Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  IV.

  Maurice and Ephie walked along the LESSINGSTRASSE without speaking--itwas a dull, mild day, threatening to rain, as it had rained the wholeof the preceding night. But Ephie was not accustomed to be silent; shefound the stillness disconcerting, and before they had gone far, shot afurtive look at her companion. She did not intend him to see it; but hedid, and turned to her. He cleared his throat, and seemed about tospeak, then changed his mind. Something in his face, as she observed itmore nearly, made Ephie change colour and give an awkward laugh.

  "I asked you before how you liked my hat," she said, with anotherattempt at the airiness which, to-day, she could not command. "And youdidn't say. I guess you haven't looked at it. You're in such a hurry."

  Maurice turned his head; but he did not see the hat. Instead, hementally answered a question Louise had put to him the day before, andwhich he had then not known how to meet. Yes, Ephie was pretty,radiantly pretty, with the fresh, unsullied charm of a flower justblown.

  "Joan was so stupid about it," she went on at random; her face stillwore its uncertain smile. "She said it was overtrimmed, and top-heavy,and didn't become me. As if she ever wore anything that suited her! ButJoan is an old maid. She hasn't a scrap of taste. And as for you,Maurice, why I just don't believe you know one hat from another. Menare so stupid."

  Again they went forward in silence.

  "You are tiresome to-day," she said at length, and looked at him with atouch of defiance, as a schoolgirl looks at the master with whom sheventures to remonstrate.

  "Yes, I'm a dull companion."

  "Knowing it doesn't make it any better."

  But she was not really cross; all other feelings were swallowed up bythe uneasiness she felt at his manner of treating her.

  "Where are we going?" she suddenly demanded of him, with a little quickupward note in her voice. "This is not the way to the SCHEIBENHOLZ."

  "No." He had been waiting for the question. "Ephie,"--he cleared histhroat anew. "I am taking you to see a friend--of mine."

  "Is that what you brought me out for? Then you didn't want to speak tome, as you said? Then we're not going for a walk?"

  "Afterwards, perhaps. It's like this. Some one I know has been veryill. Now that she is getting better, she needs rousing and cheering up,and that kind of thing; and I said I would bring you to call on her.She knows you by sight--and would like to know you personally," headded, with a lame effort at explanation.

  "Is that so?" said Ephie with sudden indifference; and her heart, whichhad begun to thump at the mention of a friend, quieted down at once. Infancy, she saw an elderly lady with shawls and a footstool, who hadbeen attracted by her fresh young face; the same thing had happened toher before.

  Now, however, that she knew the object of their walk, she was greatlyrelieved, as if a near danger had been averted; but she had not takenmany steps forward before she was telling herself that another hope wasgone. The only thing to do was to take the matter into her own hands;it was now or never; and simply a question of courage.

  "Maurice, say, do many people go away from here in the fall?--leave theCon., I would say?" she asked abruptly. "I mean is this a time morepeople leave than in spring?"

  Maurice started; he had been lost in his own thoughts, which allcentred round this meeting he had weakly agreed to arrange. Again andagain he had tried to imagine how it would fall out. But he did notknow Louise well enough to foresee how she would act; and the nearerthe time came, the stronger grew his presentiment of trouble. His chiefremaining hope was that there would be no open speaking, thatSchilsky's name would not be mentioned; and plump into the midst ofthis hope fell Ephie's question. He turned on her; she colouredfuriously, and walked into a pool of water; and, at this moment,everything was as clear to Maurice as though she had said: "Where isbe? Why has he gone?"

  "Why do you ask?" he queried with unconscious sharpness. "No, Easter isthe general time for leaving. But people who play in the PRUFUNGENthen, sometimes stay for the summer term. Why do you ask?"

  "Gracious, Maurice, how tiresome you are! Must one always say why? Ionly wanted to know. I missed people I used to see about, that's all."

  "Yes, a number have not come back."

  He was so occupied with what they were saying that he, in his turn,stepped into a puddle, splashing the water up over her shoe. Ephie wasextremely annoyed.

  "Look!--look what you've done!" she cried, showing him her spikeylittle shoe. "Why don't you look where you're going? How clumsy youare!" and, in a sudden burst of illhumour: "I don't know why you'rebringing me here. It's a horrid part of the city anyway. I didn't haveany desire to come. I guess I'll turn back and go home."

  "We're almost there now."

  "I don't care. I don't want to go."

  "But you shall, all the same. What's the matter with you to-day thatyou don't know your own mind for two minutes together?"

  "You didn't inquire if I wanted to come. You're just horrid, Maurice."

  "And you're a capricious child."

  He quickened his pace, afraid she might still escape him; and Ephie hadhard work to keep up with him. As she trotted along, a few stepsbehind, there arose in her a strong feeling of resentment againstMaurice, which was all the stronger because she suspected that she wason the brink of hearing her worst suspicions confirmed. But she couldnot afford to yield to the feeling, when the last chance she had ofgetting definite information was passing from her. Knitting both handsfirmly inside her muff, she asked, with an earnestness which, to onewho knew, was fatally tale-telling: "Did anyone you were acquaintedwith leave, Maurice?"

  "Yes," said the young man at her side, with brusque determination. Heremained untouched by the tone of appeal in which Ephie put thequestion; for he himself suffered under her continued hedging. "Yes,"he said, "some one did, and that was a man called Schilsky--a tall,red-haired fellow, a violinist. But he has only just gone. He came backafter the vacation to settle his affairs, and say good-bye to hisfriends. Is there anything else you want to know?"

  He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Afterall, Ephie was such a child. He could not see her face, which washidden by the brim of the big hat, but there was something pathetic inthe line of her chin, and the droop of her arms and shoulders. Sheseemed to shrink under his words--to grow smaller. As he stood aside tolet her pass before him, through the house-door in the BRUDERSTRASSE,he had a quick revulsion of feeling. Instead of being rough and cruelto her, he should have tried to win her confidence with brotherlykindness. But he had had room in his mind for nothing but the meetingwith Louise, and now there was no more time; they were going up thestairs. All he could do was to say gently: "I ought to tell you, Ephie,that the person we are going to see has been very, very ill--and needstreating with the utmost consideration. I rely on your tact andgood-feeling."

  But Ephie did not reply; the colour had left her face, and for once,the short upper-lip closed firmly on the lower one. For some minutesamazed anger with Maurice was all she felt. Then, however, came theknowledge of what his words meant: he knew--Maurice knew; he had seenthrough her fictions; he would tell on her; there would be dreadfulscenes with Joan; there would be reproaches and recriminations; shewould be locked up, or taken away. As for what lay beyond, hisassertion that Schilsky had been there--had been and gone, without aword to her--that was a sickening possibility, which, at present, hermind could not grasp. She grew dizzy under these blows that rained downon her, one after the other. And meanwhile, she had to keep upappearances, to go on as though nothing had happened, when it seemedimpossible even to drag herself to the top of the winding flight ofstairs. She held her head down; there was a peculiar clicking in herthroat, which she could not master; she felt at every step as if shewould have to burst out crying.

  At the glass of the door, and at the wizened old face that appearedbehind it, she looked with unseeing eyes; and she followed Mauricemechanically along the passage to a door at the end.

  In his agitation the young man forgot
to knock; and as they entered, afigure sprang up from the sofa-corner, and made a few impulsive stepstowards them.

  Maurice went over to Louise and took her hand.

  "I've brought her," he said in a low tone, and with a kind of appeal invoice and eyes, which he was not himself aware of. Louise answered thelook, and went on looking at him, as if she were fearful of letting hereyes stray. Both turned at an exclamation from Ephie. She was stillstanding where Maurice had left her, close beside the door; but herface was flaming, and her right hand fumbled with the doorhandle.

  "Ephie!" said Maurice warningly. He was afraid she would turn thehandle, and, going over to her, took her by the arm.

  "Say, Maurice, I'm going home," she said under her breath. "I can'tstop here. Oh, why did you bring me?"

  "Ssh!--be a good girl, Ephie," he replied as though speaking to achild. "Come with me."

  An inborn politeness struggled with Ephie's dread. "I can't. I don'tknow her name," she whispered. But she let him draw her forward towhere Louise was standing; and she held out her hand.

  "Miss--?" she said in a small voice, and waited for the name to befilled in.

  Louise had watched them whispering, with a stony fare, but, at Ephie'sgesture, life came into it. Her eyes opened wide; and drawing back fromthe girl's outstretched hand, yet without seeming to see it, she turnedwith a hasty movement, and went over to the window, where she stoodwith her back to them.

  This was the last straw; Ephie dropped on a chair, and hiding her facein her hands, burst into the tears she had hitherto restrained. Herprevious trouble was increased a hundredfold. For she had recognisedLouise at once; she felt that she was in a trap; and the person who hadentrapped her was Maurice. Holding a tiny lace handkerchief to hereyes, she sobbed as though her heart would break.

  "Don't cry, dear, don't cry," said the young man. "It's all right." Buthis thoughts were with Louise. He was apprehensive of what she might donext.

  As if in answer to his fear, she crossed the room.

  "Ask her to take her hands down. I want to see her face."

  Maurice bent over Ephie, and touched her shoulder.

  "Ephie, dear, do you hear? Look up, like a good girl, and speak to MissDufrayer."

  But Ephie shook off his hand.

  Over her bowed head, their eyes met; and the look Louise gave the youngman was cold and questioning. He shrugged his shoulders: he could donothing; and retreating behind the writing-table, he left the two girlsto themselves.

  "Stand up, please," said Louise in an unfriendly voice; and as Ephiedid not obey, she made a movement to take her by the wrists.

  "No, no!--don't touch me," cried Ephie, and rose in spite of herself."What right have you to speak to me like this?"

  She could say no more, for, with a quick, unforeseen movement, Louisetook the young girl's face in both hands, and turned it up. And afterher first instinctive effort to draw back, Ephie kept still, like afascinated rabbit, her eyes fixed on the dark face that looked down ather.

  Seconds passed into minutes; and the minutes seemed hours. Mauricewatched, on the alert to intervene, if necessary.

  At the entrance of her visitors, Louise had been unable to seedistinctly, so stupefied was she by the thought that the person on whomher thoughts had run, with a kind of madness, for more than forty-eighthours, was actually in the room beside her--it was just as though anightmare phantom had taken bodily form. And then, too, though she hadspent each of these hours in picturing to herself what this girl wouldbe like, the reality was so opposed to her imagining that, at first,she could not reconcile the differences.

  Now she forced herself to see every line of the face. Nothing escapedher. She saw how loosened tendrils of hair on neck and forehead becamelittle curls; saw the finely marked brows, and the dark blue veins atthe temples; the pink and white colouring of the cheeks; the smallnose, modelled as if in wax; the fascinating baby mouth, with its shortupper-lip. Like most dark, sallow women, whose own brief freshness ispast, the elder girl passionately admired such may-blossom beauty, assomething belonging to a different race from herself. And this was notall: as she continued to look into Ephie's face, she ceased to beherself; she became the man whose tastes she knew better than her own;she saw with his eyes, felt with his senses. She pictured Ephie's face,arch and smiling, lifted to his; and she understood and excused hisweakness. He had not been able to help what had happened: this was theprettiness that drew him in, the kind he had invariably turned to lookback at, in the street--something fair and round, adorably small andyoung, something to be petted and protected, that clung, and waschildishly subordinate. For her dark sallowness, for her wilfulmastery, he had only had a passing fancy. She was not his type, and sheknew it. But to have known it vaguely, when it did not matter, and toknow it at a moment like the present, were two different things.

  In a burst of despair she let her arms fall to her sides; but herinsatiable eyes gazed on; and Ephie, though she was now free, did notstir, but remained standing, with her face raised, in a sillyfascination. And the eyes, having taken in the curves of cheeks andchin, and the soft white throat, passed to the rounded, droopingshoulders, to the plumpness of the girlish figure, embracing the wholebody in their devouring gaze. Ephie went hot and cold beneath them; shefelt as if her clothes were being stripped from her, and she leftstanding naked. Louise saw the changing colour, and interpreted it inher own way. His--all his! He was not the mortal--she knew it only toowell--to have this flower within his reach, and not clutch at it,instinctively, as a child clutches at sunbeams. It would riot have beenin nature for him to do otherwise than take, greedily, withoutreflection. At the thought of it, a spasm of jealousy caught her by thethroat; her hanging hands trembled to hurt this infantile prettiness,to spoil these lips that had been kissed by his.

  Maurice was at her side. "Don't hurt her," he said, and did not knowhow the words came to his lips.

  The spell was broken. The unnatural expression died out of her face;she was tired and apathetic.

  "Hurt her?" she repeated faintly. "No, don't be afraid. I shall nothurt her. But if I beat her with ropes till all my strength was gone, Icouldn't hurt her as she has hurt me."

  "Hush! Don't say such things."

  "I? I hurt you?" said Ephie, and began to cry afresh. "How could I? Idon't even know you."

  "No, you don't know me; and yet you have done me the cruellest wrong."

  "Oh, no, no," sobbed Ephic. "No, indeed!"

  "He was all I had--all I cared for. And you plotted, and planned, andstole him from me--with your silly baby face."

  "It's not true," wept Ephie. "How could I? I didn't know anything aboutyou. He ... he never spoke of you."

  Louise laughed. "Oh, I can believe that! And you thought, didn't you,you poor little fool, that he only cared for you? That was why my namewas never mentioned. He didn't need to scheme, and contrive, and lie,lie abominably, for fear I should come to hear what he was doing!"

  "No, indeed," sobbed Ephie. "Never! And you've no right to say suchthings of him."

  "I no right?" Louise drew herself up. "No right to say what I like ofhim? Are you going to tell me what I shall say and what I shan't of theman I loved?--yes, and who loved me, too, but in a way you couldn'tunderstand you who think all you have to do is to smile your sillysmile, and spoil another person's life. You didn't know, no, of coursenot!--didn't know this was his room as well as mine. Look, his music isstill lying on the piano; that's the chair he sat in, not many daysago; here," she took Ephie by the shoulder and drew her behind thescreen, where a small door, papered like the wall, gave, direct fromthe stair-head, a second entrance to the room--"here's the door he camein at.--For he came as he liked, whenever he chose."

  "It's not true; it can't be true," said Ephie, and raised hertear-stained face defiantly. "We are engaged--since the summer. He'scoming back to marry me soon."

  "He's coming back to marry you!" echoed Louise in a blank voice. "He'scoming back to marry you!"

  She moved a few
steps away, and stood by the writing-table, lookingdazed, as if she did not understand. Then she laughed.

  Ephie cried with renewed bitterness. "I want to go home."

  But Maurice did not pay any attention to her. He was watching Louise,with a growing dismay. For she continued to laugh, in a breathless way,with a catch in the throat, which made the laughter sound like sobbing.On his approaching her, she tried to check herself, but withoutsuccess. She wiped her lips, and pressed her handkerchief to them, thentook the handkerchief between her teeth and bit it. She crossed to thewindow, and stood with her back to the others; but she could not stoplaughing. She went behind the low, broad screen that divided the room,and sat down on the edge of the bed; but still she had to laugh on. Shecame out again into the other part of the room, and saw Maurice paleand concerned, and Ephie's tears dried through pure fear; but the sightof these two made her laugh more violently than before. She held herface in her hands, and pressed her jaws together as though she wouldbreak them; for they shook with a nervous convulsion. Her whole bodybegan to shake, with the efforts she made at repression.

  Ephie cowered in her seat. "Oh, Maurice, let us go. I'm so afraid," sheimplored him.

  "Don't be frightened! It's all right." But he was following Louiseabout the room, entreating her to regain the mastery of herself. Whenhe did happen to notice Ephie more closely, he said: "Go downstairs,and wait for me there. I'll come soon."

  Ephie did not need twice telling: she turned and fled. He heard thehall-door bang behind her.

  "Do try to control yourself. Miss Dufrayer--Louise! Every one in thehouse will hear you."

  But she only laughed the more. And now the merest trifles helped toincrease the paroxysm--the way Maurice worked his hands, Ephie's mufflying forgotten on a chair, the landlady's inquisitive face peering inat the door. The laugh continued, though it had become a kind ofcackle--a sound without tone. Maurice could bear it no longer. He wentup to her and tried to take her hands. She repulsed him, but he was toostrong for her. He took both her hands in his, and pressed her down ona chair. He was not clear himself what to do next; but, the moment hetouched her, the laughter ceased. She gasped for breath; he thought shewould choke, and let her hands go again. She pressed them to herthroat; her breath came more and more quickly; her eyes closed; andfalling forward on her knees, she hid her face in the cushioned seat ofthe sofa.

  Then the tears came, and what tears! In all his life, Maurice had neverheard crying like this. He moved as far away from her as he could,stood at the window, staring out and biting his lips, while she sobbed,regardless of his presence, with the utter abandon of a child. Like achild, too, she wept rebelliously, unchastenedly, as he could not havebelieved it possible for a grown person to cry. Such grief as this, soabsolute a despair, had nothing to do with reason or the reasoningfaculties; and the words were not invented that would be able to sootheit.

  But, little by little, a change came over her crying. The rebelliondied out of it; it grew duller, and more blunted, hopeless, withoutlife. Her strength was almost gone. Now, however, there was anothernote of childishness in it, that of complete exhaustion, which it is sohard to hear. The tears rose to his own eyes; he would have liked to goto her, to lay his hand on her head, and treat her tenderly, to makeher cease and be happy once more; but he did not dare. Had he done so,she might not have repelled him; for, in all intensely passionategrief, there comes a moment of subsidence, when the grief and itsorigin are forgotten, and the one overruling desire is the desire to becomforted, no matter who the comforter and what his means, so long asthey are masterful and strong.

  She grew calmer; and soon she was only shaken at widening intervals bya sob. Then these, too, ceased, and Maurice held his breath. But as,after a considerable time had elapsed, she still lay without makingsound or movement, he crossed the room to look at her. She was fastasleep, half sitting, half lying, with her head on the cushions, andthe tears wet on her cheeks. He hesitated between a wish to see her ina more comfortable position, and an unwillingness to disturb her.Finally, he took an eider-down quilt from the bed, and wrapped it roundher; then slipped noiselessly from the room.

  It was past eight o'clock.

  * * * * *

  Ephie ran down the stairs as if a spectre were at her heels, and evenwhen in the street, did not venture to slacken her speed. Although thedusk was rapidly passing into dark, a good deal of notice was attractedby the sight of a well-dressed young girl running along, holding ahandkerchief to her face, and every now and then emitting a loud sob.People stood and stared after her, and some little boys ran with her.Instead of dropping her pace when she saw this, Ephie grew confused,and ran more quickly than before. She had turned at random, on comingout of the house; and she was in a part of the town she did not know.In her eagerness to get away from people, she took any turn thatoffered; and after a time she found that she had crossed the river, andwas on what was almost a country road. A little further off, she knew,lay the woods; if once she were in their shelter, she would be safe;and, without stopping to consider that night was falling, she rantowards them at full speed. On the first seat she came to she sankbreathless and exhausted.

  Her first sensation was one of relief at being alone. She unpinned andtook off the big, heavy hat, and laid it on the seat beside her, inorder to be more at her case; and then she cried, heartily, and withoutprecautions, enjoying to the full the luxury of being unwatched andunheard. Since teatime, she seemed to have been fighting her tears,exercising a self-restraint that was new to her and very hard; and notto-day alone--oh, no, for weeks past, she had been obliged to act apart. Not even in her bed at night had she been free to indulge hergrief; for, if she cried then, it made her pale and heavy-eyed nextday, and exposed her to Joan's comments. And there were so many thingsto cry about: all the emotional excitement of the summer, with its upsand downs of hope and fear; the never-ceasing need of dissimulation;the gnawing uncertainty caused by Schilsky's silence; the growing senseof blankness and disappointment; Joan's suspicions; Maurice'sdiscovery; the knowledge that Schilsky had gone away without a word toher; and, worst of all, and most inexplicable, the terrible visit ofthe afternoon--at the remembrance of the madwoman she had escaped from,Ephie's tears flowed with renewed vigour. Her handkerchief was soakedand useless; she held her fur tippet across her eyes to receive thetears as they fell; and when this grew too wet, she raised the skirt ofher dress to her face. Not a sound was to be heard but her sobbing; shewas absolutely alone; and she wept on till those who cared for her,whose chief wish was to keep grief from her, would hardly haverecognized in her the child they loved.

  How long she had been there she did not know, when she was startled toher feet by a loud rustling in the bushes behind her. Then, of asudden, she became aware that it was pitch-dark, and that she was allby herself in the woods. She took to her heels, in a panic of fear, anddid not stop running till the street-lamps came into sight. When shewas under their friendly shine, and could see people walking on theother side of the river, she remembered that she had left her hat lyingon the seat. At this fresh misfortune, she began to cry anew. But notfor anything in the world would she have ventured back to fetch it.

  She crossed the Pleisse and came to a dark, quiet street, where fewpeople were; and here she wandered up and down. It was late; at homethey would be sitting at supper now, exhausting themselves inconjectures where she could be. Ephie was very hungry, and at thethought of the warmth and light of the supper-table, a lump rose in herthroat. If it had been only her mother, she might have faced her--butJoan! Home in this plight, at this hour, hatless, and with swollenface, to meet Joan's eyes and questions!--she shivered at the idea.Moreover, the whole PENSION would get to know what had happened to her;she would need to bear inquisitive looks and words; she would have toexplain, or, still worse, to invent and tell stories again; and of whatuse were they now, when all was over? A feeling of lassitude overcameher--an inability to begin fresh. All over: he would never put his armround her again, never come toward
s her, careless and smiling, and callher his "little, little girl."

  She sobbed to herself as she walked. Everything was bleak, and black,and cheerless. She would perhaps die of the cold, and then all of them,Joan in particular, would be filled with remorse. She stood and lookedat the inky water of the river between its stone walls. She had read ofpeople drowning themselves; what if she went down the steps and threwherself in?--and she feebly fingered at the gate. But it was locked andchained; and at the idea of her warm, soft body touching the icy water;at the picture of herself lying drowned, with dank hair, or, like theChristian Martyr, floating away on the surface; at the thought of theirgrief, of HIM wringing his hands over her corpse, she was so moved thatshe wept aloud again, and almost ran to be out of temptation's way.

  It had begun to drizzle. Oh, how tired she was! And she was obligedconstantly to dodge impertinently staring men. In a long, wide street,she entered a door-way that was not quite so dark as the others, andsat down on the bottom step of the stairs. Here she must have dozed,for she was roused by angry voices on the floor above. It sounded likesome one who was drunk; and she fled trembling back to the street.

  A neighbouring clock struck ten. At this time of night, she could notgo home, even though she wished to. She was wandering the streets likeany outcast, late at night, without a hat--and her condition ofhatlessness she felt to be the chief stigma. But she was starving withhunger, and so tired that she could scarcely drag one foot after theother. Oh, what would they say if they knew what their poor littleEphie was enduring! Her mother--Joan---Maurice!

  Maurice! The thought of him came to her like a ray of light. It was toMaurice she would turn. He would be good to her, and help her; he hadalways been kind to her, till this afternoon. And he knew what hadhappened; it would not be necessary to explain.--Oh, Maurice, Maurice!

  She knew his address, if she could but find the street. A droschkepassed, and she tried to hail it; but she did not like to advance toofar out of the shadow, on account of her bare head. Finally, pluckingup courage, she inquired the way of a feather-hatted woman, who hadeyed her with an inquisitive stare.

  It turned out that the BRAUSTRASSE was just round the corner; she hadperhaps been in the street already, without knowing it; and now shefound it, and the house, without difficulty. The street-door was stillopen; or she would never have been bold enough to ring.

  The stair was poorly lighted, and full of unsavoury smells. In heragitation, Ephie rang on a wrong floor, and a strange man answered hertimid inquiry. She climbed a flight higher, and rang again. There was along and ominous pause, in which her heart beat fast; if Maurice didnot live here either, she would drop where she stood. She was about toring a second time, when felt slippers and an oil lamp moved along thepassage, the glass window was opened, and a woman's face peered out ather. Yes, Herr Guest lived there, certainly, said Frau Krause, dividedbetween curiosity and indignation at having to rise from bed; and sheheld the lamp above her head, in order to see Ephie better. But he wasnot at home, and, even if he were, at this hour of night ... The heavywords shuffled along, giving the voracious eyes time to devour.

  At the thought that her request might be denied her, Ephie's couragetook its last leap.

  "Why, I must see him. I have something important to tell him. Could Inot wait?" she urged in her broken German, feeling unspeakably smalland forlorn. And yielding to a desire to examine more nearly the bare,damp head and costly furs, Frau Krause allowed the girl to pass beforeher into Maurice's room.

  She loitered as long as she could over lighting the lamp that stood onthe table; and meanwhile threw repeated glances at Ephie, who, havinggiven one look round the shabby room, sank into a corner of the sofaand hid her face: the coarse browed woman, in petticoat andnight-jacket, seemed to her capable of robbery or murder. And so FrauKrause unwillingly withdrew, to await further developments outside: theholy, smooth-faced Herr Guest was a deep one, after all.

  When Maurice entered, shortly before eleven, Ephie started up from abroken sleep. He came in pale and disturbed, for Frau Krause had methim in the passage with angry mutterings about a FRAUENZIMMER in hisroom; and his thoughts had at once leaped fearfully to Louise. When hesaw Ephie, he uttered a loud exclamation of surprise.

  "Good Lord, Ephie! What on earth are you doing here?"

  She sprang at his hands, and caught her breath hysterically.

  "Oh, Morry, you've come at last. Oh, I thought you would never come.Where have you been? Oh, Morry, help me--help me, or I shall die!"

  "Whatever is the matter? What are you doing here?"

  At his perturbed amazement, she burst into tears, still clinging fastto his hands. He led her back to the sofa, from which she had sprung.

  "Hush, hush! Don't cry like that. What's the matter, child? Tell mewhat it is--at once--and let me help you."

  "Oh, yes, Morry, help me, help me! There's no one else. I didn't knowwhere to go. Oh, what shall I do!"

  Her own words sounded so pathetic that she sobbed piteously. Mauricestroked her hand, and waited for her to grow quieter. But now that shehad laid the responsibility of herself on other shoulders, Ephie wasquite unnerved: after the dark and fearful wanderings of the evening,to be beside some one who knew, who would take care of her, who wouldtell her what to do!

  She sobbed and sobbed. Only with perseverance did Maurice draw fromher, word by word, an account of where she had been that evening,broken by such cries as: "Oh, what shall I do! I can't ever go homeagain--ever! ... and I lost my hat. Oh, Morry, Morry! And I didn't knowhe had gone away--and it wasn't true what I said, that he was comingback to marry me soon.. I only said it to spite her, because she saidsuch dreadful things to me. But we were engaged, all the same; he saidhe would come to New York to marry me. And now ... oh, dear, oh, Morry!..."

  "Then he really promised to marry you, did he?"

  "Yes, oh, yes. Everything was fixed. The last day I was there," shewept. "But I didn't know he was going away; he never said a word aboutit. Oh, what shall I do! Go after him, and bring him back, Morry. Hemust come back. He can't leave me like this, he can't--oh, no, indeed!"

  "You don't mean to say you went to see him, Ephie?--alone?--at hisroom?" queried Maurice slowly, and he did not know how sternly. "When?How often? Tell me everything. This is no time for fibbing."

  But he could make little of Ephie's sobbed and hazy version of thestory; she herself could not remember clearly now; the impressions ofthe last few hours had been so intense as to obliterate much of whathad gone before. "I thought I would drown myself ... but the water wasso black. Oh, why did you take me to that dreadful woman? Did you hearwhat she said? It wasn't true, was it? Oh, it can't be!"

  "It was quite true, Ephie. What he told YOU wasn't true. He neverreally cared for anyone but her. They were--were engaged for years."

  At this, she wept so heart-rendingly that he was afraid Frau Krausewould come in and interfere.

  "You MUST control yourself. Crying won't alter things now. If you hadbeen frank and candid with us, it would never have happened." This wasthe only reproach he could make her; what came after was Johanna'sbusiness, not his. "And now I'm going to take you home. It's nearlytwelve o'clock. Think of the state your mother and sister will be inabout you."

  But at the mention of Johanna, Ephie flung herself on the sofa againand beat the cushions with her hands.

  "Not Joan, not Joan!" she wailed. "No, I won't go home. What will shesay to me? Oh, I am so frightened! She'll kill me, I know she will."And at Maurice's confident assurance that Johanna would have nothingbut love and sympathy for her, she shook her head. "I know Joan. She'llnever forgive me. Morry, let me stay with you. You've always been kindto me. Oh, don't send me away!"

  "Don't be a silly child, Ephie. You know yourself you can't stay here."

  But he gave up urging her, coaxed her to lie down, and sat beside her,stroking her hair. As he said no more, she gradually ceased to sob, andin what seemed to the young man an incredibly short time, he heard fromher breath
ing that she was asleep. He covered her up, and stood a sheetof music before the lamp, to shade her eyes. In the passage he ran upagainst Frau Krause, whom he charged to prevent Ephie in the event ofher attempting to leave the house.

  Buttoning up his coat-collar, he hastened through the mistlike rain tofetch Johanna.

  There was a light in every window of the PENSION in the LESSINGSTRASSE;the street-door and both doors of the flat stood open. As he mountedthe stairs a confused sound of voices struck his car; and when heentered the passage, he heard Mrs. Cayhill crying noisily. Johanna cameout to him at once; she was in hat and cloak. She listened stonily tohis statement that Ephie was safe at his lodgings, and put noquestions; but, on her returning to the sitting-room, Mrs. Cayhill'ssobs stopped abruptly, and several women spoke at once.

  Johanna preserved her uncompromising attitude as they walked themidnight streets. But as Maurice made no mien to explain mattersfurther, she so far conquered her aversion as to ask: "What have youdone to her?"

  The young man's consternation at this view of the case was so evidentthat even she felt the need of wording her question differently.

  "Answer me. What is Ephie doing at your rooms?"

  Maurice cleared his throat. "It's a long and unpleasant story, MissCayhill. And I'm afraid I must tell it from the beginning.--You didn'tsuspect, I fear, that ... well, that Ephie had a fancy for some onehere?"

  At these words, which were very different from those she had expected,Johanna eyed him in astonishment.

  "A fancy!" she repeated incredulously. "What do you mean?"

  "Even more--an infatuation," said Maurice with deliberation. "And forsome one I daresay you have never even heard of--a...a man here, aviolinist, called Schilsky."

  The elaborate fabric she had that day reared, fell together aboutJohanna's ears. She stared at Maurice as if she doubted his sanity; andshe continued to listen, with the same icy air of disbelief, to hisstammered and ineffectual narrative, until he said that he believed"it" had been "going on since summer."

  At this Johanna laughed aloud. "That is quite impossible," she said. "Iknew everything Ephie did, and everywhere she went."

  "She met him nearly every day. They exchanged letters, and-----"

  "It is impossible," repeated Johanna with vehemence, but less surely.

  "----and a sort of engagement seems to have existed between them."

  "And you knew this and never said a word to me?"

  "I didn't know--not till to-night. I only suspected something--once ...long ago. And I couldn't--I mean--one can't say a thing like thatwithout being quite sure----"

  But here he broke down, conscious, as never before, of the negligencehe had been guilty of towards Ephie. And Johanna was not likely tospare him: there was, indeed, a bitter antagonism to his half-heartedconduct in the tone in which she said: "I stood to Ephie in a mother'splace. You might have warned me--oh, you might, indeed!"

  They walked on in silence--a hard, resentful silence. Then Johanna putthe question he was expecting to hear.

  "And what has all this to do with to-night?"

  Maurice took up the thread of his narrative again, telling how Ephiehad waited vainly for news since returning from Switzerland, and howshe had only learnt that afternoon that Schilsky had been in Leipzig,and had gone away again, without seeing her, or letting her know thathe did not intend to return.

  "And how did she hear it?"

  "At a friend's house."

  "What friend?"

  "A friend of mine, a--No; I had better be frank with you: the girl thisfellow was engaged to for a year or more."

  "And Ephie did not know that?"

  He shook his head.

  "But you knew, and yet took her there?"

  It was a hopeless job to try to exonerate himself. "Yes, there werereasons--I couldn't help it, in fact. But I'm afraid I should not beable to make you understand."

  "No, never!" retorted Johanna, and squared her shoulders.

  But there was more to be said--she had worse to learn before Ephie washanded over to her care.

  "And Ephie has been very foolish," he began anew, without looking ather. "It seems--from what she has told me tonight--that she has been tosee this man ... been at his rooms ... more than once."

  At first, he was certain, Johanna did not grasp the meaning of what hesaid; she turned a blank face curiously to him. But, a moment later,she gave a low cry, and hardly able to form the words for excitement,asked: "Who ... what ... what kind of a man was he--this ... Schilsky?"

  "Rotten," said Maurice; and she did not press him further. He heard herbreath coming quickly, and saw the kind of stiffening that went throughher body; but she kept silence, and did not speak again till they werealmost at his house-door. Then she said, in a voice that was hoarsewith feeling: "It has been all my fault. I did not take proper care ofher. I was blind and foolish. And I shall never be able to forgivemyself for it--never. But that Ephic--my little Ephie--the childI--that Ephie could ... could do a thing like this ..." Her voicetailed off in a sob.

  Maurice struck matches, to light her up the dark staircase; and thecondition of the stairs, the disagreeable smells, the poverty of walland door revealed, made Johanna's heart sink still further: tosurroundings such as these had Ephie accustomed herself. They enteredwithout noise; everything was just as Maurice had left it, except thatthe lamp had burned too high and filled the room with its fumes. AsJohanna paused, undecided what to do, Ephie started up, and, at thesight of her sister, burst into loud cries of fear. Hiding her face,she sobbed so alarmingly that Johanna did not venture to approach her.She remained standing beside the table, one thin, ungloved hand restingon it, while Maurice bent over Ephie and tried to soothe her.

  "Please fetch a droschke," Johanna said grimly, as Ephie's sobs showedno signs of abating; and when, after a lengthy search in the night,Maurice returned, she was standing in the same position, staring withdrawn, unblinking eyes at the smoky lamp, which no one had thought oflowering. Ephie was still crying, and only Maurice might go near her.He coaxed her to rise, wrapped his rug round her, and carried her, morethan he led her, down the stairs.

  "Be good enough to drive home with us," said Johanna. And so he satwith his arm round Ephie, who pressed her face against his shoulder,while the droschke jolted over the cobbled streets, and Johanna heldherself pale and erect on the opposite seat. She mounted the stairs infront of them. Ephie was limp and heavy going up; but no sooner did shecatch sight of Mrs. Cayhill than, with a cry, she rushed from the youngman's side, and threw herself into her mother's arms.

  "Oh, mummy, mummy!"

  Downstairs, in the rain-soaked street, Maurice found thedroschke-driver waiting for his fare. It only amounted to a couple ofmarks, and it was no doubt a just retribution for what had happenedthat he should be obliged to lay it out; but, none the less, it seemedlike the last straw--the last dismal touch--in a day of forlorndiscomfort.