XI.
Before leaving her bedroom the following morning, Ephie wrote on herscented pink paper a short letter, which began: "Dear Mr. Schilsky,"and ended with: "Your sincere friend, Euphemia Stokes Cayhill." In thisletter, she "failed to understand" his conduct of the previous evening,and asked him for an explanation. Not until she had closed theenvelope, did she remember that she was ignorant of his address. Shebit the end of her pen, thinking hard, and directly breakfast was over,put on her hat and slipped out of the house.
It was the first time Ephie had had occasion to enter the BUREAU of theConservatorium; and, when the heavy door had swung to behind her, andshe was alone in the presence of the secretaries, each of whom was bentover a high desk, writing in a ledger, her courage almost failed her.The senior, an old, white-haired man, with a benevolent face, did notlook up; but after she had stood hesitating for some minutes, anunder-secretary solemnly laid down his pen, and coming to the counter,wished in English to know what he could do for her. Growing very red,Ephie asked him if he "would ... could ... would please tell her whereMr. Schilsky lived."
Herr Kleefeld leaned both hands on the counter, and disconcerted her bystaring at her over his spectacles.
"Mr. Schilsky? Is it very important?" he said with a leer, as if hewere making a joke.
"Why, yes, indeed," replied Ephie timidly.
He nodded his head, more to himself than to her, went back to his desk,opened another ledger, and ran his finger down a page, repeating aloudas he did so, to her extreme embarrassment: "Mr. Schilsky--let me see.Mr. Schilsky--let me see."
After a pause, he handed her a slip of paper, on which he hadpainstakingly copied the address: "TALSTRASSE, 12 III."
"Why, I thank you very much. I have to ask him about some music. Isthere anything to pay?" stammered Ephie.
But Herr Kleefeld, leaning as before on the counter, shook his headfrom side to side, with a waggish air, which confused Ephie still more.She made her escape, and left him there, still wagging, like a chinaMandarin.
Having addressed the letter in the nearest post office, she entered aconfectioner's and bought a pound of chocolate creams; so that whenJohanna met her in the passage, anxious and angry at her leaving thehouse without a word, she was able to assert that her candy-box hadbeen empty, and she felt she could not begin to practise till it wasrefilled. But Johanna was very cantankerous, and obliged her to studyan hour overtime to atone for her escapade.
Then followed for Ephie several unhappy days, when all the feeling sheseemed capable of concentrated itself on the visits of the postman. Sheremained standing at the window until she had seen him come up thestreet, and she was regularly the first to look through the mails asthey lay on the lobby table. Two days brought no reply to her letter.On the third fell a lesson, which she was resolved not to take. Butwhen the hour came, she dressed herself with care and went as usual.Schilsky was nowhere to be seen. Half a week later, the same thing wasrepeated, except that on this day, she made herself prettier than ever:she was like some gay, garden flower, in a big white hat, round thebrim of which lay scarlet poppies, and a dress of a light blue, whichheightened the colour of her cheeks, and, reflected in her eyes, madethem bluer than a fjord in the sun. But her spirits were low; if shedid not see him this time, despair would crush her.
But she did--saw him while she was still some distance off, standingnear the portico of the Conservatorium; and at the sight of him, afterthe uncertainty she had gone through during the past week, she couldhardly keep back her tears. He did not come to meet her; he stood andwatched her approach, and only when she reached him, indolently heldout his hand. As she refused to notice it, and went to the extreme edgeof the pavement to avoid it, he made a barrier of his arms, and forcedher to stand still. Holding her thus, with his hand on her elbow, helooked keenly at her; and, in spite of the obdurate way in which shekept her eyes turned from him, he saw that she was going to cry. For amoment he hesitated, afraid of the threatening scene, then, with adecisive movement, he took her violin-case out of her hand. Ephie madean ineffectual effort to get possession of it again, but he held itabove her reach, and saying: "Wait a minute," ran up the steps. He cameback without it, and throwing a swift glance round him, took the younggirl's arm, and walked her off at a brisk pace to the woods. She made afew, faint protests. But he replied: "You and I have something to sayto each other, little girl."
A full hour had elapsed when Ephie appeared again. She was alone, andwalked quickly, casting shy glances from side to side. On reaching theConservatorium, she waited in a quiet corner of the vestibule fornearly a quarter of an hour, before Schilsky sauntered in, and releasedher violin from the keeping of the janitor, a good friend of his.
They had not gone far into the wood; Schilsky knew of a secluded seat,which was screened by a kind of boscage; and here they had remained. Atfirst, Ephie had cried heartily, in happy relief, and he had not beenable to console her. He had come to meet her with many goodresolutions, determined not to let the little affair, so lightly begun,lead to serious issues; but Ephie's tears, and the tale they told, andthe sobbed confessions that slipped out unawares, made it hard for himto be wise. He put his arm round her, dried her tears with his ownhandkerchief, kissed the hand he held. And when he had in this waypetted her back to composure, she suddenly looked up in his face, and,with a pretty, confiding movement, said:
"Then you do care for me a little?"
It would have need a stronger than he to answer otherwise. "Of course Ido," was easily said, and to avoid the necessity of more, he kissed thepink dimples at the base of her four fingers, as well as the babycrease that marked the wrist. The poppy-strewn hat lay on the seatbeside them; the fluffy head and full white throat were bare; in themellow light of the trees, the lashes looked jet-black on her cheeks;at each word, he saw her small, even teeth: and he was so unnerved bythe nearness of all this fresh young beauty that, when Ephie with heraccustomed frankness had told him everything he cared to know, he foundhimself saying, in place of what he had intended, that they must bevery cautious. In the meantime, it would not do for them to be seentogether: it might injure his prospects, be harmful to his future.
"Yes, but afterwards?" she asked him promptly.
He kissed her cheek. But she repeated the question, and he was obligedto reply: that would be a different matter. It was now her turn to becurious, and one of the first questions she put related to the darkgirl he had been with at the theatre. Playing lightly with her fingers,Schilsky told her that this was one of his best friends, some one hehad known for a long, long time, to whom he owed much, and whom hecould under no circumstances offend. Ephie looked grave for a moment;and, in the desire of provoking a pretty confession, he asked her ifshe had minded very much seeing him with some one else. But she madehim wince by responding with perfect candour: "With her? Oh, no! She'squite old."
Before parting, they arranged the date of the next meeting, and, abeginning once made, they saw each other as often as was feasible.Ephie grew wonderfully apt at excuses for going out at odd times, andfor prolonged absences. Sound fictions were needed to satisfy Johanna,and even Maurice Guest was made to act as dummy: he had taken her for awalk, or they had been together to see Madeleine Wade; and by thesemeans, and also by occasionally shirking a lesson, she gained a gooddeal of freedom. Johanna would as soon have thought of herself beinguntruthful as of doubting Ephie, whom she had never known to tell alie; and if she did sometimes feel jealous of all the new claims madeon her little sister's attention, such a feeling was only temporary,and she was, for the most part, content to see Ephie content.
At night, in her own room, lying wakeful with hot cheeks and big eyes,Ephie went over in memory all that had taken place at their lastmeeting, or built high, top-heavy castles for the future. She wasabsurdly happy; and her mother and sister had never found her morecharming and lovable, or richer in those trifling inspirations forbrightening life, which happiness brings with it. She looked forwardwith secret triumph to the day when sh
e would be able to announce herengagement to the celebrated young violinist, and the only shadow onher happiness was that she could not do this immediately. It did notonce cross her mind to doubt the issue: she had always had her way,and, in her own mind, had long since arranged just how this matter wasto fall out. She would return to America--where, of course, they wouldlive--and get her clothes ready, and then he would come, and they wouldbe married--a big wedding, with descriptions in the newspapers. Theywould have a big house, and he would play at concerts--as she had onceheard Sarasate play in New York--and every one would stand on tiptoe tosee him. She sat proud and conspicuous in the front row. "His wife.That is his wife!" people whispered, and they drew respectfully back tolet her pass, as, in a very becoming dress, she swept into the littleroom behind the platform, which she alone was permitted to enter.
One day at this time there was a violent thunderstorm. Towards midday,the eastern sky grew black with clouds, which, for hours, had beenominously gathering; a sudden wind rose and swept the dust house-highthrough the streets; the thunder rumbled, and each roll came nearer.When, after a prolonged period of expectation, the storm finally burst,there was a universal sigh of relief.
The afternoon was damply refreshing. As soon as the rain ceased,Maurice shut his piano, and walked at a brisk pace to Connewitz, hishead bared beneath the overhanging branches, which were still weigheddown by their burden of drops. At the WALDCAFE on the bank of theriver, in a thickly grown arbour which he entered to drink a glass ofbeer, he found Philadelphia Jensen and the pale little American,Fauvre, taking coffee.
The lady welcomed him with a large, outstretched hand, in theeffusively hearty manner with which she, as it were, took possession ofpeople; and towards six o'clock, the three walked back through thewoods together, Miss Jensen, resolute of bust as of voice, slightlyahead of her companions, carrying her hat in her hand, Fauvre draggingbehind, hitting indolently at stones and shrubs, and singing scraps ofmelodies to himself in his deep baritone.
Miss Jensen, who had once been a journalist, was an earnest worker forwoman's emancipation, and having now successfully mounted her hobby,spoke with a thought-deadening eloquence. Maurice had never been calledon to think about the matter, and listened to her wordsabsent-mindedly, comparing her, as she swept along, to a ship in fullsail. She was just asserting that the ordinary German woman was littlemore than means to an end, the end being the man-child, when hisattention was arrested, and, in an instant, jerked far away from MissJensen's theories. As they reached the bend of a path, a sound ofvoices came to them through the trees, and on turning a corner, Mauricecaught a glimpse of two people who were going in the oppositedirection, down a side-walk--a passing but vivid glimpse of a light,flowered dress, of a grey suit of clothes, and auburn hair. Ephie! Hecould have sworn to voice and dress; but to whom in all the world wasshe talking, so confidentially? At the name that rose to his lips, healmost stopped short, but the next moment he was afraid lest hiscompanions should also have seen who it was, and, quickening his steps,he incited Miss Jensen to talk on. First, however, that lady said in asurprised tone: "Say, that was Mr. Schilsky, wasn't it? Who was thelady? Did you perceive?" So there was no possible doubt of it.
After parting from his companions, he did an errand in the town, andfrom there went to the Cayhills' PENSION, determined to ascertainwhether it had really been Ephie he had seen, and if so, what themeaning of it was.
Mrs. Cayhill and Johanna were in the sitting-room; Johanna looked verysurprised to see him. They had this moment risen from the supper-table,she told him; Ephie had only just got home in time. Before anythingfurther could be said, Ephie herself came into the room; her face wasflushed, and she did not seem well-pleased at his unexpected visit. Shehardly greeted him, and instead, commenced talking about the weather.
"Then you had a pleasant walk?" asked Johanna in a preoccupied fashion,without looking up from the letter she was writing; and before Mauricecould speak, Ephie, fondling her sister's neck, answered: "How could itbe anything but sweet--after the rain?"
In the face of this frankness, it was on Maurice's tongue to say: "Thenit was you, I saw?" but again she did not give him time. Still standingbehind Johanna's chair, her eyes fixed on the young man's face with acurious intentness, she continued: "We walked right to Connewitz andback without a rest."
"I don't think you should take her so far," said Mrs. Cayhill, lookingup from her book with her kindly smile. "She has never been used towalking and is easily tired--aren't you, my pet?"
"Yes, and then she can't get up the next morning," said Johanna, mildlydogmatic, considering the following sentence of her letter.
Gradually it broke upon Maurice that Ephie had been making use of hisname. His consternation at the discovery was such that he changedcolour. The others, however, were both too engrossed to notice it.Ephie grew scarlet, but continued to rattle on, covering his silence.
"Well, perhaps to-day it was a little too far," she admitted. "Butmummy, I won't have you say I'm not strong. Why, Herr Becker is alwaystelling me how full my tone is getting. Yes indeed. And look at mymuscle."
She turned back the loose sleeve of her blouse, baring almost the wholeof her rounded arm; then, folding it sharply to her, she invited oneafter another to test its firmness.
"Quite a prize-fighter, I declare!" laughed Mrs. Cayhill, at the sametime drawing her little daughter to her, to kiss her. But Johannafrowned, and told Ephie to put down her sleeve at once; there wassomething in the childish action that offended the elder sister, shedid not know why. But Maurice had first to lay two of his fingers onthe soft skin, and then to help her to button the cuff.
When, soon after this, he took his leave, Ephie went out of the roomwith him. In the dark passage, she caught at his hand.
"Morry, you mustn't tell tales on me," she whispered; and addedpettishly: "Why ever did you just come to-night?"
He tried to see her face. "What is it all about, Ephie?" he asked."Then it WAS you, I saw, in the NONNE--by the weir?"
"Me? In the NONNE!" She was genuinely surprised. "You saw me?"
He nodded. By the light that came from the stairs as she opened thehall-door, she noticed that he looked troubled, and an impulse rose inher to throw her arms round his neck and say: "Yes, yes, it was me. Oh,Morry, I am so happy!" But she remembered the reasons for secrecy thathad been imposed on her, and, at the same time, felt somewhat defiantlyinclined towards Maurice. After all, what business was it of his? Whyshould he take her to task for what she chose to do? And so she merelylaughed, with assumed merriment, her own charming, assuaging laugh.
"In the wood?--you old goose! Listen, Morry, I told them I had beenwith you, because--why, because one of the girls in my class asked meto go to the CAFE FRANCAIS with her, and we stayed too long, and atetoo much ice-cream, and Joan doesn't like it, and I knew she would becross--that's all! Don't look so glum, you silly! It's nothing," andshe laughed again.
As long as this laugh rang in his ears--to the bottom of the street,that is--he believed her. Then, the evidence of his senses reasserteditself, and he knew that what she had told him was false. He had heardher voice in the wood too distinctly to allow of any mistake, and shewas still wearing the same dress. Besides, she had lied so artlessly tothe others, without a tremor of her candid eyes--why should she not lieto him, too? She was less likely to be considerate of him than ofJohanna. But his distress at her skill in deceit was so great that hesaid: "Ephie, little Ephie!" aloud to himself, just as he might havedone had he heard that she was stricken down by a mortal illness.
On the top of this, however, came less selfish feelings. What wasalmost a sense of guilt took possession of him; he felt as if, in someway, he were to blame for what had happened; as if nature had intendedhim to stand in the place of a brother to this pretty, thoughtlesschild. And yet what could he have done? He did not now see Ephie asoften as formerly, and hardly ever alone; on looking back, he began tosuspect that she had purposely avoided him. The exercises in harmony,which had p
reviously brought them together, had been discontinued.First, she had said that her teacher was satisfied with what sheherself could do; then, that he had advised her to give up harmonyaltogether: she would never make anything of it. In the light of whathad come to pass, Maurice saw that he had let himself be duped by her;she had lied then as now.
He puzzled his brains to imagine how she had learned to know Schilskyin the first instance, and when the affair had begun: what he hadoverheard that afternoon implied an advanced stage of intimacy; and herevolved measures by means of which a stop might be put to it. The onlycourse he could think of was to lay the matter before Johanna; and yetwhat would the use of that be? Ephie would deny everything, make hisstory ludicrous, himself impossible, and never forgive him into thebargain. In the end, he might do more good by watching over hersilently, at a distance. If it had only not been Schilsky who wasconcerned! Some of the ugly stories he had heard related of the youngman rose up and took vivid shape before his eyes. If any harm came toEphie, he alone would be to blame for it; not Johanna, only he knew thefrivolous temptations the young girl was exposed to. Why, in Heaven'sname, had he not taken both her hands, as they stood in the passage,and insisted on her confessing to him? No, credulous as usual, he hadonce more allowed himself to be hoodwinked and put off.
Thus he fretted, without arriving at any clearer conclusion than this:that he had unwittingly been made accessory to an unpleasant secret.But where his mind baulked, and refused to work, was when he tried tounderstand what all this might mean to the third person involved. DidLouise know or suspect anything? Had she, perhaps, for weeks past beensuffering under the knowledge?
He stood irresolute, at the crossing where the MOZARTSTRASSE joined thePROMENADE. A lamp-lighter was beginning his rounds; he came up with hislong pole to the lamp at the corner, and, with a mild explosion, thelittle flame sprang into life. Maurice turned on his heel and went tosee Madeleine.
The latter was making her supper of tea, bread, and cold sausage, andwhen she heard that he had not eaten, she set a cup and plate beforehim, and was glad that she happened to be late. Propped open on thetable was a Danish Grammar, which she conned as she ate; for, in thecoming holidays, she was engaged to go to Norway, as guide andtravelling-companion to a party of Englishwomen.
"I had a letter from London to-day," she said, "with definitearrangements. So I at once bought this book. I intend to try and masterat least the rudiments of the language--barbarous though it is--for Iwant to get some good from the journey. And if one has one's wits aboutone, much can be learnt from cab-drivers and railway-porters."
She traced on a map with her forefinger the route they proposed tofollow, and laughed at the idea of the responsibility lying heavy onher. But when they had finished their supper, and she had talkedinformingly for a time of Norway, its people and customs, she looked atthe young man, who sat irresponsive and preoccupied, and considered himattentively.
"Is anything the matter to-night? Or are you only tired?"
He was tired. But though she herself had suggested it, she was notsatisfied with his answer.
"Something has bothered you. Has your work gone badly?"
No, it was nothing of that sort. But Madeleine persisted: could she beof any help to him?
"The merest trifle--not worth talking about."
The twilight had grown thick around them; the furniture of the roomlost its form, and stood about in shapeless masses. Through the openwindow was heard the whistle of a distant train; a large fly that hadbeen disturbed buzzed distractingly, undecided where to re-settle forthe night. It was sultry again, after the rain.
"Look here, Maurice," Madeleine said, when she had observed him forsome time in silence. "I don't want to be officious, but there'ssomething I should like to say to you. It's this. You are far toosoft-hearted. If you want to get on in life, you must think more aboutyourself than you do. The battle is to the strong, you know, and thestrong, within limits, are certainly the selfish. Let other people lookafter themselves; try not to mind how foolish they are--you can'timprove them. It's harder, I daresay, than it is to be a person ofunlimited sympathies; it's harder to pass the maimed and crippled by,than to stop and weep over them, and feel their sufferings throughyourself. But YOU have really something in you to occupy yourself with.You're not one of those people--I won't mention names!--whose ownemptiness forces them to take an intense interest in the doings ofothers, and who, the moment they are alone with their thoughts, arebored to desperation, just as there are people who have no talent formaking a home home-like, and are only happy when they are out of it."
Here she laughed at her own seriousness.
"But you are smiling inwardly, and thinking: the real old school-marm!"
"You don't practise what you preach, Madeleine. Besides, you'remistaken. At heart, I'm a veritable egoist."
She contradicted him. "I know you better than you know yourself."
He did not reply, and a silence fell, in which the commonplace wordsshe had last said, went on sounding and resounding, until they had nomore likeness to themselves. Madeleine rose, and pushed back her chair,with a grating noise.
"I must light the lamp. Sitting in the dark makes for foolishness.Come, wake up, and tell me what plans you have for the holidays."
"If I had a sister, I should like her to be like you," said Maurice,watching her busy with the lamp. "Clear-headed, and helpful to afellow."
"I suppose men always will continue to consider that the greatestcompliment they can pay," said Madeleine, and turned up the light sohigh that they both blinked.--And then she scolded the young mansoundly for his intention of remaining in Leipzig during the holidays.
But when he rose to go, she said, with an impulsiveness that wasforeign to her: "I wish you had a friend."
It was his turn to smile. "Have you had enough of me?"
Madeleine, who was sitting with crossed arms, remained grave. "I mean aman. Some one older than yourself, and who has had experience. Thebest-meaning woman in the world doesn't count."
Only a very few days later, an occasion offered when, with profit tohimself, he might have acted upon Madeleine's introductory advice. Hehad been for a quick, solitary walk, and was returning, in the eveningbetween nine and ten o'clock, along one of the paths of the wood, whensuddenly, and close at hand, he heard the sound of voices. He stoppedinstantaneously, for by the jump his heart gave, he knew that Louisewas one of the speakers. What she said was inaudible to him; but it wasenough to be able to listen, unseen, to her voice. Hearing it likethis, as something existing for itself, he was amazed at its depth andclearness; he felt that her personal presence had, until now, hinderedhim from appreciating a beautiful but immaterial thing at its trueworth. At first, like a cadence that repeats itself, its tones rose andfell, but with more subtle inflections than the ordinary voice has:there was a note in it that might have belonged to a child's voice;another, more primitive, that betrayed feeling with as little reserveas the cry of an animal. Then it sank, and went on in a monotone, likea Hebrew prayer, as if reiterating things worn threadbare byrepetition, and already said too often. Gradually, it died away in thesurrounding silence. There was no response but a gentle rustling of theleaves overhead. It began anew, and, in the interval, seemed to havegained in intensity; now there was a bitterness in it which, when itswelled, made it give out a tone like the roughly touched strings of aninstrument; it seemed to be accusing, to be telling of unmeritedsuffering. And, this time, it elicited a reply, but a casual,indifferent one, which might have related to the weather, or to thetime of night. Louise gave a shrill laugh, and then, as plainly as ifthe words were being carved in stone before his eyes, Maurice heard hersay: "You have never given me a moment's happiness."
As before, no answer was returned, and almost immediately his earcaught a muffled sound of footsteps. At the same moment, a night-windshook the tree-tops; there was a general fluttering and swaying aroundhim; and he came back to himself to find that he was standing rigid,holding on to a slend
er tree that grew close by the path. His firstconscious thought was that this wind meant rain ... there would beanother storm in the night ... and the summer holidays--time ofpartings--were at the door. She would go away ... and he would perhapsnever see her again.
Since the evening they had walked home from the theatre together, hehad had no further chance of speaking to her. If they met in thestreet, she gave him, as Madeleine had foretold of her, a nod and asmile; and from this coolness, he had drawn the foolish inference thatshe wished to avoid him. Abnormally sensitive, he shrank out of herway. But now, the mad sympathy that had permeated him on the night shehad made him her confidant grew up in him again; it swelled out intosomething monstrous--a gigantic pity that rebounded on himself. For heknew now why she suffered; and he was cast down both for her and forhimself. It seemed unnatural that he was debarred from giving her justa fraction of the happiness she craved--he, who, had there been theleast need for it, would have lain himself down for her to tread on.And in some of the subsequent nights when he could not sleep, hecomposed fantastic letters to her, in which he told her this and more,only to colour guiltily, with the return of daylight, at theimpertinent folly of his thoughts.
But he could not forget the words he had heard her say; they hauntedhim like an importunate refrain. Even his busiest hours were set tothem--"You have never given me a moment's happiness"--and they werealike a torture and a joy.
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