XI.
Throughout February, and the greater part of March, the HAUPTPRUFUNGENwere held in the Conservatorium: twice a week, from six to eighto'clock in the evening, the concert hall was crammed with an eagercrowd. To these concerts, the outside public was admitted, the criticswere invited, and the performances received notices in the newspapers;in short, the outgoing student was, for the first time, treated like areal debutant. Concerted music was accompanied by the full orchestra;the large gallery that ran round the hall was opened up; and the girls,whose eager faces hung over its edge, were more brightly decked thanusual, in ribbons and laces. Some of those who stepped down theplatform seemed thoroughly to relish their first taste of publicity;others, on the contrary, were awkward and abashed, and did not ventureto notice the encouragement that greeted their entrance. There wereplayers as composed as the most hardened virtuosi; others, again, whowere overcome by stage-fright to such an extent that they barelyescaped a total fiasco.
The success of the year was Dove, in his performance of Chopin'sConcerto in E minor. Dove's unshakable self-possession was here ofimmense value to him. Not a note was missed, not a turn slurred; theruns and brilliant passage-work of the concerto left his fingers likeshowers of pearls; his touch had the necessary delicacy, and, inaddition to this, his reading was quite a revelation to his friends inthe matter of TEMPERAMENT. It is true that Schwarz prohibited anyundignified display of the emotional side of Chopin; the interpretationhad to be on classical lines; but even the most determined opponents ofSchwarz's method were forced to acknowledge that Dove made no mean showof the poetic contents of the music. The master himself, in hisimperturbable way--he chose to act as if, all along, he had had thissurprise for people up his sleeve--the master was in transports. Hisstern face wore an almost genial expression; he smiled, and talkedloudly, and, when the performance was over, hurried to and fro, full ofimportance, shaking hands and accepting congratulations, with a fineshade of reserve. Dove's fellow-pupils were enraptured for Schwarz'ssake; for, undeniably, the master's numbers this year were poor,compared with those of other teachers. It behoved the remainder to makethe most of this isolated triumph; they did so, and were entertained bySchwarz at a special dinner, where many healths were drunk.
Those who had "made their PRUFUNG," as the phrase ran, were, as a rule,glad to leave Leipzig when the ordeal was behind them. But Dove, who,on the day following his performance, when his name was to be read inthe newspapers accompanied by various epithets of praise, had proposedand been accepted, and was this time returning to England a solemnlyengaged man--Dove waited a week for his fiancee and her family, who hadnot been prepared for so sudden a move. He was the man of the hour. Asa response to the flattering notices, he had called on all his critics,and been received by several; and he could hardly walk a street-length,without running the gauntlet of some belated congratulation. Schwarzhad spoken seriously to him about prosecuting his studies for a furtheryear, with the not impossible prospect of a performance in theGewandhaus at the end of it; but Dove had laid before his master thereasons why this could not be: he was no longer a free man; there werenow other wishes to be consulted in addition to his own. Besides, ifthe truth must be told, Dove had higher aims, and these led himimperatively back to England.
Madeleine was ready to leave a couple of days after her lastperformance. Her plans for the future were fixed and sure. She had longago given up making adventurous schemes for storming America: that hadmerely been her contribution to the romance of the place. Now she washastening away to spend the month of March in Paris; she was not due atthe school to which she was returning till the end of April; and, inParis, she intended to take a brief course of finishing lessons, to ruboff what she called "German thoroughness." She, too, had made a highlysuccessful exit, though without creating a furore like Dove. Since allshe did was well done, it was not possible for her to be a surprise toanyone.
And finally, the rush she had lived in for weeks past, was over, thelast afternoon had come, and, in its course, she went to the railwaystation to make arrangements about her luggage. On her way home, sheentered Klemm's music-shop, where she stood, for a considerable time,taking leave of one and another. When she emerged again, the town hadassumed that spectral look, which, towards evening, made the quaint oldgabled streets so attractive.
For the first time, Madeleine felt something akin to regret at havingto leave. She had enjoyed, and made the most of, her years of study;but she was now quite ready to advance, curious to attack the future,and to dominate that also. Still, the dusk on the familiar streetsinclined her to feel sentimental. "This time tomorrow, I'll be hundredsof miles away," she said to herself, "and probably shall never see theold place again." As she walked, she looked back upon her residencethere--already somewhat in the light of a remembrance--weighing what ithad been worth to her. Part of it was intimately associated withMaurice Guest, and thus she recalled him, too. Of late he had passedout of her life; she had been too busy to think of him. Now, however,that she was at the end of this period, the fancy seized her to see himagain; and she took a resolution which had, perhaps, been dormant inher for some time.
"I don't see why I shouldn't," she reasoned. "No one will know. Andeven if they do, I'm leaving, and it won't matter."
And so she pulled her hat further over her face, and brisked up hersteps in the direction of the BRAUSTRASSE--a street which she disliked,and never entered if she could avoid it. If he had lived in a betterneighbourhood, things might have gone better with him, she mused; forMadeleine was a staunch believer in the influence of surroundings, andcould not, for instance, understand a person who lived in dirt anddisorder having any but a dirty or disorderly mind. She went from doorto door, scanning the numbers, with her head poked a little forward andto one side, like a bird's. As she ascended the stair, she raised herskirts, and her nostrils twitched displeased.
Frau Krause held the door open by an inch, and looked at Madeleine withdistrust.
"No, he's not," she replied. "And what's more, I couldn't say, if youwere to pay me, when he will be."
But Madeleine was not to be daunted by the arrogance of any landladyalive. "Why? Is he so irregular?" she asked. She had placed her foot inthe opening of the door, and now, by a skilful movement, insertedherself bodily into the passage.
Frau Krause, baffled, could do no more than mumble a: "Well, if youlike to wait!" and point out the room. She followed Madeleine over thethreshold, drying her hands on her apron.
"Are you a friend of his, may I ask?" she inquired.
"Why? What do you want to know for? Do you think I'd be here if Iweren't?" said Madeleine, looking her up and down.
"Why I want to know?" repeated Frau Krause, and tossed her head. "Why,because I think if Herr Guest has any friends left, they ought to knowhow he's going on--that's why, Fraulein!"
"How going on?" queried Madeleine with undisturbed coolness, and lookedround her for a chair.
Throwing a cautious glance over her shoulder, Frau Krause said behindher hand: "It's my opinion there's a woman in the case."
"You don't need to whisper; your opinion is an open secret," answeredMadeleine drily. "There is a woman, and there she sits, as you no doubtvery well know." As she spoke, she pointed to a photograph of Louise,which stood on the lid of the piano.
"I thought as much," exclaimed the landlady. "I thought as much. And abad, bold face it is, too."
"Now explain, please, what you mean by his goings on. Is he in debt toyou?" Madeleine continued her interrogatory.
"Well, I can't just say that," replied the woman, with what seemed aspice of regret. "He's paid up pretty regular till now--though ofcourse one never knows how long he'll keep on doing it. But it goesagainst my heart to see a young man, who might be one's own son, actingas he does. When he first came here, there wasn't a decenter young mananywhere than Herr Guest--if I had a complaint, it was that he was toomuch of a steady-goer. I used to tell him he ought to take more heedfor his health, not to mention the ears of
the people that had to livewith him. He sat at that piano there all the blessed day. And now thereisn't a lazier, more cantankerous fellow in the place. You can't pleasehim anyhow. He never gives you a civil word. He doesn't work, hedoesn't cat, and he's getting so thin that his clothes just hang onhim."
"Is he drinking?" interrupted Madeleine in the same matter-of-fact way,with her eye on the main points of probable offence.
"Well, I can't just say that," answered Frau Krause. "Not but what itmightn't be better if he was. It's the ones as don't drink who are thehard ones to get on with, in my experience. Young gentlemen who liketheir liquor, are of the goodnatured, easy-going sort. Now I once had ayoung fellow here----"
"But I don't see in the least what you've got to complain of!" saidMadeleine. "He pays you for the room, and you no doubt have free use ofit.--A very good bargain!"
She sat back and stared about her, while Frau Krause, recognising thatshe had met her match in this sharp-tongued young lady, curbed hertemper, and launched out into the history of a former lodger.
It was a dingy room, long and narrow, with a single window. Against thedoor that led into an adjoining room, stood a high-backed, uninvitingsofa, with a table in front of it. Between this and the window was thewriting-bureau, a flat, man-high piece of furniture, with drawers andpigeon-holes, and a broad flap that let down for writing purposes.Against the opposite wall stood the neglected piano, and, towards thedoor, on both sides, were huddled bed, washstand, and the iron stove.Everything was of an extreme shabbiness: the stuffing was showingthrough holes in the sofa, the strips of carpet were worn threadbare. Acouple of photographs and a few books were ranged in line on thebureau--that was all that had been done towards giving the place ahomely air. It was like a room that had never properly been lived in.
While Madeleine sat thinking this, the sound of a key was heard in thefront door, and Frau. Krause, interrupted in her story, had just timeto tap Madeleine on the arm, exclaim: "Here he is!" and dart out of theroom. Not so promptly, however, but what Maurice saw where she camefrom. Madeleine heard them bandying words in the passage.
The door of the room was flung open, and Maurice, entering hotly, threwhis hat on the table. He did not perceive his visitor till it was toolate.
"Madeleine! You here!" he exclaimed in surprise and embarrassment. "Ibeg your pardon. I didn't see you," and he made haste to recover hishat.
"Yes, don't faint, it's I, Maurice.--But what's the matter? Why are youso angry with the person? Does she pry on you?"
"Pry!" he echoed, and his colour deepened. "Pry's not the word for it.She ransacks everything I have. I never come home but what I find shehas overhauled something, though I've forbidden her to enter the room."
"Why don't you--or rather, why didn't you move? It's not much of aplace, I'm sure."
"Move?" he repeated, in the same tone as before, and, as he spoke, helooked incredulously at Madeleine. He had hung his coat and hat on apeg, and now came forward to the table. "Move?" he said once again, andprolonged the word as though the channel of thought it opened up wasnew to him.
"Good gracious, yes!--If one's not satisfied with one's rooms, onemoves, that's all. There's nothing strange about it."
He murmured that the idea had never occurred to him, and was about todraw up a chair, when his eye caught a letter that was lying on thelowered flap of the bureau. In patent agitation, and without excusinghimself, he seized it and tore it open. Madeleine saw his face darken.He read the letter through twice, from beginning to end, then tore itinto a dozen pieces and scattered them on the shelf.
"No bad news, I hope?"
He turned his face to her; it was still contracted. "That depends onhow you look at it, Madeleine," he said, and laughed in an unpleasantmanner.
After this, he seemed to forget her again; he stood staring at thescraps of paper with a frown. For some minutes, she waited. Then shesaw herself forced to recall him to the fact of her presence.
"Could you spare me a little attention now?" she asked. At her words,he jumped, and, with evident confusion, brought his wandering thoughtshome. "I can't sit here for ever you know," she added.
"I beg your pardon." He came up to the table, and took the chair he hadpreviously had his hand on. "The fact is I--Can I do anything for you,Madeleine?"
"For me? Oh, dear, no!--You are surprised to find me here, no doubt!But as I'm leaving to-morrow morning, I thought I'd run up and saygood-bye to you--that's all. A case of Mohammed and the mountain, yousee."
"Leaving? To-morrow?"
"Yes.--Goodness, there's nothing wonderful in that, is there? Mostpeople do leave some time or other, you know." His reply was inaudible."It was very good of you to look me up," he threw in as an afterthought.
Madeleine, watching him, with a thin, sarcastic smile on her lips, hadchanced to let her eyes stray to his hands, which he had laid on thetable, and she continued to fix them, fascinated in spite of herself bythe uncared-for condition of the nails. These were bitten, and broken,and dirty. Maurice, becoming aware of her intent gaze, looked down tosee what it was at, hastily withdrew his hands and hid them in hispockets.
"This is the first time I've been in your den, you know," she saidabruptly. "Really, Maurice, you might have done better. I don't knowhow you've managed to put up with it so long."
"My dear Madeleine, do you think I could afford to live in a palace?"
"A palace?--absurd! You probably pay sixteen or seventeen marks forthis hole. Well, I could have found you any number of better places forthe same money--if you had come to me."
"You're very kind. But it has done me well enough."
"So it appears."
Sitting back, she looked round her, in the hope of picking up someneutral subject. "Are those your people?" she asked, and nodded at thephotograph of a family-group, which stood on the top shelf of thebureau. "Three boys, are you not? You are like your mother," and shestared, with unfeigned curiosity, at the provincial figures, dressedout in their best coats and silks, and in heavy gold jewellery.
"Good God, Madeleine!" Maurice burst out at this, his loosely keptpatience escaping him. "You didn't come here, I suppose, to remark onmy family?"
"Well, I can't congratulate you on an improvement in your manners,since I saw you last."
"I am not aware of having changed."
"As well for you, perhaps. However, I'll tell you about myself, if itinterests you." She turned her cool, judicial gaze on him again; andnow she set before him her projects for the future. But though he kepthis eyes fastened on her face, she saw that he was not listening towhat she said, or, at most, that he only half heard it; for, when sheceased to speak, he did not notice her silence.
She waited, curious to see what would come next, and presently heechoed, in his vague way: "Paris, did you say?--Really?"
"Yes--Paris: the capital of France.--I said that, and a good deal more,which I don't think you heard.--And now I won't take up your precioustime any longer.--You've nothing new to tell me, I suppose? You stillintend staying on here, and fighting out the problem of existence?Well, when you have starved satisfactorily in a garret, I hope some onewill let me know. I'll come over for the funeral."
She rose, and began to button her jacket.
"And England has absolutely no chance? English music must continue tolanguish, without hope of reform?"
"How can you remember such rot! I was a terrible fool when I talkedlike that."
"I liked you better as a fool than I do now, with your acquired wisdom.And I won't go from here without offering you congratulations, heartycongratulations, on the muddle you've made of things."
"That's entirely my own affair."
"You may be thankful it is! Do you think anyone else would want theresponsibility of it?"
She went out without a further word. But on the landing at the bottomof the first flight of stairs, she stood irresolute. She felt annoyedwith herself that she had allowed an unfriendly tone to dominate theirbrief interview. This was probably the
last time she would see him; thelast chance she would have of telling him just what she thought of him.And viewed in that light, it seemed ridiculous to let any artificialdelicacy of feeling stand in her way. She blew her nose vigorously,and, not being used to indecision, turned as she did so, and began toascend the stairs again. Brushing past Frau Krause, she reopened,without knocking, the door of Maurice's room.
He had moved the lamp from the table to the bureau, and at her entrancewas bending over something that lay there, so engrossed that he did notat once raise his head.
"Good gracious! What are you doing?" escaped her involuntarily.
At this, he spun round, and, leaning back against the writingtable,tried to screen it from her eyes.
She regretted her impulsive curiosity, and did not press him. "Yes,it's me again," she said with determination. "And I suppose you'll wantto accuse me of prying, too, like that female outside.--Look here: it'sludicrous for us who have been friends so long to part in this fashion.And I, for one, don't intend to do it. There's something I want to saybefore I go--you may be angry and offended if you like; I don'tcare"--for he frowned forbiddingly. "I'm no denser than other people;and I know just as well as every one else the wretched mess you've gotyourself into--one would have to be blind and deaf, indeed, not toknow.--Now, look here, Maurice! You once said to me, you may remember,that if you had a sister you'd like her to be something like me. Willyou look on me as that sister for a little, and let me give you somesound advice? I told you I was going to Paris, and that I had a clearmonth there. Well, now, throw your things together and come with me.You haven't had a decent holiday since you've been here. You needfreshening up.--Or if not Paris--Paris isn't a necessity--we'll go downby Munich and the Brenner to Italy, and I'll be cicerone. I'll act asbanker, too, and you can regard it as a loan in the meantime, and payme back when you're richer.--Now what do you say? Doesn't the plantempt you?"
"What I say?" he echoed, and looked round him a little helplessly."Why, Madeleine ... It seems you are determined to run off with me.Once it was America, and now it's Italy or Paris."
"Come, say you'll consent, or at least consider it."
"My dear Madeleine! You're all that is good and kind. But you knowyou're only talking nonsense."
She did not answer him at once. "The thing is this," she said with somehesitation. "I wasn't quite honest in what I said to you a few minutesago. I have the uncomfortable feeling that I am to a certain degreeresponsible, even to blame, for much of ... what has happened here. Andit isn't a pleasant feeling, Maurice."
"My dear girl!" he said again. "If it's any consolation to you to knowit, I owe you the biggest debt of my life."
"Then you decline my proposal, do you?"
"You're the same good friend you always were. But you're making amountain out of a molehill. What's all this fuss about? Merely becauseI haven't chosen to work my fingers to the bone, and wear my nerves totatters over that old farce of a PRUFUNG. As for my choosing to stayhere, instead of going home like the rest of you--well, that's a matterof taste, too. Some people--like our friend Dove--want affluence, and afixed position in the provinces. Frankly, I don't. I'd rather scrapealong here, as best I can. That's the whole matter in a nutshell, andit's nothing to make a to-do about. For though you think I'm a fool,and can't help telling me so--that, too, is a matter of opinion."
"Well, I don't intend to apologise for myself at this date, be sure ofthat! And now I'll go. For if you're resolved to hold me at arm'slength, there's nothing more to be said.--No, stop a minute, though.Here's my address in England. If ever you should return to join usbenighted ignorants, you might let me know. Or if you find you can'tget on here--I mean if it's quite impossible--I have money, you know... and should be glad--at a proper percentage, of course," she addedironically.
"That's hardly likely to happen."
She laid the card on the table. "You never can tell.--Well, good-bye,then, and in spite of your obstinacy, I'll perhaps be able to do you agood turn yet, Maurice Guest."
As soon as he heard the front door close, he returned to his occupationof piecing together the bits of the letter. Ever since he had torn itup--throughout her visit--his brain had been struggling to recall itsexact contents, and without success; for, owing to Madeleine'spresence, he had read it hastily. Otherwise, what he had done to-daydid not differ from his usual method of proceeding. This was not thefirst horrible unsigned letter he had received, and he could neverprevail on himself to throw them in the fire, unopened. He read themthrough, two or three times, then, angered by their contents and by hisown weakness, tore them to fragments. But the hints and aspersions theycontained, remained imprinted on his mind. In this case, Madeleine'sdistracting appearance had enfeebled his memory, and he worked long andpatiently until the sheet lay fitted together again before him. When heknew its contents by heart, he struck some matches, and watched thepieces curl and blacken.
Then he left the house.
Her room was in darkness. He stretched himself on the sofa to wait forher return.
The words of the letter danced like a writing of fire before him; helay there and re-read them; but without anger. What they stated mightbe true, also it might not; he would never know. For these letters,which he was ashamed of himself for opening, and still more forremembering, had not been mentioned between them, but were added tothat category of things they now tacitly agreed to avoid. In his heart,he knew that he cherished the present state of uncertainty; it was atwilight state, without crudities or sharp outlines; and it was stillpossible to drift and dream in it. Whereas if another terriblecertainty, like the last, descended on him, he would be forced tomarshal his energies, and to suffer afresh. It was better not to know.As long as definite knowledge failed him, he could give her the benefitof the doubt. And whether what the letters affirmed was true or not,hours came when she still belonged wholly to him. Whatever happened onher absences from him, as soon as the four walls of the room shut themin again, she was his; and each time she returned, a burning gratitudefor the reprieve filled him anew.
But there was also another reason why he did not breathe a word to herof his suspicions, and that was the slow dread that was laming him--thedread of her contempt. She made no further attempt to drape it; and hehad learned to writhe before it, to cringe and go softly. Weeks hadpassed now, since the night on which he had made his last stand againsther weeks of increasing torture. Just at first, incredible as it hadseemed, his horrible treatment of her had brought about a slackening ofthe tension between them. The worst that could happen had happened, andhe had survived it: he had not put an end either to himself or to her.On the contrary, he had accepted the fact--as he now saw that he wouldaccept every fact concerning her, whether for good or evil. And mattershaving reached this point, a kind of lull ensued: for a few days theyhad even caught a glimpse again of the old happiness. But the pause wasshort-lived: it was like the ripples caused by a stone thrown intowater, which continue just so long as the impetus lasts. Louise hadbeen a little awed by his greater strength, when she had lain coweringon the ground before him. But not many days elapsed before her eyeswere wide open with incredulous amazement. When she understood, as shesoon did, that her shameless admission, and still more, his punishmentof her for it, was not to be followed up by any new development; that,in place of subduing her mentally as well, he was going to be contentto live on as they had been doing; that, in fact, he had alreadydropped back into the old state of things, before she was well aware ofwhat was happening: then her passing mood of submission swept over intoher old flamboyant contempt for him. The fact of his having beaten herbecame a weapon in her hands; and she used it unsparingly. To hertaunts, he had no answer to make. For, the madness once passed, hecould not conceive how he had been capable of such a thing; in his sanemoments of dejection and self-distrust, he could not have raised hishand against her, though his life were at stake.
He had never been able to drag from her a single one of the reasonsthat had led to her mad betrayal of him.
On this point she wasinflexible. In the course of that long night which he had spent on hisknees by her bed, he had persecuted her to disclose her motive. But hemight as well have spoken to the wind; his questioning elicited noreply.. Again and again, he had upbraided her: "But you didn't care forHeinz! He was nothing to you!" and she neither assented nor gainsaidhim. Once, however, she had broken in on him: "You believed bad of melong before there was any to believe. Now you have something to go on!"And still again, when the sluggish dawn was creeping in, she hadsuddenly turned her head: "But now you can go away. You're free toleave me. Nothing binds you to a woman like me--who can't be contentwith one man." Dizzy with fatigue, he had answered: "No--if you thinkthat--if you did it just to be rid of me--you're mistaken!"
From this night on, they had never reverted to the subject again--whichis not to say that his brain did not work furiously at it; the searchfor a clue, for the hidden motive, was now his eternal occupation. Butto her he was silent, sheerly from the dread of again receiving theanswer: take me as I am, or leave me! In hours such as the present, orin the agony of sleepless nights, these thoughts rent his brain. Thequestion was such an involved one, and he never seemed to come anynearer a solution of it. Sometimes, he was actually tempted to believewhat her words implied: that it had been wilfully done, with a view togetting rid of him. But against this, his reason protested; for, if theletter from Krafft had not arrived, he would have known nothing. He didnot believe she would have told him--would there, indeed, have been anyneed for her to do so? Nothing was changed between them; she lived athis side, just as before; and Krafft was out of the way.--At othertimes, though, he asked himself if he were not a fool to be surprisedat what had occurred. Had not all roads led here? Had he not, as shemost truly said, for long harboured the unworthiest suspicions ofher?--suspicions which were tantamount to an admission on his part thathis love was no longer enough for her. To have done this, andafterwards to behave as if she had been guilty of an unpardonablecrime, was illogical and unjust.--And yet again, there came momentswhen, in a barbarous clearness of vision, he seemed to get nearest tothe truth. Under certain circumstances, so he now told himself, hewould gladly and straightway have forgiven her. If she had been drawn,irresistibly, to another, by one of those sudden outbursts of passionbefore which she was incapable of remaining steadfast; if she had beenattracted, like this, more than half unwilling, wholly humiliated,penitent in advance, yet powerless--then, oh then, how willingly hewould have made allowance for her weakness! But Krafft, of allpeople!--Krafft, of whom she had spoken to him with derisivecontempt!--this cold and calculated deception of him with some one whomade not the least appeal to her!--Cold and calculated, did he say? No,far from it! What COULD it have been but the sensual caprice of amoment?--but a fleeting, manlike desire for the piquancy of change?
These and similar thoughts ran their whirling circles behind his closedeyes, as he lay in the waning twilight of the March evening, whichstill struggled with the light of the lamp. But they were hard pressedby the contents of the letter: on this night he foresaw that his fixedidea threatened to divide up into two branches--and he did not knowwhether to be glad or to regret it. But he admitted to himself that oneof these days he would be forced to take measures for preserving hissanity, by somehow dragging the truth from her; better still, byfollowing her on one of her evening absences, to discover for himselfwhere she went, and whether what the anonymous writer asserted wastrue. If he could only have controlled his brain! The perpetuallyrepeated circles it drove in--if these could once have been brought toa stop, all the rest of him infinitely preferred not to know.
Meanwhile, the shadows deepened, and his subconsciousness never ceasedto listen, with an intentness which no whirligigs of thought coulddistract, for the sound of her step in the passage. When, at length,some short time after darkness had set in, he heard her at the door, hedrew a long, sighing breath of relief, as if--though this was unavowedeven to himself--he had been afraid he might listen in vain. And, asalways, when the suspense was over, and she was under the same roofwith him again, he was freed from so intolerable a weight that he wasready to endure whatever she might choose to put upon him, and for hispart to make no demands.
Louise entered languidly; and so skilled had he grown at interpretingher moods that he knew from her very walk which of them she was in. Helooked surreptitiously at her, and saw that she was wan and tired. Ithad been a mild, enervating day; her hair was blown rough about herface. He watched her before the mirror take off hat and veil, withslow, yet impatient fingers; watched her hands in her hair, which shedid not trouble to rearrange, but only smoothed back on either side.
She had not, even in entering, cast a glance at him, and, recognisingthe rasped state of her nerves, he had the intent to be cautious. Buthis resolutions, however good, were not long proof against herover-emphasised neglect of his 'presence. Her wilful preoccupation withherself, and with inanimate objects, exasperated him. Everything was ofmore worth to her than he was' and she delighted to show it.
"Haven't you a word for me? Don't you see I'm here?" he asked at length.
Even now she did not look towards him as she answered:
"Of course, I see you. But shall I speak next to the furniture of theroom?"
"So!--That's what I am, is it?--A piece of your furniture!"
"Yes.--No, worse. Furniture is silent."
She was changing her walking-dress for the dressing-gown. This done,she dabbed powder on her face out of a small oval glass pot--a habit ofhers to which he had never grown accustomed.
"Stop putting that stuff on your face! You know I hate it."
Her only answer was to dab anew, and so thickly that the powder wasstrewn over the front of her dress and the floor. The clothes she hadtaken off were flung on a chair; as she brushed past them, they fell tothe ground. She did not stoop to pick them up, but pushed them out ofthe way with her foot. Sitting down in the rocking-chair, she closedher eyes, and spread her arms out along the arms of the chair.
He could not see her from where he lay, but she was within reach ofhim, and, after a brief, unhappy silence, he put out his hand and drewthe chair towards him, urging it forward, inch by inch, until it wasbeside the sofa. Then he pulled her head down, so that it also lay onthe cushion, and he could feel her hair against his.
"How you hate me!" he said in a low voice, and as though he werespeaking to himself. Laying her hand on his forehead, he made of it ascreen for his eyes. "Who could have foreseen this!" he said again, inthe same toneless way.
Louise lay still, and did not speak.
"Why do you stay with me?" he went on, looking out from under her hand."I often ask myself that. For you're free to come and go as you choose."
Her eyes opened at this, though he did not see it. "And I choose tostay here! How often am I to tell you that? Why do you come back on itto-night? I'm tired--tired."
"I know you are. I saw it as soon as you came in. It's been a tiringday, and you probably ... walked too far."
With a jerk, she drew her hand out of his, and sat upright in herchair. Something, a mere tone, the slight pause, in his apparentlyharmless words, incensed her. "Too far, did I?--Oh, to-night at least,be honest! Why don't you ask me straight out where I have been?--andwhat I have done? Can't you, for once, be man enough to put an openquestion?"
"Nothing was further from my mind than to make implications. It's youwho're so suspicious. Just as if you had a bad conscience--somethingreally to conceal."
"Take care!--or I shall tell you--where I've been! And you might regretit."
"No. For God's sake!--no more confessions!"
She laughed, and lay back. But a moment later, she cried out: "Whydon't you go away yourself? You know I loathe the sight of you; and yetyou stick on here like like a leech. Go away, oh, why can't you goaway!"
"To-day, I might have taken you at your word."
At the mention of Madeleine's name, she pricked up her ears. "Oho!" shesaid, when lie had finished his story. "So
Madeleine pays you visits,does she?--the sainted Madeleine! You have her there, and me here.--Apretty state of things!"
"Hold your tongue! I'm not in the mood to-night to stand your gibes."
"But I'm in the mood to make them. And how is one to help it when onehears that that ineffable creature is no better than she ought to be?"
"Hold your tongue!" he cried again. "How dare you speak like that ofthe girl who has been such a good friend to me!"
"Friend!" she echoed. "What fools men are! She's in love with you,that's all, and always has been. But you were never man enough to knowwhat it was she wanted--your friend!"
"Ah, you----!" The nervous strain of the afternoon reached its climax."You! Yes!--that's you all over! In your eyes nothing is good or pure.And you make everything you touch dirty. You're not fit to take adecent woman's name on your lips!"
She sprang up from her chair. "And that's my thanks!--for all I'vedone--all I've sacrificed for you! I'm not fit to take a decent woman'sname on my lips! For shame, for shame! For who has made me what I ambut you! Oh, what a fool I was, ever to let you cross this door!You!--a man who is content with other men's leavings!"
"It was the worst day's work you ever did in your life. Everything badhas come from that.--Why couldn't you have held back, and refused me?We might still have been decent, happy creatures, if you hadn't letyour vile nature get the better of you. You wouldn't marry me--no, no!You prefer to take your pleasure in other ways.--A man at any cost,Madeleine said once, and God knows, I believe it was true!"
She struck him in the face. "Oh, you miserable scoundrel! You!--whonever looked at me but with the one thought in your head! Oh, it's toomuch! Never, never while I live I would rather die first.--shall youever touch me again!"
She continued to weep, long after he had left her. Still crying, herhandkerchief pressed to her eyes, her body shaken by her sobs, shemoved blindly about the room, opening drawers and cupboards, andheaping up their contents on the bed. There was a limit to everything;she could bear her life with him no longer; and, with nervelessfingers, she strove to collect and pack her belongings, preparatory togoing away.