Chapter XIII: Book III: The Bridge (11)

In the midst of her bitter reflections she heard a voice speak to her, and, turning, found Bauer at her side. She had expected him the whole evening, and her humiliation deepened as she saw the cynical satisfaction in his eyes. She knew that he was triumphing in the belief that he had won, that in her loneliness she would turn to him, and the knowledge changed her misery to a desperate pride.

"Well, _gnaedige Frau_," he said. She made no answer, and his smile broadened. "You see, I am very punctual," he went on. "I have come for my answer. What is it to be?"

"I gave it you once," she returned. "Is that not enough?"

"Circumstances can alter the most determined. Are you not tired of this Pharisaical crowd, who pretend to look upon you as dirt because you do not pronounce their shibboleth as it pleases them? Are you not ready now to come amongst friends who wish you well--who would help you? You have only to say the word."

She looked about her, feeling her isolation like an icy wind, and for an instant knew temptation. How easy it would be to yield! What, after all, had he asked of her?--her friendship, common politeness for the woman who had shown her kindness. What had he offered her? His help and support in her loneliness and need. Then she remembered--and the temptation passed.

"My answer remains the same, Herr Rittmeister."

His face became suffused with a dull red.

"_Gnaedige Frau_, take care! It is not only your brother who will suffer for your decision!"

She heard the angry threat in his voice, and a feeling of contempt and aversion, almost physical in its intensity, came over her. She looked about her, half unconsciously seeking some way of escape. Miles was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes flashed rapidly over the crowd, picking out the black evening coats, and then for the first time she saw Arnold. She went to meet him, regardless of prudence, of the rage in Bauer's eyes, of the malice and suspicion that watched her from every side. She only knew that a friend had come to her in the midst of enemies, and that she was no longer alone.

"Oh, Robert!" she cried. "How glad I am to see you! How did you manage to come here?"

"The Ambassador got me the invitation," he said, taking her hand in his strong clasp. "God knows it isn't the time to seek such hospitality, but I had to see you somehow, Nora, before I went."

"Let us get away from this crowd," she said hurriedly. "We can't talk here."

He gave her his arm and led her to one of the supper-tables that were placed beneath the gallery.

"We can pretend to want coffee, or something of the sort," he said. "No one will disturb us."

She looked across and smiled at him with a fleeting radiance. Oh, that English voice, that English face! Laughter of relief and thankfulness fought with the tears that had so long lain checked, and now struggled for release beneath the touch of a friend's unspoken sympathy.

"Nora, what is wrong?" he went on. "Why wouldn't you see me? Have I offended you in any way?"

"Offended me!" She laughed brokenly. "Do I look offended, Robert? Don't you know I could have danced for joy when I saw you coming?"

Reckless Nora! Her words, spoken in a moment of relief from an agonising pressure, had not the meaning which he believed he read out of them. Something was not any longer so selfless, so resigned, flashed into his steady grey eyes.

"Then what is it, Nora? Tell me everything. You know you have promised me your friendship."

She did not hesitate an instant. Those three hours beneath the enemy's fire had driven her to exasperation, to that point of hysterical nervousness from which most feminine folly is committed.

"They forbade my seeing you," she said--"not in words; but they said things which left me no choice. They said I was bringing disgrace upon my husband, and upon his name----"

"Nora! Who said that?"

"Frau von Arnim. She hates me. And Wolff said much the same. They can't understand a straight, honest friendship between a man and a woman."

"You mean it was because of me?"

"Yes. Of course Frau von Arnim knows everything about--about the past, and she believes--oh, it is too horrid what she believes. We don't need to think about it. She has not told Wolff. If she had he would have turned me out of the house or locked me up in the cellar. None of them--not even he--can understand. Oh, Robert, you don't know how hard it was to have to send you away! You and Miles are the only people in all this big city to whom I can turn."

Arnold sat silent, staring in front of him. His pulses were beating with a growing, suffocating excitement. He knew by every tone of her voice, by every glance of her stormy, miserable eyes, that she was in his power, that he had but to make the appeal and she would follow him out of the room whithersoever he led her. The knowledge touched his steady-flowing blood with fever--in the same moment he was conscious of remorse and shame. He had lingered at her side against every behest of wisdom and honour, deceiving himself and her with an assumption of loyal, disinterested friendship. It was no friendship. Those who had judged it by another name had judged rightly. He had come between husband and wife, he was at that very moment, willingly or unwillingly, playing the part of tempter in the devil's comedy.

"Nora," he began, "perhaps I have done you harm. Perhaps I ought not to have come to-night."

"I don't care!" she retorted recklessly. "I don't care whether anything is right or wrong. When you came I was desperate. I hate every one here. It is awful to feel that I belong to them. I want to get away from here--home, to England."

"Nora--for God's sake!" He was frightened now--of her and of himself. "You must not talk like that. Your home is here with your husband."

"It is not!" she retorted, in the same low, trembling voice. "It is in England--it can never be anywhere else. Oh, you don't know what I suffer!"

"I can guess. Why don't you tell Wolff everything? Why don't you confide in him?"

Everything in him revolted against his own words. They were spoken, not out of innermost conviction, but as a stern tribute to his honour, and the principles which were bred into his bone and blood.

"I have," she said, "but it was of no good. He could not help me--no one can. It is as he said--one must choose."

"Poor child!"

"I deserve it all. It is my punishment. I did wrong in marrying Wolff, I did wrong to make you suffer. And now I suffer----"

"Nora!" An immense tenderness crept into his voice. He heard it, and the next moment he had regained his self-control. He was ashamed of the role he had been about to play. "We must bear our lot," he said sternly.

The waltz, under cover of which their rapid conversation had taken place, died into silence, and close upon the momentary hush that followed, they heard the dull thud of a falling body, a crash of glass and a low hubbub, above which one loud angry voice was distinctly audible. Nora started to her feet. Whether she had recognised that voice, or whether she was led by some instinct, she did not know. Her heart was beating with fear and excitement.

"Something has happened!" she exclaimed. "Quick!"

Arnold followed her in the direction whence the sounds came. In one of the adjoining alcoves a little group of officers had collected, and as they approached near enough to see what was happening, Arnold turned to Nora and tried to draw her on one side.

"Don't go!" he said. "It is some silly quarrel! Let me see to it."

"No, no!" she returned hoarsely, and pushed forward to the outside of the circle. She saw Miles standing by the table; he was leaning on it as though for support, his dress was disordered, his features crimson with drink and passion. A young officer had hold of him by the arm and was evidently trying to hold him back. A few feet away Bauer was rearranging his collar, with an assumption of contemptuous calm. A red scar upon his cheek told its own story.

"You d----d liar!" Miles shrieked in English, struggling against the detaining hold upon his arm. "If it wasn't that they protected you I'd thrash you within an inch of your life!"

His opponent smiled scornfully.

"I do not care for boxing-matches in a ball-room." he said, "not even with an intoxicated Englishman. Captain von Ebberstein, I should be very glad if you would represent me in this matter."

The one elderly officer present bowed, and approached Miles, whom he also saluted with a faultless formality, which contrasted strikingly with the other's unsteady, excited movements.

"Perhaps the gentleman would kindly name his seconds," he said, speaking in broken English. "The continuation of this affair can then be arranged on a more becoming occasion."

Arnold tried to loosen Nora's grasp upon his arm.

"I must get him out of this somehow," he whispered. "They are trying to force him into a duel."

Miles, however, gave him no time to interfere.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded.

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

"You felt yourself wounded in your honour and have avenged yourself by insulting this officer here. That can have but one meaning."

"I swear I don't know what you are talking about!"

"There are certain injuries for which there is but one remedy," was the cold explanation.

A light seemed to dawn over Miles's scarlet face. He burst into a high, wavering laugh.

"You think I am going to fight a duel? You think I'm going to make such a d----d fool of myself?" he demanded thickly.

The officers looked at each other in contemptuous silence. Bauer smiled and turned aside, as though to spare himself the sight of so profound a humiliation. Captain von Ebberstein alone retained his expression of profound gravity.

"A gentleman is expected to give satisfaction," he said.

"I don't care what you expect," was Miles's retort. "I'll have nothing to do with such infernal nonsense. He lied, and I choked the lie down his throat, and there's an end to the matter!"

"On the contrary, it is the beginning."

"I think differently."

Bauer advanced. He was swinging his white kid glove carelessly backwards and forwards, and there was the same scornful smile about his lips. At the same moment his eyes fell on Nora's face, and the smile deepened with malicious satisfaction.

"In that case, it is my duty to inform you that you are neither a gentleman nor a man of honour," he said. "As such, and as a coward, you will feel no objection to my expressing my feelings--thus!"

He flung the glove full into Miles's face.

There was a moment of expectant silence. Miles appeared to ignore what had happened. The temporary excitement was over, and the wine was beginning to numb his senses with the first touch of drowsiness. It was Arnold's opportunity. He pushed through the little circle and took Miles firmly by the arm.

"Let me pass!" he said to those about him. "This gentleman is my friend."

Miles yielded passively, and no one made any effort to detain him. The group fell back on either side, as they would have done from people infected with disease, and Arnold guided the wavering Miles across the ballroom. The floor was empty, and Nora felt she must sink beneath the hundreds of eyes that watched them. Yet she carried herself haughtily, and the one thought that flashed clearly through her mind, as the great glass doors swung behind her, was that she was free--that, come what would, she could never see those people again. The last possibility of her existence amongst them was destroyed. Further than that she refused to think.

The drive home was an absolutely silent one. Miles, yielding to the influence of champagne and the late excitement, fell into a disturbed doze, from which Arnold and Nora made no attempt to arouse him. They sat opposite each other in the half-light, avoiding each other's eyes.

Thus they reached the gloomy little house which was Nora's home.

"I had better help him upstairs," Arnold said quietly. "We must make as little fuss as possible."

Nora consented with a brief inclination of the head. She was past all struggle against circumstances. Between them they succeeded in piloting Miles up the endless flights. He seemed, quite unconscious of his state, and talked loudly and incessantly, so that all hope of bringing him to his room unobserved was doomed as vain. Nevertheless, stunned and indifferent as she was, Nora started back involuntarily as Wolff met them in the passage. He carried a candle in his hand, and the light reflected on his pale, exhausted face fell also on Miles, and revealed enough of the truth. He glanced away at Nora, and from Nora to Arnold. His expression betrayed no feeling, but she felt that he was trying to read into the very depths of their souls.

"Please come in here," he said quietly.

He led the way into the drawing-room and switched on the light, and they followed him without protest.

"Tell me what happened," he commanded.

Arnold made a movement as though he would have spoken, but Wolff stopped him with a courteous but decided gesture.

"I wish Miles to tell me--if he can," he said.

Miles lifted his hanging head. A silly self-satisfaction twisted his unsteady lips.

"I can tell you right enough," he said, "only I'll sit down, if you don't mind, I feel so infernally shaky. It was Bauer, you know. I was having my supper when I heard him and another fellow talking, and though I'm not good at the jargon I caught the drift of what he was saying. It was about a woman. He said if he were her husband he would make an end of such a dirty scandal, and put a bullet through some one or other's head. You can fancy that I pricked up my ears, and I turned and saw that he was pointing at Nora and Arnold. That was too much for me. I got up and asked what he meant. He told me--and I swear it wasn't nice. He said----"

Wolff lifted his hand.

"I don't want to hear that," he said. "Go on."

"Well, I knocked him down, and there was the devil of a row!" Miles laughed unsteadily. "The silly fools wanted me to fight a duel over it!" he added.

"And you----?"

"I told them I wasn't going to make such a d----d idiot of myself."

Wolff said nothing for a moment. His whole face had stiffened, and he was looking at Miles from head to foot.

"And after that they called you a coward?" he asked, at last.

"Some rot like that----"

"And they were right. You are a coward--the vilest, most pitiful coward I have ever met."

"Wolff!"

It was Nora who had cried out. The insult had fallen on her brother and herself alike, and her voice shook with passionate indignation.

Her husband turned to her.

"The man who is not ready to risk his life for his sister's honour _is_ a coward," he asserted deliberately.

A gesture of protest escaped Arnold, who had hitherto remained silent and motionless.

"You forget," he said. "In England we do not duel--it is not our custom."

"No; you go to law and take money for your injured honour," was the coldly scornful answer. "That is the revenge of shopkeepers--not of gentlemen."

The two men measured each other in painful electric silence, and as they stood there face to face, the contrast between them marked them as two great types of two great races. The thin, loosely built Englishman, with the long, gaunt features, confronted the German, whose broad shoulders and massive head seemed to make him taller than his opponent. Perhaps some vague notion of the conflict which they represented dawned in Nora's mind. She looked from one to the other, terrified of the forces behind the masks of stern self-repression, and instinctively weighing them in a mental balance. For the first time in their married life she was afraid of her husband. It seemed to her that his height and breadth had increased in the last moments; there was something gigantic in the stature, and something bulldog, tenacious, and yet keenly alive, powerfully intellectual in the face, with its square chin and massive forehead. Compared with him, Arnold, tall and wiry though he was in reality, appeared enfeebled, almost fragile. If the two men had fallen upon each other in that moment--the very possibility sickened Nora's heart with fear. She had seen Arnold's hands clench themselves as Wolff's scornful criticism had been uttered, and involuntarily she had taken a quick step forward as though to fling herself between them. But there was no need for interference. Both men possessed admirable self-control, and in that moment at least they respected each other.

"We have our own opinions on these matters," Arnold said. "You have yours. Mr. Ingestre is an Englishman, and does not need to conform to your customs. He gave his opponent the lie, and has done all that he need do."

"So you have said," Wolff returned calmly. "In my eyes, and in the eyes of my world, there is still much to be done. But that--as the one German here--concerns me alone." He turned to Miles, who was still seated, his face in his hands, apparently dozing. "Go to your room!" he commanded peremptorily. The tone of almost brutal authority acted like a goad on Nora's tortured nerves.

"You speak to my brother as though he were a dog!" she burst out.

Wolff did not answer her.

"Go to your room!" he repeated.

Miles staggered to his feet and tottered across to the door. He seemed to be obeying the hypnotising power of Wolff's voice, for his movements were those of a sleep-walker.

"Good night, every one!" he mumbled. "Good night!"

No one responded. The two men again faced each other.

"I am grateful to you for the assistance you rendered my wife," Wolff said. "We shall scarcely meet again."

"Not here, at any rate," was the significant answer.

A curt salute, and Arnold turned away. He gave Nora his hand.

"Good-bye--and God bless you!" he said.

Her lips moved soundlessly. For an instant it seemed almost as though she clung to him. Then her hand fell listlessly to her side, and the next minute he too had gone.

Husband and wife did not speak. Nora seated herself at the table and buried her face in her arms. She cried without restraint, not loudly, but with low, monotonous, terrible sobs.

Her husband crossed to the door of his room. He stood there a moment, his head bowed, listening. It was as though he were receiving some final message from those sounds of piteous self-abandonment. But he did not look at Nora. He went out, and the soft click of the lock pierced through her grief, so that she started upright.

She saw that the door was closed, and that she was alone.

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE SEA BETWEEN*

To reach Wolff's study it was necessary to pass through the drawing-room. On his way, therefore, Captain von Seleneck encountered Nora, who was seated at her table writing. He bowed, she answered with a slight inclination of the head and he passed on, as a total stranger might have done, into the inner sanctuary.

He found Wolff at work on some nearly finished plans. He was standing over them, and with a compass measuring distances with a careful, painstaking exactitude, and his face, as he looked up, though haggard almost beyond belief, was absolutely determined, without trace of weakness.

The two men shook hands and Wolff went on working.

"It was good of you to come, Kurt," he said. "I know you must be overburdened with duty just now."

"One has always time for a comrade, and especially for you," was the answer; "and whether you had sent for me or not, I should have come--like a bird of ill-omen. I felt I owed it to you as your friend, and you would rather have it from me than from another man. It seems, though, you know all about last night?"

"Quite enough."

"It was a wretched affair," Seleneck said, placing his helmet on the table. "I got it from an eye-witness. Of course, your precious brother-in-law had had too much to drink. That was inevitable, and might have been hushed up. But then came the row with Bauer. It was obvious that Bauer was on the look-out for mischief, and I should like to give Mr. Ingestre the credit for knocking him down as a return for what he said about your wife. Unfortunately, the real subject of dispute was--money."

Wolff nodded.

"How did you hear of it?" he asked.

"Ebberstein came straight to me. It was rather decent of him. He knew, of course, that I was your friend, and the best person to tell you what had happened. It was obvious that you had to be told. You see--it was not only your brother-in-law. Your--wife's name and--and honour were dragged in."

Wolff's lips tightened.

"I know," he said. "Go on!"

"Well, we talked it over, and I promised to come round to you directly I was free. When I got back this morning I found your letter waiting for me, and here I am!" He laid his hand with an affectionate movement on his comrade's shoulder. "Whatever it is--I'm your man," he said.

"I know, _alter Junge_. You have always stuck to me. You were the one man in all Berlin to whom I felt I could turn with real confidence. By the way, I suppose I may leave the arrangement of things in your hands?"

"I shall be proud to act for you, Wolff. To all intents and purposes everything is settled. Ebberstein and I talked it over last night. In the almost certain event of your challenging, we decided that a Court of Honour should sit this evening in my house and that the meeting should take place at the latest to-morrow morning. It is impossible to know when we shall have marching-orders, so there must be no delay. If you wish it, I shall proceed at once to Bauer and find out whom he intends to appoint as seconds. The rest of the formalities you can safely entrust to me."

"Thank you. When is the Court of Honour appointed to sit?"

"If it can be managed, at six o'clock. The circumstances are simple enough, so that the conditions should be very quickly settled. You, of course, are the challenging party, and the matter will come under the head of '_schwere Beleidigung_,' so that ten paces will be about the outcome. Are you good at that distance?"

"Pretty well."

"Ebberstein says your man is a first-class shot. _Es heisst aufpassen_, Wolff!"

Arnim made no answer and his companion took up his helmet.

"I shall come round to you this evening as soon as the Court's decision has been given," he said.

Wolff looked up quickly.

"If you don't mind, I would prefer to come to you," he said. "And if I might, I will stay the night at your house. It would be better. I do not want my wife to know anything of what is to happen."

"But--_Menschenkind_! She _must_ know!"

"She suspects nothing. You forget--she is not one of us. She does not understand."

Seleneck stared thoughtfully in front of him, pulling his moustache as though a prey to some painful uneasiness.

"Of course I hope the very best for you, Wolff," he said, at last, "but you are a big man, and unlucky accidents happen. It would be pretty hard on your wife if she knew nothing and----"

"It would be a shock," interrupted Wolff quietly. "I know that. Believe me, though, what I have arranged is for the best. She would not understand."

Seleneck asked none of the questions that were burning the tip of his tongue. A natural delicacy, above all, his comrade's face, held him silent, and it was Wolff who continued after a moment:

"In the event of what you call an 'unlucky accident' my wife will, of course, return to her own country. Her brother is starting for England to-morrow, so that she will be able to accompany him. But in any case--whether I fall or not--I beg of you to do your utmost to shield her from all trouble--and scandal. She is innocent--absolutely innocent. I know--you cannot hide it from me--that you and all the rest blame her. She is not to be blamed because she married a man not of her own people. She is to be profoundly pitied. That is all, and it explains everything."

"You talk as though you were certain of the worst," Seleneck said. "But if everything goes well--what then?"

The compasses slipped from Wolff's fingers.

"God knows!" he said.

It was no exclamation of despair, rather a reverent surrender of a life which he could no longer shape alone, and Seleneck turned aside, more deeply moved than he cared to show. He had known Wolff from the earliest _Kadetten_ days, and had watched the dawn of great promise break into a day of seeming fulfilment. With unchanging, unenvying friendship he had followed the brilliant career, admiring the boy's ambition ripening to steadfast purpose, the boyish spirits steadying to a bold and fearless optimism. And, after all, he ended as others ended--in shipwreck--only more tragically, with the port of Victory in sight. Seleneck remembered his own words spoken only a few months before: "Take care that you do not end as Field-Marshal with Disappointment for an Adjutant!" And Wolff was not even major, and something worse than Disappointment, something that was more like Catastrophe, had already chosen him as comrade.

Against Wolff's wish, Seleneck blamed Nora bitterly. He held her responsible for every shadow that had fallen upon the hopeful life, but he swore to himself that she should not know it, and that he would prove her friend for her husband's sake, whatever befell.

"My will is, of course, made," Wolff said, breaking upon his troubled reflections, "and here is a letter to my aunt and Hildegarde; please give it to them in the event of my death."

"And for your wife?"

"This other letter is for her."

Seleneck took the two envelopes and put them in his pocket.

"I think everything is settled now?" he said.

"Everything. I shall work at these plans as long as possible, and if I get them finished I shall take them to Colonel von Beck before I come to you. If not, I shall leave them locked in here and bring you the key. If anything happens to me, you will know where to find them. They are of some importance, and I would be grateful if you would see to it that they are taken at once to head-quarters."

"Pray Heaven you may be able to take them yourself!" Seleneck returned earnestly.

Wolff made no answer, but he straightened his shoulders and held out a steady hand.

"In any case, thank you for your friendship, Kurt," he said. "It has been the best--no, almost the best thing in my life."

That loyal correction touched the elder man profoundly, and for the first time a faint trace of emotion relaxed Wolff's set features.

"Do not let my wife suspect that anything serious has passed between us," he added. "She suffers enough."

The two men embraced, and Seleneck went out of the room with his brows knitted in bitter, painful lines. He did not wish to see Wolff's wife, much less speak with her, but she was still seated by the table, and as he entered she rose as though she had been waiting for him. She did not offer him her hand, and in spite of all his resolutions he felt that the enmity and distrust were in his eyes as he waited for her to speak.

"Has anything happened?" she asked breathlessly.

If he could have forgotten his friend's face, he might have pitied her in that moment. Only a few months had passed since he had welcomed the girlish bride on the Karlsburg platform, and now all the girlhood had gone. She looked old as she stood there--pitiably old, because the age lay only in the expression, which was bitter, miserable, and reckless.

"What should have happened, _gnaedige Frau_?" Seleneck answered, parrying her question with an indifference which concealed a very real anxiety. He could not free himself from the conviction that she knew. He could not imagine it possible that she was ignorant of the consequences of the last night's catastrophe.

"You know very well what I mean!" Nora said roughly. "I ask you because you must know. Will there be war?"

Seleneck nearly laughed. So much for his sharp-sightedness! She had not been thinking of her husband, but of herself; or was perhaps the fear written on her face, fear for his safety? He did not believe it. He was too bitter against her to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"I know no more than you know, _gnaedige Frau_," he said. "Our ultimatum has been sent to England. The next twenty-four hours must decide."

"But surely you have an idea--surely you can guess?"

"_Gnaedige Frau_, we soldiers are not politicians. We are ready to march when the order is given. That is the only point with which we are concerned."

He waited an instant, and then, as she did not answer, he clapped his spurred heels together and went.

Nora crept back to her place at the table. Her movements were like those of a woman who has struggled up from a severe illness, and as she sat there with the pen in her listless hand she asked herself if this feeling of deadly physical inertia were not indeed the forerunner of the definite breakdown of her whole strength. Alone her thoughts seemed alive, to be indued with an agonising vitality which left her no peace or rest. They had followed her through the short night hours of sleep, and they pursued her now till she could have cried out with pain and despair. They were not thoughts that helped her, or sought a way for her out of the problem of her life. They were of the kind that haunt the fevered mind in dreams, pictures of the past and of the future that slipped across her mental vision in kaleidoscopic confusion, only to return again and again with hideous persistency. She could not control them; she sat there and yielded herself listlessly to their torture, leaving to Fate the whole guidance of the future. She had no plans of her own. Once it had occurred to her to write to her mother, but she had not traced more than the first few lines before the pen fell from her hand. Pride, rather than love, held her back from the bitter confession of her wretchedness. The thought of her father's triumph and her mother's grief had been sufficient to turn her away from the one path which still remained open to her.

Thus her thoughts continued their round, and the winter dusk deepened to evening. The servant had forgotten to attend to the stove, and a bitter penetrating cold ate into her very heart. She cared too little to move. She sat with her chin resting on her hand and watched the snow that was beginning to fall in the quiet street. Winter--in a few days Christmas! The thoughts took a swift turn. A year ago she had been at home, fighting with the courage of her youth for what she deemed her happiness. A year ago she had slept--foolish child!--with Wolff's last letter beneath her pillow and sworn to it that, come what might, she would trample on home and people and country, and follow him whithersoever he would lead her. "Thy people shall be my people, thy God my God!" A year ago--no more than that! And now she sat alone, and the door was locked between them.

She listened intently, and again her thoughts changed their course. What was he doing? Was he, too, sitting alone, as she sat, with his face between his hands, gazing into the ruin of his life's happiness? A wave of pity, even of tenderness, passed like a thawing breath over her frozen misery. Could she not go to him and put her arms about his shoulders, and plead with him, "Let all be good between us! Take me away from here to the other end of the earth and let us forget! I cannot bear to suffer thus, nor to see you suffer!" Surely it was not too late.

Urged by a hope born of her despair, she rose quickly and went to his door. She heard him move; there was a sound of papers being turned over, the clatter of keys, a short sigh of satisfaction, and then slow steps approaching from the other side. Her hand, raised in the act of knocking, fell paralysed. The next instant she was back at her table writing--what and to whom she never knew. But she was laughing to herself--that piteous heart-rending laughter of those who find in themselves the butt for the bitterest mockery. He had been working. Not for an instant had he been thrown out of his course by the storm which was threatening her with total shipwreck. He had gone on with his plans, his maps, his calculations as though nothing had happened, as though she were no more than an episode in his life. He did not care for her suffering--or what was worse, he did not know, so complete was the severance of their union.

A year ago! It might have been ten years, ten ages. The moment when he had held her in his arms for the first time might have been a dream and this the reality, grim, cold, and intolerable. She heard the key turn in the lock, the crack of the door as it opened. She heard Wolff's heavy step on the parquette, and then once more the closing of the door and the noise of the key twice turned and withdrawn. Then silence. She went on writing--words that had no meaning. Her pulses were at the gallop with suspense, fear, and an emotion which she did not stop to analyse. They had not met since the night before. What would he say to her--or she to him?

"How cold it is!" he said quietly. "The fire has gone out. You must be freezing!"

She did not lift her head for a moment, so startled was she by the perfect equanimity of his words and tone. And yet it was what she might have expected. It was all in perfect harmony with his whole character, with his whole conduct. He had seen the last link between them break and had gone back to his room and worked steadily throughout the night, and now he came and talked to her--about the fire!

"Johann is out," he went on, "but I dare say I can manage."

She turned then, and looked at him. He was kneeling by the stove trying to rekindle the dying embers with some sticks he had found in the coal-scuttle. He had changed his clothes for his full uniform, and the helmet with the plume lay at his side on the floor, together with the sword and white kid gloves. A bitter, sarcastic smile relaxed Nora's set lips. She wondered that it had never struck her before how prosaic, almost plebeian he was. The splendid clothes had, after all, only been the gilt covering to a piece of machinery working in blind accordance with thousands of others in its one great task--a dull, brute thing, for whom the finer emotions were a sealed book. She saw him in a new light as he knelt there, his shadow thrown up against the wall by the rekindling fire. She felt as though he were a total stranger against whom she felt an increasing antagonism.

Presently he rose, dusting his hands on his handkerchief.

"I think it will do now," he said. "Do you want the light? You can't possibly see."

"I would rather be as I am," she answered coldly.

She covered her face with her hand and appeared to forget his presence. But in a rapid, inexplicable revulsion of feeling, the first fear and suspense returned, and though she did not see him she followed his every movement, her ears translating every sound with the precision of a second-sight. She heard him pick up sword and helmet, then the soft, familiar click of his spurs as he crossed the room to the farther door. Then the sound stopped, and she knew that he was looking at her. The silence seemed to last an eternity. It suffocated her; she felt that if it lasted another instant she must scream out, so frightful was the strain, and yet, when as though obeying an irresistible behest he came back upon his steps and put his hand upon her shoulder, she prayed for that silence to come back, anything rather than that he should speak to her.

"_Gott segne dich und behuete dich, meine Frau!_" he said, and bent and kissed her hand.

That was all. The next minute the loud clang of the outer door told her that he had gone.

For a long time she sat as though paralysed, listening to the words as they echoed through her memory. He had spoken in German--as he never did save in moments of deep feeling--and there had been something in his voice which she had never heard before. She sprang to her feet. The earlier lassitude and indifference were over, she felt as though every nerve in her body had been drawn taut by some nameless, indefinable fear.

"Wolff!" she cried. "Wolff!"

She knew that he was out of hearing. She knew that if he stood before her in that moment she would turn from him with the same coldness, the same anger. Yet she called for him despairingly, and when she put her hand to her face she found that it was wet with tears.

"Wolff!" she repeated. "Wolff!"

The answering silence appalled her. She ran out into the passage to Miles's door and knocked urgently. She did not know what she wanted of him. She only knew that she could not bear to be alone.

After what seemed a moment's hesitation the bolt was drawn, and Miles's flushed face appeared in the aperture. He looked curiously relieved when he saw who his visitor was.

"What is it?" he demanded curtly. "I am busy packing."

His tone gave her back her self-possession--or the appearance of self-possession.

"I only wanted to know if you were at home," she said. "I--am going out for a little."

The idea had come to her as she spoke. The confusion and noise of the streets seemed to offer to her the sole antidote for the feverish restlessness which had come over her.

Miles nodded.

"All right. Where--where is Wolff?"

The light was behind him, and she could not see his face. Nevertheless she felt that the expression in his eyes was tense, excited, that he was studying her as though on her answer depended more than she guessed.

"He has just gone out."

"Thanks. How long will you be?"

"I don't know. I am only going to get fresh air."

"You might go towards the Kriegsministerium," Miles suggested carelessly. "You might hear if there is any answer come from home. War may be declared at any minute."

Nora made no answer. His words had set her heart beating with pain, and the pain increased as five minutes later she found herself being swept along in the stream of the crowd. Everything was very quiet. It seemed to her that not one of those with whom she was borne forward spoke. A silence, ominous as the hush before the storm, weighed upon all, and only the faces coming and going out of the circles of lamp-light revealed the forces of passion which were awaiting the hour when they should be set free. After the first moment, Nora ceased to notice all this. She was winged with a panting, rapidly increasing anxiety which obliterated everything--even to her own personality. She forgot Wolff, she forgot herself and the conflict before her; she had become an atom in one mighty community with whose existence her own was irrevocably bound. She was no longer Wolff's wife, she was not even Nora Ingestre; she was English, and, as though from far away a voice called her by some all-powerful incantation, she forced her way forward. War! Her heart exulted. War! Her excited imagination transported her to the centre of another and a greater city; she felt closed in on every side by a people whose blood was hers; she heard their voices, a magic stream of sympathy poured from them to her; she heard the tramp of a thousand feet, the clash of martial music, the roar of cheering, and in the brilliant light bayonets flashed like a moving ribbon of silver. War! And if War--why then, Victory, her country's final, grandest triumph!

The dream vanished--nay, became a reality with another meaning, which for a moment she could not comprehend. The crowd about her swayed, hesitated, and eddied like a stream that has been checked by some unexpected force. A low murmur rose like the first breath of the hurricane.

"What is it?" Nora asked. "What has happened?"

She forgot where she was. She spoke in English, and the man next her answered as though he understood, as though he had not even noticed that she had addressed him in a foreign language. His young face was crimson with exultation.

"They say there is to be war!" he answered hoarsely. "They say there is to be war!"

And then she understood, then the reality of it bore down upon her with the crushing weight of a horrible revelation. She tried to force a passage for herself out of this crowd of enemies, but like a straw in the swirl of a whirlpool she was swept back. And in that moment of helplessness the hatred which had lain smouldering burst into full flame in Nora's heart. Reckless and defiant, she fought against the seething mass of humanity, and for her the struggle was a real thing. She pitted herself against them all; alone amongst those thousands, she felt herself indued with superhuman strength and courage. In her exultation she could have cried aloud: "You fools, you poor fools, who dare to rise against US--US, the elect of God among the nations!"

It was a moment prescient of victory, unshadowed by a single doubt or fear. A moment! Then the murmur burst into a great shout, the crowd broke asunder, and to the rattle of drums, the shrill voice of the pipes, a regiment of Infantry passed through, the thunder of their march sounding like some mighty accompaniment to the high notes of the warlike music. No confusion, no hurry, the officers at the head of their companies, grave, resolute, filled with the consciousness of their great calling; the men silent, their eyes fixed ahead as though the enemy lay straight before them, awaiting the final struggle. What it was Nora could not, in that moment of conflicting emotion, clearly analyse. Something had fallen like an icy hand upon her courage. Those faces that passed so close to her through the driving snow, column after column, those healthy, weather-beaten faces so full of life and strength, those broad-shouldered figures, erect, sturdy, swinging forward as though one soul, one mind governed each and all alike--they had made her afraid. She felt herself flung back by a huge pitiless Juggernaut, before which her strength broke like a frail reed. She turned away, sick and trembling, and as she did so her eyes fell on the man who had retained his place at her side.

"_Ach, du lieber Gott!_" he said, as though she had spoken to him. "That was my regiment--the 115th. Perhaps I shall be called in--I also have been a soldier."

She looked at him and she understood. He, too, was _Soldat_, he too could carry his gun and take his place with the best, he too had been taught to bear his share worthily in the highest of all human callings--one saw the pride of it in his face. And he was not alone. He was typical of all, of a whole nation in arms.

A sort of panic seized her. She turned and fled, thrusting her way through the thinning crowd with the strength of despair. Only one thought possessed her--to get away, to escape from a force which she had learnt to fear. Panting, disordered, scarcely knowing what she did or meant to do, she reached her home at last. Silence greeted her--silence and an absolute darkness. She entered the drawing-room and turned on the light. No one. Her husband's door, locked when she had gone out, stood wide open.

"Wolff!" she called. Her voice shook. She called again, and then her brother's name, but the silence remained unbroken. She looked about her, and her eyes chanced to rest an instant on her table; she saw that a letter was lying on the blotting-case, which had not been there before. She ran and picked it up. It was addressed to her in Miles's handwriting.

"Johann has just run in to look for Wolff," he scrawled. "He says war is declared, and I'm off. There is a train leaving at eight, and I have no time to lose. Sorry I can't say good-bye, old girl. I wish you could come, but I suppose you can't. We'll come and fetch you though, never fear!"

A cry broke from Nora's trembling lips. He had gone--he had left her. He had the right to go! And she was alone. She looked at the clock ticking peacefully on the mantelpiece. She had no clear plan, but she saw that it was half-past seven, and she reckoned that the Potsdamer Bahnhof could not be more than twenty minutes away. If she could get a cab there would be time. For what? She did not know. She was still panic-stricken. The silence oppressed her with a greater horror than the roaring of the crowd. The little room, with its cheap, ugly ornaments, had become absolutely unfamiliar to her. She felt that it was impossible she could ever have lived here, she felt that she had wandered into a stranger's house, and that he might come back any minute and find her. She ran to the door. No bond, no link of memory or past happiness held her back. Not even the grey _Litewka_ hanging in the hall, with its silent reminder, could change the headlong course of her resolution. She saw it, she even stopped to look at it. It spoke to her of a man she had known long ago, who had gone out of her life and was no more than the memory of a dream. Because it had been a beautiful dream she bent and kissed the empty sleeve, but she did not hesitate, and her eyes were tearless. Stronger than that memory was the craving for home and the fear of the stranger who would return and find her. Thus she fled, and the door of the little flat closed with a melancholy clang. It was empty now--when the stranger came there would be no one there to trouble his peace. She felt neither remorse nor pity. All that had been love for her husband had turned to bitterness. He had come between her and those dear to her; he had insulted her and her whole nation; he had trampled on her pride; he had deserted her, leaving her to fight her battle alone, whilst he had followed his ambition behind locked doors, which even she could not open. As she drove rapidly through the streets he stood before her mental vision, not as the lover or the husband, but as the man who had faced her on the preceding night, stern, resolute, pitiless, sweeping her from his path as he would have done a valueless toy. He had had no thought for her sufferings, he had not even tried to comfort her, but had gone to his room and--worked. And between this man of iron and routine and the immense implacable force which had revealed itself to her in the crowd, there was a resemblance, nay, an affinity of mind and purpose. Both threatened her home, her people, and her life. She hated both.

Twenty minutes later she stood in the crowded railway-station. Miles was nowhere to be seen. There were only three minutes left before the train started, and she had not money enough in her purse to take her even to the coast. Tears of helpless wretchedness rushed to her eyes. She must go--she must escape. She could never return to the silent, dreary home, to the man who had become a hated stranger.

On every side she heard the same words, "_Der Krieg! Der Krieg!_" They terrified her, exasperated her. A little crowd of English people, who were hurrying to the train, arrested her attention.

"We should have left before," one of them said. "All the places will be taken."

In her despair she could have flung herself upon their mercy, but the crowd jostled her on one side, and they were lost to sight.

"_Alles einsteigen! Alles einsteigen!_"

It was then she saw Miles; just for one instant she saw his face. It stood out clearly in the blur--white, aghast, full of a terrified recognition, and then, as she held out her hands, too thankful to think what it all meant, it disappeared.

She stood there, stupefied, rooted to the ground. He had deserted her--he had been afraid of her. Why? What had happened?

"_Alles einsteigen! Alles einsteigen!_"

A sob broke from Nora's lips, and even in that moment, in which all hope seemed lost, Arnold stood at her side. She clung to him recklessly, like a child who has been pursued by the phantom of some hideous nightmare.

"Oh, take me with you, Robert!" she cried. "Don't leave me!"

He looked down at her, then, without speaking, he lifted her into the already moving train and sprang in after her.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, little Nora," he said tenderly. "I will bring you home safe and sound."

The word "home" swept aside the last barricades of her self-control. She flung herself into his arms weeping wildly and thankfully.

* * * * *

As the dawn broke, Nora stood at the prow of the vessel that was bearing her homewards, and welcomed the white bulwarks of England as they rose in majestic sovereignty out of the morning mists. Her eyes filled. She could have stretched out her arms in her pride and joy, and the whole world that she had left behind had vanished like some delirious dream.

Miles away, in a quiet field on the outskirts of Berlin, two men faced each other at ten paces' distance, and awaited the signal. It was given, and two puffs of smoke issued from the outstretched weapons, and curled slowly upwards into the frosty air. One of the men reeled and fell, and lay quiet, with his face in the grass.

They picked him up tenderly, and as they bore him thence his fading eyes opened.

"Do--not frighten her," he whispered. "Don't let her think that it is anything--serious----"

In the same instant, Nora had turned joyously to the man at her side.

"Oh, thank God!" she cried. "Thank God, I am home at last!"

Thus she returned to her own country and her own people, and a sea rolled between her and all that had been.

END OF BOOK II.

*BOOK III*

*THE BRIDGE*

*CHAPTER I*

*HOME*

Mrs. Ingestre's bed had been drawn to the window, so that she could look out on to the drear landscape of snow-covered fields and catch the few rays of sunshine that here and there broke through the grey monotony of sky. It was her last stand against the shadow which was soon to blot out the whole world for ever from her eyes. There she had lain day after day, and with her imagination brightened the bleak outlook with the summer sunshine and the green trees which she was to see no more. There she had written cheery, hopeful letters to her daughter and had received cheery, hopeful letters in return. There mother and daughter, clasped in each other's arms, acknowledged that the letters had been no more than merciful lies, that the hope they had expressed had been disguised despair.

"How blind I must have been!" Mrs. Ingestre thought, as Nora, kneeling at her bedside, poured out the story of her short married happiness. "How blind not to have seen and understood!"