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Max–Or His Picture
by
“I was with him when he died.”
That was a strange thing to hear when the message of his uncle’s death had come to him in another country; she hoped that her brain was not going to play her false.
“It was fifteen years ago last July, you know. I never knew how many details you received, or only the bare fact in the papers.”
Fifteen years! fifteen years! What was that date he was giving? That was the day on which she sailed for America, the day after–what was that story he was telling of a visit and a fire and a child rescued and an accident? But still she listened with the same iron composure. The next words she heard distinctly.
“It was like him to lose his life that way; and he did not grudge it. Yet it was hard that I should be the only one of his blood with him. He could speak with difficulty when he told me to take a lock of hair and his signet ring to you. He dictated the address, himself, to me. ‘You must be sure and take it,’ he said. ‘It is to the lady that I hoped would be my betrothed; you must tell grandmamma about it, too. She has my picture and she knows–but tell her’–and then, I think his mind must have wandered a little, for he smiled brightly at me, saying, ‘ I’ll tell her, myself,’ and then the doctors came. He said nothing more, only once, they told me, he murmured something about his betrothed. But I had the ring; he took it off his finger and kissed it and gave it to me. Child as I was, I knew that it was sacred. I wrapped it in the paper, and afterward I put the lock of hair beside it. So soon as I could, I went to Heidelberg, to the pension. You had gone and there was no address, no trace–“
“I left my address with the countess–“
“My aunt is dead,” said the young German gravely. “I would not criticize her, but she had her own choice of a wife for my uncle; I do not think one could trust her with addresses.”
“We all gave ours to her to give to Frau Mueller.”
“That is why, then, I could not find you. My grandmother also tried. But you were gone. I thought of the banks, long after, but I found nothing. Often it has seemed dreadful that you should learn of this only through the papers. But I could not tell whether– anything. When I came to America, I confess it was always in my mind. I always carried my uncle’s little packet with me. I will have it sent to you.”
“Excuse me,” said Miss Wing gently. “Will you please bring me the glass of water–I–am afraid–I can’t walk to it.”
But she would not let him pour the water on his handkerchief to bathe her head. She sipped the water, and very pale, but quite herself, brought him back to his own matters. She found that it was a cousin, miscalled an uncle, in the German manner, who had died. It did not seem to her that Max’s nephew could be unworthy of any girl; yet she conscientiously questioned him regarding his worldly affairs, for Florence was an only daughter whose father had great possessions and a distrust of adventurers, and at last she sent him forth to walk in the grove with his sweetheart. “And speak to her,” she said, with a look that sank into his heart; “it is the American way; don’t wait to write, the American way is best.”
So, at last, she was alone. Alone with her lover who had always been true; whose love many waters could not quench, and it was stronger than death. She often pondered, afterward, whether there had not been some note written to her and sent with the photographs; whether the countess might not have tampered with the package, taking the note, but not suspecting the picture. But none of these puzzles troubled her to-day. She stood in front of the picture. All the years, an obscure and virginal shyness had withheld her from ever overstepping her first attitude. She told him every thought of her heart in regard to others and herself. He was her dearest friend. She called him “Max” and “my friend.” Recalling the French use of the latter term, she used it sometimes with a little flutter of the heart. But those innocent endearments that a woman keeps for her lover’s portrait–to make amends for not proffering them of free will to the poor fellow himself–these it would have shocked her to imagine. She never touched the picture, save reverently to dust it, to take it down when she went away, to replace it in its station when she returned. But now, trembling, yet not blushing, she took the picture into her hands. She looked long into its eyes; she kissed it with a light and timid kiss, and swiftly hid the smiling face against her heart, pressing the frame in both hands, and touching it with her cheek bent over it, while she whispered: “You did tell me. You came back and told me. I love you. Max, my knight–my husband!”