Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  XI.

  One day, some few weeks later, Madeleine sat at her writingtable,biting the end of her pen. A sheet of note-paper lay before her; butshe had not yet written a word. She frowned to herself, as she sat.

  Hard at work that morning, she had heard a ring at the door-bell, and,a minute after, her landlady ushered in a visitor, in the shape of MissMartin. Madeleine rose from the piano with ill-concealed annoyance, andhaving seated Miss Martin on the sofa, waited impatiently for the gistof her visit; for she was sure that the lively American would not cometo see her without an object. And she was right: she knew to a nicetywhen the important moment arrived. Most of the visit was preamble; MissMartin talked at length of her own affairs, assuming, with disarmingcandour, that they interested other people as much as herself. She wentinto particulars about her increasing dissatisfaction with Schwarz, andretailed the glowing accounts she heard on all sides of a teachercalled Schrievers. He was not on the staff of the Conservatorium; buthe had been a favourite of Liszt's, and was attracting many pupils.From this, Miss Martin passed to more general topics, such as the blowDove had recently received over the head of his attachment to prettySusie Fay. "Why, Sue, she feels perfectly DREADFUL about it. She can'tunderstand Mr. Dove thinking they were anything but real good friends.Most every one here knew right away that Sue had her own boy down homein Illinois. Yes, indeed."

  Madeleine displayed her want of interest in Dove's concerns so plainly,that Miss Martin could not do otherwise than cease discussing them. Sherose to end her call. As, however, she stood for the momentary exchangeof courtesies that preceded the hand-shake, she said, in an off-handway: "Miss Wade, I presume I needn't inquire if you're acquainted withthe latest about Louise Dufrayer? I say, I guess I needn't inquire,seeing you're so well acquainted with Mr. Guest. I presume, though, youdon't see so much of him now. No, indeed. I hear he's thrown over allhis friends. I feel real disappointed about him. I thought he was amost agreeable young man. But, as momma says, you never can tell. An' Ireckon Louise is most to blame. Seems like she simply CAN'T existwithout a beau. But I wonder she don't feel ashamed to show herself,the way she's talked of. Why, the stories I hear about her! ... an'they're always together. She's gotten her a heap of new things, too--amillionaire asked her to marry him, when she was in Dresden, but hewasn't good enough for her, no ma'am, an' all on account of Mr.Guest.--Yes, indeed. But I must say I feel kind of sorry for him,anyway. He was a real pleasant young man."

  "Maurice Guest is quite able to look after himself," said Madeleinedrily.

  "Is that so? Well, I presume you ought to know, you were once so wellacquainted with him--if I may say, Miss Wade, we all thought it was youwas his fancy. Yes, indeed."

  "Oh, I always knew he liked Louise."

  But this was the chief grudge she, too, bore him: that he had been solittle open with her. His seeming frankness had been merely a feint; hehad gone his own way, and had never really let her know what he wasthinking and planning. She now recalled the fact that Louise had onlyonce been mentioned between them, since the time of her illness, oversix months ago; and she, Madeleine, had foolishly believed hisreticence to be the result of a growing indifference.

  Since the night of the ball, they had shunned each other, by tacitconsent. But, though she could avoid him in person, Madeleine could notclose her cars to the gossipy tales that circulated. In the last fewweeks, too, the rumours had become more clamatory: these two misguidedcreatures had obviously no regard for public opinion; and severaltimes, Madeleine had been obliged to go out of her own way, to escapemeeting them face to face. On these occasions, she told herself thatshe had done with Maurice Guest; and this decision was the more easyas, since the beginning of the year, she had moved almost entirely inGerman circles. But now the distasteful tattle was thrust under hervery nose. It seemed to put things in a different light to hear Mauricepitied and discussed in this very room. In listening to her visitor,she had felt once more how strong her right of possession was in him;she was his oldest friend in Leipzig. Now she was ready to blameherself for having let her umbrage stand in the way of them continuingfriends: had he been dropping in as he had formerly done, she mighthave prevented things from going so far, and certainly have been of usein hindering them from growing worse; for, with Louise, one was neversure. And so she determined to write to him, without delay. In this,though, she was piqued as well by a violent curiosity. Louise said tohave given up a good match for his sake! xxx she could not believe it.It was incredible that she could care for him as he cared for her.Madeleine knew them both too well; Maurice was not the type of man bywhom Louise was attracted.

  She wrote in a guarded way.

  IT SEEMS ABSURD THAT OLD FRIENDS SHOULD BEHAVE AS WE ARE DOING. IFANYTHING THAT HAPPENED WAS MY FAULT, FORGIVE IT, AND SHOW ME YOU DON'TBEAR ME A GRUDGE, BY COMING TO SEE ME TO-MORROW AFTERNOON.

  They had not met for close on four months, and, for the first fewminutes after his arrival, Madeleine was confused by the change thathad taken place in Maurice. It was not only that he was paler andthinner than of old: his boyish manner had deserted him; and, when heforgot himself, his eyes had a strange, brooding expression.

  "Other-worldly ... almost," thought Madeleine; and, in order tosurmount an awkwardness she had been resolved not to feel, she talkedglibly. Maurice said he could not stay long, and wished to keep his hatin his hand; but before he knew it, he was sitting in his accustomedplace on the sofa.

  As they stirred their tea, she told him how annoyed she had felt athaving recently had a performance postponed in favour of Avery Hill:and how the latter was said to be going crazy, with belief in her owngenius. Maurice seemed to be in the dark about what was happening, andmade no attempt to hide his ignorance. She could see, too, that he wasnot interested in these things; he played with a tassel of the sofa,and did not notice when she stopped speaking.

  It is his turn now, she said to herself, and left the silence thatfollowed unbroken. Before it had lasted long, however, he looked upfrom his employment of twisting the tassel as far round as it would go,and then letting it fly back. "I say, Madeleine, now I'm here, there'ssomething I should like to ask you. I hope, though, you won't think itimpertinence on my part." He cleared his throat. "Once or twice latelyI've heard a report about you--several times, indeed. I didn't pay anyattention to it--not till a few days back, that is--when I saw it--orthought I saw it--confirmed with my own eyes. I was at Bonorand's onMonday evening; I was behind you."

  In an instant Madeleine had grasped what he was driving at. "Well, andwhat of that, pray?" she asked. "Do you think I should have been there,if I had been ashamed of it?"

  "I saw whom you were with," he went on, and treated the tassel soroughly that it came away in his hand. "I say, Madeleine, it can't betrue, what they say--that you are thinking of ... of marrying that oldGerman?"

  Madeleine coloured, but continued to meet his eyes. "And why not?" sheasked again.--"Don't destroy my furniture, please."

  "Why not?" he echoed, and laid the tassel on the table. "Well, if youcan ask that, I should say you don't know the facts of the case. If Ihad a sister, Madeleine, I shouldn't care to see her going about withthat man. He's an old ?? ??--don't you know he has had two wives, andis divorced from both?"

  "Fiddle-dee-dee! You and your sister! Do you think a man is going tocome to nearly fifty without knowing something of life? That he hasn'tbeen happy in his matrimonial relations is his misfortune, not hisfault."

  "Then it's true?"

  "Why not?" she asked for the third time.

  "Then, of course, I've nothing more to say. I've no right to interferein your private affairs. I hoped I should still be in time--that's all."

  "No, you can't go yet, sit still," she said peremptorily. "I too, havesomething to say.--But will you first tell me, please, what it canpossibly matter to you, whether you are in time, as you call it, ornot?"

  "Why, of course, it matters.--We haven't seen much of each otherlately; but you were my first friend here, and I
don't forget it.Particularly in a case like this, where everything is against the ideaof you marrying this man: your age--your character--all common sense."

  "Those are only words, Maurice. With regard to my age, I am overtwenty-seven, as you know. I need no boy of eighteen for a husband.Then I am plain: I shall never attract anyone by my personalappearance, nor will a man ever be led to do foolish things for mysake. I have worked hard all my life, and have never known what it isto let to-morrow take care of itself.--Now here, at last, comes a manof an age not wholly unsuitable to mine, whatever you may say. Whatthough he has enjoyed life? He offers me, not only a certain socialstanding, but material comfort for the rest of my days. Whereas,otherwise, I may slave on to the end, and die eventually in agovernesses' home."

  "YOU would never do that. You are not one of that kind. But do youthink, for a moment, you'd be happy in such a position of dependence?"

  "That's my own affair. There would certainly be nothing extraordinaryin it, if I were."

  "As you put it, perhaps not. But------If it were even some one of yourown race! But these foreigners think so queerly. And then, too,Madeleine, you'll laugh, I daresay, but I've always thought of you asdifferent from other women--strong and independent, and quite sure ofyourself. The kind of girl that makes others seem little and stupid. Noone here was good enough for you."

  Madeleine's amazement was so great that she did not reply immediately.Then she laughed. "You have far too high an opinion of me. Do youreally think I like standing alone? That I do it by preference?--Youwere never more mistaken, if you do. It has always been a case ofnecessity with me, no one ever having asked me to try the other way. Isuppose like you, they thought I enjoyed it. However, set your mind atrest. Your kind intervention has not come too late. There is stillnothing definite."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "I don't say there mayn't be," she added. "Herr Lohse and I areexcellent friends, and it won't occur to me not to accept thetheatre-tickets and other amusements he is able to give me.--But it isalso possible that for the sake of 'your ideals, I may die a solitaryold maid."

  Here she was overcome by the comical side of the matter, and burst outlaughing.

  "What a ridiculous boy you are! If you only knew how you have turnedthe tables on me. I sent for you, this afternoon, to give you a soundtalking-to, and instead of that, here you sit and lecture me."

  "Well, if I have achieved something----"

  "It's too absurd," she repeated more tartly. "For you to come here inthis way to care for my character, when you yourself are the talk ofthe place."

  His face changed, as she had meant it to do. He choked back a sharprejoinder. "I'd be obliged, if you'd leave my affairs out of thequestion."

  "I daresay you would. But that's just what I don't intend to do. For ifthere are rumours going the round about me, what on earth is one to sayof you? I needn't go into details. You know quite well what I mean. Letme tell you that your name is in everybody's mouth, and that you arebeing made to appear not only contemptible, but ridiculous."

  "The place is a hot-bed of scandal. I've told you that before," hecried, angry enough now. "These dirty-minded MUSIKER think it outsidethe bounds of possibility for two people to be friends." But his tonewas unsure, and he was conscious of it.

  "Yes--when one of the two is Louise."

  "Kindly leave Miss Dufrayer out of the question."

  "Oh, Maurice, don't Miss Dufrayer me!--I knew Louise before you evenknew that she existed.--But answer me one question, and I'm done. Areyou engaged to Louise?"

  "Most certainly not."

  "Well, then, you ought to be.--For though you don't care what peoplesay about yourself, your conscience will surely prick you when you hearthat you're destroying the last shred of reputation Louise had left.--Ishould be sorry to repeat to you what is being said of her."

  But after he had gone, she reproached herself for having put such aquestion to him. At the pass things had reached, it was surely best forhim to go through with his infatuation, and get over it. Whereas she,in a spasm of conventionality, had pointed him out the sure road toperdition; for the worst thing that could happen would be for him tobind himself to Louise, in any fashion. As if her reputation mattered!The more rapidly she got rid of what remained to her, the better itwould be for every one, and particularly for Maurice Guest.

  Had Maurice been in doubt as to Madeleine's meaning, it would have beenremoved within a few minutes of his leaving the house. As he turned acorner of the Gewandhaus, he came face to face with Krafft. Though theyhad not met for weeks, Heinrich passed with no greeting but adisagreeable smile. Maurice was not half-way across the road, however,when Krafft came running back, and, taking the lappel of his friend'scoat, allowed his wit to play round the talent Maurice displayed forwearing dead men's shoes.

  CARMEN was given that night in the theatre; Maurice had fetched ticketsfrom the box-office in the morning. An ardent liking for the theatrehad sprung up in Louise of late; and they were there sometimes two orthree evenings in succession. Besides this, CARMEN was her favouriteopera, which she never missed. They heard it from the second-topgallery. Leaning back in his corner, Maurice could see little of thestage; but the bossy waves of his companion's head were sharplyoutlined for him against the opposite tier.

  Louise was engrossed in what was happening on the stage; her eyes werewide open, immovable. He had never known anyone surrender himself soutterly to the mimic life of the theatre. Under the influence of musicor acting that gripped her, Louise lost all remembrance of hersurroundings: she lived blindly into this unreal world, without theleast attempt at criticism. Afterwards, she returned to herself tiredand dispirited, and with a marked distaste for the dullness of reallife. Here, since the first lively clash of the orchestra, since thecurtain rose on gay Sevilla, she had been as far away from him as ifshe were on another planet. Not, he was obliged to confess to himself,that it made very much difference. Though he was now her constantcompanion, though his love for her was stronger than it had ever been,he knew less of her to-day than he had known six months ago, when oneall-pervading emotion had made her life an open book.

  Since that unhappy afternoon on which he learnt the contents of theletter from Dresden, they had spent a part of nearly every day in eachother's company. Louise had borne him no malice for what he had said toher; indeed, with the generous forgetfulness of offence, which was oneof the most astonishing traits in her character, she met him, the dayafter, as though nothing had passed between them. By common consent,they never referred to the matter again; Maurice did not know to thisday, whether or how she had answered the letter. For, although she hadforgiven him, she was not quite the same with him as before; a faintchange had come over their relation to each other. It was something soelusive that he could not have defined it; yet nevertheless it existed,and he was often acutely conscious of it. It was not that she kept herthoughts to herself; but she did not say ALL she thought--that was it.And this shade of reserve, in her who had been so frank, ate into himsorely. He accepted it, though, as a chastisement, for he had been in avery contrite frame of mind on awakening to the knowledge that he hadall but lost her. And so the days had slipped away. An outsider hadfirst to open his eyes to the fact that it was impossible for things togo on any longer as they were doing; that, for her sake, he must makean end, and quickly.

  And yet it had been so easy to drift, so hard to do otherwise, whenLouise accepted all he did for her as a matter of course, in thathigh-handed way of hers which took no account of details. He felt sorryfor her, too, for she was not happy. There was a gnawing discontent inher just now, and for this, in great measure, he held himselfresponsible: for a few weeks she had been buoyed up by the hope of anew life, and he had been the main agent in destroying this hope. Inreturn, he had had nothing to offer her--nothing but a rigid living upto certain uncomfortable ideals, which brought neither change norpleasure with them: and, despite his belief in the innate nobility ofher nature, he could not but recognise that ideals w
ere for hersomething colder and sterner than for other people.

  She made countless demands on his indulgence, and he learnt to see,only too clearly, what a dependent creature she was. It was more than aboon, it was a necessity to her, to have some one at her side who wouldcare for her comfort and well-being. He could not picture her alone;for no one had less talent than she for the trifles that compose life.Her thoughts seemed always to be set on something larger, vaguer,beyond.

  He devoted as much time to her as he could spare from his work, andstrove to meet her half-way in all she asked. But it was no slightmatter; for her changes of mood had never been so abrupt as they werenow. He did not know how to treat her. Sometimes, she was cold andunapproachable, so wrapped up in herself that he could not get nearher; and perhaps only an hour later, her lips would curve upwards inthe smile which made her look absurdly young, and her eyes, too, haveall the questioning wonder of a child's. Or she would be silent withhim, not unkindly, but silent as a sphinx; and, on the same day, a fitof loquacity would seize her, when she was unable to speak quicklyenough for the words that bubbled to her lips. He managed to please herseldomer than ever. But however she behaved, he never faltered. Theright to be beside her was now his; and the times she was the hardeston him were the times he loved her best.

  As spring, having reached and passed perfection, slipped over intosummer, she was invaded by a restlessness that nothing could quell. Itgot into her hands and her voice, into all her movements, and workedupon her like a fever-like a crying need. So intense did it become thatit communicated itself to him also. He, too, began to feel that restand stillness were impossible for them both, and to be avoided at anycost.

  "I have never really seen spring," Louise said to him, one day, inexcuse of some irrational impulse that had driven her out of the house.And the quick picture she drew, of how, in her native land, the briefwinter passed almost without transition into the scathing summer; hersuggestion of unchanging leaves, brown barrenness, and and dryness; ofgrass burnt to cinders, of dust, drought, and hot, sandy winds: allthis helped him to understand something of what she was feeling. Aremembrance of this parched heat was in her veins, making her eager notto miss any of the young, teeming beauty around her, or one of the newstrange scents; eager to let the magic of this awakening permeate herand amaze her, like a primeval happening. But, though he thus graspedsomething of what was going on in her, he was none the less uneasyunder it: just as her feverish unburdening of herself after hours ofsilence, so now her attitude towards this mere change of naturedisquieted him; she over-enjoyed it, let herself go in its exuberance.And, as usual, when she lost hold of her nerves, he found himselfretreating into his shell, practising self-control for two.

  Often, how often he could not count, the words that had to be said hadrisen to his lips. But they had never crossed them--in spite of thewanton greenness of the woods, which should have been the very frame inwhich to tell a woman you loved her. But not one drop of her nervousexaltation was meant for him: she had never shown, by the least sign,that she cared a jot for him; and daily he became more convinced thathe was chasing a shadow, that he was nothing to her but the STAFFAGE inthe picture of her life. He was torn by doubts, and mortally afraid ofthe one little word that would put an end to them.

  He recollected one occasion when he had nearly succeeded in tellingher, and when, but for a trick of fate, he would have done so. Theywere on their way home from the NONNE, where the delicate undergrowthof the high old trees was most prodigal, and where Louise had closedher eyes, and drunk in the rich, earthy odours. They had paused on thesuspension bridge, and stood, she with one ungloved hand on therailing, to watch the moving water. Looking at her, it had seemed tohim that just on this afternoon, she might listen to what he had to saywith a merciful attentiveness; she was quiet, and her face was gentle.He gripped the rail with both hands. But, before he could open hislips, a third person turned from the wood-path on to the bridge, makingit tremble with his steps--a jaunty cavalry officer, with a trimmoustache and bright dancing eyes. He walked past them, but threw asearching look at Louise, and, a little further along the bridge, stoodstill, as if to watch something that was floating in the water, inreality to look covertly back at her. She had taken no notice of him ashe passed, but when he paused, she raised her head; and then she lookedat him--with a preoccupied air, it was true, but none the lesssteadily, and for several seconds on end. The words died on Maurice'slips: and going home, he was as irresponsive as she herself ...

  "I love you, Louise--love you." He said it now, sitting back in hisdark corner in the theatre; but amid the buzz and hum of the music, andthe shouting of the toreadors, he might have called the words aloud,and still she would not have heard them.

  Strangely enough, however, at this moment, for the first time duringthe evening, she turned her head. His eyes were fixed on her, in adark, exorbitant gaze. Her own face hardened.

  "The opera-glass!"

  Maurice opened the leather case, and gave her the glass. Their fingersmet, and hers groped for a moment round his hand. He withdrew it asthough her touch had burnt him. Louise flashed a glance at him, andlaid the opera-glass en the ledge in front of her, without making useof it.

  Slowly the traitorous blood subsided. To the reverberating music, whichheld all ears, and left him sitting alone with his fate, Maurice had amoment of preternatural clearness. He realised that only one course wasopen to him, and that was to go away. BEI NACHT UND NEBEL, if it couldnot be managed otherwise, but, however it happened, he must go. Morewholly for her sake than Madeleine had dreamed of: unless he wanted tobe led into some preposterous folly that would embitter the rest of hislife. Who could say how long the wall he had built up round her--of theknowledge he shared with her, of pity for what she had undergone--wouldstand against the onset of this morbid, overmastering desire?

  To the gay, feelingless music, he thought out his departure in detail,sparing himself nothing.

  But in the long interval after the second act, when they weredownstairs on the LOGGIA, where it was still half daylight; where thelights of cafes and street-lamps were only beginning here and there todart into existence; where every man they met seemed to notice Louisewith a start of attention: here Maurice was irrevocably convinced thatit would be madness to resign his hard-won post without a struggle. Forthat it would long remain empty, he did not for a moment delude himself.

  They hardly exchanged a word during the remainder of the evening. Hismouth was dry. Carmen, and her gaudy fate, drove past him like thephantasmagoria of a sleepless night.

  When, the opera was over, and they stood waiting for the crowd to thin,he scanned his companion's face with anxiety, to discover her mood.With her hand on the wire ledge, Louise watched the slow fall of theiron curtain. Her eyes were heavy; she still lived in what she had seen.

  Her preoccupation continued as they crossed the square; her movementswere listless. Maurice's thoughts went back to a similar night, a yearago, when, for the first time, he had walked at her side: it had beenjust such a warm, lilac-scented night as this, and then, as now, he hadbraced himself up to speak. At that time he had known her but slightly;perhaps, for that very reason, he had been bolder in taking the plunge.

  He turned and looked at her. Her face was averted: he could only seethe side of her cheek, and the clear-cut line of her chin.

  "Are you tired, Louise?" he asked, and, in the protective tenderness ofhis tone, her name sounded like a term of endearment.

  She made a vague gesture, which might signify either yes or no.

  "It was too hot for you up there, to-night," he went on. "Next time, Ishall take you a scat downstairs--as I've always wanted to." As shestill did not respond, he added, in a changed voice: "Altogether,though, it will be better for you to get accustomed to going alone tothe theatre."

  She turned at this, with an indolent curiosity. "Why?"

  "Because--why, because it will soon be necessary. I'm going away."

  He had made a beginning now, clum
sily, and not as he had intended, butit was made, and he would stand fast.

  "You are going away?"

  She said each word distinctly, as if she doubted her ears.

  "Yes."

  "Why, Maurice?"

  "For several reasons. It's not a new decision. I've been thinking aboutit for some time."

  "Indeed? Then why choose just to-night to tell me?--you've had plentyof other chances. And to-night I had enjoyed the theatre, and themusic, and coming out into the air ..."

  "I'm sorry. But I've put it off too long as it is. I ought to have toldyou before.--Louise ... you must see that things can't go on like thisany longer?"

  His voice begged her for once to look at the matter as he did. But sheheard only the imperative.

  "Must?" she repeated. "I don't see--not at all."

  "Yes.--For your sake, I must go."

  "Ah!--that makes it clearer. People have been talking, have they? Well,let them talk."

  "I can't hear you spoken of in that way."

  "Oh, you're very good. But if we, ourselves, know that what's beingsaid is not true, what can it matter?"

  "I refuse to be the cause of it."

  "Do you, indeed?" She laughed. "You refuse? After doing all you can tomake yourself indispensable, you now say: get on as best you can alone;I've had enough; I must go.--Don't say it's on my account--that thethought of yourself is not at the bottom of it--for I wouldn't believeyou though you did."

  "I give you my word, I have only thought of you. I meant it ... I meanit, for the best."

  She quickened her steps, and he saw that she was nervously worked up.

  "No man can want to injure the woman he respects--as I respect you."

  Her shoulders rose, in her own emotional way.

  "But tell me one thing," he begged, as she walked inexorable beforehim. "Say it will matter a little to you if I go--that you will missme--if ever so little ... Louise!"

  "Miss you? What does it matter whether I miss you or not? It seems tome that counts least of all. You, at any rate, will have actedproperly. You will have nothing to reproach yourself with.--Oh, Iwouldn't be a man for anything on earth! You are all--all alike. I hateyou and despise you--every one of you!"

  They were within a few steps of the house. She pressed on, and, withoutlooking back at him, or wishing him good-night, disappeared in thedoorway.