Max
Page 22
CHAPTER XXII
Of all the ills that circumstance forces upon man, separation from abeloved object is, perhaps, the most salutary. Separation is thecrucible wherein love undergoes the test absolute; in the fire of loss,grief softens to indifference or hardens to enduring need.
The pale blue sky of May smiled upon Montmartre. The shrubs in theplantation shimmered forth in green garments, the news-vender by thegate, the little old Basque peasant woman telling her beads in the shadeof a holly-tree, even the children screaming at play on the gravelledpathway, were touched with the charm of the hour. Or so it seemed toMax--Max, _debonair_ of carriage--Max, hastening to a _rendezvous_ withfast-beating heart and nerves that throbbed alternately to a wild joy ofanticipation and a ridiculous, self-conscious dread.
How he had counted upon the moment! How he had loved and feared it inardent, varying imagination! And now, that it had at last arrived, howhopelessly his prearranged actions eluded him, how humanly his rehearsedsentences failed to marshal themselves for speech! As he climbed up theplantation, dazzled by the sun, intoxicated by the budding summer, hefelt the merest unsophisticated youth--the merest novice, dumb andimpotent under his own emotions.
Then, suddenly, all self-distrust--even all self-consciousness--was reftfrom him and he stood quite still, the blood burning his face, astrange sensation contracting his throat.
"At last! After a hundred thousand years!"
The first impression that fled across his mind was the intensefamiliarity of Blake's voice--the delightful familiarity of Blake'sphrasing; the second, the brimming joy of regained companionship.
"_Mon ami! Cher ami!"_
His hands went out and were caught in Blake's; and all existence becamea mirror to the blue, smiling sky.
No further word was said; Blake took possession of his arm in the old,accustomed fashion, and silently--in that silence which makes speechseem poor--they turned and began to pace up and down the gravelled path.
There was nothing beautiful in the plantation of the Sacre-Coeur; theshrubs, for all their valor of green, were slight things if one thoughtof forest trees, the grass was a mere pretence of grass. But the humanmind is a great magician, weaving glories from within, and neither Blakenor Max had will for anything but the moment set precisely as it was.
For the gift of the universe, Blake could not have told why the mereholding of the boy's arm, the mere regulating of his pace to his, filledhim with such satisfaction; nor, for the same magnificent bribe, couldMax have explained the glow--the all-sufficing sense of fulfilment, bornof the physical contact.
For long they paced up and down, wrapped in their cloak of content; thensome look, some movement brought the world back, and Blake paused.
"What a selfish brute I am! What about the work? Tell me, is it done?"
Max looked up, the sun discovering the little flecks of gold in his grayeyes; Max laughed from sheer happiness.
"_Mon ami!_ But absolutely I had forgotten! Figure it to yourself! Icame out of the house, hot and cold for my poor picture, and immediatelywe met--" He laughed again. "_Mon ami_! What a compliment to you!"
"It is done then--the great work?"
"Yes; it is finished."
"Then I must see it this minute--this minute--this very minute!"
The definiteness of the tone was like the clasp of the arm, and Maxglowed anew. By a swift, emotional effort, he conjured up the longingsthat had preyed upon him in his self-imposed solitude--conjured them forthe sheer joy of feeling them evaporate before reality.
"It awaits you, _mon ami_!" He made a sweeping gesture, as though helaid the world at his friend's feet. And Blake, noting this, noted alsowith an odd little sense of gratification, that Max's English was atrifle more halting--a trifle more stilted for the break in theircompanionship.
Still arm in arm, they passed down the sloping pathway to the gate,where the children still played shrilly and the old Basque peasant stilldrowsed over her rosary beads. As they passed her, Blake put his hand inhis pocket and slipped a silver coin into her fingers.
"They're so like my own people--these Basque peasants!" he said, by wayof excuse. "They always give me a warm feeling about the heart."
The old woman looked up surprised, and both were attracted by thepicture she made against the dark holly-trees--- the brown witheredface, the astonishingly bright eyes like the eyes of a bird, the spare,bent figure with its scrupulous cleanliness of dress.
"The blessing of the good God rest upon you, monsieur!" she said,solemnly. "And may He provide you with your heart's desire!"
"And for me, _bonne mere_?" Max broke in. "What for me?"
The small bright eyes scanned the young face thoughtfully. "The goodGod, monsieur, will take you where He means that you should go!" Herthin lips closed, and she fell again to the telling of her beads, herinner vision doubtless weaving the scenes of her youth--the grave brownhills and sounding sea of her native country.
"For the moment it would seem that the good God points a way to thestudio!" said Max, as they turned away. "_Mon ami_, I burn and trembleat once! Suppose it is of no use--my picture?" He stopped suddenly bythe gate, to gaze with unpremeditated consternation at Blake; and Blake,touched by the happy familiarity of the action, laughed aloud.
"The same Max!" he cried. "The same, same Max! It's like turning back tothe first page of my little book. Come along! I have spirit for anythingto-day--even to tell you that you've made a failure. Come along, boy!It's a great world, when all's said and done! Come along! I'll race youup the steps!"
Laughing like a couple of children, they ran up the Escalier deSainte-Marie, smiled upon indulgently by the careless passers-by, andentering the house, the race was continued up the polished stairs.
At the door of the _appartement_ Max came level with Blake, his faceglowing with excitement, his laughter broken by quick breaths.
"Oh, Ned, no! No! You must not enter! I am to go first. I have arrangedit all. Ned, please!" He pulled Blake back and, opening the door, passedinto the little hall and on into the bare, bright studio.
To Blake, following closely, the scene bore a striking resemblance toanother scene--to the occasion upon which Max had blocked in, and thendestroyed, his _cabaret_ picture--save that now the light was no longerthe silvery light of spring, but the pale gold radiance of a youthfulsummer.
The impression came, but the impression was summarily erased, for as hecrossed the threshold, Max flew to him, his exuberance suddenly dead,the trepidation of the artist enveloping him again, chasing the bloodfrom his cheeks.
"Oh, Ned! Dear Ned! If it is bad?" He caught and clung to Blake's arm,restraining him forcibly. "Do not look! Wait one moment! Just one littlemoment!"
Very gently Blake disengaged the clinging hands. "What a child he is,after all! He shuts himself away and works like a galley-slave and then,when the moment of justification comes--! Nonsense, boy! I'm not acritic. Let me see!"
As in a dream, Max saw him walk round the easel and pause full in frontof it; in an agony of apprehension, a quaking eagerness, he livedthrough the moment of silence; then at Blake's first words the bloodrushed singing to his ears.
"It's extraordinary! But who is it?"
"Extraordinary? Extraordinary?" In a wild onset of emotion, Max caughtbut the one word. "Does that mean good--or does it mean bad? Oh, _moncher_, all that I have put into that picture! Speak! Speak! Be cruel! Itis all wrong? It is all bad?"
"Don't be a fool!" said Blake, harshly. "You know it's good. But who isit? That's what I'm asking you. Who is it?"
Heedless, unstrung--half laughing, half crying--Max ran across the room."Oh, _mon ami_, how you terrified me--I thought you had condemned it!"
But Blake's eyes were for the picture; the portrait of a woman seated ata mirror--a portrait in which the delicate reflected face looked outfrom its shadowing hair with a curious questioning intentness, afascinating challenge at once elusive and vital.
"Who is it?"
He spoke low and wit
h a deliberate purpose; and at his tone recklessnessseized upon Max.
"A woman, _mon ami_! Just a woman!" He stiffened his shoulders, threw uphis head, like a child who would dare the universe.
"Yes, but what woman?" With amazing suddenness Blake swung round andfixed a searching glance upon him. "She's the living image of you--butyou with such a difference--"
He stopped as swiftly as he had begun, and in the silence Max quailedunder his glance. Out of the unknown, fear assailed him; it seemed thatunder this mastering scrutiny his mask must drop from him, his verygarments be rent. In sudden panic his thought skimmed possibilities likea circling bird and lighted upon the first-found point of safety.
"She is my sister," he said, in a voice that shook a little. "She is mysister--Maxine."
Blake's eyes still held his.
"But you never said you had a sister."
Max seized upon his bravado, flinging it round him as a garment.
"_Mon ami_," he cried, "we are not all as confiding as you! Besides, itis not given to us all to possess five aunts, seven uncles, andtwenty-four first cousins! If I have but one sister, may I not guard heras a secret?"
He spoke fast; his eyes flashed with the old light, half pleading, halfimpertinent, his chin was lifted with the old defiant tilt. The effectwas gained. Blake's severity fell from him, and with a quick gesture ofaffection he caught him by the shoulder.
"I'm well reproved!" he said. "Well reproved! 'Twas quite the right wayof telling me to mind my own affairs. And if she were _my_ sister--" Heturned again to the picture, but as his eyes met the mirrored eyes withtheir profound, inscrutable look, his words broke off unaccountably.
"Yes, _mon ami_? If she were your sister--?" Max, with eager, stealthyglance, was following his expressions.
But he did not answer; he stood lost in contemplation, speculating, heknew not why, upon the question in the mirrored face.