Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  VI.

  One cold, windy afternoon, when dust was stirring and rain seemedimminent, Maurice Guest walked with bent head and his hat pulled overhis eyes. He was returning from the ZEITZERSTRASSE, where, in aphotographer's show-case, he had a few days earlier discovered a largephotograph of Louise. This was a source of great pleasure to him. Here,no laws of breeding or delicacy hindered him from gazing at her asoften as he chose.

  On this particular day, whether he had looked too long, or whether theunrest of the weather, the sense of something impending, the dustydryness that craved rain, had got into his blood and disquieted him:whatever it was, he felt restless and sick for news of her, and, atthis very moment, was on his way to Madeleine, in the foolish hope ofhearing her name.

  But a little adventure befell him which made him forget his intention.

  He was about to turn the corner of a street, when a sudden blast ofwind swept round, bearing with it some half dozen single sheets ofmusic. For a moment they whirled high, then sank fluttering to theground, only to rise again and race one another along the road. Mauriceinstinctively gave chase, but it was not easy to catch them; no soonerhad he secured one than the next was out of his reach.

  Meanwhile their owner, a young and very pretty girl, looked on andlaughed, without making any effort to help him; and the more he exertedhimself, the more she laughed. In one hand she was carrying aviolin-case, in the other a velvet muff, which now and again she raisedto her lips, as if to conceal her mirth. It was a graceful movement,but an unnecessary one, for her laughter was of that charming kind,which never gives offence; and, besides that, although it wascontinuous, it was neither hearty enough nor frank enough to beunbecoming the face was well under control. She stood there, with herhead slightly on one side, and the parted lips showed both rows ofsmall, even teeth; but the smile was unvarying, and, in spite of hermerriment, her eyes did not for an instant quit the young man's face,as he darted to and fro.

  Maurice could not help laughing himself, red and out of breath thoughhe was.

  "Now for the last one," he said in German.

  At these words she seemed more amused than ever. "I don't speakGerman," she answered in English, with a strong American accent.

  Having captured all the sheets, Maurice tried to arrange them for her.

  "It's my Kayser," she explained with a quick, upward glance, adding thenext minute with a fresh ripple of laughter. "He's all to pieces."

  "You have too much to carry," said Maurice. "On such a windy day, too."

  "That's what Joan said--Joan is my sister," she continued. "But I guessit's so cold this afternoon I had to bring a muff along. If my fingersare stiff I can't play, and then Herr Becker is angry." But she laughedagain as she spoke, and it was plain that the master's wrath did notexactly incite fear. "Joan always comes along, but to-day she's sick."

  "Will you let me help you?" asked Maurice, and a moment later he waswalking at her side.

  She handed over music and violin to him without a trace of hesitation;and, as they went along the PROMENADE, she talked to him with as littleembarrassment as though they were old acquaintances. It was so kind ofhim to help her, she thought; she couldn't imagine how she would everhave got home without him, alone against the wind; and she wasperfectly sure he must be American--no one but an American would be sonice. When Maurice denied this, she laughed very much indeed, and wasnot sure, this being the case, whether she could like him or not; as arule, she didn't like English people; they were stiff and horrid, andwere always wanting either to be introduced or to shake hands. Here shecarried her muff up to her lips again, and her eyes shone mischievouslyat him over the dark velvet. Maurice had never known anyone so easilymoved to laughter; whenever she spoke she laughed, and she laughed ateverything he said.

  Off the PROMENADE, where the trees were of a marvellous Pale green,they turned into a street of high spacious houses, the dark lines ofwhich were here and there broken by an arched gateway, or the delicatetints of a spring garden. To a window in one of the largest housesMaurice's little friend looked up, and smiled and nodded.

  "There's my sister."

  The young man looked, too, and saw a dark, thin-faced girl, who, whenshe found four eyes fixed on her, abruptly drew in her head, and asabruptly put it out again, leaning her two hands on the sill.

  "She's wondering who it is," said Maurice's companion gleefully. Then,turning her face up, she made a speaking-trumpet of her hands, andcried: "It's all right, Joan.--Now I must run right up and tell herabout it," she said to Maurice. "Perhaps she'll scold; Joan is veryparticular. Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for being so good tome--oh, won't you tell me your name?"

  The very next morning brought him a small pink note, faintly scented.The pointed handwriting was still childish, but there was a coquettishflourish beneath the pretty signature: Ephie Cayhill. Besides agraceful word of thanks, she wrote: WE ARE AT HOME EVERY SUNDAY. MAMMAWOULD BE VERY PLEASED.

  Maurice did not scruple to call the following week, and on doing so,found himself in the midst of one of those English-speaking coteries,which spring up in all large, continental towns. Foreigners were notexcluded--Maurice discovered two or three of his German friends,awkwardly balancing their cups on their knees. In order, however, togain access to the circle, it was necessary for them to have asmattering of English; they had also to be flint against any open orcovert fun that might be made of them or their country; and above all,to be skilled in the art of looking amiable, while these visitors fromother lands heatedly readjusted, to their own satisfaction, all thatdid not please them in the life and laws of this country that wastemporarily their home.

  Mrs. Cayhill was a handsome woman, who led a comfortable, vegetableexistence, and found it a task to rise from the plump sofa-cushion. Herpleasant features were slack, and in those moments of life which calledfor a sudden decision, they wore the helpless bewilderment of a womanwho has never been required to think for herself. Her grasp onpractical matters was rendered the more lax, too, by her being animmoderate reader, who fed on novels from morning till night, and sleptwith a page turned down beside her bed. She was for ever lost in thejoys or sorrows of some fictitious person, and, in consequence,remained for the most part completely ignorant of what was going onaround her. When she did happen to become conscious of hersurroundings, she was callous, or merely indifferent, to them; for,compared with romance, life was dull and diffuse; it lacked the wilfulsimplicity, the exaggerative omissions, and forcible perspectives,which make up art: in other words, life demanded that unceasing work ofselection and rejection, which it is the story-teller's duty to Performfor his readers. All novels were fish to Mrs. Cayhill's net; she livedin a world of intrigue and excitement, and, seated in her easy-chair bythe sitting-room window, was generally as remote from her family asthough she were in Timbuctoo.

  There was a difference of ten years in age between her daughters, andit was the younger of the two whose education was being completed.Johanna, the elder, had been a disappointment to her mother. Left toher own devices at an impressionable age, the girl had developedbookish tastes at the cost of her appearance: influenced by afree-thinking tutor of her brothers', she had read Huxley and Haeckel,Goethe and Schopenhauer. Her wish had been for a university career, butshe was not of a self-assertive nature, and when Mrs. Cayhill, who felther world toppling about her ears at the mention of such a thing, said:"Not while I live!" she yielded, without a further word; and the factthat such an emphatic expression of opinion had been drawn from themild-tempered mother, made it a matter of course that no other memberof the family took Johanna's part. So she buried her ambitions, andkept her mother's house in an admirable, methodical way.

  It was not the sacrifice it seemed, however, because Johanna adored herlittle sister, and would cheerfully have given up more than this forher sake. Ephie, who was at that time just emerging from childhood, wasvery pretty and precocious, and her mother had great hopes of her. Shealso tired early of her lesson-books, and, soon after she turne
dsixteen, declared her intention of leaving school. As at least a coupleof years had still to elapse before she was old enough to be introducedin society, Mrs. Cayhill, taking the one decisive step of her life,determined that travel in Europe should put the final touches toEphie's education: a little German and French; some finishing lessonson the violin; a run through Italy and Switzerland, and then to Paris,whence they would carry back with them a complete and costly outfit.So, valiantly, Mrs. Cayhill had her trunks packed, and, together withJohanna, who would as soon have thought of denying her age as ofletting these two helpless beings go out into the world alone, theycrossed the Atlantic.

  For some three months now, they had been established in Leipzig. Acirculating library, rich in English novels, had been discovered; Mrs.Cayhill was content; and it began to be plain to Johanna that thegreater part of their two years' absence would be spent in this place.Ephie, too, had already had time to learn that, as far as music wasconcerned, her business was not so much with finishing as withbeginning, and that the road to art, which she with all the rest mustfollow, was a steep one. She might have found it still more arduous,had Herr Becker, her master, not been a young man and veryimpressionable. And Ephie never looked more charming than when, withher rounded, dimpled arm raised in an exquisite curve, she leaned hercheek against the glossy brown wood of her violin.

  She was pretty with that untouched, infantine prettiness, before whichold and young go helplessly down. She was small and plump, with a full,white throat and neck, and soft, rounded hands and wrists, that weredimpled like a baby's. Her brown hair was drawn back from the lowforehead, but, both here and at the back of her neck, it broke intoinnumerable little curls, which were much lighter in colour than therest. Her skin, faintly tinged, was as smooth as the skin of a cherry;it had that exquisite freshness which is only to be found in a veryyoung girl, and is lovelier than the bloom on ripe fruit. Her dark blueeyes were well opened, but the black lashes were so long and sopeculiarly straight that the eyes themselves were usually hidden, andthis made it all the more effective did she suddenly look up. Mouldedlike wax, the small, upturned nose seemed to draw the top lip after it;anyhow, the upper lip was too short to meet the lower, andconsequently, they were always slightly apart, in a kind of questioningamaze. This mouth was the real beauty of the face: bright red, full,yet delicate, arched like a bow, with corners that went in and upwards,it belonged, by right of its absolute innocence, to the face of alittle child; and the thought was monstrous that nature and the yearswould eventually combine to destroy so perfect a thing.

  She also had a charming laugh, with a liquid note in it, that made onethink of water bubbling on a dry summer day.

  It was this laugh that held the room on Sunday afternoon, and drew thehandful of young men together, time after time.

  Mrs. Cayhill, who, on these occasions, was wont to lay aside her book,was virtually a deeper echo of her little daughter, and Johanna onlycounted in so far as she made and distributed cups of tea at the end ofthe room. She did not look with favour on the young men who gatheredthere, and her manner to them was curt and unpleasing. Each of them inturn, as he went up to her for his cup, cudgelled his brain forsomething to say; but it was no easy matter to converse with Johanna.The ordinary small change and polite commonplace of conversation, shemet with a silent contempt. In musical chit-chat, she took no interestwhatever, and pretended to none, openly indeed "detested music," andwas unable to distinguish Mendelssohn from Wagner, "except by thenoise;" while if a bolder man than the rest rashly ventured on theliterary ground that was her special demesne, she either smiled at whathe said, in a disagreeably sarcastic way, or flatly contradicted him.She was the thorn in the flesh of these young men; and after havingdutifully spent a few awkward moments at her side, they stole back, oneby one, to the opposite end of the room. Here Ephie, bewitchinglydressed in blue, swung to and fro in a big Americanrocking-chair--going backwards, it carried her feet right off theground--and talked charming nonsense, to the accompaniment of her ownlight laugh, and her mother's deeper notes, which went on like anorgan-point, Mrs. Cayhill finding everything Ephic said, matchlesslyamusing.

  As Dove and Maurice walked there together for the first time--it nowleaked out that Dove spent every Sunday afternoon in theLESSINGSTRASSE--he spoke to Maurice of Johanna. Not in a disparagingway; Dove had never been heard to mention a woman's name otherwise thanwith respect. And, in this case, he deliberately showed up Johanna'sgood qualities, in the hope that Maurice might feel attracted by her,and remain at her side; for Dove had fallen deeply in love with Ephie,and had, as it was, more rivals than he cared for, in the field.

  "You should get on with her, I think, Guest," he said slily. "You readthese German writers she is so interested in. But don't be discouragedby her manner. For though she's one of the most unselfish women I evermet, her way of Speaking is sometimes abrupt. She reminds me, if itdoesn't sound unkind, of a faithful watch-dog, or something of thesort, which cannot express its devotion as it would like to."

  When, after a lively greeting from Ephie, and a few pleasant words fromMrs. Cayhill, Maurice found himself standing beside Johanna, the truthof Dove's simile was obvious to him. This dark, unattractive girl hadapparently no thought for anything but her tea-making; she moved thecups this way and that, filled the pot with water, blew out and lightedagain the flame of the spirit-lamp, without paying the least heed toMaurice, making, indeed, such an ostentatious show of being occupied,that it would have needed a brave man to break in upon her duties withidle words. He remained standing, however, in a constrained silence,which lasted until she could not invent anything else to do, and wasobliged to drink her own tea. Then he said abruptly, in a tone which hemeant to be easy, but which was only jaunty: "And how do you like beingin Germany, Miss Cayhill? Does it not seem very strange after America?"

  Johanna lifted her shortsighted eyes to his face, and looked coolly anddisconcertingly at him through her glasses, as if she had just becomeaware of his presence.

  "Strange? Why should it?" she asked in an unfriendly tone.

  "Why, what I mean is, everything must be so different here from whatyou are accustomed to--at least it is from what we are used to inEngland," he corrected himself. "The ways and manners, and thelanguage, and all that sort of thing, you know."

  "Excuse me, I do not know," she answered in the same tone as before."If a person takes the trouble to prepare himself for residence in aforeign country, nothing need seem either strange or surprising. ButEnglish people, as is well known, expect to find a replica of Englandin every country they go to."

  There was a pause, in which James, the pianist, who was a regularvisitor, approached to have his cup refilled. All the circle knew, ofcourse, that Johanna was "doing for a new man"; and it seemed toMaurice that James half closed one eye at him, and gave him a small,sympathetic nudge with his elbow.

  So he held to his guns. When James had retired, he began anew, withoutpreamble.

  "My friend Dove tells me you are interested in German literature?" hesaid with a slight upward inflection in his voice.

  Johanna did not reply, but she shot a quick glance at him, andcolouring perceptibly, began to fidget with the tea-things.

  "I've done a little in that line myself," continued Maurice, as shemade no move to answer him. "In a modest way, of course. Just lately Ifinished reading the JUNGFRAU VON ORLEANS."

  "Is that so?" said Johanna with an emphasis which made him colour also.

  "It is very fine, is it not?" he asked less surely, and as she againacted as though he had not spoken, he lost his presence of mind. "Isuppose you know it? You're sure to."

  This time Johanna turned scarlet, as if he had touched her on a sorespot, and answered at once, sharply and rudely. "And I suppose," shesaid, and her hands shook a little as they fussed about the tray, "thatyou have also read MARIA STUART, and TELL, and a page or two of JeanPaul. You have perhaps heard of Lessing and Goethe, and you considerHeine the one and only German poet."

  Mauri
ce did not understand what she meant, but she had spoken so loudlyand forbiddingly that several eyes were turned on them, making itincumbent on him not to take offence. He emptied his cup, and put itdown, and tried to give the matter an airy turn.

  "And why not?" he asked pleasantly. "Is there anything wrong inthinking so? Schiller and Goethe WERE great poets, weren't they? Andyou will grant that Heine is the only German writer who has hadanything approaching a style?"

  Johanna's face grew stony. "I have no intention of granting anything,"she said. "Like all English people--it flatters your national vanity, Ipresume--you think German literature began and ended with Heine.--Amiserable Jew!"

  "Yes, but I say, one can hardly make him responsible for being a Jew,can you? What has that got to do with it?" exclaimed Maurice, thisbeing a point of view that had never presented itself to him. And asJohanna only murmured something that was inaudible, he added lamely:"Then you don't think much of Heine?"

  But she declined to be drawn into a discussion, even into an expressionof opinion, and the young man continued, with apology in his tone: "Itmay be bad taste on my part, of course. But one hears it said on everyside. If you could tell me what I ought to read ... or, perhaps, adviseme a little?" he ended tentatively.

  "I don't lend my books," said Johanna more rudely than she had yetspoken. And that was all Maurice could get from her. A minute or twolater, she rose and went out of the room.

  It became much less restrained as soon as the door had closed behindher. Ephie laughed more roguishly, and Mrs. Cayhill allowed herself tofind what her little daughter said, droller than before. With anappearance of unconcern, Maurice strolled back to the group by thewindow. Dove was also talking of literature.

  "That reminds me, how did you like the book I lent you on Wednesday,Mrs. Cayhill?" he asked, at the same instant springing forward to pickup Ephie's handkerchief, which had fallen to the ground.

  "Oh, very much indeed, very interesting, very good of you," answeredMrs. Cayhill. "Ephie, darling, the sun is shining right on your face."

  "What was it?" asked James, while Dove jumped up anew to lower theblind, and Ephie raised a bare, dimpled arm to shade her eyes.

  Mrs. Cayhill could not recollect the title just at once she had a"wretched memory for names"--and went over what she had been reading.

  "Let me see, it was ... no, that was yesterday: SHADOWED BY THREE, amost delightful Book. On Friday, RICHARD ELSMERE, and--oh, yes, I know,it was about a farm, an Australian farm."

  "THE STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM," put in Dove mildly, returning to hisseat.

  "Australian or African, it doesn't matter which," said Mrs. Cayhill."Yes, a nice book, but a little coarse in parts, and very foolish atthe end--the disguising, and the dying out of doors, and thelooking-glass, and all that."

  "I must say I think it a very powerful book," said Dove solemnly. "Thatpart, you know, where the boy listens to the clock ticking in thenight, and thinks to himself that with every tick, a soul goes home toGod. A very striking idea!"

  "Why, I think it must be a horrid book," cried Ephie. "All about dying.Fancy some one dying every minute. It couldn't possibly be true. Forthen the world would soon be empty."

  "Always there are coming more into it," said Furst, in his blunt,broken English.

  A pause ensued. Dove flicked dust off his trouser-leg; and the Americanmen present were suddenly fascinated by the bottoms of their cups.Ephie was the first to regain her composure.

  "Now let us talk of something pleasant, something quite different--fromdying." She turned and, over her shoulder, laughed mischievously atMaurice, who was siting behind her. Then, leaning forward in her chair,with every eye upon her, she told how Maurice had saved her music fromthe wind, and, with an arch face, made him appear very ridiculous. Byher prettily exaggerated description of a heated, perspiring young man,darting to and fro, and muttering to himself in German, her hearers,Maurice included, were highly diverted--and no one more than Mrs.Cayhill.

  "You puss, you puss!" she cried, wiping her eyes and shaking a fingerat the naughty girl.

  The general amusement had hardly subsided when Furst rose to his feet,and, drawing his heels together, made a flowery little speech, the gistof which was, that he would have esteemed himself a most fortunate man,had he been in Maurice's place. Ephie and her mother exchanged looks,and shook with ill-concealed mirth, so that Furst, who had spokenseriously and in good faith, sat down red and uncomfortable; andBoehmer, who was dressed in what he believed to be American fashion,smiled in a superior manner, to show he was aware that Furst was makinghimself ridiculous.

  "Look here, Miss Ephie," said James; "the next time you have to go outalone, just send for me, and I'll take care of you."

  "Or me" said Dove. "You have only to let me know."

  "No, no, Mr. Dove!" cried Mrs. Cayhill. "You do far too much for her asit is. You'll spoil her altogether."

  But at this, several of the young men exclaimed loudly: that would beimpossible. And Ephie coloured becomingly, raised her lashes, anddistributed winning smiles. Then quiet had been restored, she assuredthem that they all very kind, but she would never let anyone go withher but Joan--dear old Joan. They could not imagine how fond she was ofJoan.

  "She is worth more than all of you put together." And at the cries of:"Oh, oh!" she was thrown into a new fit of merriment, and went stillfurther. "I would not give Joan's little finger for anyone in theworld."

  And meanwhile, as all her hearers--all, that is to say, except Dove,who sat moody, fingering his slight moustache, and gazing at Ephie withfondly reproachful eyes--as all of them, with Mrs. Cayhill at theirhead, made vehement protest against this sweeping assertion, Johannasat alone in her bedroom, at the back of the house. It was a dull room,looking on a courtyard, but she was always glad to escape to it fromthe flippant chatter in the sitting-room. Drawing a little table to thewindow, she sat down and began to read. But, on this day, her thoughtswandered; and, ultimately, propping her chin on her hand, she fell intoreverie, which began with something like "the fool and his Schiller!"and ended with her rising, and going to the well-stocked book-shelvesthat stood at the foot of the bed.

  She took out a couple of volumes and looked through them, then returnedthem to their places on the shelf. No, she said to herself, why shouldshe? What she had told the young man was true: she never lent herbooks; he would soil them, or, worse still, not appreciate them as heought--she could not give anyone who visited there on Sunday, creditfor a nice taste.

  Unknown to herself, however, something worked in her, for, the verynext time Maurice was there, she met him in the passage, as he wasleaving, and impulsively thrust a paper parcel into his hand.

  "There is a book, if you care to take it."

  He did not express the surprise he felt, nor did he look at the title.But Ephie, who was accompanying him to the door, made a face oflaughing stupefaction behind her sister's back, and went out on thelanding with him, to whisper: "What HAVE you been doing to Joan?"--atwhich remark, and at Maurice's blank face, she laughed so immoderatelythat she was forced to go down the stairs with him, for fear Joanshould hear her; and, in the house-door, she stood, a white-clad littlefigure, and waved her hand to him until he turned the corner.

  Having read the first volume of HAMMER UND AMBOSS deep into two nights,Maurice returned it and carried away the second. But it was only afterhe had finished PROBLEMATISCHE NATUREN, and had expressed himself withdue enthusiasm, that Johanna began to thaw a little. She did notdiscuss what he read with him; but, going on the assumption that aperson who could relish her favourite author had some good in him, shegave the young man the following proof of her favour.

  Between Ephie and him there had sprung up spontaneously a mutualliking, which it is hard to tell the cause of. For Ephie knew nothingof Maurice's tastes, interests and ambitions, and he did not dream ofasking her to share them. Yet, with the safe instincts of a young girl,she chose him for a brother from among all her other acquaintances;called him "Morry"; scarcel
y ever coquetted with him; and let himfreely into her secrets. It is easier to see why Maurice was attractedto her; for not only was Ephie pretty and charming; she was alsoadorably equable--she did not know what it was to be out of humour. Andshe was always glad to see him, always in the best possible spirits.When he was dull or tired, it acted like a tonic on him, to sit and lether merry chatter run over him. And soon, he found plenty of makeshiftsto see her; amongst other things, he arranged to help her twice a weekwith harmony, which was, to her, an unexplorable abyss; and heransacked the rooms and shelves of his acquaintances to find oldTauchnitz volumes to lend to Mrs. Cayhill.

  The latter paid even less attention to the sudden friendship of herdaughter with this young man than the ordinary American mother wouldhave done; but Johanna's toleration of it was, for the most part, to beexplained by the literary interests before mentioned. For Johanna wasalways in a tremble lest Ephie should become spoiled; and thoughtlessEphie could, at times, cause her a most subtle torture, by beingprettily insincere, by assuming false coquettish airs, or by seeming tohave private thoughts which she did not confide to her sister. This,and the knowledge that Ephie was now of an age when every day might beexpected to widen the distance between them, sometimes made Johannavery gruff and short, even with Ephie herself. As her sister, she aloneknew how much was good and true under the child's light exterior; sheadmired in Ephie all that she herself had not--her fair prettiness, herblithe manner, her easy, graceful words--and, had it been necessary,she would have gone down on her knees to remove the stones from Ephie'spath.

  Thus although on the casual observer, Johanna only made the impressionof a dark, morose figure, which hovered round two childlike beings,intercepting the sunshine of their lives, yet Maurice had soon comeoften enough into contact with her to appreciate her unselfishness;and, for the care she took of Ephie, he could almost have liked her,had Johanna shown the least readiness to be liked. Naturally, he didnot understand how highly he was favoured by her; he knew neither thedepth of her affection for Ephie, nor the exact degree of contempt inwhich she held the young men who dangled there on a Sunday--poor foolswho were growing fat on emotion and silly ideas, when they should havebeen taking plain, hard fare at college. To Dove, Johanna had aparticular aversion; chiefly, and in a contradictory spirit, because itwas evident to all that his intentions were serious. But she could nothinder wayward Ephie from making a shameless use of him, and thenlaughing at him behind his back--a laugh in which Mrs. Cayhill was notalways able to refrain from joining, though it must be said that shewas usually loud in her praises of Dove, at the expense of all visitorswho were not American.

  "From these Dutch you can't expect much, one way or the other," shedeclared. "And young Guest sometimes sits there with a face as long asmy arm. But Dove is really a most sensible young fellow--why, he thinksjust as I do about Arnerica."

  And as a special mark of favour, when Dove left the house on Sundayafternoon, his pockets bulged with NEW YORK HERALDS.