This news called up a feeling of repugnance in Maurice: it came like amessage from another world; the very baldness of its expression seemedto throw him back, at one stroke, into the hated atmosphere of hishome. He folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, with such aconscious hostility to all that his blood-relations did or said, as hehad not felt since the day when, in their midst, he had struggled toassert his independence. How little they understood him! It was likethem, in their unimaginative dulness, to suppose that they couldarrange his life for him--draw up the lines on which it was to bespent. He saw himself bound down hand and foot again, to the occupationhe so hated; saw himself striving to oust the young person from London,just as no doubt his old friend had striven; saw himself becomingproficient in all the mean, petty tricks of rival teachers, and eithervanquishing or being vanquished, in the effort to earn a living.
However he viewed them, his prospects had nothing hopeful in them. Theywere vague, too, to the last degree. On one question alone was his mindmade up: he meant to marry Louise at the earliest possible date.Whatever else happened, this should come to pass. For the first time,he thought with something akin to remorse, over the turn affairs hadtaken. He had been blind and dizzy with his infatuation, sick for herto his very marrow--he could only look back on those feverish weeks inJune as on the horrors of a nightmare--and he would not have missed asingle hour of the happy days at Rochlitz. But, none the less, he hadalways felt a peculiar aversion to people who allowed their feelings toget the better of them. Now, he himself was one of them. If only shewere his wife! Had she consented, he would have married her there andthen, without reflection. They might have lived on, just as they weregoing to do, and have kept their marriage a secret, reserving tothemselves the pleasure of knowing that their intimacy was legal. At itwas, he must console himself with the thought that, married or not,they were indissolubly bound: he knew now better than before, that noother woman would ever exist for him; and surely, in the case of anall-absorbing passion such as this, the overstepping of conventionalboundaries would not be counted too heavily against them: laws andconventions existed only for the weak and vacillating loves of the restof the world.
Then, however, and almost against his will, the other side of thequestion forced itself upon his notice. As the marriage had not alreadytaken place, as, indeed, Louise chose to evade the subject when hebrought it up, he could not but admit to it would be pleasanter for himif it were now postponed until he was independent of home-support. Hisfamily would, he knew, bitterly resent his taking the step; and inregard to them, he was proud. Where Louise was concerned, of course, itwas a different matter: there, no misplaced pride should stand in theway. She had ample means for her own needs; it was merely a question ofearning enough to keep himself. The sole advantage of the present stateof affairs was, that it might still be concealed; whereas even a secretmarriage implied a possible publicity; it might somehow leak out, and,in the event of this, he knew that his parents would immediately cutoff supplies. If once he were independent of them, he could do as heliked. He set his teeth at the thought of it. To no small extent, hisway was mapped out for him. Marrying Louise meant giving up all idea ofreturning home. He understood now, more clearly than before, howunfitted she was for the narrow life that would there be expected ofher. And even--if he had longed for approval and consent, he wouldnever have had courage to ask her to face the petty, ignoble details ofconventional propriety, which such a sanction implied. No, if he wishedto ensure her happiness, he must secure to her the freer atmosphere inwhich she was accustomed to live. He must burn his ships behind him,and the most satisfactory thing was, that he was able to do it withouta pang.
He racked his brains as to the means of making a livelihood. There wasnothing he would not do. He was more ready to work than ever a labourerwith a starving family at his back. But, having let every possibilitypass before his mind's eye, he was forced to the conclusion that theonly occupation open to him was the one he had come to Leipzig toescape. He was fit for nothing but to be a teacher. All he could do atthe piano, hundreds of others could do better; his talents as aconductor were, he had learned, of the meagrest; the pleasing littlesongs he might compose, of small value. Yet, if this were the price hehad to pay for making her his wife, he was content to pay it: nosacrifice was too great for him. And then, to be a teacher here meantsomething different from what it meant in England. Here, it waspossible to retain your self-respect--the caste of the class wasanother to begin with--and also to remain in touch with all that wasbest worth knowing. As a foreigner, he might add to his earnings byteaching English; but piano-lessons would of necessity be his chiefsource of income. They were plentiful enough: Avery Hill supportedherself entirely by them, and Furst kept his family. Of course, though,this was due to Schwarz: his influence was a key to all doors. Both ofthese were favourite pupils; while a melancholy fact, which had to befaced, was, that he did not stand well with Schwarz. Somehow, they hadnever taken to each other: he, perhaps, had had too open an eye for themaster's foibles, and Schwarz had no doubt been aware, from the first,of his pupil's fatally divided interests. The crown had probably beenset by his ill-considered flight in July. If he wished ultimately toachieve something, the interest he had forfeited must be regained, costwhat it might. He would work, in these coming months, as never before.Could he make a brilliant, even a wholly respectable job of the trio hewas to play, it would go far towards reinstating him in Schwarz's goodgraces: and he might then venture to approach the master with a requestfor assistance. This was the first piece of work that lay to his hand,and he would do it with all his might. After that, the rest.
There was no time to lose. A mild despair overcame him at the thoughtof the intricate sonata, the long, mazy concerto by Hummel, which hadformed his holiday task. In exactly a fortnight from this date, thevacation came to an end, and, as yet, he did not know a note of them.Through the motionless heat of the paved streets, he went home, andturning Frau Krause out of his room, sat down at the piano to scalesand exercises. Not until he felt suppleness and strength coming back tohis fingers, did he allow his thoughts to wander. Then, however, theyleapt to Louise; after this break in his consciousness, he seemed tohave been absent from her for days.
The sun was full on her windows; curtains and blinds were drawn againstit. While he hesitated, still dazzled by the glare of the streets, shesprang to meet him, laying both hands on his shoulders.
"At last!"
He blinked, and laughed, and held her at arm's length. "At last?--Why,what does that mean?"
"That I have been waiting for you, and hoping you would come--forhours."
"But, dearest, I'm too early as it is. It's not six o'clock."
"Yes, I know. But I was so sure you would come sooner,--that youwouldn't be able to stay away! Oh, the afternoon has been endless; andthe heat was suffocating. I couldn't dress, and I haven't unpacked athing."
Now he saw that she was in her dressing-gown, and that the bags andvalises stood in a corner, just as they had been carried up from thedroschke.
With her hands still on his shoulders, she put back her head. A thinline of white appeared between her lips, and, under their drooped lids,her eyes shone with a moist brilliance. She looked at him eagerly forsome seconds, and it seemed to him wistfully, too. Then, in aninexplicable change of mood, she let her arms fall, and turned away.She had grown pale and despondent. There was only one thing for him todo: to put his arms round her and draw her to his knee. Holding herthus, he whispered in her ear words such as she loved to hear. He hadgrown skilled in repeating them. Under the even murmur of his voice,her face grew tranquil; she sank little by little into a state ofwell-being; her one fear was that he would cease speaking.
On the writing-table, a gold-faced clock ticked solemnly: its minuteswent by unheeded. Maurice was the first to feel the disillusioningshudder of reality; simultaneously, the remembrance returned to him ofwhat he had come intending to tell her.--He loosened her arms.
"Louise!" h
e said in an altered voice. "Look up, dear!--and let me seeyour eyes. You won't believe me, I think, but I came this eveningmeaning to talk very sensibly--nothing but common sense, in fact.There's a great deal I want to say to you. Come, let us be two rationalpeople--yes? As a beginning, I'll draw up the blinds. The sun's behindthe houses now, and the room is so close."
Louise shrank from the violent, dusty light; and her face, a momentback rapturously content, took on at once a look of apprehension.
"Not to-night, Maurice--not to-night! It's too ... too hot for commonsense to-night."
He laughed and took her hand. "Be my own brave girl, and help me. Youhave only to look at me, as you know, to make me forget everything. Andthat mustn't be. We have got to be serious for a little--have you everthought, Louise, how seldom you and I have talked seriously together?There was never time, was there? ... in all these weeks. There was onlytime to tell you how much you are to me.--But now--well, so many thingswere running in my head this afternoon. This letter from home was thebeginning of them. Read it--this page here, at least--and then I'lltell you what I've been thinking."
He put the letter into her hand, and she ran her eyes over the page.But she laid it down without comment.
A fear crossed his mind. "Don't misunderstand it," he said hastily."You know that point was settled months ago. There's no question ofgoing back for me now--and I'm glad of it. I never want to see Englandagain. But it gave me a lot to think about--how the staying here was tobe managed, and things like that."
He was conscious of becoming somewhat wordy; and as she did notrespond, his uneasiness grew. In his anxiety to make her think as hedid, he clasped his hand over hers.
"I needn't say again, need I, darling, what the past weeks have meantto me? I'm so grateful to you for them that I could only prove it withyears of my life. But--and don't misunderstand this either, or think Idon't love you more now than ever before--you know I do. But, look atit as we will, those weeks were play--glorious play, worth half one'sexistence, but still only play. They couldn't last for ever. Now we'vecome back, and we have to face work and the workaday world--you seewhat I mean, I'm sure?"
There was a note of entreaty in his voice. As she still kept silence,he gave his whole strength to demolishing the mute opposition he feltin her.
"From now on, dear, we must make up our minds to be two very sensiblepeople. I've an enormous amount of work to get through, in the comingmonths. And at Easter, I shall probably be thrown on my own resources.But I'll fight my way somehow--here, beside you. We'll live our ownlife. Just you and I.--Let me tell you what I propose to do,"--andhere, he laid before her, in their entirety, his plans for winning overSchwarz, for gaining a foothold, and for making a modest income. "Agood PRUFUNG," he concluded, "and I'll be able to get anything I wantout of him. In the meantime, I've got to make a decent job next monthof the trio--I'm pretty well in his black books, I can guess, for goingoff as I did in July. I must work as I've never done before. Eachsingle day must be mapped out, and nothing allowed to interfere. It'san undertaking; but you'll help me, won't you, darling?--as only youcan. I've let things go, far too much--I see it now. But it wasimpossible--frankly, I didn't care. I only wanted you. Now, it will ...it must be different. The unrest is gone; you belong to me, and I toyou. We are sure of each other."
"Oh, it's stifling! There's no air in the room."
She rose from his side, and went to the open window, where she stoodwith her back to him. As a result of his words, her life seemedsuddenly to stretch before her, just as dry, and dusty, andcommonplace, as the street she looked down on.
"I want to show you, too," he continued behind her, "that you haven'tutterly thrown yourself away. I know how little I can do; but honestendeavour must count for something. I ask nothing better than to workfor you, Louise--and you know it."
A wave of warm air came in at the window; the dying afternoon turned totwilight.
"Yes ... and I? What am I to do? What room is there for me in yourplans of work?"
He glanced sharply at her; but she had not moved.
"Louise, dearest! I know that what I say must sound selfish andinconsiderate. And yet I can't help it. I'm forced to ask you to wait... merely to wait. And for what? Good Heavens, no one realises it as Ido! I have nothing to offer you, in return--but my love for you. But ifyou knew how strong that is--if you knew how happy I am resolved tomake you! Have a little patience, darling! It will all come right inthe end--if only you love me! And you do, don't you? Say once more youdo."
She turned so swiftly that the tail of her dressing-gown twisted, andfell over on itself.
"Can you still ask that? Have you not had proof enough? Is there aninch of you that doesn't believe in my love for you? Oh, Maurice! ...It's only that I'm tired to-night--and restless. I was so wretched athaving to come back. And the heat has got on my nerves. I wish a greatstorm would come, and shake the house, and make the branches of thetrees beat against the panes--do you remember? And we were so safe. Theworse the storm was, the closer you held me." She sat down beside him,on the arm of the sofa. "Such a night seemed doubly wild after thelong, still days that had gone before it--do you remember?--Oh, why hadit all to end? Weren't we happy enough? Or did we ask too much? Whymust time go just the same over happiness and unhappiness alike?" Shegot up again, and strayed back to the window. "Days like those willnever--CAN never--come again. Even as it is, coming back has made adifference. Could you even yesterday have spoken as you do to-day? Wasthere any room then for common sense between us? No, we were too happy.It was enough to know we were alive."
"Be reasonable, darling. I am as sorry as you that these weeks areover; but, glorious as they were, they couldn't last for ever. Andtrust me; we shall know other days just as happy.--But if, because Italk like this, you imagine I don't love you a hundred times bettereven than yesterday--but you don't mean that! You know me better, myRachel!"
"Yes. Perhaps you're right--you ARE right. But I am right, too."
She came back, and sat down on the sofa again, and propped her chin onher hand.
"You're tired to-night, dear--that's all. To-morrow things will lookdifferent, and you'll see the truth of what I say. At night, things getdistorted----"
"No, no, one only really sees in the dark," she interrupted him.
--"but in the morning, one can smile at one's fears. Trust me, Louise,and believe in me. All our future happiness depends on how we act justnow."
"Our future happiness ... yes," she said slowly. "But what of thepresent?"
"Isn't it worth while sacrificing a brief present to a long future?"
She threw him a quick glance. "You talk like an orthodox Christian,Maurice," she said, and added: "The present is here: it belongs to us.The future is so unclear--who knows what it will bring us!"
"And isn't it just for that very reason that I speak as I do? Ifeverything lay clear and straight before us, do you think I shouldbother about anything but you? It's the uncertainty of the whole thingthat troubles me. But however vague it is, I can tell you one thingthat will happen. And you know, dearest, what that is--the onlyambition I have left: to make you my wife at the earliest possiblemoment."
She gazed at him meditatively.
"Why wouldn't you let me have my way at first?" he cried. "Why were youagainst it? We could have kept it a secret: no one need have known athing about it. And I should never have asked you to go to England, orto see my people. Call it narrow, if you must, I can't help it; it'sthe only thing for us to do. Why won't you agree? Tell me what you haveagainst it. Listen!" He knelt down and put his arms round her. "We havestill a fortnight--that's time enough. Let us go to England to-morrow,and be married without a word to anyone--in the first registrar'soffice we find. Only marry me!"
"Would it make you love me more?"
She looked at him intently, turning the whole weight of her dark glanceupon him.
"You!" he said. "You to ask such a thing! You with these eyes ... andthis hair! And these hands!--I love every l
ine of them ... You can'tunderstand, can you, you bundle of emotions, that I should care for youas I do, and yet be able to talk soberly? It seems to you a man's wayof loving--and poor at that. But if you imagine I don't love you allthe more for what you have sacrificed for me--no, you didn't say that,I know, but it comes to the same thing in the end."
She made no answer; and a feeling of discouragement began to creep overhim. He rose to his feet.
"A man who loves a woman as I love you," he said almost violently, "hasonly one wish--can have only one. I shall never rest or be thoroughlyhappy till you consent to marry me. That you can refuse as you do,seems to prove that you don't care for me enough."
She put her arms round his neck: her wide sleeves fell back, leavingher arms bear. "Maurice," she said gently, "why must you worryyourself?--You know if you are set on our marrying, I'll give way. ButI don't want to be married--not yet. There's plenty of time. It's onlya small matter now; it doesn't seem as if it could make any difference;and yet it might. The sense of being bound; of some one--no, of the lawpermitting us to love each other ... no, Maurice, not yet.--Listen! I'molder and wiser than you, and I know. Happiness like this doesn't comeevery day. Instead of brooding and hesitating, one must seize it whileit's there: it's such a slippery thing; it's gone before you know it.You can't bind it fast, and say it shall last so and so long. We haveit now; don't let us talk and reason about it.--Oh, to-day, I'mnervous! Let me make a confession. As a child I hadpresentiments--things I foresaw came true, and on the morning of amisfortune, I've felt such a load on my chest that I could hardlybreathe. Well, to-day, when I came into this room again, it seemed asif two black wings shut out the sunlight; and I was afraid. The pastweeks have been so unreasonably happy--such happiness mustn't be letgo. Help me to hold it; I can't do it alone. Don't try to make it fastto the future; while you do that, it's going--do you think one can drawout happiness like a thread? Oh, help me!--don't let any thing take itfrom us. And I will give up everything to it. Only you must always bebeside me, Maurice, and love me. Don't let anything come between us!For my sake, for my sake!"
In the face of this outpouring, his own opinions seemed of littlematter; his one concern was to ward off the tears that he saw wereimminent. He held her to him, stroked her hair, and murmured words ofcomfort. But when she raised her head again, her eyelids were reddened,as though she had actually wept.
"Now I know you. Now you are my own again," she whispered. "How could Iknow you as you were then? I'd never seen you like that--seen you coldand sensible."
He looked down at her without speaking, in a preoccupied way.
She touched his face with her finger. "Here are lines I don't know--Isee them now for the first time--lines of reason, of common sense, ofall that is strange to me in you."
He caught her hand, continuing to gaze at her with the same expressionof aloofness. "I need them for us both. You have none."
Her lips parted in a smile. Then this faded, and she looked at him witheyes that reminded him of an untamed animal, or of a startled child.
"Mine ... still mine!" she said passionately.--And in the hours it tookto reassure her, his primly reasoned conclusions were blown like chaffbefore the wind.
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