Books: Maurice Guest

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Until now, he had not regarded Maurice and Maurice's doings from this
point of view. By nature, Dove was opposed to excess of any kind; his was
a clean, strong mind, which caused him instinctively to draw back from
everything, in morals as in art, that passed a certain limit. Nothing on
earth would have persuaded him to discuss his quondam friend's backsliding
with Madeleine Wade; he was impregnated with the belief that such matters
were unfit for virtuous women's ears, and he applied his
conviction indiscriminaetely. Now, however, the notion of Maurice as a
Poor erring sheep, waiting, as it were, to be saved--this idea was of
undeniable attractiveness to Dove, and the more he revolved it, the more
convinced he grew of its truth.

But he had reasons for hesitating. Having valiantly overcome his own
disappointments, first in the case of Ephie, then of pretty Susie, he now,
in his third suit, was on the brink of success. The object of his present
attachment was a Scotch lady, no longer in her first youth, and several
years older than himself but of striking appearance, vivacious manners,
and, if report spoke true, considerable fortune. Her appearance in Leipzig
was due to the sudden burst of energy which often inspires a woman of the
Scotch nation when she feels her youth escaping her. Miss MacCallum, who
was abroad nominally to acquire the language, was accompanied by her aged
father and mother; and it was with these two old people that it be hoved
Dove to ingratiate himself; for, according to the patriarchal habits of
their race, the former still guided and determined their daughter's mode
of life, as though she were thirteen instead of thirty. Dove was obliged
to be of the utmost circumspection in his behaviour; for the old couple,
uprooted violently from their native soil, lived in a mild but constant
horror at the iniquity of foreign ways. They held the pro fession of music
to be an unworthy one, and threw up their hands in dismay at the number of
young people here complacently devoting themselves to such a frivolous
object. It was necessary for Dove to prove to them that a student of music
might yet be a man of untarnished principles and blame less honour. And he
did not find the task a hard one; the whole bent of his mind was towards
sobriety. He frequented the American church with his new friends on Sunday
after noon; gave up skating on that day; went with the old gentleman to
Motets and Passions; and eschewed the opera.

But now, his ambition had been insidiously roused, and day by day it grew
stronger. If only the affair with Maurice had not been of so unsavoury a
nature! Did he, Dove, become seriously involved, it might be difficult to
prove to judges so severe as his future parents-in-law, that he had acted
out of pure goodness of heart. For, that he would be embroiled, in other
words, that he would have success in his mission, there was no manner of
doubt in his mind--a conviction he shared with the generality of mankind:
that it is only necessary for an offender's eyes to be opened to
the enormity of his wrongdoing, for him to be reasonable and to renounce
it.

While Dove hesitated thus, torn between his reputation on the one hand,
his missionary zeal on the other; while he hesitated, an incident
occurred, which acted as a kind of moral fingerpost. In the piano-class,
one day, just as Dove was about to leave the room, Schwarz asked him if he
were not a friend of Herr Guest's. The latter had been absent now from two
lessons in succession. Was he ill? Did no one know what had happened to
him? Dove made light of the friendship, but volunteered his services, and
was bidden to make inquiries.

He went that afternoon.

Frau Krause looked a little gruffer than of old; and left him to find his
own way to Maurice's room. In accordance with the new state of things,
Dove knocked ceremoniously at the door. While his knuckles still touched
the wood, it was flung open, and he stood face to face with Maurice. For a
moment the latter did not seem to recognise his visitor; he had evidently
been expecting some one else.

Then he repaired his tardiness, ceased to hold the door, and Dove entered,
apologising for his intrusion.

"Just a moment. I won't detain you. As you were absent from the class all
last week, Schwarz asked to-day if you were ill, and I said I would step
round and see."

"Very good of you, I'm sure. Sit down," said Maurice. His face changed as
he spoke; a look of relief and, at the same time, of disappointment
flitted across it.

"Thanks. If I am not disturbing you," answered Dove. As he said these
words, he threw a glance, the significance of which might have been
grasped by a babe, at the piano. It had plainly not been opened that day.

Maurice understood. "No, I was not practising," he said. "But I have to go
out shortly," and he looked at his watch.

"Quite so. Very good. I won't detain you," repeated Dove, and sat down on
the proffered chair. "But not practising? My dear fellow, how is that? Are
you so far forward already that it isn't necessary? Or is it a fact that
you are not feeling up to the mark?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I get my work over in the morning."

Now he, too, sat down, at the opposite side of the table. Clearing his
throat, Dove gazed at the sinner before him. He began to see that his
errand was not going to be an easy one; where no hint was taken, it was
difficult to insert even the thinnest edge of the wedge. He
resolved to use finesse; and, for several of the precious moments at his
disposal, he talked, as if at random, of other things.

Maurice tapped the table. He kept his eyes fixed on Dove's face, as though
he were drinking in his companion's solemn utterances. In reality, whole
minutes passed without his knowing what was said. At Dove's knock, he had
been certain that a message had come from Louise--at last. This was the
night of the ball; and still she had given him no promise that she would
not go. They had parted, the evening before, after a bitter quarrel; and
he had left her, vowing that he would not return till she sent for him. He
had waited the whole day, in vain, for a sign. What was Dove with his
pompous twaddle to him? Every slight sound on the stairs or in the passage
meant more. He was listening, listening, without cessation.

When he came back to himself, he heard Dove droning on, like a machine
that has been wound up and cannot stop.

"Now, I hope you won't mind my saying so," were the next words that
pierced his brain. "You must not be offended at my telling you; but you
are hardly fulfilling the expectations we, your friends, you know, had
formed of you. My dear fellow, you really must pull yourself together, or
February will find you still unprepared."

Maurice went a shade paler; he was clear, now, as to the object of Dove's
visit. But he answered in an off-hand way. "Oh, there's time enough yet."

"No. That's a mistaken point of view, if I may say so," replied Dove in
his blandest manner. "Time requires to be taken by the forelock, you
know."

"Does it?" Maurice allowed the smile that was expected of him to cross his
face.

"Most emphatically--And we fellow-students of yours are not the only
people who have noticed a certain--what shall I say?--a certain abatement
of energy on your part. Schwarz sees it, too--or I am much mistaken."

"What?--he, too?" said Maurice, and pretended a mild surprise. For some
seconds now he had been mentally debating with himself whether he should
not, there and then, show Dove the door. He decided against it. A "Damn
your interference!" meant plain-speaking, on both sides; it meant a
bandying of words; and more expenditure of strength than he had to spare
for Dove. Once more he drew out and consulted his watch.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Dove, ignoring the hint. "I assume it,
from something he let drop this afternoon. Now, you know, your Mendelssohn
ought to have been a brilliant piece of work--yes, the expression is not
too strong. And it still must be. My dear Guest, what I came to say to you
to-day--one, at any rate, of the reasons that brought me--was, that you
must not allow your interest in what you are doing to flag at the eleventh
hour."

Maurice laughed. "Oh, certainly not! Most awfully good of you to trouble."

"No trouble at all," Dove assured him. He flicked some dust from his
trouser-knee before he spoke again. "I . . . er . . . that is, I had some
talk the other day with Miss Wade."

"Indeed!" replied Maurice, and was now able accurately to gauge the motor
origin of Dove's appearance. "How is she? How is Madeleine?"

"She was speaking of you, Guest. She would, I think, like to see you."

"Yes. I've rather neglected her lately, I'm afraid.--But when there's so
much to do, you know . . ."

"It's a pity," said Dove, passing over the last words, and nodding his
head sagaciously. "She's a staunch friend of yours, is Miss Madeleine. I
think it wouldn't be too much to say, she was feeling a little hurt at
your neglect of her."

"Really? I had no idea so many people took an interest in me."

"That is just where you are mistaken," said Dove warmly. "We all do. And
for that very reason, I said to myself, I will be spokesman for the rest:
I'll go to him and tell him he must pull through, and do himself
credit--and Schwarz, too. We are so few this year, you know."

"Yes, poor old man! He has got badly left."

"Yes. That was one reason. And then . . . but you assure me, don't you,
that you will not take what I am going to say amiss?"

"Not in the least. It's awfully decent of you. But I'm sorry to say my
time's up. And every minute is precious just now--as you know yourself."

He rose, and, for the third time, referred to his watch. After an
ineffectual attempt to continue, Dove was also forced to rise, with the
best part of his message unuttered. And Maurice hurried him, glum and
crestfallen, to the door, for fear of the still worse tactlessness of
which he might make himself guilty.

They groped in silence along the dark lobby. For the sake of
parting with a friendly and neutral word, Maurice said, as he opened the
door: "By the way, I hear we shall soon have to offer congratulations and
good wishes."

To his surprise, Dove, who had already crossed the threshold, looked
blank, and drew himself up.

"Indeed?" he said, and the tone was, for him, quite short. "I. . the fact
is . . . I've no idea of what you are referring to."

On re-entering his room, Maurice went back to the window, and taking up
his former attitude, began to beat anew that tattoo on the panes, which
had been his chief employment during the day. His eyes were sore with
straining at the corner of the street, tired of looking at his watch to
see how the time passed. He had steadfastly believed that Louise would
yield in this. matter, and, at the last, recall him in a burst of
impulsive regret. But, as the day crawled by without a word from her, his
confident conviction weakened; and, at the same time, his resolve not to
go back till she sent for him, failed. He repeated, in memory, some of the
bitter things they had said to each other, to see if he had not left
himself a loophole of escape; but only with one half of his brain: the
other was persistently occupied with the emptiness of the street below.
When a clock struck half-past seven, he could bear the suspense no longer:
he put on his hat and coat, and went out. He felt tired and unslept, and
dragged along as if his body were a weight to him. A fine snow was
falling, which froze into icicles on the beards of the passers-by, and on
the glistening pavements. The distance had never seemed so long to him; it
had also never seemed so short.

A faint and foolish hope still refused to be extinguished. But it went out
directly he had unlocked the door; and he learned what he had come to
learn, without the exchange of a word. The truth met him, that he should
have been here hours ago, commanding, imploring; instead of which he had
sat at home, nursing a futile and paltry pride.

The room was warm, and bright with extra candles. It was also in that
state of confusion which accompanied an elaborate toilet on the part of
Louise. Fully dressed, she stood before the console-glass, and arranged
something in her hair. She did not turn at his entrance, but she raised
her eyes and met his in the mirror, without pausing in what she was doing.

He looked over her shoulder at her reflected face. The cold steadiness,
the open hostility of her look, took his strength away. He sat
down on the foot-end of the bed, and put his head in his hands. Minutes
passed, and still he remained in this position. For what was the use of
his speaking? Her mind was made up; nothing would move her now.

Then came the noise of wheels in the street below. Uncovering his eyes,
Maurice looked at her again; and, as he did so, his feelings which, until
now, had had something of the nature of a personal wound, gave place to
others with the rush of a storm. She wore the same sparkling, low-cut
dress as on the previous occasion; arms and shoulders were as ruthlessly
bared to view. He remembered what he had heard said of her that night, and
felt that his powers of endurance were at an end. With a stifled
exclamation, he got up from the bed, and going past her, into the half of
the room beyond the screen, caught up the first object that came to hand,
and threw it to the floor. It was a Dresden-china figure, and broke to
pieces.

Louise gave a cry, and came running out to see what he had done. "Are you
mad? How dare you! . . . break my things."

She held a candle above her head, and by its light, he saw, in the skin of
neck and shoulder, all the lines and folds that were formed by the raising
of her arm. He now saw, too, that her hair was dressed in a different way,
that her dark eyebrows had been made still darker, and that she was
powdered. This discovery had a peculiar effect on him: it rendered it
easier for him to say hard things to her; at the same time, it
strengthened his determination not to let her go out of the house. Moving
aimlessly about the room, he stumbled against a chair, and kicked it from
him.

"A month ago, if some one had sworn to me that you would treat me as you
are doitng to-night, I should have laughed in his face," he said at last.

Louise had put the candle down, and was standing with her back to him.
Taking up a pair of long, black gloves, she began to draw one over her
hand. She did not look up at his words, but went on stroking the kid of
the glove.

"You're only doing it to revenge yourself--I know that! But what have I
done, that you should take less thought for my feelings than if I were a
dog?"

Still she did not speak.

"You won't really go, Louise?--you won't have the heart to.--I say you
shall not go! It will be the end--the end of everything!--if you leave
the house to-night."

She pulled her dress from his hand. "You're out of your senses, I
think. The end of everything! Because, for once, I choose to have some
pleasure on my own account! Any other man would be glad to see the woman
he professes to care for, enjoy herself. But you begrudge it to me. You
say my pleasures shall only come through you--who have taken to making
life a burden to me! Can't you understand that I'm glad to get away from
you, and your ill-humours and mean, abominable jealousy. You're not my
master. I'm not your slave." She tugged at a recalcitrant glove. "It is
absurd," she went on a moment later. "All because I wish to go out alone
for once.--But did I even want to? Why, if it means so much to you,
couldn't you have bought a ticket and come too? But no! you wouldn't go
yourself, and so I was not to go either. It's on a level with all your
other behaviour."

"I go!" he cried. "To watch you the whole evening in that man's arms!--No,
thank you! It's not good enough.--You, with your indecent style of
dancing!"

She wheeled round, as if the insult had struck her; and for a moment faced
him, with open lips. Then she thought better of it: she laughed
derisively, with a wanton undertone, in order to hurt him.

"You would at least have had me under your own eyes."

As she spoke, she nodded to the old woman who opened the door to say that
the droschke waited below. A lace scarf was lying on the table; Louise
twisted it mechanically round her head, and began to struggle with an
evening cloak. Just as she had succeeded in getting it over her shoulders,
Maurice took her by the arms and bent her backwards, so that the cloak
fell to the floor.

"You shall not go!"

She stemmed her hands against him, and determinedly, yet. with caution,
pushed herself free.

"My dress--my hair! How dare you!"

"What do I care for your dress or your hair? You make me mad!"

"And what do I care whether you're mad or not? Take your hands away!"

"Louise! . . . for God's sake! . . . not with that man. At least, not with
him. He has said infamous things of you. I never told you--yes, I heard
him say--heard him compare you with . . . soiled goods he called
you.--Louise! Louise!"

"Have you any more insults for me?"

"No, no more!" He leaned his back against the door. "Only this: if
you leave this room to-night, it's the end."

She had picked up her cloak again. "The end!" she repeated, and looked
contemptuously at him. "I should welcome it, if it were.--But you're
wrong. The end, the real end, came long ago. The beginning was the
end!--Open that door, and let me out!"

He heard her go along the hall, heard the front door shut behind her, and,
after a pause, heard the deeper tone of the house door. The droschke drove
away. After that, he stood at the window, looking out into the pitch-dark
night. Behind him, the landlady set the room in order, and extinguished
the additional candles.

When she had finished, and shut the door, Maurice faced the empty room.
His eyes ranged slowly over it; and he made a vague gesture that signified
nothing. A few steps took him to the writing-table, on which her muff was
lying. He lifted it up, and a bunch of violets fell into his hand. They
brought her before him as nothing else could have done. Beside the bed, he
went down on his knees, and drawing her pillow to him, pressed it round
his head.

The end, the end!--the beginning the end: there was truth in what she had
said. Their love had had no stamina in it, no vital power. He was losing
her, steadily and surely losing her, powerless to help it--rather it
seemed as if some malignant spirit urged him to hasten on the crisis.
Their thoughts seemed hopelessly at war.--And yet, how he loved her! He
made himself no illusions about her now; he understood just what she was,
and what she would always be; the many conflicting impulses of her nature
lay bare to him. But he loved her, loved her: all the dead weight of his
physical craving for her was on him again, confounding, overmastering.
None the less, she had left him; she had no need for him; and the hours
would come, oftener and oftener, when she could do without him, when, as
now, she voluntarily sought the company of other men. The thought
suffocated him; he rose to his feet, and hastened out of the house.

A little before one o'clock, he was stationed opposite the sideentrance to
the HOTEL DE PRUSSE. He had a long time to wait. As two o'clock
approached, small batches of people emerged, at first at intervals, then
more and more frequently. Among the last were Herries and Louise. Maurice
remained standing in the shadow of some houses, until they had parted from
their companions. He heard her voice above all the rest; it rang
out clear and resonant, just as on that former occasion when she had drunk
freely of champagne.

With many final words and false partings, she and Herries separated from
the group, and turned to walk down the street. As they did so, Maurice
sprang out from his hiding-place, and was suddenly in front of them,
blocking their progress.

At his unexpected apparition, both started; and when he roughly took hold
of her arm, Louise gave a short cry. Herries put out his hand, and smacked
Maurice's down.

"What are you doing there? Take your hands off this lady, damn you!" he
cried in broken German, not recognising Maurice, and believing that he had
to deal with an ordinary NACHTSCHWARMER.

The savageness with which he was turned on, enlightened him. "Damn you!"
retorted Maurice in English. "Take your hands off her yourself I She
belongs to me--to me, do you hear?--and I intend to keep her."

"You drunken cur!" said Herries. He had instinctively allowed Louise to
withdraw her arm; now he stood irresolute, uncertain how she would wish
him to act. She had gone very pale; he believed she was afraid. "Isn't
there a droschke anywhere?" he said, and looked angrily round. "I really
can't see you exposed to this . . . this sort of thing, you know."

Louise answered hurriedly. "No, no. And please go! I shall be all right.
I'm sorry.--I had enjoyed it so much. I will tell you another time, how
much. Good night, and thank you. No . . . PLEASE!> . . . yes, a delightful
evening." Her words were almost inaudible.

"Delightful indeed!" said Herries with warmth. Then he stood aside, raised
his hat, and let them pass.

Maurice had his hand on her wrist, and he dragged her after him, over the
frozen pavements, far more quickly than she could in comfort go, hampered
as she was by snow-boots and by her heavy cloak. But she fqllowed him,
allowed herself to be drawn, without protest. She felt strangely
will-less. Only sometimes, when the thought of the indignity he had laid
upon her came over her anew. did she whisper: "How dare you! ... oh, how
dare you!"

He did not look at her, or answer her, and all might have gone well, so
oddly did this treatment affect her, had he only persisted in it. But the
mere contact of her hand softened him towards her; her nearness worked on
him as it never failed to do. He was exhausted, too, mentally and
physically, and at the thought that, for this night at least, his
sufferings were over, he could have shed tears of relief. Slackening his
pace, he began to speak, began to excuse and exculpate himself before ever
she had blamed him, endeavouring to make her understand something of what
he had gone through. In advance, and before she had expressed it, he
sought to break down her spirit of animosity.

The longer he spoke, the harder she felt herself grow. He was at it again,
back at his eternal self-justification. Oh, why, for this one evening at
least, could he not have enforced his will, and have made her do what he
wished, without explanation! But the one plain, simple way was the only
way he never thought of taking. "I hate you and despise you! I shall never
forgive you for your behaviour to-night!--never!" And now it was she who
pressed forward, to get away from him.

He turned the key in the house-door. But before he could open the door,
Louise, pushing in front of him, threw it back, entered the house, and,
the next moment, the door banged in his face. He had just time to withdraw
his hand. He heard her steps on the stair, mounting, growing fainter; he
heard the door above open and shut.

For a second or two, he stood listening to these sounds. But when it
dawned on him that she had shut him out, he pressed both hands against the
wood of the heavy door, and tr to shake it open. He even beat his fist
against it, and only desisted from this when his knuckles began to smart.

Then, on looking down, he saw that the key was still in the lock. He
stared at it, stupidly, without understanding. But, yes--it was his own
key; he himself had put it in. He took it out again, and holding it in his
hand, looked at it, after the fashion of a drunken man, who does not
recognise the object he holds. And even while he did this, he burst into a
peal of laughter, which made him lean for support against the wall of the
house. The noise he made sounded idiotic, sounded mad, in the quiet
street; but he was unable to contain himself. She had left him the
key--had left the key! Oh, what a fool he was!

His laughter died away. He opened the door, noiselessly, as he had learned
by practice to do, and as noiselessly entered the vestibule and went up
the stairs.

IX.

Several versions of the contretemps with Herries were afloat immediately.
All agreed in one point: Maurice Guest had been in an advanced stage of
intoxication. A scuffle was said to have taken place in the deserted
street; there had been tears, and prayers, and shrill accusing voices. In
the version that reached Madeleine's cars, blows were mentioned. She stood
aghast at the disclosures the story made, and at all these implied. Until
now, Maurice had at least striven to preserve appearances. If once you
became callous enough not to care what people said of you, you wilfully
made of yourself a social outcast.

That same afternoon, as she was mounting the steps of the Conservatorium,
she came face to face with Krafft. They had not met for weeks; and
Madeleine remarked this, as they stood together. But she was not thinking
very deeply of him or his affairs; and when she asked him if he would go
across to her room, and wait for her there, she was following an impulse
that had no connection with him. As usual, Krafft had nothing particular
to do; and when she returned, half an hour later, she found him lying on
her sofa, with his arms under his head, his knees crossed above him. The
air of the room was grey with smoke; but, for once, Madeleine set no limit
to his cigarettes. Sitting down at the table, she looked meditatively at
him. For some moments neither spoke.