He's a decent fellow, and beastly rich. Look here, Nora"—his shifty eyes took an expression of stupid cunning—"if you asked him—you know he's a friend of yours—I'll be bound he'd help me."
Nora turned and looked at him. In that moment he seemed to her a complete stranger. Then she gently loosened herself from his hand. She did not answer. It was too useless. She rose and left him standing there, the silly smile still playing about his lips.
CHAPTER XI
THE FETISH
"Your mother is very ill," the Rev. John had written, "and I am in an indescribable state of anxiety both on her account and yours. Everybody here is quite certain that there is going to be war between us and Germany. Only yesterday the squire was down here talking to me about it. He says there is no hope, and that the conflict is bound to come. I do not understand politics myself, but it seems the Germans are determined to destroy us and get our power. It is very dreadful that a whole nation should show itself so avaricious, and I am sure God will help us punish so wicked and wanton an attack. All Delford is already on foot, and quite a number of young men are thinking of enlisting in the Territorials. The squire says it is a magnificent sight to see how the whole country rises at the call of danger. He himself has done not a little to help the general patriotic movement, and has opened a shooting-range in a field, where he is teaching his men to shoot. The sound of the guns makes me quite nervous, and is very bad for your poor mother, but the squire says it is helping to produce the best shots in Europe, so we must not complain, but bring our sacrifice to the motherland with a cheerful countenance. Nevertheless, I am terribly troubled. If war should break out—which God forbid!—what will become of you, my poor child, out there in the enemy's country? Could you not make your mother's health an excuse to come back to us, at any rate until the present crisis is over? Wolff will surely understand that you cannot stay in Germany if there is war. Find out from him what he thinks of the chances, and notice if there are any signs of preparation. If you can, come home. Your mother is very much against it, but she is ill and hardly understands the seriousness of the situation. We must all stand together in the moment of danger, and I am sure your heart is aching for the dear old country, and that you are longing to be with us. I have written to Miles that he is to return as soon as ever he thinks fit. He seems to be very tied by his studies, so that I do not like to press a hasty decision. You must talk it over together."
Nora had received this letter by the afternoon's post. She was reading it a second time when Wolff entered the room. He had on his parade uniform, and the cheery clatter of his sword and spurs jarred on her overstrung nerves.
"Why this magnificence?" she asked, trying to disguise her unreasonable irritability. "Is there anything unusual?"
"A review to which I am commanded," he answered quietly. "I may be home a little late for supper. I expect you will go and see Aunt Magda and Hildegarde. They will think it curious if you do not go soon."
"They have only just arrived," Nora said in the same tone of smothered irritation. "I could not have gone before."
Wolff bent over the back of her chair and kissed her.
"Please go!" he said coaxingly. "You used to be fond of them both, and they have been very good to us. Be nice to them—for my sake."
She was silent a moment, as though struck by a new thought. Then she nodded.
"I shall go this afternoon. Robert was coming, but it does not matter."
"Captain Arnold?" Wolff drew himself suddenly upright. "Were you expecting him?"
"Yes; he was coming to see me. Have you any objection?"
She had heard the colder, graver note in his voice, and it stung her. Was Arnold also to come between them—Arnold, in whose hands lay the one chance of rescue from the coming catastrophe? Was her last friend to be taken from her by a reasonless, unworthy distrust? She looked up into her husband's tanned face with a directness which was not unlike defiance.
"Ihave no objection," he answered her at last. "You know everything pleases me that makes you happy. I only beg of you to be careful."
"Careful!" she echoed.
"Captain Arnold has been in Berlin a month," he went on. "It is obvious that he has stayed for your sake, and for my part I am glad enough. But there are the evil tongues, little wife."
She sprang to her feet. If she could only have told him, only unburdened her heart of its crushing trouble, then perhaps he would understand, and the widening cleft between them be bridged. The words of a reckless confession trembled on her lips; but she remembered Bauer and his promise: "I swear I will kill him"; and the confession turned to bitterness, to an impotent revolt against the circumstances of her life.
"The evil tongues!" she echoed scornfully. "Why should I mind what they say now? They have taken everything from me—all my friends. I have only Robert left. Is it wrong to have friends in this country—friends who do not listen to the verdict of—of enemies?"
"It is not wrong, but it can be dangerous," he answered. "You have no enemies, Nora, only people who do not understand you and whom you have hurt. You have always been unfortunate in your friends. They have all stood between you and those to whom, by your position, you belong."
"You mean that if Arnold were German—'one of us,' as you would say—it would not matter?"
"Not so much."
She laughed angrily.
"How jealous you are!" she exclaimed. "How petty and jealous!"
"Nora!" He was white to the lips, and the hand which had fallen involuntarily on his sword-hilt showed every bone of the knuckles, so tense was the grip. Something in his expression frightened her.
"I do not mean you alone," she stammered, "but all of you. You are jealous of us and you hate us. When you marry one of us, you do your best to isolate her, to cut her off from her country and her people."
"Is that not inevitable—right, even? But have I done that?"
"No."
Her conscience smote her as she looked up at him standing erect and stern before her. She realised that another and graver issue had arisen between them—an issue that was perhaps the source of all. She realised that there had been something more than fear and a consequent irritability in her attitude towards him. She had not seen her husband in him, but only the representative of thousands who might soon be marching against her country, and for one short minute at least she had hated him. The realisation horrified her, drove her to a reckless attempt at atonement.
"Oh, forgive me, Wolff!" she cried eagerly. "I am simply unbearable this afternoon. Father has written a worrying letter—about mother—and that made me nervous and bad-tempered. Forgive me, dear. Don't be angry at the silly things I have said."
He yielded to the hands that drew him towards her, and kissed her, but rather gravely, as though he more than half-doubted her explanation.
"I am not angry, Nora. I only ask you to try and understand. God knows"—she thought his voice changed, and grew less certain—"I would never willingly come between you and any one you cared for, but I have my honour to protect, and your honour is mine."
"Wolff, what do you mean? Have I done anything dishonourable?"
"No, dear. You cannot see things from my standpoint. You have been brought up with other ideas. I have tried to explain before. We have a double task. For our names' sake and for the sake of the uniform we wear we must keep ourselves from the very breath of evil. And that applies to every one connected with us."
Nora drew her hands away.
"I think I understand," she said. "For those two fetishes everything must be sacrificed. I will do my best to satisfy them and you."
"Thank you, Nora. I trust you implicitly."
She went to the door, hesitated, and then stole out. But in that moment's hesitation she had caught a glimpse of him standing at his table in an attitude of dejection, and had heard a smothered sigh of pain.
"I am miserable," she thought, "and I have made him miserable. How will it all end?"
In trembling haste she dressed and hurried out. She had a one all-dominating desire to seek help and comfort from some one who could understand her, some one, too, who held Wolff's happiness higher than her own and could be just to both. She needed a woman's comfort, and she turned now to Frau von Arnim. Hitherto she had shrunk from the inevitable meeting, now she sought it with the desperation of one who knows no other course. She had indeed no one else to turn to. Before Wolff she was tongue-tied. It was not only that silence was forced upon her by a mingled pride and fear; the subtle understanding between them had been rudely broken, and though their love for each other remained, they had inwardly become something worse than strangers. For there is no reserve so complete, so insurmountable, so surcharged with bitterness as that which follows on a great passion. And then, too, what had she to say to him? "I love you; but I have brought ruin upon your life. I love you; but I am not happy with you." Had she even the right to say that to him? Was it not, in any case, useless? Yet she knew she must unburden her heart, if for no other reason than that the power to keep silence was passing out of her hands.
Thus it was natural that her footsteps turned for the first time towards the little flat near the Brandenburger Tor. And on her road she met Arnold himself. It was as though fate pursued her.
"I was on my way to you," he said quietly, as he turned to walk by her side. "I have something to tell you, and should have been sorry if we had missed. It is about Miles."
Nora glanced at him, and her eyes were full of a miserable gratitude.
"How good you are to me!" she said. "I have not deserved it; you are my only friend here."
"Surely not," he answered. "What I can do is little enough. I have found out the full extent of Miles's liabilities and have endeavoured to persuade his creditors to wait. Unfortunately, they are obdurate on the subject. They believe there is going to be war and that your brother might leave Berlin suddenly. It seems to me that you should do one of two things, Nora—either allow me to—to advance the money, or to tell your husband the truth."
She put up her hand with a movement of involuntary protest.
"You know that the first is out of the question," she said proudly. "And the second! Oh, Robert, I am afraid! It may ruin Wolff, and then—they hate each other so. Wolff will send him away, and——"
She broke off with a quick breath that was like a sob.
"Isn't that the best thing that can happen?" Arnold answered. "Your brother will never do any good here. He is better in England."
"Yes, I know, I know. He has been weak and foolish. He is so—young." Her voice was full of a piteous apology. "And perhaps it was my fault—a little, at least. But I can't let him go, Robert. Whatever else he is, he is my brother, and I am so alone."
"Alone!" He looked at her aghast. "What do you mean?"
"Don't you understand? It's so easy—so simple. I am a stranger here. I am hated and distrusted. I suppose it was inevitable. In a few days you will have gone, and if Miles goes too I shall have no one left——"
"Nora!" he interrupted sternly. "There is your husband."
"Wolff—yes, there is Wolff. Robert, they say there will be war. Is it true?"
He frowned with perplexity. For the moment he could not follow her thought, and her question seemed to him erratic and purposeless.
"It is possible. For my part, I hope it may come to that. Things have been drifting to a crisis for a long time, and we must assert ourselves once and for all. These beggars are beginning to suspect us of fear or incompetence, and the sooner they are disillusioned the better." Suddenly he caught a glimpse of her face, and stopped short. "Nora, what is the matter?"
"You forget," she said hoarsely. "I am not English any more."
They walked on in silence, Arnold too startled and overwhelmed by the conflict which she in one short sentence had revealed to him to speak or think.
"I was a thoughtless fool," he said at last. "For the moment I could not imagine you as anything but my own countrywoman. Now I see; and it is terrible for you—terrible. Even marriage cannot blot out one's nationality."
They had reached the door of the Arnims' flat, and she stopped and faced him with wide-open, desperate eyes.
"Nothing can!" she said. "And I know this—if there is war it will break my heart, or drive me mad. I don't know which."
Never before had she felt so drawn to him by all the ties of friendship and blood, and yet she went up the steps without a word of farewell. Arnold understood, and looked after her with a tender pity. He believed that he had crushed all passion out of his heart, but that a love remained which was infinitely greater, purified, as it seemed, from the dross of selfish desire. He felt as he stood there that he would willingly have given his life to save her from the threatening struggle, and yet—such is the irony of things—in that same moment he unconsciously brought her even deeper into the complicated tangle of her life. The door had opened, and a short, plump little woman stood on the threshold. She saw Nora, bowed, hesitated as though she would have spoken; then her eyes fell on Arnold, and she passed on down the steps with a cold, blank stare.
"Who was she, I wonder?" Arnold thought indifferently. "What was the matter?"
Poor Nora could have answered both questions, and a numbing sense of hopelessness crept over her as she toiled slowly up the stone stairs. She felt already, without knowing why, that she had come in vain. They were all her enemies, they all hated her. Why should Frau von Arnim be different from the rest? Had not Arnold said, "She is a cold, hard woman who will make trouble"? And yet, as she entered the narrow sitting-room of her aunt's new home, something of her first hope revived. Frau von Arnim was alone. She stood at the writing-table by the window, apparently looking out into the street, and Nora saw the resolute, aristocratic profile and graceful figure with a heart-throb of relief. This woman was like her mother in all that was noble and generous—perhaps she would be to her as a mother, perhaps she would really understand and help her in her great need.
"Aunt Magda!" she said. Her voice sounded breathless. A curious excitement possessed her, so that she could say no more. She felt that everything, her whole future life, depended on Frau von Arnim's first words.
The elder woman turned slowly. Had the faintest warmth of kindness brightened her face, Nora might have flung herself into her arms and poured out the whole story of her errors, her sorrows, her aching sense of divided duty; but Frau von Arnim's face was cold, impassive, and the hand she extended indifferent, her kiss icy. Nora drew back. In an instant everything in her had frozen. A dawning bitterness and resentment shut the gates of her heart against all confidence, all affection. She felt that here was an enemy from whom she need expect neither help nor mercy, and she seated herself with the hard, set face of a criminal who knows that he is before an unjust judge.
"I am glad that you have come at last, Nora," Frau von Arnim said calmly. "We had been hoping to see you some days ago. No doubt you have a great many friends who claim your attention."
Her quiet words were free from all sarcasm, and, indeed, every trace of feeling, but they stung Nora by their very indifference.
"I came as soon as I thought you would be glad to see me," she said. "I did not think you would want visitors whilst you were settling down."
Frau von Arnim studied the sullen girlish face opposite. She might well have retorted that a helping hand is always welcome, even in "settling down," and that Frau von Seleneck, despite her own household cares, had been daily to lend her advice and assistance. But it was not Magda von Arnim's custom to reproach for neglect, and, moreover, she had another and more important matter on her mind.
"Hildegarde is lying down at present," she said in answer to Nora's question, "and perhaps it is just as well. I have something I wish to speak to you about whilst we are alone."
Nora stiffened in her chair. She felt already trapped and browbeaten, and her eyes were bright with defiance as they met Frau von Arnim's steady gaze.
"I would have written to you," Frau von Arnim went on, in the same judicial tone, "but I knew that my letters would find their way into Wolff's hands, and at that time I felt sure that you have some sufficient explanation to offer us for the unbelievable story which your friend, Captain Arnold, was clumsy enough to relate to us. I felt, as I say, sure that there was some painful mistake, and one which it would be unkind and useless to tell Wolff. Besides, for your sake I thought it better to wait. If there was some mistake, as I firmly believed, a letter could only have troubled and puzzled you. So I waited, meaning to ask you privately for an explanation. Since I have been in Berlin I have heard enough to see that my caution was altogether unnecessary."
"Aunt Magda!"
Frau von Arnim lifted a quiet hand, as though to command silence.
"It is obvious that Captain Arnold must have told you of our interview," she said, "and obvious that you have remained his friend. I hear that he is constantly at your house. I do not know what Wolff thinks and feels on the matter. He loves you, and is himself too honourable not to have a blind confidence in you. That, however, is not sufficient.Imust know whether that confidence is justified."
Nora wondered afterwards that she did not get up then and go. Every inflection of the calm voice was a fresh insult, and yet she felt spell-bound, incapable of either attack or self-defence. In her mind she kept on repeating, "YOU are cruel, wicked, and unjust!" but the words were never spoken; they were stifled by the very violence of her indignation and growing hatred.
Frau von Arnim saw the hatred and interpreted it in the light of her own bitterness. For, little as Nora knew it, her "enemy" was suffering intensely. There were in Frau von Arnim's heart two things worth more to her than love or happiness: they were the fetishes against which Nora had railed in scorn and anger—"Standesehre" and pride of name. Since her arrival in Berlin a scandal had drifted to Frau von Arnim's ears which had been like a vital blow at the two great principles on which her life was built; and had Wolff been the cause instead of Nora she would not have been less severe, less indignant. As it was, she saw in his wife a careless, perhaps unworthy bearer of her name and her scorn and disappointment smothered what had been, and might still have been, a deep affection.
"I must ask you to answer one question," she continued. "Was it true what Captain Arnold told me? Were you his promised wife at the time when you married Wolff?"
Nora's lips parted as though in an impulsive answer, then closed again, and for a moment she sat silent, with her eyes fixed full on her interlocutor's face. The time had surely come to give her explanation, to appeal to the other's pity and sympathy for what had, after all, been no more than an act of youthful folly—even generous in its impulse. But she could say nothing. The stern, cold face froze her in a prison of ice, and she could do no more than answer in a reckless affirmative.
"Yes; it was perfectly true."
"Do you think your conduct was honourable, or fair to Wolff? Have you no explanation to offer?"
Nora rose to her feet. She was white with anger and indignation.
"None that I need offer you, Frau von Arnim," she said. Unconsciously she had reverted to the old formal title, and in her blind sense of injury and injustice she did not see the spasm of pain which passed over the elder woman's face.
Frau von Arnim also rose. She appeared calm almost to the point of indifference, but in reality her whole strength was concentrated on the suppression of her own emotion, and for once in a way the generous-minded, broad-hearted woman saw and understood nothing but herself.
"You force me to speak openly, Nora," she said. "I must point out to you that you have done something which in our eyes is nearly unpardonable. An engagement is almost as binding as a marriage and until it is dissolved no honourable woman or man has the right to enter into another alliance. But that is what you did; and whether you have an explanation to offer or not, makes, after all, no difference. What is done cannot be undone. But you are now no longer the Miss Ingestre who was free to act as she chose in such matters. You are my nephew's wife, and you bear our name and the responsibility which it implies. Whatsoever you do reflects itself for good or evil upon him and upon us all. Therefore we have the right to control your conduct and to make this demand—that you keep our name from scandal. That you have not done. From every quarter I hear the same warnings, the same insinuations. It is not only Captain Arnold who has caused them—I alone know the worst—it is your friendship with people outside our circle, your neglect of those to whom you are at least bound by duty, if not by affection. Before it goes too far to be mended, I ask—I demand that your intimacy with these people and with this Captain Arnold should cease."
"Captain Arnold is my friend," Nora exclaimed. "The only friend I have."
Had Frau von Arnim been less self-absorbed that one sentence might have opened her eyes and shown her a pitiful figure enough, overburdened with trouble and loneliness. But Nora's head was thrown back, and the defiant attitude blinded the other to the tears that were gathered in the stormy, miserable eyes.
"You appear only to consider yourself and your own pleasure," Frau von Arnim answered, "and that is not the point. The point is, what is good for Wolff and Wolff's reputation? It is not good for either that your name should be coupled with another man's, or that his brother-in-law should, in a few weeks, make himself renowned as a drunkard and a reprobate."
Nora took an impulsive step forward. She had come to make her confession, her explanation, to throw the burden of her brother's delinquencies upon these stronger shoulders. Now everything was forgotten save resentment, the passionate need to defend herself and her blood from insult.
"That is not true!" she stammered. "Nothing that you have said is true. I have not been dishonourable, and Miles——" She broke off because her conscience accused her, and a smile of bitterness passed over Frau von Arnim's pale features.
"Then all I can say is that English people must have an extraordinary sense of honour," she said.
Perhaps she regretted her own hasty words, but it was too late to recall them. A blank silence followed. Both felt that the straining bond between them had snapped and that they stood opposite each other like two people separated by an untraversable river.
Nora went to the door and from thence looked back at the proud figure of her adversary.
"You have no right to speak to me as you have done," she said in a voice that she strove in vain to steady. "What I do concerns no one but Wolff and myself, and I need not and shall not alter my life because of what you have said. You can do what you like—tell Wolff everything: I am not afraid. As to what you said about us—the English—it only proves what I already knew—you hate us because you envy us!"
And with this explosion of youthful jingoism she closed the door upon her last hope of help and comfort. But outside in the narrow, dusky hall she broke down. A strange faintness came over her, which numbed her limbs and senses and drew a veil before her eyes. A cry rose to her lips, and had that cry been uttered it might have changed the whole course of her life, sweeping down the barrier between her and the stern-faced woman by its very weakness, its very pitifulness. But she crushed it back and, calling upon the last reserves of her strength, went her way, too proud to plead for pity where she had already found judgment.