CHAPTER XVII

There is impetus, if not necessarily inspiration in a goading thought, and Max returned to his interrupted task with a zeal almost in excess of his protestations.  He worked with vigor—­with an exuberant daring that seemed to suggest that the creation of his picture was rather the creation of a mental narcotic than the expression of an idea.

He had given rein to sentiment in the moment with Blake, and now he was applying the curb, working incessantly—–­ never pausing to speak—­never casting a glance at the corner where his companion was smoking and dreaming over the fire.

To the casual observer it might have seemed a scene of ideal comradeship; yet in the minds of the comrades there lurked an uneasiness, an uncertainty not lightly to be placed—­not easily to be clothed in words.  A certain warmth was stirring in Blake’s heart, coupled with a certain wonder at his sudden discovery of the depth of the boy’s regard; while in the boy’s own soul a tumult of feelings ran riot.

Shame burned him that he should have confessed himself; amazement seared him that the confession had been there to make.  A bewildering annoyance filled him—­a first doubting of the ego he was cherishing with so fine a care.

It is indeed a black moment when an egoist doubts himself; it is as if the god within the temple became self-conscious; more, it is as if the god rent down the veil before the shrine and showed himself a thing of clay to his astonished worshippers.

The mind of Max was a complex study as he worked with his new-found vehemence, expressing or crushing a thought with each bold stroke.  He prided himself upon his powers of self-analysis; and, being possessed as well of honesty and of a measure of common sense, the mental picture that confronted him was scarcely pleasant seeing.  Doubt of himself—­of his own omnipotence—–­ had assailed him; and, being young, being spoiled of the world, it found expression in bitter resentment.

Having continued his onslaught upon the canvas until midday was close at hand, he suddenly astonished the unoffending Blake by flinging his charcoal from him to the furthest end of the room, where it broke rudely against the spotless wall-paper.

“God bless my soul!” Blake turned, to see an angry figure striding to the window, his hair ruffled, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

“What in God’s name is the matter with you?”

There was no answer and, being a wise man, he did not press the point.

Presently, as he expected, the boyish figure wheeled round.

“I cannot work.  It is all bad!  All wrong!”

He rose slowly and began to walk toward the easel, but with a cry the boy ran forward and intercepted him.

“No!  No!  No!  It is bad, I tell you—­you must not see.  Look!  This is what I shall do.  This!” He turned and, swift as lightning, snapped up a knife, and before Blake could find a gesture or a word, ripped his canvas from end to end.