



Produced by Al Haines.





                           *DIVIDING WATERS*


                                   BY

                            *I. A. R. WYLIE*

                               AUTHOR OF
                 "THE RAJAH'S PEOPLE," "MY GERMAN YEAR"



                             SECOND EDITION



                         MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
                            49 RUPERT STREET
                               LONDON, W.




                            _Published_ 1911

  _Copyright_ 1911 _in the United States of America by I. A. R. Wylie_




                               *CONTENTS*

                                 BOOK I

CHAP.

      I. The Mistakes of Providence
     II. "Wanderlust"
    III. An Experiment
     IV. Outward Bound
      V. Among the Heathen
     VI. A Letter Home
    VII. A Duet
   VIII. The Awakening
     IX. Renunciation
      X. Youth and the Barrier
     XI. Wolff makes his Debut in Delford
    XII. Nora Forsakes Her Country


                                BOOK II

      I. The New Home
     II. --And the New Life
    III. A Meeting
     IV. A Visitor Arrives in Karlsburg
      V. The Cub as Lion
     VI. In Which the Rev. John Receives a Shock
    VII. Wolff Sells a Horse and Nora Loses a Friend
   VIII. Rising Shadows
     IX. Arnold Receives His Explanation
      X. Nemesis
     XI. The Fetish
    XII. War-Clouds
   XIII. Ultimatum
    XIV. The Code of Honour
     XV. The Sea Between


                                BOOK III

                               THE BRIDGE

      I. Home
     II. Exiled
    III. Revelation
     IV. The Bridge Across




                           *DIVIDING WATERS*



                                *BOOK I*


                              *CHAPTER I*

                      *THE MISTAKES OF PROVIDENCE*


The family Ingestre sat in conclave.  That they sat together at all at
any time other than a meal-time was in itself sufficient proof that the
subject of their debate was unusually serious: their faces and attitudes
added conclusive evidence.

The Reverend John Ingestre occupied his chair of state at the head of
the long table.  He was a middle-sized man, with narrow, sloping
shoulders, which were at that particular moment drawn up into an
uncomfortable hunch.  When he spoke he pulled at his thin beard and
glanced at his wife surreptitiously over his spectacles, as though
seeking her advice or support--actions which gave his whole person an
air of harassed nervousness.

Mrs. Ingestre did not return her husband's signals. She lay quietly on
the sofa by the window, her hand half shading her face, and seemed
absorbed in her own thoughts.  Only once during the Rev. John's long and
detailed statement did she give any sign of having heard.  Then she
shifted her position so that her grave scrutiny rested on the two
younger members of the family.  Perhaps she hoped to learn from their
expressions what they were innerly experiencing, and therein no doubt
she must have been successful, for their positions alone were expressive
of much.

The boy--or young man, for he was at that uncertain age when boyhood and
manhood meet--had his hands plunged in his pockets; his long legs were
stretched out in front of him, his chin rested on his chest.  Supreme
and energiless despondency seemed to be imprinted in the very creases of
his Norfolk coat.

The girl had her place at the table.  Though she sat perfectly still,
never turning her eyes from her father's face, there was something in
her rigid attitude which suggested irritation and impatience.  Her hands
lay in her lap; only a close observer would have seen that they were not
folded, but clenched, so that the knuckles stood out white.

"So you see, my dear children," the Rev. John said at last, coming to
his peroration, "I felt it my duty to lay the case before you exactly as
it stands. For a long time I hoped that it would not be necessary for me
to do so--that a merciful Providence would spare me the pain of
inflicting upon you so sharp a wound.  Well, it has been ruled
otherwise, and I only pray that you share with me my one
consolation--the knowledge that it is the will of a Higher Power, and
therefore all for the best."

He stopped and waited.  In spite of the catastrophe which he had just
announced, there was a trace of meek satisfaction in his manner, of
which he seemed gradually to become conscious, for he turned to his wife
with a note of apology in his thin voice:

"My dear, I have explained the matter correctly, I hope?"

"Quite correctly, I should think."

Mrs. Ingestre's hand sank from her face.  It was a finely shaped hand,
and whiter, if possible, than the dress she wore.  Everything about her
was beautiful and fragile--painfully fragile.  The very atmosphere
around her seemed laden with the perfume of a refined and nobly borne
suffering.

"It seems to me there is no possible mistake," said the young man,
getting up roughly.  "We are ruined--that is the long and the short of
the matter."

For a moment no one made any attempt to deny his angry statement.  Then
the Rev. John shook his head.

"You speak too strongly, my dear Miles," he corrected.  "We are not what
one would call ruined. I have still my stipend.  There is no idea
of--eh--starving, or anything of that sort; but the superfluous luxuries
must be done away with, and--eh--one or two sacrifices must be brought."

He coughed, and looked at his daughter.  Mrs. Ingestre looked at her
also, and the pale, pain-worn face became illumined with tenderness and
pity.

"Sacrifices," the Rev. John repeated regretfully. "Such, I fear, must be
the payment for our misfortunes."

Nora Ingestre relaxed from her stiff attitude of self-restraint.  The
expression of her face said clearly enough: "The sermon is at an end,
and the plate being handed round.  How much am I expected to put in?"

"It was of your career I was thinking, my dear Miles," the Rev. John
answered.  "I am quite aware that your whole future depends on your
remaining in the Army, therefore we have decided that--that sacrifices
must be brought for you."

He hesitated again, and threw another glance at his wife's pale face.

"Nora, I am sure you see the necessity of what I say?"

His daughter started, as though he had awakened her from a reverie.

"Yes, I do," she said, with an abrupt energy.  "We must all help each
other as much as we can.  I shall just work like a <DW65>."

"Eh--yes," said her father doubtfully.  "I am sure you will.  Of course,
we shall have to dismiss some of the servants, and your mother will
need--eh--more assistance than hitherto--and I know, dear Nora----"  He
coughed, and left the sentence unfinished.

Whether it was his manner or her mother's face which aroused her to
closer attention, Nora Ingestre herself could not have said.  She became
suddenly aware that all three were looking at her, and that she was
expected to say something.

"I don't quite understand," she said.  "It is only natural that I should
help all I can, only----"

It was her turn to stop short.  She too had risen to her feet, and quite
unconsciously she drew herself upright like a person preparing for
attack from some as yet unknown quarter.  Like her father, she was not
above the middle height, but she had her mother's graceful,
well-proportioned build, which made her seem taller than she really was,
and added to that a peculiar resolute dignity that was all her own.  It
was, perhaps, to this latter attribute that she owed the unacknowledged
respect in which she was held both by her father and brother.  For it is
a set rule that we must admire most what is in direct contrast to
ourselves; and it had never been in the Rev. John's power either to
carry himself erect, or to give himself anything but the appearance of a
meek and rather nervous man.  It was owing to this inherent respect that
he hesitated at the present moment.  Perhaps he realised at the bottom
of his heart that it was not an altogether fair proceeding to load his
mistaken monetary speculations on the shoulders of a disinterested
Providence, and that his family might have other, if secret, views as to
the real responsibility. At any rate, he was not sufficiently convinced
of his own absolute innocence to meet his daughter's grave, questioning
eyes with either firmness or equanimity.

"My dear," he said, "we want you at home."  And therewith he considered
he had put the case both concisely and gently.  But Nora continued to
look at him, and he grew irritated because she did not seem able to
understand.

"Surely you can see that--that there are certain things for which we
have neither the time nor the money?" he said, drumming on the table
with his thin fingers.

A deep wave of colour mounted Nora Ingestre's cheeks.  She did not
speak, however, until it had died away again, leaving her unusually
pale.

"You mean--I must give up--everything?" she asked in a low voice.

"If by 'everything' you mean your musical studies--yes," her father
returned impatiently.  The next minute he relented, and, leaning
forward, took her passive hand in his.  "But surely it is not
'everything,'" he said.  "Surely your home and your people are more to
you than even this favourite pursuit?  I know it is hard for you--it is
indeed hard for us all; but if we kept our promise and sent you to
London other things would have to pay for it--the dear old house, the
garden, Miles's career.  You see how it is? You know there is nothing
for your real good that I would withhold from you if I could help it,
dear child."

He waited, expecting her to throw herself into his arms in generous
self-reproach at her own hesitation; but she said nothing, and there was
a long, uncomfortable silence.

"And then time will not hang heavy on your hands," he went on, with
forced cheerfulness.  "Your mother will need you and I shall need
you--good little amanuensis that you are!  Is it not something to you
that we all need you so much?"

"Yes," she said.

The monosyllable encouraged him, though it would have encouraged no one
else.

"And, of course, in between whiles you will be able to keep up your
music," he added, patting her hand.

This time there was not even a monosyllable to reassure him.  Nora
Ingestre stood motionless at her father's side, her eyes fixed straight
ahead, her fine, resolute features set, and almost expressionless.

Miles swung impatiently on his heel.

"I can't think what you are making all this fuss about," he said.  "You
ought to be jolly glad that we can keep on the old place, and that you
have such a decent home.  I know lots of girls who would give their eyes
to be in your shoes."

"Have I been making a fuss?"

She spoke perfectly quietly, without changing her position, but her
question seemed to cause Miles fresh annoyance.

"I call it a fuss to stand there and say nothing," he said, with sound
masculine logic.  "And anyhow--what does it matter whether you can
tinkle a few tunes on the old tin-kettle or not?"

"That is something you do not understand," she blazed out.  It was as
though he had unwittingly set fire to some hidden powder-mine in her
character. She was breathing quickly and brokenly, and every line in her
face betrayed a painfully repressed feeling which threatened to break
out into passionate expression.

Mrs. Ingestre rose from her couch.  When she stood upright she seemed to
dominate them all, to command silence and respect, by the very dignity
of her bearing.

"I think this has all lasted long enough," she said. "What is done
cannot be undone.  We must face matters as best we can.  As your father
says, it is the will of Providence, and as such we must accept it.
Only"--she turned to Miles, and from the faintest possible inflection of
irony her tone deepened to reproof--"there are some things you do not
understand, dear boy, and which you had better leave to wiser heads.
Perhaps I understand better.  At any rate, I should like to speak to
Nora alone."

Thus she virtually dismissed the masculine members of the family.  Miles
shrugged his shoulders, and went out into the garden whistling.  The
Rev. John rose, and gathered up the business papers which he had brought
in with him.

"I am sure that your mother will show it is all for the best," he said
weakly.

At the door he turned and looked back over his spectacles.

"Remember always what we have both tried to impress upon you--it is the
will of Providence," he said.  "We must not kick against the pricks."

He then went out, leaving the two women alone.




                              *CHAPTER II*

                             *"WANDERLUST"*


For some minutes mother and daughter did not speak. Nora had turned her
back, and was gazing out on to the pleasant country garden with eyes
that saw neither the flowers nor the evening shadows which lengthened
out over the lawn.  She was still too profoundly occupied in the effort
to appear indifferent, to cover over that one slip of feeling, to notice
what was going on about her.  She hated herself for having shown what
she felt, she hated herself for feeling as she did; but no amount of
hatred or self-condemnation would retrieve the one or change the other,
and when she at last turned, aroused by the prolonged silence, the
signals of anger and resentment still burned in her cheeks and eyes.

"Oh, I am a wretch," she cried impetuously. "Dearest, don't look so
grave and distressed.  It isn't your fault that you have such a
disagreeable daughter.  There, I ought to be a help and comfort, and
instead----"

"An old woman does not need so much help and comfort as a young one,"
Mrs. Ingestre interrupted gently.  "Just at present I am not suffering
one-tenth of what you are suffering.  And, dear Nora, don't treat me
like some frail old wreck that must be shielded at all costs from the
rough winds.  Don't stand there and swallow up everything you are
feeling because you are afraid of hurting me.  It will only rankle all
the worse.  I would rather have your full confidence, however painful it
may be.  Come here and sit down beside me.  Tell me everything you are
thinking and feeling, honest Injun!"

The "honest Injun" brought a smile to Nora's eyes.  Like everything else
that she said or did, Mrs. Ingestre stamped the schoolboy phrase with an
exotic, indefinable charm that was all her own.  Yet beneath the
half-gay appeal there lay a note of command, and Nora drew nearer
awkwardly and hesitatingly, bereft for the moment of her youthful
assurance and thrust back to the school days which at the age of
nineteen are not so far away.  She took the white outstretched hand and
stood with bent head, frowning at the carpet.  Suddenly she knelt down
and buried her face in her mother's lap.

"I feel like a trapped rabbit," she murmured indistinctly.

A very faint smile touched Mrs. Ingestre's lips.

"A trapped rabbit, Nora?  And who has trapped you, pray?"

"You have, and you know it.  You always do!"

"Really, dear, it would have to be a very old and shortsighted rabbit to
allow me to trap it, and you are neither.  You must explain."

Nora lifted her face.  She was laughing, but she was also very near
crying.

"I mean--that is how you make me feel," she said.  "I can defy other
people when they want to do any soul-exploring on my territory.  I just
shut my mouth and my heart, and leave them out in the cold.  But you are
different.  You mesmerise me till I not only have to tell you what I am
feeling, but I positively _want_ to--even though it is the most
disgraceful, most disreputable feeling possible."

"And just now----?"

"It was a thought."

"What sort of a thought?"

"A dreadful one."

"Couldn't you tell me?"

"Of course I can--I must--but----"

"Well?"

"Do you want to know exactly?"

"Word for word."

"I was thinking what a duffer father is--was, I mean."

A complete silence.  Mrs. Ingestre stroked her daughter's hand and
stared sightlessly into the deepening shadows.  The smile had died from
her lips.

"Go on," she said at last.

"I don't think there is anything else.  I always think that when father
talks about Providence and--and that sort of thing.  I feel sometimes
that if Providence took human shape and was in the room at the time I
should wink--I am not sure I don't wink inside me, anyhow."

She waited, and then, as Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, she went on
disconsolately:

"I know I am awful, darling.  I wonder if other people have shocking
ideas too, or whether I am the wicked exception?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Ingestre said.  "One can't help one's thoughts,
you know."

"No, one can't; can one?  The more one sits on them, the more uproarious
they get.  Are you cross?"

"No."

"Do you--ever have thoughts like that?"

"Nora, I am not feeling in the least like a trapped rabbit, if that's
what you mean