Dividing Waters. I. A. R. Wylie

had never seen before and to whom I had never been properly introduced. After all, she does not know me well enough to understand—well, that I am not that sort, and the idea that she might think badly of me with an appearance of reason was more than could bear. There is a small door in the alcove leading out into the hall, and just when my uninvited companion was in the middle of a sentence I got up and went out without a word of explanation. I am afraid it was neither a very dignified nor sensible proceeding, and it certainly landed me into worse difficulties, since the next thing I knew after my stormy exit was that I had collided violently with a man standing in the hall. Of course, my fragment of German forsook me, and I gasped, 'I beg your pardon!' in English, to which my victim answered, 'I beg your pardon!' also in English, but with the faintest possible accent. After that I recovered enough from the shock to draw back and assume as much dignity as I could under the circumstances. My victim was a tall, broad-shouldered man—of course in uniform-and though it was already twilight in the hall I could see that he had a pleasant, sun-burnt face and bright eyes, which at that moment looked very much amused. I suppose my attempt at dignity was rather a failure. 'I hope I did not hurt you?' he asked, and when I had reassured him on that point he suggested that he should introduce himself, as there was no one there to do it for him. Whereupon he clicked his spurs together and said, 'Von Arnim. Miss Ingestre, I think?' I asked him how he knew my name, and he said, as a Prussian officer it was his duty to know everything, and that he had heard so much about Miss Ingestre that it was impossible not to recognise her. And then we stood looking at each other, I feeling horribly awkward, he evidently still very much amused. Then he proposed to take me back into the drawing-room, but that was the last thing I wanted, and I said so in my usual rude way, which seemed to amuse him still more.

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

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

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

      "'How do you know?'

      "'Military instinct.'

      I could not help laughing at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "Your devoted daughter,

      "NORA.

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

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

      "P.SSS.—I think we had better keep to our first arrangement that my letters should be quite private. You see, I tell you