On hearing that he had not come for a lesson, the dirty maidservant,

who opened the third-floor door to him, showed him as a visitor into

the best sitting-room. Maurice remained standing, in prescribed

fashion. But he had no sooner crossed the threshold than he was aware

of loud voices in the adjoining room, separated from the one he was in

by large foldingdoors.

"If you think," said a woman's voice, and broke on "think"--"if you

think I'm going to endure a repetition of what happened two years ago,

you're mistaken. Never again shall she enter this house! Oh, you pig,

you wretch! Klara has told me; she saw you through the keyhole--with

your arm round her waist. And I know myself, scarcely a note was struck

in the hour. You have her here on any pretext; you keep her in the

class after all the others have gone. But this time I'm not going to

sit still till the scandal comes out, and she has to leave the place. A

man of your age!--the father of four children!--and this ugly little

hussy of seventeen! Was there ever such a miserable woman as I am! No,

she shall never enter this house again."

"And I say she shall!" came from Schwarz so fiercely that the listener

started. "Aren't you ashamed, woman, at your age, to set a servant

spying at keyholes?--or, what is more likely, spying yourself? Keep to

your kitchen and your pots, and don't dictate to me. I am the master of

the house."

"Not in a case like this. It concerns me. It concerns the children. I

say she shall never enter the door again."

"And I say she shall. Go out of the room!"

A chair grated roughly on a bare floor; a door banged with such

violence that every other door in the house vibrated.

In the silence that ensued, Maurice endeavoured to make his presence

known by walking about. But no one came. His eyes ranged round the

room. It was, with a few slight differences, the ordinary best room of

the ordinary German house. The windows were heavily curtained, and, in

front of them, to the further exclusion of light and air, stood

respectively a flower-table, laden with unlovely green plants, and a

room-aquarium. The plush furniture was stiffly grouped round an oblong

table and dotted with crochet-covers; under a glass shade was a massy

bunch of wax flowers; a vertikow, decorated with shells and grasses,

stood cornerwise beside the sofa; and, at the door, rose white and

gaunt a monumental Berlin stove. But, in addition to this, which was DE

RIGUEUR, there were personal touches: on the walls, besides the usual

group of family photographs, in oval frames, hung the copy of a Madonna

by Gabriel Max, two etchings after Defregger, several large

group-photographs of Schwarz's classes in different years, a framed

concert programme, yellow with age, and a silhouette of Schumann. Over

one of the doors hung a withered laurelwreath of imposing dimensions,

and with faded silken ends, on which the inscription was still legible:

DEM GROSSEN KUNSTLER, JOHANNES SCHWARZ!--Open on a chair, with an

embroidered book-marker between its pages, lay ATTA TROLL; and by the

stove, a battered wooden doll sat against the wall, in a relaxed

attitude, with a set leer on its painted face.

Maurice waited, in growing embarrassment. He had unconsciously fixed

his eyes on the doll; and, in the dead silence of the house, the

senseless face of the creature ruffled his nerves; crossing the room,

he knocked it over with his foot, so that its head fell with a bump on

the parquet floor, where it lay in a still more tipsy position. There

was no doubt that he had arrived at a most inopportune moment; it

seemed, too, as if the servant had forgotten even to announce him.

On cautiously opening the door, with the idea of slipping away, he

heard a child screaming in a distant room, and the mother's voice sharp

in rebuke. The servant was clattering pots and pans in the kitchen, but

she heard Maurice, and put her head out of the door. Her face was red

and swollen with crying.

"What!--you still here?" she said rudely. "I'd forgotten all about you."

"It doesn't matter--another time," murmured Maurice.

But the girl had spoken in a loud voice to make herself heard above the

screaming, which was increasing in volume, and, at her words, a door at

the end of the passage, and facing down it, was opened by about an

inch, and Frau Schwarz peered through the slit.

"Who is it?"

The servant tossed her head, and made no reply. She went back into her

kitchen, and, after a brief absence, during which Frau Schwarz

continued surreptitiously to scrutinise Maurice, came out carrying a

large plateful of BERLINER PFANNKUCHEN. With these she crossed to an

opposite room, and, as she there planked the plate down on the table,

she announced the visitor. A surly voice muttered something in reply.

As, however, the girl insisted in her sulky way, on the length of time

the young man had waited, Schwarz called out stridently: "Well, then,

in God's name, let him come in! And Klara, you tell my wife, if that

noise isn't stopped, I'll throw either her or you downstairs."

Klara appeared again, scarlet with anger, jerked her arm at Maurice, to

signify that he might do the rest for himself, and, retreating into her

kitchen, slammed the door. Left thus, with no alternative, Maurice drew

his heels together, gave the customary rap, and went into the room.

Schwarz was sitting at the table with his head on his hand, tracing the

pattern of the cloth with the blade of his knife. A coffee-service

stood on a tray before him; he had just refilled his cup, and helped

himself from the dish of PFANNKUCHEN, which, freshly baked, sent an

inviting odour through the room. He hardly looked up on Maurice's

entrance, and cut short the young man's apologetic beginnings.

"Well, what is it? What brings you here?"

As Maurice hesitated before the difficulty of plunging offhand into the

object of his visit, Schwarz pointed with his knife at a chair: he

could not speak, for he had just put the best part of a PFANNKUCHEN in

his mouth, and was chewing hard. Maurice sat down, and holding his hat

by the brim, proceeded to explain that he had called on a small

personal matter, which would not occupy more than a minute of the

master's time.

"It's in connection with last night that I wished to speak to you, Herr

Professor," he said: the title, which was not Schwarz's by right, he

knew to be a sop. "I should be much obliged to you if you would give me

your candid opinion of my playing. It's not easy to judge

oneself--although I must say, both at the time, and afterwards, I was

not too well pleased with what I had done--that is to say ..."

"WIE? WAS?" cried Schwarz, and threw a hasty glance at his pupil, while

he helped himself anew from the dish.

Maurice uncrossed his legs, and crossed them again, the same one up.

"My time here comes to an end at Easter, Herr Professor. And it's

important for me to learn what you think of the progress I have made

since being with you. I don't know why," he added less surely, "but of

late I haven't felt satisfied with myself. I seem to have got a certain

length and to have stuck there. I should like to know if you have

noticed it, too. If so, does the fault lie with my want of talent, or--"

"Or with ME, perhaps?" broke in Schwarz, who had with difficulty thus

far restrained himself. He laughed offensively. "With ME--eh?" He

struck himself on the chest, several times in succession, with the

butt-end of his knife, that there might be no doubt to whom he

referred. "Upon my soul, what next I wonder!--what next!" He ceased to

laugh, and grew ungovernably angry. "What the devil do you mean by it?

Do you think I've nothing better to do, at the end of a hard day's

work, than to sit here and give candid opinions, and discuss the

progress made by each strummer who comes to me twice a week for a

lesson? Oho, if you are of that opinion, you may disabuse your mind of

it! I'm at your service on Tuesday and Friday afternoon, when I am paid

to be; otherwise, my time is my own."

He laid two of the cakes on top of each other, sliced them through, and

put one of the pieces thus obtained in his mouth. Maurice had risen,

and stood waiting for the breathing-space into which he could thrust

words of apology.

"I beg your pardon, Herr Professor," he now began. "You misunderstand

me. Nothing was further from my mind than----"

But Schwarz had not finished speaking; he rapped the table with his

knife-handle, and, working himself up to a white heat, continued: "But

plain and plump, I'll tell you this, Herr Guest"--he pronounced it

"Gvest." "If you are not satisfied with me, and my teaching, you're at

liberty to try some one else. If this is a preliminary to inscribing

yourself under that miserable humbug, that wretched charlatan, who

pretends to teach the piano, do it, and have done with it! No one will

hinder you--certainly not I. You're under no necessity to come here

beforehand, and apologise, and give your reasons--none of the others

did. Slink off like them, without a word! it's the more decent way in

the long run. They at least knew they were behaving like blackguards."

"You have completely misunderstood me, Herr Schwarz. If you will give

me a moment to explain----"

But Schwarz was in no mood for explanations; he went on again, paying

no heed to Maurice's interruption.

"Who wouldn't rather break stones by the roadside than be a teacher?"

he asked, and sliced and ate, sliced and ate. "Look at the years of

labour I have behind me--twenty and more!--in which I've toiled to the

best of my ability, eight and nine hours, day after day, and eternally

for ends that weren't my own!--And what return do I get for it? A

new-comer only needs to wave a red flag before them, and all alike rush

blindly to him. A pupil of Liszt?--bah! Who was Liszt? A barrel-organ

of execution; a perverter of taste; a worthy ally of that upstart who

ruined melody, harmony, and form. Don't talk to me of Liszt!"

He spoke in spurts, blusteringly, but indistinctly, owing to the

fullness of his mouth.

"But I'm not to be imposed on. I know their tricks. Haven't I myself

had pupils turn to me from Bulow and Rubinstein? Is that not proof

enough? Would they have come if they hadn't known what my method was

worth? And I took them, and spared no pains to make something of them.

Haven't I a right to expect some gratitude from them in

return?--Gratitude? Such a thing doesn't exist; it's a word without

meaning, a puffing of the air. Look at him for whom I did more than for

all the rest. Did I take a pfennig from him in payment?--when I saw

that he had talent? Not I! And I did it all. When he came to me, he

couldn't play a scale. I gave him extra lessons without charge, I put

pupils in his way, I got him scholarships, I enabled him to support his

family--they would have been beggars in the street, but for me. And now

soon will be! Yes, I have had his mother here, weeping at my feet,

imploring me to reason with him and bring him back to his senses. SHE

sees where his infamy will land them. But I? I snap my fingers in his

face. He has sown, and he shall reap his sowing.--But the day will

come, I know it, when he will return to me, and all the rest will

follow him, like the sheep they are. Let them come! They'll see then

whether I have need of them or not. They'll see then what they were

worth to me. For I can produce others others, I say!--who will put him

and his fellows out of the running. Do they think I'm done for, because

of this? I'll show them the contrary. I'll show them! Why, I set no

more store by the lot of you than I do by this plate of cakes!"

Again he ate voraciously, and for a few moments, the noise his jaws

made in working was the only sound in the room. Maurice stood in the

same attitude, with his hat in his hand.

"I regret more than I can express, having been the cause of annoying

you, Herr Professor," he said at length with stiff formality. "But I

should like to repeat, once more, that my only object in coming here

was to speak to you about last night. I felt dissatisfied with myself

and ..."

"Dissatisfied?" echoed Schwarz, bringing his jaws together with a snap.

"And what business of yours is it to feel dissatisfied, I'd like to

know? Leave that to me! You'll hear soon enough, I warrant you, when I

have reason to be dissatisfied. Until then, do me the pleasure of

minding your own business."

"Excuse me," said Maurice with warmth, "if this isn't my own business!

... As I see it, it's nobody's but mine. And it seemed to me natural to

appeal to you, as the only person who could decide for me whether I

should have anything further to do with art, or whether I should throw

it up altogether."

Schwarz, who was sometimes not averse to a spirited opposition, caught

at the one unlucky word on which he could hang his scorn.

"ART!" he repeated with jocose emphasis--he had finished the plate of

cakes, risen from the table, and was picking teeth at the window.

"Art!--pooh, pooh!--what's art got to do with it? In your place, I

should avoid taking such highflown words on my tongue. Call it

something else. Do you think it makes a jot of difference whether you

call it art or ... pludderdump? Not so much"--and he snapped his

fingers--"will be changed, though you never call it anything!

Vanity!--it's nothing but vanity! A set of raw youths inflate

themselves like frogs, and have opinions on art, as on what they have

eaten for their dinner.--Do your work and hold your tongue! A scale

well played is worth all the words that were ever said--and that, the

majority of you can't do."

He closed his toothpick with a snap, spat dexterously at a spittoon

which stood in a corner of the room, and the interview was over.

As Maurice descended the spiral stair, he said to himself that, no

matter how long he remained in Leipzig, he would never trouble Schwarz

with his presence again. The man was a loose-mouthed bully. But in

future he might seek out others to be the butt of his clumsy wit. He,

Maurice, was too good for that.--And squaring his shoulders, he walked

erectly down the street, and across the JOHANNAPARK.

But none the less, he did not go straight home. For, below the comedy

of intolerance at which he was playing, lurked, as he well knew, the

consciousness that his true impression of the past hour had still to be

faced. He might postpone doing this; he could not shirk it. It was all

very well: he might repeat to himself that he had happened on Schwarz

at an inopportune moment. That did not count. For him, Maurice, the

opportune moment simply did not exist; he was one of those people who

are always inopportune, come and go as they will. He might have waited

for days; he would never have caught Schwarz in the right mood, or in

the nick of time. How he envied those fortunate mortals who always

arrived at the right moment, and instinctively said the right thing!

That talent had never been his. With him it was blunder.

One thing, though, that still perplexed him, was that not once, since

he had been in Leipzig, had he caught a glimpse of that native goodness

of heart, for which he had heard Schwarz lauded. The master had done

his duty by him--nothing more. Neither had had any personal feeling for

the other; and the words Schwarz had used this afternoon had only been

the outcome of a long period of reserve, even of distrust. At this

moment, when he was inclined to take the onus of the misunderstanding

on his own shoulders, Maurice admitted, besides his constant

preoccupation--or possibly just because of it--an innate lack of

sympathy in himself, an inability, either of heart or of imagination,

to project himself into the lives and feelings of people he did not

greatly care for. Otherwise, he would not have gone to Schwarz on such

an errand as today's; he would have remembered that the master was

likely to be sore and suspicious. And, from now on, things would be

worse instead of better. Schwarz had no doubt been left under the

impression that Maurice had wished to complain of his teaching; and

impressions of this nature were difficult to erase.

There was nothing to be done, however, but to plod along in the

familiar rut. He must stomach aspersions and injuries, behave as if

nothing had happened. His first hot intention of turning his back on

Schwarz soon yielded to more worldly-wise thoughts. Every practical

consideration was against it. He might avenge himself, if he liked, by

running to the rival teacher like a crossed child; Schrievers would

undoubtedly receive him with open arms, and promise him all he asked.

But what could he hope to accomplish, under a complete change of

method, in the few months that were left? He would also have to forfeit

his fees for the coming term, which were already paid. Schrievers'

lessons were expensive, and out of the small sum that remained to him

to live on, it would be impossible to take more than half a dozen.

Another than he might have appealed to Schrievers' satisfaction in

securing a fresh convert; but Maurice had learnt too thoroughly by now,

that he was not one of those happy exceptions--exceptions by reason of

their talent or their temperament--to whom a master was willing to

devote his time free of charge.

Over these reflections night had fallen; and rising, he walked speedily

back by the dark wood-paths. But before he reached the meadows, from

which he could see lights blinking in the scattered villas, his steps

had lagged again. His discouragement had nothing chimerical in it at

this moment; it was part and parcel of himself.--The night was both

chilly and misty, and it was late. But a painful impression of the

previous evening lingered in his mind. Louise would be annoyed with him

for keeping her waiting; and he shrank, in advance, from the thought of

another disagreeable scene. He was not in the mood to-night, to soothe

and console.

As he entered the MOZARTSTRASSE, he saw that there was a light in

Madeleine's window. She was at home, then. He imagined her sitting

quiet and busy in her pleasant room, which, except for the ring of

lamplight, was sunk in peaceful shadow. This was what he needed: an

hour's rest, dim light, and Madeleine's sympathetic tact.

Without giving himself time for thought, he mounted the stair and

pressed the bell-knob on the third floor.

On seeing who her visitor was, Madeleine rose with alacrity from the

writing-table.

"Maurice! Is it really you?"

"I was passing. I thought I would run up ... you're surprised to see

me?"

"Oh, well--you're a stranger now, you know."

She was vexed with herself for showing astonishment. Moving some books,

she made room for him to sit down on the sofa, and, as he was moody,

and seemed in no hurry to state why he had come, she asked if she might

finish the letter she was writing.

"Make yourself comfortable. Here's a cushion for your head."

Through half-closed eyes, he watched her hand travelling across the

sheet of note-paper, and returning at regular intervals, with a sure

swoop, to begin a fresh line. There was no sound except the gentle

scratching of her pen.

Madeleine did not look up till she had finished her letter and

addressed the envelope. Maurice had shut his eyes.

"Are you asleep?" she roused him. "Or only tired?"

"I've a headache."

"I'll make you some tea."

He watched her preparing it, and, by the time she handed him his cup,

he was in the right mood for making her his confidant.

"Look here, Madeleine," he said; "I came up to-night--The fact is, I've

done a foolish thing. And I want to talk to some one about it."

Her eyes grew more alert.

"Let me see if I can help you."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't. But first of all, tell me

frankly, how you thought I got on last night."

"How you got on?" echoed Madeleine, unclear what this was to lead to.

"Why, all right, of course.--Oh, well, if you insist on the truth!--The

fact is, Maurice, you did no better and no worse than the majority of

those who fill the ABEND programmes. What you didn't do, was to reach

the standard your friends had set up for you."

"Thanks. Now listen," and he related to her in detail his misadventure

of the afternoon.

Madeleine followed with close attention. But more distinctly than what

he said, she heard what he did not say. His account of the two last

days, with the unintentional sidelight it threw on just those parts he

wished to keep in darkness, made her aware how complicated and involved

his life had become. But before he finished speaking, she brought all

her practical intelligence to bear on what he said.

"Maurice!" she exclaimed, with a consternation that was three parts

genuine. "I should like to shake you. How COULD you!--what induced you

to do such a foolish thing?" And, as he did not speak: "If only you had

come to me before, instead of after! I should have said: hold what

ridiculous opinions you like yourself, but for goodness' sake keep

clear of Schwarz with them. Yes, ridiculous, and offensive, too. Anyone

would have taken your talk about being dissatisfied just as he did. And

after the way he has been treated of late, he's of course doubly

touchy."

"I knew that, when it was too late. But I meant merely to speak

straight out to him, Madeleine--one man to another. You surely don't

want to say he's incapable of allowing one to have an independent

opinion? If that's the case, then he's nothing but the wretched little

tyrant Heinz declares him to be."

"Wait till you have taught as long as he has," said Madeleine, and, at

his muttered: "God forbid!" she continued with more warmth: "You'll

know then, too, that it doesn't matter whether your pupils have

opinions or not. He has seen this kind of thing scores of times before,

and knows it must be kept down."

She paused, and looked at him. "To get on in life, one must have a

certain amount of tact. You are too naive, Maurice, too

unsuspecting--one of those people who would like to carry on social

intercourse on a basis of absolute truth, and then be surprised that it

came to an end. You are altogether a very difficult person to deal

with. You are either too candid, or too reserved. There's no middle way

in you. I haven't the least doubt that Schwarz finds you both

perplexing and irritating; he takes the candour for impertinence, and

the reserve for distrust."

Maurice smiled faintly. "Go on--don't spare me. No one ever troubled

before to tell me my failings."

"Oh, I'm quite in earnest. As I look at it, it's entirely your own

fault that you don't stand better with Schwarz. You have never

condescended to humour him, as you ought to have done. You thought it

was enough to be truthful and honest, and to leave the rest to him.

Well, it wasn't. I won't hear a word against Schwarz; he's goodness

itself to those who deserve it. A little bluff and rude at times; but

he's too busy to go about in kid gloves for fear of hurting sensitive

people's feelings."

"Why did you never take private lessons from him?" was her next

question. "I told you months ago, you remember, that you ought to.--Oh,

yes, you said they were too expensive, I know, but you could have

scraped a few marks together somehow. You managed to buy books, and

books were quite unnecessary. One lesson a fortnight would have brought

you' more into touch with Schwarz than all you have had in the class.

As it is, you don't know him any better than he knows you." And as she

refilled his tea-cup, she added: "You quoted Heinz to me just now. But

you and I can't afford to measure people by the same standards as

Heinz. We are everyday mortals, remember.--Besides, in all that counts,

he is not worth Schwarz's little finger."

"You're a warm advocate, Madeleine."

"Yes, and I've reason to be. No one here has been as kind to me as

Schwarz. I came, a complete stranger, and with not more than ordinary

talent. But I went to him, and told him frankly what I wanted to do,

how long I could stay, and how much money I had to spend. He helped me

and advised me. He has let me study what will be of most use to me

afterwards, and he takes as much interest in my future as I do myself.

How can I speak anything but well of him?--What I certainly didn't do,

was to go to him and talk ambiguously about feeling dissatisfied with

him ..."

"With myself, Madeleine. Haven't I made that clear?"

But Madeleine only sniffed.

"Well, it's over and done with now," she said after a pause. "And

talking about it won't mend it.--Tell me, rather, what you intend to

do. What are your plans?"

"Plans? I don't know. I haven't any. Sufficient unto the day, etc."

But of this she disapproved with open scorn. "Rubbish! When your time

here is all but up! And no plans!--One thing, I can tell you anyhow,

is, after to-day you needn't rely on Schwarz for assistance. You've

spoilt your chances with him. The only way of repairing the mischief

would be the lesson I spoke of--one a week as long as you re here."

"I couldn't afford it."

"No, I suppose not," she said sarcastically, and tore a piece of paper

that came under her fingers into narrow strips. "Tell me," she added a

moment later, in a changed tone: "where do you intend to settle when

you return to England? And have you begun to think of advertising

yourself yet?"

He waved his hand before his face as if he were chasing away a fly.

"For God's sake, Madeleine! ... these alluring prospects!"

"Pray, what else do you expect to do?"

"Well, the truth is, I ... I'm not going back to England at all. I mean

to settle here."

Madeleine repressed the exclamation that rose to her lips, and stooped

to brush something off the skirt of her dress. Her face was red when

she raised it. She needed no further telling; she understood what his

words implied as clearly as though it were printed black on white

before her. But she spoke in a casual tone.

"However are you going to make that possible?"

He endeavoured to explain.

"I don't envy you," she said drily, when he had finished. "You hardly

realise what lies before you, I think. There are people here who are

glad to get fifty pfennigs an hour, for piano lessons. Think of

plodding up and down stairs, all day long, for fifty pfennigs an hour!"

He was silent.

"While in England, with a little tact and patience, you would soon have

more pupils than you could take at five shillings."

"Tact and patience mean push and a thick skin. But don't worry! I shall

get on all right. And if I don't--life's short, you know."

"But you are just at: the beginning of it--and ridiculously young at

that! Good Heavens, Maurice!" she burst out, unable to contain herself.

"Can't you see that after you've been at home again for a little while,

things that have seemed so important here will have shrunk into their

right places? You'll be glad to have done with them then, when you are

in orderly circumstances again."

"I'm afraid not," answered the young man. "I'm not a good forgetter."

"A good forgetter!" repeated Madeleine, and laughed sarcastically. She

was going on to say more, but, just at this moment, a clock outside

struck ten, and Maurice sprang to his feet.

"So late already? I'd no idea. I must be off."

She stood by, and watched him look for his hat.

"Here it is." She picked it up, and handed it to him, with an

emphasised want of haste.

"Good night, Madeleine. Thanks for the truth. I knew I could depend on

you."

"It was well meant. And the truth is always beneficial, you know. Good

night.--Come again, soon."

He heard her last words half-way down the stairs, which he took two at

a time.

The hour he had now to face was a painful ending to an unpleasant day.

It was not merely the fact that he had kept Louise waiting, in aching

suspense, for several hours. It now came out that, after their

disagreement of the previous night, she had confidently expected him to

return to her early in the day, had expected contrition and atonement.

That he had not even suspected this made her doubly bitter against him.

In vain he tried to excuse himself, to offer explanations. She would

not listen to him, nor would she let him touch her. She tore her dress

from between his fingers, brushed his hand off her arm; and, retreating

into a corner of the room, where she stood like an animal at bay, she

poured out over him her accumulated resentment. All she had ever

suffered at his hands, all the infinitesimal differences there had been

between them, from the beginning, the fine points in which he had

failed--things of which he had no knowledge--all these were raked up

and cast at him till, numb with pain, he lost even the wish to comfort

her. Sitting down at the table, he laid his head on his folded arms.

At his feet were the fragments of the little clock, which, in her anger

at his desertion of her, she had trodden to pieces.

VI.

Their first business the next morning was to buy another clock. By

daylight, Louise was full of remorse at what she had done, and in

passing the writing-table, averted her eyes. They went out early to a

shop in the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE; and Maurice stood by and watched her

make her choice.

She loved to buy, and entered into the purchase with leisurely

enjoyment. The shopman and his assistant spared themselves no trouble

in fetching and setting out their wares. Louise handled each clock as

it was put before her, discussed the merits of different styles, and a

faint colour mounted to her cheeks over the difficulty of deciding

between two which she liked equally well. She had pushed up her veil;

it swathed her forehead like an Eastern woman's. Her eagerness, which

was expressed in a slight unsteadiness of nostril and lip, would have

had something childish in it, had it not been for her eyes. They

remained heavy and unsmiling; and the disquieting half-rings below them

were more bluely brown than ever. Leaning sideways against the counter,

Maurice looked away from them to her hands; her fingers were entirely

without ornament, and he would have liked to load them with rings. As

it was, he could not even pay for the clock she chose; it cost more

than he had to spend in a month.

In the street again, she said she was hungry, and, glad to be able to

add his mite to her pleasure, he took her by the arm and steered her to

the CAFE FRANCAIS, where they had coffee and ices. The church-steeples

were booming eleven when they emerged; it did not seem worth while

going home and settling down to work. Instead, they went to the

ROSENTAL.

It was a brilliant autumn day, rich in light and shade, and there was

only a breath abroad of the racy freshness that meant subsequent decay.

The leaves were turning red and orange, but had not begun to fall; the

sky was deeply blue; outlines were sharp and precise. They were both in

a mood this morning to be susceptible to their surroundings; they were

even eager to be affected by them, and made happy. The disagreements of

the two preceding nights were like bad dreams, which they were anxious

to forget, or at least to avoid thinking of. Her painful, unreasonable

treatment of him, the evening before, had not been touched on between

them; after his incoherent attempts to justify himself, after his

bitter self-reproaches, when she lay sobbing in his arms, they had

both, with one accord, been silent. Neither of them felt any desire for

open-hearted explanations; they were careful not to stir up the depths

anew. Louise was very quiet; had it not been for her eyes, he might

have believed her happy. But here, just as an hour before in the

watchmaker's shop, they brooded, unable to forget. And yet there was a

pliancy about her this morning, a readiness to meet his wishes, which,

as he walked at her side, made him almost content. The old, foolish

dreams awoke in him again, and vistas opened, of a gentle comradeship,

which might still come true, when the strenuous side of her love for

him had worn itself out. If only an hour like the present could have

lasted indefinitely!

It was a happy morning. They ended it with an improvised lunch at the

KAISERPARK; and it remained imprinted on their minds as an unexpected

patch of colour, in an unending row of grey days, given up to duty.

The next one, and the next again, Louise continued in the same yielding

mood, which was wholly different from the emotional expansiveness of

the past weeks. Maurice took a glad advantage of her willingness to

please him, and they had several pleasant walks together: to Napoleon's

battlefields; along the GRUNE GASSE and the POETENWEG to Schiller's

house at Gohlis; and into the heart of the ROSENTAL--DAS WILDE

ROSENTAL--where it was very solitary, and where the great trees seemed

to stagger under their load of stained leaves.

A burst of almost July radiance occurred at this time; and one day,

Louise expressed a wish to go to the country, in order that, by once

more being together for a whole day on end, they might relive in fancy

the happy weeks they had spent on the Rochlitzer Berg. It was never her

way to urge over-much, which made it hard to refuse her; so it was

arranged that they should set off betimes the following Saturday.

Maurice had his reward in the cry of pleasure she gave when he wakened

her to tell her that it was a fine day.

"Get up, dear! It's less than an hour till the train goes."

For the first time for weeks, Louise was her impetuous self again. She

threw things topsy-turvy in the room. It was he who drew her attention

to an unfastened hook, and an unbound ribbon. She only pressed forward.

"Make haste!--oh, make haste! We shall be late."

An overpowering smell of newly-baked rolls issued from the bakers'

shops, and the errand-boys were starting out with their baskets. Women

and house-porters were coming out to wash pavements and entrances: the

collective life of the town was waking up to another uneventful day;

but they two were hastening off to long hours of sunlight and fresh

air, unhampered by the passing of time, or by fallacious ideas of duty;

were setting out for a new bit of world, to strange meals taken in

strange places, reached by white roads, or sequestered wood-paths. In

the train, they were crushed between the baskets of the marketwomen,

who were journeying from one village to another. These sat with their

wizened hands clasped on their high stomachs, or on the handles of

their baskets, and stared, like stupid, placid animals, at the strange

young foreign couple before them. Partly for the frolic of astonishing

them, and also because he was happy at seeing Louise so happy, Maurice

kissed her hand; but it was she who astonished them most. When she gave

a cry, or used her hands with a sudden, vivid effect, or flashed her

white teeth in a smile, every head in the carriage was turned towards

her; and when, in addition, she was overtaken by a fit of loquacity,

she was well-nigh devoured by eyes.

They did not travel as far as they had intended. From the carriage

window, she saw a wayside place that took her fancy.

"Here, Maurice; let us get out here."

Having breakfasted, and left their bags at an inn, they strayed at

random along an inviting road lined with apple-trees. When Louise grew

tired, they rested in the arbour of a primitive GASTHAUS, and ate their

midday meal. Afterwards, in a wood, he spread a rug for her, and she

lay in a nest of sun-spots. Only their own voices broke the silence.

Then she fell asleep, and, until she opened her eyes again, and called

to him in surprise, no sound was to be heard but the sudden, crisp

rustling of some bird or insect. When evening fell, they returned to

their lodging, ate their supper in the smoky public room--for, outside,

mists had risen--and then before them stretched, undisturbed, the long

evening and the longer night, to be spent in a strange room, of which

they had hitherto not suspected the existence, but which, from now on,

would be indissolubly bound up with their other memories.

The first day passed in such a manner was as flawless as any they had

known in the height of summer--with all the added attractions of closer

intimacy. In its course, the shadows lifted from her eyes; and Maurice

ceased to remember that he had made a mess of his affairs. But the very

next one failed--as far as Louise was concerned--to reach the same

level: it was like a flower ever so slightly overblown. The lyric

charms that had so pleased her--the dewy freshness of the morning, the

solitude, the unbroken sunshine--were frail things, and, snatched with

too eager a hand, crumbled beneath the touch. They were not made to

stand the wear and tear of repetition. It was also impossible, she

found, to live through again days such as they had spent at Rochlitz;

time past was past irrevocably, with all that belonged to it. And it

was further, a mistake to believe that a more intimate acquaintance

meant a keener pleasure; it was just the stimulus of strangeness, the

piquancy of feeling one's way, that had made up half the fascination of

the summer.

With sure instinct, Louise recognised this, even while she exclaimed

with delight. And her heart sank: not until this moment had she known

how high her hopes had been, how firmly she had pinned her faith upon

the revival of passion which these days were to bring to pass. The

knowledge that this had been a delusion, was hard to bear. In thought,

she was merciless to herself, when, on waking, the second morning, she

looked with unexpectant eyes over the day that lay before her. Could

nothing satisfy her, she asked herself? Could she not be content for

twenty-four hours on end? Was it eternally her lot to come to the end

of things, before they had properly begun? It seemed, always, as if she

alone must be pressing forward, without rest. Here, on the second of

these days of love and sunshine, she saw, with absolute clearness, that

neither this nor any other day had anything extraordinary to give her;

and sitting silent at dinner, under an arbour of highly-coloured

creeper, she was overcome by such a laming discouragement, that she

laid her knife and fork down, and could eat no more.

Maurice, watching her across the table, believed that she was

over-tired, and filled up her glass with wine.

But she did not yield without a struggle. And it was not merely

rebellion against the defects of her own nature, which prompted her.

The prospect of the coming months filled her with dismay. When this

last brief spell of pleasure was over, there was nothing left, to which

she could look forward. The approaching winter stretched before her

like a starless night; she was afraid to let her mind dwell on it. What

was she to do?--what was to become of her, when the short dark days

came down again, and shut her in? The thought of it almost drove her

mad. Desperate with fear, she shut her eyes and went blindly forward,

determined to extract every particle of pleasure, or, at least, of

oblivion, that the present offered.

Under these circumstances, the poor human element in their relations

became once again, and more than ever before, the pivot on which their

lives turned. Louise aimed deliberately at bringing this about.

Further, she did what she had never yet done: she brought to bear on

their intercourse all her own hardwon knowledge, and all her arts. She

drew from her store of experience those trifling, yet weighty details,

which, once she has learned them, a woman never forgets. And, in

addition to this, she took advantage of the circumstances in which they

found themselves, utilising to the full the stimulus of strange times

and places: she fired the excitement that lurked in surreptitious

embrace and surrender, under all the dangers of a possible surprise.

She was perverse and capricious; she would turn away from him till she

reduced him to despair; then to yield suddenly, with a completeness

that threatened to undo them both. Her devices were never-ending. Not

that they were necessary: for he was helpless in her hands when she

assumed the mastery. But she could not afford to omit one of the means

to her end, for she had herself to lash as well as him. And so, once

more, as at the very beginning, hand grew to be a weight in hand,

something alive, electric; and any chance contact might rouse a blast

in them. She neither asked nor Showed mercy. Drop by drop, they drained

each other of vitality, two sufferers, yet each thirsty for the other's

life-blood; for, with this new attitude on her part, an element of

cruelty had entered into their love. When, with her hands on his

shoulders, her insatiable lips apart, Louise put back her head and

looked at him, Maurice was acutely aware of the hostile feeling in her.

But he, too, knew what it was; for, when he tried to urge prudence on

her, she only laughed at him; and this low, reckless laugh, her savage

eyes, and morbid pallor, invariably took from him every jot of concern.

They returned to Leipzig towards the middle of the first week, in order

not to make their absence too conspicuous. But they had arranged to go

away again, on the following Saturday, and, in the present state of

things, the few intervening days seemed endless. Louise shut herself

up, and would see little of him.

The next week, and the next again, were spent in the same fashion. A

fine and mild October ran its course. For the fourth journey, towards

the end of the month, they had planned to return to Rochlitz. At the

last moment, however, Maurice opposed the scheme, and they left the

train at Grimma. It was Friday, and a superb autumn day. They put up,

not in the town itself, but at an inn about a mile and a half distant

from it. This stood on the edge of a wood, was a favourite summer

resort, and had lately been enlarged by an additional wing. Now, it was

empty of guests save themselves. They occupied a large room in the new

part of the building, at the end of a long corridor, which was shut off

by a door from the rest of the house. They were utterly alone; there

was no need for them even to moderate their voices. In the early

morning hours, and on the journey there, Maurice had thought he noticed

something unusual about Louise, and, more than once, he had asked her

if her head ached. But soon he forgot his solicitude.

Next morning, he felt an irresistible inclination to go out: opening

the window, he leaned on the sill. A fresh, pleasant breeze was

blowing; it bent the tops of the pines, and drove the white clouds

smoothly over the sky. He suggested that they should walk to the ruined

cloister of Nimbschen; but Louise responded very languidly, and he had

to coax and persuade. By the time she was ready to leave the untidy

room, the morning was more than half over, and the shifting clouds had

balled themselves into masses. Before the two emerged from the wood, an

even network of cloud had been drawn over the whole sky; it looked like

rain.

They walked as usual in silence, little or nothing being left to say,

that seemed worth the exertion of speech. Each step cost Louise a

visible effort; her arms hung slack at her sides; her very hands felt

heavy. The pallor of her face had a greyish tinge in it. Maurice began

to regret having hurried her out against her will.

They were on a narrow path skirting a wood, when she suddenly expressed

a wish for some tall bulrushes that grew beside a stream, some distance

below. Maurice went down to the edge of the water and began to cut the

rushes. But the ground was marshy, and the finest were beyond his reach.

On the path at the top of the bank, Louise stood and followed his

movements. She watched his ineffectual efforts to seize the further

reeds, saw how they slipped back from between his hands; she watched

him take out his knife and open it, endeavour once more to reach those

he wanted, and, still unsuccessful, choose a dry spot to sit down on;

saw him take off his boots and stockings, then rise and go cautiously

out on the soft ground. Ages seemed to pass while she watched him do

these trivial things; she felt as if she were gradually turning to

stone as she stood. How long he was about it! How deliberately he

moved! And she had the odd sensation, too, that she knew beforehand

everything he would and would not do, just as if she had experienced it

already. His movements were of an impossible circumstantiality, out of

all proportion to the trifling service she had asked of him; for, at

heart, she cared as little about the rushes as about anything else. But

it was an unfortunate habit of his, and one she noticed more and more

as time went on, to make much of paltry details, which, properly,

should have been dismissed without a second thought. It implied a

certain tactlessness, to underline the obvious in this fashion. The

very way, for instance, he stretched out his arm, unclasped his knife,

leant forward, and then stooped back to lay the cut reeds on the bank.

Oh, she was tired!--tired to exasperation!--of his ways and actions--as

tired as she was of his words, and of the thousand and one occurrences,

daily repeated, that made up their lives. She would have liked to creep

away, to hide herself in an utter seclusion; while, instead, it was her

lot to assist, hour after hour, at making much of what, in the depths

of her soul, did not concern her at all. Nothing, she felt, would ever

really concern her again. She gazed fixedly before her, at him, too,

but without seeing him, till her sight was blurred; trees and sky,

stream and rushes, swam together in a formless maze. And all of a

sudden, while she was still blind, there ran through her such an

intense feeling of aversion, such a complete satedness with all she had

of late felt and known, that she involuntarily took a step backwards,

and pressed her palms together, in order to hinder herself from

screaming aloud. She could bear it no longer. In a flash, she grasped

that she was unable, utterly unable, to face the day that was before

her. She knew in advance every word, every look and embrace that it

held for her: rather than undergo them afresh, she would throw herself

into the water at her feet. Anywhere, anywhere!--only to get away, to

be alone, to cover her face and see no more! Her hand went to her

throat; her breath refused to come; she shivered so violently that she

was afraid she would fall to the ground.

Maurice, all unsuspecting, sat with his back to her, and laced his

boots.

But he was startled into an exclamation, when he climbed the bank and

saw the state she was in.

"Louise! Good Heavens, what's the matter? Are you ill?"

He took her by the arm, and shook her a little, to arrest her attention.

"Maurice! ... no!" Her voice was hoarse. "Oh, let me go home!"

He repeated the words in amazed alarm. "But what is it, darling? Are

you ill? Are you cold?--that you're trembling like this?"

"No ... yes. Oh, I want to go home!--back to Leipzig."

"Why, of course, if you want to. At once."

The rushes lay forgotten on the ground. Without further words, they

hastened to the inn. There, Maurice helped her to throw her things into

the bag she had not wholly unpacked, and, having paid the bill, led

her, with the same feverish haste, through the woods and town to the

railway-station. He was full of distressed concern for her, but hardly

dared to show it, for, to all his questions, she only shook her head.

Walking at his side, she dug her nails into her palms till she felt the

blood come, in her effort to conceal and stifle the waves of almost

physical repugnance that passed through her, making it impossible for

her to bear even the touch of his hand. In the train, she leaned back

in the corner, and, shutting her eyes, pretended to be asleep.

They took a droschke home; the driver whipped up his horse; the

landlady was called in to make the first fire of the season. Louise

went to bed at once. She wanted nothing, she said, but to lie still in

the darkened room. He should go away; she preferred to be alone. No,

she was not ill, only tired, but so tired that she could not keep her

eyes open. She needed rest: tomorrow she would be all right again. He

should please, please, leave her, and go away. And, turning her face to

the wall, she drew the bedclothes over her head.

At his wits' end to know what it all meant, Maurice complied. But at

home in his room, he could settle to nothing; he trembled at every

footstep on the stair. No message came, however, and when he had seen

her again that evening, he felt more reassured.

"It's nothing--really nothing. I'm only tired ... yes, it was too much.

Just let me be, Maurice--till to-morrow." And she shut her eyes again,

and kept them shut, till she heard the door close behind him.

He was reassured, but still, for the greater part of the night, he lay

sleepless. He was always agitated anew by the abrupt way in which

Louise passed from mood to mood; but this was something different; he

could not understand it. In the morning, however, he saw things in a

less tragic light; and, on sitting down to the piano, he experienced

almost a sense of satisfaction at the prospect of an undisturbed day's

work.

Meanwhile Louise shrank, even in memory, from the feverish weeks just

past, as she had shrunk that day from his touch. And she struggled to

keep her thoughts from dwelling on them. But it was the first time in

her life that she felt a like shame and regret; and she could not rid

her mind of the haunting images. She knew the reason, too; darkness

brought the knowledge. She had believed, had wished to believe, that

the failure was her fault, a result of her unstable nature; whereas the

whole undertaking had been merely a futile attempt to bolster up the

impossible, to stave off the inevitable, to postpone the end. And it

had all been in vain. The end! It would come, as surely as day followed

night--had perhaps indeed already come; for how else could the nervous

aversion be explained, which had seized her that day? What, during the

foregoing weeks, she had tried not to hear; what had sounded in her

ears like the tone of a sunken bell, was there at last, horrible and

deafening. She had ceased to care for him, and ceased, surfeited with

abundance, with the same vehement abruptness as she had once begun. The

swiftness with which things had swept to a conclusion, had,

confessedly, been accelerated by her unhappy temperament; but, however

gentle the gradient, the point for which they made would have remained

the same. What she was now forced to recognise was, that the whole

affair had been no more than an episode; and the fact of its having

begun less brutally than others, had not made it a whit better able

than these to withstand decay.

A bitter sense of humiliation came over her. What was she? Not a week

ago--she could count the days on her fingers--the mere touch of his

hand on her hair had made her thrill; and now the sole feeling she was

conscious of was one of dislike. She looked back over the course of her

relations with him, and many things, unclear before, became plain to

her. She had gone into the intimacy deliberately, with open eyes,

knowing that she cared for him only in a friendly way. She had

believed, then, that the gift of herself would mean little to her,

while it would secure her a friend and companion. And then, too--she

might as well be quite honest with herself--she had nourished a

romantic hope that a love which commenced as did this shy, adoring

tenderness, would give her something finer and more enduring than she

had hitherto known. Wrong, all wrong, from beginning to end! It had

been no better than those loves which made no secret of their aim and

did not strut about draped in false sentiment. The end of all was one

and the same. But besides this, it had come to mean more to her than

she had ever dreamt of allowing. You could not play with fire, it

seemed, and not be burned. Or, at least, she could not. She was branded

with wounds. The fierce demands in her, over which she had no control,

had once more reared their heads and got the mastery of her, and of

him, too. There had been no chance, beneath their scorching breath, for

a pallid delicacy of feeling.

It did not cross her mind that she would conceal what she felt from

him. Secrecy implied a mental ingenuity, a tiresome care of word and

deed. His eyes must be opened; he, too, must learn to say the horrid

word "end." How infinitely thankful she had now reason to be that she

had not yielded to his persuasions, and married him! No, she had never

seriously considered the idea, even at the height of her folly. But

then, she was never quite sure of herself; there was always a chance

that some blind impulse would spring up in her and overthrow her

resolutions. Now, he must suffer, too--and rightly. For, after all, he

had also been to blame. If only he had not importuned her so

persistently, if only he had let her alone, nothing of this would have

happened, and there would be no reason for her to lie and taunt

herself. But, in his silent, obstinate way, he had given her no peace;

and you could not--she could not!--go on living unmoved, at the side of

a person who was crazy with love for you.

For two nights, she slept little. On the third, worn out, she fell,

soon after midnight, into a deep sleep, from which, the following

morning, she wakened refreshed.

When Maurice came, about half-past twelve, her eyes followed him with a

new curiosity, as he drew up a chair and sat down at her bedside. She

wondered what he would say when he knew, and what change would come

over his face. But she made no beginning to enlightening him. In his

presence, she was seized by an ungovernable desire to be distracted, to

be taken out of herself. Also, it was not, she began to grasp, a case

of stating a simple fact, in simple words; it meant all the

circumstantiality of complicated explanation; it meant a still more

murderous tearing up of emotion. And besides this, there was another

factor to be reckoned with, and that was the peculiar mood he was in.

For, as soon as he entered the room, she felt that he was different

from what he had been the day before.

She heard the irritation in his voice, as he tried to persuade her to

come out to dinner with him. In fancy she saw it all: saw them walking

together to the restaurant, at a brisk pace, in order to waste none of

his valuable time; saw dinner taken quickly, for the same reason; saw

them parting again at the house-door; then herself in the room alone,

straying from sofa to window and back again, through the long hours of

the long afternoon. A kind of mental nausea seized her at the thought

that the old round was to begin afresh. She brought no answer over her

lips. And after waiting some time in vain for her to speak, Maurice

rose, and, still under the influence of his illhumour, drew up the

three blinds, and opened a window. A cold, dusty sunlight poured into

the room.

Louise gave a cry, and put her hands to her eyes.

"The room is so close, and you're so pale," he said in selfexcuse. "Do

you know you've been shut up in here for three days now?"

"My head aches."

"It will never be any better as long as you lie there. Dearest, what is

it? WHAT'S the matter with you?"

"You're unhappy about something," he went on, a moment later. "What is

it? Won't you tell me?"

"Nothing," she murmured. She lay and pressed her palms to her eyeballs,

so firmly that when she removed them, the room was a blur. Maurice,

standing at the window, beat a tattoo on the pane. Then, with his back

to her, he began to speak. He blamed himself for what he called the

folly of the past weeks. "I gave way when I should have been firm. And

this is the result. You have got into a nervous, morbid state. But it's

nonsense to think it can go on."

For the first time, she was conscious of a somewhat critical attitude

on his part; he said "folly" and "nonsense." But she made no comment;

she lay and let his words go over her. They had so little import now.

All the words that had ever been said could not alter a jot of what she

felt--of her intense inward experience.

Her protracted silence, her heavy indifference infected him; and for

some time the only sound to be heard was that of his fingers drumming

on the glass. When he spoke again, he seemed to be concluding an

argument with himself; and indeed, on this particular day, Maurice

found it hard to detach his thoughts from himself, for any length of

time.

"It's no use, dear. Things can't go on like this any longer. I've got

to buckle down to work again. I've ... I...I haven't told you yet:

Schwarz is letting me play the Mendelssohn."

She thought she would have to cry aloud; here it was again: the

chilling atmosphere of commonplace, which her nerves were expected to

live and be well in; the well-worn phrases, the "must this," and "must

that," the confident expectation of interest in doings that did not

interest her at all. She could not--it would kill her to begin it anew!

And, in spite of her efforts at repression, an exclamation forced its

way through her lips.

At this, Maurice went quickly back to her.

"Forgive me ... talking about myself, when you are not well."

He knelt down beside the bed, and removed her hands from her face. She

did not open her eyes, kept quite still. At this moment, she felt

mainly curious: would the strange aversion to his touch return? He was

kissing her palms, pressing them to his face. She drew a long, deep

sigh: it did not come back. On the contrary, the touch of his hand was

pleasant to her. He stroked her cheek, pushed back a loose piece of

hair from her forehead; and, as he did this, she was aware of the old

sense of well-being. Beneath his hand, irksome thoughts fell away.

Backwards and forwards it travelled, as gently as though she were a

sick person. And, little by little, so gradually that, at first, she

herself was not conscious of them, other wishes came to life in her

again. She began to desire more than mere peace. The craving came over

her to forget her self-torturings, and to forget them in a dizzy whirl.

Reaching up, she put her arms round his neck, and drew him down. He

kissed her eyelids. At this she opened her eyes, enveloping him in a

look he had learnt to know well. For a second he sustained it: his life

was concentrated in the liquid fire of these eyes, in these eager

parted lips. She pressed them to his, and he felt a smart, like a bee's

sting.

With a jerk, he thrust her arms away, and rose to his feet; to keep his

balance he was obliged to grasp the back of a chair. Taking out his

handkerchief, he pressed it to his lip.

"Maurice!"

"It's late ... I must go ... I must work, I tell you." He stood staring

at the drop of blood on his handkerchief.

"Maurice!"

He looked round him in a confused way; he was strangely angry, and

hasty to no purpose. "Won't you ... then you won't come out with me?"

"Maurice!" The word was a cry.

"Oh, it's foolish! You don't know what you're doing." He had found his

coat, and was putting it on, with unsure hands. "Then, if ... this

evening, then! As usual. I'll come as usual."

The door shut behind him; a minute later, the street-door banged. At

the sound Louise seemed to waken. Starting up in bed, she threw a wild

look round the empty room; then, turned on her face, and bit a hole in

the linen of the pillow.

Maurice worked that afternoon as though his future was conditioned by

the number of hours he could practise before evening. Throughout these

three days, indeed, his zeal had been unabating. He would never have

yielded so calmly to the morbid fashion in which she had cooped herself

up, had not the knowledge that his time was his own again, been

something of a relief to him. Yes, at first, relief was the word for

what he felt. For, after making one good resolution on top of another,

he had, when the time came, again been a willing defaulter. He had

allowed the chance to slip of making good, by redoubled diligence, his

foolish mistake with regard to Schwarz. Now it was too late; though the

master had let him have his way in the choice of piece for the coming

PRUFUNG, it had mainly been owing to indifference. If only he did not

prove unequal to the choice now it was made! For that he was out of the

rut of steady work, was clear to him as soon as he put his hands to the

piano.

But he had never been so forlornly energetic as on this particular

afternoon. Yet there was something mechanical, too, about his playing;

neither heart nor brain was in it. Mendelssohn's effective roulades ran

thoughtlessly from his fingers: in the course of a single day, he had

come to feel a deep contempt for the emptiness of these runs and

flourishes. He pressed forward, however, hour after hour without a

break, as though he were a machine wound up for the purpose. But with

the entrance of dusk, his fictitious energy collapsed. He did not even

trouble to light the lamp, but, throwing himself on the sofa, covered

his eyes with his arm.

The twilight induced sensations like itself--vague, formless,

intolerable. A sudden recognition of the uselessness of human striving

grew up in him, with the rapidity of a fungus. Effort and work,

ambition and success, alike led nowhere, were so many blind alleys:

ambition ended in smoke; success was a fleeing phantom, which one

sought in vain to grasp. To the great mass of mankind, it was more than

immaterial whether one of its units toiled or no; not a single soul was

benefited by it. Most certainly not the toiler himself. It was only

given to a few to achieve anything; the rest might stand aside early in

the day. Nothing of their labours would remain, except the scars they

themselves bore.

He was unhappy; to-night he knew it with a painful clearness. The shock

had been too rude. For him, change had to be prepared, to come

gradually. Sooner or later, no doubt, he would right himself again; but

in the meantime his plight was a sorry one. It was his duty to protect

himself against another onslaught of the kind--to protect them both.

For there was no blinking the fact: a few more weeks like the

foregoing, and they would have been two of the wretchedest creatures on

earth. They were miserable enough as it was, he in his, she in her own

way. It must never happen again. She, too, had doubtless become

sensible of this, in the course of the past three days. But had she?

Could he say that? What had she thought?--what had she felt? And he

told himself that was just what he would never know.

He saw her as she had lain that morning, her arms long and white on the

coverlet. He recalled all he had said, and tried to piece things

together; an inner meaning seemed to be eluding him. Again, in memory,

he heard the half-stifled cry that had drawn him to her side, felt her

hands in his, the springy resistance of her hair, the delicate skin of

her eyelids. Then, he had not understood the sudden impulse that had

made him spring to his feet. But now, as he lay in the dusk, and summed

up these things, a new thought, or hardly a thought so much as an

intuition, flashed through his mind, instantly to take entire

possession of him--just as if it had all along been present, in

waiting. Simultaneously, the colour mounted to his face: he refused to

harbour such a thought, and put it from him, angry with himself. But it

was not to be kept down; it rose again, in an inexplicable way--this

suggestion, which was like a slur cast on her. Why, he demanded of

himself, should it not have occurred to him before?--once, twenty, a

hundred times? For the same thing had often happened: times without

number, she had striven to keep him at her side. Was its presence

to-day a result of his aimless irritation? Or was it because, after

holding him at arm's length for three whole days, she had asked, on

returning to him, neither affection nor comradeship, only the blind

gratification of sense?

He did not know. But forgotten hints and trifles--words, acts,

looks--which he had never before considered consciously, now recurred

to him as damning evidence. With his arm still across his eyes, he lay

and let it work in him; let doubts and frightful uncertainties grow up

in his brain; suffered the most horrible suffering of all--doubt of the

one beloved. He seemed to be looking at things from a new point, seeing

them in different proportions--all his own poor hopes and beliefs as

well and, while the spasm of distrust lasted, he felt inclined to doubt

whether she had ever really cared for him. He even questioned his own

feeling for her, seeking to discover whether it, too, had not been

based on a mere sensual fancy. He saw them satisfying an instinct,

without reason and without nobility. And, by this light, he read a

reason for the past months, which made him groan aloud.

He rose and paced the room. If what he was thinking of her were true,

then it would be better for both their sakes if he never saw her again.

But, even while he said this, he knew that he would have to see her,

and without loss of time. What he needed was to stand face to face with

her, to look into her eyes, which, whatever they might do, had never

learned to hide the truth, and there gain the certainty that his

imaginings were monstrous--the phantoms of a melancholy October

twilight.

It was nearly nine o'clock, but there was no light in her room. He

pictured her lying in the dark, and was filled with remorse. But he

said her name in vain; the room was empty. Lighting the lamp, he saw

that the bedclothes had been thrown back over the foot-end of the

unmade bed, as though she had only just left it. The landlady said that

she had gone out, two hours previously, without leaving any message.

All he could do was to sit down and wait; and in the long half-hour

that now went by, the black thoughts that had driven him there were

forgotten. His only wish was to have her safe beside him again.

Towards ten o'clock he heard approaching sounds. A moment later Louise

came in. She blinked at the light, and began to unfasten her veil

before she was over the threshold.

He gave a sigh of relief. "At last! Thank goodness! Where have you

been?"

"Did you think I was lost? Have you been here long?"

"For hours. Where else should I be? But you--where have you been?"

Standing before the table, she fumbled with the veil, which she had

pulled into a knot. He did not offer to help her; he stood looking at

her, and both voice and look were a little stern.

"Why did you go out?"

She did not look at him. "Oh, just for a breath of air. I felt I ... I

HAD to do something."

From the moment of her entrance, even before she had spoken, Maurice

was aware of that peculiar aloofness in her, which invariably made

itself felt when she was engrossed by something in which he had no part.

"That's hardly a reason," he said nervously.

With the veil stretched between her two hands, she turned her head. "Do

you want another? Well, after you left me to-day, I lay and thought and

thought ... till I felt I should go mad, if I lay there any longer."

"Yes, but all of a sudden, like this! After being in bed for three days

... to go out and ..."

"But I have not been ill!"

"Go out and wander about the streets, at night."

"I didn't mean to be so late," she said, and folded the veil with an

exaggerated care. "But I was hindered; I had a little adventure."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing much. A man followed me--and I couldn't get rid of him."

"Go on, please!" He was astonished at the severity of his own voice.

"Oh, don't be so serious, Maurice!" She had folded the veil to a neat

square, stuck three hatpins in it, and thrown it with her hat and

jacket on the sofa. "No one has tried to murder me," she said, and

raised both her hands to her hair. "I was standing before Haase's

window--the big jeweller's in the PETERSTRASSE, you know. I've always

loved jewellers' windows--especially at night, when they're lighted up.

As a child, I thought heaven must be like the glitter of diamonds on

blue velvet--the Jasper Sea, you know, and the pearly floor."

"Never mind that now!"

"Well, I was standing there, looking in, longer perhaps than I knew. I

felt that some one was beside me, but I didn't see who it was, till I

heard a man's voice say: 'SCHONE SACHEN, FRAULEIN, WAS?' Of course, I

took no notice; but I didn't run away, as if I were afraid of him. I

went on looking into the window, till he said: 'DARF ICH IHNEN ETWASS

KAUFEN?'and more nonsense of the same kind. Then I thought it was time

to go. He followed me down the PETERSTRASSE, and when I came to the

ROSSPLATZ, he was still behind me. So I determined to lead him a dance.

I've been walking about, with him at my heels, for over an hour. In a

quiet street where there was no one in sight, he spoke to me again, and

refused to go away until I told him where I lived. I pretended to

agree, and, on the condition that he didn't follow me any further, I

gave him a number in the QUERSTRASSE; and in case he broke his. word, I

came home that way. I hope he'll spend a pleasant evening looking for

me."

She laughed--her fitful, somewhat unreal laugh, which was always

displeasing to him. To-night, taken in conjunction with her story, and

her unconcerned way of telling it, it jarred on him as never before.

"Let me catch him here, and I'll make it impossible for him to insult a

woman again!" he cried. "For it is an insult though you don't see it in

that light. You laugh as you tell it, as if something amusing had

happened to you. You are so strange sometimes.--Tell me, dearest, WHY

did you go out? When I asked you, you wouldn't come."

"No. Then I wasn't in the mood." Her smile faded.

"No. But after dark--and quite alone--then the mood takes you."

"But I've done it hundreds of times before. I can take care of myself."

"You are never to do it again--do you hear?--Why didn't you give the

fellow in charge?" he asked a moment later, in a burst of distrust.

Again Louise laughed. "Oh, a German policeman would find that rather

funny than otherwise. It's the rule, you know, not the exception. And

the same thing has happened to me before. So often that it's literally

not worth mentioning. I shouldn't have spoken of it to-night if you

hadn't been so persistent. Besides," she added as an afterthought--and,

in the face of his grave displeasure, she found herself wilfully

exaggerating the levity of her tone--"besides, this wasn't the kind of

man one gives in charge. Not the usual commercial-traveller type. A

Graf, or Baron, at least."

He was as nettled as she had intended him to be. "You talk just as if

you had had experience in the class of man.--Do you really think it

makes things any better? To my mind, it's a great deal worse.--But the

thing is--you don't know how ... You're not to go out alone again at

night. I forbid it. This is the first time for weeks; and see what

happens! And it's not you may well say it has happened to you before. I

don't know what it is, but--The very cab-drivers look at you as they've

no business to--as they don't look at other women!"

"Well, can I help that?--how men look at me?" she asked indignantly.

"Do you wish to say it's my fault? That I do anything to make them?"

"No. Though it might be better if you did," he answered gloomily. "The

unpleasant thing is, though you do nothing ... that it's there all the

same ... something ... I don't know what."

"No, I don't think you do, and neither do I. But I do know that you are

being very rude to me." As he made no reply, she went on: "You will,

however, at least give me credit for knowing how to keep men at a

distance, though I can't hinder them from looking at me.--And, for your

own comfort, remember in future that I'm not an inexperienced child.

There's nothing I don't know."

"You needn't throw that up at me."

"--I at YOU?" she laughed hotly. "That's surely reversing the order of

things, isn't it? It ought to be the other way about."

"Unfortunately it isn't." The look he gave her was made up of mingled

anger and entreaty; but as she took no notice of it, he turned away,

and going to the window, leaned his forehead against the glass. What

affected him so disagreeably was not the incident of the man following

her, but her light way of regarding it. And as the knowledge of this

came home to him, he was impelled to go on speaking. "It's a trifle to

make a fuss about, I know," he said. "And I shouldn't give it a second

thought, if I could ONLY feel, Louise, that you looked at it as I do

... and felt about it as I do. You seem so indifferent to what it

really means--it's almost as if you enjoyed it. Other women are

different. They resent such a thing instinctively. While you don't even

take offence. And men feel that in you, somehow. That's what makes them

look at you and follow you about. That's what attracts them and always

has done--far too easily."

"You among the rest!"

"For God's sake, hold your tongue! You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, I know well enough." She put her hair back from her forehead, and

passed her handkerchief over her lips. "Instead of lecturing me in this

way, you might be grateful, I think, that I didn't accept the man's

offer and go somewhere to supper with him. It's dull enough here. You

don't make things very gay for me. To-day, altogether, you are treating

me as if I were a criminal."

He did not answer; the words "You among the rest!" went on sounding in

his ears. Yes, there was truth in them, a horrible truth. Who was he to

sit in judgment?--either on her, or on those others who yielded to the

attraction that went out from her. Had not he himself been in love with

her before he even knew her name. Had he then accused her?--laid the

blame at her door?

She caught a moth that was fluttering round the lamp, and carried it to

the window. When, a moment later, he turned and gave her another

unhappy look, she felt a kind of pity for him, forced as he was, by his

nature, to work himself into unhappiness over such a trivial matter.

"Don't let us say unkind things to each other," she said slowly. "I'm

sorry. If I had known it would worry you so much, I shouldn't have said

a word about it. That would have been easy."

He felt her touch on his arm. As it grew warm and close, he, too, was

filled with the wish to be at one with her again--to be lulled into

security. He pressed her hand.

"Forgive me! To-day I've been bothered--pestered with black thoughts.

Or else I shouldn't go on like this."

Now she was silent; both stared out into the night. And then a strange

thing happened. He began to speak again, and words rose to his lips, of

which, a moment before, he had had no idea, but which he now knew for

absolute truth. He said: "I don't want to excuse myself; I'm jealous, I

admit it. And yet there IS an excuse for me, Louise. For saying such

things to you, I mean. To-night I--Have you ever thought, dear, what a

difference it would make to us, if you had ... I mean if I knew ...

that you had never cared for anyone ... if you had never belonged to

anyone but me? That's what I wish now more than anything else in the

world. If I could just say to myself: no one but me has ever held her

in his arms; and no one ever will. Do you think then, darling, I could

speak as I have to-night?"

A moment back, he had had no thought of such a thing; now, here it was,

expressed, over his lips--another of those strange, inlying truths,

which were existent in him, and only waited for a certain moment to

come to light. Strangest of all, perhaps, was the manner in which it

impressed itself on him. In it seemed to be summed up his trouble of

the afternoon, his suspense and irritation of the later hours. It was

as if he had suddenly found a formula for them, and, as he stated it,

he was dumbfounded by its far-reaching significance.

A church-clock pealed a single stroke.

"Oh, yes, perhaps," said Louise, in a low voice. She could not rouse

herself to a very keen interest in his feelings.

"No, not perhaps. Yes--a thousand times yes! Everything would be

changed by it. Then I couldn't torment you. And our love would have a

certainty such as it can now never have."

"But you knew, Maurice! I told you--everything! You said it didn't

matter."

"And it doesn't, and never shall. But to make it undone, I would

cheerfully give years of my life. You're a woman--you can't understand

these things--or know what we miss. You mine only--life wouldn't be the

same."

For a moment she did not answer. Then the same toneless voice came out

of the darkness at his side. "But I AM yours only--now. And it's a

foolish thing to wish for the impossible."

VII.

It was, indeed, a preposterous thought to have at this date: no one

knew that better than himself. And as long as he was with Louise, he

kept it at bay; it was a fatuous thing even to allow himself to think,

considering the past, and considering all he knew.

But next morning, as he sat with busy fingers, and a vacant mind, it

returned. He thrust it angrily away, endeavouring to concentrate his

attention on his music open before him. For a time, he believed he had

succeeded. Then, the idea was unexpectedly present to him again, and

this time more forcibly than before; it came like a sharp, swift stab

of remembrance, and forced an exclamation over his lips. Discouraged,

he let his hands drop from the keys of the piano; for now he knew that

he would probably never be rid of it again. This was always the way

with unpleasant thoughts and impressions: if they returned, after he

had resolved to have done with them, they were henceforth part and

parcel of himself, fixed ideas, against which his will was powerless.

In the hope of growing used to the haunting reflection, and to the

unhappiness it implied, he thought it through to the end--this strange,

unsought knowledge, which had lain unsuspected in him, and now became

articulate. Once considered, however, it made many things clear. He

could even account to himself now, for the blasphemous suggestions that

had plagued him not twenty-four hours ago. If he had then not, all

unconsciously, had the feeling that Louise had known too long and too

well what love was, to be willing to live without it, such thoughts as

those would never have risen in him.

In vain he asked himself, why he should only now understand these

things. He could find no answer. Throughout the time he had known

Louise, he had been better acquainted with her mode of life than anyone

else: her past had lain open to him; she had concealed nothing, had

been what she called "brutally frank" with him. And he had protested,

and honestly believed, that what had preceded their intimacy did not

matter to him. Who could foresee that, on a certain day, an idea of

this kind would break out in him--like a canker? But this query took

him a step further. Was it not deluding himself to say break out? Had

not this shadow lurked in their love from the very beginning? Had it

not formed an invisible barrier between them? It was possible no, it

was true; though he only recognised its truth at the present time. It

had existed from the first: something which each of them, in turn, had

felt, and vaguely tried to express. It had little or nothing to do with

the fact that they had defied convention. That, regrettable though it

might be, was beside the mark. The confounding truth was, that, in an

emotional crisis of an intensity of the one they had come through, it

was imperative to be able to say: our love is unparalleled, unique; or,

at least: I am the only possible one; I am yours, you are mine, only.

That had not been the case. What he had been forced to tell himself

was, that he was not the first. And now he knew that, for some time

past, he had been aware that he would always occupy the second place;

she was forced to compare him with another, to his disadvantage. And he

knew more. For the first time, he allowed his thoughts to rove,

unchecked, over her previous life, and he was no longer astonished at

the imperfections of the present. To him, the gradual unfolding of

their love had been a wonderful revelation; to her, a repetition, and a

paler and fainter one, of a tale she already knew by heart. And the

knowledge of this awakened a fresh distrust in him. If she had loved

that first time, as she had asserted, as he had seen with his own eyes

that she did, desperately, abandonedly, how had it been possible for

her to change front so quickly, to turn to him and love anew? Was such

a thing credible? Was a woman's nature capable of it? And had it not

been this constant fear, lest he should never be able to efface the

image of his predecessor, which, yesterday, had boldly stalked out as a

dread that what had drawn her to him, had not been love at all?

But this mood passed. He himself cared too well to doubt, for long,

that in her own way she really loved him. What, however, he was obliged

to admit was, that what she felt could in no way be counted the equal

of his love for her: that had possessed a kind of primeval freshness,

which no repetition, however passionately fond, could achieve. And yet,

in his mind, there was still room for doubt--eager, willing doubt. It

was due to his ignorance. He became aware of this, and, while brooding

over these things, he was overmanned by the desire to learn, from her

own lips, more about her past, to hear exactly what it had meant to

her, in order that he might compare it with her present life, and with

her feelings for him. Who could say if, by doing this, he might not

drive away what was perhaps a phantom of his own uneasy brain?

He resolved to make the endeavour. But he was careful not to let her

suspect his intention. First of all, he was full of compunction for his

bad temper of the night before; he was also slightly ashamed of what he

was going to do; and then, too, he knew that she would resent his

prying. What he did must be done with tact. He had no wish to make her

unhappy over it. And so, when he saw her again, he did his best to make

her forget how disagreeable he had been.

But the desire to know remained, became a morbid curiosity. If this

were satisfied, he believed it would make things easier for both of

them. But he was infinitely cautious. Sometimes, without a word, he

took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes, as if to read

in them an answer to the questions he was afraid to put--looked right

into the depth of her eyes, where the pupils swam in an oval of bluish

white, overhung by lids which were finely creased in their folds, and

netted with tiny veins. But he said not a word, and the eyes remained

unfathomable, as they had always been.

Meanwhile, he did what he could to set his life on a solid basis again.

But he was unable to arouse in himself a very vital interest in his

work; some prompter-nerve in him seemed to have been injured. And

often, he was overcome by the feeling that this perpetual preoccupation

with music was only a trifling with existence, an excuse for not facing

the facts of life. He would sometimes rather have been a labourer, worn

out with physical toil. He was much alone, too; when he was not with

Louise, he was given over to his own thoughts, and, day by day,

fostered by the long, empty hours of practice, these moved more and

more steadily in the one direction. The craving for a knowledge of the

facts, for certainty in any form--this became a reason for, a plea in

extenuation of, what he felt escaping him.

Louise did not help him; she assented to what he did without comment,

half sorry for him in what seemed to her his wilful blindness, half

disdainful. But she, too, made a discovery in these tame, flat days,

and this was, that it was one thing to say to herself: it is over and

done with, and another to make the assertion a fact. Energy for the

effort was lacking in her; for the short, sharp stroke, which with her

meant action, was invariably born of intense happiness or unhappiness.

Now, as the days went by, she asked herself why she should do it. It

was so much easier to let things slide, until something happened of

itself, either to make the break, or to fill up the still greater

emptiness in her life which a break would cause. And if he were content

with what she could give him, well and good; she made no attempt to

deceive him. And it seemed to her that he was content, though in a

somewhat preoccupied way. But a little later, she acknowledged to

herself that this was not the whole truth. There was habit to fight

against--habit which could still give her hours of

self-forgetfulness--and one could not forgo, all at once, and under no

pressing necessity to do so, this means of escape from the

cheerlessness of life.

But not for long did matters remain at this negative stage. Whereas,

until now, the touch of her lips had been sufficient to chase away the

shadows, the moment came, when, as he held her in his arms, Maurice was

paralysed by the abrupt remembrance: she has known all this before. How

was it then? To what degree is she mine, was she his? What fine,

ultimate shade of feeling is she keeping back from me?--His ardour was

damped; and as Louise also became aware of his sudden coolness, their

hands sank apart, and had no strength to join anew.

Thus far, he had gone about his probings with skill, questioning her in

a roundabout way, trying to learn by means of inference. But after

this, he let himself go, and put a barefaced question. The subject once

broached, there was no further need of concealment, and he flung tact

and prudence to the winds. He could not forget--he was goaded on

by--the look she had given him, as the ominous words crossed his lips:

it made him conscious once more of the unapproachable nature of that

first love of hers. He grew reckless; and while he had hitherto only

sought to surprise her and entrap her, he now began to try to worm

things out of her, all the time spying on her looks and words, ready to

take advantage of the least slip on her part.

At first, before she understood what he was aiming at, Louise had been

as frank as usual with him--that somewhat barbarous frankness, which

took small note of the recipient's feelings. But after he had put a

direct question, and followed it up with others, of which she too

clearly saw the drift, she drew back, as though she were afraid of him.

It was not alone the error of taste he committed, in delving in matters

which he had sworn should never concern him; it was his manner of doing

it that was so distasteful to her--his hints and inuendoes. She grew

very white and still, and looked at him with eyes in which a nascent

dislike was visible.

He saw it; but it was now too late. Day by day, his preoccupation with

the man who had preceded him increased. The thought that continued to

harass him was: if she had never known the other, all would now be

different. With jealousy, his state of mind had only as yet, in common,

a devouring curiosity and a morbid imagination, which allowed him to

picture the two of them in situations he would once have blushed to

think of. For the one thing that now mattered to him, what he would

have given his life to know, and would probably never know, was

concerned with the ultimate ratification of love. What had she had for

the other that she could not give him?--that she wilfully refrained

from giving him? For that she did this, and always had refused him part

of herself, was now as plain to him as if it had been branded on her

flesh. And the knowledge undermined their lives. If she was gentle and

kind, he read into her words pity that she could give him no more; if

she were cold and evasive, she was remembering, comparing; if she

returned his kisses with her former warmth--well, the thoughts which in

this case seized him were the most murderous of all.

His mental activity ground him down. But it was not all unhappiness;

the beloved eyes and hands, the wilful hair, and pale, sweet mouth,

could still stir him; and there came hours of wishless well-being, when

his tired brain found rest. As the days went by, however, these grew

rarer; it also seemed to him that he paid dearly for them, by being

afterwards more miserable, by suffering in a more active way.

At times, he knew, he was anything but a pleasant companion. But he was

losing the mastery over himself, and often a trifle was sufficient to

start him off afresh on the dreary theme. Once, in a fit of

hopelessness, he made her what amounted to reproaches for her past.

"But you knew!--everythinging!--I told you all," Louise expostulated,

and there were tears in her eyes.

"I know you did. But Louise"--he hesitated, half contrite in advance,

for what he was going to say--"it might have been better if you hadn't

told me--everything, I mean. Yes, I believe it's better not to know."

She did not reply, as she might have done, that she had forewarned him,

afraid of this. She looked away, so that she should not be obliged to

see him.

Another day, when they were walking in the ROSENTAL, she made him

extremely unhappy by disagreeing with him.

"If one could just take a sponge and wipe the past out, like figures

from a slate!" he said moodily.

But, jaded by his persistency, Louise would not admit it. "We should

have nothing to remember."

"That's just it."

"But it belongs to us!" She was roused to protest by the under-meaning

in his words. "It's as much a part of ourselves as our thoughts are--or

our hands."

"One is glad to forget. You would be, Louise? You wouldn't care if your

past were gone? Say you wouldn't."

But she only threw him a dark side-glance. As, however, he would not

rest content, she flung out her hands with an impatient gesture. "How

CAN you torment yourself so! If you insist on knowing, well, then, I

wouldn't part with an hour of what's gone--not an hour! And you know

it."

She caught at a few vivid leaves that had remained hanging on a bare

branch, and carried them with her.

He took one she held out to him, looked at it without seeing it, and

threw it away. "Tell me, just this once, something about your life

before I knew you. Were you very happy?--or were you unhappy? Do you

know, I once heard you say you had never known a moment's

happiness?--yes, one summer night long ago, over in the NONNE. How I

hoped then it was true! But I don't know. You've never told me

anything--of all there must be to tell."

"What you may have chanced to hear, by eavesdropping, doesn't concern

me now," Louise answered coldly. And then she shut her lips, and would

say no more. She was wiser than she had been a week ago: she refused to

hand her past over to him in order that he might smirch it with his

thoughts.

But she could not understand him--understand the motives that made him

want to unearth the past. If this were jealousy, it was a kind she did

not know--a bloodless, bodiless kind, of which she had had no

experience.

But it was not jealousy; it was only a craving for certainty in any

guise, and the more surely Maurice felt that he would never gain it,

the more tenaciously he strove. For certainty, that feeling of utter

reliance in the loved one, which sets the heart at rest and leaves the

mind free for the affairs of life, was what Louise had never given him;

he had always been obliged to fall back on supposition with regard to

her, equally at the height of their passion, and in that first and

stretch of time, when it was forbidden him to touch her hand. The real

truth, the last-reaching truth about her, it would not be his to know.

Soul would never be absorbed in soul; not the most passionate embraces

could bridge the gulf; to their last kiss, they would remain separate

beings, lonely and alone.

As this went on, he came to hate the vapidities of the concerto in G

major. Mentally to be stretched on a kind of rack, and, at the same

time, to be forced to reiterate the empty rhetoric of this music! From

this time forward, he could not hear the name of Mendelssohn without a

shiver of repugnance. How he wished now, that he had been content with

the bare sincerity of Beethoven, who at least said no note more than he

had to say.

One day, towards the end of November, he was working with even greater

distaste than usual. Finally, in exasperation, he flapped the music to,

shut the piano, and went out. A stroll along the muddy little railed-in

river brought him to the PLEISSENBURG, and from there he crossed the

KONIGSPLATZ to the BRUDERSTRASSE. He had not come out with the

intention of going to Louise, but, although it was barely four o'clock,

the afternoon was drawing in; an interminable evening had to be got

through. He had been walking at haphazard, and without relish; now his

pace grew brisker. Having reached the house, he sprang nimbly up the

stairs, and was about to insert his key in the little door in the wall,

when he was arrested by a muffled sound of voices. Louise was talking

to some one, and, at the noise he made outside, she raised her

voice--purposely, no doubt. He could not hear what was being said, but

the second voice was a man's. For a minute he stood, with his key

suspended, straining his cars; then, afraid of being caught, he went

downstairs again, where he hung about, between stair and street-door,

in order that anyone who came down would be forced to pass him. At the

end of five minutes, however, his patience was spent: he remembered,

too, that the person might be as likely to go up as down. He mounted

the stairs again, rang the bell, and had himself admitted by the

landlady.

He thought she looked significantly at him as, with her usual pantomime

of winks and signs, she whispered to him that a gentleman was with

Fraulein--EIN SCHONER JUNGER MANN! Maurice pushed her aside, and opened

the sitting-room door. Two heads turned at his entrance.

On the sofa, beside Louise, sat Herries, the ruddy little student of

medicine with whom she had danced so often at the ball. He sat there,

smiling and dapper, balancing his hard round hat on his knee, and

holding gloves in his hand.

Louise looked the more untidy by contrast: as usual, her hair was half

uncoiled. Maurice saw this in a flash, saw also the look of annoyance

that crossed her face at his unceremonious entry. She raised astonished

eyebrows. Then, however, she shook hands with him.

"I think you know Mr. Herries."

Maurice bowed stiffly across the table; Herries replied in kind,

without discommoding himself.

"How d'ye do? I believe we've met," he said carelessly.

As Maurice made no rejoinder, but remained standing in an

uncompromising attitude, Herries turned to Louise again, and went on

with what he had been saying. He was talking of England.

"I went back to Oxford after that," he continued. "I've diggings there,

don't you know? An old chum of mine's a fellow of Magdalen. I was just

in time for eights' week. A magnificent walk-over for our fellows. Ever

seen the race? No? Oh, I say, that's too bad. You must come over for

it, next year."

"Mr. Herries only returned from England a few days ago," explained

Louise, and again raised warning brows. "Do sit down. There's a chair."

"Yes. I was over for the whole summer. Didn't work here at all, in

fact," added Herries, once more letting his bright eyes snapshot the

young man, who, on sitting down, laid his shabby felt hat in the middle

of the table.

"But now you intend to stay, I think you said?" Louise threw in at

random, after they had waited for Maurice to fill up the pause.

"Yes, for the winter semester, anyhow. And I've got to tumble to, with

a vengeance. But I mean to have a good time all the same. Even though

it's only Leipzig, one can have a jolly enough time."

Again there was silence. Louise flushed. "I suppose you're hard at work

already?"

"Yes. Got started yesterday. Frogs, don't you know?--the effect of a

rare poison on frogs."

This trivial exchange of words stung Maurice. Herries's manner seemed

to him intolerably familiar, lacking in respect; and he kept telling

himself, as he listened, that, having returned from England, the

fellow's first thought had been of her. He had not opened his lips

since entering; he sat staring at them, forgetful of good manners; and,

after a little, both began to feel ill at ease. Their eyes met for a

moment in this sensation, and Herries cleared his throat.

"What did you do with yourself in summer?" he queried, and could not

restrain a smile, at the fashion in which the other fellow was giving

himself away. "You weren't in England at all, I think you said? We

hoped we might meet there, don't you remember? Too bad that I had to go

off without saying good-bye."

"No, I changed my mind and stayed here. But I shouldn't do it again. It

was so hot."

"Must have been simply beastly."

Maurice jerked his arm; a vase which was standing at his elbow upset,

and the water trickled to the floor. Neither offered to help him; he

had to stoop and mop it up with his handkerchief.

For a few moments longer, the conversation was eked out. Then Herries

rose. With her hand in his, he said earnestly: "Now you must be

merciful and relent. I shan't give up hope. Any time in the next

fortnight is time enough, remember. 'Pon my word, I've dreamt of those

waltzes of ours ever since. And the floor at the PRUSSE is still

better, don't you know? You won't have the heart not to come."

From under her lids, Louise shot a rapid glance at Maurice. He, too,

had risen; he was standing stiff, pale, and solemn, visibly waiting

only till Herries had gone, to make himself disagreeable. She smiled.

"Don't ask me to give an answer to-day. I'll let you know--will that

do? A fortnight is such a long time. And then you've forgotten the

chief thing. I must see if I have anything to wear."

"Oh, I say! ... if that's all! Don't let that bother you. That black

thing you had on last time was ripping--awfully jolly, don't you know?"

Louise laughed. "Well, perhaps," she said, as she opened the door.

"Good business!" responded Herries.

He nodded in Maurice's direction, and they went out of the room

together. Maurice heard their voices in laughing rejoinder, heard them

take leave of each other at the halldoor. After that there was a pause.

Louise lingered, before returning, to open a letter that was lying on

the hall-table; she also spoke to Fraulein Grunhut. When she did come

back, all trace of animation had gone from her face. She busied herself

at once with the flowers he had disarranged, and this done, ordered her

hair before the hanging glass. Maurice followed her movements with a

sarcastic smile.

Suddenly she turned and confronted him.

"Maurice! ... for Heaven's sake, don't glare at me like that! If you've

anything to say, please say it, and be done with it."

"You know well enough what I have to say." His voice was husky.

"Indeed, I don't."

"Well you ought to."

"Ought to?--No: there's a limit to everything! Take your hat off that

table!--What did you mean by bursting into the room when you heard some

one was here? And, as if that weren't enough--to let everybody see how

much at home you are--your behaviour--your unbearable want of

manners..." She stopped, and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

"I believed you didn't care what people thought," he threw in, morosely

defiant.

"That's a poor excuse for your rudeness."

"Well, at least tell me what that fool wanted here."

"Have you no ears? Couldn't you hear that he has just come back from

England, and is calling on his friends?"

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Maurice!"

"Oh, he has always been after you--since that night. It's only because

he wasn't here long enough ... and his manner shows what he thinks of

you ... and what he means."

"What do YOU mean? Do you wish to say it's my doing that he came here

to-day?--Don't you believe me?" she demanded, as he did not answer.

"And you in that half-dressed condition!"

"Could I dress before him? How abominable you are!"

He tried to explain. "Yes. Because ... I hate the sight of the

fellow.--You didn't know he was coming, did you, or you wouldn't have

seen him?"

"Know he was coming!" She wrenched her hands away. "Oh! ..."

"Say you didn't!"

"Maurice!--Be jealous, if you must! But surely, surely you don't

believe----"

"Oh, don't ask me what I believe. I only know I won't have that man

hanging about. It was by a mere chance to-day that I came round

earlier; he might have been here for hours, without my suspecting it.

Who knows if you would have told me either?--Would you have told me,

Louise?"

"Oh, how can you be like this! What is the matter with you?"

He put his arms round her, with the old cry. "I can't bear you even to

look at another man. For he's in love with you, and has been, ever

since you made him crazy by dancing with him as you did."

With his hands on her shoulders, he rested his face on her hair.

"Promise me you won't see him again."

Wearily, Louise disengaged herself. "Oh there's always something fresh

to promise. I'm tired of it--of being hedged in, and watched, and never

trusted."

"Tired of me, you mean."

She looked bitterly at him. "There you are again?"

"Just this once--to set my mind at rest. Just this once,

Louise!--darling!"

But she was silent.

"Then you'll let him come here again?"

"How do I know?--But if I promised what you ask, I should not be able

to go with him to the HOTEL DE PRUSSE on the fifteenth."

"You mean to go to that dance?"

"Why not? Would there be any harm in my going?"

"Louise!"

"Maurice!" She mocked his tone, and laughed. "Oh, go at once," she

broke out the next moment, "and order Grunhut never to let another

visitor inside the door. Make me promise never to cross the threshold

alone--never to speak to another mortal but yourself! Cut off every

pleasure and every chance of pleasure I have; and then you may be, but

only may be, content."

"You're trying how far you can go with me."

"Do you want me to tell you again that dancing is one of the things I

love best? Not six months ago you knew and helped me to it yourself."

"Yes, THEN," he answered. "Then I could refuse you nothing."

She laughed in an unfriendly way. He pressed her hand to his forehead.

"You won't be so cruel, I know."

"You know more than I do."

"Do you realise what it means if you go?" In fancy, he was present, and

saw her passed from one pair of arms to another.

"I realise nothing--but that I am very unhappy."

"Have I no influence over you any more--none at all?"

"Can't you come, too, then?--if you are afraid to let me out of your

sight?"