Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  VIII.

  What she needed, what she had always needed, was a friend, he said tohimself. She had never had anyone to stand by her and advise her towisdom, in the matter of impulsive acts and wishes. He would be thatfriend. He had not, it was true, made a very happy beginning, with theexpedition that had ended so unfortunately; but he promised himself notto be led into an indiscretion of the kind again. It was a friend'spart to warn in due time, and to point out the possible consequences ofa rash act. He only excused his behaviour because he had not seen herfor over two months, and had felt too sorry for her to refuse the firstthing she asked of him. But from now on, he would be firm. He would winher back to life--reawaken her interest in what was going on aroundher. He would devote himself to serving her: not selfishly, as othershad done, with their own ends in view; the gentle, steady aid should behers, which he had always longed to give her. He felt strong enough toface any contingency: it seemed, indeed, as if his love for her had allalong been aiming at this issue; as if each of the unhappy hours he hadspent, since first meeting her, was made up for by the words: "You aremy friend."

  A deep sense of responsibility filled him. In obedience, however, to apuritanic streak in his nature, he hedged himself round withrestrictions, lest he should believe he was setting out on all tooprimrose a path. He erected limiting boundaries, which were not to beoverstepped. For example, on the two days that followed the memorableChristmas Eve, he only made inquiries at the door after Louise, andwhen he learned that the cold she had caught was better, did notreturn. For, on one point, his mind was made up: idle tongues shouldhave no fresh cause for gossip.

  At the expiry of a fortnight, however, he began to fear that if heremained away any longer, she would think him indifferent to her offerof friendship. So, late one afternoon, he called to see her. But whenhe was face to face with her, he doubted whether she had given him athought in the interval: she seemed mildly surprised at his coming. Itwas even possible that she had forgotten, by now, what she had said tohim; and he sought anew for a means of impressing himself on herconsciousness.

  She was crouched in the rocking-chair, close beside the stove, and waswrapped in a thick woollen shawl; but the hand she gave him was as coldas stone. She was trying to keep warm, she said; she had not beenproperly warm since the night on the ice.

  "But there's an easy remedy for that," said Maurice, who came in ruddyfrom the sharp air. "You must go out and walk. Then you will soon getwarm."

  But she shuddered at the suggestion, and also made an expressivegesture to indicate the general laxity of her dress--the soileddressing-gown, her untidy hair. Then she leaned forward again, holdingboth hands, palms out, to the mica pane in the door of the stove,through which the red coals glowed.

  "If only winter were over!"

  He gazed at the expressive lines of hand and wrist, and was reminded ofan adoring Madonna he had somewhere seen engraved: her hands were heldback in the same way; the thumbs slightly thrown out, the three longfingers together, the little one apart: here as there, was the samesupple, passionate indolence. But he could find no more to say than onthe occasion of his former visit; she did not help him; and more andmore did it seem to the young man as if the words he had gone abouthugging to him, had never been spoken. After a desperate quarter of anhour, he rose to take leave. But simultaneously, she, too, got up fromthe rocking-chair, and, standing pale and uncertain before him, askedhim if she might trouble him to do something for her. A box had beensent to her from England, she told him, while she tumbled over thedusty letters and papers accumulated on the writing-table, and had beenlying unclaimed at the custom-house for several weeks now--how many shedid not know, and she spread out her fingers, with a funny littlemovement, to show her ignorance. She had only remembered it a day ortwo ago; the dues would no doubt be considerable. If it were not toomuch trouble ... she would be so grateful; she would rather ask himthan Mr. Eggis.

  "I should be delighted," said Maurice.

  He went the next morning, at nine o'clock, spent a trying hour withuncivil officials, and, in the afternoon, called to report to Louise.As he was saying good-bye to her, he inquired if there were nothingelse of a similar nature he could do for her; he was glad to be of use.Smiling, Louise admitted that there were other things, many of them,more than he would have patience for. She should try him and see, saidMaurice, and laid his hat down again, to hear what they were.

  As a consequence of this, the following days saw him on variouscommissions in different quarters of the town, scanning the names ofshops, searching for streets he did not know. But matters did notalways run smoothly; complications arose, for instance, over a paidbill that had been sent in a second time, and over an earlier one thathad not been paid at all; and Maurice was forced to confess hisignorance of the circumstances. When this had happened more than once,he sat down, with her consent, at the writing-table, to work throughthe mass of papers, and the contents of a couple of drawers.

  In doing this, he became acquainted with some of the more intimatedetails of her life--minute and troublesome details, for which she hadno aptitude. From her scat at the stove, Louise watched him sorting andreckoning, and she was as grateful to him as it was possible for her tobe, in her present mood. No one had ever done a thing of the kind forher before; and she was callous to the fact of its being a stranger,who had his hands thus in her private life. When, horrified beyondmeasure at the confusion that reigned in all belonging to her, Mauriceasked her how she had ever succeeded in keeping order, she told himthat, before her illness, there had, now and again, come a day ofstrength and purpose, on which she had had the "courage" to face thesedistasteful trifles and to end them. But she did not believe such a daywould ever come again.

  Bills, bills, bills: dozens of bills, of varying dates, sent in once,twice, three times, and invariably tossed aside and forgotten--a modeof proceeding incomprehensible to Maurice, who had never boughtanything on credit in his life. And not because she was in want ofmoney: there were plenty of gold pieces jingling loose in a drawer; butfrom an aversion, which was almost an inability, to take in what thefigures meant. And the amounts added up to alarming totals; Maurice hadno idea what a woman's dress cost, and could only stand amazed; but thesum spent on fruit and flowers alone, in two months, represented to hiseyes a small fortune. Then there was the Bluthner, the unused piano;the hire of it had not been paid since the previous summer. Three termswere owed at Klemm's musical library, from which no music was nowborrowed; fees were still being charged against her at theConservatorium, where she had given no formal notice of leaving. Itreally did not matter, she said, with that carelessness concerningmoney, which was characteristic of her; but it went against the grainin Maurice to let several pounds be lost for want of an effort; and hespent a diplomatic half-hour with the secretaries in the BUREAU,getting her released from paying the whole of the term that had nowbegun. As, however, she would not appear personally, she was under thenecessity of writing a letter, stating that she had left theConservatorium; and when she had promised twice to do, it, and it wasstill unwritten, Maurice stood over her, and dictated the words intoher pen. A day or two afterwards, he prevailed upon her to do the samefor Schwarz, to inform him of her illness, and to say that, at Easter,if she were better, she would come to him for a course of privatelessons. This was an idea of Maurice's own, and Louise looked up at himbefore putting down the words.

  "It's not true. But if you think I should say so--it doesn't matter."

  This was the burden of all she said: nothing mattered, nothing wouldever matter again. There was not the least need for the half-jestingtone in which Maurice clothed his air of authority. She obeyed himblindly, doing what he bade her without question, glad to besubordinate to his will. As long as he did not ask her to think, or tofeel, or to stir from her chair beside the stove.

  But it was only with regard to small practical things; in matters ofmore importance she was not to be moved. And the day came, only toosoon, when the positive help Maurice could give
her was at an end; shedid not owe a pfennig to anyone; her letters and accounts were filedand in order. Then she seemed to elude him again. He did what lay inhis power: brought her books that she did not read, brought news andscraps of chit-chat, which he thought might interest her and which didnot, and an endless store of sympathy. But to all he said and did, shemade the same response: it did not matter.

  Since the night on the river, she had not set foot across the thresholdof her room; nervous fears beset her. Maurice was bent on her going outinto the open air; he also wished her to mix with people again, andthus rid herself of the morbid fancies that were creeping on her. Butshe shrank as he spoke of it, and pressed both hands to her face: itwas too cold, she murmured, and too cheerless; and then the streets!... the publicity of the streets, the noise, the people! This was whatshe said to him; to herself she added: and all the old familiar places,to each of which a memory was attached! He spent hours in urging her totake up some regular occupation; it would be her salvation, hebelieved, and, not allowing himself to be discouraged, he returned tothe attack, day after day. But she only smiled the thin smile withwhich she defeated most of his proposals for her good. Work?--what hadshe to do with work? It had never been anything to her but a narcotic,enabling her to get through those hours of the day in which she wasalone.

  She let Maurice talk on, and hardly heard what he said. He meant well,but he did not understand. No one understood. No one but herself knewthe weight of the burden she had borne since the day when her happinesswas mercilessly destroyed. Now she could not raise a finger to helpherself. On waking, in the morning, she turned with loathing from thenew day. In the semi-darkness of the room, she lay motionless, halfsleeping, or dreaming with open eyes. The clock ticked benumbingly thelong hours away; the wind howled, or the wind was still; snow fell, orit was frostily clear; but nothing happened--nothing at all. The daywas well advanced before she left her bed for the seat by the stove;there she brooded until she dragged herself back to bed. One day wasthe exact counterpart of another.

  The only break in the deathlike monotony was Maurice's visit. He camein, fresh, and eager to see her; he held her hand and said kind thingsto her; he talked persuasively, and she listened or not, as she feltdisposed. But little though he was able to touch her, she unconsciouslybegan to look to his visits; and one day, when he was detained andcould not come, she was aware of a feeling of injury at his absence.

  As time went by, however, Maurice felt more and more clearly that hewas making no headway. His uneasiness increased; for her want of spirithad something about it that he could not understand. It began to lookto him like a somewhat morbid indulgence in grief.

  "This can't go on," he said sternly.

  She was in one of her most pitiable moods; for there were gradations inher unhappiness, as he had learned to know.

  "This can't go on. You are killing yourself by inches--and I'm a partyto it."

  For the first time, there was a hint of impatience in his manner. Tohis surprise, Louise raised her head, raised it quickly, as he had notseen her make a movement for weeks.

  "By inches? Inches only? Oh, I am so strong ... Nothing hurts me.Nothing is of any use."

  "If you look in the glass, you will see that you're hurting yourselfconsiderably."

  "You mean that I'm getting old?--and ugly?" she caught him up. "Do youthink I care?--Oh, if I had only had the courage, that day! A fewgrains of something, and it would have been all over, long ago. But Iwasn't brave enough. And now I have no more courage in me than strengthin my little finger."

  Maurice looked meditatively at her, without replying: this was thesingle occasion on which she had been roused to a retort of any kind;and, bitter though her words were, he could not prevent the spark ofhope which, by their means, was lit in him.

  And from this day on, things went forward of themselves. Again andagain, some harmless observation on his part drew forth a caustic replyfrom her; it was as if, having once experienced it, she found an outcryof this kind a relief to her surcharged nerves. At first, what she saidwas directed chiefly against herself--this self for which she nownursed a fanatic hatred, since it had failed her in her need. But,little by little, he, too, was drawn within the circle of herbitterness; indeed, it sometimes seemed as if his very kindness incitedher, by laying her under an obligation to him, which it was in hernature to resent: at others, again, as if she merely wished to try him,to see how far she might go.

  "Do I really deserve that thrust?" he once could not help asking. Hesmiled, as he spoke, to take the edge off his words.

  Louise threw a penitent glance at him, and, for all answer, held outher hand.

  But, the very next day, after a similar incident, she crossed the roomto him, with the swiftness of movement that was always disturbing inher, contrasting as it did with her customary indolence. "Forgive me. Iought not to. And you are the only friend I have. But there's so much Imust say to some one. If I don't say it, I shall go mad."

  "Why, of course. That's what I'm here for," said Maurice.

  And so it went on--a strange state of things, in which he never calledher by her name, and seldom touched her hand. He had himself well undercontrol--except for the moment immediately before he saw her, and themoment after. He could not yet meet her, after the briefest absence,unmoved.

  For a week on end that penetrating rawness had been abroad, whichprecedes and accompanies a thaw; and one day, early in February, when,after the unequalled severity of the winter, the air seemed of anincredible mildness, the thaw was there in earnest; on the ice of morethan three months' standing, pools of water had formed overnight. Bythe JOHANNATEICH, Maurice and Madeleine stood looking dubiously acrossthe bank of snow, which, here and there, had already collapsed, leavingminiature crater-rings, flecked with moisture. Several people who couldnot tear themselves away, were still flying about the ice, dexterouslyavoiding the watery places; and Dove and pretty Susie Fay called out tothem that it was better than it looked. But Maurice was fastidious andMadeleine indifferent; she was really rather tired of skating, sheadmitted, as they walked home, and was ashamed to think of the time shehad wasted on it. As, however, this particular afternoon was alreadybroken into, she would have been glad to go for a walk; but Maurice didnot take up her suggestion, and parted from her at her house-door.

  "Spring is in the air," he sought to tempt Louise, when, a few minuteslater, he entered her room.

  She, too, had been aware of the change; for it had aggravated herdejection. She raised her eyes to his like a tired child, and had notstrength enough to make her usual stand against him. Oh, if he reallywished it so much, she would go out, she said at last. And so he lefther to dress, and ran to the Conservatorium, arriving just in time fora class.

  Later on, a curious uneasiness drew him back to see how she had fared.It was almost dark, but she had not returned; and he waited for half anhour before he heard her step in the hall. Directly she came in, heknew that something was the matter.

  In each of her movements was a concentrated, but noiseless energy: sheshut the door after her as if it were never to open again; tore offrather than unpinned the thick black veil in which she had shroudedherself; threw her hat on the sofa, furs and jacket to the hat; thenstood motionless, pressing her handkerchief to her lips. Her face hademerged from its wrappings with renewed pallor; her eyes shone as ifwith belladonna. She took no notice of the silent figure in the corner,did not even look in his direction.

  "You've got back," said Maurice, for the sake of saying something."It's too late."

  At his words, she dropped on a chair, put her arms on the table, andhid her face in them.

  "What's the matter? Has anything happened?" he asked, in quick alarm,as she burst into violent sobs. He should have been accustomed to herway of crying by this time--it sounded worse than it was, as heknew--but it invariably racked him anew. He stood over her; but theonly comfort he ventured on was to lay his hand on her hair--this wildblack hair, which met his fingers springily, with a will of its
own.

  "What is the matter?" he besought her. "Tell me, Louise--tell me whatit is."

  He had to ask several times before he received an answer. Finally, shesobbed in a muffled voice, without raising her head: "How could youmake me go out! Oh, how COULD you!"

  "What do you mean? I don't understand. What is it?" He had visions ofher being annoyed or insulted.

  But she only repeated: "How could you! Oh, it was cruel of you!" andwept afresh.

  Word by word, Maurice drew her story from her. There was not very muchto tell.

  She had gone out, and had walked hurriedly along quiet by-streets tothe ROSENTAL. But before she had advanced a hundred yards, her couragebegan to fail, and the further she went, the more her spirits sank. Hersurroundings were indescribably depressing: the smirched, steadilyretreating snow was leaving bare all the drab brownness it hadconcealed--all the dismal little gardens, and dirty corners. Houses,streets and people wore their most bedraggled air. Particularly thepeople: they were as ugly as the areas of roof and stone, off which thesoft white coating had slid; their contours were as painful to see. Andthe mud--oh, God, the mud! It spread itself over every inch of the way;the roads were rivers of filth, which spattered and splashed; at thesides of the streets, the slush was being swept into beds. Before shehad gone any distance, her boots and skirts were heavy with it; and shehated mud, she sobbed--hated it, loathed it, it affected her with aphysical disgust--and this lie might have known when he sent her out.In the ROSENTAL, it was no better; the paths were so soaked that theysquashed under her feet; on both sides, lay layers of rotten leavesfrom the autumn; the trees were only a net-work of blackened twigs,their trunks surrounded by an undergrowth that was as ragged as unkempthair. And everything was mouldering: the smell of moist, earthy decayreminded her of open graves. Not a soul was visible but herself. Shesat on a seat, the only living creature in the scene, and the past rosebefore her with resistless force: the intensity of her happiness; thebase cruelty of his conduct; her misery, her unspeakable misery; herforlorn desolation, which was of a piece with the desolation aroundher, and which would never again be otherwise, though she lived to bean old woman.--How long she sat thinking things of this kind, she didnot know. But all of a sudden she started up, frightened both by herwretched thoughts and by the loneliness of the wood; and she fled, notlooking behind her, or pausing to take breath, till she reached thestreets. Into the first empty droschke she met, she had sunk exhausted,and been driven home.

  It was of no use trying to reason with her, or to console her.

  "I can't bear my life," she sobbed. "It's too hard ... and there is noone to help me. If I had done anything to deserve it ... then it wouldbe different ... then I shouldn't complain. But I didn't--didn't doanything--unless it was that I cared too much. At least it was amistake--a dreadful mistake. I should never have shown him how I cared:I should have made him believe he loved me best. But I was a fool. Iflung it all at his feet. And it was only natural he should get tiredof me. The wonder was that I held him so long. But, oh, how can onecare as I did, and yet be able to plot and plan? I couldn't. It isn'tin me to do it."

  She wept despairingly, with her head on her outstretched arms. When sheraised it again, her tear-stained face looked out, Medusa-like, fromits setting of ruffled hair. More to herself than to the young man, asif, on this day, secret springs had been touched in her, she continuedwith terse disconnectedness: "I couldn't believe it; I wouldn't--evenwhen I heard it from his own lips. You thought, all of you, that I wasill; but I wasn't; I was only trying to get used to the terriblethought--just as a suddenly blinded man has to get used to being alwaysin the dark. And while I was still struggling came Madeleine, with hercruel tongue, and told me--you know what she told me. Oh, if hisleaving me had been hard to bear, this stung like scorpions. I wonder Ididn't go mad. I should have, if you hadn't come to help me. For a dayand night, I did not move from the corner of that sofa there. I turnedher words over till there was no sense left in them. My nails cut mypalms."

  Her clasped hands were slightly stretched from her: her whole attitudebetrayed the tension at which she was speaking. "Oh, my God, how Ihated him ... hated him ... how I hate him still! If I live to be anold, old woman, I shall never forgive him. For, in time, I might havelearnt to bear his leaving me, if it had only been his work that tookhim from me. It was always between us, as it was; but it was at leastonly a pale brain thing, not living flesh and blood. But that all thetime he should have been deceiving me, taking pains to do it--that Icannot forgive. At first, I implored, I prayed there might be somemistake: you, too, told me there was. And I hoped against hope--till Isaw her. Then, I knew it was true-----as plainly as if it had beenwritten on that wall." She paused for breath, in this bitter pleasureof laying her heart bare. "For I wasn't the person he could always havebeen satisfied with--I see it now. He liked a woman to be fair, andsoft, and gentle--not dark, and hot-tempered. It was only a phase, afancy, that brought him to me, and it couldn't have lasted for ever.But all I asked of him was common honesty--to be open with me: itwasn't much to ask, was it? Not more than we expect of a stranger inthe street. But it was too much for him, all the same. And so ... now... I have nothing left to remind me that I ever knew him. That night,when I had seen her, I burned everything--every photograph, every scrapof writing I had ever had from him ... if only one could burn memoriestoo! I had to tear my heart over it; I used to think I felt itbleeding, drop by drop. For all the suffering fell on me, who had donenothing. He went free."

  "Are you sure of that? It may have been hard for him, too--harder thanyou think." Maurice was looking out of the window, and did not turn.

  She shook her head. "The person who cares, can't scheme and contrive.He didn't care. He never really cared for me--only for himself; atheart, he was cold and selfish. No, I paid for it all--I who hate andshrink from pain, who would do anything to avoid it. I want to gothrough life knowing only what is bright and happy; and time and again,I am crushed and flung down. But, in all my life, I haven't sufferedlike this. And now perhaps you understand, why I never want to hear hisname again, and why I shall never--not if I live to be a hundred yearsold--never forgive him. It isn't in me to do it. As a child, I groundmy heel into a rose if it pricked me."

  There was a silence. Then she sighed, and pushed her hair back fromforehead. "I don't know why I should say all this to you," she saidcontritely. "But often, just with you, I seem to forget what I amsaying. It must be, I think, because you're so quiet yourself."

  At this, Maurice turned and came over to her. "No, it's for anotherreason. You need to say these things to some one. You have brooded overthem to yourself till they are magnified out of all proportion. It'sthe best thing in the world for you to say them aloud." He drew up achair, and sat down beside her. "Listen to me. You told me once, notvery long ago, that I was your friend. Well, I want to speak to youto-night as that friend, and to play the doctor a little as well. Willyou not go away from here, for a time?--go away and be with people whoknow nothing of ... all this--people you don't need to be afraid of?Let yourself be persuaded. You have such a healthy nature. Give it achance."

  She looked at him with a listless forbearance. "Don't go on. I knoweverything you are going to say.--That's always the way with you calm,quiet people, who are not easily moved yourselves. You still but faithin these trite remedies; for you've never known the ills they'resupposed to cure."

  "Never mind me. It's you we have to think of. And I want you to give myold-fashioned remedy a trial."

  But she did not answer, and again a few minutes went by, before shestretched out her hand to him. "Forget what I've said to-night. I shallnever speak of it again.--But then you, too, must promise not to makeme go out alone--to think and remember--in all the dirt and ugliness ofthe streets."

  And Maurice promised.