Maurice Guest

  II.

  On the afternoon when Maurice found that Madeleine had kept her word hewent home and paced his room in perplexity. He pictured Louise lyinghelpless, too weak to raise her hand. His brain went stupidly over thefew people to whom he might turn for aid. Avery Hill?--Johanna Cayhill?But Avery was occupied with her own troubles; and Johanna'srelationship to Ephie put her out of the question. He was thinkingfantastic thoughts of somehow offering his own services, or of eventhrowing himself on the goodness of a person like Miss Jensen, whosemotherly form must surely imply a corresponding motherliness of heart,when Frau. Krause entered the room, bearing a letter which she said hadbeen left for him an hour or two previously. She carried a lamp in herhand, and eyed her restless lodger with suspicion.

  "Why, in the name of goodness, didn't you bring this in when it came?"he demanded. He held the unopened letter at arm's length, as if he wereafraid of it.

  Frau Krause bridled instantly. Did he think she had nothing else to dothan to carry things in and out of his room? The letter had lain on thechest of drawers in the passage; he could have seen it for himself, hadhe troubled to look.

  Maurice waved her away. He was staring at the envelope; he believed heknew the handwriting. His heart beat with precise hammerings. He laidthe letter on the table, and took a few turns in the room before hepicked it up again. On examining it anew, it seemed to him that thelightly gummed envelope had been tampered with, and he made athreatening movement towards the door, then checked himself,remembering that if the letter were what he believed, it would bewritten in English. He tore it open, destroying the envelope in hisnervousness. There was no heading, and it was only a few lines long.

  I MUST SPEAK TO YOU. WILL YOU COME TO ME THIS EVENING? LOUISE DUFRAYER.

  His heart was thumping now. He was to go to her, she said so herself;to go this moment, for it was evening already. As it was, she wasperhaps waiting for him, wondering why he did not come. He had notshaved that day, and his first impulse was to call for hot water. Inthe same breath he gave up the idea: it was out of the question by thepoor light of the lamp, and the extraordinary position of thelooking-glass. He made, however, a hasty toilet in his best, only tocolour at himself when finished. Was there ever such a fool as he? Hisact contained the germ of an insult: and he rapidly changed back to hisworkaday wear.

  All this took time, and it was eight o'clock before he rang thedoor-bell in the BRUDERSTRASSE. Now, the landlady did not mistake himfor a possible thief. But she looked at him in an unfriendly way, andsaid grumblingly that Fraulein had been expecting him for an hour ormore. Then she pointed to the door of the room, and left him to makehis way in alone.

  He knocked gently, but no one answered. The old woman, who stoodwatching his movements, signed to him to enter, and he turned thehandle. The large room was dark, except for the light shed by a smalllamp, which stood on the table before the sofa. From somewhere out ofthe dusk that lay beyond, a white figure rose and came towards him.

  Louise was in a crumpled dressing-gown, and her hair was loosened fromits coil on her neck. Maurice saw so much, before she was close besidehim, her eyes searching his face.

  "Oh, you have come," she said with a sigh, as if a load had been liftedfrom her mind. "I thought you were not coming."

  "I only got your note a few minutes ago. I ... I came at once," hesaid, and stammered, as he saw how greatly illness had changed her.

  "I knew you would."

  She did not give him her hand, but stood gazing at him; and her lookwas so helpless and forlorn that he grew uncomfortable.

  "You have been ill?" he said, to render the pause that followed lessembarrassing.

  "Yes; but I'm better now." She supported herself on the table; herindecision seemed to increase, and several seconds passed before shesaid: "Won't you sit down?"

  He took one of the stuffed arm-chairs she indicated; and she went backto the sofa. Again there was silence. With her elbows on her knees, herchin on her two hands, Louise stared hard at the pattern of thetablecloth. Maurice sat stiff and erect, waiting for her to tell himwhy she had summoned him.

  "You will think it strange that I should send for you like this ...when I know you so slightly," she began at length. "But ...since I sawyou last ... I have been in trouble,"--her voice broke, but her eyesremained fixed on the cloth. "And I am quite alone. I have no one tohelp me. Then I thought of you; you were kind to me once; you offeredto help me." She paused, and wound her handkerchief to a ball.

  "Anything!--anything that lies in my power," said Maurice fervently. Hefidgeted his hands round the brim of his hat, which he was holding tohim.

  "Won't you tell me what it is?" he asked, after another long break. "Ishould be so glad, and grateful--yes, indeed, grateful--if there wereanything I could do for you."

  She met his eyes, and tried to say something, but no sound came overher lips. She was trying to fasten her thoughts on what she had to say,but, in spite of her efforts, they eluded her. For more thantwenty-four hours she had brooded over one idea; the strain had beentoo great; and, now that the moment had come, her strength desertedher. She would have liked to lay her head on her arms and sleep; italmost seemed to her now, in the indifference of sheer fatigue, that itdid not matter whether she spoke or not. But as she looked at the youngman, she became conscious of an expression in his face, which made herown grow hard.

  "I won't be pitied."

  Maurice turned very red. His heart had gone out to her in her distress;and his feelings were painted on his face. His discomfiture at herdiscovery was so palpable that it gave her courage to go on.

  "You were one of those, were you not, who were present at a certaincafe in the BRUHL, one evening, three weeks ago." It was more of astatement than a question. Her eyes held him fast. His retreatingcolour rose again; he had a presentiment of what was coming.

  "Then you must have heard----" she began quickly, but left the sentenceunended.

  His suspicions took shape, and he made a large, vague gesture ofdissent. "You heard all that was said," she continued, without payingany heed to him. "You heard how ... how some one--no, how the man Iloved and trusted ... how he boasted about my caring for him; and notonly that, but how, before that drunken crowd, he told how I had beento him ... to his room ... that afternoon----" She could not finish,and pressed her knotted handkerchief to her lips.

  Maurice looked round him for assistance. "You are mistaken," hedeclared. "I heard nothing of the kind. Remember, I, too, was amongthose ... in the state you mention," he added as an afterthought,lowering his voice.

  "That is not it." Leaning forward, she opened her eyes so wide that hesaw a rim of white round the brown of the pupils. "You must also haveheard ... how, all this time, behind my back, there was some one else... someone he cared for ... when I thought it was only me."

  The young man coloured, with her and for her. "It is not true; you havebeen misled," he said with vehemence. And, again, a flash of intuitionsuggested an afterthought to him. "Can you really believe it? Don't youthink better of him than that?"

  For the first time since she had known him, Louise gave him a personallook, a look that belonged to him alone, and held a warm ray ofgratitude. Then, however, she went on unsparingly: "I want you to tellme who it was."

  He laid his hat on a chair, and used his hands. "But if I assure you itis not true? If I give you my word that you have been misinformed?"

  "Who was it? What is her name?"

  He rose, and went away from the table.

  "I knew him better than you," she said slowly, as he did not speak:"you or anyone else--a hundred thousand times better--and I KNOW it istrue."

  Still he did not answer. "Then you won't tell me?"

  "Tell you? How can I? There's nothing to tell."

  "I was wrong then. You have no pity for me?"

  "Pity!--I no pity?" he cried, forgetting how, a minute ago, she hadresented his feeling it. "But all the same I can't tell you what youask me. You don't realise what it means: putting
a slur on a younggirl's name ... which has never been touched."

  Directly he had said this, he was aware of his foolishness; but she letthe admission contained in the words pass unnoticed.

  "Then she is not with him?" she cried, springing to her feet, and therewas a jubilation in her voice, which she did not attempt to suppress.Maurice made no answer, but in his face was such a mixture of surpriseand disconcertion that it was answer enough.

  She remained standing, with her head bowed; and Maurice, who, in hisnervousness, had gripped the back of his chair, held it so tightly thatit left a furrow in his hand. He was looking into the lamp, and did notat first see that Louise had raised her head again and wascontemplating him. When she had succeeded in making him look at her,she sat down on the sofa and drew the folds of her dressing-gown to her.

  "Come and sit here. I want to speak to you."

  But Maurice only shot a quick glance at her, and did not move.

  She leaned forward, in her old position. She had pushed the heavy wingsof hair up from her forehead, and this, together with her extremepallor, gave her face a look of febrile intensity.

  "Maurice Guest," she said slowly, "do you remember a night last summer,when, by chance, you happened to walk with me, coming home from thetheatre?--Or have you perhaps forgotten?"

  He shook his head.

  "Then do you remember, too, what you said to me? How, since the firsttime you had seen me--you even knew where that was, I believe--you hadthought about me ... thought too much, or words to that effect. Do youremember?"

  "Do you think when a man says a thing like that he forgets it?" askedMaurice in a gruff voice. He turned, as he spoke, and looked down onher with a kind of pitying wisdom. "If you knew how often I havereproached myself for it!" he added.

  "There was no need for that," she answered, and even smiled a little."We women never resent having such things said to us--never--though itis supposed we do, and though we must pretend to. But I remember, too,I was in a bad mood that night, and was angry with you, after all.Everything seemed to have gone against me. In the theatre--in ... Oh,no, no!" she cried, as she remembrance of that past night, with itsalternations of pain and pleasure, broke over her. "My God!"

  Maurice hardly breathed, for fear he should remind her of his presence.When the paroxysm had passed, she crossed to the window; the blinds hadnot been drawn, and leaning her forehead on the glass, she looked outinto the darkness. In spite of his trouble of mind, the young man couldnot but comment on the ironic fashion in which fate was treating him:not once, in all the hours he had spent on the pavement below, hadLouise come, like this, to the window; now that she did so, he was inthe room beside her, wishing himself away.

  Then, with a swift movement, she came back to him, and stood at hisside.

  "Then it was not true?--what you said that night."

  "True?" echoed Maurice. He instinctively moved a step away from her,and threw a quick glance at the pale face so near his own. "If I wereto tell you how much more than that is true, you wouldn't have anythingmore to do with me."

  For the second time, she seemed to see him and consider him. But hekept his head turned stubbornly away.

  "You feel like that," she began in slow surprise, to continuehurriedly: "You care for me like that, and yet, when I ask the firstand only thing I shall ever ask of you, you won't do it? It is a lessonto me, I suppose, not to come to you for help again.--Oh, I can'tunderstand you men! You are all--all alike."

  "I would do anything in the world for you. Anything but this."

  She repeated his last words after him. "But I want nothing else."

  "This I can't tell you."

  "Then you don't really care. You only think you do. If you can't dothis one small thing for me! Oh, there is no one else I can turn to, orI would. Oh, please tell me!--you who make-believe to care for me. Youwon't? When it comes to the point, a man will do nothing--nothing atall."

  "I would cut off my hands for you. But you are asking me to dosomething I think wrong."

  "Wrong! What is wrong?--and what is right? They are only words. Is itright that I should be left like this?--thrown away like a brokenplate? Oh, I shall not rest till I know who it was that took him fromme. And you are the only person who can help me. Are you not a littlesorry for me? Is there nothing I can do to make you sorry?"

  "You won't realise what you are asking me to do."

  He spoke in a constrained voice, for he felt the impossibility ofstanding out much longer against her. Louise caught the note ofyielding, and taking his hand in hers, laid it against her forehead.

  "Feel that! Feel how it throbs and burns! And so it has gone on forhours now, for days. I can't think or feel--with that fever in me. Imust know who it was, or I shall go mad. Don't torture me then--you,too! You are good. Be kind to me now. Be my friend, Maurice Guest."

  Maurice was vanquished; in a low voice he told her what she wished tohear. She read the syllables from his lips, repeated the name slowlyafter him, then shook her head; she did not know it. Letting his handdrop, she went back to the sofa.

  "Tell me everything you know about her," she said imperiously. "What isshe like?--what is she like? What is the colour of her hair?"

  Maurice was a poor hand at description. Questioned thus, he was noteven sure whether to call Ephie pretty or not; he knew that she wassmall, and very young, but of her hair he could say little, except thatit was not black.

  Louise caught at the detail. "Not black, no, not black!" she cried. "Hehad black enough here," and she ran her hands through her own unrulyhair.

  There was nothing she did not want to know, did not try to force fromhis lips; and a relentless impatience seized her at his powerlessness.

  "I must see her for myself," she said at length, when he had stammeredinto silence. "You must bring her to me."

  "No, that you really can't ask me to do."

  She came over to him again, and took his hands. "You will bring herhere to-morrow--to-morrow afternoon. Do you think I shall hurt her? Isshe any better than I am? Oh, don't be afraid! We are not so easilysoiled."

  Maurice demurred no more.

  "For until I see her, I shall not know--I shall not know," she said toherself, when he had pledged his word.

  The tense expression of her face relaxed; her mouth drooped; she layback in the sofa-corner and shut her eyes. For what seemed a long time,there was no sound in the room. Maurice thought she had fallen asleep.But at his first light movement she opened her eyes.

  "Now go," she said. "Please, go!" And he obeyed.

  The night was cold, but, as he stood irresolute in the street, he wipedthe perspiration from his forehead. He felt very perplexed. Only onething was clear to him: he had promised to bring Ephie to see her thenext day, and, however wrong it might be, the promise was given andmust be kept. But what he now asked himself was: did not the bringingof the child, under these circumstances, imply a tacit acknowledgmentthat she was seriously involved?--a fact which, all along, he hadstriven against admitting. For, after his one encounter with Ephie andSchilsky, in the woods that summer, and the first firing of hissuspicions, he had seen nothing else to render him uneasy; a few weekslater, Ephie had gone to Switzerland, and, on her return in September,or almost directly afterwards--three or four days at most--Schilsky hadtaken his departure. There had been, of course, his drunken boasts totake into account, but firstly, Maurice had only retained a hazy ideaof their nature, and, in the next place, the events which had followedthat evening had been of so much greater importance to him that he hadhad no thoughts to spare for Ephie--more especially as he then knewthat Schilsky was out of the way. But now the whole affair rose vividlybefore his mind again, and in his heart he knew that he had alwaysbelieved--just as Louise believed--in Ephie's guilt. No: guilt was toostrong a word. Yet however harmless the flirtation might have been initself, it had been carried on in secret, in an underhand way: therehad been nothing straightforward or above-board about it; and thisalone was enough to compromise a young gir
l.

  The Cayhills had been in Leipzig again for three weeks, but so occupiedhad Maurice been during this time, that he had only paid them one hastycall. Now he felt that he must see Ephie at once, not only to secureher word that she would come out with him, the following day, but alsoto read from her frank eyes and childish lips the assurance of herinnocence, or, at least, the impossibility of her guilt.

  But as he walked to the LESSINGSTRASSE, he remembered, without beingable to help it, all the trifles which, at one time or another, haddisturbed his relations with Ephie. He recalled each of the thin,superficial untruths, by means of which she had defended herself, theday he had met her with Schilsky: it seemed incredible to him now thathe had not seen through them instantly. He called up her pretty,insincere behaviour with the circle of young men that gathered roundher; the language of signs by which she had conversed with Schilsky inthe theatre. He remembered the astounding ease with which he had madeher acquaintance in the first case, or rather, with which she had madehis. Even the innocent kiss she had once openly incited him to, and onthe score of which she had been so exaggeratedly angry--this, too, wassummoned to bear witness against her. Each of these incidents nowseemed to point to a fatal frivolity, to a levity of character which,put to a real test, would offer no resistance.

  Supper was over in the PENSION, but only Mrs. Cayhill sat in heraccustomed corner. Ephie was with the rest of the boarders in thegeneral sitting-room, where Johanna conducted Maurice. Boehmer waspaying an evening visit, as well as a very young American, who laughed:"Heh, heh!" at everything that was said, thereby displaying twoprominently gold teeth. Mrs. Tully sat on a small sofa, with her armround Ephie's waist: they were the centre of the group, and it did notappear likely that Maurice would get an opportunity of speaking toEphie in private. She was in high spirits, and had only a saucygreeting for him. He sat down beside Johanna, and waited, ill at ease.Soon his patience was exhausted; rising, he went over to the sofa, andasked Ephie if he might come to take her for a walk, the nextafternoon. But she would not give him an express promise; she pouted:after all these weeks, it suddenly occurred to him to come and seethem, and then, the first thing he did, was to ask a favour of her. Didhe really expect her to grant it?

  "Don't, Ephie, love, don't!" cried Mrs. Tully in her sprightly way."Men are really shocking creatures, and it is our duty, love, to keepthem in their place. If we don't, they grow presumptuous," and she shotan arch look at Boehmer, who returned it, fingered his beard, andmurmured: "Cruel--cruel!"

  "And even if I wanted to go when the time came, how do you expect me toknow so long beforehand? Ever so many things may happen beforeto-morrow," said Ephie brilliantly; at which Mrs. Tully laughed verymuch indeed, and still more at Boehmer's remark that it was an ancientprivilege of the ladies, never to be obliged to know their own minds.

  "It's a libel--take that, you naughty boy!" she cried, and slapped himplayfully on the hand. "Ephie, love, how shall we punish him?"

  "He is not to come again for a week," answered Ephie slily; and atBoehmer's protestations of penitence and despair, both she and Mrs.Tully laughed till the tears stood in their eyes, Ephie all the moreextravagantly because Maurice stood unsmiling before her.

  "I ask this as a direct favour, Ephie. There's something I want to sayto you--something important," he added in a low voice, so that only shecould hear it.

  Ephie changed colour at once, and tried to read his face.

  "Then I may come at five? You will be ready? Good night."

  Johanna followed him into the passage, and stood by while he put on hiscoat. They had used up all their small talk in the sitting-room, andhad nothing more to say to each other. When however they shook hands,she observed impulsively: "Sometimes I wish we were safe back homeagain." But Maurice only said: "Indeed?" and displayed no curiosity toknow the reason why.

  After he had gone, Ephie was livelier than before, as long as she wasbeing teased about her pale, importunate admirer. Then, suddenly, shepleaded a headache, and went to her own room.

  Johanna, listening outside the door, concluded from the stillness thather sister was asleep. But Ephie heard Johanna come and go. She couldnot sleep, nor could she get Maurice's words out of her mind. He hadsomething important to say to her. What could it be? There was only oneimportant subject in the world for her now; and she longed for the hourof his visit--longed, hoped, and was more than half afraid.