Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  VII.

  When he had seen Madeleine home, Maurice returned to his room, and notfeeling inclined to sleep, sat down to read. But his thoughts strayed;he forgot to turn the page; and sat staring over the book at thepattern of the tablecloth. Incidents of the evening flashed before him:Miss Jensen, in James's hat, with her skirts pinned up; Madeleineearnest and decisive on the bank of snow; the maze and laughter of theFRANCAISE; Miss Martin's slim, straight figure as he pushed her beforehim. He did not try to control these details, nor was he conscious of amental effort; they stood out for an instant, as vivid sensations, thenglided by, to make room for others. But, as he let them pass, he becameaware that below them, in depths of his mind he had believedundisturbed, there was present a feeling of strange unhappiness, whichhe did not know the cause of: these sharp pictures resembled an attempton the part of his mind, to deceive him as to what was really going onin him. But he did not want to know, and he allowed his thoughts totake wider flights: recalling the scheme Madeleine had proposed, heconsidered it with a clearness of view, which, at the time, had beenimpossible. From this, he turned to America itself, and reflected onthe opportunities the country offered. He saw the two of them sweepingthrough vast tracts of uncultivated land, in a train that outdid allreal trains in swiftness; saw unknown tropical places, where the yellowfruit hung low and heavy, and people walked shadeless, sandy roads, inwhite hats, under white umbrellas. He saw Madeleine and himself on theawning-spanned deck of an ocean steamer, anchoring in a harbour wherethe sea was the colour of turquoise, touched to sapphire where themountains came down to the shore.

  "Moping herself to death": the phrase crystallised in his brain withsuch suddenness that he said it aloud. Now he knew what it was that wastroubling him. He had not consciously recalled the words, nor had theyeven made a very incisive impression on him at the time; but they hadevidently lain dormant, now to return and to strike him, as if noothers had been said. He explained to himself what they meant. It wasthis: outside, in the crisp, stinging air, people lived and moved, busywith many matters, or sported, as he and his companions had done thatevening: inside, she sat alone, mournful, forsaken. He saw her in thedark sofacorner, with her head on her hands. Day passed and nightpassed, but she was always in the same place; and her head was bowed solow that her white fingers were lost in the waves of her hair. He sawher thus with the distinctness of a vision, and except in this waycould not see her at all.

  He felt it little short of shameful that he should have carelesslyamused himself; and, as always where she was concerned, a deep,unreasoning sense of his own unworthiness, filled him. He demanded ofhimself, with a new energy, what he could do to help her. Fantasticplans rose as usual in his mind, and as usual were dismissed. For theone thing he was determined not to do, was to thrust himself on heruncalled. Her solitude was of her own choosing, and no one had theright to break in upon it. It was perhaps her way of doing penance;and, at this thought, he felt a thrill of satisfaction.

  At night, he consoled himself that things would seem different in themorning; but when he wakened from a restless sleep, crowded with dreamsone more grotesque than another, he was still prone to be gloomy. Hecould think more clearly by daylight--that was all: his pityingsympathy for her had only increased. It interfered with everything hedid; just as it had formerly done--just in the old way. And he had beenon the brink of believing himself grown indifferent, and stronger incommon sense. Fool that he was! Only a word was needed to bring hiscard-house down. The placidity of the past weeks had been a merecoating of thin ice, which had given way beneath the first test. Adistrust of himself took him, a distrust so deep that it amounted toaversion; for in his present state of mind he discerned only adespicable weakness. But though he was thus bewildered at his owninconsistency, he was still assured that he would not approachLouise--not, that is, unless she sent for him. So much control he stillhad over his actions: and he went so far as to make his staying away atouchstone of his stability. This, too, although reason told him theend of it all would be, that Louise would actually leave Leipzig,without sending for him, or even remembering his existence.

  He worked steadily enough. A skilled observer might have remarked aslight contraction of the corners of his mouth; none of his friends,however, noticed anything, with the exception of Madeleine, and all shesaid was: "You look so cross sometimes. Is anything the matter?"

  Late one afternoon, they were on the ice as usual. While Madeleinetalked to Dickensey, Maurice practised beside them. In making aparticularly complicated gyration, he all but overbalanced himself, andhis cap fell on the ice. As he was brushing the snow off it, he chancedto raise his eyes. A number of people were standing on the woodenbridge, watching the skaters; to the front, some children climbed andpushed on the wooden railing. His eye was ranging carelessly over them,when he started so violently that he again let his cap drop. He pickedit up, threw another hasty look at the bridge, then turned and skatedsome distance away, where he could see without being seen. Yes, he hadnot been mistaken; it was Louise; he recognised her although a fur hatalmost covered her hair. She was gazing down, with an intentness heknew in her; one hand rested on the parapet. And then, as he looked,his blood seemed to congeal: she was not alone; he saw her turn andspeak to some one behind her. For a moment things swam before him.Then, a blind curiosity drove him forward to find out whom she spoketo. People moved on the bridge, obstructing his view, then several wentaway, and there was no further hindrance to his seeing: her companionwas the shabby little Englishman, of doubtful reputation, with whom hehad met her once or twice that summer. He felt himself grow cold. Butnow that he had certainty, his chief idea was to prevent the othersfrom knowing, too; he grew sick at the thought of Madeleine's sharpcomments, and Dickensey's cynicism. Rejoining them, he insisted--soimperiously that Madeleine showed surprise--on their skating with himon the further pond; and he kept them going round and round without apause.

  When the bridge was empty, and he had made sure that Louise was notstanding anywhere about the edge of the ice, he left his companions,and, without explanation, crossed to the benches and took off hisskates. He did not, however, go home; he went into the SCHEIBENHOLZ,and from there along outlying roads till he reached the river; andthen, screwing on his skates again, he struck out with his face to thewind. Dusk was falling; at first he met some skaters making for home;but these were few, and he soon left them behind. When the state of theice did not allow of his skating further, he plunged into the woodsagain, beyond Connewitz, tumbling in his haste, tripping oversnow-bound roots, sinking kneedeep in the soft snow. His endeavour wasto exhaust himself. If he sat at home now, before this fever was out ofhim, he might be tempted to knock his head against the wall of hisroom. Movement, space, air--plenty of air!--that was what he needed.

  Hitherto, he had been surprised at his own conduct; now he was aghast:the hot rush of jealousy that had swept through him at the sight of thecouple on the bridge, was a revelation even to himself. His previousfeelings had been those of a child compared with this--a mere weakrevolt against the inevitable. But what had now happened was notinevitable; that was the sting of it: it was a violent chance-effect.And his distress was so keen that, for the first time, she, too, had tobear her share of blame. He said jeeringly to himself, that, quixoticas ever, he had held aloof from her, leaving her in solitude to anatonement of his own imagining; and meanwhile, some one who was nottroubled by foolish ideals stepped in and took his place. For it WAShis place; he could not rid himself of that belief. If anyone had aright to be at her side it was he, unless, indeed, all that he hadundergone on her behalf during the past months counted for nothing.

  Of course this Eggis was an unscrupulous fellow; but it was just suchmen as this--he might note that for future use--who won where otherslost. At the same time, he shrank from the idea of imitating him; andeven had he been bold enough, not a single errand could he devise toserve him as an excuse. He could not go to her and say: I come becauseI have seen you with some one else. And yet that
would be the truth;and it would lurk beneath all he said.

  The days of anxiety that followed were hard to bear. He dreaded everystreet-corner, for fear Louise and the other should turn it; dreadedraising his eyes to the bridges over the ice; and was so irritable intemper that Madeleine suggested he should go to Dresden in theChristmas holidays, for change of air.

  For, over all this, Christmas had come down--the season of gift-making,and glittering Christmas trees, of BOWLE, STOLLEN, and HONIGKUCHEN. Fora fortnight beforehand, the open squares and places were set out withfir-trees of all sizes--their pungent fragrance met one at every turn:the shops were ablaze till late evening, crowded with eagerly seekingpurchasers; the streets were impassible for the masses of countrypeople that thronged them. Every one carried brown paper parcels, andwas in a hurry. As the time drew near, subordinates and officials grewnoticeably polite; the very houseporter touched his cap at yourapproach. Bakers' shops were piled high with WEIHNACHTSSTOLLEN, whichwere a special mark of the festival: cakes shaped like torpedoes, whosesugared, almonded coats brisked brown and tempting. But the spicy scentof the firs was the motive that recurred most persistently: it clungeven to the stairways of the houses.

  Maurice had assisted Madeleine with her circumstantial shopping; and,at dusk on Christmas Eve, he helped her to carry her parcels to thehouse of some German friends. He himself was invited to Miss Jensen's,where a party of English and Americans would celebrate the evening intheir own fashion; but not till eight o'clock. When he had picked outat a confectioner's, a TORTE for the Fursts, he did not know how tokill time. He was in an unsettled mood, and the atmosphere ofexcitement, which had penetrated the familiar details of life, jarredon him. It seemed absurdly childish, the way in which even the grown-uppart of the population surrendered itself to the sentimental pleasuresof the season. But foreigners were only big children; or, at least,they could lay aside age and dignity at will. He felt misanthropic, andwent for a long walk; and when he had passed the last tree-market,where poor buyers were bargaining for the poor trees that were left, hemet only isolated stragglers. In some houses, the trees were alreadylighted.

  On his return, he went to a flower-shop in the KONIGSPLATZ, and chosean azalea to take to Miss Jensen. While he was waiting for the pot tobe swathed in crimped paper, his eye was caught by a large bunch of redand yellow roses, which stood in a vase at the back of the counter. Heregarded them for a moment, without conscious thought; then, suddenlycolouring, he stretched out his hand.

  "I'll take those roses, too. What do they cost?"

  The girl who served him--a very pretty girl, with plaits ofstraw-coloured hair, wound Madonna-like round her head--named a sumthat seemed exorbitant to his inexperience, and told a wordy story ofhow they had been ordered, and then countermanded at the last moment.

  "A pity. Such fine flowers!"

  Her interest was awakened in the rather shabby young man who paid theprice without flinching; and she threw inquisitive looks at him as shewrapped the roses in tissue-paper.

  A moment later, Maurice was in the street with the flowers in his hand.He had acted so spontaneously that he now believed his mind to havebeen made up before he entered the shop; no, more, as if all that hadhappened during the past week had led straight up to his impulsiveaction. Or was it only that, at the sight of the flowers, a kind ofrefrain had begun to run through his head: she loves roses, loves roses?

  But he did not give himself time for reflection; he hurried through thecold night air, sheltering the flowers under his coat. Soon he was oncemore in the BRUDERSTRASSE, on the stair, every step of which, though hehad only climbed it some three or four times, he seemed to know byheart. As, however, he waited for the door to be opened, his heartmisgave him; he was not sure how she would regard his gift, and, in aburst of cowardice, he resolved just to hand in the roses, without evenleaving his name. But his first ring remained unanswered, and before herang again, he had time to be afraid she would not be at home--asimple, but disappointing solution.

  There was another pause. Then he heard sounds, steps came along thepassage, and the door was opened by Louise herself.

  He was so unprepared for this that he could not collect his wits; hethrust the flowers into her hand, with a few stammered words, and hisfoot was on the stair before she could make a movement to stop him.

  Louise had peered out from the darkness of the passage to the dusk ofthe landing, with the air of one roused from sleep. She looked from himto the roses in her hand, and back at him. He tried to say somethingelse, raised his hat, and was about to go. But, when she saw this, sheimpulsively stepped towards him.

  "Are they for me?" she asked. And added: "Will you not come in? Please,come in."

  At the sound of her voice, Maurice came back from the stair-head. Butit was not possible for him to stay: friends--engaged--a promise oflong standing.

  "Ah then ... of course." She retreated into the shadow of the doorway."But I am quite alone. There is no one in but me."

  "Why, however does that happen?" Maurice asked quickly, and was readyat once to be wrath with all the world. He paused irresolute, with hishand on the banisters.

  "I said I didn't mind. But it is lonely."

  "I should think it was.--On this night of all others, too."

  He followed her down the passage. In the room there was no light exceptwhat played on the walls from the streetlamps, the blinds being stillundrawn. She had been sitting in the dark. Now, she took the globe offthe lamp, and would have lighted it, but she could not find matches.

  "Let me do it," said Maurice, taking out his own; and, over the head ofthis trifling service, he had a feeling of intense satisfaction. By thelight that was cast on the table, he watched her free the roses fromtheir paper, and raise them to her face. She did not mention themagain, but it was ample thanks to see her touch several of them singly,as she put them in a jug of water.

  But this done, they sat on opposite sides of the table, and had nothingto say to each other. After each banal observation he made came aheart-rending pause; she let a subject drop as soon as it was broached.It was over two months now since Maurice had seen her, and he wasstartled by the change that had taken place in her. Her face seemed tohave grown longer; and there were hollows in the fine oval of thecheeks, in consequence of which the nose looked larger, and morepinched. The chin-lines were sharpened, the eyes more sunken, while theshadows beneath them were as dark as though they were plastered on withbistre. But it was chiefly the expression of the face that had altered:the lifelessness of the eyes was new to it, and the firm compression ofthe mouth: now, when she smiled, no thin line of white appeared, suchas he had been used to watch for.

  Even more marked than this, though, was the change that had taken placein her manner. He had known her as passionately self-assertive; and hecould not now accustom himself to the condition of apathy in which hefound her. "Moping to death" had been no exaggeration; help was neededhere, and at once, if she were not to be irretrievably injured.

  As he thought these things, he talked at random. There were not manytopics, however, that could be touched on with impunity, and hereturned more than once to the ice and the skating, as offering a kindof neutral ground, on which he was safe. And Louise listened, andsometimes assented; but her look was that of one who listens to theaffairs of another world. Could she not be persuaded to join them onthe JOHANNATEICH, he was asking her. What matter though she did notskate! It was easily learned. Madeleine had been a beginner thatwinter, and now seldom missed an afternoon.

  "Oh, if Madeleine is there, I should not go," she said with a touch ofthe old arrogance.

  Then he told her of the frozen river, with its long, lonely, grey-whitereaches. Her eyes kindled at this, he fancied, and in her answer wasmore of herself. "I have never trodden on ice in my life. Oh, I shouldbe afraid--horribly afraid!"

  For those who did not skate there were chairs, he urged--big,green-painted, sledge-like chairs, which ran smoothly. The ice was manyinches thick; there was not the l
east need to be afraid.

  But she only smiled, and did not answer.

  "Then I can't persuade you?" he asked, and was annoyed at his ownpowerlessness. She can go with Eggis, he told himself, andsimultaneously spoke out the thought. "I saw you on the bridge theother day."

  But if he had imagined this would rouse her, he was wrong.

  "Yes?" she said indifferently, and with that laming want of curiositywhich prevents a subject from being followed up.

  They sat in silence for some seconds. With her fingers, she pulled atthe fringe of the tablecloth. Then, all of a sudden rising from herchair, she went over to the jug of roses, which she had placed on thewriting-table, bent over the flowers with a kind of perceptiblehesitation, and as suddenly came back to her seat.

  "Suppose we went to-night." she said, and for the first time lookedhard at Maurice.

  "To-night?" he had echoed, before he could check himself.

  "Ah yes--I forgot. You are going out."

  "That's the least of it," he answered, and stood up, fearful lest sheshould sink back into her former listlessness. "But it's Christmas Eve.There wouldn't be a soul on the river but ourselves. Are you sure youwould like it?"

  "Just for that reason," she replied, and wound her handkerchief in andout of her hands, so afraid was she now that he would refuse. "I couldbe ready in five minutes."

  With his brain in a whirl, Maurice went back to the flowershop, and,having written a few words of apology on a card, ordered this to besent with his purchase to Miss Jensen. When he returned, Louise wasready. But he was not satisfied: she did not know how cold it would be:and he made her put on a heavy jacket under her fur cape, and take asilk shawl, in which, if necessary, she could muffle up her head. Hehimself carried a travelling-rug for her knees.

  "As if we were going on a journey!" she said, as she obeyed him. Hereyes shone with a spark of their old light, in approval of theadventurous nature of their undertaking.

  The hard-frozen streets, over which a cutting wind drove, weredeserted. In many windows, the golden glory of the CHRISTBAUM wasvisible; the steep blackness of the houses was splashed with patches oflight. At intervals, a belated holidaymaker was still to be met withhurrying townwards: only they two were leaving the town, and itsinnocent revels, behind them. Maurice had a somewhat guilty feelingabout the whole affair: they also belonged by rights to the townto-night. He was aware, too, of a vague anxiety, which he could notrepress; and these feelings successfully prevented him taking an unduepleasure in what was happening to him. He had swung his skates, fetchedin passing, over his shoulder; and they walked as quickly as theslippery snow permitted. Louise had not spoken since leaving the house;she also stood mutely by, while the astonished boatman, knocked out inthe middle of his festivities, unlocked the boat-shed where theice-chairs were kept. The Christmas punch had made him merry; hemultiplied words, and was even a little facetious at their expense.According to him, a snow-storm was imminent, and he warned them not tobe late in returning.

  Maurice helped Louise into the chair, and wrapped the rug round her. Ifshe were really afraid, as she had asserted, she did not show it. Evenafter they had started, she remained as silent as before; indeed, onlooking back, Maurice thought they had not exchanged a word all the wayto Connewitz. He pushed in a kind of dream; the wind was with them, andit was comparatively easy work; but the ice was rough, and too hard,and there were seamy cracks to be avoided. The snow had drifted intohuge piles at the sides; and, as they advanced, it lay unswept on theirtrack. It was a hazily bright night, but rapid clouds were passing. Nota creature was to be seen: had a rift opened in the ice, and had theytwo gone through it, the mystery of their disappearance would neverhave been solved.

  Slight, upright, unfathomable as the night, Louise sat before him. Whather thoughts were on this fantastic journey, he never knew, nor justwhat secret nerve in her was satisfied by it. By leaning sideways, hecould see that her eyes were fixed on the grey-white stretch to betravelled: her warm breath came back to him; and the coil of her hair,with its piquant odour, was so close that, by bending, he could havetouched it with his lips. But he was still in too detached a mood to behappy; he felt, throughout, as if all this were happening to some oneelse, not to him.

  At their journey's end, he helped her, cold and stiff, along the snowypath to the WALDCAFE. In a corner of the big room, which was empty,they sat beside the stove, before cups of steaming coffee. The landladyserved them herself, and looked with the same curious interest as theboatman at the forlorn pair.

  Louise had laid her fur cap aside with her other wraps, and had drawnoff her gloves; and now she sat with her hand propping her chin. Shewas still disinclined to speak; from the expression of her eyes,Maurice judged that her thought were very far away. Sitting oppositeher, he shaded his own eyes with his hand, and scrutinised her closely.In the stronger light of this room, he could see more plainly thanbefore the havoc trouble had made of her face. And yet, in spite of theshadows that had descended on it, it was still to him the most adorableface in the world. He could not analyse his feelings any better nowthan in the beginning; but this face had exactly the same effect uponhim now as then. It seemed to be a matter of the nerves. Nor was it theface alone: it was also the lines of throat and chin, when she turnedher head; it was the gesture with which she fingered the knot of hairon her neck; above all, her hands, whose every movement was full ofmeaning: yes, these things sent answering ripples through him, as sounddoes through air.

  He had stared too openly: she felt his eyes, and raised her own. For afew seconds, they looked at each other. Then she held out her hand.

  "You are my friend."

  He pressed it, without replying; he could not think of anythingsuitable to say; what rose to his lips was too emotional, tootell-tale. But he made a vow that, from this day on, she should neverdoubt the truth of what she said.

  "You are my friend."

  He would take care of her as no one had ever yet tried to do. She mightsafely give herself into his charge. The unobtrusive aid that wasmingled tenderness and respect, should always be hers.

  "Are you warmer now?"

  He could not altogether suppress the new note that had got into hisvoice. All strangeness seemed to have been swept away between them; hewas wide-awake to the fact that he was sitting alone with her, apartfrom the rest of the world.

  He looked at his watch: it was time to go; but she begged for a littlelonger, and so they sat on for another half-hour, in the warm anddrowsy stillness.

  Outside, they found a leaden sky; and they had not gone far before snowbegan to fall: great flakes came flying to them, smiting their faces,stinging their eyes, melting on their lips. The wind was against them;they were exposed to the full force of the blizzard. Maurice pushedtill he panted; but their progress was slow. At intervals, he stopped,to shake the snow off the rug, and to enwrap Louise afresh; and eachviolent gust that met him when he turned a corner, smote him doubly;for he pictured to himself the fury with which it must hurl itselfagainst her, sitting motionless before it.

  It took them twice as long to return; and when Louise tried to get outof the chair, she found herself so paralysed with cold that she couldhardly stand. Blinded by the snow, she clung to Maurice's arm; he heardher teeth chatter, as they toiled their way along the ARNDTSTRASSE,through the thick, new snow-layer. Not a droschke was to be seen; andthey were half-way home before they met one. The driver was drunk orasleep, and had first to be roused. Louise sank limply into a corner.

  The cab slithered and slipped over the dangerous roads, jolting themfrom side to side. Maurice had laid the rug across her knees, and shehad ceased to shiver. But, by the light of a street-lamp which theypassed, he was dismayed to see that tears were running down her cheeks.

  "What is it? Are you so cold?--Just a little patience. We shall soon bethere."

  He took her hand, and chafed it. At this, she began to cry. He did notknow how to comfort her, and looked out of the window, scanning eachhouse they passed, to se
e if it were not the last. She was still cryingwhen the cab drew up. The house-key had been forgotten; there wasnothing for it but to ring for the landlady, and to stand in the windtill she came down. The old woman was not so astonished as Maurice hadexpected; but she was very wroth at the folly of the proceeding, anddid not scruple to say so.

  "SO 'NE DUMMHEIT, SO 'NE DUMMHEIT!" she mumbled, as, between them, theygot Louise up the stairs; and she treated Maurice's advice concerningcordials and hot drinks with scant courtesy.

  "JA, JA--JAWOHL!" she sniffed. And, on the landing, the door was shutin his face.