Books: Maurice Guest

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Maurice, hesitating just inside the door, found himself close to a
grand piano, which stood free on all sides, was open, and disorderly
with music. It was a large room, with three windows; and one
end of it was shut off by a high screen, which stretched almost from
wall to wall. A deep sofa stood in an oriel-window; a writing-table
was covered with bric-a-brac, and three tall flower-vases were filled
with purple lilac. But there was a general air of untidiness about the
room; for strewn over the chairs and tables were numerous small
articles of dress and the toilet-hairpins, a veil, a hat and a
skirt--all traces of her intimate presence.

As she lifted the lamp from the writing-table to place it on the
square table before the sofa, Madeleine called her attention to a
folded paper that had lain beneath it.

"It seems to be a letter for you."

She caught at it with a kind of avidity, tore it open, and heedless of
their presence, devoured it, not only with her eyes: but with her
parted lips and eager hands. When she looked up again, her cheeks had
a tinge of colour in them; her eyes shone like faceted jewels; her
smile was radiant and infectious. With no regard for appearances, she
buttoned the note in the bosom of her dress.

"Now we will look for the purse," she said. "But come in, Mr.
Guest--you are still standing at the door. I shall think you are
offended with me. Oh, how hot the room is!--and the lilac is stifling.
First the windows open! And then this scarf off, and some more light.
You will help me to look, will you not?"

It was to Maurice she spoke, with a childlike upturning of her face to
his--an irresistibly confiding gesture. She disappeared behind the
screen, and came out bareheaded, nestling with both hands at the coil
of hair on her neck. Then she lit two candles that stood on the piano
in brass candlesticks, and Maurice lighted her round the room, while
she searched in likely and unlikely places--inside the piano, in empty
vases, in the folds of the curtains--laughing at herself as she did so,
until Madeleine said that this was only nonsense, and came after them
herself. When Maurice held the candle above the writing-table, he
lighted three large photographs of Schilsky, one more dandified than
the other; and he was obliged to raise his other hand to steady the
candlestick.

At last, following a hint from Madeleine, they discovered the purse
between the back of the sofa and the seat; and now Louise remembered
that it had been in the pocket of her dressing-gown that afternoon.

"How stupid of me! I might have known," she said contritely.
"So many things have gone down there in their day. Once a silver
hair-brush that I was fond of; and I sometimes look there when bangles
or hat-pins are missing," and letting her eyes dance at Maurice, she
threw back her head and laughed.

Here, however, another difficulty arose; except for a few nickel
coins, the purse was found to contain only gold, and the required
change could not be made up.

"Never mind; take one of the twenty-mark pieces," she urged. "Yes,
Madeleine, I would rather you did;" and when Madeleine hinted that
Maurice might not find it too troublesome to come back with the change
the following day, she turned to the young man, and saying: "Yes, if
Mr. Guest would be so kind," smiled at him with such a gracious warmth
that it was all he could do to reply with a decent unconcern.

But the hands of the clock on the writing-table were nearing half-past
eleven, and now it was she who referred to the lateness of the hour.

"Thank you very much," she said to Maurice on parting. "And you must
forget the nonsense I talked this evening. I didn't mean it--not a word
of it." She laughed and held out her hand. "I wouldn't shake hands
with you this afternoon, but now--if you will? For to-night I am not
superstitious. Nothing bad will happen; I'm sure of that. And I am
very much obliged to you--for everything. Good night."

Only a few minutes back, he had been steeped in pity for her; now it
seemed as if no one had less need of pity or sympathy than she. He was
bewildered, and went home to pass alternately from a mood of rapture
to one of jealous despair. And the latter was torturous, for, as they
walked, Madeleine had let fall such a vile suspicion that he had
parted from her in anger, calling as he went that if he believed what
she said to be true, he would never put faith in a human being again.

In the light of the morning, of course, he knew that it was
incredible, a mere phantasm born of the dark; and towards four o'clock
that afternoon, he called at the BRUDERSTRASSE with the change. But
Louise was not at home, and as he did not find her in on three
successive days, he did not venture to return. He wrote his name on a
card, and left this, together with the money, in an envelope.

X.

After parting from the rest, Dove and the two Cayhills continued their
way in silence: they were in the shadow thrown by the steep vaulting
of the THOMASKIRCHE, before a word was exchanged between them. Johanna
had several times glanced inquiringly at her sister, but Ephie had
turned away her head, so that only the outline of her cheek was
visible, and as Dove had done exactly the same, Johanna could only
conclude that the two had fallen out. It was something novel for her
to be obliged to talk when Ephie was present, but it was impossible
for them to walk the whole way home as mum as this, especially as Dove
had already heaved more than one deep sigh.

So, as they turned into the PROMENADE, Johanna said with a jerk, and
with an aggressiveness that she could not subdue: "Well, that is the
first and the last time anyone shall persuade me to go to a so-called
opera by Wagner."

"Is not that just a little rash?" asked Dove. He smiled, unruffled,
with a suggestion of patronage; but there was also a preoccupation in
his manner, which showed that he was thinking of other things.

"You call that music," said Johanna, although he had done nothing of
the kind. "I call it noise. I am not musical myself, thank goodness,
but at least I know a tune when I hear one."

"If my opinion had been asked, I should certainly have suggested
something lighter--LOHENGRIN OR TANNHAUSER, for instance," said Dove.

"You would have done us a favour if you had," replied Johanna; and she
meant what she said, in more ways than one. She had been at a loss to
account for Ephie's sudden longing to hear DIE WALKURE, and had gone
to the theatre against her will, simply because she never thwarted
Ephie if she could avoid it. Now, after she had heard the opera, she
felt aggrieved with Dove as well; as far as she had been able to
gather from his vague explanations, from the bawling of the singers,
and from subsequent events, the first act treated of relations so
infamous that, by common consent, they are considered non-existent;
and Johanna was of the opinion that, instead of being so ready
to take tickets for them, Dove might have let drop a hint of the
nature of the piece Ephie wished to see.

After this last remark of Johanna's there was another lengthy pause.
Then Dove, looking fondly at what he could see of Ephie's cheek, said:
"I am afraid Miss Ephie has not enjoyed it either; she is so quiet--so
unlike herself."

Ephie, who had been staring into the darkness, bit her lip: he was at
it again. After the unfriendly way in which Maurice Guest had deserted
her, and forced her into Dove's company, Dove had worried her right
down the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE, to know what the matter was, and how he
had offended her. She felt exasperated with every one, and if he began
his worryings again, would have to vent her irritation somehow.

"Ephie has only herself to blame if she didn't enjoy it; she was bent
on going," said Johanna, in the mildly didactic manner she invariably
used towards her sister. "But I think she is only tired--or a little
cross."

"Oh, that is not likely," Dove hastened to interpose.

"I am not cross, Joan," said Ephie angrily. "And if it was my fault you
had to come--I've enjoyed myself very much, and I shall go again, as
often as I like. But I won't be teased--I won't indeed!"

This was the sharpest answer Johanna had ever received from Ephie. She
looked at her in dismay, but made no response, for of nothing was
Johanna more afraid than of losing the goodwill Ephie bore her.
Mentally she put her sister's pettishness down to the noise and heat
of the theatre, and it was an additional reason for bearing Wagner and
his music a grudge. Dove also made no further effort to converse
connectedly, but his silence was of a conciliatory kind, and, as they
advanced along the PROMENADE, he could not deny himself the pleasure
of drawing the pretty, perverse child's attention to the crossings,
the ruts in the road, the best bits of pavement, with a: "Walk you
here, Miss Ephie," "Take care," "Allow me," himself meanwhile dancing
from one side of the footpath to the other, until the young girl was
almost distracted.

"I can see for myself, thank you. I have eyes in my head as well as
anyone else," she exclaimed at length; and to Johanna's amazed:
"Ephie!" she retorted: "Yes, Joan, you think no one has a right to be
rude but yourself."

Johanna was more hurt by these words than she would have confessed.
She had hitherto believed that Ephie--affectionate, lazy
little Ephie--accepted her individual peculiarities as an integral part
of her nature: it had not occurred to her that Ephie might be standing
aloof and considering her objectively--let alone mentally using such an
unkind word as rudeness of her. But Ephie's fit of ill-temper, for
such it undoubtedly was, made Johanna see things differently; it
hinted at unsuspected, cold scrutinies in the past, and implied a
somewhat laming care of one's words in the days to come, which would
render it difficult ever again to be one's perfectly natural self.

Had Johanna not been so occupied with her own feelings, she would have
heard the near tears in Ephie's voice; it was with the utmost
difficulty that the girl kept them back, and at the house-door, she
had vanished up the stairs long before Dove had finished saying
good-night. In the corridor, she hesitated whether or no, according to
custom, she should go to her mother's room. Then she put a brave face
on it, and opened the door.

"Here we are, mummy. Good night. I hope the evening wasn't too long."

Long?--on the contrary the hours had flown. Mrs. Cayhill, left to
herself, had all the comfortable sensations of a tippler in the
company of his bottle. She could forge ahead, undeterred by any sense
of duty; she had not to interrupt herself to laugh at Ephie's wit, nor
was she troubled by Johanna's cold eye--that eye which told more plainly
than words, how her elder daughter regarded her self-indulgence.
Propped up in bed on two pillows, she now laid down her book, and put
out her hand to draw Ephie to her.

"Did you enjoy it, darling? Were you amused? But you will tell me all
about it in the morning."

"Yes, mother, in the morning. I am a little tired--but it was very
sweet," said Ephie bravely. "Good night."

Mrs. Cayhill kissed her, and nodded in perfect contentment at the
pretty little figure before her. Ephie was free to go. And at last she
was in her own room--at last!

She hastily locked both doors, one leading to the passage and one to
her sister's room. A moment later, Johanna was at the latter, trying
to open it.

"Ephie! What is the matter? Why have you locked the door? Open it at
once, I insist upon it," she cried anxiously, and as loudly as she
dared, for fear of disturbing the other inmates of the house.

But Ephie begged hard not to be bothered; she had a bad headache,
and only wanted to be quiet.

"Let me give you a powder," urged her sister. "You are so excited--I am
sure you are not well;" and when this, too, was refused: "You had
nothing but some tea, child--you must be hungry. And they have left our
supper on the table."

No, she was not hungry, didn't want any supper, and was very sleepy.

"Well, at least unlock your door," begged Johanna, with visions of the
dark practices which Ephie, the soul of candour, might be contemplating
on the other side. "I will not come in, I promise you," she added.

"Oh, all right," said Ephie crossly. But as soon as she heard that
Johanna had gone, she returned to the middle of the room without
touching the door; and after standing undecided for a moment, as if
not quite sure what was coming next, she sat down on a chair at the
foot of the bed, and suddenly began to cry. The tears had been in
waiting for so long that they flowed without effort, abundantly,
rolling one over another down her cheeks; but she was careful not to
make a sound; for, even when sobbing bitterly, she did not forget that
at any moment Johanna might enter the adjoining room and overhear her.
And then, what a fuss there would be! For Ephie was one of those
fortunate people who always get what they want, and but rarely have
occasion to cry. All her desires had moved low, near earth, and been
easily fulfilled. Did she break her prettiest doll, a still prettier
was forthcoming; did anything happen to cross wish or scheme of hers,
half a dozen brains were at work to think out a compensation.

But now she wept in earnest, behind closed doors, for she had received
an injury which no one could make good. And the more she thought of
it, the more copiously her tears flowed. The evening had been one long
tragedy of disappointment: her fevered anticipation beforehand, her
early throbs of excitement in the theatre, her growing consternation
as the evening advanced, her mortification at being slighted--a
sensation which she experienced for the first time. Again and again
she asked herself what she had done to be treated in this way. What
had happened to change him?

She was sitting upright on her chair, letting the tears stream
unchecked; her two hands lay upturned on her knee; in one of them was
a diminutive lace handkerchief, rolled to a ball, with which now and
then she dabbed away the hottest tears. The windows of the
room were still open, the blinds undrawn, and the street-lamps threw a
flickering mesh of light on the wall. In the glass that hung over the
washstand, she saw her dim reflection: following an impulse, she dried
her eyes, and, with trembling fingers, lighted two candles, one on
each side of the mirror. By this uncertain light, she leant forward
with both hands on the stand, and peered at herself with a new
curiosity.

She was still just as she had come out of the theatre: a many-coloured
silk scarf was twisted round her head, and the brilliant, dangling
fringes, and the stray tendrils of hair that escaped, made a frame for
the rounded oval of her face. And then her skin was so fine, her eyes
were so bright, the straight lashes so black and so long!--she put her
head back, looked at herself through half-closed lids, turned her face
this way and that, even smiling, wet though her cheeks were, in order
that she might see the even line of teeth, with their slightly notched
edges. The smile was still on her lips when the tears welled up again,
ran over, trickled down and dropped with a splash, she watching them,
until a big, unexpected sob rose in her throat, and almost choked her.
Yes, she was pretty--oh, very, very pretty! But it made what had
happened all the harder to understand. How had he had the heart to
treat her so cruelly?

She knelt down by the open window, and laid her head on the sill. The
moon, a mere sharp line of silver, hung fine and slender, like a
polished scimitar, above the dark mass of houses opposite. Turning her
hot face up to it, she saw that it was new, and instantly felt a throb
of relief that she had not caught her first glimpse of it through
glass. She bowed her head to it, quickly, nine times running, and sent
up a prayer to the deity of fortune that had its home there. Good
luck!--the fulfilment of one's wish! She wished in haste, with
tight-closed eyes--and who knew but what, the very next day, her wish
might come true! Tired with crying, above all, tired of the grief
itself, she began more and more to let her thoughts stray to the
morrow. And having once yielded to the allurements of hope, she even
endeavoured to make the best of the past evening, telling herself that
she had not been alone for a single instant; he had really had no
chance of speaking to her. In the next breath, of course, she reminded
herself that he might easily have made a chance, had he wished; and a
healthier feeling of resentment stole over her. Rising from her
cramped position, she shut the window. She resolved to show him that
she was not a person who could be treated in this off-hand
fashion; he should see that she was not to be trifled with.

But she played with her unhappiness a little longer, and even had an
idea of throwing herself on the bed without undressing. She was very
sleepy, though, and the desire to be between the cool, soft sheets was
too strong to be withstood. She slipped out of her clothes, leaving
them just where they fell on the floor, like round pools; and before
she had finished plaiting her hair, she was stifling a hearty yawn.
But in bed, when the light was out, she lay and stared before her.

"I am very, very unhappy. I shall not sleep a wink," she said to
herself, and sighed at the prospect of the night-watch.

But before five minutes had passed her closed hand relaxed, and lay
open and innocent on the coverlet; her breath came regularly--she was
fast asleep. The moon was visible for a time in the setting of the
unshuttered window; and when she wakened next day, toward nine
o'clock, the full morning sun was playing on the bed.

For several months prior to this, Ephie had worshipped Schilsky at a
distance. The very first time she saw him play, he had made a profound
impression on her: he looked so earnest and melancholy, so supremely
indifferent to every one about him, as he stood with his head bent to
his violin. Then, too, he had beautiful hands; and she did not know
which she admired more, his auburn hair with the big hat set so
jauntily on it, or the thrillingly impertinent way he had of staring
at you--through half-closed eyes, with his head well back--in a manner
at once daring and irresistible.

Having come through a period of low spirits, caused by an acute
consciousness of her own littleness and inferiority, Ephie so far
recovered her self-confidence that she was able to look at her
divinity when she met him; and soon after this, she made the
intoxicating discovery that not only did he return her look, but that
he also took notice of her, and deliberately singled her out with his
gaze. And the belief was pardonable on Ephie's part, for Schilsky made
it a point of honour to stare any pretty girl into confusion; besides
which, he had a habit of falling into sheep-like reveries, in which he
saw no more of what or whom he looked at, than do the glassy eyes of
the blind. More than once, Ephie had blushed and writhed in blissful
torture under these stonily staring eyes.

From this to persuading herself that her feelings were returned
was only a step. Events and details, lighter than puff-balls,
were to her links of iron, which formed a wonderful chain of evidence.
She went about nursing the idea that Schilsky desired an introduction
as much as she did; that he was suffering from a romantic and
melancholy attachment, which forbade him attempting to approach her.

At this date, she became an adept at inventing excuses to go to the
Conservatorium when she thought he was likely to be there; and,
suddenly grown rebellious, she shook off Johanna's protectorship,
which until now had weighed lightly on her. She grew fastidious about
her dress, studied before the glass which colours suited her best, and
the effect of a particular bow or ribbon; while on the days she had
her violin-lessons, she developed a coquetry which made nothing seem
good enough to wear, and was the despair of Johanna. When Schilsky
played at an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG, she sat in the front row of seats, and
made her hands ache with applauding. Afterwards she lay wakeful, with
hot cheeks, and dreamt extravagant dreams of sending him great baskets
and bouquets of flowers, with coloured streamers to them, such as the
singers in the opera received on a gala night. And though no name was
given, he would know from whom they came. But on the only occasion she
tried to carry out the scheme, and ventured inside a florist's shop,
her scant command of German, and the excessive circumstantiality of
the matter, made her feel so uncomfortable that she had fled
precipitately, leaving the shopman staring after her in surprise.

Things were at this pass when, one day late in May, Ephie went as
usual to take her lesson. It was two o'clock on a cloudless afternoon,
and so warm that the budding lilac in squares and gardens began to
give out fragrance. In the whitewashed, many-windowed corridors of the
Conservatorium, the light was harsh and shadowless; it jarred on one,
wounded the nerves. So at least thought Schilsky, who was hanging
about the top storey of the building, in extreme ill-humour. He had
been forced to make an appointment with a man to whom he owed money;
the latter had not yet appeared, and Schilsky lounged and swore, with
his two hands deep in his pockets, and his sulkiest expression. But
gradually, he found himself listening to the discordant tones of a
violin--at first unconsciously, as we listen when our thoughts are
elsewhere engaged, then more and more intently. In one of the junior
masters' rooms, some one had begun to play scales in the third
position, uncertainly, with shrill feebleness, seeking out
each note, only to produce it falsely. As this scraping worked on him,
Schilsky could not refrain from rubbing his teeth together, and
screwing up his face as though he had toothache; now that the
miserable little tones had successfully penetrated his ear, they hit
him like so many blows.

"Damn him for a fool!" he said savagely to himself, and found an
outlet for his irritation in repeating these words aloud. Then,
however, as an ETUDE was commenced, with an impotence that struck him
as purely vicious, he could endure the torment no longer. He had seen
in the BUREAU the particular master, and knew that the latter had not
yet come upstairs. Going to the room from which the sounds issued, he
stealthily opened the door.

A girl was standing with her back to him, and was so engrossed in
playing that she did not hear him enter. On seeing this, he proposed
to himself the schoolboy pleasure of creeping up behind her and giving
her a well-deserved fright. He did so, with such effect that, had he
not caught it, her violin would have fallen to the floor.

He took both her wrists in his, held them firm, and, from his superior
height--he was head and shoulders taller than Ephie --looked down on
the miscreant. He recognised her now as a pretty little American whom
he had noticed from time to time about the building; but--but . . .
well, that she was as astoundingly pretty as this, he had had no
notion. His eyes strayed over her face, picking out all its beauties,
and he felt himself growing as soft as butter. Besides, she had
crimsoned down to her bare, dimpled neck; her head drooped; her long
lashes covered her eyes, and a tremulous smile touched the corners of
her mouth, which seemed uncertain whether to laugh or to cry--the
short, upper-lip trembled. He felt from her wrists, and saw from the
uneasy movement of her breast, how wildly her heart was beating--it was
as if one held a bird in one's hand. His ferocity died away; none of
the hard words he had had ready crossed his lips; all he said, and in
his gentlest voice, was: "Have I frightened you?" He was desperately
curious to know the colour of her eyes, and, as she neither answered
him nor looked up, but only grew more and more confused, he let one of
her hands fall, and taking her by the chin, turned her face up to his.
She was forced to look at him for a moment. Upon which, he stooped and
kissed her on the mouth, three times, with a pause between each kiss.
Then, at a noise in the corridor, he swung hastily from the
room, and was just in time to avoid the master, against whom he
brushed up in going out of the door.

Herr Becker looked suspiciously at his favourite pupil's tell-tale face
and air of extreme confusion; and, throughout the lesson, his manner
to her was so cold and short that Ephie played worse than ever before.
After sticking fast in the middle of a passage, she stopped
altogether, and begged to be allowed to go home. When she had gone,
and some one else was playing, Herr Becker stood at the window and
shook his head: round this innocent baby face he had woven several
pretty fancies.

Meanwhile Ephie flew rather than walked home, and having reached her
room unseen, flung herself on the bed, and buried her burning cheeks
in the white coolness of the pillows. Johanna, finding her thus, a
short time after, was alarmed, put questions of various kinds, felt
sure the sun had been too hot for her, and finally stood over the bed,
holding her unfailing remedy, a soothing powder for the nerves.