THE STORYTELLER

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 52, 31 December 1924, Page 3

THE STORYTELLER

NORA Translated from the German by Princess Liechtenstein (Published by arrangement with Burns, Oates, Washbourne, Ltd.) CHAPTER IX.

After the painful scene which had taken place in the morning, Nora had returned to the room which had been assigned to her her own old room, which the nun knew she would prefer to any other. Thus she once more sat in that quiet retreat from which she had so often longed to be free, to go out into the wide and agitated world; and now, indeed, there was a great strife being carried on in her breast.

So much had crowded itself together into a short space of time. Since the days when she inhabited that room, she had realised the greatest of all happinesses, the greatest of all miseries, which can befall a young heart. These feelings were struggling within her, and pride—offended pride — also asserting itself.

One thought, however, was uppermost : “We have met again, and he loves me, and I know that he cares more for me than for anything else in this world.”

Amidst a shower of tears, her face was ever and anon lighted up by a bright and radiant smile, and then she hid her face in her hands and shut her eyes, as .f she were shy of looking at this wondrous and beautiful secret.

As she sat there and thought, she remembered all the events of that memorable day — it was hardly a fortnight ago, when, standing at the bow-window, they had mutually confessed their love. She had smile 1, too, at the mistake he had made in fancying that she had chosen to become a nun. The truth., hidden for months in their inmost hearts, had slipped out so unconsciously, and they had told each other how love had been toostrong, and that they had both striven vainly against it. Such a moment is worth a whole life? Certainly they had noc ignored the difficulties which stood in the way of their happiness; but these had seemed so small, so easily to be got over! He was bis own master, and had only a mother’s heart to win for himself and for his Novo ; and then Hie fact is, that when human beings are intensely happy, they feel a great deal and think very little.

But another picture arose before Nora’s —her father’s return! her father, who knew all before she could tell her own tale. He had been extremely displeased, and bad treated the whole thing as a childish folly. How differently the same matter may bo looked upon by different people Her father’s objections were the very things she had talked over with Curt; but oh! what monstrous proportions the difficulties had assumed! howimmeasurable the abyrs which divided them bad now become! how threatening the anger of Curt’s family, and bow con pi etc the destruction of his life’s happiness!

Her father had concluded with these dread-

ful words: “They will think that we have caught him by unworthy means. They will say that you used your beauty as a snare in which to beguile his youth and inexperience, through which to gain a- name and a position for yourself. They wdl say that wo were low enough to make undue profit out of a moment of youthful giddiness.” Nora had given way to this; her pure and simple mind trembled for her father’s reputation. “Write to him that it was a mistake, and that we must part.” She herself had added the words we know of with a steady hand. She then besought her father to leave the villa at once. “Here I feel myself treading on burning coals,” she said. “Let me never meet him again. Send me far, far away from here, to my mothers land across the seas, so that they may not think I have tried to catch him. Her father’s heart had been moved by the poor child’s grief; all the more so that he reproached himself for having allowed matters to come to such a point. He also had thought it better for Nora to leave the Rhineland & as soon as possible, and had proposed R visit to her former school, where a decision of some kind might be arrived at. Nora had joyfully agreed to this; it seemed, indeed, a boon to her suffering heart to pour itself out to her old friend, and to claim from her both comfort and advice. Thus it came to pass that the director and his daughter had started that very night, whilst his wife remained at the villa in order to arrange all for breaking up the establishment. The Superior had received her darling with open arms. Her fond heart grieved to find her exposed so soon to one of the sorrows she had feared for her. She approved of Nora’s idea of visiting her relations in the-far west; hut the director would not hear of such a long separation. Had Curt’s visit taken place a few days later, he would probably not have met her.

And now that Nora thought all these things over, she began to see them in another light. She had been ready to sacrifice all her happiness to his; but that word he had spoken in the morning came back to her with renewed force; “Can your love bear with nothing? Is it too weak for a little patience?” Yes! what she had called by the name of sacrifice, seemed now only weakness and want of purpose. She had allowed her pride to take at once the upper hand. After all, her father had made no other objections than those which she and Curt were prepared for. She had given way at once, whilst Curt had so nobly kept up and fought for his love. Would it really be for his happiness if she left him now? What a depth of misery his eyes revealed! Would she not give up everything for him ? Then why had she not thought him

capable of doing the same for her? In her anguish she cried: "Oh! what shall I do? V Shall I renounce our love and fly jrom him, %i.or shall I fight the battle to the end?" a Who. can tell what decision Nora would have come to, had no fresh obstacle arisen in her path. The sun ' was already .-.•.deling the heavens with its glorious evening tints, as on that day when Nora had I."*.en summoned before the mother-superior. As on ihat day, the distant mountain-tops wore ■•'■lipped .in roseate hues, and Nora sat on, "nationless and wrapt in thought. At lost a knock was heard at the doorindeed there had been more than one ktnek .since the morning announcing lier meals to her, but she had given a headache as a plea for remaining in her room. The superior, she knew, could only come to hei in the evrn.ug. This time it was a letter which had I.(en sent to her. She took it witn a heating heart, and a thousand suppositions Hashed across her mind. The hand-writing was a strange one to her, but tin envelope bore the coronet of a count. She guessed lit oive that the missive must cane from Curt's mother; and so it did. The countess was out--of those women to whom sorrow is only rendered bearable by immediate action. Sitting alone in the comfortless room other hotel, the mother, knowing whither her son had directed his steps, was on the brink of despair. Less than any one else could she patiently sit down under contradiction and suffer her plans to be crossed. Circumstances had given her an independence to which she had accustomed herself, and of which she had always made a wise and temperate use. Now, again, she was convinced of the good sense v of her opinions. ''Something must be done,"' \»Jwere always the first words which rose to tyer lips, and in this case she added: "What is to be done?" She knew that her son would listen to no advice for the present. Her friend's description of Nora had made her think more highly of her. "Well, if she really is so noble-minded, so well brought up, so incapable of any intrigue, she cannot wish to force herself upon a family which does not want her. If it were really true that she had wished to avoid him, she could say aloud that the matter should be at an end, and she would sacrifice her love to his happiness." On the strength of this reasoning, the countess had made up her mind to write to Nora, and to appeal to her heart, to her understanding, and last, not least, to her pride. Nora read the letter, her cheeks burning with indignation. "Do not rob me of my son," the countess concluded, after alleging all the reasons against the marriage. "Do not step between mother and son and divide them. This you would do by marrying him, for he would do it in defiance of my will. You would divide us, even if I had power enough to \prevent the marriage, as then he would never . _)forgive his mother. I am told that you are ' noble and generous give up that, which, under existing circumstances, can never be conducive to his happiness. We women know so well how to make complete sacrifices. His heart will become calm once more, and he will be freed from the feeling • v of honor which binds him to you, when he

hears from your own mouth that your love refuses to set at nought all the serious reasons which divide you. You may judge of the strength of mind and of heart I think you capable of, by my addressing this prayer to you; and both my esteem, and my gratitude will be boundless should you act in so noble a way,” etc., etc.

The conclusion was an able one ; but even boundless esteem and gratitude fall rather short in the balance against love. It would perhaps, have been difficult for the countess to explain the reason why she thought it so natural to wish her own heart not to be robbed, exacting all the while that another heart should rob itself of its love and happiness for her sake. Nora read the letter more than once. Perhaps, because she did not quite unedrstand what the countess wanted, or, perhaps, because an affectionate beginning had led her to hope for something belter.

Put suddenly she drew herself up. She now understood what was required of her. This woman wanted her to be the murderess of her own happinessshe wanted her to show herself fickle, weak, and untrue to her love. Her father’s passionate nature seemed to awake in her at the thought.

“It would he a lie, a horrible lie,” she said, “for, like him, 1 find nothing too difficult so long as we love each other, 1 know that 1 shall not bring disgrace upon him, she added with trembling lips. “I. know we think and feel alike. I will do nothing to keep him, but 1 will renounce our love no longer. He shall, at all events, not say of mo that I am weak and faithless.”

All her former doubts were gone; and, her cheeks still burning, she took up her pen to frame an answer.

“Your son is as free to-day as he was yesterday,” she wrote firmly and proudly; “for it was mv father who refused his consent: and I shall never go against his will. I shall not try to retain him either by a. word or by any step of mine indeed, I had avoided him until to-day. But I can speak no untruth and it would he. one to take hack the promise he gained from me as the only means of furthering his happiness; if I were untrue to the feelings I entertain for him, and which. I believe will last my life long, I will not part from him. through a lie — for a lie has never soothed a sorrow or wrought any good; hut my love is strong enough to wait and to endure.”

The letter was no sooner finished than Nora sealed it. and rang for it to be sent off.

Nora stood long at the window, and the words she had just written sounded in her ears, now serious and earnest, now knocking and derisive. v

Had she been right to enter upon this combat? Would it have been better to accept the sacrifice which would have put an end to all struggling?

This question was gnawing at Iter heart, when at last her trusty friend entered the room.

Madame Sybille was tired by the day’s exertions, exhausted by the morning’s excitement. Her thoughts bad been so long away from human passions that she found it difficult to encounter them again. But

there are hearts which never become strangers to the earth and to its petty sorrows, however near heaven they may be themselves.

Madame Sybille took the burning head in her hands, and looking tenderly into the innocent, bright eyes, she listened to the tale which revealed all the storms raging within that young soul.

. “flight or wrong she said gently. “Child, earthly love is no virtue and it is no fault: you have acted according to its dictates. You wen\ not bound to accept the sacrifice imposed upon you. on have not asked for advice, and perhaps no cue could advise you bettor than your own heart in the matter. But remember this, my childit is nothing great, nothing uncommon, to suffer and to struggle for earthly love; the weakest of human creatures have'done so ere this. Before Cod .it is very insignificant, for such love is only tin. 1 product of our own heart, the most beautiful of Cod's gifts, the most fragrant flower lie has strewn upon our oath. But those who wish to enjoy its fragrance must consent to he pricked by its thorns the sharpest thorns that can prick a human heart. If you feel that your love is worth all the sufferings that it will bring with it—-

well then ! , . . You might have conquered it by this one sacrifice, and who knows whether yon will not have to retain it by a thousand sacrifices more painful. But true and pure love makes up for a great cleat. Perhaps God has placed .it in your aea.-; io protect you from other dangers," she added, placing her hand upon the youtiiMil hea.i, as if with a blessing. "For the second lime you have chosen strife instead of peace. . May the Lord guide you, my child!" CHATTER X. The countess smiled when she had read Nora's letter.' "I thought so." she .said somewhat complacently io herself; and once more she was convinced that the mistake about Nora's character had not been made by her: she had written to Nora under the influence of the nun's words. She also had remained alone many a dreary hour that day; Curt had not returned till l-.te, and the chaplain had gone to fetch Lily, and to show her some of the curhsit. of the town; for after all (hat had happened the countess did not foci mi to the task of amusing 'he girl. She had, however, turned these hours of solitude to account, by endeavoring : .o take .in clearly how matters stood. Before even the answer to her lerter —a measure in extremis —had come, die had. determined noon what line of conduct she would pursue She would apparently consent but would insist upon certain conditions. That von Id be wiser than to lose all influence over her son bv pushing things too far. '"'Children must be left their toy, or else they get obstinate in longing after it, " That was about the sum of her relictions; and then, her mind being male up, she frowned no longer, but employed herself busily in jotting down notes upon a stray piece of paper. At dinner-time the chaplain and Lily put in an appearance. The Countess locked scrutinisingly at the young girl, win; had

not develop**! herself to advantage, since she had last seen her. Lily's stature was small, her features were indifferent, and her youth Nsvas of too exuberant a nature to be tractive. Now, with her swollen eyes and he* overpowering shyness, she looked particularly unprepossessing. Countess Degontbal turned away with irritation; here was another spoke in her wheel. How on earth could that pretty child's face have grown into anything so plain? Unwittingly, Nora's tajijand fine figure and her expressive eyes dm .6 before the countess in painful contrast. She heaved a deep sigh and returned to her notes until dinner was announced, and Curt came in. He looked tired, but on the whole more gentle and quiet than during the earlier part of the day. His mother received him coldly, although he kissed her hand with somo emotion. During dinner, the conversation was painfully monsyllabi'c, and Curt more than once sought to attract the countess's attention, but in vain. He seemed anxious to speak with her, but she had evidently deckled upon another course. As soon, as dinner was over, she arose, and went to her room, asking only the chaplain to visit her there. dirt's brow darkened once more, • and the gentler expression vanished from his eyes. He stood uncertain for a while, as if intending to follow his mother after all, but then, changing his mind, he retired, aftel wishing his cousin a hasty good-night. Poor little Lily! This was a sad beginning to her life out of tin l convent She had so rejoiced at mooting her cousin, and now he had hardly said a word to her, hardly considered her worthy of a look. Evidently something had happened between mother and son, and that was the cause of dirt's ill-humor. \ So much she perceived, and with the party istoirit which one young creature feels for ariother, she immediately settled in her own mind, that her aunt was in the wrong. On the following day, a fiacre stopped at the door of the P. Hotel, and Chaplain L. got out of it. He asked for Director Karsten, and was at once ushered into his presence. The director was at his writing-desk, but as soon as the visitor entered, he sprang up, and cordially held out his hand to him. "Years seem to have rolled unconsciously over your head, leaving no trace behind them," said the circus-rider to the priest. It was true; the peace of his mind and the tranquillity of his conscience made him look younger than his age, whilst years ago, the gravity of his vocation had made him look older than he really was. «» (To be continued.)