Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

But these words added fuel to his despondency. "Yes, that's just it," he answered. "For you, I'm in two parts, and one of them means nothing to you. I've felt it, often enough, though I've never spoken of it till to-night. Only one side of me really matters to you. But if I'd been able to accomplish what I once intended—to make a name for myself, or something of that sort—then it would all have been different. I could have forced you to be interested in every single thing I did—not only in the me that loves you, but in every jot of my outside life as well."

Louise did not reply: she had a moment of genuine despondency. The staunch tenderness she had been resolved to feel for him this evening, collapsed and shrivelled up; for the morbid self-probing in which he was indulging made her see him with other eyes. What he said belonged to that category of things which are too true to be put into words: why could not he, like every one else, let them rest, and act as if they did not exist? It was as clear as day: if he were different, the whole story of their relations would be different, too. But as he could not change his nature, what was the use of talking about it, and of turning out to her gaze, traits of mind with which she could not possibly sympathise? Standing, a long white figure, beside the piano, she let her arms hang weakly at her sides. She did not try to reason with him again, or even to comfort him; she let him go on and on, always in the same strain, till her nerves suddenly rebelled at the needless irritation.

"Oh, WHY must you be like this to-night?" she broke in on him. "Why try to destroy such happiness as we have? Can you never be content?"

From the way in which he seized upon these words, it seemed as if he had only been waiting for her to say them. "Such happiness as we have!" he repeated. "There!—listen!—you yourself admit it. Admit all I've been saying.—And do you think I can realise that, and be happy? No, I've suffered under it from the first day. Oh, why, loving you as I do, could I not have been different?—more worthy of you. Why couldn't I, too, be one of those favoured mortals ...? Listen to me," he said lowering his voice, and speaking rapidly. "Let me make another confession. Do you know why to-night is doubly hard to bear? It's because—yes, because I know you must be forced—and not to-night only, but often—to compare me what I am and what I can do—with ... with ... you know who I mean. It's inevitable—the comparison must be thrust on you every day of your life. But does that, do you think, make it any the easier for me?"

As the gist of what he was trying to say was borne in upon her, Louise winced. Her face lost its tired expression, and grew hard. "You are breaking your word," she said, in a tone she had never before used to him. "You promised me once, the past should never be mentioned between us."

"I'm not blind, Louise," he went on, as though she had not spoken. "Nor am I in a mood to-night to make myself any illusions. The remembrance of what he was—he was never doubtful of himself, was he?—must always—HAS always stood between us, while I have racked my brains to discover what it was. To-night it came over me like a flash that it was he—that he ... he spoiled you utterly for anyone else; made it impossible for you to care for anyone who wasn't made of the same stuff as he was. It would never have occurred to him, would it, to torment you and make you suffer for his own failure? For the very good reason that he never was a failure. Oh, I haven't the least doubt what a sorry figure I must cut beside him!"

The unhappy words came out slowly, and seemed to linger in the air. Louise did not break the pause that followed, and by her silence, assented to what he said. She still stood motionless beside the piano.

"Or tell me," Maurice cried abruptly, with a ray of hope; "tell me the truth about it all, for once. Was it mere exaggeration, or was he really worth so much more than all the rest of us? Of course he could play—I know that—but so can many a fool. But all the other part of it—his incredible talent, or luck in everything he touched—was it just report, or was it really something else?—Tell me."

"He was a genius," she answered, very coldly and distinctly; and her voice warned him once more that he was trespassing on ground to which he had no right. But he was too excited to take the warning.

"A genius!" he echoed. "He was a genius! Yes, what did I tell you? Your very words imply a comparison as you say them. For I?—what am I? A miserable bungler, a wretched dilettant—or have you another word for it? Oh, never mind—don't be afraid to say it!—I'm not sensitive tonight. I can bear to hear your real opinion of me; for it could not possibly be lower than my own. Let us get at the truth for once, by all means!—But what I want to know," he cried a moment later, "is, why one should be given so much and the other so little. To one all the talents and all your love; and the other unhappy wretch remains an outsider his whole life long. When you speak in that tone about him, I could wish with all my heart that he had been no better than I am. It would give me pleasure to know that he, too, had only been a dabbling amateur—the victim of a pitiable wish to be what he hadn't the talent for."