Max

by Katherine Cecil Thurston

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Rapture gilded the world; rapture trembled on the air like thevibrations of a chord struck from some celestial harp. Coming as adivine gift, the first autumnal frost had lighted upon Paris; during thenight fainting August had died, and with the dawn, golden September hadbeen born to the city.

  Blake, waiting at the foot of the Cours la Reine, consumed withanticipation, drank in the freshness of the morning as though it were adraught of wine; Maxine, crossing the Place de la Concorde, lifted herface to the sky, striving to quiet her pulses, to cool her hot cheeks inthe wash of gentle air.

  Her hour had arrived; none could hinder its approach, as none could marits beauty. She scarcely recognized the earth upon which she trod; thefierce excitement, the melting tenderness of her moods warred untilemotion ran riot and the sifting of her feelings became a taskimpossible.

  She passed the spot where, eight months earlier, Max had saluted theflag of France. Her heart leaped, her glance, flying before her,discovered Blake waiting at his appointed place, and all her wildsensations were suspended.

  The violently beating heart seemed to stop, the blood moved with a sickslowness in her veins, it seemed impossible that she should go forward,and yet, by the curious mechanism of the human machine, her feetcarried her on until Blake's presence was tangible to all hersenses--until suspense was engulfed in actuality, and joy was singingabout her in the air, a song so triumphant, so penetrating that itdrowned all whispering of doubt--all murmurs of to-morrow or ofyesterday. Tears welled into her eyes, her hands went out to him.

  Standing in the full light, she was a tall, slight girl, fastidiously,if simply dressed--veiled, gloved, shod as befitted a woman of theworld; and as he gazed on her, one thought possessed Blake. She, whotypified all beauty--whose presence was a fragrance--had called to him,chosen him. All the romance stored up through generations welled withinhim; he would have died for her at that moment as enthusiastically ashis ancestors had died for their faith. Catching her hands, he kissedthem without a thought for passing glances.

  "Princess!"

  The sound of his voice went through her, she laughed to break the sobthat caught her throat, she looked up, unashamed of the tears tremblingon her lushes.

  "Monsieur Ned!"

  "Oh, why the 'monsieur'?"

  "Why the 'princess'?"

  They both smiled.

  "Maxine!"

  "_Mon ami! Mon cher ami_!" It thrilled her to the heart to say thewords; she glanced at him half fearfully, then broke forth afresh, lesthe should have time to think. "Ned, tell me! It is true--all this? I amnot asleep? It is not a dream?"

  He pressed her hands. "Look round you! It is morning."

  Her lips trembled; she obeyed him, looking slowly from the cool sky tothe tree-tops, where the heavy leaves were still damp with the night'sfrost.

  "Yes, it is morning!" she said. "We have all the day!"

  Watching her intently, he did not add, as would the common lover, "wehave many days"; she seemed to him so beautiful, so naive that her wordsmust compass perfection.

  "We have all the day," he echoed. "How shall it be spent?"

  Then she turned to him, all graciousness, her young face lifted to thelight. "Ah, you must decide! I do not wish even to think; the world isso--how do you say--enchanted?"

  He laughed in delight at her charming, pleading smile, her charming,pleading hesitation; he caught her mood with swift intuition.

  "That's it! The world is enchanted! Away behind us, is the DreamingWood. What do you say? Shall we go and seek the Sleeping Beauty?"

  She nodded silently. He was so perfectly the Blake of old--the Blake whounderstood.

  "Then the first thing is to find the magic coach! We must have nothingso mundane as a carriage drawn by horses. A magic coach that travels byitself!" He signalled to a passing automobile.

  "Drive to the Pre Catelan--and drive slowly!" he directed; he handed herto her seat with all the courtliness proper to the occasion, and theywere off, wheeling up the long incline toward the Arc de Triomphe.

  They were silent while the chauffeur made a way through the manyvehicles, past the crowds of pedestrians that infest the entrance to theBois; but as the way grew clearer--as the spell of the trees, of thegreen vistas and glimpsed water began to weave itself--Maxine turned andlaid her hand gently upon Blake's.

  "_Mon cher_! How good you are!"

  He started, thrilling at her touch.

  "My dearest! Good?"

  "In coming to me like this--"

  He caught her hand quickly. "Don't!" he said. "Don't! It isn't right---from you to me. You never doubted that I'd come? You knew I'd come?"

  "Yes; I knew."

  "Then that's all right!" He pressed her hand, he smiled, he reassuredher by all the subtle, intangible ways known to lovers, and it was bornein upon her that he had altered, had grown mentally in his months ofexile--that he was steadier, more certain of life or of himself, thanwhen he had rushed tempestuously out of Max's studio. She pondered thechange, without attempting to analyze it; a deep sense of rest possessedher, and she allowed her hand to lie passive in his until, all too soon,their cab swept round to the left, sped past a bank of greenery and drewup, with a creaking of brakes, before the restaurant of the Pre Catelan.

  Everywhere was light, silence and, best boon of all, an unexpectedsolitude--a solitude that invested the white building with a glamour ofunreality and converted the slight-stemmed, moss-grown trees intospellbound sentinels.

  "Here is the Castle!" said Blake. "Look! Even the waiters doze, until wecome to wake them!" He handed her to the ground, gave his orders to thechauffeur, and as the cab disappeared into some unseen region, theymounted the wide steps.

  "Monsieur desires _dejeuner_?" A sleek waiter disengaged himself fromhis brethren and came persuasively forward. At this early houreverything at the Pre Catelan was soft and soothing; later in the daythings would alter, the service would be swift and unrestful, the swishof motor-cars and the hum of voices would break the spell, but at thishour of noon Paris, for some obscure reason, ignored the fruitful oasisof the Bois, and peace lay upon it like balm.

  "How charming! Oh, but how charming!" The exclamation was won fromMaxine as her glance skimmed the palms, the glittering glasses and thewhite table-linen, and rested upon the spacious windows that convey thefascinating impression that one whole wall of the room has been removed,and that the ranged trees outside with their satiny green stems actuallycommune with the _gourmet_ as he eats his meal.

  "It's what you wanted, isn't it?" Blake's pleasure in her pleasure waspatent. Every look, every gesture manifested it.

  "It is wonderful!" she said, gently.

  "Good! And now, what is the meal to be? Dragon's wings _en casserole_?Or Moonbeams _surprise_?"

  She laughed, and a flash of mischief stole through the glance she gavehim.

  "What do you say, _mon ami_, to _poulet bonne femme_?"

  She watched for a gleam of remembrance, but he was too engrossed in thepresent to recall the trivialities of the past. He gave the orderwithout a thought save to do her will.

  Delay was inevitable, and while the meal was in preparation theywandered into the open and visited the farm at the rear of therestaurant, conjuring the farm-like traditions of the place after theaccepted custom--entering the sweet-smelling, shadowy cow-shed, strokingthe sleek, soft-breathing cows, amusing themselves over the antics ofthe monkey chained beside the door.

  It was all very pleasant, the illusion of Arcadia was charminglyrendered, and they returned, happy and hungry, in search of their meal.That meal from its first morsel was raised above common things, for wasit not the first time Blake had broken bread with Maxine? And what truelover ever forgets the rare moment when all the joys of intimacy areforeshadowed in the first serving of his lady with no matter whattriviality of meat or bread, or water or wine? The points of the affairare so slight and yet so tremendous; for are they not sacramental--atypifying of things unspeakable?

/>   No intimate word was spoken, but at such times looks speak--morepoignantly still, hearts speak; and their gay voices, as they laughedand talked and laughed again, held notes that the ear of the waiternever caught, and their silences vibrated with meaning.

  At last the meal was over; they rose and by one consent looked towardthe spacious world outside.

  "Shall we go into the gardens?"

  Blake put the question; Maxine silently bent her head.

  Softly and assiduously their sleek waiter bowed them to the door, andthey passed down the shallow steps into the slim shadows of the trees asthey might have passed into some paradise fashioned for their specialpleasure.

  It was a place--an hour--removed from the mundane world; passing out ofthe region of the trees, they came upon a shrubbery--a shrubbery thatenclosed a lawn and flower-beds, and here, by grace of the gods, was aseat where they sat down side by side and gave their eyes to the beautythat encompassed them.

  It was an exotic beauty, yet a beauty of intense suggestion. Summer laylavishly displayed in the shaven lawn, the burdened shrubs, the glory offlowers, but over her redundant loveliness autumn had spun an etherealgarment. No words could paint the subtlety of this sheath; it wasneither mist nor shadow, it was a golden transparency spun from nature'sloom--the bridal veil of the young season.

  "How exquisite!" whispered Maxine, as if a breath might break thespell. "Look at those yellow butterflies above the flowers! They are theonly moving things."

  "It is the place of the Sleeping Beauty, sweet! It is the place oflove." Blake took her hands again and kissed them; then, with a gentle,enveloping tenderness, he drew her to him, looking into her face, butnot attempting to touch it.

  "My sweet, I have come back. What are you going to do with me?"

  She did not answer; she lay quite still within his arms, her half-closedeyes lingering on the garden--on the white roses, the clusteringmignonette, the hovering yellow butterflies.

  "What are you going to do with me?"

  She lifted her eyes, dewy with the beauty of the world.

  "Wait!" she whispered. "Oh, wait!"

  "I have waited."

  "Ah, but a little longer!"

  "But my love, my dear one--"

  She stirred in his embrace; she turned with a swift passion of entreaty,putting her fingers across his mouth.

  "Ned! Ned! I know. But do this great thing for me! Shut your eyes andyour ears. Forget yesterday, think there will be no to-morrow. Hold thisone moment! Give me my one hour!"

  She pleaded as if for life, her body vibrating, her eyes beseeching him;and his answer was to press her hand harder against his lips, and tokiss it fervently. He gave no sign of the struggle within him--the doubtthat encompassed him. Something had been demanded of him, and he gave itloyally.

  "There was no yesterday, there will be no to-morrow!" he said. "Butto-day is ours!"

  It was the perfect word, spoken perfectly; Maxine's eyes drooped insupreme content, her lips curled like a pleased child's.

  "Ah, but God is good!" she said, and with a child's supreme sweetness,she lifted her face for his kiss.