"Were you practising as well?"

He took no notice of these words, and she did not trust herself to say

more, until, with his free hand, he began jotting again, making notes

that were no bigger than pin-heads. Then she laid her hand on his. "I

haven't seen you all day."

But he was too engrossed to listen. "Look here," he said pointing to a

thick-sown bar. "That gave me the deuce of a bother. While here "--and

now he explained to her, in detail, the properties of the tenor-tuba in

B, and the bass-tuba in F, and the use to which he intended to put

these instruments. She heard him with lowered eyes, lightly caressing

the back of his hand with her finger-tips. But when he ceased speaking,

she rubbed her cheek against his.

"It is enough for to-day. Lulu has been lonely."

Not one of his thoughts was with her, she saw that, as he answered: "I

must get this finished."

"To-night?"

"If I can. You know well enough, Lulu, when I'm in the swing----"

"Yes, yes, I know. If only it wouldn't always come, just when I want

you most."

Her face lost its brightness; she rose from his knee and roamed about

the room, watched from the wall by her pictured self.

"But is there ever a moment in the day when you don't want me? You are

never satisfied." He spoke abstractedly, without interest in the answer

she might make, and, relieved of her weight, leant forward again, while

his fingers played some notes on the table. But when she began to let

her hands stray over the loose papers and other articles that

encumbered chairs, piano and washstand, he raised his head and watched

her with a sharp eye.

"For goodness' sake, let those things alone, can't you?" he said after

he had borne her fidgeting for some time.

"You have no secrets from me, I suppose?" She said it with her

tenderest smile, but he scowled so darkly in reply that she went over

to him again, to touch him with her hand. Standing behind him, with her

fingers in his hair, she said: "Just to-day I wanted you so much. This

morning I was so depressed that I could have killed myself."

He turned his head, to give her a significant glance.

"Good reason for the blues, Lulu. I warned you. You want too much of

everything. And can't expect to escape a KATER."

"Too much?" she echoed, quick to resent his words. "Does it seem so to

you? Would days and days of happiness be too much after we have been

separated for a week?--after Wednesday night?--after what you said to

me yesterday?"

"Yesterday I was in the devil of a temper. Why rake up old scores? Now

go home. Or at least keep quiet, and let me get something done."

He shook his head free of her caressing hand, and, worse still,

scratched the place where it had lain. She stood irresolute, not

venturing to touch him again, looking hungrily at him. Her eyes fell on

the piece of neck, smooth, lightly browned, that showed between his

hair and the low collar; and, in an uncontrollable rush of feeling, she

stooped and kissed it. As he accepted the caress, without demur, she

said: "I thought of going to the theatre to-night, dear."

He was pleased and showed it. "That's right--it's just what you need to

cheer you up."

"But I want you to come, too."

He struck the table with his fist. "Good God, can't you get it into

your head that I want to work?"

She laughed, with ready bitterness. "I should think I could. That's

nothing new. You are always busy when I ask you to do anything. You

have time for everything and every one but me. If this were something

you yourself wanted to do to-night, neither your work nor anything else

would stand in the way of it; but my wishes can always be ignored. Have

you forgotten already that I only came home the day before yesterday?"

He looked sullen. "Now don't make a scene, Lulu. It doesn't do a whit

of good."

"A scene!" she cried, seizing on his words. "Whenever I open my lips

now, you call it a scene. Tell me what I have done, Eugen! Why do you

treat me like this? Are you beginning to care less for me? The first

evening, the very first, I get home, you won't stay with me--you

haven't even kept that evening free for me--and when I ask you about

it, and try to get at the truth--oh, do you remember all the cruel

things you said to me yesterday? I shall never forget them as long as I

live. And now, when I ask you to come out with me--it is such a little

thing-oh, I can't sit at home this evening, Eugen, I can't do it! If

you really loved me, you would understand."

She flung herself across the bed and sobbed despairingly. Schilsky, who

had again made believe during this outburst to be absorbed in his work,

cast a look of mingled anger and discomfort at the prostrate figure,

and for some few moments, succeeded in continuing his occupation with a

show of indifference; but as, in place of abating, her sobs grew more

heart-rending, his own face began to twitch, and finally he dropped

pencil and cigarette, and with a loud expression of annoyance went over

to the bed.

"Lulu," he said persuasively. "Come, Lulu," and bending over her, he

laid his hands on her shoulders and tried to force her to rise. She

resisted him with all her might, but he was the stronger, and presently

he had her on her feet, where, with her head on his shoulder, she wept

out the rest of her tears. He held her to him, and although his face

above her was still dark, did what he could to soothe her. He could

never bear, to see or to hear a woman cry, and this loud passionate

weeping, so careless of anything but itself, racked his nerves, and

filled him with an uneasy wrath against invisible powers.

"Don't cry, darling, don't cry!" he said again and again. Gradually she

grew calmer, and he, too, was still; but when her sobs were hushed, and

she was clinging to him in silence, he put his hands on her shoulders

and held her back from him, that he might look at her. His face wore a

stubborn expression, which she knew, and which made him appear years

older than he was.

"Now listen to me, Lulu," he said. "When you behave in this way again,

you won't see me afterwards for a week--I promise you that, and you

know I keep my word. Instead of being glad that I am in the right mood

and can get something done, you come here--which you know I have

repeatedly forbidden you to do--and make a fool of yourself like this.

I have explained everything to you. I could not possibly stay on

Wednesday night--why didn't you time your arrival better? But it's just

like you. You would throw the whole of one's future into the balance

for the sake of a whim. Yesterday I was in a beast of a temper--I've

admitted it. But that was made all right last night; and no one but you

would drag it up again."

He spoke with a kind of dogged restraint, which only sometimes gave

way, when the injustice she was guilty of forced itself upon him. "Now,

like a good girl, go home--go to the theatre and enjoy yourself. I

don't mind you being happy without me. At least, go!--under any

circumstances you ought not to be here. How often have I told you

that!" His moderation swept over into the feverish irritation she knew

so well how to kindle in him, and his lisp became so marked that he was

almost unintelligible. "You won't have a rag of reputation left."

"If I don't care, why should you?" She felt for his hand. But he turned

his back. "I won't have it, I tell you. You know what the student

underneath said the last time he met you on the stair."

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips to keep from bursting anew

into sobs, and there was a brief silence--he stood at the window,

gazing savagely at the opposite house-wall--before she said: "Don't

speak to me like that. I'm going--now--this moment. I will never do it

again--never again."

As he only mumbled disbelief at this, she put her arms round his neck,

and raised her tear-stained face to his: her eyes were blurred and

sunken with crying, and her lips were white. He knew every line of her

face by heart; he had known it in so many moods, and under so many

conditions, that he was not as sensitive to its influence as he had

once been; and he stood unwilling, with his hands in his pockets, while

she clung to him and let him feel her weight. But he was very fond of

her, and, as she continued mutely to implore forgiveness--she, Lulu,

his Lulu, whom every one envied him--his hasty anger once more

subsided; he put his arms round her and kissed her. She nestled in

against him, over-happy at his softening, and for some moments they

stood like this, in the absolute physical agreement that always

overcame their differences. In his arms, with her head on his shoulder,

she smoothed back his hair; and while she gazed, with adoring eyes, at

this face that constituted her world, she murmured words of endearment;

and all the unsatisfactory day was annulled by these few moments of

perfect harmony.

It was he who loosened his grasp. "Now, it's all right, isn't it? No

more tears. But you really must be off, or you'll be late."

"Yes. And you?"

He had taken up his violin and was tuning it, preparatory to playing

himself back into the mood she had dissipated. He ran his fingers up

and down, tried flageolets, and slashed chords across the strings.

But when she had sponged her face and pinned on her hat, he said, in

response to her beseeching eyes, which, as so often before, made the

granting of this one request, a touchstone of his love for her: "Look

here, Lulu, if I possibly can, I'll drop in at the end of the first

act. Look out for me then, in the FOYER."

And with this, she was forced to be content.

IX.

When, shortly after five o'clock, Madeleine and Maurice arrived at the

New Theatre, they took their places at the end of a queue which

extended to the corner of the main building; and before they had stood

very long, so many fresh people had been added to the line, that it had

lengthened out until it all but reached the arch of the theatre-cafe.

Dove was well to the fore, and would be one of the first to gain the

box-office. A quarter of an hour had still to elapse before the doors

opened; and Maurice borrowed his companion's textbook, and read

studiously, to acquaint himself with the plot of the opera. Madeleine

took out Wolzogen's FUHRER, with the intention of brushing up her

knowledge of the motives; but, before she had finished a page, she had

grown so interested in what two people behind her were saying that she

turned and took part in the conversation.

The broad expanse of the AUGUSTUSPLATZ facing the theatre was bare and

sunny. A policeman arrived, and ordered the queue in a straighter line;

then he strolled up and down, stroking and smoothing his white gloves.

More people came hurrying over the square to the theatre, and ranged

themselves at the end of the tail. As the hands of the big clock on the

post-office neared the quarter past five, a kind of tremor ran through

the waiting line; it gathered itself more compactly together. One clock

after another boomed the single stroke; sounds came from within the

building; the burly policeman placed himself at the head of the line.

There was a noise of drawn bolts and grating locks, and after a

moment's suspense, light shone out and the big door was flung open.

"Gent--ly!" shouted the policeman, but the leaders of the queue charged

with a will, and about a dozen people had dashed forward, before he

could throw down a stemming arm, on which those thus hindered leaned as

on a bar of iron. Madeleine and Maurice were to the front of the second

batch. And the arm down, in they flew also, Madeleine leading through

the swing-doors at the side of the corridor, up the steep, wooden

stairs, one flight after another, higher and higher, round and round,

past one, two, three, tiers--a mad race, which ended almost in the arms

of the gate-keeper at the topmost gallery.

Dove was waiting with the tickets, and they easily secured the desired

places; not in the middle of the gallery, where, as Madeleine explained

while she tucked her hat and jacket under the seat, the monstrous

chandelier hid the greater part of the stage, but at the right-hand

side, next the lattice that separated the seats at seventy-five from

those at fifty pfennigs.

"This is first-rate for seeing," said Maurice.

Madeleine laughed. "You see too much--that's the trouble. Wait till

you've watched the men running about the bottom of the Rhine, working

the cages the Rhine-daughters swim in."

As yet, with the exception of the gallery, the great building was

empty. Now the iron fire-curtain rose; but the sunken well of the

orchestra was in darkness, and the expanse of seats on the ground floor

far below, was still encased in white wrappings--her and there an

attendant began to peel them off. Maurice, poring over his book, had to

strain his eyes to read, and this, added to the difficulty of the

German, and his own sense of pleasurable excitement, made him soon give

up the attempt, and attend wholly to what Madeleine was saying.

It was hot already, and the air of the crowded gallery was permeated

with various, pungent odours: some people behind them were eating a

strong-smelling sausage, and the man on the other side of the lattice

reeked of cheap tobacco. When they had been in their seats for about a

quarter of an hour, the lights throughout the theatre went up, and,

directly afterwards, the lower tiers and the ground floor were

sprinkled with figures. One by, one, the members of the orchestra

dropped in, turned up the lamps attached to their stands, and taking

their instruments, commenced to tune and flourish; and soon stray

motives and scraps of motives came mounting up, like lost birds, from

wind and strings; the man of the drums beat a soft rattatoo, and

applied his ear to the skins of his instruments. Now the players were

in their seats, waiting for the conductor; late-comers in the audience

entered with an air of guilty haste. The chief curtain had risen, and

the stage was hidden only by stuff curtains, bordered with a runic

scroll. A delightful sense of expectation pervaded the theatre.

Maurice had more than once looked furtively at his watch; and, at every

fresh noise behind him, he turned his head--turned so often that the

people in the back seats grew suspicious, and whispered to one another.

Madeleine had drawn his attention to everything worth noticing; and

now, with her opera-glass at her eyes, she pointed out to him people

whom he ought to know. Dove, having eaten a ham-roll at the buffet on

the stair, had ever since sat with his opera-glass glued to his face,

and only at this moment did he remove it with a sigh of relief.

"There they are," said Madeleine, and showed Maurice the place in the

PARQUET, where Ephie and Johanna Cayhill were sitting. But the young

man only glanced cursorily in the direction she indicated; he was

wondering why Louise did not come--the time had all but gone. He could

not bring himself to ask, partly from fear of being disappointed,

partly because, now that he knew her, it was harder than before to

bring her name over his lips. But the conductor had entered by the

orchestra-door; he stood speaking to the first violinist, and the next

moment would climb into his seat. The players held their instruments in

readiness--and a question trembled on Maurice's tongue. But at this

very moment, a peremptory fanfare rang out behind the scene, and

Madeleine said: "The sword motive, Maurice," to add in the same breath:

"There's Louise."

He looked behind him. "Where?"

She nudged him. "Not here, you silly," she said in a loud whisper.

"Surely you haven't been expecting her to come up here? PARQUET, fourth

row from the front, between two women in plaid dresses--oh, now the

lights have gone."

"Ssh!" said at least half a dozen people about them: her voice was

audible above the growling of the thunder.

Maurice took her opera-glass, and, notwithstanding the darkness into

which the theatre had been plunged, travelled his eyes up and down the

row she named--naturally without success. When the curtains parted and

disclosed the stage, it was a little lighter, but not light enough for

him; he could not find the plaids; or rather there were only plaids in

the row; and there was also more than one head that resembled hers. To

know that she was there was enough to distract him; and he was

conscious of the music and action of the opera merely as something that

was going on outside him, until he received another sharp nudge from

Madeleine on his righthand side.

"You're not attending. And this is the only act you'll be able to make

anything of."

He gave a guilty start, and turned to the stage, where Hunding had just

entered to a pompous measure. In his endeavours to understand what

followed, he was aided by his companions, who prompted him alternately.

But Siegmund's narration seemed endless, and his thoughts wandered in

spite of himself.

"Listen to this," said Dove of a sudden. "It's one of the few songs

Wagner has written." He swayed his head from side to side, to the

opening bars of the love-song; and Maurice found the rhythm so inviting

that he began keeping time with his foot, to the indignation of a

music-loving policeman behind them, who gave an angry: "Pst!"

"One of the finest love-scenes that was ever written," whispered

Madeleine in her decisive way. And Maurice believed her. From this

point on, the music took him up and carried him with it; and when the

great doors burst open, and let in the spring night, he applauded

vigorously with the rest, keeping it up so long that Dove disappeared,

and Madeleine grew impatient.

"Let us go. The interval is none too long."

They went downstairs to the first floor of the building, and entered a

long, broad, brilliantly lighted corridor. Here the majority of the

audience was walking round and round, in a procession of twos and

threes; groups of people also stood at both ends and looked on; others

went in and out of the doors that opened on the great loggia. Madeleine

and Maurice joined the perambulating throng, Madeleine bowing and

smiling to her acquaintances, Maurice eagerly scanning the faces that

came towards him on the opposite side.

Suddenly, a stout gentleman, in gold spectacles, kid gloves tight to

bursting, and a brown frock coat, over the amplitude of which was slung

an opera-glass, started up from a corner, and, seizing both Madeleine's

hands, worked them up and down. At the same time, he made a ceremonious

little speech about the length of time that had elapsed since their

last meeting, and paid her a specious compliment on the taste she

displayed in being present at so serious an opera. Madeleine laughed,

and said a few words in her hard, facile German: the best was yet to

come; "DIE MORAN" was divine as Brunnhilde. Having bowed and said:

"Lohse" to Maurice, the stranger took no further notice of him, but,

drawing Madeleine's hand through his arm, in a manner half gallant,

half paternal, invited her to take ices with him, at the adjoining

buffet.

Maurice remained standing in a corner, scrutinising those who passed

him. He exchanged a few words with one of his companions of the

dinner-table--a small-bodied, big-headed chemical student called

Dickensey, who had a reputation for his cynicism. He had just asked

Maurice whether Siegmund reminded him more of a pork-butcher or a

prizefighter, and had offered to lay a bet that he would never attend a

performance in this theatre when the doors of Hunding's house flew

open, or the sword lit up, at exactly the right moment--when Maurice

caught sight of Dove and the Cayhills. He excused himself, and went to

join them.

Not one of the three looked happy. Johanna was unspeakably bored and

did not conceal it; she gazed with contempt on the noisy, excited

crowd. Dove was not only burning to devote himself to Ephie; he had

also got himself into a dilemma, and was at this moment doing his best

to explain the first act of the opera to Johanna, without touching on

the relationship of the lovers. His face was red with the effort, and

he hailed Maurice's appearance as a welcome diversion. But Ephie, too,

greeted him with pleasure, and touching his arm, drew him back, so that

they dropped behind the others. She was coquettishly dressed this

evening, and looked so charming that people drew one another's

attention to DIE REIZENDE KLEINE ENGLADNDERIN. But Maurice soon

discovered that she was out of spirits, and disposed to be cross. For

fear lest he was the offender, he asked if she had quite forgiven him,

and if they were good friends again. "Oh, I had forgotten all about

it!" But, a moment after, she was grave and quiet--altogether unlike

herself.

"Are you not enjoying yourself, Ephie?"

"No, I'm not. I think it's stupid. And they're all so fat."

This referred to the singers, and was indisputable; Maurice could only

agree with her, and try to rally her. Meanwhile, he continued

surreptitiously to scour the hall, with an evergrowing sense of

disappointment.

Then, suddenly, among those who were passing in the opposite direction,

he saw Louise. In a flash he understood why he had not been able to

find her in the row of seats: he had looked for her in a black dress,

and she was all in white, with heavy white lace at her neck. Her

companion was an Englishman called Eggis, of whom it was rumoured that

he had found it advisable abruptly to leave his native land: here, he

made a precarious living by journalism, and by doing odd jobs for the

consulate. In spite of his shabby clothes, this man, prematurely bald,

with dissipated features, had polished manners and an air of

refinement; and, thoroughly enjoying his position, he was talking to

his companion with vivacity. It was plain that Louise was only half

listening to him; with a faint, absent smile on her lips, she, too,

restlessly scanned the crowd.

They all caught sight of Schilsky at the same moment, and Maurice, on

whom nothing was lost, saw as well the quick look that passed between

Louise and him, and its immediate effect: Louise flashed into a smile,

and was full of gracious attentiveness to the little man at her side.

Schilsky leant against the wall, with his hands in his pockets, his

conspicuous head well back. On entering the FOYER, he had been pounced

on by Miss Jensen. The latter, showily dressed in a large-striped

stuff, had in tow a fellow-singer about half her own size, whom she was

rarely to be seen without; but, on this occasion, the wan little

American stood disconsolately apart, for Miss Jensen was paying no

attention to him. In common with the rest of her sex, she had a

weakness for Schilsky; and besides, on this evening, she needed

specially receptive ears, for she had been studying the role of

Sieglinde, and was full of criticisms and objections. As Ephie and

Maurice passed them, she nodded to the latter and said: "Good evening,

neighbour!" while Schilsky, seizing the chance, broke away, without

troubling to excuse himself. Thus deserted, Miss Jensen detained

Maurice, and so he lost the couple he wanted to keep in sight. But at

the first pause in the conversation, Ephie plucked at his sleeve.

"Let us go out on the balcony."

They went outside on the loggia, where groups of people stood

refreshing themselves in the mild evening air, which was pleasant with

the scent of lilac. Ephie led the way, and Maurice followed her to the

edge of the parapet, where they leaned against one of the pillars.

Here, he found himself again in the neighbourhood of the other two.

Louise, leaning both hands on the stone-work, was looking out over the

square; but Schilsky, lounging as before, with his legs crossed, his

hands in his pockets, had his back to it, and was letting his eyes

range indifferently over the faces before him. As Maurice and Ephie

came up, he yawned long and heartily, and, in so doing, showed all his

defective teeth. Furtively watching them, Maurice saw him lean towards

his companion and say something to her; at the same time, he touched

with his fingertips the lace she wore at the front of her dress. The

familiarity of the action grated on Maurice, and he turned away his

head. When he looked again, a moment or two later, he was disturbed

anew. Louise was leaning forward, still in the same position, but

Schilsky was plainly conversing by means of signs with some one else.

He frowned, half closed his eyes, shook his head, and, as if by chance,

laid a finger on his lips.

"Who's he doing that to?" Maurice asked himself, and followed the

direction of the other's eyes, which were fixed on the corner where he

and Ephie stood. He turned, and looked from side to side; and, as he

did this, he caught a glimpse of Ephie's face, which made him observe

her more nearly: it was flushed, and she was gazing hard at Schilsky.

With a rush of enlightenment, Maurice looked back at the young man, but

this time Schilsky saw that he was being watched; stooping, he said a

nonchalant word to his companion, and thereupon they went indoors

again. All this passed like a flash, but it left, none the less, a

disagreeable impression, and before Maurice had recovered from it,

Ephie said: "Let us go in."

They pressed towards the door.

"I'm poor company to-night, Ephie," he said, feeling already the need

of apologising to her for his ridiculous suspicion. "But you are quiet,

too." He glanced down at her as he spoke, and again was startled; her

expression was set and defiant, but her baby lips trembled. "What's the

matter? I believe you are angry with me for being so silent."

"I guess it doesn't make any difference to me whether you talk or not,"

she replied pettishly. "But I think it's just as dull and stupid as it

can be. I wish I hadn't come."

"Would you like to go home?"

"Of course I wouldn't. I'll stop now I'm here--oh, can't we go quicker?

How slow you are! Do make haste."

He thought he heard tears in her voice, and looked at her in

perplexity. While he contemplated getting her into a quiet corner and

making her tell him truthfully what the matter was, they came upon

Madeleine, who had been searching everywhere for Maurice. Madeleine had

more colour in her cheeks than usual, and, in the pleasing

consciousness that she was having a successful evening, she brought her

good spirits to bear on Ephie, who stood fidgeting beside them.

"You look nice, child," she remarked in her patronising way. "Your

dress is very pretty. But why is your face so red? One would think you

had been crying."

Ephie, growing still redder, tossed her head. "It's no wonder, I'm

sure. The theatre is as hot as an oven. But at least my nose isn't red

as well."

Madeleine was on the point of retorting, but at this moment, the

interval came to an end, and the electric bells rang shrilly. The

people who were nearest the doors went out at once, upstairs and down.

Among the first were Louise and Schilsky, the latter's head as usual

visible above every one else's.

"I will go, too," said Ephie hurriedly. "No, don't bother to come with

me. I'll find my way all right. I guess the others are in front."

"There's something wrong with that child to-night," said Madeleine as

she and Maurice climbed to the gallery. "Pert little thing! But I

suppose even such sparrow-brains have their troubles."

"I suppose they have," said Maurice. He had just realised that the

longed-for interval was over, and with it more of the hopes he had

nursed.

Dove was already in his seat, eating another roll. He moved along to

make room for them, but not a word was to be got out of him, and as

soon as he had finished eating, he raised the opera-glass to his eyes

again. Behind his back, Madeleine whispered a mischievous remark to

Maurice, but the latter smiled wintrily in return. He had searched

swiftly and thoroughly up and down the fourth row of the PARQUET, only

to find that Louise was not in it. This time there could be no doubt

whatever; not a single white dress was in the row, and towards the

middle a seat was vacant. They had gone home then; he would not see her

again--and once more the provoking darkness enveloped the theatre.

This second act had no meaning for him, and he found the various scenes

intolerably long. Dove volunteered no further aid, and Madeleine's

explanations were insufficient; he was perplexed and bored, and when

the curtains fell, joined in the applause merely to save appearances.

The others rose, but he said he would not go downstairs; and when they

had drawn back to let Dove push by and hurry away, Madeleine said she,

too, would stay. However they would at least go into the corridor,

where the air was better. After they had promenaded several times up

and down, they descended to a lower floor and there, through a little

half-moon window that gave on the FOYER below, they watched the living

stream which, underneath, was going round as before. Madeleine talked

without a pause.

"Look at Dove!" She pointed him out as he went by with the two sisters.

"Did you ever see such a gloomy air? He might sit for Werther to-night.

And oh, look, there's Boehmer with his widow--see, the pretty fattish

little woman. She's over forty and has buried two husbands, but is

crazy about Boehmer. They say she's going to marry him, though he's

more than twenty years younger than she is."

At this juncture, to his astonishment, Maurice saw Schilsky and Louise.

He uttered an involuntary exclamation, and Madeleine understood it. She

stopped her gossip to say: "You thought she had gone, didn't you?

Probably she has only changed her seat. They do that sometimes--he

hates PARQUET." And, after a pause: "How cross she looks! She's

evidently in a temper about something. I never saw people hide their

feelings as badly as they do. It's positively indecent."

Her strictures were justifiable; as long as the two below were in

sight, and as often as they came round, they did not exchange word or

look with each other. Schilsky frowned sulkily, and his loose-knitted

body seemed to hang together more loosely than usual, while as for

Louise--Maurice staring hard from his point of vantage could not have

believed it possible for her face to change in this way. She looked

suddenly older, and very tired; and her mobile mouth was hard.

When, an hour later, after a tedious colloquy between Brunnhilde and

Wotan, this long and disappointing evening came to an end, to the more

human strains of the FEUERZAUBER, and they, the last of the

gallery-audience to leave, had tramped down the wooden stairs,

Maurice's heart leapt to his throat to discover, as they turned the

last bend, not only the two Cayhills waiting for them, but also, a

little distance further off, Louise. She stood there, in her white

dress, with a thin scarf over her head.

Madeleine was surprised too. "Louise! Is it you? And alone?"

The girl did not respond. "I want to borrow some money from you,

Madeleine--about five or six marks," she said, without smiling, in one

of those colourless voices that preclude further questioning.

Madeleine was not sure if she had more than a couple of marks in her

purse, and confirmed this on looking through it under a lamp; but both

young men put their hands in their pockets, and the required sum was

made up. As they walked across the square, Louise explained. Dressed,

and ready to start for the theatre, she had not been able to find her

purse.

"I looked everywhere. And yet I had it only this morning. At the last

moment, I came down here to Markwald's. He knows me; and he let me have

the seats on trust. I said I would go in afterwards."

They waited outside the tobacconist's, while she settled her debt.

Before she came out again, Madeleine cast her eyes over the group, and,

having made a rapid surmise, said good-naturedly to Johanna: "Well, I

suppose we shall walk together as far as we can. Shall you and I lead

off?"

Maurice had a sudden vision of bliss; but no sooner had Louise appeared

again, with the shopman bowing behind her, then Ephie came round to his

side, with a naive, matter-of-course air that admitted of no rebuff,

and asked him to carry her opera-glass. Dove and Louise brought up the

rear.

But Dove had only one thought: to be in Maurice's place. Ephie had

behaved so strangely in the theatre; he had certainly done something to

offend her, and, although he had more than once gone over his conduct

of the past week, without finding any want of correctness on his part,

whatever it was, he must make it good without delay.

"You know my friend Guest, I think," he said at last, having racked his

brains to no better result--not for the world would he have had his

companion suspect his anxiety to leave her. "He's a clever fellow, a

very clever fellow. Schwarz thinks a great deal of him. I wonder what

his impressions of the opera were. This was his first experience of

Wagner; it would be interesting to hear what he has to say."

Louise was moody and preoccupied, but Dove's words made her smile.

"Let us ask him," she said.

They quickened their steps and overtook the others. And when Dove,

without further ado, had marched round to Ephie's side, Louise, left

slightly to herself, called Maurice back to her.

"Mr. Guest, we want your opinion of the WALKURE."

Confused to find her suddenly beside him, Maurice was still more

disconcerted at the marked way in which she slackened her pace to let

the other two get in front. Believing, too, that he heard a note of

mockery in her voice, he coloured and hesitated. Only a moment ago he

had had several things worth saying on his tongue; now they would not

out. He stammered a few words, and broke down in them half-way. She

said nothing, and after one of the most embarrassing pauses he had ever

experienced, he avowed in a burst of forlorn courage: "To tell the

truth, I did not hear much of the music."

But Louise, who had merely exchanged one chance companion for another,

did not ask the reason, or display any interest in his confession, and

they went on in silence. Maurice looked stealthily at her: her white

scarf had slipped back and her wavy head was bare. She had not heard

what he said, he told himself; her thoughts had nothing to do with him.

But as he stole glances at her thus, unreproved, he wakened to a sudden

consciousness of what was happening to him: here and now, after long

weeks of waiting, he was walking at her side; he knew her, was alone

with her, in the summer darkness, and, though a cold hand gripped his

throat at the thought, he took the resolve not to let this moment pass

him by, empty-handed. He must say something that would rouse her to the

fact of his existence; something that would linger in her mind, and

make her remember him when he was not there. But they were half way

down the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE; at the end, where the PETERSTRASSE crossed

it, Dove and the Cayhills would branch off, and Madeleine return to

them. He had no time to choose his phrases.

"When I was introduced to you this afternoon, Miss Dufrayer, you did

not know who I was," he said bluntly. "But I knew you very well--by

sight, I mean, of course. I have seen you often--very often."

He had done what he had hoped to do, had arrested her attention. She

turned and considered him, struck by the tone in which he spoke.

"The first time I saw you," continued Maurice, with the same show of

boldness--"you, of course, will not remember it. It was one evening in

Schwarz's room--in April--months ago. And since then, I ... well ...

I----"

She was gazing at him now, in surprise. She remembered at this minute,

how once before, that day, his manner of saying some simple thing had

affected her disagreeably. Then, she had eluded the matter with an

indifferent word; now, she was not in a mood to do this, or in a mood

to show leniency. She was dispirited, at war with herself, and she

welcomed the excuse to vent her own bitterness on another.

"And since then--well?"

"Since then ..." He hesitated, and gave a nervous laugh at his own

daring. "Since then ... well, I have thought about you more than--than

is good for my peace of mind."

For a moment amazement kept her silent; then she, too, laughed, and the

walls of the dark houses they were passing seemed to the young man to

re-echo the sound.

"Your peace of mind!"

She repeated the words after him, with such an ironical emphasis that

his unreflected courage curled and shrivelled. He wished the ground had

swallowed him up before he had said them. For, as they fell from her

lips, the audacity he had been guilty of, and the absurdity that was

latent in the words themselves, struck him in the face like pellets of

hail.

"Your peace of mind! What has your peace of mind to do with me?" she

cried, growing extravagantly angry. "I never saw you in my life till

to-day; I may never see you again, and it is all the same to me whether

I do or not.--Oh, my own peace of mind, as you call it, is quite hard

enough to take care of, without having a stranger's thrown at me! What

do you mean by making me responsible for it! I have never done anything

to you."

All the foolish castles Maurice had built came tumbling about his cars.

He grew pale and did not venture to look at her.

"Make you responsible! Oh, how can you misunderstand me so cruelly!"

His consternation was so palpable that it touched her in spite of

herself. Her face had been as naively miserable as a child's, now it

softened, and she spoke more kindly.

"Don't mind what I say. To-night I am tired ... have a headache ...

anything you like."

A wave of compassion drowned his petty feelings of injury, and his

sympathy found vent in a few inadequate words.

"Help me?--you?" She laughed, in an unhappy way. "To help, one must

understand, and you couldn't understand though you tried. All you

others lead such quiet lives; you know nothing of what goes on in a

life like mine. Every day I ask myself why I have not thrown myself out

of the window, or over one of the bridges into the river, and put an

end to it."

Wrapped up though she was in herself, she could not help smiling at his

frank gesture of dismay.

"Don't be afraid," she said, and the smile lingered on her lips. "I

shall never do it. I'm too fond of life, and too afraid of death. But

at least," she caught herself up again, "you will see how ridiculous it

is for you to talk to me of your peace of mind. Peace of mind! I have

never even been passably content. Something is always wanting.

To-night, for instance, I feel so much energy in me, and I can make

nothing of it--nothing! If I were a man, I should walk for hours,

bareheaded, through the woods. But to be a woman ... to be cooped up

inside four walls ... when the night itself is not large enough to hold

it all!----"

She threw out her hands to emphasise her helplessness, then let them

drop to her sides again. There was a silence, for Maurice could not

think of anything to say; her fluency made him tongue-tied. He

struggled with his embarrassment until they were all but within earshot

of the rest, at the bottom of the street.

"If I ... if you would let me ... There is nothing in the world I

wouldn't do to help you," he ended fervently.

She did not reply; they had reached the corner where the others waited.

There was a general leave-taking. Through a kind of mist, Maurice saw

that Ephie's face still wore a hostile look; and she hardly moved her

lips when she bade him good-night.

Madeleine drew her own conclusions as she walked the rest of the way

home between two pale and silent people. She had seen, on coming out of

the theatre, that Louise was in one of her bad moods--a fact easily to

be accounted for by Schilsky's absence. Maurice had evidently been made

to suffer under it, too, for not a syllable was to be drawn from him,

and, after several unavailing attempts she let him alone.

As they crossed the ROSSPLATZ, which lay wide and deserted in the

starlight, Louise said abruptly: "Suppose, instead of going home, we

walk to Connewitz?"

At this proposal, and at Maurice's seconding of it, Madeleine laughed

with healthy derision.

"That is just like one of your crazy notions," she said "What a

creature you are! For my part, I decline with thanks. I have to get a

Moscheles ETUDE ready by to-morrow afternoon, and need all my wits. But

don't let me hinder you. Walk to Grimma if you want to."

"What do you say? Shall you and I go on?" Louise turned to Maurice; and

the young man did not know whether she spoke in jest or in earnest.

Madeleine knew her better. "Louise!" she said warningly. "Maurice has

work to do to-morrow, too."

"You thought I meant it," said the girl, and laughed so ungovernably

that Madeleine was again driven to remonstrance.

"For goodness' sake, be quiet! We shall have a policeman after us, if

you laugh like that."

Nothing more was said until they stood before the housedoor in the

BRUDERSTRASSE. There Louise, who had lapsed once more into her former

indifference, asked Madeleine to come upstairs with her.

"I will look for the purse again; and then I can give you what I owe

you. Or else I am sure to forget. Oh, it's still early; and the night

is so long. No one can think of sleep yet."

Madeleine was not a night-bird, but she was also not averse to having a

debt paid. Louise looked from her to Maurice. "Will you come, too, Mr.

Guest? It will only take a few minutes," she said, and, seeing his

unhappy face, and remembering what had passed between them, she spoke

more gently than she had yet done.

Maurice felt that he ought to refuse; it was late. But Madeleine

answered for him. "Of course. Come along, Maurice," and he crossed the

threshold behind them.

After lighting a taper, they entered a paved vestibule, and mounted a

flight of broad and very shallow stairs; half-way up, there was a deep

recess for pot-plants, and a wooden seat was attached to the wall. The

house had been a fine one in its day; it was solidly built, had massive

doors with heavy brass fittings, and thick mahogany banisters. On the

first floor were two doors, a large and a small one, side by side.

Louise unlocked the larger, and they stepped into a commodious lobby,

off which several rooms opened. She led the way to the furthest of

these, and entered in front of her companions.

Maurice, hesitating just inside the door, found himself close to a

grand piano, which stood free on all sides, was open, and disorderly

with music. It was a large room, with three windows; and one end of it

was shut off by a high screen, which stretched almost from wall to

wall. A deep sofa stood in an oriel-window; a writing-table was covered

with bric-a-brac, and three tall flower-vases were filled with purple

lilac. But there was a general air of untidiness about the room; for

strewn over the chairs and tables were numerous small articles of dress

and the toilet-hairpins, a veil, a hat and a skirt--all traces of her

intimate presence.

As she lifted the lamp from the writing-table to place it on the square

table before the sofa, Madeleine called her attention to a folded paper

that had lain beneath it.

"It seems to be a letter for you."

She caught at it with a kind of avidity, tore it open, and heedless of

their presence, devoured it, not only with her eyes: but with her

parted lips and eager hands. When she looked up again, her cheeks had a

tinge of colour in them; her eyes shone like faceted jewels; her smile

was radiant and infectious. With no regard for appearances, she

buttoned the note in the bosom of her dress.

"Now we will look for the purse," she said. "But come in, Mr.

Guest--you are still standing at the door. I shall think you are

offended with me. Oh, how hot the room is!--and the lilac is stifling.

First the windows open! And then this scarf off, and some more light.

You will help me to look, will you not?"

It was to Maurice she spoke, with a childlike upturning of her face to

his--an irresistibly confiding gesture. She disappeared behind the

screen, and came out bareheaded, nestling with both hands at the coil

of hair on her neck. Then she lit two candles that stood on the piano

in brass candlesticks, and Maurice lighted her round the room, while

she searched in likely and unlikely places--inside the piano, in empty

vases, in the folds of the curtains--laughing at herself as she did so,

until Madeleine said that this was only nonsense, and came after them

herself. When Maurice held the candle above the writing-table, he

lighted three large photographs of Schilsky, one more dandified than

the other; and he was obliged to raise his other hand to steady the

candlestick.

At last, following a hint from Madeleine, they discovered the purse

between the back of the sofa and the seat; and now Louise remembered

that it had been in the pocket of her dressing-gown that afternoon.

"How stupid of me! I might have known," she said contritely. "So many

things have gone down there in their day. Once a silver hair-brush that

I was fond of; and I sometimes look there when bangles or hat-pins are

missing," and letting her eyes dance at Maurice, she threw back her

head and laughed.

Here, however, another difficulty arose; except for a few nickel coins,

the purse was found to contain only gold, and the required change could

not be made up.

"Never mind; take one of the twenty-mark pieces," she urged. "Yes,

Madeleine, I would rather you did;" and when Madeleine hinted that

Maurice might not find it too troublesome to come back with the change

the following day, she turned to the young man, and saying: "Yes, if

Mr. Guest would be so kind," smiled at him with such a gracious warmth

that it was all he could do to reply with a decent unconcern.

But the hands of the clock on the writing-table were nearing half-past

eleven, and now it was she who referred to the lateness of the hour.

"Thank you very much," she said to Maurice on parting. "And you must

forget the nonsense I talked this evening. I didn't mean it--not a word

of it." She laughed and held out her hand. "I wouldn't shake hands with

you this afternoon, but now--if you will? For to-night I am not

superstitious. Nothing bad will happen; I'm sure of that. And I am very

much obliged to you--for everything. Good night."

Only a few minutes back, he had been steeped in pity for her; now it

seemed as if no one had less need of pity or sympathy than she. He was

bewildered, and went home to pass alternately from a mood of rapture to

one of jealous despair. And the latter was torturous, for, as they

walked, Madeleine had let fall such a vile suspicion that he had parted

from her in anger, calling as he went that if he believed what she said

to be true, he would never put faith in a human being again.

In the light of the morning, of course, he knew that it was incredible,

a mere phantasm born of the dark; and towards four o'clock that

afternoon, he called at the BRUDERSTRASSE with the change. But Louise

was not at home, and as he did not find her in on three successive

days, he did not venture to return. He wrote his name on a card, and

left this, together with the money, in an envelope.

X.

After parting from the rest, Dove and the two Cayhills continued their

way in silence: they were in the shadow thrown by the steep vaulting of

the THOMASKIRCHE, before a word was exchanged between them. Johanna had

several times glanced inquiringly at her sister, but Ephie had turned

away her head, so that only the outline of her cheek was visible, and

as Dove had done exactly the same, Johanna could only conclude that the

two had fallen out. It was something novel for her to be obliged to

talk when Ephie was present, but it was impossible for them to walk the

whole way home as mum as this, especially as Dove had already heaved

more than one deep sigh.

So, as they turned into the PROMENADE, Johanna said with a jerk, and

with an aggressiveness that she could not subdue: "Well, that is the

first and the last time anyone shall persuade me to go to a so-called

opera by Wagner."

"Is not that just a little rash?" asked Dove. He smiled, unruffled,

with a suggestion of patronage; but there was also a preoccupation in

his manner, which showed that he was thinking of other things.

"You call that music," said Johanna, although he had done nothing of

the kind. "I call it noise. I am not musical myself, thank goodness,

but at least I know a tune when I hear one."

"If my opinion had been asked, I should certainly have suggested

something lighter--LOHENGRIN OR TANNHAUSER, for instance," said Dove.

"You would have done us a favour if you had," replied Johanna; and she

meant what she said, in more ways than one. She had been at a loss to

account for Ephie's sudden longing to hear DIE WALKURE, and had gone to

the theatre against her will, simply because she never thwarted Ephie

if she could avoid it. Now, after she had heard the opera, she felt

aggrieved with Dove as well; as far as she had been able to gather from

his vague explanations, from the bawling of the singers, and from

subsequent events, the first act treated of relations so infamous that,

by common consent, they are considered non-existent; and Johanna was of

the opinion that, instead of being so ready to take tickets for them,

Dove might have let drop a hint of the nature of the piece Ephie wished

to see.

After this last remark of Johanna's there was another lengthy pause.

Then Dove, looking fondly at what he could see of Ephie's cheek, said:

"I am afraid Miss Ephie has not enjoyed it either; she is so quiet--so

unlike herself."

Ephie, who had been staring into the darkness, bit her lip: he was at

it again. After the unfriendly way in which Maurice Guest had deserted

her, and forced her into Dove's company, Dove had worried her right

down the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE, to know what the matter was, and how he

had offended her. She felt exasperated with every one, and if he began

his worryings again, would have to vent her irritation somehow.

"Ephie has only herself to blame if she didn't enjoy it; she was bent

on going," said Johanna, in the mildly didactic manner she invariably

used towards her sister. "But I think she is only tired--or a little

cross."

"Oh, that is not likely," Dove hastened to interpose.

"I am not cross, Joan," said Ephie angrily. "And if it was my fault you

had to come--I've enjoyed myself very much, and I shall go again, as

often as I like. But I won't be teased--I won't indeed!"

This was the sharpest answer Johanna had ever received from Ephie. She

looked at her in dismay, but made no response, for of nothing was

Johanna more afraid than of losing the goodwill Ephie bore her.

Mentally she put her sister's pettishness down to the noise and heat of

the theatre, and it was an additional reason for bearing Wagner and his

music a grudge. Dove also made no further effort to converse

connectedly, but his silence was of a conciliatory kind, and, as they

advanced along the PROMENADE, he could not deny himself the pleasure of

drawing the pretty, perverse child's attention to the crossings, the

ruts in the road, the best bits of pavement, with a: "Walk you here,

Miss Ephie," "Take care," "Allow me," himself meanwhile dancing from

one side of the footpath to the other, until the young girl was almost

distracted.

"I can see for myself, thank you. I have eyes in my head as well as

anyone else," she exclaimed at length; and to Johanna's amazed:

"Ephie!" she retorted: "Yes, Joan, you think no one has a right to be

rude but yourself."

Johanna was more hurt by these words than she would have confessed. She

had hitherto believed that Ephie--affectionate, lazy little

Ephie--accepted her individual peculiarities as an integral part of her

nature: it had not occurred to her that Ephie might be standing aloof

and considering her objectively--let alone mentally using such an

unkind word as rudeness of her. But Ephie's fit of ill-temper, for such

it undoubtedly was, made Johanna see things differently; it hinted at

unsuspected, cold scrutinies in the past, and implied a somewhat laming

care of one's words in the days to come, which would render it

difficult ever again to be one's perfectly natural self.

Had Johanna not been so occupied with her own feelings, she would have

heard the near tears in Ephie's voice; it was with the utmost

difficulty that the girl kept them back, and at the house-door, she had

vanished up the stairs long before Dove had finished saying good-night.

In the corridor, she hesitated whether or no, according to custom, she

should go to her mother's room. Then she put a brave face on it, and

opened the door.

"Here we are, mummy. Good night. I hope the evening wasn't too long."

Long?--on the contrary the hours had flown. Mrs. Cayhill, left to

herself, had all the comfortable sensations of a tippler in the company

of his bottle. She could forge ahead, undeterred by any sense of duty;

she had not to interrupt herself to laugh at Ephie's wit, nor was she

troubled by Johanna's cold eye--that eye which told more plainly than

words, how her elder daughter regarded her self-indulgence. Propped up

in bed on two pillows, she now laid down her book, and put out her hand

to draw Ephie to her.

"Did you enjoy it, darling? Were you amused? But you will tell me all

about it in the morning."

"Yes, mother, in the morning. I am a little tired--but it was very

sweet," said Ephie bravely. "Good night."

Mrs. Cayhill kissed her, and nodded in perfect contentment at the

pretty little figure before her. Ephie was free to go. And at last she

was in her own room--at last!

She hastily locked both doors, one leading to the passage and one to

her sister's room. A moment later, Johanna was at the latter, trying to

open it.

"Ephie! What is the matter? Why have you locked the door? Open it at

once, I insist upon it," she cried anxiously, and as loudly as she

dared, for fear of disturbing the other inmates of the house.

But Ephie begged hard not to be bothered; she had a bad headache, and

only wanted to be quiet.

"Let me give you a powder," urged her sister. "You are so excited--I am

sure you are not well;" and when this, too, was refused: "You had

nothing but some tea, child--you must be hungry. And they have left our

supper on the table."

No, she was not hungry, didn't want any supper, and was very sleepy.

"Well, at least unlock your door," begged Johanna, with visions of the

dark practices which Ephie, the soul of candour, might be contemplating

on the other side. "I will not come in, I promise you," she added.

"Oh, all right," said Ephie crossly. But as soon as she heard that

Johanna had gone, she returned to the middle of the room without

touching the door; and after standing undecided for a moment, as if not

quite sure what was coming next, she sat down on a chair at the foot of

the bed, and suddenly began to cry. The tears had been in waiting for

so long that they flowed without effort, abundantly, rolling one over

another down her cheeks; but she was careful not to make a sound; for,

even when sobbing bitterly, she did not forget that at any moment

Johanna might enter the adjoining room and overhear her. And then, what

a fuss there would be! For Ephie was one of those fortunate people who

always get what they want, and but rarely have occasion to cry. All her

desires had moved low, near earth, and been easily fulfilled. Did she

break her prettiest doll, a still prettier was forthcoming; did

anything happen to cross wish or scheme of hers, half a dozen brains

were at work to think out a compensation.

But now she wept in earnest, behind closed doors, for she had received

an injury which no one could make good. And the more she thought of it,

the more copiously her tears flowed. The evening had been one long

tragedy of disappointment: her fevered anticipation beforehand, her

early throbs of excitement in the theatre, her growing consternation as

the evening advanced, her mortification at being slighted--a sensation

which she experienced for the first time. Again and again she asked

herself what she had done to be treated in this way. What had happened

to change him?

She was sitting upright on her chair, letting the tears stream

unchecked; her two hands lay upturned on her knee; in one of them was a

diminutive lace handkerchief, rolled to a ball, with which now and then

she dabbed away the hottest tears. The windows of the room were still

open, the blinds undrawn, and the street-lamps threw a flickering mesh

of light on the wall. In the glass that hung over the washstand, she

saw her dim reflection: following an impulse, she dried her eyes, and,

with trembling fingers, lighted two candles, one on each side of the

mirror. By this uncertain light, she leant forward with both hands on

the stand, and peered at herself with a new curiosity.

She was still just as she had come out of the theatre: a many-coloured

silk scarf was twisted round her head, and the brilliant, dangling

fringes, and the stray tendrils of hair that escaped, made a frame for

the rounded oval of her face. And then her skin was so fine, her eyes

were so bright, the straight lashes so black and so long!--she put her

head back, looked at herself through half-closed lids, turned her face

this way and that, even smiling, wet though her cheeks were, in order

that she might see the even line of teeth, with their slightly notched

edges. The smile was still on her lips when the tears welled up again,

ran over, trickled down and dropped with a splash, she watching them,

until a big, unexpected sob rose in her throat, and almost choked her.

Yes, she was pretty--oh, very, very pretty! But it made what had

happened all the harder to understand. How had he had the heart to

treat her so cruelly?

She knelt down by the open window, and laid her head on the sill. The

moon, a mere sharp line of silver, hung fine and slender, like a

polished scimitar, above the dark mass of houses opposite. Turning her

hot face up to it, she saw that it was new, and instantly felt a throb

of relief that she had not caught her first glimpse of it through

glass. She bowed her head to it, quickly, nine times running, and sent

up a prayer to the deity of fortune that had its home there. Good

luck!--the fulfilment of one's wish! She wished in haste, with

tight-closed eyes--and who knew but what, the very next day, her wish

might come true! Tired with crying, above all, tired of the grief

itself, she began more and more to let her thoughts stray to the

morrow. And having once yielded to the allurements of hope, she even

endeavoured to make the best of the past evening, telling herself that

she had not been alone for a single instant; he had really had no

chance of speaking to her. In the next breath, of course, she reminded

herself that he might easily have made a chance, had he wished; and a

healthier feeling of resentment stole over her. Rising from her cramped

position, she shut the window. She resolved to show him that she was

not a person who could be treated in this off-hand fashion; he should

see that she was not to be trifled with.

But she played with her unhappiness a little longer, and even had an

idea of throwing herself on the bed without undressing. She was very

sleepy, though, and the desire to be between the cool, soft sheets was

too strong to be withstood. She slipped out of her clothes, leaving

them just where they fell on the floor, like round pools; and before

she had finished plaiting her hair, she was stifling a hearty yawn. But

in bed, when the light was out, she lay and stared before her.

"I am very, very unhappy. I shall not sleep a wink," she said to

herself, and sighed at the prospect of the night-watch.

But before five minutes had passed her closed hand relaxed, and lay

open and innocent on the coverlet; her breath came regularly--she was

fast asleep. The moon was visible for a time in the setting of the

unshuttered window; and when she wakened next day, toward nine o'clock,

the full morning sun was playing on the bed.

For several months prior to this, Ephie had worshipped Schilsky at a

distance. The very first time she saw him play, he had made a profound

impression on her: he looked so earnest and melancholy, so supremely

indifferent to every one about him, as he stood with his head bent to

his violin. Then, too, he had beautiful hands; and she did not know

which she admired more, his auburn hair with the big hat set so

jauntily on it, or the thrillingly impertinent way he had of staring at

you--through half-closed eyes, with his head well back--in a manner at

once daring and irresistible.

Having come through a period of low spirits, caused by an acute

consciousness of her own littleness and inferiority, Ephie so far

recovered her self-confidence that she was able to look at her divinity

when she met him; and soon after this, she made the intoxicating

discovery that not only did he return her look, but that he also took

notice of her, and deliberately singled her out with his gaze. And the

belief was pardonable on Ephie's part, for Schilsky made it a point of

honour to stare any pretty girl into confusion; besides which, he had a

habit of falling into sheep-like reveries, in which he saw no more of

what or whom he looked at, than do the glassy eyes of the blind. More

than once, Ephie had blushed and writhed in blissful torture under

these stonily staring eyes.

From this to persuading herself that her feelings were returned was

only a step. Events and details, lighter than puff-balls, were to her

links of iron, which formed a wonderful chain of evidence. She went

about nursing the idea that Schilsky desired an introduction as much as

she did; that he was suffering from a romantic and melancholy

attachment, which forbade him attempting to approach her.

At this date, she became an adept at inventing excuses to go to the

Conservatorium when she thought he was likely to be there; and,

suddenly grown rebellious, she shook off Johanna's protectorship, which

until now had weighed lightly on her. She grew fastidious about her

dress, studied before the glass which colours suited her best, and the

effect of a particular bow or ribbon; while on the days she had her

violin-lessons, she developed a coquetry which made nothing seem good

enough to wear, and was the despair of Johanna. When Schilsky played at

an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG, she sat in the front row of seats, and made her

hands ache with applauding. Afterwards she lay wakeful, with hot

cheeks, and dreamt extravagant dreams of sending him great baskets and

bouquets of flowers, with coloured streamers to them, such as the

singers in the opera received on a gala night. And though no name was

given, he would know from whom they came. But on the only occasion she

tried to carry out the scheme, and ventured inside a florist's shop,

her scant command of German, and the excessive circumstantiality of the

matter, made her feel so uncomfortable that she had fled precipitately,

leaving the shopman staring after her in surprise.

Things were at this pass when, one day late in May, Ephie went as usual

to take her lesson. It was two o'clock on a cloudless afternoon, and so

warm that the budding lilac in squares and gardens began to give out

fragrance. In the whitewashed, many-windowed corridors of the

Conservatorium, the light was harsh and shadowless; it jarred on one,

wounded the nerves. So at least thought Schilsky, who was hanging about

the top storey of the building, in extreme ill-humour. He had been

forced to make an appointment with a man to whom he owed money; the

latter had not yet appeared, and Schilsky lounged and swore, with his

two hands deep in his pockets, and his sulkiest expression. But

gradually, he found himself listening to the discordant tones of a

violin--at first unconsciously, as we listen when our thoughts are

elsewhere engaged, then more and more intently. In one of the junior

masters' rooms, some one had begun to play scales in the third

position, uncertainly, with shrill feebleness, seeking out each note,

only to produce it falsely. As this scraping worked on him, Schilsky

could not refrain from rubbing his teeth together, and screwing up his

face as though he had toothache; now that the miserable little tones

had successfully penetrated his ear, they hit him like so many blows.

"Damn him for a fool!" he said savagely to himself, and found an outlet

for his irritation in repeating these words aloud. Then, however, as an

ETUDE was commenced, with an impotence that struck him as purely

vicious, he could endure the torment no longer. He had seen in the

BUREAU the particular master, and knew that the latter had not yet come

upstairs. Going to the room from which the sounds issued, he stealthily

opened the door.

A girl was standing with her back to him, and was so engrossed in

playing that she did not hear him enter. On seeing this, he proposed to

himself the schoolboy pleasure of creeping up behind her and giving her

a well-deserved fright. He did so, with such effect that, had he not

caught it, her violin would have fallen to the floor.

He took both her wrists in his, held them firm, and, from his superior

height--he was head and shoulders taller than Ephie--looked down on the

miscreant. He recognised her now as a pretty little American whom he

had noticed from time to time about the building; but--but ... well,

that she was as astoundingly pretty as this, he had had no notion. His

eyes strayed over her face, picking out all its beauties, and he felt

himself growing as soft as butter. Besides, she had crimsoned down to

her bare, dimpled neck; her head drooped; her long lashes covered her

eyes, and a tremulous smile touched the corners of her mouth, which

seemed uncertain whether to laugh or to cry--the short, upper-lip

trembled. He felt from her wrists, and saw from the uneasy movement of

her breast, how wildly her heart was beating--it was as if one held a

bird in one's hand. His ferocity died away; none of the hard words he

had had ready crossed his lips; all he said, and in his gentlest voice,

was: "Have I frightened you?" He was desperately curious to know the

colour of her eyes, and, as she neither answered him nor looked up, but

only grew more and more confused, he let one of her hands fall, and

taking her by the chin, turned her face up to his. She was forced to

look at him for a moment. Upon which, he stooped and kissed her on the

mouth, three times, with a pause between each kiss. Then, at a noise in

the corridor, he swung hastily from the room, and was just in time to

avoid the master, against whom he brushed up in going out of the door.

Herr Becker looked suspiciously at his favourite pupil's tell-tale face

and air of extreme confusion; and, throughout the lesson, his manner to

her was so cold and short that Ephie played worse than ever before.

After sticking fast in the middle of a passage, she stopped altogether,

and begged to be allowed to go home. When she had gone, and some one

else was playing, Herr Becker stood at the window and shook his head:

round this innocent baby face he had woven several pretty fancies.

Meanwhile Ephie flew rather than walked home, and having reached her

room unseen, flung herself on the bed, and buried her burning cheeks in

the white coolness of the pillows. Johanna, finding her thus, a short

time after, was alarmed, put questions of various kinds, felt sure the

sun had been too hot for her, and finally stood over the bed, holding

her unfailing remedy, a soothing powder for the nerves.

"Oh, do for goodness' sake, leave me alone, Joan," said Ephie. "I don't

want your powders. I am all right. Just let me be."

She drank the mixture, however, and catching sight of Johanna's anxious

face, and aware that she had been cross, she threw her arms round her

sister, hugged her, and called her a "dear old darling Joan." But there

was something in the stormy tenderness of the embrace, in the flushed

cheeks and glittering eyes that made Johanna even more uneasy. She

insisted upon Ephie lying still and trying to sleep; and, after taking

off her shoes for her, and noiselessly drawing down the blinds, she

went on tiptoe out of the room.

Ephie burrowed more deeply in her pillow, and putting both hands to her

cars, to shut out the world, went over the details of what had

happened. It was like a fairy-story. She walked lazily down the sunny

corridor, entered the class-room, and took off her hat, which Herr

Becker hung up for her, after having playfully examined it. She had

just taken her violin from its case, when he remembered something he

had to do in the BUREAU, and went out of the room, bidding her practise

her scales during his absence; she heard again and smiled at the funny

accent with which he said: "Just a moment." She saw the bare walls of

the room, the dust that lay white on the lid on the piano, was

conscious of the difficulties of C sharp minor. She even knew the very

note at which HE had been beside her--without a word of warning, as

suddenly as though he had sprung from the earth. She heard the cry she

had given, and felt his hands--the hands she had so often

admired--clasp her wrists. He was so close to her that she felt his

breath, and knew the exact shape of the diamond ring he wore on his

little finger. She felt, too, rather than saw the audacious admiration

of his eyes; and his voice was not the less caressing because a little

thick. And then--then--she burrowed more firmly, held her ears more

tightly to, laughed a happy, gurgling laugh that almost choked her:

never, as long as she lived, would she forget the feel of his moustache

as it scratched her lips!

When she rose and looked at herself in the glass, it seemed

extraordinary that there should be no outward difference in her; and

for several days she did not lose this sensation of being mysteriously

changed. She was quieter than usual, and her movements were a little

languid, but a kind of subdued radiance peeped through and shone in her

eyes. She waited confidently for something to happen: she did not

herself know what it would be, but, after the miracle that had

occurred, it was beyond belief that things could jog on in their old

familiar course; and so she waited and expected--at every letter the

postman brought, each time the door-bell rang, whenever she went into

the street.

But after a week had dragged itself to an end, and she had not even

seen Schilsky again, she grew restless and unsure; and sometimes at

night, when Johanna thought she was asleep, she would stand at her

window, and, with a very different face from that which she wore by

day, put countless questions to herself, all of which began with why

and how. And Johanna was again beset by the fear that Ephie was

sickening for an illness, for the child would pass from bursts of

rather forced gaiety to fits of real fretfulness, or sink into brown

studies, from which she wakened with a start. But if, on some such

occasion, Johanna said to her: "Where ARE your thoughts, Ephie?" she

would only laugh, and answer, with a hug: "Wool-gathering, you dear old

bumble-bee!"

From the lesson following the eventful one, Ephie played truant, on the

ground of headache, partly because her fancy pictured him lying in wait

like an ogre to eat her up, and partly from a poor little foolish fear

lest he should think her too easily won. Now, however, she blamed

herself for not having given him an opportunity to speak to her, and

began to frequent the Conservatorium assiduously. When, after ten long

days, she saw him again, an unfailing instinct guided her aright.

It was in the vestibule, as she was leaving the building, and they met

face to face. Directly she espied him, though her heart thumped

alarmingly, Ephie tossed her head, gazed fixedly at some distant

object, and was altogether as haughty as her parted lips would allow

of. And she played her part so well that Schilsky's attention was

arrested; he remembered who she was, and stared hard at her as she

passed. Not only this, but pleased, he could not have told why, he

turned and followed her out, and standing on the steps, looked after

her. She went down the street with her head in the air, holding her

dress very high to display a lace-befrilled petticoat, and clattering

gracefully on two high-heeled, pointed shoes. He screwed up his eyes

against the sun, in order to see her better--he was short-sighted, too,

but vanity forbade him to wear glasses--and when, at the corner of the

street, Ephie rather spoilt the effect of her behaviour by throwing a

hasty glance back, he laughed and clicked his tongue against the roof

of his mouth.

"VERDAMMT!" he said with expression.

And both on that day and the next, when he admired a well-turned ankle

or a pretty petticoat, he was reminded of the provoking little

American, with the tossed head and baby mouth.

A few days later, in the street that ran alongside the Gewandhaus, he

saw her again.

Ephie, who, in the interval, had upbraided herself incessantly, was

none the less, now the moment had come, about to pass as before--even

more frigidly. But this time Schilsky raised his hat, with a tentative

smile, and, in order not to appear childish, she bowed ever so

slightly. When he was safely past, she could not resist giving a

furtive look behind her, and at precisely the same moment, he turned,

too. In spite of her trouble, Ephic found the coincidence droll; she

tittered, and he saw it, although she immediately laid the back of her

hand on her lips. It was not in him to let this pass unnoticed. With a

few quick steps, he was at her side.

He took off his hat again, and looked at her not quite sure how to

begin.

"I am happy to see you have not forgotten me," he said in excellent

English.

Ephie had impulsively stopped on hearing him come up with her, and now,

colouring deeply, tried to dig a hole in the pavement with the toe of

her shoe. She, too, could not think what to say; and this, together

with the effect produced on her by his peculiar lisp, made her feel

very uncomfortable. She was painfully conscious of his insistent eyes

on her face, as he waited for her to speak; but there was a distressing

pause before he added: "And sorry to see you are still angry with me."

At this, she found her tongue. Looking, not at him, but at a passer-by

on the opposite side of the street, she said: "Why, I guess I have a

right to be."

She tried to speak severely, but her voice quavered, and once more the

young man was not sure whether the trembling of her lip signified tears

or laughter.

"Are you always so cruel?" he asked, with an intentness that made her

eyes seek the ground again. "Such a little crime! Is there no hope for

me?"

She attempted to be dignified. "Little! I am really not accustomed----"

"Then I'm not to be forgiven?"

His tone was so humble that suddenly she had to laugh. Shooting a quick

glance at him, she said:

"That depends on how you behave in future. If you promise never to----"

Before the words were well out of her mouth, she was aware of her

stupidity; her laugh ended, and she grew redder than before. Schilsky

had laughed, too, quite frankly, and he continued to smile at the

confusion she had fallen into. It seemed a long time before he said

with emphasis: "That is the last thing in the world you should ask of

me."

Ephie drooped her head, and dug with her shoe again; she had never been

so tongue-tied as to-day, just when she felt she ought to say something

very cold and decisive. But not an idea presented itself, and meanwhile

he went on: "The punishment would be too hard. The temptation was so

great."

As she was still obstinately silent, he stooped and peeped under the

overhanging brim of her hat. "Such pretty lips!" he said, and then, as

on the former occasion, he took her by the chin and turned her face up

to his.

But she drew back angrily. "Mr. Schilskyl ... how dare you! Take your

hand away at once."

"There!--I have sinned again," he said, and folded his hands in mock

supplication. "Now I am afraid you will never forgive me.--But listen,

you have the advantage of me; you know my name. Will you not tell me

yours?"

Having retreated a full yard from him, Ephie regained some of her

native self-composure. For the first time, she found herself able to

look straight at him. "No," she said, with a touch of her usual

lightness. "I shall leave you to find it out for yourself; it will give

you something to do."

They both laughed. "At least give me your hand," he said; and when he

held it in his, he would not let her go, until, after much seeming

reluctance on her part, she had detailed to him the days and hours of

her lessons at the Conservatorium, and where he would be likely to meet

her. As before, he stood and watched her go down the street, hoping

that she would turn at the corner. But, on this day, Ephie whisked

along in a great hurry.

On after occasions, he waylaid her as she came and went, and either

stood talking to her, or walked the length of the street beside her. At

the early hour of the afternoon when Ephie had her lessons, he did not

need to fear being seen by acquaintances; the sunshine was undisturbed

in the quiet street. The second time they met, he told her that he had

found out what her name was; and his efforts to pronounce it afforded

Ephie much amusement. Their conversation was always of the same nature,

half banter, half earnest. Ephie, who had rapidly recovered her

assurance, invariably began in her archest manner, and it became his

special pleasure to reduce her, little by little, to a crimson silence.

But one day, about a fortnight later, she came upon him at a different

hour, when he was not expecting to see her. He was strolling up and

down in front of the Conservatorium, waiting for Louise, who might

appear at any moment. Ephie had been restless all the morning, and had

finally made an excuse to go out: her steps naturally carried her to

the Conservatorium, where she proposed to study the notice-board, on

the chance of seeing Schilsky. When she caught sight of him, her eyes

brightened; she greeted him with an inviting smile, and a saucy remark.

But Schilsky did not take up her tone; he cut her words short.

"What are you doing here to-day?" he asked with a frown of displeasure,

meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on the inner staircase--visible

through the glass doors--down which Louise would come. "I haven't a

moment to spare."

Mortally offended by his manner, Ephie drew back her extended hand, and

giving him a look of surprise and resentment, was about to pass him by

without a further word. But this was more than Schilsky could bear; he

put out his hand to stop her, always, though, with one eye on the door.

"Now, don't be cross, little girl," he begged impatiently. "It's not my

fault--upon my word it isn't. I wasn't expecting to see you to-day--you

know that. Look here, tell me--this sort of thing is so

unsatisfactory--is there no other place I could see you? What do you do

with yourself all day? Come, answer me, don't be angry."

Ephie melted. "Come and visit us on Sunday afternoon," she said. "We

are always at home then."

He laughed rudely, and took no notice of her words. "Come, think of

something--quick!" he said.

He was on tenterhooks to be gone, and showed it. Ephie grew flustered,

and though she racked her brains, could make no further suggestion.

"Oh well, if you can't, you know," he said crossly, and loosened his

hold of her arm.

Then, at the last moment, she had a flash of inspiration; she

remembered how, on the previous Sunday, Dove had talked

enthusiastically of an opera-performance, which, if she were not

mistaken, was to take place the following night. Dove had declared that

all musical Leipzig would probably be present in the theatre. Surely

she might risk mentioning this, without fear of another snub.

"I am going to the opera to-morrow night," she said in a small, meek

voice, and was on the verge of tears. Schilsky hardly heard her; Louise

had appeared at the head of the stairs. "The very thing," he said. "I

shall look out for you there, little girl. Good-bye. AUF WIEDERSEHEN!"

He went down the steps, without even raising his hat, and when Louise

came out, he was sauntering towards the building again, as if he had

come from the other end of the street.

Ephie went home in a state of anger and humiliation which was new to

her. For the first few hours, she was resolved never to speak to

Schilsky again. When this mood passed, she made up her mind that he

should atone for his behaviour to the last iota: he should grovel

before her; she would scarcely deign to look at him. But the nearer the

time came for their meeting, the more were her resentful feelings

swallowed up by the wish to see him. She counted off the hours till the

opera commenced; she concocted a scheme to escape Johanna's

surveillance; she had a story ready, if it should be necessary, of how

she had once been introduced to Schilsky. Her fingers trembled with

impatience as she fastened on a pretty new dress, which had just been

sent home: a light, flowered stuff, with narrow bands of black velvet

artfully applied so as to throw the fairness of her hair and skin into

relief.

The consciousness of looking her best gave her manner a light sureness

that was very charming. But from the moment they entered the FOYER,

Ephie's heart began to sink: the crowd was great; she could not see

Schilsky; and in his place came Dove, who was not to be shaken off.

Even Maurice was bad enough--what concern of his was it how she enjoyed

herself? When, finally, she did discover the person she sought, he was

with some one else, and did not see her; and when she had succeeded in

making him look, he frowned, shook his head, and made angry signs that

she was not to speak to him, afterwards going downstairs with the

sallow girl in white. What did it mean? All through the tedious second

act, Ephie wound her handkerchief round and round, and in and out of

her fingers. Would it never end? How long would the fat, ugly

Brunnhilde stand talking to Siegmund and the woman who lay so

ungracefully between his knees? As if it mattered a straw what these

sham people did or felt! Would he speak to her in the next interval, or

would he not?

The side curtains had hardly swept down before she was up from her

seat, hurrying Johanna away. This time she chose to stand against the

wall, at the end of the FOYER. After a short time, he came in sight,

but he had no more attention to spare for her than before; he did not

even look in her direction. Her one consolation was that obviously he

was not enjoying himself; he wore a surly face, was not speaking, and,

to a remark the girl in white made, he answered by an angry flap of the

hand. When they had twice gone past in this way, and she had each time

vainly put herself forward, Ephie began to take an interest in what

Dove was saying, to smile at him and coquet with him, and the more

openly, the nearer Schilsky drew. Other people grew attentive, and Dove

went into a seventh heaven, which made it hard for him placidly to

accept the fit of pettish silence, she subsequently fell into.

The crowning touch was put to this disastrous evening by the fact that

Schilsky's companion of the FOYER walked the greater part of the way

home with them; and, what was worse, that she took not the slightest

notice of Ephie.

XI.

Before leaving her bedroom the following morning, Ephie wrote on her

scented pink paper a short letter, which began: "Dear Mr. Schilsky,"

and ended with: "Your sincere friend, Euphemia Stokes Cayhill." In this

letter, she "failed to understand" his conduct of the previous evening,

and asked him for an explanation. Not until she had closed the

envelope, did she remember that she was ignorant of his address. She

bit the end of her pen, thinking hard, and directly breakfast was over,

put on her hat and slipped out of the house.

It was the first time Ephie had had occasion to enter the BUREAU of the

Conservatorium; and, when the heavy door had swung to behind her, and

she was alone in the presence of the secretaries, each of whom was bent

over a high desk, writing in a ledger, her courage almost failed her.

The senior, an old, white-haired man, with a benevolent face, did not

look up; but after she had stood hesitating for some minutes, an

under-secretary solemnly laid down his pen, and coming to the counter,

wished in English to know what he could do for her. Growing very red,

Ephie asked him if he "would ... could ... would please tell her where

Mr. Schilsky lived."

Herr Kleefeld leaned both hands on the counter, and disconcerted her by

staring at her over his spectacles.

"Mr. Schilsky? Is it very important?" he said with a leer, as if he

were making a joke.

"Why, yes, indeed," replied Ephie timidly.

He nodded his head, more to himself than to her, went back to his desk,

opened another ledger, and ran his finger down a page, repeating aloud

as he did so, to her extreme embarrassment: "Mr. Schilsky--let me see.

Mr. Schilsky--let me see."

After a pause, he handed her a slip of paper, on which he had

painstakingly copied the address: "TALSTRASSE, 12 III."

"Why, I thank you very much. I have to ask him about some music. Is

there anything to pay?" stammered Ephie.

But Herr Kleefeld, leaning as before on the counter, shook his head

from side to side, with a waggish air, which confused Ephie still more.

She made her escape, and left him there, still wagging, like a china

Mandarin.

Having addressed the letter in the nearest post office, she entered a

confectioner's and bought a pound of chocolate creams; so that when

Johanna met her in the passage, anxious and angry at her leaving the

house without a word, she was able to assert that her candy-box had

been empty, and she felt she could not begin to practise till it was

refilled. But Johanna was very cantankerous, and obliged her to study

an hour overtime to atone for her escapade.

Then followed for Ephie several unhappy days, when all the feeling she

seemed capable of concentrated itself on the visits of the postman. She

remained standing at the window until she had seen him come up the

street, and she was regularly the first to look through the mails as

they lay on the lobby table. Two days brought no reply to her letter.

On the third fell a lesson, which she was resolved not to take. But

when the hour came, she dressed herself with care and went as usual.

Schilsky was nowhere to be seen. Half a week later, the same thing was

repeated, except that on this day, she made herself prettier than ever:

she was like some gay, garden flower, in a big white hat, round the

brim of which lay scarlet poppies, and a dress of a light blue, which

heightened the colour of her cheeks, and, reflected in her eyes, made

them bluer than a fjord in the sun. But her spirits were low; if she

did not see him this time, despair would crush her.

But she did--saw him while she was still some distance off, standing

near the portico of the Conservatorium; and at the sight of him, after

the uncertainty she had gone through during the past week, she could

hardly keep back her tears. He did not come to meet her; he stood and

watched her approach, and only when she reached him, indolently held

out his hand. As she refused to notice it, and went to the extreme edge

of the pavement to avoid it, he made a barrier of his arms, and forced

her to stand still. Holding her thus, with his hand on her elbow, he

looked keenly at her; and, in spite of the obdurate way in which she

kept her eyes turned from him, he saw that she was going to cry. For a

moment he hesitated, afraid of the threatening scene, then, with a

decisive movement, he took her violin-case out of her hand. Ephie made

an ineffectual effort to get possession of it again, but he held it

above her reach, and saying: "Wait a minute," ran up the steps. He came

back without it, and throwing a swift glance round him, took the young

girl's arm, and walked her off at a brisk pace to the woods. She made a

few, faint protests. But he replied: "You and I have something to say

to each other, little girl."

A full hour had elapsed when Ephie appeared again. She was alone, and

walked quickly, casting shy glances from side to side. On reaching the

Conservatorium, she waited in a quiet corner of the vestibule for

nearly a quarter of an hour, before Schilsky sauntered in, and released

her violin from the keeping of the janitor, a good friend of his.

They had not gone far into the wood; Schilsky knew of a secluded seat,

which was screened by a kind of boscage; and here they had remained. At

first, Ephie had cried heartily, in happy relief, and he had not been

able to console her. He had come to meet her with many good

resolutions, determined not to let the little affair, so lightly begun,

lead to serious issues; but Ephie's tears, and the tale they told, and

the sobbed confessions that slipped out unawares, made it hard for him

to be wise. He put his arm round her, dried her tears with his own

handkerchief, kissed the hand he held. And when he had in this way

petted her back to composure, she suddenly looked up in his face, and,

with a pretty, confiding movement, said:

"Then you do care for me a little?"

It would have need a stronger than he to answer otherwise. "Of course I

do," was easily said, and to avoid the necessity of more, he kissed the

pink dimples at the base of her four fingers, as well as the baby

crease that marked the wrist. The poppy-strewn hat lay on the seat

beside them; the fluffy head and full white throat were bare; in the

mellow light of the trees, the lashes looked jet-black on her cheeks;

at each word, he saw her small, even teeth: and he was so unnerved by

the nearness of all this fresh young beauty that, when Ephie with her

accustomed frankness had told him everything he cared to know, he found

himself saying, in place of what he had intended, that they must be

very cautious. In the meantime, it would not do for them to be seen

together: it might injure his prospects, be harmful to his future.

"Yes, but afterwards?" she asked him promptly.

He kissed her cheek. But she repeated the question, and he was obliged

to reply: that would be a different matter. It was now her turn to be

curious, and one of the first questions she put related to the dark

girl he had been with at the theatre. Playing lightly with her fingers,

Schilsky told her that this was one of his best friends, some one he

had known for a long, long time, to whom he owed much, and whom he

could under no circumstances offend. Ephie looked grave for a moment;

and, in the desire of provoking a pretty confession, he asked her if

she had minded very much seeing him with some one else. But she made

him wince by responding with perfect candour: "With her? Oh, no! She's

quite old."

Before parting, they arranged the date of the next meeting, and, a

beginning once made, they saw each other as often as was feasible.

Ephie grew wonderfully apt at excuses for going out at odd times, and

for prolonged absences. Sound fictions were needed to satisfy Johanna,

and even Maurice Guest was made to act as dummy: he had taken her for a

walk, or they had been together to see Madeleine Wade; and by these

means, and also by occasionally shirking a lesson, she gained a good

deal of freedom. Johanna would as soon have thought of herself being

untruthful as of doubting Ephie, whom she had never known to tell a

lie; and if she did sometimes feel jealous of all the new claims made

on her little sister's attention, such a feeling was only temporary,

and she was, for the most part, content to see Ephie content.

At night, in her own room, lying wakeful with hot cheeks and big eyes,

Ephie went over in memory all that had taken place at their last

meeting, or built high, top-heavy castles for the future. She was

absurdly happy; and her mother and sister had never found her more

charming and lovable, or richer in those trifling inspirations for

brightening life, which happiness brings with it. She looked forward

with secret triumph to the day when she would be able to announce her

engagement to the celebrated young violinist, and the only shadow on

her happiness was that she could not do this immediately. It did not

once cross her mind to doubt the issue: she had always had her way,

and, in her own mind, had long since arranged just how this matter was

to fall out. She would return to America--where, of course, they would

live--and get her clothes ready, and then he would come, and they would

be married--a big wedding, with descriptions in the newspapers. They

would have a big house, and he would play at concerts--as she had once

heard Sarasate play in New York--and every one would stand on tiptoe to

see him. She sat proud and conspicuous in the front row. "His wife.

That is his wife!" people whispered, and they drew respectfully back to

let her pass, as, in a very becoming dress, she swept into the little

room behind the platform, which she alone was permitted to enter.

One day at this time there was a violent thunderstorm. Towards midday,

the eastern sky grew black with clouds, which, for hours, had been

ominously gathering; a sudden wind rose and swept the dust house-high

through the streets; the thunder rumbled, and each roll came nearer.

When, after a prolonged period of expectation, the storm finally burst,

there was a universal sigh of relief.

The afternoon was damply refreshing. As soon as the rain ceased,

Maurice shut his piano, and walked at a brisk pace to Connewitz, his

head bared beneath the overhanging branches, which were still weighed

down by their burden of drops. At the WALDCAFE on the bank of the

river, in a thickly grown arbour which he entered to drink a glass of

beer, he found Philadelphia Jensen and the pale little American,

Fauvre, taking coffee.

The lady welcomed him with a large, outstretched hand, in the

effusively hearty manner with which she, as it were, took possession of

people; and towards six o'clock, the three walked back through the

woods together, Miss Jensen, resolute of bust as of voice, slightly

ahead of her companions, carrying her hat in her hand, Fauvre dragging

behind, hitting indolently at stones and shrubs, and singing scraps of

melodies to himself in his deep baritone.

Miss Jensen, who had once been a journalist, was an earnest worker for

woman's emancipation, and having now successfully mounted her hobby,

spoke with a thought-deadening eloquence. Maurice had never been called

on to think about the matter, and listened to her words

absent-mindedly, comparing her, as she swept along, to a ship in full

sail. She was just asserting that the ordinary German woman was little

more than means to an end, the end being the man-child, when his

attention was arrested, and, in an instant, jerked far away from Miss

Jensen's theories. As they reached the bend of a path, a sound of

voices came to them through the trees, and on turning a corner, Maurice

caught a glimpse of two people who were going in the opposite

direction, down a side-walk--a passing but vivid glimpse of a light,

flowered dress, of a grey suit of clothes, and auburn hair. Ephie! He

could have sworn to voice and dress; but to whom in all the world was

she talking, so confidentially? At the name that rose to his lips, he

almost stopped short, but the next moment he was afraid lest his

companions should also have seen who it was, and, quickening his steps,

he incited Miss Jensen to talk on. First, however, that lady said in a

surprised tone: "Say, that was Mr. Schilsky, wasn't it? Who was the

lady? Did you perceive?" So there was no possible doubt of it.

After parting from his companions, he did an errand in the town, and

from there went to the Cayhills' PENSION, determined to ascertain

whether it had really been Ephie he had seen, and if so, what the

meaning of it was.

Mrs. Cayhill and Johanna were in the sitting-room; Johanna looked very

surprised to see him. They had this moment risen from the supper-table,

she told him; Ephie had only just got home in time. Before anything

further could be said, Ephie herself came into the room; her face was

flushed, and she did not seem well-pleased at his unexpected visit. She

hardly greeted him, and instead, commenced talking about the weather.

"Then you had a pleasant walk?" asked Johanna in a preoccupied fashion,

without looking up from the letter she was writing; and before Maurice

could speak, Ephie, fondling her sister's neck, answered: "How could it

be anything but sweet--after the rain?"

In the face of this frankness, it was on Maurice's tongue to say: "Then

it was you, I saw?" but again she did not give him time. Still standing

behind Johanna's chair, her eyes fixed on the young man's face with a

curious intentness, she continued: "We walked right to Connewitz and

back without a rest."

"I don't think you should take her so far," said Mrs. Cayhill, looking

up from her book with her kindly smile. "She has never been used to

walking and is easily tired--aren't you, my pet?"

"Yes, and then she can't get up the next morning," said Johanna, mildly

dogmatic, considering the following sentence of her letter.

Gradually it broke upon Maurice that Ephie had been making use of his

name. His consternation at the discovery was such that he changed

colour. The others, however, were both too engrossed to notice it.

Ephie grew scarlet, but continued to rattle on, covering his silence.

"Well, perhaps to-day it was a little too far," she admitted. "But

mummy, I won't have you say I'm not strong. Why, Herr Becker is always

telling me how full my tone is getting. Yes indeed. And look at my

muscle."

She turned back the loose sleeve of her blouse, baring almost the whole

of her rounded arm; then, folding it sharply to her, she invited one

after another to test its firmness.

"Quite a prize-fighter, I declare!" laughed Mrs. Cayhill, at the same

time drawing her little daughter to her, to kiss her. But Johanna

frowned, and told Ephie to put down her sleeve at once; there was

something in the childish action that offended the elder sister, she

did not know why. But Maurice had first to lay two of his fingers on

the soft skin, and then to help her to button the cuff.

When, soon after this, he took his leave, Ephie went out of the room

with him. In the dark passage, she caught at his hand.

"Morry, you mustn't tell tales on me," she whispered; and added

pettishly: "Why ever did you just come to-night?"

He tried to see her face. "What is it all about, Ephie?" he asked.

"Then it WAS you, I saw, in the NONNE--by the weir?"

"Me? In the NONNE!" She was genuinely surprised. "You saw me?"

He nodded. By the light that came from the stairs as she opened the

hall-door, she noticed that he looked troubled, and an impulse rose in

her to throw her arms round his neck and say: "Yes, yes, it was me. Oh,

Morry, I am so happy!" But she remembered the reasons for secrecy that

had been imposed on her, and, at the same time, felt somewhat defiantly

inclined towards Maurice. After all, what business was it of his? Why

should he take her to task for what she chose to do? And so she merely

laughed, with assumed merriment, her own charming, assuaging laugh.

"In the wood?--you old goose! Listen, Morry, I told them I had been

with you, because--why, because one of the girls in my class asked me

to go to the CAFE FRANCAIS with her, and we stayed too long, and ate

too much ice-cream, and Joan doesn't like it, and I knew she would be

cross--that's all! Don't look so glum, you silly! It's nothing," and

she laughed again.

As long as this laugh rang in his ears--to the bottom of the street,

that is--he believed her. Then, the evidence of his senses reasserted

itself, and he knew that what she had told him was false. He had heard

her voice in the wood too distinctly to allow of any mistake, and she

was still wearing the same dress. Besides, she had lied so artlessly to

the others, without a tremor of her candid eyes--why should she not lie

to him, too? She was less likely to be considerate of him than of

Johanna. But his distress at her skill in deceit was so great that he

said: "Ephie, little Ephie!" aloud to himself, just as he might have

done had he heard that she was stricken down by a mortal illness.

On the top of this, however, came less selfish feelings. What was

almost a sense of guilt took possession of him; he felt as if, in some

way, he were to blame for what had happened; as if nature had intended

him to stand in the place of a brother to this pretty, thoughtless

child. And yet what could he have done? He did not now see Ephie as

often as formerly, and hardly ever alone; on looking back, he began to

suspect that she had purposely avoided him. The exercises in harmony,

which had previously brought them together, had been discontinued.

First, she had said that her teacher was satisfied with what she

herself could do; then, that he had advised her to give up harmony

altogether: she would never make anything of it. In the light of what

had come to pass, Maurice saw that he had let himself be duped by her;

she had lied then as now.

He puzzled his brains to imagine how she had learned to know Schilsky

in the first instance, and when the affair had begun: what he had

overheard that afternoon implied an advanced stage of intimacy; and he

revolved measures by means of which a stop might be put to it. The only

course he could think of was to lay the matter before Johanna; and yet

what would the use of that be? Ephie would deny everything, make his

story ludicrous, himself impossible, and never forgive him into the

bargain. In the end, he might do more good by watching over her

silently, at a distance. If it had only not been Schilsky who was

concerned! Some of the ugly stories he had heard related of the young

man rose up and took vivid shape before his eyes. If any harm came to

Ephie, he alone would be to blame for it; not Johanna, only he knew the

frivolous temptations the young girl was exposed to. Why, in Heaven's

name, had he not taken both her hands, as they stood in the passage,

and insisted on her confessing to him? No, credulous as usual, he had

once more allowed himself to be hoodwinked and put off.

Thus he fretted, without arriving at any clearer conclusion than this:

that he had unwittingly been made accessory to an unpleasant secret.

But where his mind baulked, and refused to work, was when he tried to

understand what all this might mean to the third person involved. Did

Louise know or suspect anything? Had she, perhaps, for weeks past been

suffering under the knowledge?

He stood irresolute, at the crossing where the MOZARTSTRASSE joined the

PROMENADE. A lamp-lighter was beginning his rounds; he came up with his

long pole to the lamp at the corner, and, with a mild explosion, the

little flame sprang into life. Maurice turned on his heel and went to

see Madeleine.

The latter was making her supper of tea, bread, and cold sausage, and

when she heard that he had not eaten, she set a cup and plate before

him, and was glad that she happened to be late. Propped open on the

table was a Danish Grammar, which she conned as she ate; for, in the

coming holidays, she was engaged to go to Norway, as guide and

travelling-companion to a party of Englishwomen.

"I had a letter from London to-day," she said, "with definite

arrangements. So I at once bought this book. I intend to try and master

at least the rudiments of the language--barbarous though it is--for I

want to get some good from the journey. And if one has one's wits about

one, much can be learnt from cab-drivers and railway-porters."

She traced on a map with her forefinger the route they proposed to

follow, and laughed at the idea of the responsibility lying heavy on

her. But when they had finished their supper, and she had talked

informingly for a time of Norway, its people and customs, she looked at

the young man, who sat irresponsive and preoccupied, and considered him

attentively.

"Is anything the matter to-night? Or are you only tired?"

He was tired. But though she herself had suggested it, she was not

satisfied with his answer.

"Something has bothered you. Has your work gone badly?"

No, it was nothing of that sort. But Madeleine persisted: could she be

of any help to him?

"The merest trifle--not worth talking about."

The twilight had grown thick around them; the furniture of the room

lost its form, and stood about in shapeless masses. Through the open

window was heard the whistle of a distant train; a large fly that had

been disturbed buzzed distractingly, undecided where to re-settle for

the night. It was sultry again, after the rain.

"Look here, Maurice," Madeleine said, when she had observed him for

some time in silence. "I don't want to be officious, but there's

something I should like to say to you. It's this. You are far too

soft-hearted. If you want to get on in life, you must think more about

yourself than you do. The battle is to the strong, you know, and the

strong, within limits, are certainly the selfish. Let other people look

after themselves; try not to mind how foolish they are--you can't

improve them. It's harder, I daresay, than it is to be a person of

unlimited sympathies; it's harder to pass the maimed and crippled by,

than to stop and weep over them, and feel their sufferings through

yourself. But YOU have really something in you to occupy yourself with.

You're not one of those people--I won't mention names!--whose own

emptiness forces them to take an intense interest in the doings of

others, and who, the moment they are alone with their thoughts, are

bored to desperation, just as there are people who have no talent for

making a home home-like, and are only happy when they are out of it."

Here she laughed at her own seriousness.

"But you are smiling inwardly, and thinking: the real old school-marm!"

"You don't practise what you preach, Madeleine. Besides, you're

mistaken. At heart, I'm a veritable egoist."

She contradicted him. "I know you better than you know yourself."

He did not reply, and a silence fell, in which the commonplace words

she had last said, went on sounding and resounding, until they had no

more likeness to themselves. Madeleine rose, and pushed back her chair,

with a grating noise.

"I must light the lamp. Sitting in the dark makes for foolishness.

Come, wake up, and tell me what plans you have for the holidays."

"If I had a sister, I should like her to be like you," said Maurice,

watching her busy with the lamp. "Clear-headed, and helpful to a

fellow."

"I suppose men always will continue to consider that the greatest

compliment they can pay," said Madeleine, and turned up the light so

high that they both blinked.--And then she scolded the young man

soundly for his intention of remaining in Leipzig during the holidays.

But when he rose to go, she said, with an impulsiveness that was

foreign to her: "I wish you had a friend."

It was his turn to smile. "Have you had enough of me?"

Madeleine, who was sitting with crossed arms, remained grave. "I mean a

man. Some one older than yourself, and who has had experience. The

best-meaning woman in the world doesn't count."

Only a very few days later, an occasion offered when, with profit to

himself, he might have acted upon Madeleine's introductory advice. He

had been for a quick, solitary walk, and was returning, in the evening

between nine and ten o'clock, along one of the paths of the wood, when

suddenly, and close at hand, he heard the sound of voices. He stopped

instantaneously, for by the jump his heart gave, he knew that Louise

was one of the speakers. What she said was inaudible to him; but it was

enough to be able to listen, unseen, to her voice. Hearing it like

this, as something existing for itself, he was amazed at its depth and

clearness; he felt that her personal presence had, until now, hindered

him from appreciating a beautiful but immaterial thing at its true

worth. At first, like a cadence that repeats itself, its tones rose and

fell, but with more subtle inflections than the ordinary voice has:

there was a note in it that might have belonged to a child's voice;

another, more primitive, that betrayed feeling with as little reserve

as the cry of an animal. Then it sank, and went on in a monotone, like

a Hebrew prayer, as if reiterating things worn threadbare by

repetition, and already said too often. Gradually, it died away in the

surrounding silence. There was no response but a gentle rustling of the

leaves overhead. It began anew, and, in the interval, seemed to have

gained in intensity; now there was a bitterness in it which, when it

swelled, made it give out a tone like the roughly touched strings of an

instrument; it seemed to be accusing, to be telling of unmerited

suffering. And, this time, it elicited a reply, but a casual,

indifferent one, which might have related to the weather, or to the

time of night. Louise gave a shrill laugh, and then, as plainly as if

the words were being carved in stone before his eyes, Maurice heard her

say: "You have never given me a moment's happiness."

As before, no answer was returned, and almost immediately his ear

caught a muffled sound of footsteps. At the same moment, a night-wind

shook the tree-tops; there was a general fluttering and swaying around

him; and he came back to himself to find that he was standing rigid,

holding on to a slender tree that grew close by the path. His first

conscious thought was that this wind meant rain ... there would be

another storm in the night ... and the summer holidays--time of

partings--were at the door. She would go away ... and he would perhaps

never see her again.

Since the evening they had walked home from the theatre together, he

had had no further chance of speaking to her. If they met in the

street, she gave him, as Madeleine had foretold of her, a nod and a

smile; and from this coolness, he had drawn the foolish inference that

she wished to avoid him. Abnormally sensitive, he shrank out of her

way. But now, the mad sympathy that had permeated him on the night she

had made him her confidant grew up in him again; it swelled out into

something monstrous--a gigantic pity that rebounded on himself. For he

knew now why she suffered; and he was cast down both for her and for

himself. It seemed unnatural that he was debarred from giving her just

a fraction of the happiness she craved--he, who, had there been the

least need for it, would have lain himself down for her to tread on.

And in some of the subsequent nights when he could not sleep, he

composed fantastic letters to her, in which he told her this and more,

only to colour guiltily, with the return of daylight, at the

impertinent folly of his thoughts.

But he could not forget the words he had heard her say; they haunted

him like an importunate refrain. Even his busiest hours were set to

them--"You have never given me a moment's happiness"--and they were

alike a torture and a joy.

XII.

The second half of July scattered the little circle in all directions.

Maurice spent a couple of days at the different railway-stations,

seeing his friends off. One after another they passed into that

anticipatory mood, which makes an egoist of the prospective traveller:

his thoughts start, as it were, in advance; he has none left for the

people who are remaining behind, and receives their care and attention

as his due.

Dove was packed and strapped, ready to set out an hour after he had had

his last lesson; and while he printed labels for his luggage, and took

a circumstantial leave of his landlady and her family, with whom he was

a prime favourite by reason of his decent and orderly habits, Maurice

fetched for him from the lending library, the pieces of music set by

Schwarz as a holiday task. Dove was on tenterhooks to be off. Of late,

things had gone superlatively well with him: he had performed with

applause in an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG, and been highly commended by Schwarz;

while, as for Ephie, she had been so sweet and winning, so modestly

encouraging of his suit, that he had every reason to hope for success

in this quarter also. Too dutiful a son, however, to take,

unauthorised, such an important step as that of proposing marriage, he

was now travelling home to sound two elderly people, resident in a side

street in Peterborough, on the advisability of an American

daughter-in-law.

The Cayhills had been among the first to leave, and would be absent

till the middle of September. One afternoon, Maurice started them from

the THURINGER BAHNHOF, on their journey to Switzerland. Having seen

Mrs. Cayhill comfortably settled with her bags, books and cushions, in

the corner of a first-class carriage, and given Johanna assistance with

the tickets, he stood till the train went, talking to Ephie; and he

long retained a picture of her, standing with one foot on the step, in

a becoming travelling-dress, a hat with a veil flying from it, and a

small hand-bag slung across her shoulder, laughing and dimpling, and

well aware of the admiring glances that were cast at her. It was a

relief to Maurice that she was going away for a time; his feeling of

responsibility with regard to her had not flagged, and he had made a

point of seeing her more often, and of knowing more of her movements

than before. As, however, he had not observed anything further to

disturb him, his suspicions were on the verge of subsiding--as

suspicions have a way of doing when we wish them to--and in the last

day or two, he had begun to feel much less sure, and to wonder if,

after all, he had not been mistaken.

"I shall miss you, Morry. I almost wish I were not going," said Ephie,

and this was not untrue, in spite of the pretty new dresses her trunks

contained. "Say, I don't believe I shall enjoy myself one bit. You will

write, Morry, won't you, and tell me what goes on? All the news you

hear and who you see and everything."----

"Be sure you write," said Madeleine, too, when he saw her off early in

the morning to Berlin, where she was to meet her English charges.

"Christiania, POSTE RESTANTE, till the first, and then Bergen. 'FROKEN

WADE,' don't forget."

The train started; her handkerchief fluttered from the window until the

carriage was out of sight.

Maurice was alone; every one he knew disappeared, even Furst, who had

obtained a holiday engagement in a villa near Dresden. An odd stillness

reigned in the BRAUSTRASSE and its neighbourhood; from houses which had

hitherto been clangrous with musical noises, not a sound issued.

Familiar rooms and lodgings were either closely shuttered, or, in

process of scouring, hung out their curtains to flutter on the sill.