Books: Maurice Guest

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"Oh, do for goodness' sake, leave me alone, Joan," said Ephie. "I
don't want your powders. I am all right. Just let me be."

She drank the mixture, however, and catching sight of Johanna's
anxious face, and aware that she had been cross, she threw her arms
round her sister, hugged her, and called her a "dear old darling
Joan." But there was something in the stormy tenderness of the
embrace, in the flushed cheeks and glittering eyes that made Johanna
even more uneasy. She insisted upon Ephie lying still and trying to
sleep; and, after taking off her shoes for her, and noiselessly
drawing down the blinds, she went on tiptoe out of the room.

Ephie burrowed more deeply in her pillow, and putting both hands to
her cars, to shut out the world, went over the details of what had
happened. It was like a fairy-story. She walked lazily down the sunny
corridor, entered the class-room, and took off her hat, which Herr
Becker hung up for her, after having playfully examined it. She had
just taken her violin from its case, when he remembered something he
had to do in the BUREAU, and went out of the room, bidding her
practise her scales during his absence; she heard again and smiled at
the funny accent with which he said: "Just a moment." She saw the bare
walls of the room, the dust that lay white on the lid on the piano,
was conscious of the difficulties of C sharp minor. She even knew
the very note at which HE had been beside her--without a word
of warning, as suddenly as though he had sprung from the earth. She
heard the cry she had given, and felt his hands--the hands she had so
often admired--clasp her wrists. He was so close to her that she felt
his breath, and knew the exact shape of the diamond ring he wore on
his little finger. She felt, too, rather than saw the audacious
admiration of his eyes; and his voice was not the less caressing
because a little thick. And then--then--she burrowed more firmly, held
her ears more tightly to, laughed a happy, gurgling laugh that almost
choked her: never, as long as she lived, would she forget the feel of
his moustache as it scratched her lips!

When she rose and looked at herself in the glass, it seemed
extraordinary that there should be no outward difference in her; and
for several days she did not lose this sensation of being mysteriously
changed. She was quieter than usual, and her movements were a little
languid, but a kind of subdued radiance peeped through and shone in
her eyes. She waited confidently for something to happen: she did not
herself know what it would be, but, after the miracle that had
occurred, it was beyond belief that things could jog on in their old
familiar course; and so she waited and expected--at every letter the
postman brought, each time the door-bell rang, whenever she went into
the street.

But after a week had dragged itself to an end, and she had not even
seen Schilsky again, she grew restless and unsure; and sometimes at
night, when Johanna thought she was asleep, she would stand at her
window, and, with a very different face from that which she wore by
day, put countless questions to herself, all of which began with why
and how. And Johanna was again beset by the fear that Ephie was
sickening for an illness, for the child would pass from bursts of
rather forced gaiety to fits of real fretfulness, or sink into brown
studies, from which she wakened with a start. But if, on some such
occasion, Johanna said to her: "Where ARE your thoughts, Ephie?" she
would only laugh, and answer, with a hug: "Wool-gathering, you dear
old bumble-bee!"

From the lesson following the eventful one, Ephie played truant, on
the ground of headache, partly because her fancy pictured him lying in
wait like an ogre to eat her up, and partly from a poor little foolish
fear lest he should think her too easily won. Now, however, she blamed
herself for not having given him an opportunity to speak to her, and
began to frequent the Conservatorium assiduously. When, after
ten long days, she saw him again, an unfailing instinct guided her
aright.

It was in the vestibule, as she was leaving the building, and they met
face to face. Directly she espied him, though her heart thumped
alarmingly, Ephie tossed her head, gazed fixedly at some distant
object, and was altogether as haughty as her parted lips would allow
of. And she played her part so well that Schilsky's attention was
arrested; he remembered who she was, and stared hard at her as she
passed. Not only this, but pleased, he could not have told why, he
turned and followed her out, and standing on the steps, looked after
her. She went down the street with her head in the air, holding her
dress very high to display a lace-befrilled petticoat, and clattering
gracefully on two high-heeled, pointed shoes. He screwed up his eyes
against the sun, in order to see her better--he was short-sighted, too,
but vanity forbade him to wear glasses--and when, at the corner of the
street, Ephie rather spoilt the effect of her behaviour by throwing a
hasty glance back, he laughed and clicked his tongue against the roof
of his mouth.

"VERDAMMT!" he said with expression.

And both on that day and the next, when he admired a well-turned ankle
or a pretty petticoat, he was reminded of the provoking little
American, with the tossed head and baby mouth.

A few days later, in the street that ran alongside the Gewandhaus, he
saw her again.

Ephie, who, in the interval, had upbraided herself incessantly, was
none the less, now the moment had come, about to pass as before--even
more frigidly. But this time Schilsky raised his hat, with a tentative
smile, and, in order not to appear childish, she bowed ever so
slightly. When he was safely past, she could not resist giving a
furtive look behind her, and at precisely the same moment, he turned,
too. In spite of her trouble, Ephic found the coincidence droll; she
tittered, and he saw it, although she immediately laid the back of her
hand on her lips. It was not in him to let this pass unnoticed. With a
few quick steps, he was at her side.

He took off his hat again, and looked at her not quite sure how to
begin.

"I am happy to see you have not forgotten me," he said in excellent
English.

Ephie had impulsively stopped on hearing him come up with her, and
now, colouring deeply, tried to dig a hole in the pavement with the
toe of her shoe. She, too, could not think what to say; and
this, together with the effect produced on her by his peculiar lisp,
made her feel very uncomfortable. She was painfully conscious of his
insistent eyes on her face, as he waited for her to speak; but there
was a distressing pause before he added: "And sorry to see you are
still angry with me."

At this, she found her tongue. Looking, not at him, but at a passer-by
on the opposite side of the street, she said: "Why, I guess I have a
right to be."

She tried to speak severely, but her voice quavered, and once more the
young man was not sure whether the trembling of her lip signified
tears or laughter.

"Are you always so cruel?" he asked, with an intentness that made her
eyes seek the ground again. "Such a little crime! Is there no hope for
me?"

She attempted to be dignified. "Little! I am really not accustomed----"

"Then I'm not to be forgiven?"

His tone was so humble that suddenly she had to laugh. Shooting a
quick glance at him, she said:

"That depends on how you behave in future. If you promise never to----"

Before the words were well out of her mouth, she was aware of her
stupidity; her laugh ended, and she grew redder than before. Schilsky
had laughed, too, quite frankly, and he continued to smile at the
confusion she had fallen into. It seemed a long time before he said
with emphasis: "That is the last thing in the world you should ask of me."

Ephie drooped her head, and dug with her shoe again; she had never
been so tongue-tied as to-day, just when she felt she ought to say
something very cold and decisive. But not an idea presented itself,
and meanwhile he went on: "The punishment would be too hard. The
temptation was so great."

As she was still obstinately silent, he stooped and peeped under the
overhanging brim of her hat. "Such pretty lips!" he said, and then, as
on the former occasion, he took her by the chin and turned her face up
to his.

But she drew back angrily. "Mr. Schilskyl . . . how dare you! Take
your hand away at once."

"There!--I have sinned again," he said, and folded his hands in mock
supplication. "Now I am afraid you will never forgive me.--But listen,
you have the advantage of me; you know my name. Will you not tell me
yours?"

Having retreated a full yard from him, Ephie regained some of
her native self-composure. For the first time, she found herself able
to look straight at him. "No," she said, with a touch of her usual
lightness. "I shall leave you to find it out for yourself; it will
give you something to do."

They both laughed. "At least give me your hand," he said; and when he
held it in his, he would not let her go, until, after much seeming
reluctance on her part, she had detailed to him the days and hours of
her lessons at the Conservatorium, and where he would be likely to
meet her. As before, he stood and watched her go down the street,
hoping that she would turn at the corner. But, on this day, Ephie
whisked along in a great hurry.

On after occasions, he waylaid her as she came and went, and either
stood talking to her, or walked the length of the street beside her.
At the early hour of the afternoon when Ephie had her lessons, he did
not need to fear being seen by acquaintances; the sunshine was
undisturbed in the quiet street. The second time they met, he told her
that he had found out what her name was; and his efforts to pronounce
it afforded Ephie much amusement. Their conversation was always of the
same nature, half banter, half earnest. Ephie, who had rapidly
recovered her assurance, invariably began in her archest manner, and
it became his special pleasure to reduce her, little by little, to a
crimson silence.

But one day, about a fortnight later, she came upon him at a different
hour, when he was not expecting to see her. He was strolling up and
down in front of the Conservatorium, waiting for Louise, who might
appear at any moment. Ephie had been restless all the morning, and had
finally made an excuse to go out: her steps naturally carried her to
the Conservatorium, where she proposed to study the notice-board, on
the chance of seeing Schilsky. When she caught sight of him, her eyes
brightened; she greeted him with an inviting smile, and a saucy
remark. But Schilsky did not take up her tone; he cut her words short.

"What are you doing here to-day?" he asked with a frown of displeasure,
meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on the inner staircase--visible through
the glass doors--down which Louise would come. "I haven't a moment to
spare."

Mortally offended by his manner, Ephie drew back her extended hand,
and giving him a look of surprise and resentment, was about to pass
him by without a further word. But this was more than Schilsky
could bear; he put out his hand to stop her, always, though, with one
eye on the door.

"Now, don't be cross, little girl," he begged impatiently. "It's not my
fault--upon my word it isn't. I wasn't expecting to see you to-day--you
know that. Look here, tell me--this sort of thing is so unsatisfactory--is
there no other place I could see you? What do you do with yourself all
day? Come, answer me, don't be angry."

Ephie melted. "Come and visit us on Sunday afternoon," she said. "We
are always at home then."

He laughed rudely, and took no notice of her words. "Come, think of
something--quick!" he said.

He was on tenterhooks to be gone, and showed it. Ephie grew
flustered, and though she racked her brains, could make no further
suggestion.

"Oh well, if you can't, you know," he said crossly, and loosened his
hold of her arm.

Then, at the last moment, she had a flash of inspiration; she
remembered how, on the previous Sunday, Dove had talked enthusiastically
of an opera-performance, which, if she were not mistaken, was to take
place the following night. Dove had declared that all musical Leipzig
would probably be present in the theatre. Surely she might risk mentioning
this, without fear of another snub.

"I am going to the opera to-morrow night," she said in a small, meek
voice, and was on the verge of tears. Schilsky hardly heard her;
Louise had appeared at the head of the stairs. "The very thing," he
said. "I shall look out for you there, little girl. Good-bye. AUF
WIEDERSEHEN!"

He went down the steps, without even raising his hat, and when Louise
came out, he was sauntering towards the building again, as if he had
come from the other end of the street.

Ephie went home in a state of anger and humiliation which was new to
her. For the first few hours, she was resolved never to speak to
Schilsky again. When this mood passed, she made up her mind that he
should atone for his behaviour to the last iota: he should grovel
before her; she would scarcely deign to look at him. But the nearer
the time came for their meeting, the more were her resentful feelings
swallowed up by the wish to see him. She counted off the hours till
the opera commenced; she concocted a scheme to escape Johanna's
surveillance; she had a story ready, if it should be necessary, of how
she had once been introduced to Schilsky. Her fingers trembled
with impatience as she fastened on a pretty new dress, which had just
been sent home: a light, flowered stuff, with narrow bands of black
velvet artfully applied so as to throw the fairness of her hair and
skin into relief.

The consciousness of looking her best gave her manner a light sureness
that was very charming. But from the moment they entered the FOYER,
Ephie's heart began to sink: the crowd was great; she could not see
Schilsky; and in his place came Dove, who was not to be shaken off.
Even Maurice was bad enough--what concern of his was it how she enjoyed
herself? When, finally, she did discover the person she sought, he
was with some one else, and did not see her; and when she had
succeeded in making him look, he frowned, shook his head, and made
angry signs that she was not to speak to him, afterwards going
downstairs with the sallow girl in white. What did it mean? All
through the tedious second act, Ephie wound her handkerchief round and
round, and in and out of her fingers. Would it never end? How long
would the fat, ugly Brunnhilde stand talking to Siegmund and the woman
who lay so ungracefully between his knees? As if it mattered a straw
what these sham people did or felt! Would he speak to her in the next
interval, or would he not?

The side curtains had hardly swept down before she was up from her
seat, hurrying Johanna away. This time she chose to stand against the
wall, at the end of the FOYER. After a short time, he came in sight,
but he had no more attention to spare for her than before; he did not
even look in her direction. Her one consolation was that obviously he
was not enjoying himself; he wore a surly face, was not speaking, and,
to a remark the girl in white made, he answered by an angry flap of
the hand. When they had twice gone past in this way, and she had each
time vainly put herself forward, Ephie began to take an interest in
what Dove was saying, to smile at him and coquet with him, and the
more openly, the nearer Schilsky drew. Other people grew attentive,
and Dove went into a seventh heaven, which made it hard for him
placidly to accept the fit of pettish silence, she subsequently fell
into.

The crowning touch was put to this disastrous evening by the fact that
Schilsky's companion of the FOYER walked the greater part of the way
home with them; and, what was worse, that she took not the slightest
notice of Ephie.

XI.

Before leaving her bedroom the following morning, Ephie wrote on her
scented pink paper a short letter, which began: "Dear Mr. Schilsky,"
and ended with: "Your sincere friend, Euphemia Stokes Cayhill." In
this letter, she "failed to understand" his conduct of the previous
evening, and asked him for an explanation. Not until she had closed
the envelope, did she remember that she was ignorant of his address.
She bit the end of her pen, thinking hard, and directly breakfast was
over, put on her hat and slipped out of the house.

It was the first time Ephie had had occasion to enter the BUREAU of
the Conservatorium; and, when the heavy door had swung to behind her,
and she was alone in the presence of the secretaries, each of whom was
bent over a high desk, writing in a ledger, her courage almost failed
her. The senior, an old, white-haired man, with a benevolent face, did
not look up; but after she had stood hesitating for some minutes, an
under-secretary solemnly laid down his pen, and coming to the counter,
wished in English to know what he could do for her. Growing very red,
Ephie asked him if he "would . . . could . . . would please tell her
where Mr. Schilsky lived."

Herr Kleefeld leaned both hands on the counter, and disconcerted her
by staring at her over his spectacles.

"Mr. Schilsky? Is it very important?" he said with a leer, as if he
were making a joke.

"Why, yes, indeed," replied Ephie timidly.

He nodded his head, more to himself than to her, went back to his
desk, opened another ledger, and ran his finger down a page, repeating
aloud as he did so, to her extreme embarrassment: "Mr. Schilsky--let me
see. Mr. Schilsky--let me see."

After a pause, he handed her a slip of paper, on which he had
painstakingly copied the address: "TALSTRASSE, 12 III."

"Why, I thank you very much. I have to ask him about some music. Is
there anything to pay?" stammered Ephie.

But Herr Kleefeld, leaning as before on the counter, shook his head
from side to side, with a waggish air, which confused Ephie still
more. She made her escape, and left him there, still wagging, like a
china Mandarin.

Having addressed the letter in the nearest post office, she
entered a confectioner's and bought a pound of chocolate creams; so
that when Johanna met her in the passage, anxious and angry at her
leaving the house without a word, she was able to assert that her
candy-box had been empty, and she felt she could not begin to practise
till it was refilled. But Johanna was very cantankerous, and obliged
her to study an hour overtime to atone for her escapade.

Then followed for Ephie several unhappy days, when all the feeling she
seemed capable of concentrated itself on the visits of the postman.
She remained standing at the window until she had seen him come up the
street, and she was regularly the first to look through the mails as
they lay on the lobby table. Two days brought no reply to her letter.
On the third fell a lesson, which she was resolved not to take. But
when the hour came, she dressed herself with care and went as usual.
Schilsky was nowhere to be seen. Half a week later, the same thing was
repeated, except that on this day, she made herself prettier than
ever: she was like some gay, garden flower, in a big white hat, round
the brim of which lay scarlet poppies, and a dress of a light blue,
which heightened the colour of her cheeks, and, reflected in her eyes,
made them bluer than a fjord in the sun. But her spirits were low; if
she did not see him this time, despair would crush her.

But she did--saw him while she was still some distance off, standing
near the portico of the Conservatorium; and at the sight of him, after
the uncertainty she had gone through during the past week, she could
hardly keep back her tears. He did not come to meet her; he stood and
watched her approach, and only when she reached him, indolently held
out his hand. As she refused to notice it, and went to the extreme
edge of the pavement to avoid it, he made a barrier of his arms, and
forced her to stand still. Holding her thus, with his hand on her
elbow, he looked keenly at her; and, in spite of the obdurate way in
which she kept her eyes turned from him, he saw that she was going to
cry. For a moment he hesitated, afraid of the threatening scene, then,
with a decisive movement, he took her violin-case out of her hand.
Ephie made an ineffectual effort to get possession of it again, but he
held it above her reach, and saying: "Wait a minute," ran up the
steps. He came back without it, and throwing a swift glance round him,
took the young girl's arm, and walked her off at a brisk pace to the
woods. She made a few, faint protests. But he replied: "You and I have
something to say to each other, little girl."

A full hour had elapsed when Ephie appeared again. She was alone, and
walked quickly, casting shy glances from side to side. On reaching the
Conservatorium, she waited in a quiet corner of the vestibule for
nearly a quarter of an hour, before Schilsky sauntered in, and
released her violin from the keeping of the janitor, a good friend of
his.

They had not gone far into the wood; Schilsky knew of a secluded seat,
which was screened by a kind of boscage; and here they had remained.
At first, Ephie had cried heartily, in happy relief, and he had not
been able to console her. He had come to meet her with many good
resolutions, determined not to let the little affair, so lightly
begun, lead to serious issues; but Ephie's tears, and the tale they
told, and the sobbed confessions that slipped out unawares, made it
hard for him to be wise. He put his arm round her, dried her tears
with his own handkerchief, kissed the hand he held. And when he had in
this way petted her back to composure, she suddenly looked up in his
face, and, with a pretty, confiding movement, said:

"Then you do care for me a little?"

It would have need a stronger than he to answer otherwise. "Of course
I do," was easily said, and to avoid the necessity of more, he kissed
the pink dimples at the base of her four fingers, as well as the baby
crease that marked the wrist. The poppy-strewn hat lay on the seat
beside them; the fluffy head and full white throat were bare; in the
mellow light of the trees, the lashes looked jet-black on her cheeks;
at each word, he saw her small, even teeth: and he was so unnerved by
the nearness of all this fresh young beauty that, when Ephie with her
accustomed frankness had told him everything he cared to know, he
found himself saying, in place of what he had intended, that they must
be very cautious. In the meantime, it would not do for them to be seen
together: it might injure his prospects, be harmful to his future.

"Yes, but afterwards?" she asked him promptly.

He kissed her cheek. But she repeated the question, and he was obliged
to reply: that would be a different matter. It was now her turn to be
curious, and one of the first questions she put related to the dark
girl he had been with at the theatre. Playing lightly with her
fingers, Schilsky told her that this was one of his best friends, some
one he had known for a long, long time, to whom he owed much,
and whom he could under no circumstances offend. Ephie looked grave
for a moment; and, in the desire of provoking a pretty confession, he
asked her if she had minded very much seeing him with some one else.
But she made him wince by responding with perfect candour: "With her?
Oh, no! She's quite old."

Before parting, they arranged the date of the next meeting, and, a
beginning once made, they saw each other as often as was feasible.
Ephie grew wonderfully apt at excuses for going out at odd times, and
for prolonged absences. Sound fictions were needed to satisfy Johanna,
and even Maurice Guest was made to act as dummy: he had taken her for
a walk, or they had been together to see Madeleine Wade; and by these
means, and also by occasionally shirking a lesson, she gained a good
deal of freedom. Johanna would as soon have thought of herself being
untruthful as of doubting Ephie, whom she had never known to tell a
lie; and if she did sometimes feel jealous of all the new claims made
on her little sister's attention, such a feeling was only temporary,
and she was, for the most part, content to see Ephie content.

At night, in her own room, lying wakeful with hot cheeks and big eyes,
Ephie went over in memory all that had taken place at their last
meeting, or built high, top-heavy castles for the future. She was
absurdly happy; and her mother and sister had never found her more
charming and lovable, or richer in those trifling inspirations for
brightening life, which happiness brings with it. She looked forward
with secret triumph to the day when she would be able to announce her
engagement to the celebrated young violinist, and the only shadow on
her happiness was that she could not do this immediately. It did not
once cross her mind to doubt the issue: she had always had her way,
and, in her own mind, had long since arranged just how this matter was
to fall out. She would return to America--where, of course, they would
live--and get her clothes ready, and then he would come, and they would
be married--a big wedding, with descriptions in the newspapers. They
would have a big house, and he would play at concerts--as she had once
heard Sarasate play in New York--and every one would stand on tiptoe to
see him. She sat proud and conspicuous in the front row. "His wife.
That is his wife!" people whispered, and they drew respectfully back
to let her pass, as, in a very becoming dress, she swept into the
little room behind the platform, which she alone was permitted to
enter.