Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  V.

  A few weeks later, a great variety of cabin-trunks and saratogasblocked the corridor of the PENSION. The addresses they bore were inJohanna's small, pointed handwriting.

  On this, the last afternoon of the Cayhills' stay in Leipzig, Mauricesaw Johanna again for the first time. She had had her hands full. Inthe woods, on that damp October night, and on her subsequentwanderings, Ephie had caught a severe cold; and the doctor had fearedan inflammation of the lungs. This had been staved off; but there wasalso, it seemed, a latent weakness of the chest, hitherto unsuspected,which kept them anxious. Ephie still had a dry, grating cough, whichwas troublesome at night, and left her tired and fretful by day. Theywere travelling direct to the South of France, where they intended toremain until she had quite recovered her strength.

  Maurice sat beside Johanna on the deep sofa where he and Ephie hadworked at harmony together. But the windows of the room were shut now,and the room itself looked unfamiliar; for it had been stripped of allthe trifles and fancy things that had given it such a comfortable,home-like air, and was only the bare, lodging-house room once more.Johanna was as self-possessed as of old, a trifle paler, a triflethinner of lip.

  She told him that they intended leaving quietly the next morning,without partings or farewells. Ephie was still weak and the lessexcitement she had to undergo, the better it would be for her.

  "Then I shall not see Ephie again?" queried Maurice in surprise.

  Johanna thought not: it would only recall the unhappy night to hermemory; besides, she had not asked to see him, as she no doubt wouldhave done, had she wished it.--At this, the eleventh hour, Johanna didnot think it worth while to tell Maurice that Ephie bore him anunalterable grudge.

  "I never want to see him again."

  That was all she said to Johanna; but, during her illness, she hadbrooded long over his treachery. And even if things had come all rightin the end, she would never have been able to forgive his speaking toher of Schilsky in the way he had done. No, she was finished withMaurice Guest; he was too double-faced, too deceitful for her.--And shecried bitterly, with her face turned to the wall.

  The young man could not but somewhat lamely agree with Johanna that itwas better to let the matter end thus: for he felt that towards theCayhills he had been guilty of a breach of trust such as it isdifficult to forgive. At the same time, he was humanly hurt that Ephiewould not even say good-bye to him.

  He asked their further plans, and learnt that as soon as Ephie was wellagain, they would sail for New York.

  "My father has cabled twice for us."

  Johanna's manner was uncompromisingly dry and short. After her lastwords, there was a long pause, and Maurice made a movement to rise. Butshe put out her hand and detained him.

  "There is something I should like to say to you." And thereupon, withthe abruptness of a nervous person: "When I have seen my sister andmother safe back, I intend leaving home myself. I am going to Harvard."

  Maurice realised that the girl was telling him a fact of considerableimportance to herself, and did his best to look interested.

  "Really? That's always been a wish of yours, hasn't it?"

  "Yes." Johanna coloured, hesitated as he had never known her to do,then burst out: "And now there is nothing in the way of it." She drewher thumb across the leaf-corners of a book that was lying on thetable. "Oh, I know what you will say: how, now that Ephie has turnedout to be weak and untrustworthy, there is all the more reason for meto remain with her, to look after her. But that is not possible." Shefaced him sharply, as though he had contradicted her. "I am incapableof pretending to be the same when my feelings have changed; and, as Itold you--as I knew that night--I shall never be able to feel for Ephieas I did before. I am ready, as I said, to take all the blame for whathas happened; I was blind and careless. But if the care and affectionof years count for nothing; if I have been so little able to win herconfidence; if, indeed, I have only succeeded in making her dislike me,by my care of her, so that when she is in trouble, she turns from me,instead of to me--why, then I have failed lamentably in what I had madethe chief duty of my life."

  "Besides," she continued more quietly, "there is another reason: Ephieis going to fall a victim to her nerves. I see that; and my poor,foolish mother is doing her best to foster it.--You smile? Only becauseyou do not understand what it means. It is no laughing matter. If anAmerican woman once becomes conscious of her nerves, then Heaven helpher!--Now I am not of a disinterested enough nature to devote myself tosick-nursing where there is no real sickness. And then, too, my motherintends taking a French maid back with her, and a person of that classwill perform such duties much more competently than I."

  She spoke with bitterness. Maurice mumbled some words of sympathy,wondering why she should choose to say these things to him.

  "Even at home my place is filled," continued Johanna. "The housekeeperwho was appointed during our absence has been found so satisfactorythat she will continue in the post after our return. Everywhere, yousee, I have proved superfluous. There, as here."

  "I'm sure you're mistaken," said Maurice with more warmth. "And, MissJoan, there's something I should like to say, if I may. Don't you thinkyou take what has happened here a little too seriously? No doubt Ephiebehaved foolishly. But was it after all any more than a girlishescapade?"

  "Too seriously?"

  Johanna turned her shortsighted eyes on the young man, and gazed at himalmost pityingly. How little, oh, how little, she said to herself, onemortal knew and could know of another, in spite of the medium ofspeech, in spite of common experiences! Some of the nights at thebeginning of Ephie's illness returned vividly to her mind, nights, whenshe, Johanna, had paced her room by the hour, filled with a terribledread, a numbing uncertainty, which she would sooner have died thanhave let cross her lips. She had borne it quite alone, this horriblefear; her mother had been told of the whole affair only what it wasabsolutely necessary for her to know. And, naturally enough, the youngman who now sat at her side, being a man, could not be expected tounderstand. But the consciousness of her isolation made Johanna speakwith renewed harshness.

  "Too seriously?" she repeated. "Oh, I think not. The girlish escapade,as you call it, was the least of it. If that had been all, if it hadonly been her infatuation for some one who was unworthy of her, I couldhave forgiven Ephie till seventy times seven. But, after all theseyears, after the way I have loved her--no, idolised her!--for her totreat me as she did--do you think it possible to take that tooseriously? There was no reason she should not have had her littlesecrets. If she had let me see that something was going on, which shedid not want to tell me about, do you think I should have forcedher?"--and Johanna spoke in all good faith, forgetful of how she hadbeen used to clip and doctor Ephie's sentiments. "But that she coulddeceive me wilfully, and lie so lightly, with a smile, when, all thetime, she was living a double life, one to my face and one behind myback--that I cannot forgive. Something has died in me that I used tofeel for her. I could never trust her again, and where there is notrust there can be no real love."

  "She didn't understand what she was doing. She is so young."

  "Just for that reason. So young, and so skilled in deceit. That ishardest of all, even to think of: that she could wear her dear innocentface, while behind it, in her brain, were cold, calculating thoughtshow she could best deceive me! If there had been but a single sign towaken my suspicions, then, yes, then I could have forgiven her," saidJohanna, and again forgot how often of late she had been puzzled by thesubtle change in Ephie. "If I could just know that, in spite of herefforts, she had been too candid to succeed!"

  She had unburdened herself and it had been a relief to her, but nothingcould be helped or mended. Both knew this, and after a few politequestions about her future plans and studies, Maurice rose to take hisleave.

  "Say good-bye to them both for me, and give Ephie my love."

  "I will. I think she will be sorry afterwards that she did not see you.She has always liked you."

/>   "Good-bye then. Or perhaps it is only AUF WIEDERSEHEN?"

  "I hardly think so." Johanna had returned to her usual sedate manner."If I do visit Europe again, it will not be for five or six years atleast."

  "And that's a long time. Who knows where I may be, by then!"

  He held Johanna's hand in his, and saw her gauntly slim figure outlinedagainst the bare sitting-room. It was not likely that they would evermeet again. But he could not summon up any very lively feelings ofregret. Johanna had not touched him deeply; she had left him as cool ashe had no doubt left her; neither had found the key to the other. Herchief attraction for him had been her devotion to Ephie; and now,having been put to the test, this was found wanting. She had beenwounded in her own pride and self-love, and could not forgive. At heartshe was no more generous and unselfish than the rest.

  He repeated farewell messages as he stood in the passage. Johanna heldthe front door open for him, and, as he went down the stairs, he heardit close behind him, with that extreme noiselessness that wascharacteristic of Johanna's treatment of it.

  The following morning, shortly after ten o'clock, a train steamed outof the THURINGER BAHNHOF, carrying the Cayhills with it. The day wasmisty and cheerless, and none of the three travellers turned her headto give the town a parting glance. They left unattended, withoutflowers or other souvenirs, without any of the demonstratively patheticfarewells, the waving of hats, and crowding about the carriage-door,which one of the family, at least, had connected inseverably with theirdeparture. And thus Ephie's musical studies came to an abrupt anduntimely end.

  * * * * *

  "My faith in women is shattered. I shall never believe in a womanagain."

  Dove paced the floor of Maurice's room with long and steady strides,beneath which a particular board creaked at intervals. His voice washusky, and the ruddiness of his cheeks had paled.

  At the outset of Ephie's illness, Dove had called every morning at thePENSION, to make inquiries and to leave his regards. But when the storyleaked out, as it soon did, in an exaggerated and distorted form, hestraightway ceased his visits. Thus he was wholly unprepared for thefamily's hurried departure, the news of which was broken to him byMaurice. Dove was dumbfounded. Not a single sententious phrase crossedhis lips; and he remained unashamed of the moisture that dimmed hiseyes. But he maintained his bearing commendably; and it was impossiblenot to admire the upright, manly air with which he walked down thestreet.

  The next day, however, he returned, and was silent no longer. He madeno secret of having been hard hit; just as previously he had let hisfriends into his hopes and intentions, so now every one heard of hisreverses. He felt a tremendous need of unbosoming himself; he had beenso sure of success, or, at least, so unthinking of failure, and theblow to his selfesteem was a rude one.

  Maurice sat with his hands in his pockets, and tried to urge reason.But Dove would not admit even the possibility of his having beenmistaken. He had received innumerable proofs of Ephie's regard for him.

  "Remember how young she was! Girls of that age never know their ownminds," said Maurice. But Dove was inclined to take Johanna's sternerview, and to cry: "So young and so untender!" for which he, too,substituted "untrue"; and, just on this score, to deduce unfavourableinferences for Ephie's whole moral character. As Maurice listened tohim, he could not help thinking that Johanna's affection had been ofthe same nature as Dove's, in other words, had had a touch of themasculine about it: it had existed only as long as it could guide andsubordinate; it denied to its object any midget attempt at individuallife; it set up lofty moral standards, and was implacable when asmaller, frailer being found it impossible to live up to them.

  At the same time, he was sorry for Dove, who, in his blindness, hadlaid himself open to receive this snubbing; and he listened patiently,even a thought flattered by his confidence, until he learnt fromMadeleine that Dove was making the round of his acquaintances, andbehaving in the same way to anyone who would let him. Then he foundthat the openness with which Dove related his past hopes, and the marksof affection Ephie had given him, bordered on indecency. He said so,with a wrathful frankness; but Dove could not see it in that light, andwas not offended.

  As the personal smart weakened, the more serious question that Dove hadto face was, what he was going to tell his relatives at home. For itnow came out that he had represented the affair to them as settled; inhis perfectly sincere optimism, he had regarded himself as an all butengaged man. And the point that disturbed him was, how to back out withdignity, yet without violating the truth, on which he set great store.

  "I'm sure he needn't let that trouble him," said Madeleine, on hearingof his dilemma. "He has only to say that HE has changed his mind, whichis true enough."

  This was the conclusion Dove eventually came to himself--though notwith such unseemly haste as Madeleine. Having approached the matterfrom all sides, he argued that it would be more considerate to Ephie toput it in this light than to tell the story in detail. Andconsequently, two elderly people in Peterborough nodded to each otherone morning over the breakfast-table, and agreed that Edward had donewell. They had not been much in favour of the American match, but theyhad trusted implicitly in their son's good sense, and now, as ever, hehad acted in the most becoming way. He had never given them an hour'suneasiness since his birth.

  Dove wrote:

  CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE ARISEN, MY DEAR PARENTS, WHICH MAKE ITINCONTROVERTIBLY CLEAR TO ME THAT THE YOUNG LADY TO WHOM I WAS PAYINGMY ADDRESSES WHEN I CONSULTED YOU IN SUMMER AND MYSELF WOULD NOT HAVEKNOWN TRUE HAPPINESS IN OUR UNION. ON MORE INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE ITTRANSPIRED THAT OUR CHARACTERS WERE TOTALLY UNSUITED. I HAVE THEREFOREFOUND IT ADVISABLE TO BANISH THE AFFAIR FROM MY MIND AND TO DEVOTEMYSELF WHOLLY TO MY STUDIES.

  As time passed, and Dove was able to view what had happened moreobjectively, he began to feel and even to hint that, all thingsconsidered, he had had a rather lucky escape; and from this, it was notvery far to believing that if he had not just seen through the wholeaffair from the beginning, he had at any rate had some inkling of it;and now, instead of giving proofs of Ephie's affection, he narrated thegradual growth of his suspicions, and how these had ultimately beenverified. In conclusion, he congratulated himself on having drawn back,with open eyes, while there was still time.

  "Like his cheek!" said Madeleine. "But he could imagine himself intobeing the Shah of Persia, if he sat down and gave his mind to it. Idon't believe the snub is going to do him a bit of good. He bobs upagain like a cork, irrepressible. HAVE you heard him quote: 'Frailtythy name is woman!' or: 'If women could be fair and yet notfond'?--It's as good as a play."

  But altogether, Madeleine was very sharp of tongue since she learnt thepart Maurice had played in what, for a day, was the scandal of theEnglish-speaking colony. She had taken him to task at once, for his"lamentable interference."

  "Haven't I warned you, Maurice, not to mix yourself up in Louise'saffairs? No good can come of it. She breeds mischief. And if thatabsurd child had really drowned herself"--in the version of the storythat had reached Madeleine's ears, Maurice was represented fishingEphie bodily from the river--"you would have had to bear the wholebrunt of the blame. It ought to teach you a lesson. For you're just thekind of boy women will always take advantage of, a mean advantage, youknow. Consider how you were treated in this case--by both of them! Theywere not a scrap grateful to you for what you did--women never are.They only look down on you for letting them have their own way.Kindness and complaisance don't move them. A well-developed biceps anda cruel mouth--that's what they want, and that's all!" she wound upwith a flourish, in an extreme bad temper.

  She sat, one dull November afternoon, at her piano, and continued torun her fingers over the keys. Maurice leant on the lid, and listenedto her. But they had barely exchanged a word, when there was a lighttap at the door, and Krafft entered. Both started at his unexpectedappearance, and Madeleine cried: "You come in like a ghost, to frightenpeople out of their wits."

  Krafft was buttoned to the chin
in a travelling-ulster, and looked paleand thin.

  "What news from St. Petersburg?" queried Madeleine with a certainasperity.

  But Maurice recalled an errand he had to do in town; and, on hearingthis, Krafft, who was lolling aimlessly, declared that he wouldaccompany him.

  "But you've only just come!" expostulated Madeleine. "What in the nameof goodness did you climb the stairs for?"

  He patted her cheek, without replying.

  The young men went away together, Maurice puffing somewhatostentatiously at a cigarette. The wind was cold, and Krafft seemed toshrink into his ulster before it, keeping his hands deep in hispockets. But from time to time, he threw a side-glance at his friend,and at length asked, in the tone of appeal which Maurice found it hardto withstand: "What's the matter, LIEBSTER? Why are you sodifferent?--so changed?"

  "The matter? Nothing--that I'm aware of," said Maurice, and consideredthe tip of his cigarette.

  "Oh, yes, there is," and Krafft laid a caressing hand on hiscompanion's arm. "You are changed. You're not frank with me. I feelsuch things at once."

  "Well, how on earth am I to know when to be frank with you, and whennot? Before you ... not very long ago, you behaved as if you didn'twant to have anything more to do with me."

  "You are changed, and, if I'm not mistaken, I know why," said Krafft,ignoring his answer. "You have been listening to gossip--to what myenemies say of me."

  "I don't listen to gossip. And I didn't know you had enemies, as youcall them."

  "I?--and not have enemies?" He flared up as though Maurice hadaffronted him. "My good fellow, did you ever bear of a man worth hissalt, who didn't have enemies? It's the penalty one pays: only thedolts and the 'all-too-many' are friends with the whole world. No onewho has work to do that's worth doing, can avoid making enemies. Andwho knows what a friend is, who hasn't an enemy to match him? It's aquestion of light and shade, theme and counter-theme, of artisticproportion." He laughed, in his superior way. But directly afterwards,he dropped back into his former humble tone. "But that you, my friend,are so ready to let yourself be influenced--I should not have believedit of you."

  "What I heard, I heard from Furst; and I have no reason to suspect himof falsehood.--Of course, if you assure me it was not true, that's adifferent thing." He turned so sharply that he sent a beautiful flushover Krafft's face. "Come, give me your word, Heirtz, and things willbe straight again."

  But Krafft merely shrugged his shoulders, and his colour subsided asrapidly as it had risen.

  "Are you still such an outsider," he asked, "after all this time--in mysociety--as to attach importance to a word? What is 'giving a word'? Doyou really think it is of any value? May I not give it tonight, andtake it back to-morrow, according to the mood I am in, according towhether I believe it myself or not, at the moment?--You think a thingmust either be true or not true? You are wrong. Do you believe, whenyou answer a question in the affirmative or the negative, that you areactually telling the truth? No, my friend, to be perfectly truthful onewould need to lose oneself in a maze of explanation, such as noquestioner would have the patience to listen to. One would need to takeinto account the innumerable threads that have gone to making thestatement what it is. Do you think, for instance, if I answered yes orno, in the present case, it would be true? If I deny what youheard--does that tell you that I have longed with all my heart for itto come to pass? Or say I admit it--I should need to unroll my lifebefore you to make you understand. No, there's no such thing asabsolute truth. If there were, the finest subtleties of existence wouldbe lost. There is neither positive truth nor positive untruth; life isnot so coarse-fibred as that. And only the grossest natures can besatisfied with a blunt yes or no. Truth?--it is one of the manymiserable conventions the human brain has tortured itself with, and itsfirst principle is an utter lack of the imaginative faculties.--A DIEU!"