THE STORYTELLER

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 7, 25 February 1925, Page 3

THE STORYTELLER

(Published by arrangement with Burns, Oates, Washbourne, Ltd.)

NORA

CHAPTER XVII.

Three years had passed by and had worked their change imperceptibly upon everything and everybody upon Lily, too — upon Lily with the round and rosy face —they had also left their mark. She was of age, and had entered into possession of her property. Until then she had been under the guardianship of Countess Degenthal, a distant cousin, whom, however, she always called “Aunt,” having contracted the habit in her childhood. The countess wished to continue exercising her trust until Lily had found a protector for life. But up to this time the heiress had refused every offer of marriage, to the inward satisfaction of the countess, who , had not yet completely given up all hope of her first project succeeding, especially since destiny had caused such a change to take place in Nora’s life. She attributed Lily’s refusal of every proposal to the fact that the girl nurtured a secret affection for Curt. She was, therefore, all the more surprised and displeased when Lily suddenly announced her intention of henceforward living independently, under the chaperonage of an old relation, and of managing her property herself. But her home did not lie far from the Degenthal estate, and both were near the Austrian capital. The countess coyld not make out what had induced Lily to take such a step; but whether she understood it or not, she could not prevent the young lady doing as she chose. Albeit a gentle spirit, Lily had within her a certain power of resistance which nothing could break; and when she had set her mind upon a thing, she did —quite quietly and simply. She was of age, and no observation to the contrary could move her to change that which she had long ago determined to do. Since Curt’s sudden departure, she had felt an almost unconscious antipathy for his mother ; not that Lily thought the latter had wished to separate him from her; on the contrary, she knew how much the countess desired their union; but Lily had the notion that Curt’s mother had been too imperious with him, and had thus caused him to leave his home, and that since then he bad been unhappy. She knew nothing of the whys and wherefores, for the countess had not taken her into her confidence. Indeed, it was not Lily’s nature to think deeply and much in general; but now that her otherwise narrow mind had seized hold of ah idea, she would not let it go. She had liked Curt ever since her earliest childhood. 5 His coldness and indifference had certainly pained her at one time, but that “cotillon” had served to drive all desponding reflections out of her head, and she was, moreover, conscious that she must be worth a great deal to him if one looked at the matter in a

Translated from the German by Pbinobsb Liechtenstein

simply sensible point of view; and Lily was very sensible. She loved him, and she could wait. She felt instinctively that to remain any ; longer with the countess would but estrange her still more from Curt. Besides, she was one of those who only feel really at ease upon their own domain. It requires a certain degree of imagination to enter into the mode of thinking of other people, to fathom them, and to see the good. side of their minds and characters; small understandings generally feel irritated at other people having different ideas and different characters from their own. With her shy and timid manner, Lily had silently kept up an internal combat with her aunt during all the years they had spent together; and she had hastened to . seize the first opportunity of gaining her liberty. • Notwithstanding her youth, she seemed more fitted for independence than most people even older than herself. She never did anything unusual, or at all out of the way, and one might fell quite sure that she would never overstep any of the barriers erected by decorum or common sense. Her household, her garden, her birds, her poor—these filled her day. She found everything in the best order when she entered into possession of her domain, so that she moved in it with all security. She had not, perhaps, a very large heart, and did not look at things in a broad comprehensive way, but she was very calm, and, meeting every one with a certain benevolence of manner, she carried her sceptre with some grace; and if anything were found wanting in her, it was attributed to her youth. She was still termed "a bore” by young men, and old ones still found her “a. model young lady,” who would, in time, become a capital housewife. Young . ladies made but little out of her; only mammas dreamt of that still and fair creature, so gentle and so shy, as an ideal daughter-in-law— common, but no less great mistake; for narrow and obstinate; minds are the least fitted for getting on well with their, mothers-in-law. . f To-day, however, the still fair face had been brought out of its usual quietness, and an unusually pink tint overspread her features. She had just received a letter , from Curt who was on his way home at last, and who had announced his intention of paying a short visit to his cousin, her property being quite close to one of the stations he would have to pass by. This had . caused great joy to Lily, ’ and her blue ; eyes had gained life and animation : on reading the announcement. Her aunt said that he might arrive ; in a , few days, so, that the young hostess was, contrary to her custom,

pin' a great state of excitement in order to ; make the necessary preparations. As a rule, she let all these things take their course .-..and follow' their usual routine. “ Notwithstanding the many reasons alleged _ ,j)y her aged relation against such a proceedLily gave orders that her pony carriage should be every day at the station, awaiting 'I the possible arrival of the wished-for guest, j. and for all her other arrangements the one J note as always: “Perhaps my cousin Curt f may come” a viva voce, calculation unusual • in one so silent as Lily. Cousin Curt ! Ay ! How had he fared since that day when his mother’s message had robbed him of every belief in love and in truth, and had killed that part of his ,i/life with one deadly blow ? He could hardly recall what he had felt when he had first held that crumpled playbill in his hand that playbill upon which Nora’s name forsooth! was printed. It was a whirl, a storm of feeling which threatened to deprive him of bis reason. There was the name so cruelly printed in large undeniable letters —and the sight of it thus, precipitated him from the greatest height of bliss to the lowest" depth of misery. All that a man can feel of anger, of contempt, and of wounded pride, had fallen upon him and oppressed him in that moment. Had it been possible for him to (hmhf , he would have been saved from mental desolation. But how could he doubt with these letters staring at him so clearly, so distinctly, that when he was alone he cried out aloud in his wild despair. With a giant’s strength, he had concealed all in his own heart, away from every stranger’s eye, so that none should know of the pain or who had caused it. As soon as his friend had left him he had sought to give himself a clear idea of what had happenedhis mother’s letter had confirmed and explained everything. His first thought was to destroy all the proofs of the shame and of the deception which had fallen upon him. No one should have the remotest idea of this dreadful disenchantment for which he thought himself deserving the sarcasm of the whole world. He found Nora’s letter among the rest, and being seized with a fit of uncontrollable rage, he was on the point of destroying it also ; but, on second thoughts, he considered it would be a greater revenge if he sent it back unopened, unread. It was the last act he was conscious of. When the doctor came he found him stretched in a swoon upon the floor, and during weeks and months, as we have already said, tin state of mental trpor continued. Of course, his illness was attributed to an over-excite-ment of nerves, caused by the climate. lint his organisation was built upon feeling, and a fatal blow had been dealt to his love and to his faith in all that was good and noble. As the fever abated, he was still unable to move, his limbs being as if paralysed. Dinl ing these long hours of forced and painful immobility, the remembrance of what had . * happened gradually returned to him. It often seemed as if the whole had been a horrible nightmare, a mere trick of an nverworked imagination, a hideous - offspring of fever. But no question upon the subject

passed his lips. In his inward self he dis- ■ cussed the pros and cons, and felt a longing for an explanation; and yet he was so sure that all his doubts would only be confirmed by it, that he immediately put aside every missive from home. Whatever interest he had once been capable of gave way before . the inward restlessness which seemed to consume all his vital forces. Not one word, however, not one look, betrayed him. A few months after these events, his friend had tried to divert him by an illustrated newspaper. He brought him one of those English periodicals which so faithfully represent all that may inttrest or amuse the world. Occasionally a faint smile had passed across Curt’s lips on looking at some of the illustrations; and now the vicomte brought a particular number which contained a portrait of the great celebrity of the day: a lady following a somewhat adventurous career Miss Nora Karsten, the beautiful and enchanted borsebreaker. The Frenchman rejoiced when Curt held out his hand and asked for the paper; the doctors had strictly forbidden his reading anything exciting; and surely this could not possibly excite him at all. Curt looked fixedly at the portrait for some time, as if he wished to impress it upon his memory, then suddenly his face was convulsed, his head fell back, and he threw the paper away from him as if it were some venomous reptile, whilst his eyes bore that fixed expression which his friend had seen there once before. “A little over-tired,” gasped Curt, as an explanation of this sudden attack; but during the same night he had a relapse, the cause of which puzzled the doctors extremely. Once more, however, youth won the day, as far as his physical strength was concerned, but his mental capacity seemed to have deserted him completely. He had no longer any doubt, he had no longer any wish for an explanation— everything in the past was dead, buried and forgotten. She whom he had loved, and for whom he had been ready to sacrifice all, had dragged herself in the dust; she was dead to him, and his mind was empty, and desolate as a land might be after devastation by fire and sword. The doctors, who were helpless before such complete giving way of all mental activity, advised change of air and of scene. Of course, he could not blame his mother for anything, but yet he could not forget that she had been the one to send him this message of death. Moreover, he instinctively felt that she must be satisfied at all having happened as she had prophesied, and there is no doubt that Cassandras are no popular characters, especially when their forebodings of evil come right. Curt left Constantinople, and visited all the places he had been advised to visit in order to regain his health. A coarser naturf' than his would have given itself up to wild pleasures, and, indeed, had he been in good health, he would probably have fallen into the common mistake of trying to fill the void in his heart by the turmoil of the world. As it was, one feeling had constituted the centre of his existence, and the memory of the child he had loved, of the girl he had worshipped, filled his soul with bitterness, for she had proved herself

false, and now he cared for nothing, and nothing charmed him. There is only one thing which saves us in such moments, and that is the necessity of having to earn our "livelihood, and to fight with the daily difficulties a similar necessity brings with it, ‘ and Curt had not this resource. . ' ■'■'■■.■A;',-■ „ : ; At last he gave , way to his mother’s entreaties, and was returning home, after a lapse of more than three years. It was evening—a train was just going, to leave a station on the frontier of Western Germany. It was one of those trains which fly across the Continent, and only stay any time at great capitals, as if smaller towns were scarcely worthy of notice. This train came' from the French metropolis, and was hurrying on to the Austrian one, so that but a short stoppage was allowed. A young man, however, stepped leisurely across the platform, as one too accustomed to travel to he fussy about time, and asked for a first class coupe. Notwithstanding the golden argument which he pressed into the guard’s hand, the latter shrugged his shoulders and declared that it was impossible to procure him anything of the kind. The young man gave way to fate, and entered a carriage in which two ladies were already seated. The one opposite to him was on old woman with remarkably cut features, whose simple attire showed her to be a maid; her large head with her brown and wrinkled face were almost buried in a pillow, and she snored loudly. He could not catch a glimpse of the other traveller’s face, for she was in the furthest corner from him, and , the twilight had already set in. He could only see that . she was dressed like a lady, as now and then the small head with its covering of lace bent forward to look at the view. The young man was tired and somewhat hlasc; yet he could not help glancing occasionally at the lady in the further corner of the carriage. The shrill whistle announcing that it was time to start had been heard. The engine puffed and panted, screamed and shrieked, and the train moved on, the smoke forming successive ghostly figures in- the tepid-air of the summer night. Away, away, by thicket and wood, village and town; over dale, down hill, through rocks and across bridges, it went fuming along. Away, away, so rapidly that it left neither time for noticing the beauty of the present, nor for remembering the charms of the past, nor, indeed, for thought of any kind. At length it slackened its pace, the engine’s loud cry once more trembled through the air, and seemed to be heaving an un- ’ conscious sigh of relief at being freed from the curse of eternal locomotion. “Bonn Station!” called out the guard, putting his head in at the window of the carriage, and announcing a few minutes’ stoppage. Bonn is a university town on the Rhine. The bid woman slept on, but the two other passengers, as if moved by the same thought; started out of their dreamy rest. Unconscion sly they both arose, and found themselves .standing next to: each, other in the

r: narrow space of the carriage. . . The Might of the lamp falls upon both their faces, ys gnd as their eyes meet they stare at each M other with a nameless, deadly terror. . . //For' a moment it seems as if a cry would V.orce itself from their lips, as if their hands > would stretch out to clasp each other, as if a passing glow of happiness would lay

itself on both their faces. But a deep and burning blush suffuses her forehead, and a dark cloud passes over his.' Their lips are once more closed, their hands press tightly together, and the ray disappears to make room for icy coldness. . . The two passengers sink back into their former seats, silent and dumb, strangers as before. (To be > continued.)