Chapter XII: Book III: The Bridge (10)

Thus it was in no peaceful or conciliatory mood that she took her place in Frau von Hollander's carriage that afternoon. Her manners were off-hand, her remarks tinged with an intentional arrogance which led her meek companion to the conclusion that public opinion was right, after all, and _die kleine Englaenderin_ an intolerable person. Nevertheless, she did her best to act the part of amiable hostess, and attempted to draw Nora's attention to the points of interest as they passed.

"All the regiments in Berlin will be there," she said with a pardonable pride. "That is not a thing one can see every day, you know. It will be a grand sight. They are the finest regiments in the world."

"In Germany, perhaps," Nora observed.

Her companion made no answer, and Nora tried to believe that she was satisfied with her own sharpness. How these foreigners boasted! It was a good thing to point out to them that not every one was so impressed with their marvels.

Yet, as they reached the Tempelhofer Felde Nora had hard work to restrain her naturally lively interest and curiosity from breaking bounds. The regiments had already taken up their positions. Solid square after square, they spread out as far as the eye could reach, a motionless bulwark of strength, bayonets and swords glittering like a sea of silver in the bright December sunshine. Wolff had taught Nora to recognise them, and she took a curious pride in her knowledge, though she said nothing, and her eyes expressed a cold, critical indifference.

"How fine the _Kuerassiers_ look!" Frau von Hollander said enthusiastically. "I have a cousin among them. They are all six-foot men--a regiment of giants."

"Rather like our Horse Guards," Nora returned; "but your horses are not so fine."

Frau von Hollander pursed her lips, and the bands striking up with the National Anthem put an end to the dangerous colloquy. The colour rushed to Nora's cheeks as she listened to the massed sound. She thought for an instant it was "God Save the King" that they were playing, and the tears of a deeply stirred patriotism rushed to her eyes. It was only a moment's illusion. Then the dazzling simultaneous flash of arms, a loud, abrupt cheer from the crowd about them reminded her of the truth. It was not the King who rode past amidst his resplendent Staff--it was the German Emperor--HER Emperor! She caught a glimpse of the resolute, bronze face, and because she was at the bottom neither narrow nor prejudiced, she paid her tribute of admiration ungrudgingly, for the moment forgetful of all the issues that were at stake. With eager eyes she followed the cortege as it passed rapidly before the motionless regiments. The resounding cheer which answered the Emperor's greeting thrilled her, and when he at last took his stand at the head of his Staff, and the regiments swung past, moving as one man amidst the crash of martial music, she stood up that she might lose no detail in the brilliant scene, her hands clenched, her pulses throbbing with a strange kind of enthusiasm. It was her first Kaiser parade; it overwhelmed her, not alone by its brilliancy but by the solidity, the strength and discipline it revealed; and had Frau von Hollander at that moment ventured a word of admiration she would have received no depreciatory comparison as answer. But poor Frau von Hollander had had enough for one day. She sat quiet and wordless, and silently lamented her own good-nature in taking such a disagreeable little foreigner with her in her expensive carriage.

The charge past had just begun when Nora heard her companion speak for the first time. It was not to her, however, but to a young dragoon officer who had taken up his stand at the carriage door, and Nora was much too absorbed to take any further notice of him. Their conversation, however, reached her ears, and she found herself listening mechanically even whilst her real attention was fixed on the great military pageant before her.

"The criticism should be good to-day," the officer was saying. "_Tadellos, nicht wahr_? Even the Emperor should be satisfied. I don't think we have much to fear from the future."

"From the future?" Frau von Hollander interrogated. She was not a clever woman, and her topics of the day--like her clothes--belonged usually to a remote period.

"I mean when the row comes," the dragoon explained. "We have all sealed orders, you know. No hurry, no bustle, no excitement; but when the Emperor presses the button--wiff!--then we shall be _en route_ for England."

The brilliant picture before Nora's eyes faded. She was listening now with tight-set lips and beating heart.

"Ach, you mean the war!" her hostess said. "My husband is so reticent on the subject. I never hear anything at all. You think it will really come to that?"

"No doubt whatever--unless the English are ready to eat humble-pie. They are afraid of us because they see we are getting stronger, but they are equally afraid to strike. Their ancestors would have struck years ago, and now it is too late. Their navy is big on paper, but absolutely untried. As to their army----" He laughed good-naturedly. "That won't give us much trouble."

"You mean that it is not big enough?"

Frau von Hollander was pretending to forget Nora's existence, but there was a spite in her tone which was not altogether unpardonable. She was grateful for this opportunity to pay back the slights of the last hour.

"It is not merely too small," the officer returned judiciously; "it is no good against men like ours. Their so-called regulars are picked up out of the gutters, and the rest are untrained clerks and schoolboys who scarcely know how to shoot----"

Nora turned.

"That is a lie!" she said deliberately.

The conversation had been carried on loud enough to reach the adjoining carriages, and Nora's clear voice caused more than one occupant to turn in her direction. They saw a pretty young woman standing erect, white-lipped, with shining eyes, confronting a scarlet-faced officer, who for a moment appeared too taken aback to answer.

"I beg your pardon, _gnaedige Frau_," he stammered at last, with his hand lifted mechanically to his helmet. "I--I did not quite understand----"

"I said that it was a lie," Nora repeated. "Everything you said was a lie. We are not afraid of you, and our soldiers are the best and bravest soldiers in the world!"

The dragoon looked helplessly at Frau von Hollander, and the latter decided on a belated rescue.

"It is most unfortunate," she said with pious regret. "I really quite forgot for the moment. Frau von Arnim was English before her marriage----"

"----and is English still!" Nora interrupted proudly. "Please let me pass. I am going home."

"Then tell the coachman. I cannot let you walk."

Frau von Hollander was now thoroughly alarmed. She felt that the matter had gone too far, and was ready to atone in any possible way. But Nora thrust the detaining hand aside.

"I would rather walk," she said between her clenched teeth. She sprang from the carriage, ignoring the dragoon's offer of assistance. That unfortunate young officer followed her, his face crimson with very real distress.

"Please forgive me, _gnaedige Frau_," he stammered. "How was I to know? Your name was German, and I had no idea--and a fellow talks such rot sometimes. Please forgive me!"

He was so young, so sincere and boyish in his regret that her heart under any other circumstances might have softened. But the insult had fallen on an open wound, and the pain was intolerable.

"You said what you thought, and you lied," she said. "That is all that matters."

He drew aside with a stiff salute.

"I have apologised. I can do no more," he said, and turned on his heel.

Thus poor Nora toiled her way over the hard, frozen roads alone, her thin-shod feet aching, her heart beating to suffocation with anger and misery. But she was unconscious of pain or weariness. Her English pride, the high love of her land had risen like a tide and swept her forward--to what end she neither knew nor cared.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*ULTIMATUM*

"I do not know if I have done right in telling you," Frau von Arnim said. "I had not meant to do so, but circumstances--and Nora--have forced me. Had she offered me any reasonable explanation, or promised to put an end to her intimacy with this Captain Arnold, I should not have thought it necessary to speak to you on the matter. She chose to ignore my appeal and my advice, and I felt that there was no other course left open to me but to warn you and to give you my reasons for doing so."

"I am sure you meant it all for the best," Wolff answered. "All the same--I would rather have waited until Nora had told me herself."

He was standing by the window, and did not see the sceptical lifting of his aunt's eyebrows. She frowned immediately afterwards, as though annoyed at her own display of feeling.

"It would have been better," she admitted calmly; "but Nora is in a state of mind which does not encourage hope. I cannot help saying so, Wolff; she has changed very much since the Karlsburg days."

"I know," he answered. "She has changed just in this last month or two. Poor little wife!"

"Other people have noticed it," his aunt went on. "The Selenecks, the Freibergs, all our best friends have the same complaint to make. She is off-hand, sometimes deliberately rude; and that sort of thing does not help to stop the scandal that is growing round her. Elsa Seleneck does not usually klatsch, but she is merciless where Nora is concerned, and it is all the more unpleasant because they were once good friends. I can only suppose that Nora has come under the influence of her brother and this man--this----"

"Nora's friendship with Captain Arnold is absolutely innocent," Wolff said firmly. "No doubt they have that sort of thing in England."

"Perhaps so, but we do not. People see this Englishman at your house day after day. There seems no reason for his constant visits. They call each other by their Christian names and go out together. Who can blame any one for putting the worst interpretation on Nora's conduct? And they are beginning to blame you, Wolff."

"Me?"

"They say that you ought not to tolerate her brother's presence in your house--that you ought to send this Arnold to the right-about."

He winced.

"I can't. She would never forgive me."

"Wolff! Has she grown more important than everything else in life?"

"No, no," he answered almost impatiently. "But she is young and careless--not bad. She has done nothing to deserve such treatment at my hands."

Frau von Arnim rose and came to his side.

"I know that she is not bad," she said. "At the bottom of her heart Nora may be honest, but she is headstrong and foolish, and folly can lead to the same catastrophes as deliberate wickedness. Unless you hold her back with a strong hand, Wolff, she will alienate you from all your friends, she will bring an unpleasant scandal upon our name and perhaps ruin your career. These last two things are more precious to me than anything on earth, and that is why I have spoken to you and put the matter in its most serious light. You must show her how wrong she is."

Wolff turned and looked his companion steadily in the eyes. He had just returned from a hard afternoon's work, and it was perhaps the recent fatigue which had drawn the colour from his face and left him with deep lines about the mouth and across the white forehead.

"Is she wrong?" he said. "Do you know, I am not sure, Aunt Magda. I am beginning to think the mistake is all mine. I loved her so, and she is so impetuous and warm-hearted. I carried her off her feet before she had time to think, to realise what she was giving up. And now--well, I suppose she is beginning to realise; the glamour has all gone, and her love"--he steadied his voice with an effort--"hasn't proved to be what she thought it was. It isn't strong enough to bring the sacrifices, and she is hungry for her own country and her own people. One can't blame her."

Frau von Arnim sighed.

"And when the war comes--what then?" she asked.

"God knows!"

He dropped wearily into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

"We can but hope for the best," he said. "I must wait and be patient."

"You will say nothing to her, Wolff?"

"No. I do not understand what you have told me. I cannot believe that she should have deceived me and kept the secret so long, nor can I understand Captain Arnold's conduct. Nevertheless, I trust Nora, and one day perhaps she will tell me everything."

His aunt shook her head. That "one day" seemed too far off, too impossible, and in the meantime she saw the man with the bowed head, and understood something of what he was suffering.

"Do what you think best," she said, and, obeying a sudden impulse of tenderness, she laid her hand upon his shoulder. "Only let no harm come to the name, Wolff. It is all I ask, for your sake and for mine."

He took the hand and lifted it to his lips.

"You have the right to ask everything," he said. "Your sacrifice--yours and Hildegarde's--made it possible for me to make Nora my wife. I owe you----"

"Not your happiness, _armer Kerl_!" she interrupted sadly. "That was what we wanted to give you, but we have not succeeded. And you must not call it a sacrifice. We never do. You are just my only son, for whom it is a joy to smooth the way as much as it lies in our power."

She knelt down beside him. All her proud severity had melted. Had she shown a quarter of this tenderness to Nora, they would never have parted as they had done. But then Nora had sinned against her rigid code of honour; Nora deserved punishment--not tenderness.

"There is another thing I want to say, Wolff," she went on gently. "Seleneck confessed to me that you had sold Bruno. I cannot understand why you should have done so--unless you were short of money."

He turned away his head, avoiding her steady, questioning eyes.

"Won't you confide in me, Wolff--like you did in the old days?"

"Of course I will!" He tried to laugh. "Yes, it was money, Aunt Magda. You see, I knew we were going to be invited to the Hulsons' to-morrow; and Nora needed a new dress--and there were other expenses----

"Miles Ingestre, for instance?" she suggested bitterly.

"It was another mouth to feed," he admitted. "Nora's father doesn't understand that we are not rich. He hears that we invite and are invited, and so he thinks--naturally enough--that we can afford to keep Miles for a few months. And Nora does not quite understand either; so I sold Bruno to smooth things over."

He did not tell her what she none the less guessed--that many of Wolff's scanty gold pieces had found their way into his guest's pockets by means of the simple formula, "I'll pay you back as soon as the pater's cheque arrives." Which event had, so far, never taken place.

Frau von Arnim rose and, going to her writing-table, drew out a thick envelope, which she put in his hands.

"It is our gift to you," she said. "I have been keeping it for--for any time when you might want a little extra, and I should like you to have it now. Perhaps you could get Bruno back."

"I can't!" he protested almost angrily. "Do you think I do not know what you have already given up for my sake--your friends, your home, your comfort?"

"And do you not know that all has no value for me compared to the one thing?" she answered, looking him steadily in the face. "I want you to remember that, should any greater trouble come, any sacrifice would be gladly borne rather than disgrace."

"Disgrace!" he echoed, with a stern contraction of the brows. "Of what are you afraid, Aunt Magda?"

"I do not know. I only wanted your promise that you would always come to me. As to this little gift"--her tone became lighter--"it would be an insult to our relationship to refuse it. I cannot allow my nephew to ride to war on an old charger. Surely you will allow me to throw this sop to the family pride?"

So she laughed away his objections, and he sat there with drawn, white face and looked about him, recognising the remnants of the old home, knowing for whose sake it was that they had come to rest in these narrow, gloomy confines. And, after all, it had been in vain. The sacrifices had brought no one happiness. He rose to go, and as he did so the door opened, and Hildegarde stood on the threshold. For a moment he hardly recognised her. She held herself upright as he had not seen her do for nearly three years; her cheeks were bright with colour and her eyes with the old light, so that it seemed as though the time of suffering had been blotted out of her life and she was once more his gay, untroubled playfellow.

"Why, Hildegarde!" he cried delightedly.

She came laughing towards him and gave him her hand with a cheery frankness. Neither by look nor tone did she betray that his presence had set her pulses galloping with the old pain and the old happiness.

"Why, Wolff!" she repeated, mocking him. "Do you think I am a ghost?"

"A phoenix, rather," he retorted gaily, for his joy was unfeigned. "I never dared to hope such good things of you. What has brought about the miracle?"

She told him about the "cure" she had been through, still in the same easy, unconcerned voice, and only her mother noticed the restless movement of the long, thin hands. Perhaps it was that one sign of emotion which prevented her from urging Wolff to remain. Perhaps she knew, too, that Wolff was stifling in the narrow room.

"You must come back soon, Wolff," Hildegarde said, as he bade her good-bye. "You have so much to tell us--about the war and our chances. But I will let you go to-day. You look so tired."

She did not ask that Nora should come too. She did not even mention Nora's name. Wolff remembered that significant omission as he trudged homewards, and he understood that Nora stood alone. She had lost touch with his friends and with those nearest to him, and he too had drifted out of her life. Such, then, was the end of a love and a union which was to have been endless! A few months of untroubled happiness, and the awakening! He felt no anger mingle itself with his grief, rather an intense pity. Though he could not understand her conduct in the past, he trusted her with the blindness of an unchanged devotion. He believed that she would have some explanation. He was sure that once at least her love had been sincere, that she deceived herself more than she had ever deceived him. She had believed her love for him stronger than that for home and people, than any other love. She had been mistaken--that was all. An old love had returned into her life and with it the old ties. The intoxication of the first passion was over, and she had gone back to those to whom she belonged, and a sea of racial prejudice, racial differences, and national feeling divided her from the man to whom she had sworn, "Thy God shall be my God, thy people my people." He had lost her. What then? What was to be the solution to the problem that lay before them both? He knew of none, and perhaps at the bottom of his heart there was still a glimmer of hope that he was mistaken and her friendship for Arnold no more than friendship, her change towards him no more than a passing shadow. He told himself that when worried and overworked as he was, a man can too easily exaggerate the extent of a misfortune. Who knew what change for the better the next few hours might bring?

Thus he reached his home with a lighter heart than he had expected. Nora was not yet back from the parade. It surprised him, therefore, to hear loud and apparently angry voices proceeding from his room. He entered quickly, without waiting to lay sword or helmet aside, and found Miles and another older man, whose appearance warranted the supposition that his descent from the Mosaic family was unbroken.

Wolff looked from one to the other, and perhaps his knowledge of both classes of men warned him of what was to come.

"Might I ask for an explanation?" he said quietly.

Miles was clinging to the back of a chair and trembling from head to foot, either with fear or rage or a mixture of both. His usually sallow face was now grey and his lips twitched convulsively before he managed to answer.

"I'm beastly sorry, Wolff," he stammered. "It's the devil of a nuisance, and I swear I never meant to bring you into the mess. This--this man has come fussing about some money. I told him to wait, but he seems to have got some idiotic ideas in his head----"

"The Herr Baron vill not blame me that I am anxious for my moneys," the Jew interrupted, speaking also in broken English and giving Wolff the benefit of a servile bow. "Dis genelman have borrowed much from me, and I am a poor man. I vould not have took the risk but dat he gave me your name as guarantee. He said dat you vere his broder-in-law and dat it vere all safe. Dat is von month ago, and since den I have heard no more of my genelman, but many English leave Berlin just now, and I come to see if vat he say be true."

"It is perfectly true. Mr. Ingestre is my brother-in-law."

"Den I am satisfied. De Herr Baron vill see to it as officer and genelman."

He took a step towards the door, but Wolff stopped him with a curt gesture. Nor for a moment had he taken his eyes from Miles's colourless and sickly countenance.

"You say that Mr. Ingestre owes you money," he said. "Will you be so kind as to show me the bill?"

The Jew immediately produced a slip of greasy paper and handed it to him. Wolff took it with the tip of his fingers, his eyes narrowing with an irrepressible disgust. There was a moment's waiting silence. Miles's eyes were riveted on the carpet, the Jew was taking an inventory of the furniture, and neither saw Wolff's face. For that matter, save that the lips beneath the short fair moustache had stiffened, there was no noticeable change in his expression.

"Twelve hundred marks!" he said at last, throwing the paper on his table. "Have you that sum by you, Miles? It would be better to pay this gentleman at once."

Miles Ingestre started and glanced loweringly at his brother-in-law's face. He suspected sarcasm, but Wolff's pitiless steel-grey eyes warned him that the time for retort had not yet come.

"Eh--no; I'm afraid I haven't," he stammered. "I am expecting a cheque from home, and of course will pay up at once. To tell you the truth----"

His thin, hesitating voice died away into silence. Perhaps he felt that Wolff had no desire to hear "the truth." He held his tongue, therefore, and let events drift as they might. Wolff had taken Frau von Arnim's envelope from his pocket. He opened it and counted twelve notes for a hundred marks each on to the table.

"Kindly give me your receipt," he said.

The Jew obeyed willingly, scratching an untidy signature across the bottom of the piece of paper which Wolff pushed towards him. With greedy, careful fingers he counted the notes and stuffed them in his pocket.

"It is a great pleasure to deal vid so great genelman," he said as he shuffled to the door.

Wolff waited until he was gone, then he threw open the window as though the atmosphere sickened him. When he turned again his expression was still calm, only the narrowed eyes revealed something of what was passing through his mind.

Miles did not look at him. He was playing with the paper-weight on the table, struggling to regain his dignity. It bit into his mean soul that he should be indebted to "this foreigner."

"It's awfully decent of you, Wolff," he broke out at last. "I'm really awfully grateful, and of course as soon as my money comes----"

Wolff cut him short with an abrupt and contemptuous gesture.

"I ask for no promises," he said, "and make no claim on your gratitude. What I have done was not done for your sake, but for Nora's and my own. I do not wish the scandal of a disgraceful debt to be associated with my name. No doubt you do not understand my point of view, and there is no reason why I should explain it. There is one matter, however, on which I have the right to demand an explanation. You have run through something like L100 in the time that you have been here. Where has this money gone?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders. The movement suggested that as between one man of the world and another the question was superfluous.

"Oh, you know--the usual thing," he said. "Suppers, horses, and women. The people I know all did it. It was pretty well impossible to keep out of the swim."

Wolff detached his sword and seated himself at the table; Miles remained standing, and Wolff did not suggest that he should change his position.

"That means probably that you have other debts," he said. "Is that so?"

"L100 goes nowhere," Miles answered sullenly. "I didn't know they would come down on me so soon."

"You have a curious way of answering a question. Still, I fancy I understand you. You will make a list of these other debts and lay them before me. After that, you will return to England." He saw Miles's start of anger, and went on deliberately: "You have associated with the scum of Berlin, and therein I am perhaps to blame. I should have put an end to it before you drifted thus far. But I was under the illusion that at your age and as Nora's brother you would be capable of behaving as a man of honour. Otherwise, I should never have allowed you in my house."

He opened a drawer and began sorting out some papers before him, with the same deliberation, indifferent to the look of intense hatred which passed over his companion's face. "You have proved that you cannot rise to so necessary a standard," he went on, "and therefore a prolongation of your stay under my roof has become impossible. Nora must know nothing of this, and there must be no fuss or scandal. You will write this evening to your father and request him to telegraph for you immediately--the possibility of war will be sufficient excuse. Until your departure you will behave as usual, with the exception that you do not leave the house. You will, of course, send your apologies to General von Hulson for to-morrow evening. I do not wish you to accompany us. That is all I have to say. You will do well to make no difficulties."

Miles laughed angrily.

"Do you think I'd make difficulties if I could help it?" he demanded. "I'd give ten years of my life to get back to England."

"There is no object in your making fate such a generous offer," was the ironical reply. "Your debts here will be paid--somehow or other. The road home is open to you."

"I can't go without money."

"Your passage will be paid for you."

"I don't mean that--I mean--there are reasons which make it impossible for me to return--just now----"

Arnim swung round in his chair.

"You mean that you have debts in England?"

"Yes."

"In other words, that you left England on that account?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders.

"There were a good many reasons," he said.

There was a moment's silence. Arnim began to write with a studied calm.

"Your debts here will be paid on condition that you leave within forty-eight hours," he said. "I cannot do more for you. I only do that for Nora and for the sake of my own name."

Males leant forward over the table. He was not usually clever, but hatred had made him clever enough to take the most cruel weapon that lay within his reach.

"You talk as though I were such a beastly cad," he said, "but you shut your eyes to the other things that go on in the house. You are particular enough about your precious honour and name where I am concerned; but you let Arnold come into the house and make love to your wife without turning a hair."

"Miles, take care what you are saying!"

"I don't mind telling the truth. I have seen them----"

Wolff held up his hand, and there was something in the movement which checked the flood of malice and treachery and sent Miles back a step as though he had been struck.

"You can go," Wolff said quietly.

Again Miles wavered, torn between rage and cowardice. He hated this iron-willed martinet with his strait-laced principles and intolerable arrogance, but his fear was equal to his hatred, and after a moment he turned and slunk from the room.

Arnim went on writing mechanically. His brain--the steeled, highly trained brain--followed the intricate calculations before him with unchanged precision, but the man himself fought with the poison in his blood, and in the end conquered. As a strong swimmer he rose triumphant above the waves of doubt, suspicion, and calumny which had threatened him and held high above reach the shield of his wife's honour. It was all that was left him--his trust in her, his belief in her integrity. He knew that a crisis was at hand. With Miles's departure would come the moment in which Nora would have to make her choice between the home and people which he represented and her husband. How would she choose? The hope that had comforted him before seemed all too desperate. Family and country called her, and her love was the last frail bond which held her to him. Would it hold good? Had it not perhaps already yielded? Was she not already lost to him?

Yet, as he heard the door of the neighbouring room open and the sound of her quick footsteps, the hot blood rushed to his face, his pulses beat faster with the hope kindled to something that was almost a joyous certainty. She was coming to him. He would see her standing irresolute before him, and he would take her in his arms and by the strength of an unconquerable love draw her back over the tide which was flowing faster and broader between them. It was impossible that he should lose her, impossible that the outward circumstances of their lives should be stronger than themselves and what had been best in them--their love. Even when the footsteps stopped and he remained alone, the impossibility, absurdity of it all was still predominant over despair. He rose and pulled open the door. He had no clear conception of any plan. He was so sure that the moment they stood face to face she would understand everything by some miracle of sympathy, the very thought of an "explanation" was a sacrilege against the power with which he felt himself possessed.

"Nora!" he cried joyfully. "Nora!"

She stood immediately opposite him. Her hat had been flung recklessly on the table, and her hair was disordered, her face white and drawn. She made no answer to his greeting. Her eyes met his with no light in their depths. They were sombre, black, and sullen.

"Nora!" he repeated, and already the note of triumph had died out of his voice. "What is the matter?"

She came at once to him, taking his hands, not in affection but in a sort of feverish despair.

"Wolff," she said, "I want to go away from here--I want to go home!"

The moment of hope and enthusiasm was over. Something mysteriously cold and paralysing had passed like an icy breath over his self-confidence and changed it to a frigid despair. He could not even plead with her, nor tell her of the love which he felt for her nor of the pain which he suffered. Everything lay at the bottom of his heart a dead, frozen weight. He loosened her hands from his arm and forced her gently into a chair.

"You want to go away?" he said quietly. "Why?"

"Because I hate this place and--and every one."

"Does that include your home and your husband, Nora?"

She laughed wildly.

"My home! This isn't my home: it never has been. I have always been a stranger--an exile here. Everything is foreign to me--everything hateful. If you were twenty times my husband, I should say it. I loathe and detest this country and I loathe and detest your people. I am English. I was mad, mad, mad to believe I could ever be anything else!"

She was hysterical with fatigue and excitement, and scarcely conscious of what she was saying. But Wolff, who knew nothing of what had happened at the parade, heard in her words a deliberate and final declaration.

"If you hate my country and my people, you must hate me," he said. "Has it come to that already?"

She sprang to her feet as though goaded by some frightful inner torment.

"No, no, I don't hate you," she cried. "I love you at the bottom--at least, I believe I do. I can't tell. Everything in me is in revolt and uproar. I can't see you clearly as you are, as I love you. You are just one of those others, one of those whom I detest as my deadliest enemy. That is why I must go away. If I stayed, God knows, I believe I should grow to hate you."

Every trace of colour faded out of his face, but he did not speak, and she ran to him and clasped his arm with the old reckless pleading.

"Let me go!" she begged. "Let me go home! Things will be better then. I shall quiet down. I shan't be so constantly maddened and irritated as I am now. I shall have time to think. Wolff, I _must_ go!"

"If you go now, it will be for ever," he said steadily. "The woman who leaves her husband and her country in the time of danger sacrifices the right to return."

"Wolff!" Her hands sank to her side. She stared at him blankly, horror-stricken.

"You must see that for yourself," he went on in the same tone of rigid self-control. "If war breaks out and you return to England, you can never come back here as my wife. I am a German and an officer, and the woman who shares my life must share my duty. That is the law. It is a just and right one. Husband and wife cannot be of different factions. They must stand together under the same flag. In marrying me you accepted my country as your own. If you leave me now, you are turning traitor, and there must be no traitors amongst us."

He put the case before her with pitiless logic, more overwhelming than the fiercest outburst of passion. The hysterical excitement died out of her face.

"A traitor!" she repeated dully. "How can I be that? How can any one give up their country?"

"I do not know," he answered, "and therefore whatever you choose I shall not blame you. I only show you the inevitable consequences."

"Wolff, I can't stay here. Everybody hates me. I can't hide what I feel. You don't know the things I have done--and said. I--I insulted some one this afternoon."

"It can all be lived down," he returned. "People will forgive and understand, if you stand by us."

"But I can't--not in my heart of hearts. Wolff, if war breaks out, I shall be praying for your ruin--yes, in your very churches I shall pray for it. Perhaps my prayers will direct the very bullet that kills you----"

Her voice shook with a kind of smothered horror, which stirred the cold weight in his heart to pity.

"Hush, Nora, hush! That is all exaggerated feeling. It is hard for you, but you must choose. Either you must sacrifice your country or your husband. That is the simple issue."

"Why should _I_ bring the sacrifice?" she retorted. "Why must _I_ be the one to give up everything that I was taught to love and honour next to God? If you love me, leave the army, leave Germany! Let us go away--anywhere--and be happy together!"

"Nora!"

"You see!" she exclaimed with bitter triumph. "That is too much to ask from you!"

"I am a soldier," he said.

"Then I would to God I had been born to so easy a profession!"

She turned away, battling with the fierce, angry sobs that choked her. The next instant his arms were about her. There was no hope and no joy in his embrace. He held her as he might have done in the midst of shipwreck and before the approach of death.

"Do you think it is easy to put before you the choice--knowing what you will choose?" he asked.

"Knowing----?" she stammered.

"You do not love me enough to stand by me."

"That is not true!"

She freed herself and took a step back, searching his face as though to find there an answer to some agonising doubt.

"That is not true," she repeated breathlessly.

He lifted his hand in stern warning.

"Think, Nora! We stand, you and I, at the parting of the ways. Make your choice honestly--I shall not blame you. But once you have chosen, there must be no turning back. If you choose to follow me, it must be to the bitter end of your duty. You must curse my enemies and bless my friends. Otherwise there can be no peace and happiness between us. If you choose your country--and those others whom you love--you shall go to them. I shall keep you in my heart until I die, but I will never see you again."

In spite of his strongest effort, his voice shook, and that one signal from the depths of his despair called forth the one and only answer of which her headlong, passionate nature was capable. She flung herself into his arms, clinging to him in a storm of grief and pity.

"With God's help, I will stand by you to the end, my husband!"

For a long minute he held her to him, and then gradually he felt how her whole frame relaxed and her arms sank powerless to her side. He looked down into her face. It was very pale, and a faint, childlike smile of utter weariness hovered round the half-open lips.

"I am so tired, Wolff," she said under her breath, "so tired!"

Without answering, he bore her to the sofa and laid her with a clumsy tenderness among the cushions. But he did not speak again. For the moment the conflict was over; a truce had been called between them. Only his instinct knew it was no more than that. Thus he knelt down silently beside her, and with her hand still clasped in his watched over her as she slept.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*THE CODE OF HONOUR*

Nora stood before the long glass in the drawing-room and studied herself with a listless interest. The expensive white chiffon dress which Wolff had given her for the occasion became her well, and at another time she might have found an innocent pleasure in this contemplation of her own picture. But she was exhausted, spiritually and physically. The storm of the day before had shattered something in her--perhaps her youth--and she saw in the mirror only the pale face and heavy eyes, and before her in the near future an evening of outward gaiety and inward trial. That which she had once sought after with feverish desire--magnificence and contact with the great world where stuffy flats and poverty were unknown--had become her poison. She shrank instinctively, like some poor invalid, from all noise and movement. She would have been thankful to be able to lie down and sleep and forget, but Duty, that grim fetish to which she had sworn obedience, demanded of her that she should laugh and seem merry beneath the critical, questioning eyes of those who to-morrow might be fighting against her people.

Miles was lying in his usual attitude on the sofa, watching her. He had been curiously quiet the whole day, keeping to the house and avoiding Arnim with an increased shyness. Nora believed that she understood him. She did not see that his young face was sallow and lined with dissipation, nor that his furtive eyes were heavy and bloodshot. She saw in him only the brother, the Englishman, and that one fact of his nationality covered him with a cloak, hiding from her all that was pitiable and contemptible, lending him a dignity, a worthiness that was not his. So also she interpreted his general conduct and his abrupt refusal to accompany her to the Hulsons' ball. She felt that he was awaiting the hour of departure to his own country, chafing at the bonds which held him, and that, like a true Englishman, he shrank from all further association with his future enemies. She honoured him for it--she envied him for it; but she dreaded her own loneliness. She came to his side and laid her hand gently on his shoulder.

"I wish you were coming too," she said, "for my sake, not for yours."

"I can't," he retorted sullenly.

"No, I know. I was not going to try and persuade you. I understand so well how you feel. Oh, Miles, you must go back to England--we must manage it somehow. I shall tell Wolff to-night. Things can't be worse than they are--and perhaps he will help."

Miles Ingestre looked at her keenly. An expression that was half cunning, half amused lifted the moody shadows from his face. It was obvious that she did not know what had passed between Wolff and himself, and it was not his intention to tell her. His promise to Wolff on the subject did not weigh with him--he had other and better reasons for keeping silence. In the first place, he had no wish to awaken any sense of gratitude towards her husband in Nora's heart; in the second, he still needed money.

"You need not worry him with my debts," he said carelessly. "They can wait, and anyhow they wouldn't keep me in Berlin. The difficulty is on the other side."

"In England?"

"Yes; I must have ready money somehow. I can't go back until the way has been cleared a little." He pulled himself up on to his elbow. "Look here, Nora, you could help me if you wanted. Wolff can't and won't do anything, but there's Bauer. You don't need to look so shocked--he's told me himself that he would do me a good turn, only his sister-in-law has the purse-strings, and you have rather offended her. If you went to her ball on the 18th----"

"Miles, it is impossible! You don't know----"

"I only know that if you don't help me I shall be in a bad fix. When the war breaks out----"

"Is war certain?"

"Unless they funk it. I believe the ambassador has his trunks packed and his carriage waiting."

Nora made a gesture of mingled impatience and despair.

"Why must there be war?" she cried. "Why can't we leave each other alone? What is there to quarrel about?"

"Nothing!" Miles retorted. "The whole thing is got up. The beggars want more than is good for them, and we've got to keep them in their places. That's the gist of the matter. It has to come sooner or later."

Nora was silent. His words, with their unvaried mingling of scorn and pride, aroused in her an equally mingled feeling of irritation and sympathy. Why was he so sure of victory, why so scornful of "these foreigners"? What right had he to be either contemptuous or arrogant? What right had she to share those feelings with him, even if only in the secret places of her heart?

"By the way," Miles went on, watching her intently. "What's the matter with you and poor old Arnold? He has been here twice to-day, and you have been so-called 'out' each time. I got a note from him asking what was up. It's pretty rough luck on him, as he wants to say good-bye."

"Good-bye?" Nora repeated. She had started perceptibly, and Miles grinned.

"He has marching orders, and is leaving to-morrow night. I bet he would have gone days ago if it hadn't been--well, for some one!"

"Miles, I will not have you talk like that!"

She had turned on him scarlet with anger and humiliation, but Miles only burst out laughing.

"You need not get into such a rage, sweet sister mine! I didn't say it was you, though if the cap fits----" He broke off into a sulky silence. Wolff had entered. He was in full dress, and bespattered with mud, as though he had returned from an arduous ride. In one hand he carried a dispatch case. One glance at his face showed them that he controlled a strong excitement.

"I am awfully sorry, Nora," he said hurriedly, "it is impossible for me to accompany you. I have been driven from pillar to post the whole day, and now I have some work which will take me the whole night. You must give my excuses to General von Hulson. He will understand why it is. A good many officers will be absent for the same reason."

"Then I must go alone?" she asked.

Absorbed as he was, he heard the reproach and annoyance.

"Do you mind that?"

"I shall hate it!" she said emphatically.

The word "hate," with all its too recent associations, caused him to look at her closely. He saw that she had lost her pallor, and that the old defiant light burnt in her eyes.

"Perhaps it would be better, then, if Miles accompanied you," he said. "There is still time."

"I do not wish Miles to do anything he objects to," she returned coldly. "No doubt he has his reasons for not going."

Wolff's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.

"No doubt," he said, glancing in Miles's direction; "but perhaps if I added my appeal to yours he would consent to overcome--his reasons."

Miles rose sullenly to his feet.

"If you want it--of course," he mumbled.

Wolff nodded absently. He went into his room, closed the door, leaving Nora alone. There had been an expression of anxiety on his face which did not, however, excuse his apparent indifference in Nora's eyes, and she stood frowning after him, puzzled and deeply wounded. But she made no attempt to follow him. The scene of the previous evening had been a last effort; she was too weary, too hopeless to strive again after a reunion which seemed already an impossibility.

Twenty minutes later Miles reappeared in the full glory of his evening clothes. Nora was surprised--perhaps a little disappointed--to observe that his spirits had risen.

"The carriage is waiting," he said. "Hurry up, or we shall be late."

Nora hesitated. A superstitious clinging to an old custom led her to the threshold of Wolff's room. She tried the handle of the door without effect, and when she turned away again her cheeks were scarlet.

"Locked, eh?" Miles said. "I bet he's afraid of us catching sight of his papers. Arnold said some of those staff fellows have the handling of pretty valuable stuff."

Nora gave no attention to his words, though she was destined to remember them. She led the way down the narrow stairs into the street where the cab was waiting for them, and a minute later they were rattling out of the little by-street into the busy thoroughfare.

It seemed to Nora that the crowds were denser than usual, that a curious unrest was written on the usually placid, cheerful faces that flashed past the open carriage window. She remembered Wolff's expression as he had entered the room; she felt now that it had been the unconscious reflection from those other faces, and that the one invisible bond of sympathy which unites all men of the same race had passed on the flame of patriotism from one to another, till in all these thousands there burned, above every meaner passion, the supreme _Vaterlandsliebe_. Only _she_ felt nothing, nothing--though she was bound to them by oath--save fear and horror. She felt alone, deserted. Miles was the one being in the whole seething crowd who felt as she felt, who suffered as she suffered. She turned to him with an impulsive tenderness. He was not looking out of the window, but staring straight before him, with his low forehead puckered into thoughtful lines.

"It's a queer thing," he said, as though he felt her questioning glance. "Here we both are in a foreign country, mixing with people whom we shall be blowing up to-morrow, and to-day not moving a finger to harm them, just because the word has not been given, as it were. If I threw a bomb amongst all those big-wigs to-night, who knows what victories I might prevent?--and yet I suppose it would be murder. And then, there is Wolff stewing over papers that, I bet, the English War Office would give a few thousands just to look at; you and I sit and watch him and never move a hand."

"What do you expect us to do?" she returned listlessly.

"Nothing, I suppose."

The rest of the drive passed in silence, and once in the ball-room, Nora lost sight of her brother completely. He drifted off by himself, whither and with whom she could not think, for she knew that he had no friends in the brilliant crowd. She, too, was friendless, though there were many there who bowed to her and passed on, and for the first time she realised the full extent of her isolation. The Selenecks were not there, and she was glad of their absence: she would have hated them to have been witnesses of her loneliness. Those whom she knew, whose comradeship with her husband should have guaranteed a certain courtesy, passed her by. Nora cared nothing for them, but the humiliation stung her to the quick. She was English, and because she was English they insulted her, tacitly and deliberately. Not all the months in her husband's country had taught her to understand that she had insulted them, that she had trampled on their pride of race, and scorned the customs and opinions which were their holiest possessions. It never occurred to her that the description of the scene of the previous afternoon had passed from lip to lip with the rapidity of lightning, and that in the eyes of that mighty brotherhood of soldiers, and of that still mightier sisterhood of their wives, she was branded as a renegade, as a woman who had spat upon her husband's uniform, and exalted another race above that to which she belonged--a _Deutschfeindliche_, an enemy who masqueraded among them under a transparent guise of hypocritical friendship. Perhaps some pitied her; but for the most part they were the older men, whose experience taught them to be pitiful--and they were not present on this particular night. Even if they had been they could have done nothing to help her. She was an outcast, and for them she had made herself "unclean." Thus poor Nora, still young and headstrong in all her emotions, her sensibilities raw with the events of the last weeks, stood alone and watched the scene before her with eyes from which the tears were held back by the strength of pride alone.

There must have been considerably over two hundred guests present, almost exclusively officers of lower rank, with here and there a civilian to throw the brilliant uniforms into more striking relief. Nora could not but be impressed by the tall, finely built men, with the strong-cut, bronzed faces, and in each she saw a dim reflection of her husband. There was perhaps no real resemblance, but they were of one type--they were German, and that one similarity aroused in her the old feeling of wild opposition against the man she loved, and whom she had sworn to stand by to the end. Her love for him was as genuine as her admiration for these, his brothers--as genuine as her hatred for him and for them all.