Max
Page 29
CHAPTER XXIX
The universe is compounded of the miraculous; but love is the miracle ofmiracles. Again the impossible had been contrived; again Maxine andBlake were standing together on the balcony. The Parisian night seemedas still as a held breath, and as palpitating with human possibilities;the domes of the Sacre-Coeur loomed white against the sky, dumbwitnesses to the existence of the spirit. The scene was undoubtedlypoetic; yet, placed in the noisiest highway of London or the mostdesolate bog-land of Blake's native country, these two would have beenas truly and amply cognizant of the real and the ideal; for the cloak oflove was about them, the vapor of love was before their eyes, and forthe hour, although they knew it not, they were capable of reconstructinga whole world from the material in their own hearts.
But they were divinely ignorant; they each tricked themselves with theage-old fallacy of a unique position, each wandered onward in thedream-like fields of romance, content to believe that the other knew thehidden way.
The scene bore a perfect similarity to the scene of the firstmeeting--about them, the darkness and the quiet--behind them, the little_salon_ lit by the familiar lamp, showing all the reassuring evidencesof the boy's occupation. For close upon an hour they had enjoyed thisintimacy of the balcony, at first talking much and rapidly upon theostensible object of their meeting--Max's quarrel with Blake, laterfalling to a happy silence, as though they deliberately closed theirlips, the more fully to drink in the secrets of the night through eyesand ears. Strange spells were in the weaving, and no two souls are fusedto harmony without much subtle questioning of spirit, many delicate,tremulous speculations compounded of wordless joy and wordless fear.
Some issue, it was, in this matter of fusing personalities, that at lastcaused Maxine to turn her head and find Blake studying her.
The circumstance was trivial--a mere crossing of glances, but it broughtthe color to her face as swiftly as if she had been taken in some guiltyact.
Blake saw the expression, and interpreted it wrongly.
"You are displeased, princess? I am a bad companion to-night?" He spokeimpulsively, with an anxiety in his voice that spurred her to a desireto comfort him.
"When people are sympathetic, monsieur, they are companions, whethergood or bad. Is it not so?"
He moved a little nearer to her; neither was aware of the movement.
"Do you find me sympathetic?"
"Indeed, yes!" Her luminous glance rested on him thoughtfully.
"But you scarcely know me."
"Monsieur, I do know you."
"Through the boy, perhaps--" He spoke with a touch of impatience, butshe stopped him with upraised hand.
"You are angry with Max, therefore you must be silent! Anger does notmake for true judgment."
"Ah, that's unfair!" He laughed. "'Tis Max who is angry with me! Youknow I came here to-night with open arms--to find him flown! Still, Iam willing to keep them open, and give the kiss of peace whenever herelents--to please you."
"Ah, no, monsieur! To please him. To please him."
"Indeed, no! To please you--and no one else. If I followed my owndevices, I'd wait till he comes back, and box his ears. He'd very welldeserve it."
Maxine laughed; then, swift as a breeze or a racing cloud, her moodchanged.
"Monsieur, you care for Max?"
"What a question! I love Max. He's a star in my darkness--or was, untilthe sun shone."
He paused, fearful of where his impulses had led him; but Maxine was allsweetness, all seriousness.
"Am I, then, the sun, monsieur?"
In any other woman the words must have seemed a lure; but here was afairness, a frankness and dignity that lifted the question to anotherand higher plane. Blake, comprehending, answered simply with the truth.
"Yes, you are the sun; and all my life I have been a sun-worshipper."
She made no comment; she accepted the words, waiting for the flow ofspeech that she knew was close at hand--the speech, probably irrelevant,certainly delightful, that he invariably poured forth at such a moment.
"Princess, do you know my country?"
She shook her head, smiling a little.
"Ah, then you don't understand my worship! In Ireland, nature condemnsus to a long, black, wet winter and a long, gray, wet spring, so thatthe heart of a man is nearly drowned in his body, and he grows tobelieve that his country is nothing but a neutral-tinted waste; but oneday, when even hope is dying, a miracle comes to pass--the sun shinesout! The sun shines out, and he suddenly sees that his waste land is thecolor of emeralds and that his dripping woods are gardens, tinted likeno stones that jewellers ever handle. Oh, no wonder I am asun-worshipper!"
Maxine, glowing to his sudden enthusiasm, clasped her hands, as when sheheard the music of M. Cartel.
"Ah, and that is your country?"
"That is my country, princess."
"I wish----" She stopped.
"That you could see it?"
She nodded.
"And why not? Why not--when this boy sees reason? How I would love toshow it to you! You would understand."
"When would you show it to me?" She spoke very low.
"When? Oh, perhaps in April--April, when the washed skies are a bluethat even Max could not find in his color-box, and the bare boughstremble with promise. In April--or, better still, in the autumn. InOctober, when the lights are cool and white and the sea is an opal; whenyou smell the ozone strong as violets, and at every turn of the road acart confronts you, heaped with bronze seaweed and stuck with a coupleof pikes that rise stark against the sky-line, to suggest the taking ofthe spoils. Yes, in October! In October, it should be!"
He was carried away, and she loved him for his enthusiasm.
"You care for your country?" she said, very softly.
"Yes--in an odd way! When wonder or joy or ambition comes to me, Ialways have a craving to walk those roads and watch the sea and whispermy secrets to the salt earth, but I never gratify the desire; it belongsto the many incongruities of an incongruous nature. But I think if greathappiness came to me, I should go back, if only for a day; or if--" Hepaused. "--If I were to break my heart over anything, I believe I'dcreep back, like a child to its mother. We're odd creatures--we Irish!"
"I understand you," said Maxine. "You have the soul."
He looked down into the rue Mueller, and a queer smile touched his lips.
"A questionable blessing one is apt to say, princess--in one's badmoments!"
"But only in one's bad moments!" Her tone was warm; her words came fromher swiftly, after the manner of Max--the manner that Blake loved.
"You are quite right!" he said, "and I despise myself instantly I haveuttered such a cynicism. The capacity to feel is worth all the pain itbrings. If one had but a single moment of realization, one should diecontent. That is the essential--to have known the highest."
Once again Maxine had the sense of lifting a tangible veil, of gaining aglimpse of the hidden personality--not the half-sceptical, pleasant,friendly Blake of the boy's acquaintance, but Blake the dreamer, theidealist who sought some grail of infinite holiness figured in his ownimagination, zealously guarded from the scoffer and the worldling. Aswift desire pulsed in her to share the knowledge of this quest--to seethe face of the knight illumined for his adventure--to touch the bucklesof his armor.
"Monsieur," she whispered, "if you were to die to-night, would you diesatisfied?"
In the silence that had fallen upon them, Blake had turned his face tothe stars, but now again his glance sought hers.
"No, princess," he said, simply.
No weapons are more potent than brevity and simplicity. His answerbrought the blood to her face as no long dissertation could have broughtit; it was so direct, so personal, so compounded of subtle values.
"Then you have not known the highest?" It was not she who framed thequestion; some power outside herself constrained her to its speaking.
"I have recognized perfection," he said, "but I have not known it. Andsome
times my weaker self--the primitive, barbaric self--cries outagainst the limitation; sometimes--"
"Sometimes--?"
"Nothing, princess--and everything!" With a sudden wave of self-controlhe brought himself back to the moment and its responsibilities. "Forgiveme! And, if you are merciful, dismiss me! They say we Irish talk toomuch. I am afraid I am a true Irishman." He laughed, but there was asound behind the laughter that brought tears to her eyes.
"Monsieur, it has been happy to-night?"
"It has been heaven."
"We are not wholly a trouble to you--Max and I?"
She put out her hand, and he took it.
"Max is my friend, princess; you are my sovereign lady."
The night was close about them; Paris was below, gilding the rose ofhuman love; the church domes were above, tending whitely toward thestars. Maxine moved nearer to him, her heart beating fast, her wholeradiant being dispensing fragrance.
"Monsieur, if I am your lady, pay me homage!"
The enchantment was delicate and perfect; her voice wove a spell, herslight, strong fingers trembled in his. He had been less than man had herefused the moment. Silently he bent his head, and his lips touched herhand in a swift, ardent kiss.