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CHAPTER V

AMONG THE HEATHEN

"Karlsburg! Alles aussteigen—Karlsburg!"

Nora sprang up, roughly aroused from a half-doze by the stentorian tones and a general move in her compartment. The fat German who had occupied the corner seat opposite her, and who had spent the journey in doing his best to justify her scorn and contempt for all foreigners, was heaving great masses of untidy luggage out of the window and shouting furiously for a Gepäckträger. In this performance he trod more than once on Nora's toes, thus arousing her so effectually that she made haste to convey herself and her belongings out into the narrow corridor congested with passengers and baggage. After a brief energetic scramble down the appalling staircase which separates the continental traveller from the platform, she landed safely and drew a sigh of relief. "Here I am at last!" she thought, comforted by the knowledge that the worst was over. The "worst" in connection with separations is the first twenty-four hours, the first night-fall, and the first awaking to changed surroundings and circumstances. After that, the human capacity for adjustment mercifully begins to display itself, and the first poignancy of grief is over—at any rate for those who have courage and youth to help them. And Nora had both. As she stood that morning on the deck of the Flushing boat, watching the pale, low outline of land, she had already felt the first glow of returning vigour. The keen sea-air had blown colour into her cheeks; the tears which had threatened to assert themselves so often the night before had dried at their source, and she had flung herself into the confusion of exchange from the boat to the waiting train with a pleased realisation of her own independence. Then had come the long and glorious panorama along the Rhine, the frowning castles, the majestic spires of the great Dom, the new types of men and women hurrying backwards and forwards about the busy platforms.

During the long hours Nora's watchful, eager eyes never closed. This, then, was the new world to which she was to open her heart; these, then, the people whose qualities of goodness she was to learn to honour. The first task was easy enough—it was, indeed, a beautiful world. But the people? They were of another type than that to which she was accustomed, and Nora, imbued with the pleasant insular conviction that all English people are tall and handsome, found them so far little to her taste. In truth, a firmly rooted prejudice is not to be overcome in a moment, or even by the wisest precept, and not all Mrs. Ingestre's eloquence could crush back the half-conscious superiority which her daughter experienced in that stuffy second-class coupé. Her fellow-passengers, be it confessed, were stout and inelegant, and they obviously preferred the window closed—points which were alone quite sufficient to stamp them as belonging to an inferior class. But the chief point was Nora's own nationality. The mere fact that she was English would have kept her in countenance even when confronted with the whole Imperial family, and, indeed, throughout the journey, with its difficulties, its various encounters with idiotic foreign porters who refuse to understand the English language, no matter how loud it is shouted, she was sustained by a calm and inborn knowledge of her racial superiority. Thus she felt no sense of loneliness or helplessness until the voice shouting "Karlsburg" had hurried her out on to the crowded, bustling platform. There for the first time she felt her own insignificance, her own strangeness. She was really in a foreign country at last, and with all her superiority she stood there a forlorn handful of pretty, despairing girlhood, waiting for the first jabbering, gesticulating savage to rescue her from her perplexity.

"Ach, liebes Kind, da bist du! Willkommen!"

The eager, kindly voice and the cordial embrace were equally sudden and somewhat overwhelming. Steadying her hat from the effects of the shock, Nora turned to find herself held by a short, stout little woman, very out of breath, very excited, who was smiling and nodding at her as though at an old and very dear acquaintance.

"Ach! you do not know me?" she interrogated, adding in the same gasp, "But how should you? I am ze old Fräulein Müller—you haf heard of her? Long ago she did teach ze muzzer, and now here is ze daughter—her muzzer every bit of her. Ach, du lieber Gott im Himmel! But I must not so much talk. Give ze man your Gepäckschein, liebes Kind."

Half overcome by the torrent of words, Nora produced the document which she supposed answered to the name of Gepäckschein. In the interval, whilst Fräulein Müller was apparently pouring volumes of mingled explanation and abuse over the head of an equally flustered porter, Nora had opportunity to study her rescuer. Fräulein Müller, she imagined, was well over the fifties and, on account of her stoutness, looked her age, but her face was as lively as it was plain, and the rotund figure in its dowdy brown dress cut after the manner of a long-forgotten fashion seemed to be bubbling over with seething sprightliness. Nora had a quick eye, and her critical faculties, at home usually dormant, were on the alert. "How badly the Germans dress!" she thought. "What dreadful boots—and that dress! I suppose it is her best, and it was probably quite expensive. Whatever could have made any one choose a colour like that?"

Her observations were cut short by her unconscious victim grasping her by the arm and hurrying her up and down dark flights of steps, the whole way continuing her explanations, peppered with gasps and exclamatory German outbreaks.

"Ze portermans are ze stupidest race on ze earth," she panted, "but I haf told him—I haf his number—it is zirty-one—please try and remember, liebes Kind—zat he must your Koffers bring at once. Ze Frau Baronin's carriage is not big enoff to take more zan us two and your rugs. Ach, je! Ze many steps are not for one so short in ze breaths as I!"

They were out of the station at last—Nora had delivered up her ticket with the feeling that the last link between her and home was gone—and were greeted by a simply dressed footman, who conducted them to a brougham promptly summed up by Nora as shabby.

Fräulein Müller dropped back into the cushions with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Now all is well," she said. "I shall drive wiz you to the Frau Baronin's house and see you safe in. She ask me to fetch you, as I knew I could easy find you. Ach, sie ist die Liebenswürdigkeit selber, die, Frau Baronin!"

"You are her great friend?" Nora suggested, seeking something to say.

Fräulein Müller threw up her plump hands in the straining brown kid gloves and laughed.

"Nee, nee, liebes Kind, how should zat be? I am Fräulein Müller—old Fräulein Müller—and she is the Baronin von Arnim."

Perhaps Nora's look showed that the all-apparent distinction was not clear, for her companion went on with a soft chuckle:

"Zat is somezing you vill understand wiz ze time, my dear. Ze Baronin is von great person and I am von nobody. Zat is all. I am proud zat I haf brought a so nice English girl—and glad to haf been able to give ze daughter of my dear pupil so nice a place. I am sure you will be very happy."

Nora's arched brows contracted for a minute. Something in Fräulein Müller's tone or words ruffled her—she was not quite sure why. The little woman was so obviously and naïvely impressed with the glories of Nora's new position and with the greatness and splendour of the "Baronin," of whom she spoke with almost bated breath, that Nora's self-importance was somewhat wounded. Besides which, she regarded both matters as decidedly "unproven." The "Baronin," she felt sure, was a snobbish person, probably very stout and ponderous, and as for her splendour and greatness, it remained yet to be seen. Armorial bearings with a seven-pearled crown—after all, Nora knew very well that everybody was a count or a baron in Germany—and a bone-shaking brougham with a shabby footman proved nothing at all. Thus Nora expressed neither gratitude nor gratification, and her manner was perhaps more chilly than she intended, for her companion subsided into an abrupt silence, which lasted until the carriage drew up and the door was opened by the despised attendant.

"Now you are here!" she cried, springing out with surprising agility. "I vill come no further—my leetle étage is just round the corner. In a day or two I vill venture to pay respects on the Baronin and see how all goes wiz you. Until then—lebewohl!"

Much to Nora's relief, she was not embraced a second time. A warm squeeze of the hand, which seemed, somehow, to express a slight "hurtness," and the stumpy little figure disappeared into the darkness, leaving Nora to face her destiny alone.

It was now dusk, and she had only time to take in the dim outline of a small, square house before the footman led her up the steps to the already opened door. A flood of light greeted her as she entered the hall, and seemed to intensify its unfurnished coldness. Little as she had expected, the barren white walls and carpetless stone floor cast a chill over her courage which not even the beaming smile of a pleasant-faced but far from stylish parlourmaid could wholly dispel.

"Die gnädige Frau wartet im Salon," she said, and proceeded to conduct the way farther down the passage, switching off the electric light carefully as she went.

In spite of everything, Nora's heart beat faster with anticipation and an inevitable nervousness. The great moment had arrived which was to decide the future. "As long as she is fat and comfortable like Fräulein Müller, I daresay it won't be so bad," she told herself, but prepared for the worst. A minute later and she was ushered into a room so utterly at variance with what had gone before and her own expectations that she stood still on the threshold with a little inward gasp of surprise.

The softly shaded light revealed to her quick young eyes an elegance, if not luxury, whose details she had no time to gather. She received only an impression of warm, delicate colours, soft stuffs, rich, sound-deadening carpets and the touch of an indefinable personality, whose charm seemed to linger on every drapery. From the ugly stone wall to this had been no more than a step, but that step divided one world from another, and Nora stood hesitating seeking in the shadows the personality whose influence she felt already like a living force. She had no more than an instant to wait. Then a tall, slight figure rose out of one of the chairs drawn out of the circle of light and came to meet her.

"You are very welcome, Miss Ingestre," a voice said, and her hand was taken and she was led farther into the room. "I would have met you myself, but I had no method of recognising you, and the gute Fräulein Müller seemed so sure that she would be able to find her old pupil's daughter."

The voice was low, the English almost perfect, though a little slow, as though from want of practice, the touch of the hand firm and cool. Somehow, in that moment poor Nora felt painfully aware that she was dirty and untidy from the journey and, above all, that she was terribly young and awkward. Yet her natural frankness stood her in good stead. She looked up, smiling.

"Fräulein Müller picked me out at once," she said. "I must be very like my mother, otherwise I cannot think how she found me."

"In any case, the great thing is that you are found," Frau von Arnim said. "Come and sit down here. You see, we have a real English tea waiting for you."

Nora obeyed willingly, and whilst the white, delicate hands were busy with the cups standing on the low tray, she had opportunity to study the woman upon whom the weal or woe of perhaps a whole long year depended. "She is not as beautiful as my mother," Nora thought, but the criticism was no disparagement. If Frau von Arnim was not actually beautiful, she at least bore on every feature marked refinement, and the expression of the whole face, pale and slightly haughty though it was, had a certain indefinable fascination which held Nora's attention riveted. She was dressed elegantly, moreover, in some dark colour which suited the brown hair and the slow hazel eyes which, Nora felt positive, had in one quiet glance taken in every detail of her appearance.

"We are so very glad that you have come," Frau von Arnim went on. "My daughter and I love everything that is English, but, alas, nice English people are raræ aves in Karlsburg. We have only the scum of all nations, and I cannot tell you how pleased we were when your mother decided to entrust you to our care."

The tone of the words was delicate and kind, suggesting a conferred favour on Nora's side which somehow had the reverse effect. In her youthful and insular arrogance Nora had felt that the "German family" which boasted of her services was to be congratulated, and that the real and only question of importance was whether she liked them. Now she found herself wondering what this serene and graceful woman was thinking of her.

"I'm afraid I'm not a bit a glory to my nation," she said, with sincere schoolgirlish humility. "I wish I was."

Frau von Arnim laughed.

"We like you very much already," she said. "Besides, you could not help being nice with such a charming mother."

Nora started with pleased surprise, and whatever had been unconsciously antagonistic in her melted into an impulsive gratitude which spoke out of the heightened colour and bright, frank eyes.

"Do you know my mother, then?" she asked.

"No, only by her letters. But letters betray far more than the writers think. I often feel when I meet some reserved, unfathomable person who interests me, that if he would only write me the shortest note I should know more of him than after hours of conversation. And Mrs. Ingestre and I have exchanged many long letters. We feel almost as though she were an old friend; don't we, Hildegarde?"

This sudden appeal to a third person revealed to Nora the fact that they were not alone. Frau von Arnim rose, smiling at her bewilderment, and took her by the hand.

"You must think us very rude, strange people," she said, "but my daughter has been listening and watching all this time. You see, it is for her sake that we wanted you to come and live with us, and she had a whim that she would like to see you without being seen. Invalids may have whims and be pardoned, may they not?"

Whilst she had been speaking she had led Nora to the far end of the room. There, lying on a sofa drawn well into the shadow, Nora now perceived a girl of about her own age, whose thin, white face was turned to greet her with a mingling of apology and that pathetic humility which goes with physical weakness.

"Do not be angry," she said, holding out a feeble hand. "I am so afraid of strangers. I felt I should like to see you first—before you saw me. I do not know why—it was just a whim, and, as mother says, when one is ill one may perhaps be forgiven."

"Of course," Nora said gently. To herself she was thinking how beautiful suffering can be. The face lifted to hers—the alabaster complexion, the great dark eyes and fine aristocratic features framed in a bright halo of disordered hair—seemed to her almost unearthly in its spiritualised loveliness. And then there was the expression, so void of all vanity, so eloquent with the appeal: "You are so strong, so beautiful in your youth and strength. Be pitiful to me!"

Governed by some secret impulse, Nora looked up and found that Frau von Arnim was watching her intently. A veil had been lifted from the proud patrician eyes, revealing depths of pain and grief which spoke to Nora much as the younger eyes had spoken, save with the greater poignancy of experience: "You are strong, and life offers you what it will always withhold from my child. Be pitiful!"

And then prejudice, reserve, her own griefs, were swept out of Nora's hot young heart on a wave of sympathy. She still held the thin hand clasped in her own. She clasped it tighter, and her answer to the unspoken appeal came swift and unpremeditated.

"I hope you will like me," she said. "I am so glad I have come."

Hildegarde Arnim's pale face flushed with pleasure.

"I do like you," she said. "I do hope you will be happy with us."

And then, to their mutual surprise, the two girls kissed each other.

CHAPTER VI

A LETTER HOME

"I never realised before now how true it is that all men are brothers," Nora Ingestre wrote home to her mother at the end of her first week in Karlsburg. "I used to believe that we English were really the only people who counted, the really only nice people, and the rest were sort of outsiders on quite another level. And now all my ideas are turned topsy-turvy. I keep on saying to myself, 'Why, she is just like an Englishwoman,' or 'How English he looks!' and then I have to admit that the simple reason why I think they look English is because they look nice, and it seems there are nice people all the world over. Of course there are differences—one notices them especially among the poorer classes—and so far, I can only judge the men from a distance; but if I met the Gnädige Frau, as she is called, in any drawing-room, I should think, 'Well, with one exception, she is the most charming woman I have ever met,' and never have so much as guessed that she could belong to any country but my own. Hildegarde is a dear, too. Although she has known me such a short time, she treats me almost as though I were her sister—in fact, I am a sort of enfant gâté in the house, everybody, from Freda, the sturdy little housemaid, upwards, doing their best to show their goodwill to the 'kleine englische Dame.' (You see, I am picking up German fast!) Both the Gnädige Frau and Hildegarde know English well and seem to enjoy talking, though one half of the day is dedicated to my first German efforts, which, I am sure, have the most comical results. But no one ever laughs at you. Even Johann, the coachman, keeps quite a straight face when I call him 'du'—a disgraceful piece of endearment which seems to haunt me every time I open my mouth. That reminds me to tell you that yesterday we went for a lovely drive in the Wild Park, the private property of the Grand Duke. Driving is the only outdoor enjoyment which is left for poor Hildegarde, and it is terribly hard on her, because she loves riding and driving and tennis, and all that sort of thing. It seems she had a bad accident whilst out riding two years ago with her cousin, who is a captain in the Artillery here, and since then she has always been ill. She never complains, and is always so sweet and patient that it makes one despise oneself for not being an angel outright, but I know that she has her struggles. Yesterday, for instance, Johann was giving the horse a breathing space in a lovely allée—oh, you would have enjoyed it, darling! It was just like a glorious bit of England, with great oak trees on either side and lots of deer and—there, now! I have lost myself! Where was I?—Oh, yes, in the allée, when an officer galloped past and saluted. I hardly saw his face, but he certainly looked very smart in his dark-blue uniform, and he sat his horse as though he were part of it. He turned out to be Herr von Arnim, the cousin in question, and I would not have thought any more about him had it not been for a glimpse I caught of Hildegarde's face. She is always pale, but just at that moment she looked almost ghastly, and her lips were tight-pressed together, as though she were in pain. Somehow, I knew it was not physical, so I did not dare say anything, but I have wondered since whether it was the memory of all the splendid gallops she used to have and will never have again, or whether—but there! I must not let my fancy run away with me. Anyhow, I am quite anxious to see the 'Herr Baron' again. Perhaps I shall to-morrow at the Gnädige Frau's 'At Home'—at least, I suppose it is an 'At Home' or a German equivalent—a function which fills me with the profoundest awe and alarm. Imagine me, dearest, with my knowledge of the German language, in a crowd of natives! What will happen to me, I wonder? If I am lucky, the earth will open and swallow me up before I say something dreadful by mistake.

"September 15.—You see, I am writing my letter in diary form, so that you get all the details—which is what you want; is it not, dearest? And, indeed, there are so many details that I do not know where to begin. At any rate, the 'At Home' is over, which is a comfort, for it was even more exciting than I had expected. The crowd was awful—there were so many people that one could hardly breathe, and I was so frightened of some one speaking to me that I had to keep on repeating to myself, 'Remember you are English! Remember you are English!' in order to prevent a disorderly and undignified flight. Fortunately there was too much confusion for anybody to notice my insignificant person, and at last I managed to hide myself in an obscure alcove, where I could see and not be seen. On the whole it was the most mixed 'At Home' I have ever seen, and I am sure it would have shocked Mrs. Chester beyond words, You know how much she thinks of clothes and all that sort of thing. Well, here, apparently, no one thinks anything of them at all. Some of the biggest 'aristocrats'—they were nearly all 'aristocrats,' as I found out afterwards—were dressed in fashions which must have been in vogue when I was born, and nobody seemed to think it in the least funny. Of course, there were well-dressed people and a few young officers in uniform, who brightened matters up with a little colour, but I had no time to take in more than a general impression, for just as I was settling down to enjoy myself, some one spoke to me. Fortunately it was in English, or I have no doubt I should have fainted; as it was, I looked up and found a man in a pale-blue uniform standing beside me with his heels clapped together, evidently waiting for me to say something. I supposed he had introduced himself, for I had heard him say 'Bauer' in a rather grating voice, but I felt very far from friendly. You know how I am, mother. I take violent likes and dislikes, and I cannot hide either the one or the other. And almost in the same instant that I saw this man's face I disliked him. I cannot tell you why. He was good-looking enough and his manners were polished, but there was something in his face, in the way he looked at me, which made me angry—and afraid. It sounds absurd to talk of being afraid at a harmless German 'At Home,' but if I believed in omens I should say that the man is destined to bring me misfortune and that the instant I saw him I knew it. Please don't laugh—I am only trying to explain to you how intense the feeling was, and to make my subsequent behaviour seem less foolish. I fancy I was not friendly in my answers or in my looks, but he sat down beside me and went on talking. It does not matter what he said. He spoke English well, and seemed to 'listen to himself' with a good deal of satisfaction, all the time never taking his eyes off my face. Somehow, though everything he said was polite enough, I felt that he looked upon me as a kind of 'dependent' with whom he could amuse himself as he pleased; and that made my blood boil. I prayed for some one to come and fetch me away, and just then Frau von Arnim passed close to where I was sitting. I heard her ask after me and say something about music (I had promised to play), and suddenly I felt ashamed. I wondered what she would think of me if she found me sitting in a secluded corner with a man whom I had never seen before and to whom I had never been properly introduced. After all, she does not know me well enough to understand—well, that I am not that sort, and the idea that she might think badly of me with an appearance of reason was more than could bear. There is a small door in the alcove leading out into the hall, and just when my uninvited companion was in the middle of a sentence I got up and went out without a word of explanation. I am afraid it was neither a very dignified nor sensible proceeding, and it certainly landed me into worse difficulties, since the next thing I knew after my stormy exit was that I had collided violently with a man standing in the hall. Of course, my fragment of German forsook me, and I gasped, 'I beg your pardon!' in English, to which my victim answered, 'I beg your pardon!' also in English, but with the faintest possible accent. After that I recovered enough from the shock to draw back and assume as much dignity as I could under the circumstances. My victim was a tall, broad-shouldered man—of course in uniform-and though it was already twilight in the hall I could see that he had a pleasant, sun-burnt face and bright eyes, which at that moment looked very much amused. I suppose my attempt at dignity was rather a failure. 'I hope I did not hurt you?' he asked, and when I had reassured him on that point he suggested that he should introduce himself, as there was no one there to do it for him. Whereupon he clicked his spurs together and said, 'Von Arnim. Miss Ingestre, I think?' I asked him how he knew my name, and he said, as a Prussian officer it was his duty to know everything, and that he had heard so much about Miss Ingestre that it was impossible not to recognise her. And then we stood looking at each other, I feeling horribly awkward, he evidently still very much amused. Then he proposed to take me back into the drawing-room, but that was the last thing I wanted, and I said so in my usual rude way, which seemed to amuse him still more.

"'But why not?' he asked. (I give you the conversation in full.)

"'Because they wanted me to play.' (It was the first excuse I could think of.)

"'Is that kind? You are depriving my aunt's guests of a great treat.'

"'How do you know?'

"'Military instinct.'

I could not help laughing at him.

"'Your military instinct is all wrong,' I said. 'At any rate, I don't want to go back.'

"I don't know why, but I fancy he suspected there was something more in the matter than I had explained. At any rate, he grew suddenly quite grave.

"'You see, I have taken you prisoner of war,' he said, 'and it is my duty to keep you in sight. At the same time, I wish to make your captivity as agreeable as possible. Suppose I persuade my aunt not to worry you to play, and suppose I see that no one else worries you—will you come back?'

"I said 'Yes' in a lamb-like fashion altogether new to me, and after he had hung up his sword he opened the door and bowed me in. I saw my first partner staring at us, but I felt curiously at my ease, not any more strange and helpless. And Herr von Arnim was so nice. After he had paid his respects all round he came back and brought me some tea and talked to me about the opera, to which we are going to-morrow evening. I forgot to tell you about it, didn't I? It is the Walküre, and I am bubbling over with excitement, as Frau von Arnim has given me her seat at the opera so that I can always go with Hildegarde. She is good to me. Sometimes I think she must be very rich, and then there are things which make me doubtful—the old pill-box brougham, for instance. But perhaps that is just German style—or lack of it. I must stop now, or I shan't have stamps enough to post this letter. Indeed, I do not know why I have given you all these details. They are very unimportant—but somehow they seemed important when I was writing. Good-night, dearest!

"September 16.—It is nearly twelve o'clock, and the Gnädige Frau told me I should hurry straight to bed and make up for the lost beauty-sleep, but I simply can't! I feel I must sit down and tell you all about it whilst I am still bubbling over with it all and the Feuerzauber and the Liebesmotif and all the other glories are making symphonies of my poor brains. Oh, mother darling! how you would have enjoyed it! That is always my first thought when I hear or see something beautiful, and to-night—to-night I feel as though I had been let into a new world. Do you remember that glorious evening when you took me to hear Traviata in Covent Garden? Of course I loved it—but this was so absolutely different. It was like drinking some noble wine after sugared buns and milk. The music didn't try to please you—it just swept you away with it on great wings of sound till you stood above all Creation and looked into the deepest secrets of life. Your own heart opened and grew, everything mean and petty was left far, far beneath. I felt suddenly that I understood things I had never even thought of before—myself and the whole world. Of course, that is over now. I am just like a wingless angel stumbling over the old earthly obstacles, but I shall never forget the hours when I was allowed to fly above them all. Oh dear, does this sound very silly? It is so hard to explain. I feel as though this evening had wrought some great change in me, as though I had grown wiser, or at any rate older. Perhaps it is only a feeling which will pass, and I shall awake to-morrow to find myself the old Nora. Surely one evening cannot bring a lasting change!

"I must not forget to tell you that I met Herr von Arnim again. He came up to speak to Hildegarde after the first act, and I was glad to find that my first impression of him was correct. If I had gone by my old prejudices and by Lieutenant Bauer I should have always believed that German officers were frightful boors, but Herr von Arnim seems just like an English gentleman, a little stiff and ceremonious at first, perhaps, but not in the least conceited or self-conscious. Of course he talks English excellently—he told me he was working it up for some examination or other, so perhaps he thought I was a good subject to practise on. At any rate, he was very attentive, and stayed with us until long after the bell had rung, so that he had to hurry to get back to his place in time. There were quite a number of officers present, and some of the uniforms are very smart, but I like the Artillery best—dark blue with a black velvet collar. It looks elegant and business-like at the same time. Certainly it suits Herr von Arnim. He is not exactly a handsome man, but well-built, with a strong, sunburnt face, a small fair moustache and very straight-looking eyes with those little lines at the corners which you always say indicate a well-developed sense of humour. Altogether, good looks and nice manners seem to run in the Arnim family. He brought us some chocolates in the second pause, and was very amusing. Hildegarde seems fond of him and he of her in a cousinly sort of way. He is so kind and attentive to her—almost as though it were his fault that she is a cripple. I wonder—oh dear! I have just heard the clock outside strike one, and I am so sleepy I do not know how I shall ever get into bed. I meant only to tell you about the music, and instead I have been wandering on about Wolff von Arnim! Good-night, my darling. Though I am so happy I am always thinking of you and wishing you were here to make me enjoy it all double. Sometimes I am very 'mother-sick,' but I fight against it because I know you want me to be happy, and it seems ungrateful to lament. Love to father and Miles and ever so much to you, dearest.

"Your devoted daughter,

"NORA.

"P.S.—I have written a little note to Robert telling him about my arrival. He asked me to, and I couldn't refuse, could I? He seems so genuinely fond of me, and I—oh dear! I only wish I knew!

"P.SS.—They are giving the second evening of the Ring next Sunday. Herr von Arnim says that a great many people think it even grander than the Walküre and the Götterdämmerung (Sunday fortnight) grandest of all. Hildegarde is going to both, if she is strong enough, and he says I must come too. I told him that I knew father would strongly disapprove, and he said quite solemnly, and with a funny little German accent, that he thought an 'English Sunday the invention of the deevil,' which made me laugh. I wonder if it would be wrong to go? I know what father would say, but somehow, when I come to think over it, I can't feel horrified at the idea. I can't believe that it is wrong to listen to such grand, beautiful music—even on Sunday; as Herr von Arnim said, 'I am sure der liebe Gott would rather see you good and happy enjoying the wonders He has made than bored and bad-tempered, wishing that Sunday was well over.' What do you think, mother? Let me know soon. I will not do anything you do not like.

"P.SSS.—I think we had better keep to our first arrangement that my letters should be quite private. You see, I tell you everything, and father might not always understand.

"P.SSSS.—What a lot of postscripts! I am sure I must be very feminine, after all. I quite forgot to tell you that Fräulein Müller called the other day. She was very nervous and flustered, and treats the 'Frau Baronin' as though she were a sort of deity to be propitiated at all costs. She also asked me to tea. I went, but I won't go again if I can help it. I was never so near suffocating in my life. All the windows were double and had not been opened, I should imagine, since August, so that the August air was unpleasantly intermingled with the fumes of a furiously energetic stove, against which I had the honour of sitting for four mortal hours. But she was so friendly and kind that it seems horrid to complain, only—Heaven preserve me from being poor and living in a German flat!"

Mrs. Ingestre read the letter carefully. She then tore it up and answered the same day:

"As regards your question—do what your conscience tells you, Nora. You are old enough to judge, and I have perfect confidence in you. Be true and good, and I too think that God will not blame you if you rule your life according to the opinions He has given you rather than the arbitrary laws which we have made. Do what seems honestly right to you and you cannot do wrong—at least, not in His sight."

This letter was shown to the Rev. John, her husband, but of the scene that followed, where righteous indignation and quiet resolve fought out a bitter struggle, Nora heard nothing. She only knew that the letter had been safely posted, and that once again her mother had forced open the doors of liberty.

CHAPTER VII

A DUET

"Meine Herrn, to the Moltke of the future, the pride of the regiment, er lebe—hoch—hoch—hoch!"

The little group of officers gathered round the mess-table responded to the toast with an enthusiasm that was half bantering, half sincere. There followed a general clinking of glasses, the pleasant popping of champagne corks, and a chorus of more or less intelligible congratulations, against which the recipient stood his ground with laughing good-nature, his hands spread out before his face as though to hide natural blushes of embarrassment.

"Spare me, children!" he explained as the tumult gradually subsided. "Do you not know that great men are always modest? Your adulation throws me into the deepest possible confusion, from which I can only sufficiently extricate myself to promise you——"

"Another bottle!" a forward young ensign suggested.

"Not at all," with a wave of the hand, "nothing so basely material—but my fatherly patronage when I am head of the Staff, as of course I shall be within a few years. Work hard, my sons, and who knows? One of you may actually become my adjutant!"

Amidst derisive laughter he drained his glass, and then turned quickly, his attention having been arrested by a slight touch upon the shoulder. Unobserved in the general confusion, a tall, slightly built man, wearing the uniform of an officer in the Red Dragoons, had entered the mess-room and, leaning on his sword-hilt in an attitude of weary impatience, had taken up his place behind the last speaker. He now held out his hand.

"Congratulate you, Arnim," he said. "I heard the racket outside as I was passing, and came in for enlightenment as to the cause. Seleneck has just told me. Permit me to drink your health." He had taken the glass which a neighbour had proffered him and raised it slightly. "May you continue as you have begun!" he added.

"Many thanks," was the brief answer.

There was a moment's silence. The new-comer sipped at his share of the German champagne and then put down the glass with a faint contracting of the features which suggested a smothered grimace.

"You must let me order up a bottle of Cliquot," he said. "A great occasion should be worthily celebrated."

Arnim shook his head.

"Again—many thanks. I have had enough, and it is of no use cultivating expensive tastes. But you perhaps … ?"

"If you have no objection." The dragoon beckoned an orderly, and, having given his instructions, seated himself at the table and drew out a cigarette-case.

"This means Berlin for you," he said. "When do your orders date from?"

"From next summer. I shall still have some months with the regiment."

"So? That's tiresome. The sooner one gets away from this God-forsaken hole the better. By the way, there will be quite a little party of us with you. Seleneck tells me he is expecting a Kommando at the Turnschule, and I am moving heaven and earth to get ditto. You, lucky dog, are freed for ever from this treadmill existence."

The young Artillery captain glanced sharply at the speaker's good-looking face, and a close observer would have noticed that his brows had contracted.

"The way out is open to every one," he observed curtly.

The other laughed and chose to misunderstand him.

"Only to the workers, my dear fellow. And I confess that work has no fascination for me. I am not ambitious enough, and on the whole I suppose one form of drudgery is as bad as another. You like that sort of thing, and I envy you, but I fear I have no powers of emulation."

There was something grim in Arnim's subsequent silence which might have drawn the dragoon's attention had it been allowed to last. At that moment, however, an elderly-looking officer detached himself from the group by the window and came to where the two men were seated.

"I'm off home," he said. "Are you coming my way, Arnim?"

Arnim rose with an alacrity which suggested relief.

"Yes, as far as the Kaiser Strasse. You will excuse me, Bauer? I must tell the good news at home, or I shall never be forgiven."

The dragoon bowed.

"Of course. By the way," he added, as Arnim slipped into the overcoat which the orderly had brought him, "that is a pretty little English girl your aunt has picked up. I met her the last time I was at the house. What's her name?"

"You are probably referring to Miss Ingestre."

"Ingestre? Well, she's a pretty little piece of goods, anyhow—though not particularly friendly." He threw back his head and laughed, as though at some amusing reminiscence. "Imagine: I had just settled myself down to a comfortable tête-à-tête, when she got up and bolted—straight out of the room like a young fury. I was rather taken aback until I consoled myself with the reflection that all English people are mad—even the pretty ones."

During his recital a sudden light of comprehension flashed over Arnim's face. He half smiled, but the smile was indefinably sarcastic.

"No doubt Miss Ingestre had her good reasons for interrupting your comfortable tête-à-tête," he observed. "Though English people may suffer from madness, there is usually method in it."

"No doubt she had her good reasons for her return five minutes later," was the retort. "There was method in that madness, at any rate."

The two men looked each other straight in the eyes. Arnim's hand rested on his sword-hilt, and the smile had died away from his lips.

"Perhaps I ought to remind you that Miss Ingestre is my aunt's guest, and therefore under my protection," he said slowly.

"The reminder is quite unnecessary," the dragoon returned with perfect sang-froid. "I meant no offence either to you or Miss Ingestre; and poaching is, anyhow, not one of my vices."

Arnim hesitated an instant, then, with a curt bow, he slipped his arm through that of the officer standing beside him.

"Come, Seleneck," he said, "I have wasted time enough."

The two men made their way out of the Casino into the street. A sharp east wind greeted them, and Wolff von Arnim drew a deep breath of relief.

"I need fresh air," he said. "A man like Bauer stifles me, sickens me. I cannot imagine why he always seeks my society. He must know that I have no liking for him. Does he wish to pick a quarrel?"

The elder man shook his head.

"You are a harsh judge, Wolff," he said. "As far as I know, Bauer is a harmless fellow enough. It is true that he swaggers a good deal with his money and is rather pushing in circles where he is not wanted, but for the rest—I have heard nothing to his discredit."

"That may be," was the quick answer. "There are dishonourable men who act honourably out of caution, and honourable men who act dishonourably out of rashness. I do not want to be unjust, but I cannot help putting Bauer in the former category. My instinct warns me against him—and not only my instinct. A man who talks about duty as a drudgery and is content to get through life without success and with as little effort as possible is a useless drone. In our calling he is worse than that—a parasite."

Seleneck sighed.

"Oh, you ambitious, successful fellows!" he said with a lugubrious tug at his moustache. "You talk as scornfully of 'getting through life without success' as though it were a crime. Look at me—grey hairs already, a family man, and still nothing more than a blundering old captain, who will be thankful it he is allowed at the end to retire with a major's pension. I am one of your drones—a parasite, if you like, and certainly a failure, but Heaven knows it is not my wish."

"You are no more a failure than the best of us," Wolff von Arnim answered vigorously. "I know you, alter Kerl, and I know you have given your best strength, your best thought to your calling; I know 'duty' is the Alpha and Omega of your life—no one could ask more of you."

"I have done my best," was the simple answer. "It hasn't come to much, but still, it was my best. You, Wolff, will go much farther."

They were passing under the light of a street lamp as he spoke, and Arnim glanced at his companion's face. There was perhaps something written on the plain yet honest and soldierly features which touched him, for his own relaxed, and the softened expression made him seem almost boyish.

"If I do my duty as well as you have done, I shall be very proud," he said earnestly.

They walked on in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts, and then Seleneck came to a standstill.

"Our ways end here," he said. "I suppose you are going to Frau von Arnim's?"

"Yes; I must let her know my good luck. She will be very glad."

"And the little cousin—will she be 'very glad'?"

Arnim met the quizzical not unkindly glance with an almost imperceptible change of countenance.

"I suppose so. Why shouldn't she?"

"She will miss you."

Arnim did not answer, nor did he show any sign of continuing on his way. He seemed suddenly caught in a painful train of thought, from which his companion made no effort to arouse him.

"Poor little soul!" he said at last, half to himself. "It is terribly hard luck on her. No one loved life as she did, and now"—his brows contracted—"sometimes I feel as though I were to blame," he added abruptly.

"What nonsense!" Seleneck retorted. "Are you responsible because a horse shies and a girl has the misfortune to be thrown?"

"Perhaps not; but the feeling of responsibility is not so easily shaken off. I never see her—or her mother—without cursing the impulse that made me take her out that day."

"It might just as well have happened any other day and with any one else," Seleneck retorted cold-bloodedly.

"Of course. Only one cannot reason like that with one's conscience. At any rate, there is nothing I would not do to make her happy—to atone to her. Besides," he added hastily, as though he had said something he regretted, "I am very fond of her."

The elder man tapped him on the shoulder.

"Alter Junge," he said pointedly, "I can trust your career to your brains, but I am not so sure that I can trust your life to your heart. Take care that you do not end up as Field-Marshal with Disappointment as your adjutant. Lebewohl."

With an abrupt salute he turned and strode off into the gathering twilight, leaving Arnim to put what interpretation he chose to the warning. That the warning had not been without effect was clear. Arnim went up the steps of the square-built house with a slowness that suggested reluctance, and the features beneath the dark-blue cap, hitherto alight with energy and enthusiasm, had suddenly become graver and older.

He found Frau von Arnim in her private sitting-room, writing letters. She turned with a pleased smile as he entered, and held out a hand which he kissed affectionately. The bond between them was indeed an unusually close one, and dated from Wolff's first boyhood, when as a pathetically small cadet he had wept long-controlled and bitter tears on her kind shoulder and confided to her all the wrongs with which his elder comrades darkened his life. From that time he had been a constant Sunday guest at her table, had been Hildegarde's playfellow throughout the long Sunday afternoons, and had returned to the grim Cadettenhaus at nightfall laden with contraband of the sort dearest to a boy's heart. Afterwards, as ensign and young lieutenant, he had still looked up to her with the old confidence, and to this very hour there had been no passage in his life, wise or foolish, of which she was not cognisant. She had been mother, father, and comrade to him, and it was more by instinct than from any sense of duty that he had come to her first with his good news.

"I have been appointed to the Staff in Berlin," he said. "The order arrived this afternoon. It's all a step in the right direction, isn't it? At any rate, I shall be out of the routine and able to do head-work to my heart's—I mean head's content."

Frau von Arnim laughed and pressed the strong hand which still held hers.

"It is splendid, Wolff," she said. "I knew that the day would come when we should be proud of unsren Junge. Who knows? Perhaps as an old, old woman I shall be able to hobble along on a stately General's arm—that is, of course, if he will be seen with such an old wreck. But"—her face overshadowed somewhat—"when shall we have to part with you?"

"Not for some months," he said, seating himself beside her, "and then I think you had better pack up your goods and chattels and come too. I shall never be able to exist without you to keep me in order and Hildegarde to cheer me up."

"I have never noticed that you wanted much keeping in order," Frau von Arnim said with a grave smile. "And as for the other matter, it is to you that Hildegarde owes much of her cheeriness. She will miss you terribly."

A silence fell between them which neither noticed, though it lasted some minutes. Overhead some one began to play the "Liebeslied" from the Walküre.

Wolff looked up and found that his aunt's eyes were fixed on him.

"Hildegarde?" he asked, and for the first time he felt conscious of a lack of candour.

Frau von Arnim shook her head.

"Poor Hildegarde never plays," she reminded him gently. "It is Nora—Miss Ingestre. You remember her?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "She is not easily forgotten." After a moment's hesitation he added, "I never knew English people could be so charming. Those I have met on my travels have either been badly mannered boors or arrogant pokers. Miss Ingestre is either an exception or a revelation."

The room was in part darkness, as Frau von Arnim loved it best. A small lamp burned on her table, and by its light she could study his face unobserved.

"She has won all hearts—even to the coachman, who has a prejudice against foreigners," she said in a lighter tone, "and Hildegarde has become another person since her arrival. I do not know what we should do without her. When she first came she was, of course, baked in her insular prejudices, but she is so open-minded and broad-hearted that they have fallen away almost miraculously. We have not had to suffer—as is so often the case—from volleys of Anglo-Saxon criticisms."

"She seems musical, too," Wolff said, who was still listening with close attention to the unseen player.

"She is musical; so much so that I am having her properly trained at the Conservatorium," his aunt answered with enthusiasm. "When she has got out of certain English mannerisms she will do well. It is already a delight to listen to her."

A tide of warm colour darkened Wolff's face as he glanced quickly at Frau von Arnim's profile.

"I wonder what little pleasure—or perhaps necessity—you have denied yourself to perform that act of kindness?" he said.

"Neither the one nor the other, lieber Junge. If I deny myself one pleasure to give myself another, it can hardly be counted as a denial, can it? Besides, I believe her people are very badly off, and it is a shame that her talent should suffer for it. There! I am sure you want to go upstairs. Run along, and let me write my letters."

Wolff laughed at the old command, which dated back to the time when he had worried her with his boy's escapades.

"I'll just glance in and tell Hildegarde my good luck," he said, a little awkwardly. "I promised her I would let her know as soon as the news came."

"Do, dear Wolff."

She turned back to her letters, and Arnim, taking advantage of her permission, hurried out of the room and upstairs.

Hildegarde's little boudoir was an inner room, divided off from the neighbouring apartment by a heavy Liberty curtain. Governed by he knew not what instinct or desire, he stepped softly across and, drawing the hangings a little on one side, remained a quiet, unobserved spectator of the peaceful scene.

Nora had left the Walküre and had plunged into the first act of Tristan und Isolde. She played it with inexperience and after her own ideas, which were perhaps not the most correct, but the face alone, with its youth, its eagerness, its enthusiasm, must have disarmed the most captious critic. And Wolff von Arnim was by no means captious at that moment. Though he was listening, he hardly realised what she was playing, too absorbed in the pure pleasure which the whole picture gave him to think of details. He knew, for instance, that her dress was simple and pretty, but he could not tell afterwards whether it was blue or green or pink, or of no colour at all; he knew that he had never before found so much charm in a woman's face, but he would have been hard put to to describe exactly wherein that charm lay, or whether her features were regular or otherwise. He simply received an impression—one that he found difficult to forget.

A lamp had been placed on the top of the piano, and by its light the bright, wide-open eyes and eager fingers were finding their way through the difficult score. The rest of the room had been left in shadow. Arnim knew where his cousin was lying, but he did not look in her direction—perhaps he did not even think of her, so far did she lie outside the picture on which his whole interest was centred; and when the music died into silence, her voice startled him by its very unexpectedness.

"Wolff, won't you come in now?" she said.

Was there pain or annoyance in her tone? Arnim could not be certain. The knowledge that she had seen him standing there was sufficiently disconcerting. When we are unobserved, we unconsciously drop the masks which the instinct of self-preservation forces us to assume in the presence even of our dearest, and our faces betray emotions or thoughts which we have, perhaps, not even acknowledged to ourselves. As he advanced into the room, Arnim wondered uncomfortably how much the invalid's quick eyes had seen and if there was, indeed, anything in his looks or action which could have wounded her.

"You must think my manners very bad," he said in English as he greeted Nora, "but I knew if I came in you would stop playing, and that would have disappointed me and annoyed Hildegarde. You see, I know my cousin's little foibles, and one is that she does not like being interrupted in anything. Is that not so, Hildegarde?"

"You are a privileged person," she answered with a gentle smile on her pale face. "Still, I am glad you let Nora—Miss Ingestre—finish. She plays well, don't you think?"

"Splendidly—considering," was the answer.

Nora looked up.

"Considering? That sounds a doubtful compliment."

"I mean, English people as a rule have not much understanding for dramatic music."

"Yes, they have!" Nora blazed out impulsively.

"Have they?"

Still seething with injured patriotism, she met the laughter in his eyes with defiance. Then her sense of humour got the better of her.

"No, they haven't," she admitted frankly.

"There, now you are honest! Have you tried Tristan for the first time?"

Nora nodded. She had gone back to the piano and was turning over the leaves of the score with nervous fingers. For some reason which she never attempted to fathom, Wolff von Arnim's entries into her life, seldom and fleeting as they had been hitherto, had always brought with them a subtle, indescribable change in herself and in her surroundings. There were times when she was almost afraid of him and welcomed his departure. Then, again, when he was gone she was sorry that she had been so foolish, and looked forward to their next meeting.

"I have tried to read the first act before," she said, "but it is so hard. I can make so little out of it. I am sure it all sounds poor and confused compared to the real thing."

"Your piano score is inadequate," he said, coming to her side. "The duet arrangement is much better. Hildegarde and I used to play it together for hours."

Nora looked at him with wide-open eyes of wonder.

"Can you play?" she asked, very much as though he had boasted of his flying abilities, so that he laughed with boyish amusement.

"I play like a great many of us do," he said, "sufficiently well to amuse myself. I have a piano in my quarters which I ill-treat at regular intervals. Do you remember how angry you used to get because I thumped so?"

He had turned to the girl lying on the sofa, but she avoided his frank gaze.

"Yes," she said. "It is not so long ago, Wolff." And then, almost as though she were afraid of having betrayed some deeper feeling, she added quickly, "Couldn't you two try over the old duets together? I should so like to hear them, and I am too tired to talk."

"Would you like to, Miss Ingestre?"

"Very much—only you will find me dreadfully slow and stupid."

He hunted amongst an old bundle of music, and having found the required piece, he arranged it on the piano and prepared himself for the task with great gravity.

"You must let me have the bass," he said; "then I can thump without being so much noticed. I have a decided military touch. Hildegarde says I treat the notes as though they were recruits."

Nora played her part without nervousness, at first because she was convinced of her own superiority and afterwards because he inspired her. His guidance was sure and firm, and when he corrected, it was not as a master but as a comrade seeking to give advice as to a common task. Her shyness and uneasiness with him passed away. Every bar seemed to make him less of a stranger, and once in a long rest she found herself watching the powerful, carefully kept hands on the keyboard with a curious pleasure, as though they typified the man himself—strong, clean, and honest.

Thus they played through the whole of the first act, and when the last chord had been struck there was a long silence. It was as though both were listening to the echo of all that had gone before, and it was with an effort that Nora roused herself to speak.

"How well you play!" she said under her breath. "And how grand—how wonderful it is!"

He turned and looked at her.

"Did you understand it?"

"Not all. I feel that there are many more wonders to fathom which are yet too deep for me. But I understand enough to know that they are there—and to be glad."

"It is the noblest—most perfect expression of love and of the human heart that was ever written or composed," he said.

She looked up at him, and their eyes met gravely and steadily for a moment, in which the world was forgotten.

"Thank you very much," a quiet voice said from the background.

Arnim turned quickly, so quickly that it was almost a start.

"Now for your criticism, Hildegarde!" he cried gaily. "I assure you, we are both trembling."

Hildegarde shook her head.

"I cannot criticise," she said. "You played so well together, much better than when I was able to take my part." She hesitated. "One could hardly believe that you had never practised together before," she added slowly.

Nora rose and closed the piano. Without knowing why, the words pained her and the brief silence that followed seemed oppressive.

Arnim followed her example.

"I have been here a disgraceful time!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "And there! I have never even told you what I really came about. I have been passed into the General Staff. What do you think of that? Are you not proud to have such a cousin?"

His tone was gay, half teasing, but there was no response from the quiet figure on the sofa. Nora's eyes, rendered suddenly sharp, saw that the pale lips were compressed as though in pain.

"Of course, Wolff, I am so glad. It is splendid for you. How long will you be there—in Berlin, I mean?"

"A long time, I expect, unless there is a war."

Then, as though by some intuition he knew what was passing in her mind, he came to her side and took her hand affectionately between his own.

"You and the mother will have to come too," he said. "I have just been telling her that I cannot get on without you. Imagine my lonely state! It's bad enough here, now that I have no one to ride out with me. Old Bruno is eating off his head in anticipation of the day when you will gallop him through the woods again."

Hildegarde shook her head, but his words, spoken hastily and almost at random, had brought the soft colour to her cheeks.

"I shall never ride again," she said.

She looked at her cousin and then to Nora, and her own wistful face became suddenly overshadowed.

"But then," she went on with a quick, almost inaudible sigh, "that is no reason why Bruno should eat his head off, as you say. It is true I cannot ride him any more, but Miss Ingestre can, and it would do her good. Wouldn't it, Nora?"

Was there an appeal in her voice which both heard and understood? Arnim said nothing. He did not take his eyes from his cousin's face.

"It is really very good of you," Nora said quickly, "but I think I had better not. You see, I love it so, and it is best not to encourage impossible tastes. Besides, I have no habit."

Warned, perhaps, by her own involuntary start of pleasure, by Arnim's silence and Hildegarde's voice, she had sought wildly for any reasonable excuse, and unwittingly chosen the one most likely to arouse the generous impulses in both her companions.

"Whilst you are here you must enjoy everything you can get," Arnim said, smiling at her. "And who knows what Fate has in store for you?"

"And the habit is no difficulty," Hildegarde chimed in. "You can have mine. We are about the same size, and it could easily be made to fit you. Do, dear!"

She was now all enthusiasm for her own plan, and Nora, glancing at Arnim's face, saw that it had become eager with pleasure.

"Do!" he begged. "I should so like to show you all the woods about here. Or—can you not trust yourself to me?"

A second time their eyes met.

"Of course I should trust you," Nora said quickly, "and there is nothing I should love more."

"Then that is settled. You must let me know the first day which suits you. Good-bye, gnädiges Fräulein. Good-bye, Hildegarde. I am sending my orderly round with some books I have found. I think you will like them."

"Thank you, Wolff."

Then he was gone. They heard the door bang downstairs, and the cheery clatter of his sword upon the stone steps.

Nora came to the sofa and knelt down.

"How good you are to me!" she said. "You are always thinking of my pleasure, of things which you know I like, and, after all, it ought to be just the other way round."