"Why was the pause prolonged, but that singing should issue thence?
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized!"
--Browning.
Quita Lenox lay back in a long low chair, lost in thought, her hands
clasped behind her head, the folds of her dull-blue tea-gown trailing
on the carpet. A cushion of darker blue threw into stronger relief the
brighter tints of her hair; and at her throat three rough lumps of
Tibetan turquoise--recently sent by Lenox--hung on a fine gold chain.
His last letter, full of the discovery of his Pass, lay open on her
knee,--read and re-read till its contents were stamped upon her brain;
and it seemed to her high time that a fresh one came to take its place.
But the days slipped by--uneventful days, in which the long chair
played a definite part--and no envelope in his hand-writing came to
cheer her.
Yet she was far removed from unhappiness. Her increasing pride in him,
and in his achievement, prevented that. Only there were moments when
the inner vision was too vivid; moments between sleep and waking when
pictures trooped unbidden through the corridors of her brain; when
neither sleep nor effort of will could shield her from that awful
visualisation of the dreaded thing, which is the artist's penalty in
the day of trouble. At such times, the fear that he might slip out of
her life without knowledge of the great fact, that no amount of
repetition can minimise, nor custom stale; without knowledge that
through his long love and constancy she had attained to the 'greatest
creative art of all,' had almost dragged her out of bed at midnight to
begin the letter that should carry the word to him amid the sublimity
of his glaciers and eternal silences. But always something stronger
than fear had restrained her; so that the weeks had dropped away one by
one, like faded petals, and the secret that was to be the crowning
glory of their new life together still lay hidden in her heart.
The cheerful round of festivities common to an Indian Hill season had
passed her by; and she was content to have it so. Between her canvas
and her unpractised needle, between the companionship of Michael, and
of the Desmonds--while they were 'up'--her days had gone softly, yet
pleasantly and profitably in more respects than one. For it is in the
pauses between times of activity and stress that the still small voice
of God speaks most clearly to the soul; that power is generated and
garnered against the hidden things that shall be. It is in the pauses
that we can, as it were, stand back a space from our own corner of the
picture we are so zealously making or marring, and catch an
illuminating glimpse of the proportions of the whole.
Thus it had been with Quita Lenox. In these four months of seeming
inactivity, the large, underlying forces of life had been silently at
work in her, touching the impressionable spirit of her to 'fine issues'
that the sure years would reveal. Nor had her time of quiet been
lacking in immediate results. A completed picture stood to her credit;
and a drawer full of surprising achievements in the way of needlecraft;
achievements so pathetically small that at times the sight of them
brought tears to her eyes.
But this afternoon neither brush nor needle tempted her. In spirit she
was with her husband, trying by concentration of thought to bridge the
space between. But always her thoughts ended in one cry: If only--if
only--he could get back in time!
Michael Maurice had stayed on at the Crow's Nest, possibly
from laziness, possibly for other reasons; and its little
studio-drawing-room was as attractive, as untidy, and as eloquent of
Quita's personality as it had been sixteen months ago. It was late
August now; and a week's break in the rains had given the drenched
hills and those who dwelt upon them a foretaste of that elixir of light
and air which makes September the crowning month of the Himalayan year.
And to Quita it gave promise that her days of waiting were numbered.
In a week she would follow the Desmonds to Dera Ishmael, and remain
with them, at their urgent invitation, till her husband's return. The
friendly smile of the sun after days of downpour and restless mist
lifted her to renewed hope that in spite of the mountains he would
surely reach her in time.
From the open door a stream of afternoon light barred the room with
gold. Passing across her prostrate figure, it fell full upon her
easel, and upon the picture in which she had tried to express her own
solution of the artist's eternal problem--Art or Love. It had been
begun as a subject-picture, inspired by the impassioned cry of Aurora
Leigh: "Oh, Art, my Art! Thou art much; but Love is more!" Then
because her taste leaned always to the actual, and because the picture
was to be a present for her husband, the woman's figure had grown into
a portrait of herself; a thing so living, so eloquent of her new
appealing charm, that even Michael's critical spirit had been roused to
enthusiasm. He had one quarrel only with her achievement, namely, that
it was not to be his own!
In detail, the picture was simplicity itself. Merely the woman beside
her easel, turning eagerly away from it as if at the sound of a
footstep; every line and curve of her athrill with expectancy, her eyes
luminous with the dawn of a new truth, a new ecstasy of heart and
spirit; while at her feet her palette lay broken in a dozen pieces, and
her canvas had fallen, unheeded, to the ground. An open doorway behind
her revealed a glimpse of sunlit verandah, trellis-work and
honeysuckle; revealed also an unmistakable length of shadow,--the head
and shoulders of the man whose large, lonely personality had so taken
possession of her, as to transform her whole vision of life. And below
the canvas, on the gilding of the frame, were graven the words: 'Love
is more.'
For all her delight in this last work of her hands, there were days
when the sight of it pricked her to an anguish of impatience, shadowed
always by the darker anguish of fear lest the ecstasy she had so
vividly portrayed should be snatched untasted from out her grasp; lest
the footstep her heart hungered for should never come back into her
life. But she fought resolutely against such black moods, for
Michael's sake no less than her own. His joy in getting her back had
done much to soften the pang of separation; and now, while she lay
waiting and dreaming,--too lazy to pour out tea till he came--it was
his footstep that put her dreams to flight.
He had been out on the Kajiar road 'taking notes,' and he flourished a
sketch-book at her by way of greeting.
"Tea, _cherie_? _Ah, c'est bien_. I am thirsty!"
She flung out her left hand and took possession of the book.
"Pour it out yourself, there's a dear; and mine too."
"_Voila donc_! What laziness!"
"Energetic people are privileged to be lazy--sometimes."
He laughed, and obeyed her, setting a cup and plate within reach.
"You seem to have been making the most of your privilege. Have you
done anything while I was out?"
"But yes. I have been possessing my soul in quietness; and--I have
been talking to Eldred."
He passed a caressing hand over her hair.
"_Pauvre petite_! How much of that do you really believe?"
"Don't ask uncomfortable questions! At least it helps a little when I
feel I can't wait any longer, and--I am almost sure it helps him too.
I shall find that out when--_if_ he gets back."
"Let 'ifs' alone, _ma belle_. They are gadflies of the devil's
breeding. That great Scotchman of yours would work his way back to
you, if he had to go through hell to do it. _Moi, je le sais_."
She flushed softly; and her eyes looked beyond his through the open
doorway, rapt and shining.
"You _do_ believe in him now, Michel," she said. "And you forgive him?
He has made me so supremely happy."
Michael shook his head.
"Was I ever an altruist, _petite soeur_? If the man had not made you
happy, I should never have rested till I had you back again. As it
is--" he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive turn of the
hands--"one is glad--for your sake; and one makes the best of an empty
house. But, _mon Dieu_! it _is_ empty without you, Quita! You have
light and fire in you;--now, more than ever. You have temperament.
You inspire a man. Your absence actually affects the quality of my
work. Absurd; but true! And as for my affairs--_nom de Dieu_, the
money slips away like water, but the bills never get paid! You saw how
it was when you came. And in one little week you go again, with a
light heart; while I return, _faute de mieux_, to my 'wallowing in the
mire!'"
"_Mon pauvre Michel_!" she said softly. "What a tragedy! You make me
wish I was twins!"
But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved him
dearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that the
picture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the moment
through the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him was
genuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores and
broken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief part
of her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, still
had the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsively
towards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes resting
in his.
"It is not true that I leave you lightly, _mon cher_; nor that I love
you less because I have given myself to another--body and soul.
Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love go
deeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that to
love means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole nature
revolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel by
instinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished
_ego_; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine our
art. But that is not true;--oh, believe me it's not."
Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. But
behind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He had
been aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpse
into the depths.
"Possibly not, _cherie_--for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "But
for a man----"
"Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, setting
her two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman's
horizon; but it goes deeper with men,--of the right sort, even if they
are artists! Look at Browning. _He_ knew. A big brain may set you on
a pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulses
beating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world."
A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, and
sat upright.
"_Tiens_! But I am preaching! A new vice, _n'est ce pas_?"
"New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?"
"Need you ask? The first remark ever made upon the subject: 'It is not
good that the man should be alone.'"
A dull flush showed under Michael's sallow akin.
"_C'est a dire, il faut se ranger_!" he said with an embarrassed laugh.
"Well . . . find me a woman who understands and inspires me like
yourself, and it is possible,--I do not say probable,--that I may yet
fulfil the whole duty of man. If one could only suggest a five years'
contract . . !"
"Michel! You are incorrigible; and I have preached in vain! Besides,
it is not a wife of my sort you need, I thought you found that out last
year; and . . . I think so still. If not, why have you stayed on
here? And why did you make that exquisite pastel of her portrait?"
Michael's eyes seemed to demand an answer from the accusing picture;
and there was an instant of silence.
"I stayed on here," he said at length, "chiefly because, lacking you, I
seem to lack initiative; and I painted that . . well, as a memento of
my best bit of work, and of a dream, more delectable than most . . .
while it lasted; but none the less . . a dream."
"Yet you have seen a good deal of her this season, one way and another."
"Yes. In spite of the Button Quail!"
"And it would hurt you it she were to marry another man?"
Michael frowned. "There _is_ no other man, since Malcolm went home."
"Is there any man at all, I wonder?"
Michael rose abruptly, and going over to Elsie's portrait stood before
it, his hands clasped behind him.
"I have wondered also," he said on a rare note of gravity. "But you
women are enigmas; even the simplest of you."
"Ask her, Michel; ask her. Wondering is waste of time: and time is
life. People so often forget that."
Maurice did not answer. But Quita was well content: for she saw how
Elsie's violet-blue eyes were holding him, drawing him irresistibly
back to the old allegiance. Yet, had she known it, Elsie's eyes had
less to do with the matter than her own stimulating personality. The
subtle development in her had not been without its effect on him. He
saw her transfigured by the exquisite, self-effacing passion of the
woman; and found himself envying the man; though the eloquence of her
appeal had, as usual, fired his imagination rather than his heart.
Suddenly he swung round upon her, his face alight.
"_Parbleu_, Quita, but you are right! You always are. And as there's
no time like now, I'll ask her to-day . . I have scarcely seen her this
last fortnight. But that shall be atoned for . . later. Give me your
blessing, _ma belle_!"
Half-seriously, half in joke, he knelt beside her chair. But the
entrance of the kitmutgar with a note brought him swiftly to his feet.
"Talk of an angel! It is herself," he exclaimed as he broke the seal.
"My demure little Puritan meets me half-way after all!"
He scanned the first page at a glance, then, with a sound between a
laugh and a curse, crumpled up the paper in his hand.
"_Mon Dieu_ . . a pretty bit of comedy!"
"What is it now, _mon cher_?" Quita asked anxiously, guessing his
answer.
"It is Malcolm; no less. He reaps the reward of constancy; like the
good boy in a Sunday-school book! And she . . _eh bien_, she is quite
certain I shall be delighted to hear of her great good fortune. Very
charming! Very correct!"
"And you, Michel . . _you_?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the note into the fender.
"_Comme ca_! It seems I am a negligible quantity. Possibly have been
all along. The notion does not comfort a man's natural vanity. But on
the whole . ." he paused; smiling at the concern in Quita's eyes, "on
the whole, _petite soeur_ . . . I am profoundly relieved! I should
have proposed . . yes; and enjoyed a few weeks of Elysium. But it is
certain I should never have delivered myself permanently into the hands
of a woman! After that, it u useless to ask for your blessing, _n'est
ce pas_?"
"Quite useless!"
But the hands stretched out to him belied her words; and as he knelt
beside her once more, she set them upon his shoulders and kissed his
forehead.
"This time I give you up for good, Michel!" she said, smiling. "At
least I have done my level best for you; so my conscience is clear.
But it is written that 'no man may redeem his brother'; and I might
have known that Providence was not likely to make an exception in
favour of a woman!"
"Is it perhaps a step towards redemption if, on your account, I give up
playing with the _feu sacre_ of the heart, and confine myself to the
only form of it that the gods appear to have granted me?"
"_Dieu vous garde_," she whispered, and kissed him again.