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The young man could not but somewhat lamely agree with Johanna that it
was better to let the matter end thus: for he felt that towards the
Cayhills he had been guilty of a breach of trust such as it is
difficult to forgive. At the same time, he was humanly hurt that Ephie
would not even say good-bye to him.

He asked their further plans, and learnt that as soon as Ephie was
well again, they would sail for New York.

"My father has cabled twice for us."

Johanna's manner was uncompromisingly dry and short. After her last
words, there was a long pause, and Maurice made a movement to rise.
But she put out her hand and detained him.

"There is something I should like to say to you." And thereupon, with
the abruptness of a nervous person: "When I have seen my sister and
mother safe back, I intend leaving home myself. I am going to
Harvard."

Maurice realised that the girl was telling him a fact of considerable
importance to herself, and did his best to look interested.

"Really? That's always been a wish of yours, hasn't it?"

"Yes." Johanna coloured, hesitated as he had never known her to do,
then burst out: "And now there is nothing in the way of it." She drew
her thumb across the leaf-corners of a book that was lying on the
table. "Oh, I know what you will say: how, now that Ephie has turned
out to be weak and untrustworthy, there is all the more reason for me
to remain with her, to look after her. But that is not possible." She
faced him sharply, as though he had contradicted her. "I am incapable
of pretending to be the same when my feelings have changed; and, as I
told you--as I knew that night--I shall never be able to feel for Ephie
as I did before. I am ready, as I said, to take all the blame for what
has happened; I was blind and careless. But if the care and affection
of years count for nothing; if I have been so little able to win her
confidence; if, indeed, I have only succeeded in making her dislike
me, by my care of her, so that when she is in trouble, she turns from
me, instead of to me--why, then I have failed lamentably in what I had
made the chief duty of my life."

"Besides," she continued more quietly, "there is another reason:
Ephie is going to fall a victim to her nerves. I see that; and
my poor, foolish mother is doing her best to foster it.--You smile?
Only because you do not understand what it means. It is no laughing
matter. If an American woman once becomes conscious of her nerves,
then Heaven help her!--Now I am not of a disinterested enough nature to
devote myself to sick-nursing where there is no real sickness. And
then, too, my mother intends taking a French maid back with her, and a
person of that class will perform such duties much more competently
than I."

She spoke with bitterness. Maurice mumbled some words of sympathy,
wondering why she should choose to say these things to him.

"Even at home my place is filled," continued Johanna. "The housekeeper
who was appointed during our absence has been found so satisfactory
that she will continue in the post after our return. Everywhere, you
see, I have proved superfluous. There, as here."

"I'm sure you're mistaken," said Maurice with more warmth. "And, Miss
Joan, there's something I should like to say, if I may. Don't you
think you take what has happened here a little too seriously? No doubt
Ephie behaved foolishly. But was it after all any more than a girlish
escapade?"

"Too seriously?"

Johanna turned her shortsighted eyes on the young man, and gazed at
him almost pityingly. How little, oh, how little, she said to herself,
one mortal knew and could know of another, in spite of the medium of
speech, in spite of common experiences! Some of the nights at the
beginning of Ephie's illness returned vividly to her mind, nights,
when she, Johanna, had paced her room by the hour, filled with a
terrible dread, a numbing uncertainty, which she would sooner have
died than have let cross her lips. She had borne it quite alone, this
horrible fear; her mother had been told of the whole affair only what
it was absolutely necessary for her to know. And, naturally enough,
the young man who now sat at her side, being a man, could not be
expected to understand. But the consciousness of her isolation made
Johanna speak with renewed harshness.

"Too seriously?" she repeated. "Oh, I think not. The girlish escapade,
as you call it, was the least of it. If that had been all, if it had
only been her infatuation for some one who was unworthy of
her, I could have forgiven Ephie till seventy times seven. But, after
all these years, after the way I have loved her--no, idolised her!--for
her to treat me as she did--do you think it possible to take that too
seriously? There was no reason she should not have had her little
secrets. If she had let me see that something was going on, which she
did not want to tell me about, do you think I should have forced her?"
--and Johanna spoke in all good faith, forgetful of how she had been
used to clip and doctor Ephie's sentiments. "But that she could
deceive me wilfully, and lie so lightly, with a smile, when, all the
time, she was living a double life, one to my face and one behind my
back--that I cannot forgive. Something has died in me that I used to
feel for her. I could never trust her again, and where there is no
trust there can be no real love."

"She didn't understand what she was doing. She is so young."

"Just for that reason. So young, and so skilled in deceit. That is
hardest of all, even to think of: that she could wear her dear
innocent face, while behind it, in her brain, were cold, calculating
thoughts how she could best deceive me! If there had been but a single
sign to waken my suspicions, then, yes, then I could have forgiven
her," said Johanna, and again forgot how often of late she had been
puzzled by the subtle change in Ephie. "If I could just know that, in
spite of her efforts, she had been too candid to succeed!"

She had unburdened herself and it had been a relief to her, but
nothing could be helped or mended. Both knew this, and after a few
polite questions about her future plans and studies, Maurice rose to
take his leave.

"Say good-bye to them both for me, and give Ephie my love."

"I will. I think she will be sorry afterwards that she did not see
you. She has always liked you."

"Good-bye then. Or perhaps it is only AUF WIEDERSEHEN?"

"I hardly think so." Johanna had returned to her usual sedate manner.
"If I do visit Europe again, it will not be for five or six years at
least."

"And that's a long time. Who knows where I may be, by then!"

He held Johanna's hand in his, and saw her gauntly slim figure
outlined against the bare sitting-room. It was not likely that they
would ever meet again. But he could not summon up any very
lively feelings of regret. Johanna had not touched him deeply; she had
left him as cool as he had no doubt left her; neither had found the
key to the other. Her chief attraction for him had been her devotion
to Ephie; and now, having been put to the test, this was found
wanting. She had been wounded in her own pride and self-love, and
could not forgive. At heart she was no more generous and unselfish
than the rest.

He repeated farewell messages as he stood in the passage. Johanna held
the front door open for him, and, as he went down the stairs, he heard
it close behind him, with that extreme noiselessness that was
characteristic of Johanna's treatment of it.

The following morning, shortly after ten o'clock, a train steamed out
of the THURINGER BAHNHOF, carrying the Cayhills with it. The day was
misty and cheerless, and none of the three travellers turned her head
to give the town a parting glance. They left unattended, without
flowers or other souvenirs, without any of the demonstratively
pathetic farewells, the waving of hats, and crowding about the
carriage-door, which one of the family, at least, had connected
inseverably with their departure. And thus Ephie's musical studies
came to an abrupt and untimely end.

* * * * *

"My faith in women is shattered. I shall never believe in a woman
again."

Dove paced the floor of Maurice's room with long and steady strides,
beneath which a particular board creaked at intervals. His voice was
husky, and the ruddiness of his cheeks had paled.

At the outset of Ephie's illness, Dove had called every morning at the
PENSION, to make inquiries and to leave his regards. But when the
story leaked out, as it soon did, in an exaggerated and distorted
form, he straightway ceased his visits. Thus he was wholly unprepared
for the family's hurried departure, the news of which was broken to
him by Maurice. Dove was dumbfounded. Not a single sententious phrase
crossed his lips; and he remained unashamed of the moisture that
dimmed his eyes. But he maintained his bearing commendably; and it was
impossible not to admire the upright, manly air with which he walked
down the street.

The next day, however, he returned, and was silent no longer. He made
no secret of having been hard hit; just as previously he had
let his friends into his hopes and intentions, so now every one heard
of his reverses. He felt a tremendous need of unbosoming himself; he
had been so sure of success, or, at least, so unthinking of failure,
and the blow to his selfesteem was a rude one.

Maurice sat with his hands in his pockets, and tried to urge reason.
But Dove would not admit even the possibility of his having been
mistaken. He had received innumerable proofs of Ephie's regard for
him.

"Remember how young she was! Girls of that age never know their own
minds," said Maurice. But Dove was inclined to take Johanna's sterner
view, and to cry: "So young and so untender!" for which he, too,
substituted "untrue"; and, just on this score, to deduce unfavourable
inferences for Ephie's whole moral character. As Maurice listened to
him, he could not help thinking that Johanna's affection had been of
the same nature as Dove's, in other words, had had a touch of the
masculine about it: it had existed only as long as it could guide and
subordinate; it denied to its object any midget attempt at individual
life; it set up lofty moral standards, and was implacable when a
smaller, frailer being found it impossible to live up to them.

At the same time, he was sorry for Dove, who, in his blindness, had
laid himself open to receive this snubbing; and he listened patiently,
even a thought flattered by his confidence, until he learnt from
Madeleine that Dove was making the round of his acquaintances, and
behaving in the same way to anyone who would let him. Then he found
that the openness with which Dove related his past hopes, and the
marks of affection Ephie had given him, bordered on indecency. He said
so, with a wrathful frankness; but Dove could not see it in that
light, and was not offended.

As the personal smart weakened, the more serious question that Dove
had to face was, what he was going to tell his relatives at home. For
it now came out that he had represented the affair to them as settled;
in his perfectly sincere optimism, he had regarded himself as an all
but engaged man. And the point that disturbed him was, how to back out
with dignity, yet without violating the truth, on which he set great
store.

"I'm sure he needn't let that trouble him," said Madeleine, on hearing
of his dilemma. "He has only to say that HE has changed his mind,
which is true enough."

This was the conclusion Dove eventually came to himself--
though not with such unseemly haste as Madeleine. Having approached
the matter from all sides, he argued that it would be more considerate
to Ephie to put it in this light than to tell the story in detail. And
consequently, two elderly people in Peterborough nodded to each other
one morning over the breakfast-table, and agreed that Edward had done
well. They had not been much in favour of the American match, but they
had trusted implicitly in their son's good sense, and now, as ever, he
had acted in the most becoming way. He had never given them an hour's
uneasiness since his birth.

Dove wrote:

CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE ARISEN, MY DEAR PARENTS, WHICH MAKE IT
INCONTROVERTIBLY CLEAR TO ME THAT THE YOUNG LADY TO WHOM I WAS PAYING
MY ADDRESSES WHEN I CONSULTED YOU IN SUMMER AND MYSELF WOULD NOT HAVE
KNOWN TRUE HAPPINESS IN OUR UNION. ON MORE INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE IT
TRANSPIRED THAT OUR CHARACTERS WERE TOTALLY UNSUITED. I HAVE THEREFORE
FOUND IT ADVISABLE TO BANISH THE AFFAIR FROM MY MIND AND TO DEVOTE
MYSELF WHOLLY TO MY STUDIES.

As time passed, and Dove was able to view what had happened more
objectively, he began to feel and even to hint that, all things
considered, he had had a rather lucky escape; and from this, it was
not very far to believing that if he had not just seen through the
whole affair from the beginning, he had at any rate had some inkling
of it; and now, instead of giving proofs of Ephie's affection, he
narrated the gradual growth of his suspicions, and how these had
ultimately been verified. In conclusion, he congratulated himself on
having drawn back, with open eyes, while there was still time.

"Like his cheek!" said Madeleine. "But he could imagine himself into
being the Shah of Persia, if he sat down and gave his mind to it. I
don't believe the snub is going to do him a bit of good. He bobs up
again like a cork, irrepressible. HAVE you heard him quote: 'Frailty
thy name is woman!' or: 'If women could be fair and yet not
fond'?--It's as good as a play."

But altogether, Madeleine was very sharp of tongue since she learnt
the part Maurice had played in what, for a day, was the scandal of the
English-speaking colony. She had taken him to task at once, for his
"lamentable interference."

"Haven't I warned you, Maurice, not to mix yourself up in
Louise's affairs? No good can come of it. She breeds mischief. And if
that absurd child had really drowned herself"--in the version of the
story that had reached Madeleine's ears, Maurice was represented
fishing Ephie bodily from the river--"you would have had to bear the
whole brunt of the blame. It ought to teach you a lesson. For you're
just the kind of boy women will always take advantage of, a mean
advantage, you know. Consider how you were treated in this case--by
both of them! They were not a scrap grateful to you for what you
did--women never are. They only look down on you for letting them have
their own way. Kindness and complaisance don't move them. A
well-developed biceps and a cruel mouth--that's what they want, and
that's all!" she wound up with a flourish, in an extreme bad temper.

She sat, one dull November afternoon, at her piano, and continued to
run her fingers over the keys. Maurice leant on the lid, and listened
to her. But they had barely exchanged a word, when there was a light
tap at the door, and Krafft entered. Both started at his unexpected
appearance, and Madeleine cried: "You come in like a ghost, to
frighten people out of their wits."

Krafft was buttoned to the chin in a travelling-ulster, and looked
pale and thin.

"What news from St. Petersburg?" queried Madeleine with a certain
asperity.

But Maurice recalled an errand he had to do in town; and, on hearing
this, Krafft, who was lolling aimlessly, declared that he would
accompany him.

"But you've only just come!" expostulated Madeleine. "What in the name
of goodness did you climb the stairs for?"

He patted her cheek, without replying.

The young men went away together, Maurice puffing somewhat
ostentatiously at a cigarette. The wind was cold, and Krafft seemed to
shrink into his ulster before it, keeping his hands deep in his
pockets. But from time to time, he threw a side-glance at his friend,
and at length asked, in the tone of appeal which Maurice found it hard
to withstand: "What's the matter, LIEBSTER? Why are you so
different?--so changed?"

"The matter? Nothing--that I'm aware of," said Maurice, and considered
the tip of his cigarette.

"Oh, yes, there is," and Krafft laid a caressing hand on his
companion's arm. "You are changed. You're not frank with me. I feel
such things at once."

"Well, how on earth am I to know when to be frank with you,
and when not? Before you . . . not very long ago, you behaved as if
you didn't want to have anything more to do with me."

"You are changed, and, if I'm not mistaken, I know why," said Krafft,
ignoring his answer. "You have been listening to gossip--to what my
enemies say of me."

"I don't listen to gossip. And I didn't know you had enemies, as you
call them."

"I ?--and not have enemies?" He flared up as though Maurice had
affronted him. "My good fellow, did you ever bear of a man worth his
salt, who didn't have enemies? It's the penalty one pays: only the
dolts and the 'all-too-many' are friends with the whole world. No one
who has work to do that's worth doing, can avoid making enemies. And
who knows what a friend is, who hasn't an enemy to match him? It's a
question of light and shade, theme and counter-theme, of artistic
proportion." He laughed, in his superior way. But directly afterwards,
he dropped back into his former humble tone. "But that you, my friend,
are so ready to let yourself be influenced--I should not have believed
it of you."

"What I heard, I heard from Furst; and I have no reason to suspect him
of falsehood.--Of course, if you assure me it was not true, that's a
different thing." He turned so sharply that he sent a beautiful flush
over Krafft's face. "Come, give me your word, Heirtz, and things will
be straight again."

But Krafft merely shrugged his shoulders, and his colour subsided as
rapidly as it had risen.

"Are you still such an outsider," he asked, "after all this time--in my
society--as to attach importance to a word? What is 'giving a word'? Do
you really think it is of any value? May I not give it tonight, and
take it back to-morrow, according to the mood I am in, according to
whether I believe it myself or not, at the moment?--You think a thing
must either be true or not true? You are wrong. Do you believe, when
you answer a question in the affirmative or the negative, that you are
actually telling the truth? No, my friend, to be perfectly truthful
one would need to lose oneself in a maze of explanation, such as no
questioner would have the patience to listen to. One would need to
take into account the innumerable threads that have gone to making the
statement what it is. Do you think, for instance, if I answered yes or
no, in the present case, it would be true? If I deny what you
heard--does that tell you that I have longed with all my heart for it
to come to pass? Or say I admit it--I should need to unroll my life
before you to make you understand. No, there's no such thing as
absolute truth. If there were, the finest subtleties of existence
would be lost. There is neither positive truth nor positive untruth;
life is not so coarse-fibred as that. And only the grossest natures
can be satisfied with a blunt yes or no. Truth?--it is one of the many
miserable conventions the human brain has tortured itself with, and
its first principle is an utter lack of the imaginative faculties.--A
DIEU!"

VI.

In the days that followed, Maurice threw himself heart and soul into
his work. He had lost ground of late, he saw it plainly now: after his
vigorous start, he had quickly grown slack. He was not, to-day, at the
stage he ought to be, and there was not a doubt but that Schwarz saw
it, too. Now that he, came to think of it, he had more than once been
aware of a studied coolness in the master's manner, of a rather
ostentatious indifference to the quality of the work he brought to the
class: and this he knew by hearsay to be Schwarz's attitude towards
those of his pupils in whom his interest was waning. If he, Maurice,
wished to regain his place in the little Pasha's favour, he must work
like a coal-heaver. But the fact was, the strenuous industry to which
he now condemned himself, was something of a relaxation after the
mental anxiety he had recently undergone; this striking of a black and
white keyboard was a pleasant, thought-deadening employment, and could
be got through, no matter what one's mood.--And so he rose early again,
and did not leave the house till he had five hours' practice behind
him.

WER SICH DER EINSAMKEIT ERGIEBT, ACH, DER IST BALD ALLEIN: at the end
of a fortnight, Maurice smiled to find the words of Goethe's song
proved on himself. If he did not go to see his friends, none of them
came to him. Dove, who was at the stage of: "I told you so," in the
affair of the Cayhills, had found fresh listeners, who were more
sympathetic than Maurice could be expected to be: and Madeleine was up
to her ears in work, as she phrased it, with the "C minor Beethoven."

"Agility of finger equals softening of the brain" was a frequent gibe
of Krafft's; and now and then, at the close of a hard day's work,
Maurice believed that the saying contained a grain of truth. Opening
both halves of his window, he would lean out on the sill, too tired
for connected thought. But when dusk fell, he lay on the sofa, with
his arms clasped under his head, his knees crossed in the air.

At first, in his new buoyancy of spirit, he was able to keep foolish
ideas behind him, as well as to put away all recollection of the
disagreeable events he had been mixed up in of late: after
having, for weeks, borne a load that was too heavy for him, he
breathed freely once more. The responsibility of taking care of Ephie
had been removed from him--and this by far outweighed the little that
he missed her. The matter had wound up, too, in a fairly peaceable
way; all being considered, things might have been worse. So, at first,
he throve under his light-heartedness; and only now became aware how
great the strain of the past few weeks had been. His chief sensation
was relief, and also of relief at being able to feel relieved--indeed,
the moment even came when he thought it would be possible calmly to
accept the fact of Louise having left the town, and of his never being
likely to see her again.

Gradually, however, he began to be astonished at himself, and in the
background of his mind, there arose a somewhat morbid curiosity, even
a slight alarm, at his own indifference. He found it hard to
understand himself. Could his feelings, those feelings which, a week
or two ago, he had believed unalterable, have changed in so short a
time? Was his nature one of so little stability? He began to consider
himself with something approaching dismay, and though, all this time,
he had been going about on a kind of mental tiptoe, for fear of
rousing something that might be dormant in him, he now could not help
probing himself, in order to see if the change he observed were
genuine or not. And this with a steadily increasing frequency. Instead
of continuing thankful for the respite, he ultimately grew uneasy
under it. Am I a person of this weak, straw-like consistency, to be
tossed about by every wind that blows? Is there something beneath it
all that I cannot fathom?

He had not seen Louise since the night he had left her alseep, beside
the sofa; and he was resolved not to see her--not, at least, until she
wished to see him. It was much better for him that the uncertainties
of the bygone months did not begin anew; then, too, she had called him
to her when she was in trouble, and not for anything in the world
would he presume on her appeal. Besides, his presence would recall to
her the unpleasant details connected with Ephie's visit, which he
hoped she had by this time begun to forget. Thus he argued with
himself, giving several reasons where one would have served; and the
upshot of it was, that his own state of mind occupied him
considerably.

His friends noticed the improvement in him; the careworn expression
that had settled down on him of late gave way to his old air
of animation; and on all the small topics of the day, he brought a
sympathetic interest to bear, such as people had ceased to expect from
him. Madeleine, in particular, was satisfied with her "boy," as she
took to calling him. She noted and checked off, in wise silence, each
inch of his progress along the road of healthy endeavour; and the
relations between them bcame almost as hearty as at the commencement
of their friendship. Privately, she believed that the events of the
past month had taught him a lesson, which he would not soon forget. It
was sufficient, however, if they had inspired him with a distrust of
Louise, which would keep him from her for the present; for Madeleine
had grounds for believing that before many weeks had passed, Louise
would have left Leipzig.

So she kept Maurice as close to her as work permitted; and as the
winter's flood of concerts set in, in full force, he accompanied her,
almost nightly, to the Old Gewandhaus or the ALBERTHALLE; for
Madeleine was an indefatigable concert-goer, and never missed a
performer of note, rarely even a first appearance at the HOTEL DE
PRUSSE or a BLUTHNER MATINEE. On the night she herself played in an
AIBENDUNTERHALTUNG, with the easily gained success that attended all
she did, Maurice went with her to the green-room, and was the first
afterwards to tell her how her performance had "gone." That same
evening she took him with her to the house of friends of hers, the
Hensels. There he met some of the best musical society of the place,
made a pleasant impression, and was invited to return.