Dividing Waters. I. A. R. Wylie

people would think Mrs. Ingestre very lucky."

      "Perhaps they do think so," Nora said, with indifference. "That is because no one about here is capable of understanding her. In any case, it's no good talking about it. This latest trouble is quite enough."

      "I suppose Miles will be able to stay in the Army?" Arnold asked.

      "Oh, yes, that's settled."

      "What about your studies? They will have to be given up, of course?"

      "Why 'of course'?" she flashed out.

      "Because there won't be enough money for them," he explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "For my part," he went on, "I shall be glad. I dreaded the thought of coming home on leave and finding you gone. It would have been sickening."

      "It will be still more 'sickening' now," she said, rather revengefully. "I am going away for a long time, and to a place a long way off."

      "Nora! In Heaven's name where and why?"

      She laughed at his astonished, troubled face.

      "To Karlsburg, in Germany—as a companion."

      "To Germany! Why do you want to go there?"

      "Because I do not want to vegetate here."

      "Nora, you will hate it. You will be ill with home-sickness. You don't know what it will be like. It is not as though you will be among your own country-people. You will hate their manners, their customs, their ways, and they will treat you like a servant. Little Nora, I can't bear the thought of it."

      He spoke earnestly, almost incoherently.

      Nora shook her head.

      "There is no other alternative," she said.

      "There is one other alternative, Nora. Will you be my wife?"

      He had taken her hand, and she did not attempt to draw it back. Nor had she changed colour. Her clear eyes studied his thin, rather gaunt face, and passed on with frank criticism to his tall figure, loosely built and rather stooping, in the grey Norfolk suit.

      "Nora," he said sternly, "I have asked you a question. You do not need to look at me like that. I am not different to what I usually am."

      "But I am looking at you in a different light," she said.

      He seemed to think that she was laughing at him, or that she had not taken him seriously. A deep flush mounted his sun-burnt cheeks.

      "Nora, I am very much in earnest," he said, his grasp on her hand tightening. "Though you are a child you must have felt long ago that I cared for you as something more than my little comrade. I love you, and I have loved you a long time. Will you be my wife?"

      She shook her head gravely and regretfully.

      "I can't."

      "Why not?"

      "Because I do not love you."

      "Are you sure? How can you tell? You know nothing of love."

      "No," she agreed. "That is the very reason I will not marry you."

      He let her hand go and stood looking at her with his lips tightly compressed, as though on a storm of protest.

      "Would you mind if I was quite honest?" she went on. "I would rather tell you everything, even if it makes you think me bad and heartless."

      "I shall never think that of you," he said painfully.

      "Well, then, I did know you cared for me," she continued. "I was always ashamed of myself for knowing. It seemed conceited of me to imagine that a grown-up man should want such a child as I am—still, I couldn't help it. I felt it. It seems one does feel that sort of thing. It is like electricity in the air. Anyhow, it did not worry me very much. I made up my mind that one of these days I would marry you. It seemed so probable and natural that I should. We had known each other since I was a baby and you a school-boy; our families were connected; we lived in the same neighbourhood; we saw each other at regular intervals; we never quarrelled—or hardly ever; we knew each other's faults better than most people do who marry. Everything seemed to point in the same direction. But I was such a school-girl. I felt that there was heaps of time for me to grow to love you—or perhaps find out that I loved you already. You see, I wasn't sure. I liked to be with you; but then, I like to be with any one who is jolly and amusing, so that wasn't a sure test. Yesterday I knew that there was no time left me. I guessed that I should have to decide between you and Karlsburg. It sounds horrid, but it is the truth. And I could not decide—I simply could not. Then I thought—perhaps if you asked me, perhaps if you told me about your love, it would awaken some sort of an answer in me—I should feel some sort of signal such as I should imagine a woman would feel if the being with whom she is destined to spend her life, and perhaps more, stood at her side and held her hand. So I came out here, so that you would ask me to be your wife. Are you angry?"

      He shook his head, frowning straight before him.

      "No."

      "It may sound heartless," she went on; "I did not mean it to be. I thought it would be better if everything was spoken out clearly between us. I knew you loved me, and I cared for you—I cared for you enough to be glad if I found I loved you. For my own sake I should have been glad. I know my life would be safe in your hands—that you are all an English gentleman need be, but——"

      "Now comes the 'but,' he said, with bitterness.

      "It is no good," she said. "I can't pretend, can I? When you took my hand, when you spoke, I felt nothing—absolutely nothing, or, perhaps, only a little more critical than usual. I noticed, for instance, that you stoop. It had never struck me before. I tell you that because it shows you just how I feel."

      "Thank you," he said.

      She put her hand on his shoulder.

      "Don't be angry," she pleaded. "I do care for you."

      "Then, if you care for me, couldn't you give me a chance—won't you trust yourself to me, Nora? Love will come little by little."

      He had taken her hand again, and she felt that he trembled with restrained feeling.

      "I have an idea that love never comes little by little," she said.

      They were a long time silent. Arnold had buried his face on his arms on the cross-bars. Presently he looked up, and met her sorrowful gaze with pale composure.

      "So it is to be Karlsburg?" he asked.

      "Yes, I think so."

      "Nora, I shan't give up hope."

      "It wouldn't be fair of me to say 'don't.'"

      "Still, when you come back?" …

      "I can't promise anything," she said, but her eyes were full of pity and kindness. "I am so sorry, Robert."

      "That's all right, dear. You can't help it." He pressed her hand a last time. "I won't come on now. You understand—I would rather be alone. Good-bye."

      "Good-bye."

      She watched him till he was out of sight. A tear rolled down her cheek. She rubbed it quickly and impatiently away. Then she sprang down and went home. She felt shaken and vaguely regretful, and was filled with the one desire to be with her mother.

      Mrs. Ingestre was in the garden when Nora reached the vicarage. She was looking paler than usual, but she greeted her daughter with the customary grave, affectionate smile.

      "You are out early to-day," she said.

      Nora came and slipped her arm through her mother's.

      "I have something serious to tell you," she said. "Robert has asked me to be his wife."

      She spoke quickly, breathlessly, as though disburdening her heart of an uncomfortable load. Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, but waited quietly for what was to come. She held a bunch of roses, and if Nora had been less self-absorbed, she would have seen that the white hand trembled.