XIII.
"Now you will not leave me, Maurice?"
"Never ... while I live."
"And you ..."
"No. Don't ask me yet. I can't tell you."
"Maurice!"
"Forgive me! Not yet. That after all you should care a little! Afterall ... that you should care so much!"
"And it is for ever?"
"For ever and ever ... what do you take me for? But not here! Let us goaway--to some new place. We will make it our very own."
Their words came in haste, yet haltingly; were all but inaudiblewhispers; went flying back and forwards, like brief cries for aid,implying a peculiar sense of aloofness, of being cut adrift and thrownon each other's mercy.
Louise raised her head.
"Yes, we will go away. But now, Maurice--at once!"
"Yes. To-night ... to-morrow ... when you like."
The next morning, he set out to find a place. Three weeks of the termhad still to run, and he was to have played in an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG,before the vacation. But, compared with the emotional upheaval he hadundergone, this long-anticipated event was of small consequence. ToSchwarz, he alleged a succession of nervous headaches, which interferedwith his work. His looks lent colour to the statement; and though, as arule, highly irritated by opposition to his plans, Schwarz onlygrumbled in moderation. He would have let no one else off so easily,and, at another time, the knowledge of this would have rankled inMaurice, as affording a fresh proof of the master's indifferencetowards him. As it was, he was thankful for the freedom it secured him.
On the strength of a chance remark of Madeleine's, which he hadremembered, he found what he looked for, without difficulty. It couldnot have been better: a rambling inn, with restaurant, set in aclearing on the top of a wooded hill, with an open view over theundulating plains.
That night, he wrote to Louise from the Rochlitzer Berg, painting thenest he had found for them in glowing colours, and begging her to comewithout delay. But the whole of the next day passed without a word fromher, and the next again, and not till the morning of the third, did hereceive a note, announcing her arrival for shortly after midday. Hetook it with him to the woods, and lay at full length on the moss.
Although he had been alone now for more than forty-eight hours--a Julyquiet reigned over the place--he had not managed to think connectedly.He was still dazed, disbelieving of what had happened. Again and againhe told himself that his dreams and hopes--which he had always pushedforward into a vague and far-off future--had actually come to pass. Shewas his, all his; she had given herself ungrudgingly: as soon as hecould make it possible, she would be his wife. But, in the meantime,this was all he knew: his nearer vision was obstructed by thestupefying thought of the weeks to come. She was to be there, besidehim, day after day, in a golden paradise of love. He could only thinkof it with moist eyes; and he swore to himself that he would repay herby being more infinitely careful of her than ever man before of thewoman he loved. But though he repeated this to himself, and believedit, his feelings had unwittingly changed their pole. On his kneesbefore her, he had vowed that her happiness was the end of all hispleading; now it was frankly happiness he sought, the happiness of themboth, but, first and foremost, happiness. And it could hardly have beenotherwise: the one unpremeditated mingling of their lives had killedthought; he could only feel now, and, throughout these days, he wasconscious of each movement he made, as of a song sung aloud. Hewandered up and down the wooded paths, blind to everything but theimage of her face, which was always with him, and oftenest as it hadbent over him that last evening, with the strange new fire in its eyes.Closing his own, he felt again her arms on his shoulders, her lipsmeeting his, and, at such moments, it could happen that he threw hisarms round a tree, in an ungovernable rush of longing. Beyond themoment when he should clasp her to him again, he could not see: thefuture was as indistinct as were the Saxon plains, in the haze ofmorning or evening.
He set out to meet her far too early in the day, and when he hadcovered the couple of miles that lay between the inn on the hill andthe railway-station at the foot, he was obliged to loiter about thesleepy little town for over an hour. But gradually the time tickedaway; the hands of his watch pointed to a quarter to two, and presentlyhe found himself on the shadeless, sandy station which lay at the endof a long, sandy street, edged with two rows of young and shadelesstrees; found himself looking along the line of rail that was to bringher to him. Would the signal never go up? He began to feel, in spite ofthe strong July sunlight, that there was something illusive about thewhole thing. Or perhaps it was just this harsh, crude light, withoutrelieving shadows, which made his surroundings seem unreal to him.However it was, the nearer the moment came when he would see her again,the more improbable it seemed that the train, which was even nowoverdue, should actually be carrying her towards him--her to him! Hewould yet waken, with a shock. But then, coming round a corner in thedistance, at the side of a hill, he saw the train. At first it appearedto remain stationary, then it increased in size, approached, made aslight curve, and was a snaky line; it vanished, and reappeared,leaving first a white trail of cloud, then thick rounded puffs ofcloud, until it was actually there, a great black object, with a creakand a rattle.
He had planted himself at the extreme end of the platform, and thecarriages went past him. He hastened, almost running, along the train.At the opposite end, a door was opened, the porter took out some bags,and Louise stepped down, and turned to look for him. He was the onlyperson on the station, besides the two officials, and in passing shehad caught a glimpse of his face. If he looks like that, every one willknow, she thought to herself, and her first words, as he camebreathlessly up, were: "Maurice, you mustn't look so glad!"
He had never really seen her till now, when, in a white dress, witheyes and lips alight, she stood alone with him on the wayside platform.To curb his first, impetuous gesture, Louise had stretched out both herhands. He stood holding them, unable to take his eyes from her face. Ather movement to withdraw them, he stooped and kissed them.
"Not look glad? Then you shouldn't have come."
They left her luggage to be sent up later in the day, and set out ontheir walk. Going down the shadeless street, and through the town, shewas silent. At first, as they went, Maurice pointed out things that hethought would interest her, and spoke as if he attached importance tothem. While, in reality, nothing mattered, now that she was beside him.And gradually, he, too, lapsed into silence, walking by her side acrossthe square, and through the narrow streets, with the solemnly festivefeelings of a child on Sunday. They crossed the moat, passed throughthe gates and courtyard of the old castle, and began to ascend thesteep path that was a short-cut to the woods. It was exposed to thefull glare of the sun, and, on reaching the sheltering trees, Louisegave a sigh of relief, and stood still to take off her hat.
"It's so hot. And I like best to be bareheaded."
"Yes, and now I can see you better. Is it really you, at last? I stillcan't believe it.--That you should have come to me!"
"Yes, I'm real," she smiled, and thrust the pins through the crown ofthe hat. "But very tired, Maurice. It was so hot, and the train was soslow."
"Tired?--of course, you must be. Come, there's a seat just round thiscorner. You shall rest there."
They sat, and he laid his arm along the back of the bench. With hisleft hand he turned her face towards him. "I must see you. I expectevery minute to wake and find it's not true."
"And yet you haven't even told me you're glad to see me."
"Glad? No. Glad is only a word."
She leaned lightly against the protective pressure of his arm. On oneof her hands lying in her lap, a large spot of sunlight settled. Hestooped and put his lips to it. She touched his head.
"Were the days long without me?"
"Why didn't you come sooner?"
Not that he cared, or even cared to know, now that she was there. Buthe wanted to hear her speak, to remember that he could now have hervoice in his ears, whenev
er he chose. But Louise was not disposed totalk; the few words she said, fell unwillingly from her lips. Thestillness of the forest laid its spell upon them: each faint rustlingamong the leaves was audible; not a living thing stirred exceptthemselves. The tall firs and beeches stretched infinitely upwards, andthe patches of light that lay here and there on the moss, made the cooldarkness seem darker.
When they walked on again, Maurice put his arm through hers, and, in.this intimacy of touch, was conscious of every step she took. It madehim happy to suit his pace to hers, to draw her aside from a spreadingroot or loose stone, and to feel her respond to his pressure. Shewalked for the most part languidly, looking to the ground. But at athickly wooded turn of the path, where it was very dark, where thesunlight seemed far away, and the pine-scent was more pungent thanelsewhere, she stopped, to drink in the spicy air with open lips andnostrils.
"It's like wine. Maurice, I'm glad we came here--that you found thisplace. Think of it, we might still be sitting indoors, with the blindsdrawn, knowing that the pavements were baking in the sun. While here!... Oh, I shall be happy here!"
She was roused for a moment to a rapturous content with hersurroundings. She looked childishly happy and very young. Mauricepressed her arm, without speaking: he was so foolishly happy that herpraise of the place affected him like praise of himself. Again, he hada chastened feeling of exhilaration: as though an acme of satisfactionhad been reached, beyond which it was impossible to go.
On catching sight of the rambling wooden building, in the midst of theclearing that had been made among the encroaching trees, Louise gaveanother cry of pleasure, and before entering the house, went to theedge of the terrace, and looked down on the plains. But upstairs, inher room on the first storey, he made her rest in an arm-chair by thewindow. He himself prepared the tea, proud to perform the first of thetrivial services which, from now on, were to be his. There was nothinghe would not do for her, and, as a beginning, he persuaded her to liedown on the sofa and try to sleep.
Once outside again, he did not know how to kill time; and the remainderof the afternoon seemed interminable. He endeavoured to read, but couldnot take in the meaning of two consecutive sentences. He was afraid togo far away, in case she should wake and miss him. So he loitered aboutin the vicinity of the house, and returned every few minutes, to see ifher blind were not drawn up. Finally, he sat down at one of the tableson the terrace, where he had her window in sight. Towards six o'clock,his patience was exhausted; going upstairs, he listened outside thedoor of her room. Not a sound. With infinite precaution, he turned thehandle, and looked in.
She was lying just as he had left her, fast asleep. Her head was alittle on one side; her left hand was under her cheek, her right laypalm upwards on the rug that covered her. Maurice sat down in thearm-chair.
At first, he looked furtively, afraid of disturbing her; then moreopenly, in the hope that she would waken. Sitting thus, and thinkingover the miracle that had happened to him, he now sought to findsomething in her face for him alone, which had previously not beenthere. But his thoughts wandered as he gazed. How he loved it!--thisface of hers. He was invariably worked on afresh by the blackness ofthe lustreless hair; by the pale, imperious mouth; by the dead whitepallor of the skin, which shaded to a dusky cream in the curves of neckand throat, and in the lines beneath the eyes was of a bluish brown.Now the lashes lay in these encircling rings. Without doubt, it was theeyes that supplied life to the face: only when they were open, and thelips parted over the strong teeth, was it possible to realise howintense a vitality was latent in her. But his love would wipe out thelast trace of this wan tiredness. He would be infinitely careful ofher: he would shield her from the impulsiveness of her own nature; sheshould never have cause to regret what she had done. And the affectionthat bound them would day by day grow stronger. All his work, all histhoughts, should belong to her alone; she would be his beloved wife;and through him she would learn what love really was.
He rose and stood over her, longing to share his feelings with her. Butshe remained sunk in her placid sleep, and as he stood, he becameconscious of a different sensation. He had never seen her face--exceptconvulsed by weeping--when it was not under full control. Was itbecause he had stared so long at it, or was it really changed in sleep?There was something about it, at this moment, which he could notexplain: it almost looked less fine. The mouth was not so proudlyreticent as he had believed it to be; there was even a want ofrestraint about it; and the chin had fallen. He did not care to see itlike this: it made him uneasy. He stooped and touched her hand. Shestarted up, and could not remember where she was. She put both hands toher forehead. "Maurice!--what is it? Have I been asleep long?"
He held his watch before her eyes. With a cry she sprang to her feet.Then she sent him downstairs.
They were the only guests. They had supper alone in a longish room, ata little table spread with a coloured cloth. The window was open behindthem, and the branches of the trees outside hung into the room. Inhonour of the occasion, Maurice ordered wine, and they remainedsitting, after they had finished supper, listening to the rustling andswishing of the trees. The only drawback to the young man's happinesswas the pertinacious curiosity of the girl who waited on them. Shelingered after she had served them, and stared so hard that Mauriceturned at length and asked her what the matter was.
The girl coloured to the roots of her hair.
"Ach, Fraulein is so pretty," she answered naively, in her broad Saxondialect.
Both laughed, and Louise asked her name, and if she always lived there.Thus encouraged, Amalie, a buxom, thickset person, with a number offlaxen plaits, came forward and began to talk. Her eyes were fixed onLouise, and she only occasionally glanced from her to the young man.
"It's nice to have a sweetheart," she said suddenly.
Louise laughed again and coloured. "Haven't you got one, Amalie?"
Amalie shook her head, and launched out into a tale of faithlessnessand desertion. "Yes, if I were as pretty as you, Fraulein, it would bea different thing," she ended, with a hearty sigh.
Maurice clattered up from the table. "All right, Amalie, that'll do."
They went out of doors, and strolled about in the twilight. He hadintended to show her some of the pretty nooks in the neighbourhood ofthe house. But she was not as affable with him as she had been withAmalie; she walked at his side with an air of preoccupied indifference.
When they sat down on a seat, on the side of the hill, the moon hadrisen. It was almost at the full, and a few gently sailing scraps ofcloud, which crossed it, made it seem to be coming towards them. Theplains beneath were veiled in haze; detached sounds mounted from them:the prolonged barking of a dog, the drone of an approaching train.Round about them, the air was heavy with the scent of the sun-warmedpines. Maurice had taken her hand and sat holding it: it was the onething that existed for him. All else was vague and unreal: only theirtwo hearts beat in all the universe. But there was no interchangebetween them of binding words or endearments, such as pass between mostlovers.
How long they sat, neither could have told. But suddenly, far below, ahuman voice was raised in a long cry, which echoed against the side ofthe hill. Louise shivered: and he had a moment of apprehension.
"You're cold. We have sat too long. Let us go."
They rose, and walked slowly back to the house.
Although the doors were still open, the building was in darkness, andthey had to grope their way up the stairs. Outside her room, he pausedto light the candle that was standing on the table, but Louise openedthe door and went in. As she did so, she gave a cry. The blind had notbeen lowered, and a patch of greenish-white moonlight lay on the floorbefore the window, throwing the rest of the room into massy shadow. Shewent forward and stood in it.
"Don't make a light," she said to him over her shoulder.
Maurice put down the matches, with which he had been fumbling, wentquickly in after her, and shut the door.
Before anyone else was astir, he had flung ou
t into the freshness ofthe morning. It was cool in the shade of the woods; grass and moss werea little moist with dew. He did not linger under the trees; he neededmovement; and striding along the driving-road, which ran down the hillwhere the incline was easiest, he went out on the plains, among thelittle villages that dotted the level land like huge clumps ofmushrooms. He carried his cap in his hand, and let the early sun playon his head.
When he returned, it was nine o'clock, and he was ravenously hungry.Amalie carried the coffee and the crisp brown rolls to one of the smalltables on the terrace, and herself stood, after she had served him, andlooked over the edge of the hill. When he had finished eating, heopened a volume of DICHTUNG UND WAHRHEIT, which he carried in hispocket, and began to read. But after a few lines, his thoughtswandered; the book had a chilling effect on him in his present mood;the writing seemed stiff and strained--the work of a very old man.
At first, that morning, he had not ventured to review even in thoughtthe past hours. Now, however, that he was again within a stone's throwof Louise, memories crowded upon him; he gazed, with a passion ofgratefulness, at her window. One detail stood out more vividly than allthe rest. It was that of waking suddenly at dawn, from a dreamlesssleep, and of finding on his pillow, a thick tress of black ruffledhair. For a moment, he had hardly been able to believe his eyes; andeven yet, the mere remembrance of this dusky hair on the pillow'swhiteness, seemed to bring what had happened home to him, as nothingelse could have done.
She had slept on, undisturbed, and she was still asleep, to judge fromthe lowered blind. But though hours seemed to pass while he sat there,he was not dissatisfied; it was enough to know how near she was to him.
When she came, she was upon him before he was aware of it. At the lightstep behind, he sprang from his seat.
"At last!"
"Are you tired of waiting for me?"
She was in the same white dress, and a soft-brimmed hat fell over herforehead. He did not answer her words; for Amalie followed on her heelswith fresh coffee, and made a great business of re-setting the table.
"WUNSCHE GUTEN APPETIT!"
The girl retired to a distance, but still lingered, keeping them insight. Maurice leaned across the table. "Tell me how you are. Have youforgotten me?" He tried to take her hand.
"Take care, Maurice. We can be seen here."
"How that girl stares! Why doesn't she go away?"
"She is envying me my sweetheart again ... who won't let me eat mybreakfast."
"I've been alone for hours, Louise. Tell me what I want to know."
"Yes--afterwards. The coffee is getting cold."
He sat back and watched her movements, with fanatic eyes. She was notconfused by the insistence of his gaze; but she did not return it. Shewas paler than usual; and the lines beneath her eyes were blacker.Maurice believed that he could detect a new note in her voice thismorning; and he tried to make her speak, in order that he might hearit; but she was as chary of her words as of her looks. Attracted by thetwo strangers, a little child of the landlord's came running up tostare shyly. She spread a piece of bread with honey, and gave it to thechild. He was absurdly jealous, and she knew it.
For the rest of the morning, she would have been content to bask in thesun, but when she saw how impatient he was, she gave way, and they wentout of the sight of other people, into the friendly, screening woods.
"I thought you would never come."
"Why didn't you wake me? Oh, gently, Maurice! You forget that I've justdone my hair."
"To-day I shall forget everything. Let me look at you again ... rightinto your eyes."
"To-day you believe I'm real, don't you? Are you satisfied?"
"And you, Louise, you?--Say you're happy, too!"
They came upon the FRIEDRICH AUGUST TURM, a stone tower, standing onthe highest point of the hill, beside a large quarry; and, too idlyhappy to refuse, climbed the stone steps, led by a persuasive oldpensioner, who, on the platform at the top, adjusted the telescope, andpointed out the distant landmarks, with something of an owner's pride.On this morning, Maurice would not have been greatly surprised to hearthat the streaky headline of the Dover coast was visible: he had eyesfor her alone, as, with assumed interest, she followed the old man'shand, learned where Leipzig lay, and how, on a clear day, its manyspires could be distinguished.
"Over there, Maurice ... a little more to the right. How far away weseem!"
Leaning against the parapet, he continued to look at her. The fewordinary words meant in reality something quite different. It was as ifshe had said to him: "Yes, yes, be at rest--I am still yours;" and hetold himself, with a feverish pleasure, that, from now on, everythingshe said in the presence of others would be a cloak for what she reallymeant to say. He had been right, there was a new tone in her voice thismorning, an imperceptible vibration, a sensuous undertone, which seemedto have been left over from those moments when it had quivered like aroughly touched string beneath a bow. Going down the steps behind her,he heard her dress swish from step to step, and saw the fine grace ofher strong, supple body. At a bend in the stair, he held her back andkissed her neck, just where the hair stopped growing. On theground-floor, she paused to pick out a trifle from a table set withmementoes. The old man praised his wares with zeal, taking up this andthat in his old, reddened hands, on which the skin was drawn andglazed, like a coating of gelatine. Louise chose a carved wooden pen; atiny round of glass was set in the handle, through which might be seena view of the tower, with an encircling motto.
After this, he had her to himself, for the rest of the day. They sat ona seat that was screened by trees, and thickly grown about. His arm layalong the back of the bench, and every now and then his hand sought andpressed the warm, soft round of her shoulder. In this attitude, hepoured out his heart to her. Hitherto, the very essence of his love hadbeen taciturn endurance; now, he felt how infinitely much he had to sayto her: all that he had undergone since knowing her first, all thehopes and feelings that had so long been pent up in him, struggled toescape. Now, there was no hindrance to his telling her everything; itwas not only permissible, but right that he should: henceforth theremust be no strangeness between them, no knowledge, pleasant orunpleasant, that she did not share. And he went back, and dwelt ondetails and events long past, which, unknown to himself, his memory hadstored up; but it was chiefly the restless misery of the past half yearthat was his theme--he took the same pleasure in reciting it, now thatit was over, as the convalescent in relating his sufferings. Besidesthat, it was easier, there being nothing to conceal; whereas, inreferring to an earlier time, a certain name had to be shirked and goneround about, like a plague-spot. His impassioned words knew no halt; hewas amazed at his own eloquence. And the burden of months fell awayfrom him as he talked.
The receptiveness of her silence spurred him on. She sat motionless,with loosely clasped hands; and spots of light settled on her barehead, and on the white stuff of her dress. Occasionally, at somethinghe said, a smile would raise the corners of her mouth; sometimes, butless often, she turned her head with incredulous eyes. But, though shewas emotionally so irresponsive, Maurice had the feeling that she wascontent, even happy, to sit inactive at his side, and listen to hisstory.
Each of these first wonderful days was of the same pattern. Theythemselves lost count of time, so like was one day to another; and yeteach that passed was a little eternity in itself. The weather wassuperb, and to them, in their egotism, it came to seem in the order ofthings that they should rise in the morning to cloudless skies andgolden sunshine; that the cool green seclusion of the woods should betheirs, where they were more securely shut off from the world thaninside the house. Louise lay on the moss, with her arms under her head,or sat with her back against a tree-trunk. Maurice was always in frontof her, so that he could see her face as he talked--this face of whichhe could never see enough.
He was happy, in a dazed way; he could not appraise the extent of hishappiness all at once. Its chief outward sign was the nervous flood oftalk th
at poured from his lips--as though they had been sealed andstopped for years. But Louise urged him on; what he had first feltdimly, he soon knew for certain: that she was never tired of learninghow much he loved her, how he had hoped, and ventured, and despaired,and how he had been prepared to lose her, up to the very last day. Shealso made him describe to her more than once how he had first seen her:his indelible impression of her as she played; her appearance at hisside in the concert-hall; how he had followed her out and looked forher, and had vainly tried to learn who she was.
"I stood quite close to you, you say, Maurice? Perhaps I even looked atyou. How strange things are!"
Still, the interest she displayed was of a wholly passive kind; shetook no part herself in this building up of the past. She left it tohim, just as she left all that called for firmness or decision, in thisnew phase of her life. The chief step taken, it seemed as if no furtherinitiative were left in her; she let herself be loved, waited foreverything to come from him, was without will or wish. He had to ask noself-assertion of her now, no impulsive resolutions. Over all she did,lay a subtle languor; and her abandon was absolute--he heard it in thevery way she said his name.
In the first riotous joy of possession, Maurice had been conscious ofthe change in her as of something inexpressibly sweet and tender,implying a boundless faith in him. But, before long, it made himuneasy. He had imagined several things as likely to happen; hadimagined her the cooler and wiser of the two, checking him and chidinghim for his over-devotion; had imagined even moments of self-reproach,on her part, when she came to think over what she had done. What he hadnot imagined was the wordless, unthinking fashion in which she gaveherself into his hands. The very expression of her face altered inthese days: the somewhat defiant, bitter lines he had so loved in it,and behind which she had screened herself, were smoothed out; the lipsseemed to meet differently, were sweeter, even tremulous; the eyes weremore veiled, far less sure of themselves. He did not admit to himselfhow difficult she made things for him. Strengthened, from the first, byhis good resolutions, he was determined not to let himself be carriedoff his feet. But it would have been easier for him to stand firm, hadshe met him in almost any other way than this--even with a frank returnof feeling, for then they might have spoken openly, and have helpedeach other. As it was, he had no thoughts but of her; his watchfultenderness knew no bounds; but the whole responsibility was his. It washe who had to maintain the happy mean in their relations; he to drawthe line beyond which it was better for all their after-lives that theyshould not go. He affirmed to himself more than once that he loved herthe more for her complete subjection: it was in keeping with heropenhanded nature which could do nothing by halves. Yet, as timepassed, he began to suffer under it, to feel her absence of will as adisquieting factor--to find anything to which he could compare it, hehad to hark back to the state she had been in when he first offered heraid and comfort. That was the lassitude of grief, this of ... he couldnot find a word. But it began to tell on him, and more than once madehim a little sharp with her; for, at moments, he would be seized by anoverpowering temptation to shake her out of her lassitude, to rouse heras he very well knew she could be roused. And then, strange desiresawoke in him; he did not himself know of what he was capable.
One afternoon, they were in the woods as usual. It was very sultry; nota leaf stirred. Louise lay with her elbow on the moss-grown roots of atree; her eyes were heavy. Maurice, before her, smoked a cigarette, andwatched for the least recognition of his presence, thinking, meanwhile,that she looked better already for these days spent out-of-doors--thetiny lines round her eyes were fast disappearing. By degrees, however,he grew restless under her protracted silence; there was somethingominous about it. He threw his cigarette away, and, taking her hand,began to pull apart the long fingers with the small, pink nails, or togather them together, and let them drop, one by one, like warm, butlifeless things.
"What ARE you thinking of?" he asked at last, and shut her hand firmlywithin his.
She started. "I? ... thinking? I don't know. I wasn't thinking at all."
"But you were. I saw it in your face. Your thoughts were miles away."
"I don't know, Maurice. I couldn't tell you now." And a moment later,she added: "You think one must always be thinking, when one is silent."
"Yes, I'm jealous of your thoughts. You tell me nothing of them. Butnow you have come back to me, and it's all right."
He drew her nearer to him by the hand he held, and, putting his armunder her neck, bent her head back on the moss. Her stretched throatwas marked by two encircling lines; he traced them with his finger. Shelay and smiled at him. But her eyes remained shaded: they weremeditative, and seemed to be considering him, a little deliberately.
"Tell me, Louise," he said suddenly; "why do you look at me like that?It's not the first time--I've seen it before. And then, I can't helpthinking there's some mistake--that after all you don't really care forme. It is so--so critical."
"You are curious to-day, Maurice."
"Yes. There's so much I want to know, and you tell me nothing. It is Iwho talk and talk--till you must be tired of hearing me."
"No, I like to listen best. And I have nothing to say."
"Nothing? Really nothing?"
"Only that I'm glad to be here--that I am happy."
He kissed her on the throat, the eyes and the lips; kissed her, until,under his touch, that vague, elusive influence began to emanate fromher, which, he was aware, might some day overpower him, and drag himdown. They were quite alone, shut in by high trees; no one would findthem, or disturb them. And it was just this mysterious power in herthat his nerves had dreamed of waking: yet now, some inexplicableinstinct made him hesitate, and forbear. He drew his arm from under herhead, and rose to his feet, where he stood looking down at her. She layjust as he had left her, and he felt unaccountably impatient.
"There it is again!" he cried. "You are looking at me just as you didbefore."
Louise passed her hand over her eyes, and sat up. "Why, Maurice, whatdo you mean? It was nothing--only something I was trying to understand."
But what it was that she did not understand, he could not get her totell him.
A fortnight passed. One morning, when a soft south breeze was inmotion, Maurice reminded her with an air of playful severity, that, sofar, they had not learned to know even their nearer surroundings; whileof all the romantic explorings in the pretty Muldental, which he hadhad in view for them, not one had been undertaken. Louise was not fondof walking in the country; she tired easily, and was always content tobask in the sun and be still. But she did not attempt to oppose hiswish; she put on her hat, and was ready to start.
His love of movement reasserted itself. They went down thedriving-road, and out upon the long, ribbon-like roads that zigzaggedthe plains, connecting the dotted villages. These roads were edged withfruit-trees--apple and cherry. The apples were still hard, green,polished balls, but the berries were at their prime. And everywhere menwere aloft on ladders, gathering the fruit for market. For the sum often pfennigs, Maurice could get his hat filled, and, by the roadside,they would sit down to make a second breakfast off black, lusciouscherries, which stained the lips a bluish purple. When it grew too hotfor the open roads, they descended the steep, wooded back of the bill,to the romantic little town of Wechselburg at its base. Here, a massivebridge of reddish-yellow stone spanned the winding, slate-grey Mulde; asombre, many-windowed castle of the same stone as the bridge looked outover a wall of magnificent chestnuts.
On returning from these, and various other excursions, they werepleasantly tired and hungry. After supper, they sat upstairs by thewindow in her room, Louise in the big chair, Maurice at her feet, andthere watched the darkness come down, over the tops of the trees.
Somewhat later in the month, the fancy took her to go to a place calledAmerika. Maurice consulted the landlord about the distance. Theiroriginal plan of taking the train a part of the way was, however,abandoned when the morning came; for it was an unco
mmonly lovely day,and a fresh breeze was blowing. So, having scrambled down toWechselburg again, they struck out on the flat, and began their walk.The whole day lay before them; they were bound to no fixed hours; and,throughout the morning, they made frequent halts, to gather the wildraspberries that grew by the roadside. Having passed under a greatrailway viaduct, which dominated the landscape, they stopped at avillage inn, to rest and drink coffee. About two o'clock, they came toRochsburg, and finally arrived, towards the middle of the afternoon, atthe picturesque restaurant that bore the name, of Amerika. Here theydined. Afterwards, they returned to Rochsburg, but much lessbuoyantly--for Louise was growing footsore--paid a bridge-toll, wereshown through the castle, and, at sunset, found themselves on thelittle railway-station, waiting for an overdue train. The restaurant inwhich they sat, was a kind of shed, roofed by a covering of Virginiacreeper; the station stood on an eminence; the plains stretched beforethem, as far as they could see; the evening sky was an unbroken sheetof red and gold.
The half-hour's journey over--it was made in a narrow woodencompartment, crowded with peasants returning from a market--they leftthe train, and began to climb the hill. But, by now, Louise was at theend of her strength, and Maurice began to fear that he would never gether home; she could with difficulty drag one foot after the other, andhad to rest every few minutes, so that it was nearly ten o'clock beforethey entered the house. In her room, he knelt before her and took offher boots; Amalie carried her supper up on a tray. She hardly touchedit: her eyes were closing with fatigue, and she was asleep as soon asher head touched the pillow.
Next day she did not waken till nearly noon, and she remained in bedtill after dinner. For the rest of the day, she sat in the armchair.Maurice wished to read to her, but she preferred quiet--did not evenwant to be talked to. The weather was on her nerves, she said--for ithad grown very sultry, and the sky was overcast. The landlordprophesied a thunderstorm. In the evening, however, as it was stilldry, and he had been in the house all day, Maurice went out for asolitary walk.
He swung down the road at a pace he could only make when he was alone.It had looked threatening when he left the house, but, as he went, theclouds piled themselves up with inconceivable rapidity, and before hewas three miles out on the plain, the storm broke, with a sudden furyfrom which there was no escape. He took to his heels, and ran to thenext village, some quarter of a mile in front of him. There, in thesmoky room of a tiny inn, together with a handful of country-people, hewas held a prisoner for over two hours; the rain pelted, and thethunder cracked immediately overhead. When, drenched to the skin, hereached the top of the hill again, it was going on for midnight. He hadbeen absent for close on four hours.
The candle in her room was guttering in its socket. By its failinglight, he saw that she was lying across the bed, still dressed. Overher bent Amalie.
He had visions of sudden illness, and brushed the girl aside.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
At his voice, Louise lifted a wild face, stared at him as though shedid not recognise him, then rose with a cry, and flung herself upon him.
"Take care! I'm wet through."
For all answer, she burst out crying, and trembled from head to foot.
"What is it, darling? Were you afraid?"
But she only clung to him and trembled.
Amalie was weeping with equal vehemence; he ordered her out of theroom. Notwithstanding his dripping clothes, he was forced to supportLouise. In vain he implored her to speak; it was long before she was ina state to reply to his questionings. Outside the storm still raged; itwas a wild night.
"What was it? Were you afraid? Did you think I was lost?"
"I don't know--Oh, Maurice! You will never leave me, will you?"
She wounded her lips against his shoulder.
"Leave you! What has put such foolish thoughts into your head?"
"I don't know.--But on a night like this, I feel that anything mighthappen."
"And did it really matter so much whether I came back or not?"
He felt her arms tighten round him.
"Did you care as much as that?--Louise!"
"I said: my God!--what if he should never come back! And then, then ..."
"Then----?"
"And then the noise of the storm ... and I was so alone ... and all thelong, long hours ... and at every sound I said, there he is ... and itnever was you ... till I knew you were lying somewhere ... dead ...under a tree."
"You poor little soul!" he began impulsively, then stopped, for he feltthe sudden thrill that ran through her.
"Say that again, Maurice!--say it again!"
"You poor, little fancy-ridden soul!"
"Oh, if you knew how good it sounds!--if I could make you understand!You're the only person who has ever said a thing like that to me--theonly one who has ever been in the least sorry for me. Promise menow--promise again--that you will never leave me.--For you are all Ihave."
"Promise?--again? When you are more to me than my own life?"
"And you will never get tired of me?--never?"
"My own dear wife!"
She strained him to her with a strength for which he would not havegiven her credit. He tried to see her face.
"Do you know what that means?"
"Yes, I know. It means, if you leave me now, I shall die."
By the next morning, all traces of the storm had vanished; the sunshone; the slanting roads were hard and dry again. Other stormsfollowed--for it was an exceptionally hot summer--and many an eveningthe two were prisoners in her room, listening to the angry roar of thetrees, which lashed each other with a sound like that of the open sea.
Every Sunday in August, too, brought a motley crowd of guests to theinn, and then the whole terrace was set out with little tables. Twowaiters came to assist Amalie; a band played in an arbour; carts andwagonettes were hitched to the front of the house; and the noise andmerry-making lasted till late in the night. Together they leaned fromthe window of Louise's room, to watch the people; they hardly venturedout of doors, for it was unpleasant to see their favourite nooksinvaded by strangers. Except on Sundays, however, their seclusionremained undisturbed; half a dozen visitors were staying in the otherwing of the building, and of these they sometimes caught a glimpse atmeals; but that was all: the solitude they desired was still theirs.
And so the happy days slid past; August was well advanced, by thistime, and the tropical heat was at its height. In the beginning, it hadbeen Maurice who regretted the rapid flight of the days: now it wasLouise. Occasionally, a certain shadow settled on her face, and, atsuch moments, he well knew what she was thinking of: for, once, out ofthe very fulness of his content, he had said to her with a lazy sigh:"To-day is the first of August," and then, for the first time, he hadseen this look of intense regret cross her face. She had entreated himnot to say any more; and, after that, the speed with which the monthdecreased, was not mentioned between them.
But his carelessly dropped words had sown their seed. A couple of weekslater, the remembrance of the work he had still to do for Schwarz,before the beginning of the new term, broke over him like a douche ofcold water. It was a resplendent morning; he had been leaning out ofthe window, idly tapping his fingers on the sill. Suddenly they seemedto him to have grown stiff, to have lost their agility; and by thethoughts that now came, he was so disquieted that he shut himself up inhis own room.
At his first words to her, Louise, who was still in bed, turned pale."Yes, yes, be quiet!--I know," she said, and buried her face in thedown pillow.
In this position she remained for some seconds; Maurice stood staringout of the window. Then, without raising her face, she held out herhand to him.
He took it; but he did not do what she expected he would: sit down onthe side of the bed, and put his arm round her. He stood holding it,absent-mindedly. She stole a glance at him, and turned still paler.Then, with a jerk, she released her hand, sat up in bed, and pushed herhair from her face.
"Maurice! ...
then if it has to be ... then to-day ... please, please,to-day! Don't ask me to stay here, and think, and remember, that it'sall over--that this is the end--that we shall never, never be here inthis little room again! Oh, I couldn't bear it!--! can't bear it,Maurice! Let us go away--please, let us go!"
In vain he urged reason; there was no gainsaying her: she brushedaside, without listening to it, his objection that their rooms inLeipzig would not be ready for them. Throwing back the bedclothes, shegot up at once and dressed herself, with cold fingers, then flungherself upon the packing, helped and hindered by Amalie, who weptbeside her. The hour that followed was like a bad dream. Finally,however, the luggage was carried downstairs, the bill paid, and thecircumstantial good-byes were said: they set off, at full speed, downthe woodpath to the station, to catch the midday train. Louise waswhite with exhaustion: her breath came sobbingly. In a firstclasscarriage, he made her lie down on the seat. With her hand in his, hesaid what he could to comfort her; for her face was tragic.
"We will come again, darling. It is only AUF WIEDERSEHEN, remember!"
But she shook her head.
"We shall never be here again."
Leipzig, at three o'clock on an August afternoon, lay baking in thesun. He put her in a covered droschke, himself carrying the bags, forhe could not find a porter.
"At seven, then! Try to sleep. You are so pale."
"Good-bye--good-bye!"
His hand rested on the door of the droschke. She laid hers on it, andclung to it as though she would never, let it go.
Part III.
... dove il Sol tace.
DANTE
Maurice Guest Page 28