MADCAP

byGeorge Gibbs

[Illustration: "'You must flirt, Mr. Markham-and make prettyspeeches-'"]

CONTENTS

ChapterI. HermiaII. The GorillaIII. The Ineffectual AuntIV. MaroonedV. Bread and SaltVI. The RescueVII. "Wake Robin"VIII. Olga TchernyIX. Out of His DepthX. The FugitiveXI. The Gates of ChanceXII. The Fairy GodmotherXIII. VagabondiaXIV. The Fabiani FamilyXV. DangerXVI. Manet CicatrixXVII. Pre GuŽgou's RosesXVIII. A Philosopher in a QuandaryXIX. MountebanksXX. The Empty HouseXXI. NemasisXXII. Great Pan is DeadXXIII. A Lady in the DarkXXIV. The Wings of the ButterflyXXV. Circe and the FossilXXVI. Mrs. Berkeley Hammond EntertainsXXVII. The Seats of the MightyXXVIII. The Brass BellXXIX. Duo

CHAPTER I

HERMIA

Titine glanced at the parted curtains and empty bed, then at the clock, and yawned. It was not yet eight o'clock. From the look of things, shewas sure that Miss Challoner had arisen and departed for a morning ridebefore the breaking of the dawn. She peered out of the window andcontracted her shoulders expressively. To ride in the cold morning airupon a violent horse when she had been out late! B--r! But then, Mademoiselle was a wonderful person--like no one since the beginning ofthe world. She made her own laws and Titine was reluctantly obliged toconfess that she herself was delighted to obey them. 

Another slight shrug of incomprehension--of absolution from suchpractices--and Titine moved to the linen cabinet and took out somefluffy things of lace and ribbon, then to a closet from which shebrought a soft room-gown, a pair of silk stockings and some very smallsuede slippers. 

She had hardly completed these preparations when there was the sound ofa door hurriedly closed downstairs, a series of joyous yelps from adog, a rush of feet on the stairs and the door of the room gave waybefore the precipitate entrance of a slight, almost boyish, femaleperson, with blue eyes, the rosiest of cheeks and a mass of yellowhair, most of which had burst from its confines beneath her hat. 

To the quiet Titine her mistress created an impression of bringing notonly herself into the room, but also the violent horse and the whole ofthe out-of-doors besides. 

"Down, Domino! Down, I say!" to the clamorous puppy. "Now--out withyou!" And as he refused to obey she waved her crop threateningly andat a propitious moment banged the door upon his impertinent snub-nose. 

"Quick, Titine, my bath and--why, what are you looking at?"

"Your hat, Mademoiselle, " in alarm, "It is broken, and your face--"

"It's a perfectly good face. What's the matter with it?"

By this time Miss Challoner had reached the cheval glass. Her hat wassmashed in at one side and several dark stains disfigured her cheek andtemple. 

"Oh, I'm a _sight_. He chucked me into some bushes, Titine--"

"That terrible horse--Mademoiselle!"

"The same--into some very sticky bushes--but he didn't get away. I goton without help, too. Lordy, but I _did_ take it out of him! Oh, didn't I!"

Her eye lighted gaily as though in challenge at nothing at all as sheremoved her gloves and tossed her hat and crop on the bed and sprawledinto a chair with a sigh, while Titine removed her boots and madetremulous and reproachful inquiries. 

"Mademoiselle--will--will kill herself, I am sure. "

Hermia Challoner laughed. 

"Better die living--than be living dead. Besides, no one ever dieswho doesn't care whether he dies or not. I shall die comfortably inbed at the age of eighty-three, I'm sure of it. Now, my bath. _Vite_, Titine! I have a hunger like that which never was before. "

Miss Challoner undressed and entered her bathroom, where she splashedindustriously for some minutes, emerging at last radiant and glowingwith health and a delight in the mere joy of existence. While Titinebrushed her hair, the girl sat before her dressing-table puttinglotion on her injured cheeks and temple. Her hair arranged, she sentthe maid for her breakfast tray while she finished her toilet inleisurely fashion and went into her morning room. The suede slipperscontributed their three inches to her stature, the long lines of theflowing robe added their dignity, and the strands of her hair, eachwoven carefully into its appointed place, completed the transformationfrom the touseled, hoydenish boy-girl of half an hour before into theluxurious and somewhat bored young lady of fashion. 

But she sank into the chair before her breakfast tray and ate with anappetite which took something form this illusion, while Titine broughther letters and a long box of flowers which were unwrapped and placedin a floor-vase of silver and glass in an embrasure of the window. The envelope which accompanied the flowers Titine handed to hermistress, who opened it carelessly between mouthfuls and finally addedit to the accumulated litter of fashionable stationery. Hermia eyedher Dresden chocolate-pot uncheerfully. This breakfast gift hadreached her with an ominous regularity on Mondays and Thursdays for amonth, and the time had come when something must be done about it. But she did not permit unpleasant thoughts, if unpleasant they reallywere, to distract her from the casual delights of retrospection andthe pleasures of her repast, which she finished with a thoroughnessthat spoke more eloquently of the wholesomeness of her appetite eventhan the real excellence of the cooking. Upon Titine, who brought herthe cigarettes and a brazier, she created the impression--as shealways did indoors--of a child, greatly overgrown, parading herselfwith mocking ostentation in the garments of maturity. The cigarette, too, was a part of this parade, and she smoked it daintily, thoughwithout apparent enjoyment. 

Her meal finished, she was ready to receive feminine visitors. Sheseldom lacked company, for it is not the fate of a girl of HermiaChalloner's condition to be left long to her own devices. Herfather's death, some years before, had fallen heavily upon her, butyouth and health had borne her above even that sad event triumphant, and now at three and twenty, with a fortune which loomed large even ina day of large fortunes, she lived alone with a legion of servants inthe great house, with no earthly ties but an ineffectual aunt and aTrust Company. 

But she did not suffer for lack of advice as to the conduct of her lifeor of her affairs, and she always took it with the sad devotional airwhich its givers had learned meant that in the end she would do exactlyas she chose. And so the Aunt and the Trust Company, like thescandalized Titine, ended inevitably in silent acquiescence. 

Of her acquaintances much might be said, both good and bad. Theyrepresented almost every phase of society from the objects of hercharities (which were many and often unreasoning) to the daughters ofher father's friends who belonged in her own sphere of existence. Andif one's character may be judged by that of one's friends, Hermia wasof infinite variety. Perhaps the sportive were most often in hercompany, and it was against these that Mrs. Westfield ineffectuallyrailed, but there was a warmth in her affection for GertrudeBrotherton, who liked quiet people as a rule (and made Hermia theexception to prove it), and an intellectual flavor in her attachmentfor Angela Reeves, who was interested in social problems, which morethan compensated for Miss Challoner's intimacy with those of a gayersort. 

Her notes written, she dressed for the morning, then lay back in herchair with a sharp little sigh and pensively touched the scratches onher face, her expression falling suddenly into lines of discontent. Itwas a kind of reaction which frequently followed moments of intenseactivity and, realizing its significance, she yielded to it sulkily, her gaze on the face of the clock which was ticking off purposelessminutes with maddening precision. She glanced over her shoulder inrelief as her maid appeared in the doorway. 

"Will Mademoiselle see the Countess Tcherny and Mees Ashhurst?" Titinewas a great believer in social distinctions. 

"Olga! Yes, I was expecting her. Tell them to come right up. "

The new arrivals entered the room gaily with the breezy assertivenessof persons who were assured of their welcome and very much at home. Hilda Ashhurst was tall, blonde, aquiline and noisy; the Countess, dainty, dark-eyed and _svelte_, with the flexible voice which spoke offamiliarity with many tongues and rebuked the nasal greeting of hermore florid companion. Hermia met them with a sigh. Only yesterdayMrs. Westfield had protested again about Hermia's growing intimacywith the Countess, who had quite innocently taken unto herself all ofthe fashionable vices of polite Europe. 

Hilda Ashhurst watched Hermia's expression a moment and then laughed. 

"Been catching it--haven't you? Poor Hermia! It's dreadful to be theone chick in a family of ugly ducklings--"

"Or the ugly duckling in a family of virtuous chicks--"

"Not ugly, _chŽrie_, " laughed the Countess. "One is never uglywith a million francs a year. Such a fortune would beautify a satyr. It even makes your own prettiness unimportant. "

"It is unimportant--"

"Partly because you make it so. You don't care. You don't think aboutit, _voilˆ tout_. "

"Why should I think about it? I can't change it. "

"Oh, yes, you can. Even a homely woman who is clever can make herselfbeautiful, a beautiful woman--_Dieu_! There is nothing in the worldthat a clever, beautiful woman cannot be. "

"I'm not clever or--"

"I shall not flatter you, _cara mia_. You are--er--quite handsomeenough. If you cared for the artistic you could go through a _salon_like the _Piper of Hamelin_ with a queue of gentlemen reaching backinto the corridors of infinity. Instead of which you wear mannishclothes, do your hair in a Bath-bun, and permit men the privilege ofequality. Oh, la, la! A man is no longer useful when one ceases tomystify him. "

She strolled to the window, sniffed at Trevvy Morehouse's roses, helpedherself to a cigarette and sat down. 

Hermia was not inartistic and she resented the imputation. It was onlythat her art and Olga's differed by the breadth of an ocean. 

"For me, when a man becomes mystified he ceases to be useful, " laughedHermia. 

"Pouf! my dear, " said the Countess with a wave of her cigarette. "Isimply do not believe you. A man is never so useful as when he movesin the dark. Women were born to mystify. Some of us do it oneway--some in another. If you wear mannish clothes and a Bath-bun, itis because they become you extraordinarily well and because they form adisguise more complete and mystifying than anything else you couldassume. "

"A disguise!"

"Exactly. You wish to create the impression that you are indifferentto men--that men, by the same token, are indifferent to you. " TheCountess Olga smiled. "Your disguise is complete, _monenfant_--except for one thing-- your femininity--which refuses to beextinguished. You do not hate men. If you did you would not go to somuch trouble to look like them. One day you will love verybadly--very madly. And then--" the Countess paused and raised hereyebrows and her hands expressively. "You're like me. It's simpleenough, " she continued. "You have everything you want, including menwho amuse but do not inspire. Obviously, you will only be satisfiedwith something you can't get, my dear. "

"Horrors! What a bird of ill-omen you are. And I shall love in vain?"

The Countess snuffed out her cigarette daintily upon the ash tray. 

"Can one love in vain? Perhaps. 

 /* _"'Aimer pour tre aimŽ, c'est de l'homme, Aimer pour aimer, c'est Presque de l'ange. '" */

"I'm afraid I'm not that kind of an angel. "

Hilda Ashhurst laughed. 

"Olga is. "

"Olga!" exclaimed Hermia with a glance of inquiry. 

"Haven't you heard? She has thrown her young affections away upon thatowl-like nondescript who has been doing her portrait. "

"I can't believe it. "

"It's true, " said the Countess calmly. "I am quite mad about him. Hehas the mind of a philosopher, the soul of a child, the heart of awoman--"

"--the manners of a boor and the impudence of the devil, " added Hildaspitefully. 

Hermia laughed but the Countess Olga's narrowed eyes passed Hildascornfully. 

"Any one can have good manners. They're the hallmark of mediocrity. And as for impudence--that is the one sin a man may commit which awoman forgives. "

"_I_ can't, " said Hilda. 

The Countess Olga's right shoulder moved toward her ear the fraction ofan inch. 

"He's hateful, Hermia, " continued Hilda quickly, "a gorilla of a man, with a lowering brow, untidy hair, and a blue chin--"

"He is adorable, " insisted Olga. 

"How very interesting!" laughed Hermia. "An adorable philosopher, withthe impudence of the devil, and the blue chin of a gorilla! When didyou meet this logical--the zoological paradox?"

"Oh, in Paris. I knew him only slightly, but he moved in a set whoseedges touched mine--the talented people of mine. He had already madehis way. He has been back in America only a year. We met early inthe winter quite by chance. You know the rest. He has painted myportrait--a really great portrait. You shall see. "

"Oh, it _was_ this morning we were going, wasn't it? I'll be ready ina moment, dear. "

"But Hilda shall be left in the shopping district, finished Olga. 

"By all means, " said Miss Ashhurst scornfully. 

CHAPTER II

THE GORILLA

Of all her friends Olga Teherny was the one who amused and entertainedHermia the most. She was older than Hermia, much more experienced andto tell the truth quite as mad in her own way as Hermia was. Therewere times when even Hermia could not entirely approve of her, but sheforgave her much because she was herself and because, no matter whatdepended upon it, she could not be different if she tried. OlgaEgerton had been born in Russia, where her father had been called as aconsulting engineer of the railway department of the RussianGovernment. Though American born, the girl had been educatedaccording to the European fashion and at twenty had married and lostthe young nobleman whose name she bore, and had buried him in hisfamily crypt in Moscow with the simple fortitude of one who is wellout of a bad bargain. But she had paid her toll to disillusion andthe age of thirty found her a little more careless, a little moreworldly-wise than was necessary, even in a cosmopolitan. Her commentsspared neither friend nor foe and Hilda Ashhurst, whose mind graspedonly the obvious facts of existence, came in for more than a share ofthe lady's invective. 

Indeed, Markam, the painter, seemed this morning to be the onlyluminous spot on the Countess Olga's social horizon and by the timethe car had reached lower Fifth Avenue she had related most of theknown facts of his character and career including his struggle forrecognition in Europe, his revolutionary attitude toward the Art ofthe Academies as well as toward modern society, and the consequent andself-sought isolation which deprived him of the intercourse of hisfellows and seriously retarded his progress toward a success that hisprofessional talents undoubtedly merited. 

Hermia listened with an abstracted air. Artists she remembered were arace of beings quite apart from the rest of humanity and with theexception of a few money-seeking foreigners, one of whom had paintedher portrait, and Teddy Vincent, a New Yorker socially prominent (whowas unspeakable), her acquaintance with the cult had been limited andunfavorable. When, therefore, her car drew alongside the curb of theold-fashioned building to which Olga directed the chauffeur, Hermiawas already prepared to dislike Mr. Markham cordially. She had notalways cared for Olga's friends. 

There was no elevator in the building before which they stopped, andthe two women mounted the stairs, avoiding both the wall and the dustybaluster, contact with either of which promised to defile their whitegloves, reaching, somewhat out of breath, a door with a Florentineknocker bearing the name "Markham. "

Olga knocked. There was no response. She knocked again while Hermiawaited, a question on her lips. There was a sound of heavy footstepsand the door was flung open wide and a big man with rumpled hair, awell-smeared painting-smock and wearing a huge pair of tortoise-shellgoggles peered out into the dark hall-way, blurting out impatiently, "I'm very busy. I don't need any models. Come another day--"

He was actually on the point of banging the door in their faces whenthe Countess interposed. 

"Such hospitality!"

At the sound of her voice Markham paused, the huge palette and brushessuspended in the air. 

"Oh, " he murmured in some confusion. "It's you, Madame--"

"It is. Very cross and dusty after the climb up your filthy stairs--Isuppose I ought to be used to this kind of welcome but I'm not, somehow. Besides, I'm bringing a visitor, and had hoped to find you ina pleasanter mood. "

He showed his white teeth as he laughed. 

"Oh, Lord! Pleasant!" And then as an afterthought, very frankly, "Idon't suppose I _am_ very pleasant!" He stood aside bowing as Hermiaemerged from the shadows and Olga Tcherny presented him. It was astiff bow, rather awkward and impatient and revealed quite plainly hisdisappointment at her presence, but Hermia followed Olga into the roomwith a slight inclination of her head, conscious that in the momentthat his eyes passed over her they made a brief note which classifiedher among the unnecessary nuisances to which busy geniuses must besubjected. 

Olga Tcherny, who had now taken full possession of the studio, fellinto its easiest chair and looked up at the painter with her caressingsmile. 

"You've been working. You've got the fog of it on you. Are we _detrop_?"

"Er--no. It's in rather a mess here, that's all. I _was_ working, butI'm quite willing to stop. "

"I'm afraid you've no further wish for me now that I'm no longeruseful, " she sighed. "You're not going to discard me so easily. Besides, we're not going to stay long--only a minute. I was hopingMiss Challoner could see the portrait. "

He glanced at Hermia almost resentfully, and fidgeted with his brushes. 

"Yes--of course. It's the least I can do--isn't it? The portraitisn't finished. It's dried in, too--but--"

He laid his palette slowly down and wiped his brushes carefully on apiece of cheese-cloth, put a canvas in a frame upon the easel andshoved it forward into a better light. 

Hermia followed his movements curiously, sure that he was the mostinhospitable human being upon whom two pretty women had evercondescended to call, and stood uncomfortably, realizing that he hasnot even offered her a chair. But when the portrait was turned towardthe light, she forgot everything but the canvas before her. 

It was not the Olga Tcherny that people knew best--the gay, satirical_mondaine_, who exacted from a world which had denied her happiness herpound of flesh and called it pleasure. The Olga Tcherny which looked atHermia from the canvas was the one that Hermia had glimpsed in thebrief moments between bitterness and frivolity, a woman with a soulwhich in spite of her still dreamed of the things it had been denied. 

It was a startling portrait, bold almost to the point of brutality, and even Hermia recognized its individuality, wondering at thecapacity for analysis which had made the painter's delineation ofcharacter so remarkable, and his brush so unerring. She stoleanother--a more curious--glance at him. The hideous goggles and therumpled hair could not disguise the strong lines of his face which shesaw in profile--the heavy brows, the straight nose, the thin, rathersensitive lips and the strong, cleanly cut chin. Properly dressed andvaleted this queer creature might have been made presentable. But hismanners! No valeting or grooming could ever make such a man agentleman. 

If he was aware of her scrutiny he gave no sign of it and leanedforward intently, his gaze on the portrait--alone, to all appearances, with the fires of his genius. Hermia's eyes followed his, thesuperficial and rather frivolous comment which had been on her lipsstilled for the moment by the dignity of his mental attitude, intowhich it seemed Olga Tcherny had also unconsciously fallen. But thesilence irritated Hermia--the wrapt, absorbed attitudes of the man andthe woman and the air of sacro-sanctity which pervaded the place. Itwas like a ceremonial in which this queer animal was being deified. She, at least, couldn't deify him. 

"It's like you Olga, of course, " she said flippantly, "but it's not atall pretty. "

The words fell sharply and Markham and the Countess turned toward thePhilistine who stood with her head cocked on one side, her armsa-kimbo. Markham's eyes peered forward somberly for a moment and hespoke with slow gravity. 

"I don't paint 'pretty' portraits, " he said. 

"Mr. Markham means, Hermia, that he doesn't believe in artistic lies, "said Olga smoothly. 

"And _I_ contend, " Hermia went on undaunted, "that it's an artistic lienot to paint you as pretty as you are. "

"Perhaps Mr. Markham doesn't think me as pretty as you do--"

Markham bowed his head as though to absolve himself from the guiltsuggested. 

"I try not to think in terms of prettiness, " he explained slowly. "Hadyou been merely pretty I don't think I should have attempted--"

"But isn't the mission of Art to beautify--to adorn--?" broke inHermia, mercilessly bromidic. 

Markham turned and looked at her as though he had suddenly discoveredthe presence of an insect which needed extermination. 

"My dear young lady, the mission of Art is to tell the truth, " hegrowled. "When I find it impossible to do that, I shall take upanother trade. "

"Oh, " said Hermia, enjoying herself immensely. "I didn't mean todiscourage you. "

"I don't really think that you have, " put in Markham. 

Olga Tcherny laughed from her chair in a bored amusement. 

"Hermia, dear, " she said dryly, "I hardly brought you here to deflectthe orbit of genius. Poor Mr. Markham! I shudder to think of hisdisastrous career if it depended upon your approval. "

Hermia opened her moth to speak, paused and then glanced at Markham. His thoughts were turned inward again and excluded her completely. Indeed it was difficult to believe that he remembered what she hadbeen talking about. In addition to being unpardonably rude, he nowsimply ignored her. His manner enraged her. "Perhaps my opiniondoesn't matter to Mr. Markham, " she probed with icy distinctness. "Nevertheless, I represent the public which judges pictures and buysthem. Which orders portraits and pays for them. It's my opinion thatcounts--my money upon which the fashionable portrait painter mustdepend for his success. He must please me or people like me and theway to please most easily is to paint me as I ought to be rather thanas I am. "

Markham slowly turned so that he faced her and eyed her with a puzzledexpression as he caught the meaning of her remarks, more personal andarrogant than his brief acquaintance with her seemed in any way towarrant. 

"I'm not a fashionable portrait painter, thank God. " he said with somewarmth. "Fortunately I'm not obliged to depend upon the whims or uponthe money of the people whose judgment you consider so important to anartistic success. I have no interest in the people who composefashionable society, not in their money nor their aims, ideals or thelack of them. I paint what interests me--and shall continue to do so. "

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed toward Olga. "What's the use, Madame? In a moment I shall be telling Miss--er--"

"Challoner, " said Hermia. 

"I shall be telling Miss Challoner what I think of New Yorksociety--and of the people who compose it. That would be unfortunate. "

"Well, rather, " said Olga wearily. "Don't, I beg. Life's too short. Must you break our pretty faded butterfly on the wheel?"

He shrugged his shoulders and turned aside. 

"Not if it jars upon your sensibilities. I have no quarrel with yoursociety. One only quarrels with an enemy or with a friend. To mesociety is neither. " He smiled at Hermia amusedly. "Society may haveits opinion of my utility and may express it freely--unchallenged. "

"I don't challenge your utility, " replied Hermia tartly. "I merelyquestion your point of view. You do not see _couleur de rose_, Mr. Markham?"

"No. Life is not that color. "

"Oh, la la!" from Olga. "Life is any color one wishes, and sometimesthe color one does not wish. Very pale at times, gray, yellow and attimes red--oh, so red! The soul is the chameleon which absorbs andreflects it. Today, " she signed, "my chameleon has taken a vacation. "She rose abruptly and threw out her arms with a dramatic gesture. 

"Oh, you two infants--with your wise talk of life--you have alreadydepressed me to the point of dissolution. I've no patience withyou--with either of you. You've spoiled my morning, and I'll not stayhere another minute. " She reached for her trinkets on the table andrattled them viciously. "It's too bad. With the best intentions inthe world I bring two of my friends together and they fall instantlyinto verbal fisticuffs. Hermia, you deserve no better fate than to belocked in here with this bear of a man until you both learn civility. "

But Hermia had already preceded the Countess to the door, whitherMarkham followed them. 

"I should be charmed, " said Markham. 

"To learn civility?" asked Hermia acidly. 

"I might even learn that--"

"It is inconceivable, " put in the Countess. "You know, Markham, Idon't mind your being bearish with me. In fact, I've taken it as thegreatest of compliments. I thought that humor of yours was my specialprerogative of friendship. But now alas! When I see how uncivil youcan be to others I have a sense of lost caste. And you--instead ofbeing amusingly whimsical and _enttŽ_--are in danger ofbecoming merely _bourgeois_. I warn you now that if you plan to beuncivil to everybody--I shall give you up. "

Markham and Hermia laughed. They couldn't help it. She was too absurd. 

"Oh, I hope you won't do that, " pleaded Markham. 

"I'm capable of unheard of cruelties to those who incur mydispleasure. I may even bring Miss Challoner in to call again. "

Markham, protesting, followed them to the door. 

"_Au revoir, Monsieur_, " said the Countess. 

Markham bowed in the general direction of the shadow in the hallwayinto which Miss Challoner had vanished and then turned back and took uphis palette and brushes. 

CHAPTER III

THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT

The two women had hardly reached the limousine before the vials ofHermia's wrath were opened. 

"What a dreadful person! Olga, how could you have stood him all thewhile he painted you?"

"We made out very nicely, thank you. "

"Hilda was right. He _is_ a gorilla. Do you know he never evenoffered me a chair?"

"I suppose he thought you'd have sense enough to sit down if you wantedto. "

"O Olga, don't quibble. He's impossible. "

The Countess shrugged. 

"It's a matter of taste. "

"Taste! One doesn't want to be affronted. Is he like this to everyone?"

"No. That's just the point. He isn't. I think, Hermia, dear, " andshe laughed, "that he didn't like _you_. "

"Me! Why not?"

"He doesn't like Bath-buns. He once told me so. Besides, I don'tthink he's altogether in sympathy with the things you typify. "

"How does he know what I typify--when I don't know myself? I don'ttypify anything. "

"Oh, yes, you do, to a man like Markham. From the eyrie where his soulis wont to sit, John Markham has a fine perspective on life--yours andmine. But I imagine that you make the more conspicuous silhouette. Tohim you represent 'the New York Idea'--only more so. Besides thatyou're a vellum edition of the Feminist Movement with suffrageexpurgated. In other words, darling, to a lonely and somewhat morbidphilosopher like Markham you're a horrible example of what may becomeof a female person of liberal views who has had the world suddenly laidin her lap; the spoiled child launched into the full possession of afabulous fortune with no ambition more serious than to become the'champeen lady-aviator of Madison Avenue--'"

"Olga! You're horrid, " broke in Hermia. 

"I know it. It's the reaction from a morning which began toocheerfully. I think I'll leave you now, if you'll drop me at theBlouse Shop--"

"But I thought we were going--"

"No. Not this morning. The mood has passed. "

"Oh, very well, " said Hermia. 

The two pecked each other just below the eye after the manner of womenand the Countess departed, while Hermia quizzically watched hergraceful back until it had disappeared in the shadows of the store. The current that usually flowed between them was absent now, so Hermialet her go; for Olga Tcherny, when in this mood, wore an armor whichHermia, clever as she thought herself, had never been able topenetrate. 

Hermia continued on her way uptown, aware that the change in theCountess Olga was due to intangible influences which she could notdefine but which she was sure had something to do with the odiousperson whose studio she had visited. Could it be that Olga reallycared for this queer Markham of the goggled eyes, this absent-minded, self-centered creature, who rumpled his hair, smoked a pipe andgrowled his cheap philosophy? A pose, of course, aimed this morningat Hermia. He flattered her. She felt obliged for the line ofdemarcation he had so carefully drawn between his life and hers. Asif she needed the challenge of his impudence to become aware of it!And yet I her heart she found herself denying that his impudence hadirritated her less than his indifference. To tell the truth, Hermiadid not like being ignored. It was the first time in fact, that anyman had ignored her, and she did not enjoy the sensation. Sheshrugged her shoulders carelessly and glanced out of the window of hercar--and to be ignored by such a personas this grubby painter--it wasmaddening! She thought of him as "grubby, " whatever that meant, because she did not like him, but it was even more maddening for herto think of Olga Tcherny's portrait, which, in spite of her flippantremarks, she had been forced to admit revealed a knowledge of femininepsychology that had excited her amazement and admiration. 

One deduction led to another. She found herself wondering what kindof a portrait this Markham would make of her, whether he would see, ashe had seen in Olga--the things that lay below the surface--the dreamsthat came, the aspirations, half-formed, toward something different, the moments of revulsion at the emptiness of her life, which, in spiteof the material benefits it possessed, was, after all, only material. Would he paint those--the shadows as well as the lights? Or would hesee her as Marsac, the Frenchman, had seen her, the pretty, irresponsible child of fortune who lived only for others who were asgay as herself with no more serious purpose in life than to become, asOlga had said, "the champeen lady-aviator of Madison Avenue. "

Hermia lunched alone--out of humor with all the world--and wentupstairs with a volume of plays which had just come from thestationer. But she had hardly settled herself comfortably when Titineannounced Mrs. Westfield. 

It was the ineffectual Aunt. 

"Oh, yes, " with an air of resignation, "tell Mrs. Westfield to come up. "

She pulled the hair over her temples to conceal the scars of hermorning's accident and met Mrs. Westfield at the landing outside. 

"_Dear_ Aunt Harriet. So glad, " she said, grimacing cheerfully tosalve her conscience. "What _have_ I been doing now?"

"What _haven't_ you been doing, child?"

The good lady sank into a chair, the severe lines in her face more thanusually acidulous, but Hermia only smiled sweetly, for Mrs. Westfield'sforbidding aspect, as she well knew, concealed the most indulgent ofdispositions. 

"Playing polo with men, racing in your motor and getting yourselftalked about in the papers! Really, Hermia, what will you be doingnext?"

"Flying, " said Hermia. 

Mrs. Westfield hesitated between a gasp and a smile. 

"I don't doubt it. You are quite capable of anything--only your wingswill not be sent from Heaven--"

"No--from Paris. I'm going to have a Bleriot. "

"Do you actually mean that you're going to--O Hermia! Not _fly_--!"The girl nodded. 

"I--I'm afraid I am, Auntie. It's the sporting thing. You know I never could _bear_ having Reggie Armistead do anything Icouldn't. Every one will be doing it soon. "

"I can't believe that you're in earnest. "

"I am, awfully. "

"But the danger! You must realize that!"

"I do--that's what attracts me. " She got up and put her arms aroundMrs. Westfield's neck. "O Auntie, dear, don't bother. I'm absolutelyimpossible anyway. I can't be happy doing the things that other girlsdo, and you might as well let me have my own way--"

"But flying--"

"It's as simple as child's play. If you'd ever done it you'd wonderhow people would ever be content to motor or ride--"

"You've been up--?"

"Last week at Garden City. I'm crazy about it. "

"Yes, child, crazy--mad. I've done what I could to keep youramusements within the bounds of reason and without avail, but Iwouldn't be doing my duty to your sainted mother if I didn't try tosave you from yourself. I shall do something to prevent this--thismadcap venture--I don't know what. I shall see Mr. Winthrop at theTrust Company. There must be some way--"

The pendants in the good lady's ears trembled in the light, and herhand groped for her handkerchief. "You _can't_, Hermia. I'll notpermit it. I'll get out an injunction--or something. It was all verywell when you were a child--but now--do you realize that you're awoman, a grown woman, with responsibilities to the community? It'stime that you were married, settled down and took your proper place inNew York. I had hoped that you would have matured and forgotten thechildish pastimes of your girlhood but now--now--"

Mrs. Westfield, having found her handkerchief, wept into it, heremotions too deep for other expression, while Hermia, now reallymoved, sank at her feet upon the floor, her arms about her Aunt'sshoulders, and tried to comfort her. "I'm not the slightest use inthe world, Auntie, dear. I haven't a single homely virtue to recommendme. I'm only fit to ride and dance and motor and frivol. And whomshould I marry? Surely not Reggie Armistead or Crosby Downs! Reggieand I have always fought like cats across a wire, and as for Crosby--Iwould as life marry the great Cham of Tartary. No, dear, I'm notready for marriage yet. I simply couldn't. There, there, don't cry. You've done your duty. I'm not worth bothering about. I'm not goingto do anything dreadful. And besides--you know if anything _did_happen to me, the money would go to Millicent and Theodore. "

"I--I don't want anything to happen to you, " said Mrs. Westfield, weeping anew. 

"Nothing will--you know I'm not hankering to die--but I don't mindtaking a sporting chance with a game like that. "

"But what good can it possibly do?"

Hermia Challoner laughed a little bitterly. "My dear Auntie, my lifehas not been planned with reference to the ultimate possible good. I'm a renegade if you like, a hoyden with a shrewd sense of personalmorality but with no other sense whatever. I was born under a madmoon with some wild humor in my blood from an earlier incarnation andI can't--I simply _can't_ be conventional. I've tried doing asother--and nicer--girls do but it wearies me to the point ofdistraction. Their lives are so pale, so empty, so full ofpretensions. They have always seemed so. When I used to romp like aboy my elders told me it was an unnatural way for little girls toplay. But I kept on romping. If it hadn't been natural I shouldn'thave romped. Perhaps Sybil Trenchard is natural--or Caroline Anstell. They're conventional girls--automatic parts of the social machinery, eating, sleeping, decking themselves for the daily round, mere thingsof sex, their whole life planned so that they may make a desirablemarriage. Good Lord, Auntie! And whom will they marry? Fellows likeArchie Westcott or Carol Gouverneur, fellows with notorious habitswhich marriage is not likely to mend. How could it? No one expectsit to. The girls who marry men like that get what they bargainfor--looks for money--money for looks--"

"But Trevelyan Morehouse!"

Hermia paused and examined the roses in the silver vase with aquizzical air. 

"If I were not so rich, I should probably love Trevvy madly. But, yousee, then Trevvy wouldn't love me. He couldn't afford to. He'sruining himself with roses as it is. And, curiously enough, I have anotion when I marry, to love--and be loved for myself alone. I'm notin love with Trevvy or any one else--or likely to be. The man Imarry, Auntie, isn't doing what Trevvy and Crosby and Reggie Armisteadare doing. He's different somehow--different from any man I've evermet. "

"How, child?"

"I don't know, " she mused, with a smile. "Only he isn't like TrevvyMorehouse. "

"But Mr. Morehouse is a very promising young man--"

"The person I marry won't be a promising young man. Promising youngmen continually remind me of my own deficiencies. Imaginedomesticating a critic like that, marrying a mirror for one's foiblesand being able to see nothing else. No, thanks. "

"Whom will you marry then?" sighed Mrs. Westfield resignedly. 

Hermia Challoner caught her by the arm. "Oh, I don't know--only heisn't the kind of man who'd send me roses. I think he's somethingbetween a pilgrim and a vagabond, a knight-errant from somewherebetween Heaven and the true Bohemia, a despiser of shams and vanities, a man so much bigger than I am that he can make me what he is--inspite of himself. "

"Hermia! A Bohemian! Such a person will hardly be found--"

"O Auntie, you don't understand. I'm not likely to find him. I'm noteven looking for him, you know, and just now I don't want to marryanybody. "

"I only hope when you do, Hermia, that you will commit no imprudence, "said Mrs. Westfield severely. 

Hermia turned quickly. 

"Auntie, Captain Lundt of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_ used to tell me thatthere were two ways of going into a fog, " she said. "One was to goslow and use the siren. The other was to crowd on steam and go likeh--. "

"Hermia!"

"I'm sorry, Auntie, but that describes the situation exactly. I'm toowealthy to risk marrying prudently. I'd have to find a man who was aprudent as I was, which means that he'd be marrying me for my money--"

"That doesn't follow. You're pretty, attractive--"

"Oh, thanks. I know what I am. I'm an animated dollar mark, afinancial abnormity, with just about as much chance of being loved formyself alone as a fox in November. When men used to propose to me Ihalted them, pressed their hands, bade them be happy and wept a tearor two for the thing that could not be. Now I fix them with a coldappraising eye and let them stammer through to the end. I've learnedsomething. The possession of money may have its disadvantages, but itsharpens one's wits amazingly. "

"I'm afraid it sharpens them too much, my dear, " said Mrs. Westfieldcoldly. She looked around the room helplessly as if seeking in somemute object tangible evidence of her niece's sanity. 

"Oh, well, " she finished. "I shall hope and pray for a miracle to bringyou to your senses. " And then, "What have you planned for the spring?"

"I'm going to 'Wake-Robin; first. By next week my aerodrome will befinished. My machine is promised by the end of May. They're sending aperfectly reliable mechanician--"

"Reliable--in the air! Imagine it!"

"--and I'll be flying in a month. "

The good lady rose and Hermia watched her with an expression in whichrelief and guilt were strangely mingled. Her conscience always smoteher after one of her declarations of independence to her Aunt, whosemildness and ineptitude in the unequal struggle always left the girlwith an unpleasant sense of having taken a mean advantage of ahelpless adversary. To Hermia Mrs. Westfield's greatest effectivenesswas when she was most ineffectual. 

"There's nothing more for me to say, I suppose, " said Mrs. Westfield. 

"Nothing except that you approve, " pleaded her niece wistfully. 

"I'll never do that, " icily. "I don't approve of you at all. Whyshould I mince matters? You're gradually alienating me, Hermia--cutting yourself off from the few blood relations you have onearth. "

"From Millicent and Theodore? I thought that Milly fairly doted onme--"

Mrs. Westfield stammered helplessly. 

"It's I--I who object. I don't like your friends. I don't think Iwould be doing my duty to their sainted father if--"

"Oh, I see, " said Hermia thoughtfully. "You think I maypervert--contaminate them--"

"Not you--your friends--"

"I was hoping that you would all come to 'Wake-Robin' for June. "

"I--I've made other plans, " said Mrs. Westfield. 

Hermia's jaw set and her face hardened. They were thoroughlyantipathetic now. 

"That, of course, will be as you please, " she said coldly. "SinceThimble Cottage burned, I've tried to make you understand that you areto use my place as your own. If you don't want to come I'm sorry. "

"It's not that I don't want to come, Hermia. I shall probably visityou as usual. Thimble Cottage will be rebuilt as soon as the plans arefinished. Meanwhile, I've rented the island. "

"And Milly and Theodore?"

"They're going abroad with their Aunt Julia. "

"I think you are making a mistake in keeping us apart, Aunt Harriet. "

"Why? You are finding new diversions and new friends. "

"I must find new friends if my relations desert me. " And then after apause: "Who has rented Thimble Island?"

"An artist--who will occupy the bark cabin. My agents thought it aswell to have some one there until the builders begin--a Mr. Markham--"

"Markham!" Hermia gasped. 

"Do you know him?"

"Oh--er--enough to be sure that he is not the kind of person I shallcare to cultivate. "

And then as her Aunt wavered uncertainly. "Oh, of course I shall getalong. I can't protest. It's your privilege to choose Milly'sfriends, even if you mean to exclude me. It's also my privilege tochoose my friends and I shall do so. If this means that I am taboo atyour houses, I shall respect your wishes but I hope you'll rememberthat you are all welcome at 'Wake-Robin' or here whenever you see fitto visit me. "

Having delivered herself of this speech, Hermia paused, sure of hereffect, and calmly awaited the usual recantation and reconciliation. But to her surprise Mrs. Westfield continued to move slowly toward thedoor, through which, after a formal word of farewell, she presentlydisappeared and was gone. 

Hermia stared at the empty door and pondered--really on the verge oftears. The whole proceeding violated all precedents established forineffectual aunts. 

CHAPTER IV

MAROONED

In the course of an early pilgrimage in search of an unfrequented spotwhere he might work out of doors undisturbed in June before going toNormandy, Markham had stumbled quite by accident on Thimble Island. There, to his delight, he had discovered the exact combination ofrocks, foliage and barren he was looking for--the painter's landscape. The island was separated from the mainland by an arm of the sea, wideenough to keep at a safe distance the fashionable cottagers in theadjacent community. 

Fire had destroyed the large frame cottage which the Westfields hadoccupied, but there was a small bark bungalow of two rooms and akitchen that had been used, he learned, as quarters for extra guests, which would exactly suit his purposes. Somewhat doubtfully, he madeinquiries upon the mainland and communicated with the agents ofMrs. Westfield in New York, with whom, to his delight, he managed tomake the proper arrangements pending the rebuilding of the house. 

He had established himself bag and baggage and at the end of two weeksa row of canvases along the wall of his room bore testimony to hisdiligence. To Markham they had been weeks of undiluted happiness. Hewas working out in his own way some theses of color which would intime prove to others that he knew Nature as well as he knew humanity;that the brutal truths people saw in his portraits were only brutalbecause they were true; and to prove to himself that somewhere in him, deeply hidden, was a vein of tenderness which now sought expression. Every day he was learning something. This morning for instance he hadrisen before daylight to try an effect in grays that he had missed twodays before. 

The day had just begun and Markham stood before his tripod facing tothe westward painting madly, trying, in the few short moments thatremained to him before sunrise, to put upon his canvas the evanescenttints of the dawn. He painted madly because the canvas was not yetcovered and because he knew that within twenty minutes at the most thesun would rise behind him and the witching mystery of the half-lightbe gone. He stood upright painting at arm's length with a full brushand broad sweep of wrist and arm. Gobs of paint from the tubes meltedinto pearly-grays and purples in the middle of his palette to bequickly transposed and placed tone beside tone like a pale mosaicenriched and blended by the soft fingers of Time. His motive wassimple--a rock, some trees, a stretch of sandy waste, backed by arugged hill and a glimpse of sea, all bathed in mist; and his brushmoved decisively, heavily at times, lightly, caressingly at others asthe sketch grew to completion, while his dark eyes glowed behind theirhideous goggles, and the firm lines at his mouth relaxed in a smile. For this moment at least he was tasting immortality--and it was good. 

High above him in the air there moved a speck, growing larger withevery moment, but he did not see it or hear the faint staccato soundswhich proclaimed its identity. The speck moved toward the sea andthen, making a wide turn over the beach, swept inland near the earthnoiselessly, and deposited itself with a quivering groan whichstartled him, directly in the unfinished foreground of the painter, throwing its occupant in a huddled heap upon the ground. 

It had been a lovely foreground of sand and stubble, iridescent withthe dew, rich with the broken grays and violets of the reflectedheavens. And now--

He dropped his palette and brushes and ran forward, suddenly alive tothe serious nature of the interruption. Upon the grass, stretchedprone, face downward, lay a figure in leather cap, blouse andleggings. But as his hand touched the leather shoulder, the aviatormoved and then sat upright, facing him. At the same moment the sun, which had been hesitating for some moments on the brink of thehorizon, came up with a rush and bathed the face of the small personbefore him in liquid gold. The leather cap had fallen backward and amass of golden hair which now tumbled about the face proclaimed withstartling definiteness the sex of Markham's unexpected guest. 

"Sorry to bother you, " said the guest weakly. "She missed fire and Ihad to 'plane' down. "

"Are you hurt?" he asked. 

"No, I think not, " she replied, running her fingers over her leatherjerkin to reassure herself as to the fact. "Just shaken up alittle--that's all. "

Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, a tangle at hisbrow. It was quite evident to Hermia Challoner that he hadn't theslightest recollection of her. 

"What are you doing out at this time of day?" he asked. "Don't youknow you might have drowned yourself? Where did you come from? Whereare you going?" The tone of his voice was not unkind--it was evensolicitous for her welfare, but it reminded her unpleasantly of hisattitude toward her the last time they had met. 

[Illustration: "Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, atangle at his brow. "]

"That, " she replied, getting rather unsteadily to her feet, "is amatter of no importance. "

The effort in rising cost her trouble and as she moved toward themachine her face went white, and she would have fallen had not Markhamcaught her by the arm. 

"Oh, I'm all right, " she faltered. But he led her up the hill to thecabin where he put her on a couch and gave her some whisky and water. 

"Here, drink this, " he said gently. "It will do you good. "

She glanced around the room at the piles of canvases against the wall, at the tin coffee pot on the wooden table, and then back at hisunshorn face and shock of disorderly hair, the color rising slowly toher cheeks. But she obeyed him, and drank what remained in the glasswithout question, sinking back upon the pillow, her lips firmlycompressed, her gaze upon the ceiling. 

"I--I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble, " she murmured. 

"Oh, that's all right, " he muttered. "You got a bad shock. But thereare no bones broken. You'll be all right soon. Go to sleep if youcan. "

She tried to sit up, thought better of it and lay back again with eyesclosed, while Markham moved on tiptoe around the room putting thingsto rights, all the while swearing silently. What in the name of allthat was unpleasant did this philandering little idiot mean by tryingto destroy herself on the front lawn of his holiday house? Surely theworld was big enough, the air broad enough. He glanced at her for amoment, then crept over on tip-toe and peered at her secretively. Hestraightened and scratched his head, fumbling for his pipe, puzzled. She resembled somebody he knew or whom he had met. Where? When? Hegave it up at last and strolled out of doors--lighted his pipe andsauntered down the hill toward the devilish thing of canvas and wirethat had brought her here. He knew nothing of a‘roplanes, buteven to his unskilled eye it was apparent that without repairs thething would fly no more, for the canvas covering flapped suggestivelyin the wind. A broken wing! And the bird was in his cage. Hissituation--and hers--began to assume unpleasant definiteness. Forthree days at least, until his supply boat arrived, from the mainland, they would be prisoners here together. A pretty prospect!

He strolled to his belated canvas and stood for a while puffing at hispipe, his mind still pondering gloomily over his neglected foreground. Then regretfully, tenderly, he undid the clips that fastened thecanvas, unlooped the cords from his stone anchors, wiped his brushes, shut his paint-box and moved slowly up the hill toward the house, hismind protestingly adjusting itself to the situation. What was he to dowith this surprising female until the boat arrived. Common decencydemanded hospitality, and of course he must give it to her, his bed, his food, his time. That was the thing he begrudged her most--the longwonderful daylight hours in this chosen spot, the hourly calls of seaand sky in his painters' paradise. Silly little fool! If she had hadto tumble why couldn't she have done it on the West shore where therewere women, doctors and medicines?

He placed the canvas and easel against the corner of his house, knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot and cautiously peeredaround the jamb of the door to find his unwelcome guest sitting on theedge of the bed smoking a cigarette. He straightened sheepishly, notknowing whether to grin or to scowl. Neither of them spoke for amoment. 

"Feeling better?" he asked at last, for the silence embarrassed him. 

"Oh, yes, thanks. "

She rose and flicked her cigarette out of the window. 

"Where are you going?" he asked again. 

"Home--to breakfast. "

"Impossible!"

"Why?"

"You're not fit--"

"Oh, yes I am--"

"Besides, you can't--"

"Why not?"

"Your a‘roplane--it won't fly?"

She stopped in the doorway and glanced anxiously down the slope whereher Bleriot had fallen. 

"One wing is broken, you see. "

She went down the hill, Markham following. She stood before the brokenmachine and looked at it dejectedly. 

"Well?" he asked. 

"I'm afraid you're right. It will have to be repaired. I'll go backby boat. "

He smiled. 

"Of course. But in the meanwhile I'm afraid you'll have to trust to myhospitality--such as it is. "

She turned toward him quickly. 

"You mean--"

"The boat--my only means of communication, won't be here untilThursday. "

Her jaw dropped and her blue eyes were quite round in dismay. 

"You can't mean it!"

"It's the truth. "

"Have you no boats? Does no one come here from the mainland?"

"No. I arranged that. I came here to work and didn't want to beinterrupted--" And hastily: "Of course, I'm glad to be of service toyou, and if you'll put up with what I can offer--"

"Thanks, " she said. "I hope it's apparent to you that I'm not stoppingof my own volition. " And then, as though aware of her discourtesy, sheturned toward him, a smile for the first time illumining the pallor ofher face. 

"I'm afraid there's nothing left for me then but to accept your kindoffer. "

When they reached the cabin he brought out a wicker chair and put it inthe shade. 

"If you'll sit here and try to make yourself comfortable, I'll see whatcan be done about breakfast. "

She thanked him with a smile, sat submissively and he disappearedindoors, where she heard him pottering about in the small kitchen. Itwas very quiet, very restful there under the trees and an odor ofcooking coffee, eggs, bacon and toast which the breeze wafted in herdirection from the open window reminded her that the hour of breakfastwas approaching. But, alluring as the odor was, she had no appetite. Her knee and shoulder hurt her much less than they deserved to, muchless than the state of her mind at finding herself suddenly at themercy of this young man who had aroused both her choler and hercuriosity. Last night after her guests had gone to bed she had satalone for a long while on the porch which overlooked the bay, unconsciously surveying with her eye the water which separated ThimbleIsland from the mainland. But it was a mad impulse that had sent herover the sea this morning, a madder impulse that had sent her toThimble Island of all places, upon which she had descended with anaudacity and a recklessness which surprised even herself. Sherealized that a while ago she had lied glibly to Markham about hermishap. Her Bleriot had _not_ missed fire. From the perch of herlofty reconnaissance she had espied the painter working at his canvas, but her notion of visiting him she knew had been born not thismorning, but last night when she had sat alone on the terrace andwatched the pale moon wreathing fitfully among the clouds whichhovered uncertainly off-shore. She had come to Thimble Island simplybecause impulse had led her here, and because she was accustomed, withpossible reservations, to follow her impulses wherever they might leadher. That they had led her to Markham signified nothing except thatshe found herself more curious about him than she had supposed herselfto be. 

Her plans for the morning had provided for a brief landing while shetinkered with the machine, scorning his proffers of help; for a snub, if he chose to take advantage of their slight acquaintance; and for atriumphant departure when her pride and her curiosity had beenappeased. Her plans had not included the miscalculation of distanceand the projecting branch of the tree which had been her undoing. Shefound it difficult to scorn the proffers of help of a man who helpedwithout proffering. It was impossible to snub a man for takingadvantage of a slight acquaintance when he refused to remember thatsuch an acquaintance had ever existed. The triumphant departure nowrefused to be triumphant or indeed even a departure. At the presentmoment her pride and her curiosity still clamored and Markham in hisworried, absent-minded way was repaying her with kindness--a kindnessevery moment of which increased Hermia's obligation and diminished herimportance. 

She sang very small now in Markham's scheme of things and sat veryquietly in her chair, like a rebellious child which has been punishedby being put alone in a corner. She listened to his footsteps within, the clattering of dishes, the tinkle of table service and in a littlewhile he appeared in the door of the cabin, redolent with the odor ofcoffee and bacon, and announced breakfast. 

CHAPTER V

BREAD AND SALT

"Thanks, " said Hermia. "I'm not hungry. "

"But you can't get on without food. "

"I'm not hungry, " she repeated. 

"Do you feel ill? Perhaps--"

"No. I'm all right again--quite all right. I don't know what made mefeel faint. I've never done such a thing in all my life before. Butyou needn't worry. I'm not going to faint again. "

Markham recalled the cigarette and believed her. 

"But you can't get along all morning without food, " he said. 

She looked away from him toward the shore of the mainland where thetowers of "Wake-Robin" made a gray smudge against the trees. 

"Oh, yes, I can, " she said shortly. 

Markham eyed her curiously for a moment, then turned on his heel andwent abruptly into the cabin whence he presently emerged carrying atray which bore a cup of steaming coffee, some toast and an egg. Before she was well aware of it, he had placed the tray on her lap, andstood before her, his six feet of stature dominating. 

"Now eat!" he said, quietly. 

She looked down at the food and then uncertainly up to his face. Neverin her life, that she could remember, had she been addressed toperemptorily. His lips smiled, but there was no denying the note ofcommand in his voice and in his attitude. Curiously enough she foundherself fingering at the coffee cup. 

"There's a lump of sugar in it, " he added, "and another on the saucer. I have no cream. "

"I--I don't care for cream, thanks. "

There seemed nothing to do, since he still stood there looking at her, but to eat, and she did so without further remarks. He watched herfor a moment and then went in at the door, returning in a moment withanother cup of coffee and another dish. Without a word he sat on thestep of the porch and followed her example, munching his toast andsipping his coffee with grave deliberateness, his eyes following hersto the distant shore. 

Hermia's appetite had come with eating and she had discovered that hiscoffee was delicious. She made a belated resolution that, if she muststay here, she would do it with a good grace. He had offered to fillher coffee cup and to bring more toast, but, beyond inquiring politelyhow she felt, had asked her no other questions. When he hadbreakfasted he took her dishes and his own indoors and put them in thekitchen sink, then came to the door stuffing some tobacco into thebowl of his disreputable pipe. 

"I hope I'm safe in assuming that tobacco smoke is unobjectionable toyou. "

"Oh, quite. "

A glance at his eyes revealed the suspicion of a smile. There _was_humor in the man, after all. She looked up at him more graciously. 

"I suppose you're wondering where I dropped from, " she said at last. 

"Yes, " he replied, "I confess--I'm curious"--puff, puff--"though not somuch about the _where_"--puff--"as about the _why_. Other forms ofsuicide may be less picturesque than flying, but they doubtless haveother--homelier--virtues to recommend them. If I wished to diesuddenly I think I should simply blow out the gas. Do you come fromQuemscott, Simsbury or perhaps further?"

He asked the questions as though more from a desire to be polite thanfrom any actual interest. 

"No--from Westport. You know I live there. "

"No--I didn't know it. Curiously enough in the back of my head I'venot a notion that somewhere--but not in Westport--you and I have metbefore. "

"I can't imagine where, " said Hermia promptly. 

He rubbed his head and thatched his brows. 

"Paris, perhaps, --or--it couldn't have been in Normandy?" he asked. 

"I've never been to Normandy. Besides, if we _had_ met, I probablywould have remembered it. I'm afraid you're thinking of some one else. "

"Yes, perhaps I am, " he said slowly. "I've got the worst memory in theworld--"

"Mine is excellent, " put in Hernia. 

He looked at her soberly, and her gaze fell, but in a moment sheflashed a bright smile up at him. "Of course it doesn't matter, doesit? What _does_ matter is how I'm going to get ashore. "

"I've been thinking about that. I don't see how it can be managed, " hereplied briefly. 

"Isn't there a boat-house?"

"Yes, but--unfortunately--no boats. "

"It's a very awkward predicament, " she murmured. 

"Not nearly so awkward as it might have been if there had been no onehere, " he said slowly. "At least you won't starve. "

"You're very kind. Oh, I hope you won't think me ungrateful. I'm not, really. I'll not bother you. "

He looked at her amusedly. 

"Can you cook?"

"No, " she admitted, "but I'd like to try. "

"I guess you'd better leave that to me, " he finished grimly. 

He was treating her as though she were a child, but she didn't resentit now. Indeed his attitude toward her made resentment impossible. His civility and hospitality, while lacking in the deference of othermen of her acquaintance, were beyond cavil. But it was quite clearthat the only impression her looks or her personality had made uponhim was the slight one of having met and forgotten her--hardlyflattering to her self-esteem. He was quite free fromself-consciousness and at moments wore an air of abstraction whichmade it seem to Hermia as though he had forgotten her presence. Inanother atmosphere she had thought him unmannerly; here, somehow itdidn't seem necessary to lay such stress upon the outward tokens ofgentility. And his personal civility, more implied than expressed, was even more reassuring than the lip and eye homage to which she wasaccustomed. 

In these moments of abstraction she inspected him curiously. Hisunshorn face was tanned a deep brown which with his rough clothing andlongish hair gave him rather a forbidding aspect, and the lines intowhich his face fell in moments of repose were almost unpleasantlysevere; but his eyes which had formed the painter's habit of lookingcritically through their lashes had a way of opening wide atunexpected moments and staring at her with the disconcerting franknessof those of a child. He turned them on her now so abruptly that shehad not time to avert her gaze. 

"You'll be missed, won't you?" he asked. 

She smiled. 

"Yes, I suppose I shall. They'll see the open hangar--"

"Do you think any one could have been watching your flight?"

"Hardly. I left at dawn. You see I've been bothered a lot by thecuriosity of my neighbors. That's why I've been flying early. "

"H--m. It's a pity to worry them so. "

Markham rose and knocked out the ashes of his pipe. 

"You see, Thimble Island is a good distance from the channel and onlythe smaller pleasure boats come this way. Of course there's a chanceof one coming within hail. I'll keep a watch and do what I can, ofcourse. In the meanwhile I hope you'll consider the cabin your own. I'll be quite comfortable to-night with a blanket in the boat-house. "

She was silent a moment, but when she turned her head, he had alreadyvanished into the cabin, where in a moment she heard the clatter ofthe dishes he was washing. At this moment Hermia was sure that shedidn't dislike him at all. The clatter continued, mingled with thesound of splashing water and a shrill piping as he whistled an airfrom "Bohme. " Hermia gazed out over the water a moment andthen her lips broke into a lovely smile. She made a quick resolution, got up and followed him indoors. 

He looked over his shoulder at her as she entered. 

"Do you want anything?" he asked cheerfully. 

"No--nothing--except to wash those dishes. "

"Nonsense. I won't be a minute. It's nothing at all. "

"Perhaps that's why I insist on doing it. "

She had taken off her blouse, rolled up the sleeves of her waist with abusiness-like air and elbowed him away from the dishpan unceremoniously. 

"I'm going to wash them--wash them properly. You may wipe them if youlike. "

He grinned and fished around on a shelf for a dishcloth. Having foundit he stationed himself beside her and took the dishes one by one asshe finished with them. 

"Your name is Markham, isn't it?" she asked. 

"Yes--how did you know?" he asked in surprise. 

She indicated a packing case in the corner which was addressed inletters six inches high. 

"Oh, " he said. "Of course. "

"You're _the_ Mr. Markham, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure about that. I'm _this_ Mr. Markham. "

"Markham, the portrait painter?"

"That's what I profess. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. "

He examined her, puzzling again, wiping the cup in his fingers withgreat particularity. 

"_Are_ you an anarchist?" she asked in a moment. 

He laughed. 

"Not that I'm aware of. "

"Or a gorilla?"

"One of my grandfathers was--once a long while ago. "

"Or a misogynist?"

"A what?"

"A grouch. _Are_ you?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I am. "

"I don't believe it now. I did at first. You can look very cross whenyou like. "

"I haven't been cross with you, have I?"

"No. But you didn't like being interrupted. "

"Not then--but I'm rather enjoying it now. " He took a dish from herfingers. "You know you _did_ drop in rather informally. Who's beentalking of me?"

"Oh, that's the penalty of distinction. One hears such things. _Are_you queer, morbid and eccentric?"

"I believe I am, " amusedly, "now that you mention it. "

She was silent a moment before she spoke again. 

"I don't believe it--at all. But you _are_ unconventional, aren't you?"

"According to the standards of _your_ world, yes, decidedly. "

"_My_ world! What do you know about my world?"

"Only what you've told me by your opinions of mine. "

"I haven't expressed my opinions. "

"There's no need of your expressing them. "

"If you're going to be cross I'll not wash another dish. " But shehanded the last of them to him and emptied the dishpan. 

"Now, " she exclaimed. "I wish you'd please go outside and smoke. ""Outside! Why?"

"I'm going to put this place in order. Ugh! I've never in my lifeseen such a mess. _Won't_ you go?"

He looked around deprecatingly. "I'm sorry you came in here. It _is_rather a mess on the floor--and around, " and then as though by aninspiration, "but then you know, I do keep the pots and dishes clean. "

By this time she had reached the shelves over which she ran aninquisitive finger. 

"Dust!" she sniffed. "Barrels of it! and the plates--?" She took onedown and inspected it minutely. "I thought so. _Please_ go out, " shepleaded. 

"And if I don't?"

"I'll do it anyway. "

By this time she was peering into the corners, from one of which shetriumphantly brought forth a mop and pail. 

"Oh, I say, I'm not going to let you do that. "

"I don't see that you've got any choice in the matter. I'm going toclean up, and if you don't want to be splashed, I'd advise you to clearout. "

She went to the spigot and let the water run into the bucket, while sheextended her palm in his direction. 

"Now some soap please--hand-soap, if you have it. _Any_ soap, if youhaven't. "

"I've only got this, " he said lifting the soap from the dishpan. 

"Oh, very well. Now please go and paint. " But Markham didn't. Hefound it more amusing to watch her small hands rubbing the soap intothe fiber of the mop. 

"If you'll show me I'll be very glad--" he volunteered. But as he cameforward, she brought the wet mop out of the bucket with a threateningsweep which splashed him, and set energetically to work about his verytoes. 

He moved to the door jamb, but she pursued him. 

"Outside, please, " with relentless scorn. "This is no place for aphilosopher. "

Markham was inclined to agree with her and retreated in utter rout. 

CHAPTER VI

THE RESCUE

On the porch he sank into the wicker chair, filled his pipe and lookedafar, his ear attuned to the sounds of his domestic upheaval, notquite sure whether he was provoked or amused. At moments, by herpluck she had excited his admiration, at others she had seemed alittle less worthy of consideration than a spoiled child, but herpresent role amused him beyond expression. Whoever she was, whateverher mission in life, she was quite the most remarkable young femaleperson in his experience. Who? It didn't matter in the least ofcourse, but he found himself somewhat chagrined that his memory hadplayed him such a trick. Young girls, especially the impudent, self-satisfied kind that one met in America, had always filled Markhamwith a vague alarm. He didn't understand them in the least, nor didthey understand him, and he had managed with some discretion toconfine his attentions to women of a riper growth. Madame Tcherny, for instance!

Markham sat suddenly upright in his chair, a look of recognition in hiseyes. 

Olga Tcherny! Of course, he remembered now. And this was the cheekylittle thing Olga had brought to the studio to see her portrait, whohad strutted around and talked about money--Miss--er--funny hecouldn't think of her name! He got up after a while, walked aroundand peered in at the kitchen door. 

His visitor had washed the shelves with soap and water, and now hefound her down on her knees with the bucket and scrubbing-brush workinglike a fury. 

"See here, I can't let you do that--" he began again. 

She turned a flushed face up at him and then went on scrubbing. 

"You've got to stop it, do you hear? I won't have it. You're not upto that sort of work. You haven't got any right to do a thing likethis. Get up at once and go out of doors!"

She made no reply and backed away toward the door of the living-room, finishing the last strip of unscoured floor before she even replied. Then she got up and looked at her work admiringly. 

"There!" she said as though to herself. "That's better. "

The area of damp floor lay between them and when he made a step torelieve her of the bucket she had lifted, she waved him back. 

"Don't you _dare_ walk on it--after all my trouble. Go around theother way. "

He obeyed with a meekness that surprised him, but when he reached theother door she had already emptied her bucket and her roving eye wasseeking new fields to conquer. 

"You've got to stop it at once, " he insisted. 

"It's the least I can do to earn my board. This room must be dusted, the bed made and--"

"No. I won't have it. "

He took her by the elbows and pushed her out of the door to the chairon the porch into which she sank, red of face and out of breath. 

"I'll only rest for a minute, " she protested. 

"We'll see about that later, " he said with a smile. "For the present, strange as it may seem, you're really going to obey orders!"

She squared her chin at him defiantly. 

"Really! Are you sure?"

"Positive!"

"It's more than I am. "

"I'm bigger than you are. "

"I'm not in the least afraid of you. "

He laughed. 

"You hardly know me well enough to be afraid of me. "

"Then I don't want to know you any better. "

"You're candid at any rate. But when I like I can be most unpleasant. Ask Olga Tcherny. "

Her gaze flickered then flared into steadiness as she said coolly. 

"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about. "

"Do you mean to say that you don't remember?" he asked smiling. 

"My memory is excellent. Perhaps I lack imagination. What should Iremember?"

"My studio--in New York. You visited me with the Countess Tcherny. "

"I do not know--I have never met the Countess Tcherny. "

The moment was propitious. There was a sound of voices, and Markhamand his visitor glanced over their shoulders past the angle of thecottage to where in the bright sunlight into which she had emerged, stood the Countess Olga. 

"Hermia, thank the Lord!" she was saying. "How you've frightened us, child!" She came quickly forward, but when Markham rose she stopped, her dark eyes round with astonishment. 

"You! John Markham! Well, upon my word! _C'est abracadabrant_!Here I've been harrowing my soul all morning with thoughts of youruntimely death, Hermia, dear, turning Westport topsy-turvy, to findyou at your ease snugly wrapped in _tte-ˆ-tte_with this charming social renegade. It is almost too much for one'spatience!"

Hermia rose laughing, and faced the rescue party which came forwardchattering congratulations. 

"I thought my friends were too wise ever to be worried about _me_, " shesaid coolly. "But I'm awfully obliged and flattered. Hilda, have youmet Mr. Markham? Miss Ashhurst, Miss Van Vorst, and Mr. Armistead, Mr. Markham's island fortunately happened to be just underneath where mymachine decided to miss fire--"

"You _did_ fall then?"

"Well rather--look at my poor bird, there. "

Salignac, the mechanician, was already on the spot confirming thedamage. 

"How on earth did you happen to know that you would find me here?"asked Hermia. 

"We didn't know it, " replied the countess. "We took a chance andcame, worried to death. The head coachman's wife who was up with asick child heard you get off and watched your flight over the bay inthis direction. She didn't see you fall. But when you didn't returnshe became frightened and alarmed the household--woke us all athalf-past five. Think of it!" She yawned and dropped wearily on thestep of the porch. And then, as Markham went indoors in search ofchairs, in a lower tone to Hermia, "With a person you have professedto detest you seem to be getting on famously, my dear. "

"One hardly quarrels with the individual who provides one withbreakfast, " she said coolly. 

At the call of Salignac, the mechanician, Hermia followed the othersdown the slope to the machine, leaving the Countess and Markham alone. 

"Well, " Olga questioned, "what on earth are you doing here?"

He couldn't fail to note the air of proprietorship. 

"What should I be doing?" and he made a gesture toward his idle easel. 

"Why didn't you answer my letters?"

"I have never received them. No mail has been forwarded here. "

"Oh!" And then: "I didn't know just what to think--unless that youhad gone back to Normandy. "

"I'm going next month. Meanwhile I rented Thimble Island--"

"I wrote you that I was coming here to 'Wake-Robin, ' Miss Challoner'splace, " she said pettishly, "and that I was sure there would be one ortwo commissions for you in the neighborhood if you cared to come. "

"It was very kind of you. I'm sorry. It's a little too late now. I'mdue at Havre in August. "

She made a gesture of mock helplessness. 

"There. I thought so. My plans for you never seem to work out. It'sreally quite degrading the way I'm pursuing you. It almost seems as ifyou didn't want me"

He leaned over the back of her chair, his lips close to her ear. "Youknow better than that. But I'm such hopeless material to work with. These people, the kind of people one has to paint--they want lies. Itgives me a diabolical pleasure to tell them the truth. I'll neversucceed. O Madame! I'm afraid you'll have to give me up. "

"And Hermia?" she asked. 

He laughed. 

"An _enfant terrible_! Has she no parent--or guardians? Do _you_encourage this sort of thing?"

"I--_Dieu_! No! She will kill herself next. I have no influence. She does exactly as she pleases. Advice merely decides her to do theopposite thing. "

"It's too bad. She's quite human. "

"Oh. "

The Countess Olga examined him through her long lashes. 

"Are you alone here?"

"Yes. I'm camping. "

"Ugh, " she shuddered. "You had better come to 'Wake-Robin'. "

"No. "

She stamped her small foot. 

"Oh, I've no patience with you. "

"Besides, I haven't been asked, " he added. 

The others were not approaching and Markham straightened as Hermia cametoward him. 

"Olga, dear, we must be going. It's too bad to have spoiled yourmorning, Mr. Markham. "

The obvious reply was so easy and so polite, but he scorned it. 

"Oh, that doesn't matter, " he said, "and I'm the gainer by a cleankitchen. "

No flattery there. Hermia colored gently. 

"I--I scrubbed his floor, " she explained to Olga. "It was filthy. "

The Countess Olga's eyes opened a trifle wider. 

"I don't doubt it, " she said, turning aside. 

Miss Van Vorst in her role of ingŽnue by this time was prying aboutoutside the bungalow, on the porch of which she espied Markham'sunfinished sketch. 

"A painting! May I look? It's all wet and sticky. " She had turnedit face outward and stood before it uttering childish panegyric. "Oh, it's too perfectly sweet for anything. I don't think I've ever seenanything quite so wonderful. Won't you explain it all to me, Mr. Markham?"

Markham good-humoredly took up the canvas. 

"Very glad, " he said, "only you've got it upside down. "

In the pause which followed the laughter Salignac came up the slope andreported to Hermia that he had found nothing wrong with the engine andthat the damaged wing could be repaired with a piece of wire. 

Hermia's eyes sparkled. The time for her triumphant departure, itseemed, had only been delayed. "Good news, " she said quietly. "Inthat case I intend flying back to 'Wake-Robin'. "

A chorus of protests greeted her decision. 

"You shan't, Hermia, " shouted Reggie Armistead, "until either Salignacor I have tried it out. "

"You will oblige me, Reggie, " replied Hermia calmly, "by minding yourown business. "

"O Hermia, after falling this morning! How can you dare?" cried MissVan Vorst, with a genteel shudder. 

"_Si Mademoiselle me permettrait_--" began Salignac. 

But she waved her hand in negation and indicated the wide lawn in frontof the ruined buildings which sloped gently to the water's edge. 

"Wheel it there, Salignac, " in French, "and, Reggie, please go at onceand help. "

Armistead's boyish face turned toward her in admiration and in protest, but he followed Salignac without a word. 

"It's folly, Hermia, " added Hilda. "Something _must_ be wrong with thething. You remember just the other day--"

"I'm going, Hilda, " imperturbably. "You can follow me in the launch. "

Of Hermia's companions, Olga Tcherny alone said nothing. She had nohumor to waste her breath. And Markham stood beside the group, hisarms folded, his head bowed, listening. But when Hermia went into thecottage for her things he followed her. 

"You're resolved?" he asked, helping her into her blouse. 

"Well, rather. "

"I wish I might persuade you--your nerves were--a little shaken thismorning. "

She paused in the act of putting on her gauntlets and held one smallbare hand under his nose that he might see how steady it was. Hegrasped it in both of his own and then, with an impulse that hecouldn't explain, kissed it again and again. 

"Don't go, child, " he whispered gently. "Not today. "

She struggled to withdraw her hand, a warm flush stealing up her neckand temples. 

"Let me go, Mr. Markham. Let me go. "

He relinquished her and stood aside. 

"As you please, " he muttered. "I'm sorry--"

She turned, halfway to the door and examined his face. 

"Sorry? For what?"

"That I haven't the authority to forbid you. "

"_You?_" she laughed. "That _is_ amusing. "

"I would teach you some truths that you have never learned, " hepersisted, "the fatuity of mere bravado, the uses of life. Youcouldn't play with it if you knew something of its value--"

"The only value of life is in what you can get from it--"

"Or in what you can give from it--"

"Good-bye, Mr. Markham. I will join your school of philosophy anotherday. Meanwhile--" and she pointed her gauntleted hand toward the opendoorway, "life shall pay me one more sensation. "

He shrugged his shoulders and followed. 

The machine was already on the lawn surrounded by Hermia's guests andpreliminary experiments had proven that all was ready. Hermia climbedinto the seat unaided, while Markham stood at one side and watched thepropellers started. Faster and faster they flew, the machine held byArmistead and the Frenchman, while Hermia sat looking straight beforeher down the lawn through the opening between the rocks which led toopen water. 

"_Au revoir_, my friends, " she cried and gave the word, at which themen sprang clear, and amid cries of encouragement and congratulationthe machine moved down the lawn, gathering momentum with every second, rising gracefully with its small burden just before it reached thewater and soaring into the air. The people on the lawn watched for amoment and then with one accord rushed for the launch. 

Olga Tcherny paused a moment, her hand on Markham's arm. 

"You will come to 'Wake-Robin'?" she asked. 

"I think not, " he replied. 

"Then I shall come to Thimble Island, " she finished. 

"I shall be charmed, of course. "

She looked over her shoulder at him and laughed. He was watching thedistant spot in the air. 

"You're too polite to be quite natural. "

"I didn't mean to be. "

"Then don't let it happen again. "

The voices of her companions were calling to her and she hastened herfootsteps. 

"_Ë bient™t_, " she cried. 

"_Au revoir_, Madame. " He saw her hurried into the launch, whichimmediately got under way, its exhaust snorting furiously, andvanished around the point of rocks. In a moment there was nothingleft of his visitors to Markham but the lapping of the waves from thelaunch upon the beach and the spot in the air which was not almostimperceptible. 

He stood there until he could see it no more, when he turned and tookhis pipe thoughtfully from his trousers pocket and addressed it withconviction. 

"Mad!" he muttered. "All--quite mad!"

CHAPTER VII

"WAKE ROBIN"

Markham climbed the hill slowly, pushing tobacco into his pipe. Onceor twice he stopped and turned, looking out over the bay toward thedistant launch. The a‘roplane had vanished. When he reached thebungalow he dropped into a chair, his gaze on space, and smokedsilently for many minutes. 

Mad! Were they? Madness after all was merely a matter of relativemental attitudes. Doubtless he was as mad in the eyes of his visitorsas they were to him. In his present mood he was almost ready to admitthat the sanest philosophy of life was that which brought the greatesthappiness. And sanity such as his own was only a sober kind ofmadness after all, a quiet mania which sought out the soul of thingsand in the seeking fed itself upon the problems of the world, a dietwhich too much prolonged might lead to mental indigestion. Morbid--was he? Introspective? A "grouch"? He was--he must be--allof these things. 

His small inquisitor had neglected none of his failings, had practicedher glib tongue at his expense in the few hours in which she had takenpossession of Thimble Island and of him. What a child she was, howspoiled and how utterly irresponsible! He identified her completelynow, Hermia Challoner, the sole heiress of all Peter Challoner'shard-gotten millions, the heiress, too, it was evident, of hisattitude toward the world, the flesh and the devil; Peter Challoner, by profession banker and captain of industry, a man whose name wasremembered the breadth of the land for his masterly manipulation of acontinental railroad which eventually came under his control; anorganizer of trusts, a patron saint of political lobbyists, a productof the worst and of the best of modern business! This girl who hadfallen like a bright meteor across Markham's sober sky this morningwas Peter Challoner's daughter. He remembered now the stories he hadheard and read of her caprices, the races on the beach at Ormonde, herfearlessness in the hunting field and the woman's polo team she hadorganized at Cedarcroft which she had led against a team of men on aSouthern field. It had all been in the newspapers and he had read ofher with a growing distaste for the type of woman which Americansociety made possible. Peter Challoner's daughter, the spoileddarling of money idolaters, scrubbing the floor of his kitchen!

As he sat looking out over the bay thinking of his visitor, a picturerose and wreathed itself amid the smoke of his tobacco--the vision ofa little working girl in New York, a girl with tired eyes and apatient smile, with the faded hair and the faded skin which came fromtoo few hours of recreation--from too many uninterrupted hours ofplodding grind at the tasks her employers set for her, a girl whowould have been as pretty as Hermia Challoner if her youth had onlybeen given its chance. This was Dorothy Herick, whose father, afriend of Markham's father, had been swallowed up in one of the greatindustrial combinations which Peter Challoner had planned. Markham, who had been studying in Paris at the time, had forgotten the detailsof Oliver Herrick's downfall, but he remembered that the transactionwhich had brought it about had not even been broadly in accordancewith the ethics of modern business, and that there had been somethingin the nature of sharp practice on Peter Challoner's part which hadenabled him to obtain for his combination the mills in the WyomingValley which had been in the Herrick family for three generations. 

Markham knew little of business and hated it cordially, but he hadheard enough of this affair to be sure that, whatever the courts haddecided, Oliver Herrick had been unfairly dealt with and that a part, at least, of Peter Challoner's fortune belonged morally, at least, tothe inconsiderable mite of femininity who read proof in a publisher'soffice in New York. He knew something of the law of the survival ofthe fittest, for he himself had survived the long struggle for honorswhich had put him at last in a position where he felt secure at leastfrom the pinch of poverty, and whatever Oliver Herrick's failingsamong the larger forces with which he had been brought into contact, Markham knew him to have been an honest man, a good father and afaithful gentleman. Something was wrong with a world which pinchedthe righteous between the grindstones of progress and let the evilprosper. 

It was an unfairness which descended to the second generation andwould descend through the years until the equalizing forces ofcharacter and will--or the lack of them--brought later generations tothe same level of condition. Markham could not help comparing HermiaChalloner with her less fortunate sister--Hermia Challoner, thecourted, the fted, who had but to wish for a thing to have itgranted, with Dorothy Herrick, the neglected and forgotten, who wasbartering her youth for twelve dollars a week and was glad to get themoney; one, who boasted that the only value life had for her was whatshe could get out of it, with the other, who almost felt it aprivilege to be permitted to live at all. The more he thought ofthese two girls, the more convincing was his belief that Miss Herrickdid not suffer by the comparison. She was doing just what thousandsof other girls were doing in New York, with no more patience and nomore self-sacrifice than they, but the childish vagaries of hisvisitor, still fresh in his memory, seemed to endow Dorothy Herrickwith a firmer contour, a stronger claim on his interest andsympathies. 

And yet--this little madcap aviatrix disclosed a winning directnessand simplicity which charmed and surprised him. She was a joyoussoul. He could not remember a morning when he had been so completelyabstracted from the usual current of thought and occupation as today, and whatever the faults bequeathed by her intrepid father, she was, asMarkham had said to Olga, quite human. There were possibilities inthe child-and it seemed a pity that no strong guiding hand led the wayon a road like hers, which had so many turnings. She was only anovergrown child as yet, flat chested, slender, almost a boy, and yetredeemed to femininity by an unconscious coquetry which she could nomore control than she could the warm flush of her blood; a childindeed, full of quick impulses for good or for evil. 

Markham rose, knocked the ash out of his pipe, walked over to hiscanvas, set it up against the porch pillar and examined it leisurely. But in a moment he took it indoors and added it to the pile in theliving-room, fetching a fresh canvas and carrying his easel andpaint-box over the hill to another spot, a shady one among the rockswhere he had already painted many times. 

He worked a while and then sat and smoked again, his thoughts afar. What sort of an influence was Olga Tcherny for the mind of thisimpressionable child? The Countess was clever, generous andwonderfully attractive to men and to women but, as Markham knew, herviews of life were liberal and she was not wise--at least, not with awisdom which would help Hermia Challoner. One doesn't live for tenyears in Paris in the set in which Markham had met her withoutabsorbing something of its careless creed, its loose ethical and moralstandards. New York society, he knew, reflected much that was bad, and much that was good of the gay worlds of Paris and London; forAmericans are unexcelled in the talent of imitation, but from phrasesthat had passed Olga's lips he knew that she had outgrown her owncountry. 

Markham tried to paint but things went wrong and so he gave it up, swearing silently at the interruption which had spoiled his day. Afterlunch he tried it again with no better success, and finally gave it upand, taking a book, went out on a point of rocks where the tide swirledand cast in a fishing line, not because he hoped to catch anything butbecause fishing, of all the resources available, had most surely theways of peace. The book was a French treatise on the Marxianphilosophies--dull reading for a summer's day when the water lappedmerrily at one's feet, the breeze sighed softly, laden with the odorsof the mysterious deeps, and sea and sky beckoned him invitingly intothe realms of adventure and delight, so dull that, the fish biting not, Markham dozed, and at last rolled over in the sunlight and slept. 

How long he lay there he did not know. He was awakened by the exhaustof a launch close at hand and sat up so quickly that "Karl Marx, "rudely jostled by his elbow, went sliding over the edge of the rockand into the sea. But there was no time at present to bewail thiscalamity for the man in the launch had brought her inshore and hailedhim politely. 

"Mr. Markham?" he questioned. 

Markham nodded. "That's my name, " he said. 

"A note for you. " The launch moved slowly in toward the landing andMarkham met his visitor, already aware that there was to be a furtherintrusion on his solitude. He broke the seal of the note and read. It was from Hermia Challoner. 

Dear Mr. Markham:

Life, as you see, has yielded me one more sensation without penalty. Iam safe at home again, my philosophy triumphant over yours. Thereisn't a great deal of difference between them after all. You, too, take from life, Mr. Markham--you take what you need just as I do; butjust because your needs differ from mine, manlike, you assume that Imust be wrong. Perhaps I am. Then so must you, because you give lessthan I do. 

There is but one way to justify yourself, and that is to give up whatyou are hoarding--what you prize most highly--your solitude. We wantyou at "Wake Robin, " Mr. Markham. Will you come to dine and stay thenight? By so doing you will at least show an amiable disposition, which is more to the point than all the philosophy in the world. Weare very informal and dine at eight. 

I am sure that if you disappoint us Madame Tcherny, who is alreadytired of us all, will perish of _ennui_. 

Very cordially yours, Hermia Challoner

Markham read the note through and turned toward the cabin for pen andpaper. 

"Will you moor the launch and come ashore?"

"Oh, no, sir, " said the man, tinkering with the engine, "I'll wait foryou here. Miss Challoner said that I was to wait. "

When Markham reached the bungalow he remembered suddenly that he had noink, pen--or indeed paper, and yet a verbal reply would hardly becourteous. He stood in the doorway puzzling a moment and then wentover to a trunk in the corner, opened it and began pitching itscontents about. He straightened at last, put some garments on the bedand looked at them with a ruminative eye. 

"Oh, I had better go, " he muttered, rubbing the roughness on his chin. "I owe it to Olga. But why the devil they can't leave a fellowalone--" and, fuming silently, he shaved, made a toilet, and packingsome things in a much battered suit case made his way to the launch. 

At the Westport landing he found the Countess Olga, wonderfully attiredin an afternoon costume of pale green, awaiting him in a motor. 

"There's a chance for you still, my friend, " she laughed. "You havewon my fond regard--and, incidentally, the cost of a new frock. "

"I?"

"Yes. We laid a bet as to whether you would come, Hermia and I. We'vebeen watching the island through the telescope, and saw you embark--soto me--the victor, falls the honor of conducting you home in triumph. "

"I'm to go in chains, it seems, " he laughed, getting in beside her. "I've rarely seen you looking so handsome. "

"You're improving. It's joy, _mon ami_, at seeing once again a fullgrown man. I have been bored--oh, so bored! Will you be nice to me?"

The motor skimmed smoothly over the perfect roads, mounting the hillsthrough the village and spinning along a turnpike flanked by summerresidences. "Wake Robin" stood at some distance from the village onthe highest point of the hills and made a very imposing vista from thedriveway--an English house with long wings at either side, flanked byterraces, lawns and gardens, guarded from the intrusive eyes of thehighway by a high privet hedge. The tennis courts seemed to be thecenter of interest and in a corner of the terrace which faced the baywere some people taking tea and watching a match of singles betweenReggie Armistead and their hostess. The chauffeur took the suit caseto the butler and Olga Tcherny led the way to the tea table wherePhyllis Van Vorst was pouring tea. Beside her sat a tall handsomewoman with a hard mouth, dressed in white linen and a picture hat, whoogled him tentatively through a lorgnon during the moment ofintroduction before permitting her face to relax into a smile ofwelcome. 

"So glad, " she purred at last, extending a long slim hand in Markham'sdirection. "Phyllis, do give Mr. Markham some tea. "

"How d'ye do, Mr. Markham, " chortled Miss Van Vorst. "I'm afraidyou'll have to put up with the Philistines for a while. Hermia'sbeating Reggie Armistead at tennis, and it's as much as one's life isworth to interrupt. "

"That's no joke, " said Archie Westcott, who was watching the game. "Some tennis, that. They're one set all and Hermia just broke throughReggie's service. That makes it five four. "

Markham, teacup in hand, followed the Countess to the balustrade andwatched. One would never have supposed from the way she played thatthis girl had been up since dawn and suffered an accident which hadtemporarily incapacitated her. Youth was triumphant. Vigor, suppleness and grace marked every movement, the smashing overhandservice, the cat-like spring to the net, the quick recovery, the longfree swing of the volley from the back-court, all of which showed formof a high order. It was a man's tennis that the girl was playing andReggie Armistead needed all his cleverness to hold her at even terms. It was an ancient grudge, Markham learned, and an even thing in thebetting, but Armistead pulled through by good passing and made thesets deuce. 

"Gad! It makes me hot to look at 'em!" said Crosby Downs, fingering athis collar band, his face brick-color from the day in the open. "Make'em stop, somebody. "

He dropped into a wicker chair and fanned vigorously with his hat. 

"Lord! Golf is bad enough. Oh, what's the use, " he sighed heavily. 

"Been golfing, Crosby?" smiled the Countess. 

"Oh, call it that if you like, " he growled. "Rotten game, that. Doctor's orders. A hundred and ten to-day. Couldn't hit the eartheven and there were acres of it. "

"Living up to your reputation, Crosby, " sneered Carol Gouverneur. "_Sans putt et sans approach_?"

"You've struck it, young man. Sans anything, but that Weary Williefeelin' and a devourin' thirst. But I lost four pounds, " he addedmore cheerfully--his fingers demonstrating in his waistband. "Oh, I'll put it on again to-night at dinner. Silly ass business--thisrunnin' around in the sun. "

"Quite so, " Olga agreed, "but everything we do is silly and asinine. "

There was an outburst of applause form the others at a particularlybrilliant shot below. 

"By George!" cried Westcott, "she's got him. It's Hermia's vantage andforty-love. O Reggie! A love game, by Jiminy! Hermia, you've won mea cool hundred. "

The game was over and the players shook hands before the net, Hermialaughing gaily, Armistead's eyes full of honest adoration. They werehandsome children, those two. 

Hermia climbed the steps slowly amid the congratulations of the guestsand smiled as Markham came forward to meet her. She was rosy as acherub, her bright hair tumbled beneath her crimson hair-band. 

"Very good of you to come, Mr. Markham, " she said breathlessly. "Ihad my eye in, and _couldn't_ stop. I simply had to beat Reggie, youknow, " And then as her responsibilities recurred to her, "you've meteverybody? Mrs. Renshaw, Miss Coddington--Mr. Markham--the Hermit ofThimble Island. "

With a laugh she led him away from the others and threw herself in alounge chair and motioned him to a seat nearby. 

"You see, " she said gaily, "her I am--quite safe--and ready to mock atall seriousness-the grasshopper entertaining the ant. Do you think youcan stand so much gayety, Mr. Markham?"

"Even an ant must have its moments of frivolity. "

"You frivolous!" she smiled. 

"I've always wanted to be. It's one of my secret longings. I was bornold. Show me how to be young and I'll give you anything I possess. "

"That's tempting. I think I'll begin at once. "

He laughed. "At what?"

She scrutinized him from top to toe. 

"Oh, at your goggles. "

He fingered his glasses. 

"These?"

She nodded. 

He took them off and looked at them amusedly. 

"That's the first step. You're ten years younger already, " she said. 

"Oh, am I?"

"Yes. I'm sure of it--when you don't frown. "

"And next?"

"You must flirt, Mr. Markham--and make pretty speeches--"

"Pretty speeches!"

"Oh, yes--you must treat every woman as though you adored her secretly, and when ladies visit your studio you mustn't bang the door in theirfaces. "

"Did I do that?"

"Er--figuratively, yes. You were very impolite. " She lay back andlaughed at him. "There--I feel better. Now we shall be good friends. "

He fingered his goggles a moment, and then his eyes met hers in frankagreement. 

"I'm glad of that, " he said, with a slow smile. "I like you a greatdeal. "

She straightened, her eyes sparkling merrily. 

"You see? You're improving already. I have great hopes for you, Mr. Markham. " She threw a glance at the others and rose. "Here endeth thefirst lesson. It is time to dress. We will resume after dinner. Thatis, " she added, "if Olga will spare you for a few moments. "

"Olga--Madame Tcherny won't mind in the least, " he laughed. "If youcan make me anybody but myself, she will thank you from the bottom ofher heart. Madame Tcherny is already at the point of giving me up as ahopeless case. "

"In what respect?"

"Oh, in all respects. I'm a great disappointment to her--" He stoppedsuddenly. "I mean socially--professionally. You see I'm not the stuffthat successful portrait painters are made of--"

"Except perhaps that you really can paint?" she asked over her shoulder. 

He shrugged and followed. 

CHAPTER VIII

OLGA TCHERNY

As the guests gathered in the drawing-room and on the terrace beforedinner it was apparent to Markham that, unless he obeyed theinjunctions of his small preceptor, he would be quite forgotten amidthis gay company. On Thimble Island, as in New York, he had not foundthem necessary to his own existence, and it was quite clear that herat "Wake-Robin" they returned his indifference. After the first nodand appraising glance in his direction, Crosby Downs and CarolGouverneur had completely ignored him. Archie Westcott had unbent tothe point of offering him a cigarette, and Trevvy Morehouse, who hadjoined them over the cocktails, and injected polite bromidics into theconversation which Reggie Armistead, who knew nothing of Markham's artand cared less, only saved by some wholesome enthusiasm, in which alljoined, over the "sand" and all-around good fellowship of theirhostess. 

But it required little assurance to make one's self at home here whereinformality seemed to be the rule, and before Hermia and the Countesscame down Markham found himself on easy terms with the group he hadjoined. Mrs. Renshaw's appraisal and patronizing air dismayed himless than the china blue eyes of Phyllis Van Vorst which she hadraised with a pretty effectiveness to his; Hilda Ashhurst hadn't eventaken the trouble to notice him. When Carol Gouverneur was in herneighborhood there were no other men in the world. 

But Hermia took pains to make her guests aware of the status of Mr. Markham in her house by seating him on her right at dinner and payinghim an assiduous attention which detracted something from ReggieArmistead's interest, as well as Olga's, in that repast. 

With a carelessness which put him off his guard Hermia drew him intothe general conversation, aroused his sense of humor, until with astory of an experience in France, which he told with a dry wit thatwell suited him, he found himself the center of interest at the head ofthe table. 

Out on the terrace over the coffee and tobacco, the compound slowlyresolved itself into its elements, social and sentimental. Markham, scarcely aware of the precise moment when she had appropriated him, found himself in the garden below the terrace with Olga Tcherny. Theheavy odor of the roses was about them, unstirred by the land breezewhich faintly sighed in the treetops. A warm moon hung over ThimbleIsland, its soft lights catching in the ornaments Markham's companionwore, caressing her white shoulders and dusky hair, and softening theshadows in her eyes which peered like those of a seer down the path oflight where the moonbeams played upon the water. 

He had always thought her handsome, but to-night she was a fragment ofthe night itself, with all its tenderness and its melancholy mystery. He watched her slender figure as she reached forward, plucked a roseand raised its petals to her lips--a full flown rose, wasting its lasthours of loveliness. She fastened it in her corsage and led the way toa stone bench beneath an arbor at the end of the wall where she sat andmotioned to the place beside her. 

The accord which existed between these two was unusual because of thetotal difference in their points of view on life and the habits ofthought which made each the negative pole of the other. Howeverunusual Markham may have appeared to a person of Olga Tcherny'straining, he was not an unusual young man in the ordinary sense. Hehad always taken life seriously, from the hour when as a clerk in abroker's office he had started to work at night at the League in NewYork, with the intention of becoming a painter. He was no moreserious than thousands of other young men who plan their lives earlyand live them up to specifications; but Olga Tcherny, who had flitteda zig-zag butterfly course among the exotics, now found in the meadowsshe had scorned a shrub quite to her liking. Markham was the mostrefreshingly original person she had ever met. He always said exactlywhat he thought and refused to speak at all unless he had something tosay. Those hours in the studio when he had painted her portrait hadbeen hours to remember, sound, sane hours in which they had discussedmany things not comprehended in her philosophy, when he had led her byeasy stages up the steep path he had climbed until she had gained, from the pinnacle of his successes, a vista of what had lain beneath. Unconsciously he had drawn upon her mentality until, surprised at itsown existence, it had awakened to life and responded to his. To makeher mental subjection the more complete, he had in his simplicitypeered like a child through all her disguises and painted her soul ashe saw it--as it was. The flattery was the more effectual because ofits subtlety and because she knew, as he did, that in it there was noguile, no self-interest or sentimentality. And in return she couldhave paid him no higher compliment than when coolly, almost coldly, she told him of her life and what she had made of it. 

She was very winning to-night--very gentle and womanly--more Englishthan French or Russian, more American than either. Neither of themspoke for a long while. Such words as they could speak would havetaken something from the perfection of their background. But Markhamthought of her as he had frequently done, thankful again for thebenefits of her regard, the genuineness of which she had brought hometo him in many material ways. 

To Olga alone there was a peril in the silence, a peril for the sanityhe had taught her, for the pact which she had made with herself. Shehad eaten the bread and salt of his friendship and had given him hers. He believed in her and she could not deceive him. She knew his naturewell. She had not been a student of men all her life for nothing. Itwould have been so easy to lie to him, to befuddle and bewitch him, tobring him to her feet by unfair means. But she had scorned to usethem. For her, John Markham had been taboo. But there was peril inthe silence. She sat looking into the wake of the moon in the water, very quiet, tense and almost breathless. 

"You're glad you came?" she asked at last in the tones of matter andfact. 

"Yes, I am. You've been too kind and patient with me, Olga. "

He laid his hand over hers with a genuine impulse. It did not movebeneath his touch or return his pressure. 

"Yes, " she said coolly, "I think I have. "

"Have I offended you?"

"No. Not at all--only disappointed me a little. I had such nice plansfor you. "

He laughed. 

"Olga, you're the most wonderful woman in the world. I don't deserveyour friendship. But I _did_ want to loaf--I worked pretty hard lastwinter. "

"Oh, you needn't evade me. I can't make you like my friends. But Ihoped you wouldn't disappoint them. Mrs. Berkley Hammond, the Gormeleytwins, and now Hermia--"

"Miss Challoner!" in surprise. "Her portrait! I thought shedisapproved of my method. "

She smiled. "Oh, you don't know Hermia as I do. One is never morecertain in one's judgment of her than when one thinks one is wrong. "She gave a short laugh. "At any rate, she said she was going to speakto you about it. "

"That's curious, " he muttered. 

"Will you do it?" she asked. 

He looked away toward the terrace. 

"I hadn't planned to do any portraits until Fall. "

"Doesn't she interest you?" she continued quickly. 

"She's paintable--it would be profitable, of course--"

"You're evading again. "

"Yes, she interests me, " he said frankly. "She's clever, amiable, hospitable--and quite irresponsible. But then she would want to be'pretty. ' I'm afraid I should only make her childish. "

"Oh, she's prepared for the worst. You had better paint her. It willdo you a lot of good. Besides, you paint better when you're a littlecontemptuous. "

"I'm not sure that I could take that attitude toward Miss Challoner, "he said slowly. "She's too good for the crowd she runs with, that'ssure, and--"

"Thanks, " laughed Olga. "You always had a neat turn for flattery. "

But he didn't laugh. 

"I mean it, " he went on warmly. "She's too good for them--and so areyou. Mrs. Renshaw, a woman notorious even in New York, who at the ageof thirty has already changed husbands three times, drained them andthrown them aside as one would a rotten orange; Hilda Ashhurst whoplays cards for a living and knows how to win; Crosby Downs, amerciless voluptuary who makes a god of his belly; Archie Westcott, the man Friday of every Western millionaire with social ambitions whocomes to New York--a man who lives by his social connections, his witsand his looks; Carol Gouverneur, _his_ history needn't be repeated--"

"Nor mine--" finished Olga quietly, "you needn't go on. " The calmnessof her tone only brought its bitterness into higher relief. Markhamstopped, turned and caught both her hands in his. 

"No, not yours, Olga. God knows I didn't mean _that_. You're nottheir kind, soulless, cynical, selfish and narrow social parasite whopoison what they fee don and live in the idleness that better men andwomen have bought for them. Call them your crowd if you like. I knowbetter. You've only taken people as you've found them--taken life asit was planned for you--moved along the line of least resistancebecause you'd never been taught that there was any other way to go. In Europe you never had a chance to learn--"

"That's it, " she broke in passionately, "I never had a chance--not achance. "

Her fingers clutched his and then quickly released them. 

"Oh, what's the use?" she went on in a stifled tone. "Why couldn't youhave let me live on, steeped in my folly? It's too late for me tochange. I can't. I'm pledged. If I gamble, keep late hours, and doall the things that this set does it's because if I didn't I should dieof thinking. What does it matter to any one but me?"

She stopped and rose with a sudden gesture of anger. 

"Don't preach, John. I'm not in the humor for it--not to-night--do youhear?"

He looked up at her in surprise. One of her hands was clenched on thebalustrade and her dark eyes regarded him scornfully. 

"I've made you angry? I'm sorry, " he said. 

The tense lines of her figure suddenly relaxed as she leaned againstthe pergola and then laughed up at the sky. 

"Would you preach to the stars, John Markham? They're a merrycongregation. They're laughing at you--as I am. A sermon by moonlightwith only the stars and a scoffer to listen!"

Her mockery astonished and bewildered him. His indictment of thosewith whom she affiliated was no new thing in their conversations, andhe knew that what he had said was true. 

"I'm sorry I spoke, " he muttered. 

She laughed at him again and threw out her arms toward the moonlit sea. 

"What a night for the moralities--for the ashes of repentance! I ask aman into the rose-garden to make love to me and he preaches to meinstead--_preaches to me_! of the world, the flesh and the devil, _parexemple_! Was ever a pretty woman in a more humiliating position!"

She approached him again and leaned over him, the strands of her hairbrushing his temples, her voice whispering mockingly just at his ear. 

"Oh, la la! You make such a pretty lover, John. If I could onlypaint you in your sackcloth and ashes, I should die in content. Whatis it like, _mon ami_, to feel like moralizing in a rose-garden bymoonlight? What do they tell you--the roses? Of the dull earth fromwhich they come? Don't they whisper of the kisses of the night winds, of the drinking of the dew--of the mad joy of living--the sweetness ofdying? Or don't they say anything to you at all--except that they aremerely roses, John?"

She brushed the blossom in her fingers lightly across his lips andsprang away from him. But it was too late. She had gone too far andshe realized it in a moment; for thought she eluded him once, hecaught her in his arms and kissed her roughly on the lips. 

"You'd mock at me, would you?" he cried. 

She struggled in his arms and then lay inert. She deserved thisrevenge she knew, but not the carelessness of these kisses ofretribution, each of them merciless with the burden of her awakening. 

"Let me go, John, " she said faintly. "You must not--"

"Not yet. I'm no man of stone. Can you scoff now?"

"No, no. Let me go. I've paid you well and you--O God! you've paidme, too. Let me go. "

"Not until you kiss me. "

"No--not that. "

"Why?" he whispered. 

"No--never that! Oh, the damage you have done!"

"I'll repair it--"

"No. You can't bring the dead to life----our friendship----it was soclean----Let me go, do you hear?"

But he only laughed at her. 

"You'll kiss me--"

"Never!"

"You shall--"

"Never!"

He raised her face to his. She quivered under his touch, but her lipswere insensate, and upon his hand a drop of moisture fell--a tearlimpid, pure from the hidden springs of the spirit. He kissed itspiteous course upon her cheek. 

"Olga!" he whispered softly. "What have I done?"

"Killed something in me--I think--something gentle and noble that wastrying so hard to live--"

"Forgive me, " he stammered. "I didn't know you cared so much. "

She started in his arms, then slowly released herself, and drew awaywhile with an anxious gaze he followed her. 

"Our friendship--I cared for that more than anything else in theworld, " she said simply. 

"It shall be stronger, " he began. 

"No--friendship does not thrive on kisses. "

"Love--" he began. But her quick gesture silenced him. 

"Love, boy! What can you know of love!"

"Nothing. Teach me!"

She looked up into his face, her hands upon his shoulders holding himat arm's length, flushed with her empty victory--ice-cold with selfcontempt at the means she had used to accomplish it. Another man--aman of her own world--would have played the game as she had played it, mistrusting the tokens she had shown and taking her coquetry at itsworldly value; would have kissed and perhaps forgotten the nextmorning. But as she looked in Markham's eyes she saw with dismay thathe still read her heart correctly and that the pact of truthfulnesswhich neither of them had broken was considered a pact between themstill. Her gaze fell before his and she turned away, sure now thatfor the sake of her pride she must deceive him. 

"No, I can teach you nothing, it seems, except, perhaps, that youshould not make the arms of your lady black and blue. Love is azephyr, _mon ami_, not a tornado. "

He stared at her, bewildered by the sudden transformation. 

"I--I kissed you, " he said stupidly. "You wanted me to. "

"Did I?" she taunted him. "Who knows? If I did"--examining herwrist--"I have now every reason to regret it. "

He stood peering down at her from his great height, his thoughtstumbling into words. 

"Don't lie to me, Olga. You were not content with friendship. Nowoman ever is. You wanted me to do--what I have done. "

"Perhaps, " she admitted calmly, "but not the way you did it. Kissingshould be done upon the soft pedal _mon ami, adagio, con amore_. Yourtechnique is rusty. Is it a wonder that I am disappointed?"

She was mocking him again, but this time he was not deceived. 

"Perhaps I will improve with practice, " he muttered. 

He would have seized her again but she eluded him, laughing. 

"Thank you, no--" she cried. 

He went toward her again, but she sprang behind the bench, Markhamfollowing, both intent upon their game. He had seized her again whensuddenly over their very heads there was a sound of feminine laughteramong the vines from which there immediately emerged a white satinslipper, a slender white ankle, followed quickly byanother--draperies, and at last Hermia Challoner, who, swinging for amoment by her hands, dropped breathlessly upon the bench between them. Markham, whose nose had been narrowly missed by the flying slippers, drew back in astonishment. 

"Hello!" panted Hermia, laughing. "Reggie was chasing me, so Islipped over the balustrade onto the pergola--" She stopped and lookedwith quick intuition from one to the other. "Sorry I blunder'd inhere, though, Olga--awfully sorry. Did I kick you in the nose, Mr. Markham?"

CHAPTER IX

OUT OF HIS DEPTH

Markham stammered something, but Olga was laughing softly. "Hermia, darling, you always do go into things feet first, but it's perilous inFrench heels. Mr. Markham and I were just trying to decide whetherthis stone bench wouldn't be just the place to do your portrait. Ifyou'll observe--"

The situation was so palpable. Hermia looked from one to the otheramusedly. Markham was following Olga's artistic dissertation with theeye of dubiety, but their hostess was merciless. 

"Olga, dear, " she inquired sweetly, "did you know your back hair wasdown?"

"Oh, is it? How provoking! Georgette is positively worthless!"

Even Olga's resourcefulness was not proof against Hermia's persistentaudacity, especially as she was aware of a smudge of face-powder onJohn Markham's coat lapel which could not have been attributed by anychance to the deficiencies of her unlucky maid. 

"Poor Georgette!" said Hermia softly, watching Olga's fingers quicklytwist the erring strand into place. 

At this moment there was a sound of footsteps on the walk and ReggieArmistead, who, like an ubiquitous terrier, had at last found thescent, came down the arbor on the run with Trevvy Morehouse after him, a poor second, and emerged upon the scene. 

"You're mine--" cried Reggie triumphantly. "I win!" He moved forwardand would have caught Hermia around the waist, but she dodged him. 

"Reggie, " she cried, "how dare you!"

"Oh, don't mind us, " laughed Olga. 

"I don't--" he said stoutly. "But I got here first, Olga, didn't I?"

"You surely did--"

"I'm glad to have witnesses. Hermia's dreadfully slippery, you know. "

Olga, who had dropped into a corner of the stone bench, looked uplanguidly. 

"Would you mind telling us what it all means?" she asked. 

Hermia laughed. "May I, Trevvy?"

The excellent Trevelyan smiled politely and shrugged his shoulders. 

"By all means--since I have no further interest in the matter. "

"It's too amusing. They were to give me ten minutes' start from thehouse--the two of them. Oh, what a lark!" she laughed. "I made forthe Maze, while they watched me from the drawing-room windows; butinstead of going in, I skirted the edge and crept through the bushes onthe other side. By the time they had reached the privet hedge, I hadgone through the house from the kitchen to the terrace again, where Isat for ten minutes entirely alone laughing and watching those geesechasing each other around in the moonlight. I've never had such funsince I was _born_. "

"Geese! Oh, I say, Hermia!"

"Then Reggie came out sniffing the breeze and I had to run for cover, so I slipped over the balustrade to the pergola, down which I crept onmy hands and knees and dropped through--and here I am, " she concluded. 

"But what is it all about?" asked Olga again. 

"It means that Hermia is mine--for a month, " said Reggie, glowing. "She promised--you couldn't go back on that, Hermia. Could she, Olga?"he appealed. 

"I'm sure I don't know. Do you mean _engaged_ to you?" she askedcuriously. 

"Yes--for a month, " said Reggie. "The idea was to try and see if shereally could like either of us well enough to--"

"I didn't really promise anything, " Hermia broke in, severely. "Imerely agreed--"

"She did, Olga, " he insisted. "I knew she'd be trying to wriggle. "

Olga was laughing silently. 

"You're admirably suited to each other, you two. You're actuallyquarreling already. "

"We always do--"

"Then marry at once, my dears. "

Hermia glanced at Markham, who was leaning over the back of the benchwatching the scene with alien eyes. She turned toward Armisteadfrankly with an extended hand, which he promptly seized. 

"You _are_ a nice boy, Reggie. I'll try it. But you'll have topromise--"

"Oh, I'll promise anything, " cried Reggie rapturously. 

The excellent Trevelyan watched them a moment in silence, and thenlighting his cigarette slowly wandered away. 

Hermia and Armistead followed hand in hand, but not before Hermia hadturned her head over her shoulder and whispered mischievously to Olga:

"You can sit as many risks as you run, Olga, darling. "

In the moments which had passed during this interesting revelationOlga Tcherny had been thinking--desperately. The taste of life hadnever been so sweet in her mouth--nor so bitter. With the departureof the trio Markham had not moved, but his eyes followed the twofigures through the rose garden. The moon was suddenly snuffed outand the sea grew lead-color--like a passion that has gone stale. Markham's silhouette loomed monstrous against the sky, and the silencewas abruptly broken by the rough laughter of Crosby Downs fromsomewhere in the distance. Olga shivered and rose. 

"Come, " she said, "let's follow. "

Markham straightened slowly and stood before her, one hand on her arm. 

"Olga, " he said quietly. 

She paused, but she didn't look up at him, and gently she took hisfingers from her arm. 

"It's a pity--" he stopped again. "What you said was true. You--andI--one of us has killed the old relation between us. "

"Yes, " she murmured. 

"Can we forget--to-night--"

"No, no, " she said. "Never. I know. "

"Will you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. "

He shook his head. 

"Nothing to forgive if you were only amusing yourself--much to forgiveif you really care"

His ingenuousness was alarming. 

"_Par exemple_!" She bantered him. "You mean that I--that I loveyou?"

"Yes, I mean just that. "

She took quick refuge in laughter. 

"You are the most surprising creature! Much as I esteem, I cannotflatter you so much as that. " And she drew away from him, stilllaughing softly. 

"I have done you a wrong, " he went on steadily. 

His simplicity was heroic. She did not dare question him. 

"You have a New England conscience, _mon ami_, " she said, gentlyironical. "Your code is meshed in the cobwebs of antiquity. Onekisses in the moonlight--or one doesn't kiss. What is the difference?It is a pastime--not a tragedy. _Je M'amusais_. I fished for minnowsand caught a Tartar--_voilˆ tout_. I love you--I do love you--butonly when you paint, _monsieur l'artiste_--then you are magnificent--acompanion to the gods! When you kiss-- Oh, la la! Youare--er--paleozoic!"

It was Olga's master stroke. She could parry no longer and mustthrust if she would survive. The tenderness that this gaucheriearoused in her made her the more merciless in her mockery! And shewas aware of a throb of exaltation as she made the sacrifice whichprevented the declaration that was hanging on his lips. In making afool of him again she was saving him from making a fool of himself. Markham did not reply and only stood there gnawing at his lips. Hewas no squire of dames he knew, and what she said of him touched himon the raw of his self-esteem. Paleozoic he might be, but it stunghim that she should tell him so. 

She delivered his _coup de grace_ unerringly. 

"Take my advice and let love-making alone, or if you must make love, doit as other gods do--my messenger. Otherwise your Elysian dignity isin jeopardy. You are not the kind of man that women love, _mon cher_. Come, it is time that we joined the others. "

She led him down the avenue of roses, every line of her graceful figurerebuking his insufficiency, and he followed dumbly, aware of it. 

Upon the terrace occupied by couples intent upon private matters, shepromptly deserted him, leaving him without a word to his own devices. He stood for a moment of uncertainty, and then fumbling in his pocketfor his pipe, which was not there, went into the smoking-room in searchof a cigarette. 

"Two spades, " declared Archie Westcott at the auction table, and thenwhen Markham went out, "Odd fish--that. "

"Three hearts, " said Mrs. Renshaw. "Why Hermia asks such people Ican't imagine. You're never certain whom you're asked to meetnowadays. Prig, isn't he?"

"Oh, rather! Has ideals, and all that sort of thing, hasn't he, Hilda?"

"If his ideals are as rotten as his manners I can't say much for 'em. "

"Olga likes him--"

"Oh, Olga--" sniffed Hilda. "Anything for a new sensation. Rememberthat queer little French marquis who trailed around after her at MonteCarlo?"

"Oh, play ball, " growled Gouverneur. "Who cares--so long as he keepsout of here. "

Unaware of these unflattering comments, Markham strolled out of doorsand into a lonely armchair on the terrace, and smoked in solitarydignity. Indeed solitude seemed to be the only thing left to him. Hewas not a man who made friends rapidly, and the three or four peoplewhom he might have cared to cultivate had other fish to fryto-night--and were not frying them on the terrace. Olga, it seemed, had no intention of returning and Hermia Challoner was doubtlessalready in that happy phase of experimentation so warmly advocated byReggie Armistead. 

He envied those two young people their carelessness, their grace, their ruddy delights which by contrast added conviction to Olga'sindictment of him. He tried with some difficulty to analyze theprecise nature of his sentiments toward Olga Tcherny, and found at theend of a quarter of an hour, to his surprise, that the only feeling ofwhich he was conscious was one of dull resentment at her for havingmade a fool of him. 

Whatever Markham the painter had accomplished in the delineation ofcharacter of the fashionable women he had painted, the truth was thatMarkham both feared and misunderstood them. Their changing moods, their unaccountable likes and dislikes, their petty ambitions andvanities he accepted as part of the heritage of a race of beings apartform his own, and he hid his timidity under a brusque manner whichgave him credit for a keener penetration than he actually possessed. And, strangely enough, Fate, with sardonic humor, had given him aknack, which so few painters possess, of catching on canvas theelusive charm of his feminine sitters, of investing with grace thosecharacteristics he professed so much to despise. He had told HermiaChalloner that he did not paint "pretty" portraits, but as Olga knew, it was upon his delineation of beauty, his manipulation of daintydraperies, the sheen of silk and satin, that his reputation sosecurely rested. It was perhaps merely a contemptuous clevernesswhich had given him the name among his craft of being a "masterbrushman. "

Into Olga Tcherny's portrait he had put something more of his sitterthan usual. He had painted the soul of the girl in the body of thewoman of thirty, and if he rendered his subject in a manner morestilted than usual, he repaid her in the real interest with which herportrait was invested. He liked Olga. He had accepted her warily atfirst until he had proved to his own satisfaction thedisinterestedness of her regard and then he had given her hisfriendship without reserve, his first real friendship with a woman ofthe world, conscious of the charm of their relation from which allsentiment had been banished. 

He had awakened rudely to-night. He was now aware that sentiment onOlga's part had never been banished nor could ever be banished with awoman of her type. He had made the mistake of judging her by therecords of their friendship, unmindful of her history as to which hehad been forewarned. 

To-night the secret was out. The feminine in her had been triumphant. He was a different kind of fish from any she had caught and for reasonsof her own she wanted him. She had been playing him skillfully formonths, giving him all the line in her reel that he might be hooked themore easily. And to what end? Their friendship had fallen intoshreds. What was to follow?

Of one thing he was certain. He was learning something, alsoprogressing. In the twelve hours that had passed he had kissed twowomen--something of a record for a man of his prejudices. He rose andthrew the unsatisfactory cigarette into the bushes. It was high timehe was making his way back to Thimble Island and solitude. 

There was a rustle of silk behind him, and he turned. 

"Oh, do stay, Mr. Markham. I was just coming out to talk to you. "

He greeted Hermia with delight, quickly responding to the charm of herjuvenility. 

"I was wondering if I would see you again, " he said genuinely. 

"You see, " she laughed, "I don't always pop in feet first. " She satand examined him curiously, and then, after a pause. 

"What a fraud you are, Mr. Markham!"

"I?"

"A deep-dyed hypocrite--I can't see how you can dare look me in theface--"

"But I can--and I find it very pleasant. "

"Oh--shame! To take advantage of my childish credulity--my trustinginnocence. You make me believe you to be a fossilized pedant--aphilosopher prematurely aged--willing to barter your hope of salvationfor a draught of the Fountain of Youth--and I find you making love tomy chaperon and most distinguished woman guest! And I was actuallyoffering to teach you! Aren't you a little ashamed of yourself?"

"No, I think not, " he said slowly. "You know Madame Tcherny is a veryold friend of mine. "

"So she is of mine. She's a perfectly adorable chaperon--but thenthere are limits even to the indiscretions of a chaperon. "

"Do you think it quite fair to Olga--" he began. 

She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him mischievously. 

"Oh, Olga is quite capable of taking care of herself. It isn't OlgaI'm thinking about at all. It's you, my poor friend. Did you knowthat Olga has the reputation of being quite the most dangerous woman inEurope?"

"All women are dangerous. Fortunately I'm not the kind of man suchwomen find interesting. "

"I'm not sure that I know just _what_ kind of a man you are, Mr. Markham. In your studio I inclined to the opinion that you had mostof the characteristics of an amiable gorilla; on Thimble Island youseemed like _Diogenes_--without the tub; to-night you're _Lothario, Bluebeard, and Lancelot_ all in one. "

"I'm afraid you flatter me. First impressions are usually correct, Ithink. I'm an amiable gorilla. Perhaps by the time you visit mystudio again, I may have reached the next link in the chain to thehuman. " He laughed and then quickly turned the conversation to a topicless personal. "You _will_ visit my studio next winter, won't you?"

"Of course. You're to do my portrait, you know? But I was hoping thatyou might stay on and paint it here at 'Wake-Robin'!"

He looked off toward Thimble Island a moment before replying. 

"I'm sorry I can't. I have some engagements in New York and my passageis booked for Europe early in the month. I leave Thimble Island almostat once. "

"Oh, that's unkind of you. Don't you find it sufficiently attractivehere?"

"Yes, I do. Unfortunately, I can't consult my own wishes in thematter. "

She had been examining him narrowly. 

"You don't want to stay, Mr. Markham, " she announced, decisively. 

He looked her in the eyes, but made no reply. 

"We're not your sort, I know. But I thought that with Olga here--"

"It has been very pleasant. I am glad to have had the privilege--"

"Don't, Mr. Markham. The truth is, " she went on, "that you came herebecause you thought you ought to be polite. You go because you thinkyou have been quite polite enough. Isn't that true?"

"Figuratively, yes, " he replied frankly. "I'm not gregarious byinstinct. I can't help it. I suppose I'm just unsociable, that's all. "

"Oh, well, I'm sorry, " she said, rising. "If you _won't_ stay--shall Isee you again?"

"I think not. I'm leaving early. "

"Oh, " with a stamp of her foot. "I have no patience with you!"

"You see, " he shrugged, "I don't wear well. "

They reached the hall and she gave him her fingers. 

"I wish you all the happiness in the world, " he said quietly. She glanced at him quickly. 

"I'm always happy. You mean--"

"Your engagement to Mr. Armistead. "

Her lips curved demurely. 

"Oh, of course--Reggie and I will get along--we'll manage somehow--buta month is a long while--"

"But life is a longer while--"

"Yes--it is--too long--"

There was a note in her voice he had not heard before. He glanced ather inquisitively, but she went up the steps, one hand extended overthe baluster to his, laughing mischievously. "Good night, Mr. Markham. Thanks for the breakfast--and the philosophy. Butplease remember that people who love in glass houses--shouldn't castaspersions. "

CHAPTER X

THE FUGITIVE

Like the skillful general who covers his retreat by an unexpected showof strength, Olga Tcherny had retired in good order, with colorsflying. She had struck hard, spent some ammunition and endangered herline of communications, but she had reached the cover of the talltimbers, where for the moment it was safe to go into camp, repairdamages and take account of injuries. 

At the beginning of their acquaintance her interest in Markham had notbeen unlike that of the motherly hen in the doings of the newlyhatched duckling with which she differed as to the practical utilityof duckponds. She had been intensely interested in his work and inhis career which during the winter in Paris had been definitely shapedas a painter of successful portraits. She had liked the man from thefirst, liked him well enough to be as genuine as he was, and founddelight in a companionship which led her down pleasant lanes ofthought--which terminated, as they had begun, in quiet satisfaction. He neither lied to her nor flattered her; his speech had the simpledirectness of a child's, and while she frequently reproved him for hisrusticity, in secret she adored it. She had been used all her life tothe polish of Europe, satiated with its compliments, glutted with itshypocrisy, courted by men with manner and no manners, whom she had metwith their own weapons. She had never known a real friendship inman--or woman--had not even sought friendship, because life had taughther that, for her, such things did not exist. In Markham she hadfound the myth without searching, and once found she had grappled itto her soul with hoops of steel. His friendship it was that she hadloved--not Markham. He was her own discovery, her very own, and shefollowed her first sober impulse, calmly, giving him the best of her, scorning the arts which she had been accustomed to employ on other menwith so much success. 

A born coquette is much like the hunter who hunts for the love ofhunting and has no appetite for game upon his own table. Olga Tchernyhad hunted in all the covers of sportive Europe with an appetite whichalways ended with the chase. Markham had not been marked as game. Hewas simply a delicious accident and she had accepted him as such, grateful for the new appetite which was as healthy as it was unusual. 

But it was very natural that his indifference should pique her vanity. Markham did not care for women. That was all the more a reason why heshould learn to care for her. The love of being loved was habit, ingrained, and she could not dismiss it with a word. But she gave himher friendship, and having given it would not recant from her secretvow to be honest with it and with him. 

There had been moments of uncertainty, moments of ennui, but never ofdanger--until to-night, when she had fallen from grace and yielded toan impulse, once ignoble, but now ignoble no longer, to bring Markhamat all hazards to her feet. It was no longer their friendship that sheloved, but Markham. She loved fervently as coquettes will at last, placing in one ship the cargo that had fared forth in so many vessels. It was the coquette in her that had mocked and tantalized him, thecoquette even whom he had kissed--but it was the woman who had struckand now suffered the pains of her imprudence. 

Olga dismissed the unfortunate Georgette when she came to brush herhair and threw herself on the bed, both hands supporting her chin, staring at vacancy. He had guessed the truth-the agony of it! Shehad wept--real tears, the tears of subjection. She had begun--acoquette, trusting to her skill in dissimulation, but her heart hadbetrayed her. She had wept and Markham had seen her tears. Even aless sophisticated man than he would have known that women of her typeonly weep when they are stirred to the lees. Had she deceived him inthe end? The doubt still assailed her. She had cut him deeply, hurthis _amour propre_ and left him scowling in Arcadian resentment. Would the lesson last? Or must she seek further means to convince himof her indifference? Why had she provoked him? A whim--the dormantdevil in her--to whom her better self must now pay in the loss of hisfriendship. 

The old relation between them was dead. She had nailed it in itscoffin. He did not love her, but she knew, that had she wished, shecould have made him think he was, coaxed lies from his lips which bothof them would have lived to regret. 

The future? Had she one? Happiness? It must come soon. She hadreached the beginning of wrinkles and cheekbones and her wrists weresquarer than they used to be. Thirty!--a year older than Markham!Roses grown in hothouses are quick to fade. Would she fade, too, quickly?

She went to the dressing-table and examined her face in a hand-mirrorwith assiduous care. Yes, crow's feet--three of them at each eye, andtwo tiny wrinkles leading into her dimples. She was positivelyhaggard to-night. It did not do for the woman of thirty to cry. Herhair--another gray one--she plucked it out viciously. She _would not_grow old. Age was a disease which could be prevented by the use ofproper precautions. She must stop playing cards so late, get upearlier, take long walks in the air, play tennis as Hermia did--

She put the mirror down and lay back in her chair, her gaze fixed uponthe wall beside her which bore a photograph of her young hostessastride her favorite hunter. Hermia's youth and her own knowledge ofthe world--what would she not give for that indomitable combination!She was glad in a way that Markham had decided to postpone thepainting of Hermia's portrait. She wasn't quite certain about Hermia. It was never wise to be certain about any girl--especially if thatgirl was seven years younger than you were and quite as pretty. Andwhat on earth did Hermia mean by scrubbing John Markham's floor? Inher present mood it seemed a symbol--was it prophetic? Markham wascandid in his likes and dislikes and he made no bones now of thepleasure in Hermia's society. Hermia was a surprising person. Herlove of mischief was increasing with her years, her capacity formaking it only limited by the end of opportunity. 

She was not surprised when she came downstairs rather late the nextmorning to learn that Markham had returned to the island. This meantthat he was still angry--which was healthful. She needed a littletime for reconstruction, too, and Markham's anger was a more pleasantthought for contemplation than his repentance, apology or sentiment, all of which he would have offered as sops to her pride, and none ofwhich could have been genuine. His departure without seeing her meantthat he had believed her spoken word rather than that which had beenwritten in silence, the testimony of her drooping figure and herunlucky tears. 

A walk refreshed her. By the time she returned to "Wake-Robin" alldoubts had been cleared from her mind. She would wait. He would cometo her. Time would mend his wounds. 

On the way to the house she passed the hangar where her hostess, Reggie Armistead and Salignac were tinkering with the machines. Shestopped and watched them for a moment, when Hermia joined her and theywalked toward the house together. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Olga--" Hermia paused. 

"About what?"

"Last night. How could _I_ have known that the pergola was occupied!"

"Oh, it didn't matter in the least, " she said coolly. "Markham wasmaking love to me, that's all. Pity--isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, " said Hermia slowly, "a great pity--you're no respecter ofpersons, Olga. "

Olga shrugged effectively. 

"How should _I_ have known?"

"You have had time enough to study him, I should say. Why couldn't youlet him be? When there are so many other men--"

"Hear the child! One might think that I had brought him to my knees, _malice propense_. I didn't. _Mon Dieu_, one can't always prevent theunexpected. "

Hermia laughed dryly. "One doesn't plan the unexpected _quite_ socarefully as you do, Olga, dear. "

It was beneath Olga's dignity to reply. 

"At any rate, " continued Hermia, "you've driven him away from'Wake-Robin'. "

"Oh, he'll come back, " said Olga lightly. "Do you think so?"

"Of course. "

"We shall see, " said the girl. 

At the end of three days the Countess Olga realized that for the firsttime in her life she had made a mistake in judgment; for Mr. Markhamdid not return to "Wake-Robin. " And when she went to the island inthe launch to make her peace with him she found the cabin deserted. 

It was not until some days later that she received a letter from himdated in New York, and sent on the eve of his sailing for Europe. 

My Dear Olga:

It is to laugh! But you can be sure that I was angry for a day ortwo. What is the use? I have forgotten my misadventure and willconsider it a warning against rose gardens. I'll not venture into arose garden by moonlight again unless quite alone. It'sdangerous--even with a sworn friend. It wasn't altogether your faultor mine, and you served me quite properly in cutting my self-esteem toribbons. But it hurt, Olga. You know the least of us mortals thinkshe's a heart-breaker, if he tries to be. You've put me back upon myshelf among the cobwebs and there I shall remain. I'm hopelessmaterial to work with socially and deserve no better fate than to belaid away and forgotten. People must take me as I am or not at all. I don't mind rubbing elbows with the great unwashed. They're humansomehow. But your world of dissatisfied women and unsatisfied men!It gets on my nerves, and so I've cut it and run. 

I'm painting an antiquated countess in Havre, and then I'm off for theopen country with a thumb box, a toothbrush and a smile, and with thisequipment I have all that the world can offer. I shall live upon thefat of the land at forty sous a day--_ripaille_--under the trees--asound red wine to wash the dust from one's throat--and an appetite anda thirst such as Westport will never know. 

_Au revoir, chre_ Olga. I could wish you with me, but I shallbe many honest kilometers from a limousine, which is not your idea ofa state of being. 

With affectionate regards, Faithfully, J. M. 

In the same mail was a note to Hermia:

My Dear Miss Challoner:

Your kindness deserves a better return than my abrupt and ratherchurlish departure from "Wake Robin, " and, if it isn't already toolate to restore myself to your graces, I hope you will accept myregrets and apologies, and the sketch from Thimble Island, which goesto you by express. I hope you will like it. I do. That's why I'vegiving it to you. But it's hardly complete without the wreckedmonoplane and the small person who came with it. Perhaps some dayyou'll "drop in" on me again somewhere and I can finish it. Meanwhileplease think seriously about the portrait. I don't believe I'm justthe man to do it. I can't seem to see you somehow. My business is toportray the social anachronism. That is easy--a matter of clothes. But how shall a mere mortal define in terms of paint the dwellers ofthe air? You have me guessing, dear lady. Imagine _Ariel_ in theconventional broadcloth of commerce. It's preposterous. I can't lendmyself to any such deception. 

The rest of the letter was more formal and finished with a message ofcongratulation to Mr. Armistead and a word of thanks for her ownhospitality. And he hoped to remain very cordially "John Markham. "

Hermia smiled as she finished it and then read it over again. Theletter with its mixture of the formal and whimsical both pleased andreassured her. It represented more the Markham of Thimble Island, aperson whose identity had lost something of its definiteness since hertalks with Olga in the days that had followed his departure from"Wake-Robin. " She had been aware of a sense of doubt anddisappointment in him and she had not been quite so sure that sheliked him now. Of course, if he chose to make a fool of himself overOlga it was none of her affair, and she had been obliged to admit thather discovery had taken from him some of the charm of originality. She did not know what had passed between her guests before her abruptdescent through the pergola, but she was quite certain she had falleninto the middle of a psychological moment. Whose moment was it, Olga's or his? She couldn't help wondering. Olga had intimated thatMarkham was in love with her. Hermia now doubted. Indeed a suspicionwas growing in her mind that it was Olga who was in love with Markham. Hermia smiled and put the letter away in her desk. It didn't matterto her, of course, only interested her a great deal, but she couldn'thelp wondering why, if Markham was so deeply under the spell of Olga'sworldliness, he had not come back to her when she had wanted him. 

A northeaster had set in along the coast, and the guests of "WakeRobin" were driven indoors. Olga, when she wasn't playing auction, wandered from window to window, looking out at the dreary skies, venting her ennui on anyone within earshot. Archie Westcott, who waslosing more money than he could afford to lose, now lacked the buoyantspirits which carried him so blithely along the crest of the socialwave and scowled gloomily at his cards which persisted in favoring hisopponents. Crosby Downs, whose waistband had again reached itsfullest tension, sought the tall grasses of the smoking-room andrefused to be dislodged. Without the shadows of her hat and veilMrs. Renshaw showed her age to a day, and that didn't improve hertemper. Beatrice Coddington had an attack of the megrims and remainedin her room. 

Hermia played bottle pool and pinochle with Reggie Armistead until theybegan discussing the exact terms of Hermia's promise when there began aquarrel which lasted the entire afternoon and ended in Reggie's goingout into the pouring rain and swearing that he would never come back. But he did come back just in time for dinner, through which he satpretending that he was interested in Phyllis Van Vorst and castinggloomy looks in the direction of the oblivious Hermia. At the end ofthree days there were no more than two people in the house on terms ofcivility, and most of Hermia's guests had departed. 

Olga Tcherny, after an afternoon alone in her room, came downstairs atthe last extremity of fatigue. 

"I can't stand it another hour, Hermia. I'm off in the morning. "

"Off? Where?" asked Hermia. 

"Oh, I don't know. Anywhere. New York first and then--"

"Normandy?" queried Hermia impertinently. 

Olga only smiled. 

CHAPTER XI

THE GATES OF CHANCE

Markham had finished the portrait of his antiquated countess in Havreand abandoning the luxuries of the Hotel Frascati had taken to theroad with his knapsack and painting kit for a two months' jaunt alongunfrequented Norman byways. This had been his custom since his firstyear in Paris, when his means were small and the _wanderlust_ drovehim forth from the streets of Paris. He had walked from the Savoie toBrittany, from Belgium to Provence and the vagabond instinct in himhad grown no less with advancing years. He liked the long days in theopen. The slowly moving panorama of hill and dell, which was lostupon the touring motorists who continually passed him, filling the airwith their evil smells and clouds of dust. He liked the odor of theloam in the early morning, the clean air washed by the dew andredolent of burning wood, the drowsy hour of noon with its meal ofcheese and bread eaten at the shady brink of some musical stream andthe day-dream or doze that followed it; the long mellow afternoonsunder the blue arch of sky where the pink clouds moved as lazily ashe, in vagabond procession, across the zenith. His aimlessness andtheirs made them brothers of the air, and he followed them under thetrackless sky, aware that his destination for the night lay somewhereahead of him, leaving the rest to chance and the patron saint ofNomads. He liked the rugged faces he saw on the road, the Normanwelcome of his host and the deep sleep of utter weariness and contentwhich defied the tooth of time and discomfort. 

After a few days in Rouen, where he always lingered longer than heintended to, he had crossed the river at Sotteville an had followedmain roads which led him to the south and east through the heart ofthe historic Eure. 

He had given Trouville a wide berth; for he knew some people there, friends of Olga Tcherny's, people of fashion who would have lookedaskance at his dusty clothes and general air of disrepute. He was notin the humor for Olga's kind of friends or indeed for Olga, if as thelast note from her had indicated she, too, had arrived on this side ofthe water. He was sufficient unto himself and gloried in hisselfishness. Song he would have and did often have at night with hischance companions of the road, and wine or the sound Norman ciderwhich was better--but no women--no women for him!

It was on the road beyond Evreux that he thus congratulated himself forthe twentieth time. His path passed near the brink of a river fringedwith trees and to the right the hills mounted abruptly to a rockyeminence, crowned with an ancient castle which stolidly sat as it haddone for a thousand years and guarded the peaceful valley beneath. Ithad looked down upon the pageantry of an earlier day when knights inarmor had ridden forth of its portals for the honor of their ladies, had listened to the hoof-beats of more than one army, and had heard inthe distance the clash of Ivry. To-day a railroad wound around thebase of its pedestal, reminding it of the new order of things and ofits own antiquity. 

As Markham approached the railroad crossing, from the oppositedirection, in a cloud of dust, came an automobile. But as it nearedthe track a woman waving a red flag and blowing a horn came runningfrom a small house by the roadside and pulled the gates across theroad. The automobile, which had only one occupant, came to a suddenstop and an argument followed. Markham was too far away to hear whatwas said, but the gestures of the disputants could be easilyunderstood. There was no train in sight and plenty of time to cross, said the motorist. The peasant waved her flag and pointed down thetrack. More words, more gesticulations, but the gate-keeper wasobdurate. The motorist looked up the track and at the gate and road, and then followed explosives, smoke and dust from the impatientmachine, which slowly moved backward a short distance up the roadagain. Markham, slowly approaching, watched the comedy with interest. An impatient Parisian, jealous of the passing minutes, and anobstinate peasant--to whom passing minutes had no significance--couldany two humans be more definitely antagonistic?

What was the person in the car about? More explosions and the blue ofburning oil as the car came forward, its cutout open, turning to theleft off the road over a ditch and into a field. The gate-keeper ranforward shaking her flag and screaming as she guessed the motorist'sintention. But it was too late. The car was hidden for a moment fromMarkham's view in the declivity upon the other side of the railroadembankment, the exhaust roaring furiously, and leaped into sight, thefront wheels high in the air as it took the near rail and then fellheavily with a complaining groan across the track and moved no more, its rear axle snapped in two. 

Of all the fool performances! Markham ran forward crying in French tothe chauffeur to jump, for around the profile of the hill thelocomotive of the oncoming train was emerging. The motorist looked atMarkham and then at the advancing train in bewilderment; then jumpedclear of the track beside Markham as the freight train, its brakescreaking, its steam shrieking, crashed into the unfortunate machine, turning it over and then crumpling it into a shapeless mass, throughwhich it tore, its impetus carrying it well down the road andscattering the torn fragments of nickel and steel on both sides of thetracks. 

It was not until the train had been brought to a stop that Markham hadhad time to notice that the motorist was a woman--not until she turneda rather wan face in his direction that he saw that the victim of thismisfortune was Hermia Challoner. 

"You, child!" he gasped. "What in the name of all that's impossible--"

"John Markham!"

"Good Lord, but you had a close call for it! Couldn't you have waiteda moment--"

"It was a new machine, " she stammered. "I was trying for a record toTrouville from Paris. "

"It was a d--n fool thing to do, " he blurted forth angrily. "You mighthave been killed. "

She looked at him, her lips compressed, but made no reply. 

The gate-woman, who for a few moments had stood as though petrifiedwith fright, now resumed her screams and gesticulations as the crew ofthe train descended. In a few moments they surrounded Hermia, allshouting at once, and waving their arms under Hermia's nose. Sheattempted replies, but the noise was deafening and no one listened toher. Peasants working in the fields nearby who had heard the crashcame running and added their numbers and temperaments to the Babel. The gate-keeper thrust herself violently into the midst of the grouppointing at the wreck of the machine and at Hermia, her remarks asunintelligible to the train crew as they were to Markham. 

Hermia stood her ground, but when one of the train crew seized her bythe arm and thrust his grimy face close to her own she grew pale anddrew back. Markham stepped between and gave the fellow a shove whichsent him sprawling. There was a pause and for a moment matters lookeddifficult. But Markham mounted the embankment, drew Hermia up besidehim, put his back against a car, held up his hand and in Frenchdemanded silence. His voice rang true and they listened. He had seenthe accident from the road and would bear witness. It was not thefault of the gate-keeper or of the lady who drove the car. It wassimply an accident tin which lives had fortunately been spared. Theaxle of the machine had broken upon the track. If there was any claimfor damages he would testify that the engineer was not to blame. 

A man in a peasant's smock from a neighboring field, who, it appeared, held some local office of authority, now took a hand in theinvestigation and, after a number of questions of Hermia and thegate-keeper, sent the train upon its way. 

Amid the turmoil of the gate-keeper's voice who was recounting theaffair to the latest arrivals Hermia watched the train as it passedbetween the fragments of what a few minutes before had been a newFrench machine. Some of the peasants had already gathered around thewreck and one of them restored her leather bag, which had been tossedsome distance into the ditch. To all appearances this was the onlysalvage and she took it gratefully. A walk down the track convincedMarkham that what was left of the car was only fit for the scrap-heap. And as the crowd still surrounded Hermia he put his arm in hers andled her away. She followed him silently up the road by which she hadcome until they had left the gaping crowd behind them. Then he madeher sit on a bank by the roadside and unslinging his knapsack droppedbeside her. "Well?" he asked. 

She looked down the road toward the scene of her misfortune, the smile, half plaintive, half whimsical, that had been hovering on her lipssuddenly breaking. 

"If you scold me I shall cry. "

"I'm not going to scold, " he said kindly. "That wouldn't help matters. "

"It was such a beautiful piece of mechanism--so human--sointelligent--" a tear trembled on her lashes and fell--"and I've onlyhad it two days. "

She was the child with a broken toy. It was the child he wanted tocomfort. 

"I'm sorry, " he said genuinely. "I wish I could put it together foryou again. "

"It's gone--irretrievably. There's nothing to be done, of course. "And then, "Oh! it seems so cruel! The thing cried out like a woundedanimal. You heard it, didn't you? And it was all my fault. That'swhat hurts me so. "

"One gets over being hurt, but one doesn't get over being dead. Youonly missed being killed by the part of a second. "

She dashed the tears form her eyes with the back of her hand. 

"Oh, I know. And I'm awfully grateful. I really am. I don't know whyI didn't jump sooner. I saw the train, too. I simply couldn't move. I seemed to be glued there--until you shouted. It was lucky you werethere. "

She buried her face in her hands a moment and when she straightened wasquite calm again. 

"It's all over now, Mr. Markham, and I'm awfully obliged, " she saidwith a laugh. "You seem fated to be the recording angel of my maddestventures. "

"It _was_ madness, " he insisted. 

"I know it, " she sighed. "And yet I'm quite sure I would do it again. "

"I don't doubt that in the least, " he replied gravely, concealing asmile as one would have done from a mischievous child. 

There was a silence. 

"The world is very small, isn't it, Mr. Markham?" she asked. "What onearth are you doing here?

"I? Oh, vagabonding. It's a habit I have, I'm doing Normandy. "

She examined him from top to toe and then said amusedly:

"Did you know that for the past week Olga has been searching Havre highand low for you?"

"No. I didn't know it. Where is she now?"

"At Trouville. And I was to have dined with her tonight. "

"I'm afraid you'll hardly get there, " he said, looking at his watch. "This line doesn't connect. "

"Doesn't it? Oh, some line will, I suppose. " And then irrelevantly, "Do you know, Mr. Markham, I've often wondered what it would be like tobe a vagabond? I think I really am one deep down in my heart. "

"Vagabonds are born--not made, Miss Challoner. They belong to theimmortal Fellowship of the Open Air, an association which dates fromEsau--an exclusive company, I can tell you, which black-balled brotherJacob, and made Franois Villon its laureate. It is the onlyclub in the world where the possession of money is looked on withsuspicion. Imagine a vagabond in a six thousand-dollar motor car!"

She opened her eyes wide and threw out her hands with a hopelessgesture. 

"But I'm not responsible for the money. _I_ didn't make it. I don'tsee why I haven't just as much right to be a vagabond as you have. "

He examined her amusedly. 

"You would have the right perhaps if it wasn't for your unfortunatemillions. It's too bad. I'm really very sorry for you. "

His irony passed beyond her. 

"I _am_ a vagabond, " she insisted. "I haven't a single conventionalinstinct. I've never had. I hate convention. It fetters and stiflesme. My money! If you only knew how I loathe the responsibilities, the endless formalities, the people who prey upon me and those whowould like to, the toadying of the older people, the hypocrisy of theyounger ones. It isn't me that they care for. I have no friends. Noone as rich as I am _can_ have friends. I distrust everyone. Sometimes I've thought of going away from it all--disappearing andnever coming back again. I'm so tired of having everything I want. Iwant to want something I can't get. I am weary of everything thatlife can offer me. I have to choose unhealthy excitements to keep mysoul alive. Speed--danger--they're the only things that seem to makelife worth while. "

He shook his head as she paused for breath. 

"Oh, I know you think I'm mad. I seem so by contrast to your content. You seem so happy, Mr. Markham. "

"I am, " he said. "All vagabonds are happy. "

She looked at him enviously as though she might by chance discover hissecret of life, but he lit his pipe and puffed at it silently. 

"What is your secret of happiness, Mr. Markham?" she asked wistfully. "Tell me, won't you?"

"'An open hand, an easy shoe and a hope to make the day go through, '"he quoted with a quick laugh. 

"What else?"

"Thirst--and a good inn to quench it at. "

"Yes--"

"A conscience, " he finished, "with little on it--a purse with little init. You see the Ancient Order of Vagabonds never used purses--unlessthey were other people's. "

He stopped with a laugh and glanced down the road toward the scene ofHermia's accident. "All of which is interesting, " he said with apractical air, "but doesn't exactly solve the problem of how we're toget you to Trouville in time for dinner with the Countess Tcherny. "He took a road map from his pocket and spread it out on his knapsackbetween them, while Hermia peered over his shoulder and followed hislong forefinger. 

"Evreux, Conches, Breteuil--we must be about here--yes--and there'syour crooked railroad. It goes around to Evreux, where there's athrough line to the coast. You might hire a horse and wagon--but eventhen you would hardly get to Evreux before sunset. Miss Challoner, I'm afraid you'll not reach Trouville to-night--"

"Oh, I don't care, " she said. "It's a matter of indifference to mewhether I reach Trouville at all--"

"But your friends will worry. "

"Oh, no--I could wire them, I suppose--"

"Oh yes. And there's a good inn at Evreux. But we had better be goingat once. "

He folded his map, put it in his pocket and rose, slinging hisknapsack across his shoulder and offering her a hand to rise. But shedidn't move or look at him. She had plucked a blade of grass and wasnibbling at it, her gaze on the distant landscape to the southward. 

"Wait a moment, please. I--I've something more to say to you. "

He looked at her keenly, then leaned against the bole of a tree, listening. 

"I--I don't know just what you'll think of me, but if I--I didn't feelpretty sure that you'd understand what I mean I don't think I'd havethe courage to speak to you. You once told me you liked me a greatdeal, Mr. Markham, and I--I know you meant it because you're not a manto say things you don't mean. "

"That's true, " he confirmed to her. "I'm not. "

"And I think that's one of the reasons I believe in you, " she went on, smiling, "and why I thought your friendship might be worth while. You're the only person I've ever met in my world or out of it whoseopinions were not tainted with self-interest. Can you wonder that Ivalue them?"

"I'm glad of that, " he said genuinely. "I'd like to help you if I can. "

"Would you?" she asked, "would you really?" She rose and faced him. "Then teach me the secret of your happiness, John Markham, " she cried. "Show me how to live my life so that I can get as much out of it asyou get out of yours. There is--there must be some way to learn. I've always wanted to be happy, but I've never known how to be. WhenI grew up, people told me how much better off I was than other people, how happy I would be--that anything I wanted was mine for the asking, measuring my future happiness--as the world will--in terms of dollarsand cents. I'm only twenty-three, John Markham, but I've bought fromlife already all it has to offer. Isn't there something else? Isn'tthere something that one can't buy?"

"Yes, " he said. "Freedom. "

"That's it, " she cried. "Freedom--I'm a slave. I've always been-aslave to my lawyers and trustees, a tool in the hands of the people whofatten on me, the servants who rob me, the guests who flatter and useme, the people of society to invite me to their houses and take mycharacter when my back is turned. I'm a slave, John Markham, a moralcoward, afraid of my enemies--afraid of my friends, afraid to hate, afraid to love--distrusting everyone--even myself. "

He did not speak, but as she turned toward him she saw that his eyeswere alight with comprehension. She thrust out her hands impulsivelyand caught his in her own. 

"Take me with you, John Markham. I want to learn what makes youhappy--I want to learn your secret of living. "

"Impossible!" he stammered. 

She dropped his hands and turned away. 

"You refuse then?"

"I--I didn't say so. But I can't believe--"

"You must. I've paid you the high compliment of thinking you'dunderstand. "

He tangled his brows in perplexity. "Yes--I'm flattered--but have youthought? I'm afoot--eating and drinking where and what I can get, sleeping where I may. It wouldn't be easy--for a girl. "

"I'm not made of tender stuff--" she broke off and turned toward himwith an impulsive gesture. 

"If you don't want me, " she cried, "tell me so. I'll believe you andgo. "

"No, " he muttered. "I won't tell you that. But have you thought ofthe consequences? Of what people will think?"

"Let them think what they choose, " she said. 

She met the inquisition of his eyes frankly and the thought which for amoment had troubled him went flying to the winds in the treetops. Forall her experience with the world she was a child--with a trust in himor an innocence which was appalling. 

"The roads of France are free, " he laughed gaily. "How should _I_stop you. "

She looked up at him in delight. "You mean it? I may go? Oh, JohnMarkham, you're a jewel of a man. "

"Perhaps you won't think so when we're vagabonds together; forvagabonds you must be--taking what comes without complaint--sourwine--a crust--"

"Here's my hand on it--a vagabond--with vagabond's luck--vagabond'sfare. "

He studied her a moment again, soberly testing her with this gaze, butshe did not flinch. 

"This, " he said at last, "is the maddest thing--you've ever done. "

CHAPTER XII

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER

He threw the knapsack over his shoulder and picked up Hermia's leatherbag which had been saved from the wreck of the machine, but she quicklytook it from him. 

"No, " she said sternly, "I'll do my own carrying. I'll take my half, whatever it is. " She led the way out into the road, then paused. 

"Which way, brother?"

He pointed with his stick. "Southward, " he said, but paused, lookingdown the hill toward the gate-keeper's cottage around which a smallcrowd still hovered. "But there's something to do before we go. "

"The machine? There's nothing to do with that. I'll leave it--"

"Not only the machine--we'll leave something else here. "

Her puzzled glance questioned. 

"Our identities--we'll leave them here, too, if you please, " hereplied. "The person by the name of Hermia Challoner from this pointsimply ceases to exist--"

"She does. She ceased to exist ten minutes ago, " she laughed joyfully. "And John Markham?"

"Is Philidor, portrait artist, by appointment to the proletariat ofFrance, at two francs the head. "

"Delicious! And I--?"

"You? You'll have to be my--er--sister. "

"Oh, never! I simply _won't_ be your sister. That's entirely toorespectable. A pretty vagabond you'll have me! You'll be giving e agreen umbrella and a copy of Baedeker next. I'll be something devilishand French or I'll be Hermia. Yvonne--that's my name--YvonneDeschamps, _compagnon de voyage_ of the Philidor aforesaid. "

"No, " he protested. 

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "I don't like the idea, " he said thoughtfully. 

"But I insist. "

He looked down at her for a moment, measuring her with his eye, andthen smiled and shrugged a shoulder with an air of accepting theinevitable. And then as the thought came to him. 

"Your car--could the wreck be identified?"

"Its number. We must find that and destroy it. "

They went down the hill together and, eyed by the curious peasants, sauntered down the track where Markham, after some searching among thebushes, found the number of the machine still clinging to the ruins ofthe radiator. This he unstrapped and slipped into his knapsack, presently joining Hermia, who was making her peace with thegate-keeper. 

"Two tires, one wheel--the speedometer, " she was saying in French. "Iwill leave them for you to sell, Madame, if you can. And Monsieur--hemay have whatever else is left. That is understood between you, andthese gentlemen will bear witness. As for me--never will I ride in anautomobile again. If it pleases you, say nothing more of this than maybe necessary. Adieu, Madame et Monsieur. "

There were offers of conveyance to Evreux (for a consideration), whichMarkham refused, an the two companions took to the road and soon passedout of sight, leaving the group of peasants staring after them, stillmystified as to the whole occurrence and wondering with Normanstolidity whether Hermia was mad or just a fool. 

As Hermia followed Markham over the ridge and down the long slope thatled to Vagabondia a deep-drawn breath of delight escaped her. 

The gray road descended slowly into a valley, already filled with thelong shadows of the afternoon-a valley of ripening crops laid out inlozenges of green and purple and gold, like a harlequin suit, girdledat the waist by the blue ribbon of the river, a cap of green andpurple where a clump of young oaks perched jauntily on the baldcontour of the distant hilltop; above, a sky of blue flecked withsaffron and silver like a turquoise matrix--against which the tallpoplars marched in stately procession, their feathery tops noddingsolemnly at the sun. 

It was curious. From a car the landscape had never looked like this. Indeed, when she was motoring, Hermia never saw anything much but thestretch of road in front of her, its "thank ye marms, " its ditches andits speed signs. 

She glanced up at Markham, who strode silently beside her, his pipehanging bowl-downward from his teeth, his lips smiling under theshadowy mustache, his eyes blinking merrily at the sky. She guessednow at the reason for the serenity in his face, as to which she hadbeen so curious. It was the reflection of the wide blue vault abovehim, the quiet river and the dignity of the distances. 

Hermia paused and drank the air in gulps. 

"Vagabondia! You've opened its gates to me, John Markham. "

He looked around at her in amusement. 

"There are no gates in Vagabondia, Miss Challoner. "

"Miss Challoner!" she reproved him. 

"Hermia, then. Do you realize, you very mischievous young person, thatthis is precisely the fourth time that you and I have met?"

"I shall call you John, just the same, " she announced. 

"By all means, or Philidor--anything else would be rather silly--underthe circumstances. You aren't regretting this madness? There's stilltime to reconsider. "

"No, " promptly. "I've burned my bridges. _En avant, Monsieur_. "

The next rise of land brought into view the houses of a small townhuddled among the trees along the river bank. They were still on themain line of communication between Paris and the Coast, and hereperhaps they would find a telephone or telegraph office. Hermia madea wry face. 

"I didn't know there were any telephones in Vagabondia. "

"There aren't. We haven't reached there yet. " He glanced at hermodish French suit and hat and down at the English leather travelingcase she was carrying. 

"If you think you look like a vagabond in that get up you're muchmistaken, " he laughed. 

"I don't. I know I don't, " looking ruefully at her clothes. "But Iwill before long. You'll see. "

The village upon closer inspection achieved a dignity which thedistance denied it. There was a row of small shops, a _brasserie_ andan inn, all slumbering under the shadows of a grove of trees. Theroad became a street. Upon their left a gate into an open-air cabaretunder the trees next to a wine shop stood invitingly open, and thepilgrims entered. There were wooden tables and benches upon which satsome workmen in their white smocks drinking beer and discussingpolitics. 

The proprietor of the place, a motherly person, took Markham's orderand went indoors, presently emerging with a try which bore a pitcherof cider, a wonderful cheese and a tower of bread, all of which shedeposited before them. She only glanced at Markham, for she was usedto the visits of traveling craftsmen along the highway--but shestudied Hermia's modish frock with a critical eye. After the firstpolite greetings she lingered nearby, her curiosity getting the betterof her discretion. 

"Monsieur and Madame are stopping at the Inn?" she asked at last. 

Markham smiled. It was the curiosity of interest rather thanintrusiveness. 

Monsieur and Madame had not decided yet. Was the inn a good one?

Very good. Monsieur Duchanel, a cousin of hers, took great pride inreceiving guests who knew good fare. 

All the while she was appraising with a Norman eye the value of thefeather in Hermia's hat. 

"We thought of going on to Boisset, " Markham went on. "Perhaps it istoo far to reach by nightfall. "

"Oh, _mon Dieu_, yes--if one is walking--ten kilometers at the least. Did Monsieur and Madame desire a carriage?"

"No, perhaps after all we will stay here. "

This wouldn't do at all. To be taken for persons who were accustomedto the excellences of French cuisine was not Hermia's idea of being avagabond. She had been studying the face of their hostess and came toa sudden resolution. Here was the person who could, if she would, complete her emancipation. Turning to Markham she said smoothly inFrench:

"Will you go on to the Inn and see if you can find accommodations? Inthe meanwhile I will stay here and talk with Madame. "

Taking the hint Markham finished his glass and leaving his knapsack onthe bench went out into the high road in the direction indicated. Hewalked slowly, his head bent deep in thought, realizing for the firsttime the exact nature of the extraordinary compact which he had madewith the little nonconformist who had chosen him for a travelingcompanion. The more he thought of the situation the more apparentbecame the gravity of his responsibility. Why had he yielded to herreckless whim? Only this morning he had been thanking his lucky starsthat he was well rid of women of the world for a month at least. Andnow--Shades of Pluto! He had one hanging around his nick more securelythan any millstone. And this one--Hermia Challoner, an enthusiastwithout a mission--a feminine abnormity, half child, half oracle, wholly irresponsible and yet, by the same token, wholly anddelightfully human!

But in spite of the charm of her amiability and enthusiasm he felt ithis duty to think of her at this moment as the daughter of PeterChalloner, the arrogant, hard-fisted harvester of millions--to thinkof her as he had thought of her when she had left his studio in NewYork with Olga Tcherny, as the spoiled and rather impertinent exampleof the evils of careless bringing up, but try as he might he onlysucceeded in visualizing the tired and rather unhappy little girl whowanted to learn "how to live. " Whether that confession were genuineor not it made an appealing picture--one which he could notimmediately forget. Markham had lived in the thick of life for a goodmany years as a man must who wins his way in Paris, but his view ofwomen was elemental, like that of the child who chooses for itself atan early age between the only alternatives it knows, "good" and "bad. "To Markham women were good or they were bad and there weren't anywomen to speak of between these two classifications. He had seenHermia first as the protŽgŽe and boon companion of theCountess Tcherny, had afterward met her as the intimate of such men asCrosby Downs and Carol Gouverneur, and of such women as Mrs. Renshaw, and yet it had never occurred to him to think of Hermia as anythingbut the spoiled child of Peter Challoner's too eloquent millions, therebellious victim of environment which meant the end of idealism, thebeginning of oblivion. 

This hapless waif of good fortune had thrown herself upon hisprotection and had paid him the highest compliment that a woman couldpay a man--a faith in him that was in itself an inspiration. 

Was she in earnest and worth teaching? That was the rub, or wouldweary feet, hunger, thirst, the chance mishaps of the road bringrecantation and flight to Trouville or to Paris? He would put herintentions to the test. She could be pretty sure of that--and if shesurvived this week under his program of peregrination and philosophythere were hopes for her to justify his rather impulsive acquiescence. 

A motor approached and stopped beside him, the man at the wheel askingin French _ˆ l'AmŽricain_ the way to Evreux. Hedirected them and then, finding that he had emerged upon the otherside of the town, returned in search of the Inn, his stride somewhatmore rapid than before. Of one thing he was now certain. They mustget away from the main road without any further delay. 

He found Monsieur Duchanel smoking a pipe upon his door-sill. It wasno wonder that he had passed the hostelry by; for saving a small signobscured by the shadows of the trees, the house, an ancient affair oftimber and plaster, differed little from the others which faced thestreet. 

Monsieur Duchanel was a short, round-bellied, dust-colored man, withgray hair and a tuft upon his chin. He was the same color as hishouse and his sign and gave Markham the impression of having sat uponthis same door-sill since the years of a remote antiquity. But he gotup blithely enough when the painter announced the object of his visitand showed him, with an air of great pride, through the sleepingapartments which at the present moment were all without occupants. One room with a four-poster, which the host announced had once beenoccupied by no less a personage than Henri Quatre, Markham picked outfor Hermia, and chose for himself a small room overlooking thecourtyard at the rear. He ordered dinner, a good dinner, with soup, an entrŽe and a roast to be served in a private room. TheAmerican motorist had warned him. But Vagabondia should not beginuntil to-morrow. 

These arrangements made, he returned to the cabaret under the trees. Hermia had disappeared, so he sat at the table, poured out anotherglass of cider, filled his pipe and waited. 

The political argument of his neighbors drew to an end with the end oftheir beer and they passed him on their way to the gate, each with afriendly glance and a "_Bon soir, Monsieur_"--which Markham returnedin kind. After that it was very quiet and restful under the trees. Markham was not a man to borrow trouble and preferred to reach hisbridges before he crossed them, and so whatever the elements Hermiawas to inject into the even tenor of his holiday, Markham awaited themtranquilly, though not without a certain mild curiosity as to what wasto happen next. 

But he was not destined to remain long in doubt; for in a few minuteshe hears Hermia's light laugh in the door of the wine-shop, followedby the beating of a drum, the ringing of bells, the crashing ofcymbals, the notes of some other instrument sounding discordantlybetween whiles. And as he started to his feet, wondering what itcould be all about, a blonde head stuck out past the edge of the doorand peered around at the deserted cabaret. He had hardly succeeded inidentifying the head as Hermia's because it wore a scarlet capembroidered with small bells which explained the bedlam of tinkling. When the rest of her body emerged upon the scene Markham noted thatHermia's transformation was in other respects complete; for she wore azouave jacket of red, a white blouse and a blue skirt. Upon her backwas a round object which upon close inspection turned out to be adrum, the sticks of which were fastened to her elbows, and attached toher neck was a harmonica, so placed that she had only to bend her headforward to reach it with her lips. In her right hand was a mandolinwhich she waved at him triumphantly as she reached him with a grandcrash, squeak, tinkle and thump of all the instruments at once. 

Too amazed to speak, Markham stood grinning at her foolishly!

"Well?" she said, throwing her head and elbows back, provoking anunintentional thump and tinkle. "How do you like me?"

"Immensely! But what does it all mean?"

"Foolish man. Mean! It means that Yvonne Deschamps has found a fairygodmother who has transformed her. She has now become a _FemmeOrchestre_ and for two sous will discourse sweet music to the rusticear--mandolin and mouth organ, bells, cymbals and drum--"

She ignored the protest of his upraised hand and again made the airhideous with sound, ending it all with a laugh that made the bells inher cap tinkle merrily. 

"Oh, I don't do it very well yet. It's the first time--but you shallsee--"

"Do you mean that you're going to _wear_ that harness?"

"I do. "

"But you can't walk in that. "

"The orchestra is detachable, _mon ami_. "

"It is incredible--"

"And I have engaged a creature to carry it--"

"Meaning--"

"Not you--behold. "

Markham followed her symphonic gesture. Madame Bordier approached, leading a donkey from the stable-yard, a diminutive donkey ofsuspicious eye and protesting ears. 

"She's very gentle, " sighed the fairy godmother. "It hurts the heartto sell her. But as Monsieur knows--the times are not what they usedto be. " "She is adorable, " cried Hermia. "Isn't she, John Markham?"

"She is, " muttered Markham, caressing the stubble at his chin, "entirely so--a vagabond--I should say, every inch of her. "

It was not until they had reached the Inn of Monsieur Duchanel sometime later that Hermia, having divested herself of the orchestraladjuncts of her costume, confided to Markham the stroke of goodfortune which had put her into possession of this providentialaccoutrement. She had confessed her predicament to Madame Bordier, who, after assuring herself that Hermia was not an escaping criminal, had entered with grace and even some avidity upon the bargain. Hermiawanted a blouse, skirt and hat somewhat worn. But in the act ofsearching in the garret of the wine-shop among the effects of adeparted relative the great discovery had been made. As MadameBordier went deeper and deeper into the recesses of the _malle_ therewas a tinkling sound and she emerged with the cap that Hermia wore andlooked at it with sighs followed by tears. At the appearance of eacharticle of apparel, Madame wept anew, and Hermia listened calmly whilethe "great idea" was slowing being born. It was the daughter ofMadame Bordier's late sister--_Pauvre fille_--who had worn thecostume. She was a _Femme Orchestre_ of such skill that her name wasknown from one end of the Eure to another. She made money, too, _biensžr_, but _hŽlas!_ she married a _vaurien_ acrobat whohad taken her off to America, where she had died last year. Thoseclothes--_bon Dieu!_--they recalled the days of happiness; but ifMademoiselle desired them, she, Madame Bordier, could not stand in theway. Times were hard, as Mademoiselle knew, and if she would give twohundred francs--

"Two hundred francs!" put in Markham at this point. 

"I paid it, " said Hermia, firmly, "and two hundred more for thedonkey. It was all I had. And now, as you see, I must work for myliving. "

Markham laughed. His responsibilities, it seemed, were increasing withthe minutes. 

They dined alone at the _H™tel des Rois_, Monsieur Duchanelhimself doing them the honor of serving the repast, which Hermia soondiscovered had none of the characteristics of the vagabond farepromised her--a velvety soup--_petits pois ˆ la crme_, an _entrŽe_, then _poulet r™ti, salade endive_, cheeseand coffee--a meal for the gods, which these mortals partook of withunusual enjoyment. The coffee served, their host departed with onelast inquiry for their comfort, which more even than the cooking andservice betrayed his appreciation of their proper condition. 

"Such a dinner!" said Hermia contemptuously when he went out. "I'm sodisappointed. Where are your crust and sour wine, John Markham? I'mlosing faith in your sincerity. I 'ask for bread' and you give me_poulet Duchanel_. I want to be bourgeois and everyone treats melike--like a rich American. Shall I never escape?" she sighed. 

"To-morrow--" said Markham through a cloud of smoke. "To-morrow youshall be a vagabond. I promise you. "

And, as she still looked at him doubtingly, "You don't believe it?Then look!"

He brought out his hand from a pocket and laid some money on thetable. "That's all I have, do you see? Fifty francs--twenty of it atleast must go for this dinner--I can observe it in the eye of MonsieurDuchanel--ten more for your chamber Henri Quatre--five formine--leaving us in all fifteen francs to begin life on. You will notfeel like a rich American to-morrow--unless you care to send to yourbankers--"

"Sh--!" she whispered theatrically. "There is no such thing as abanker in the world. "

"You will wish there were before the week is out. "

"Will I? You shall see. "

So far her enthusiasm was genuine enough. But the philosophy begottenof a _poulet Duchanel_ might easily account for such optimism. Indeedto-night Markham himself was disposed to see all things the color ofroses. The small voice of his conscience still protested faintly atthe unconventional character of their fellowship and reminded himthat, whatever her indifference to consequences, his obligation toprotect her from her own imprudences became the more urgent. Butthere was a charm in the situation which quite surpassed anything inhis experience. She was a child to-night--nothing more--and thezouave jacket and short skirt quite obliterated the memory of thatyoung lady of fashion who had presided a short time ago at the head ofthe long dinner-table at "Wake Robin. " If there was any doubt in hermind as to the propriety of what she had done--of what she planned todo, or any doubt as to his own share in the arrangement, her gay moodgave no sign of it, and the frankness of her friendship for him leftnothing to be desired. What did it matter, after all, so long as theywere happy--so long as no one learned the secret. 

His brow clouded and she read his thought. 

"You're worried about me. "

He nodded. 

"The sooner we're far away from the high road between Paris andTrouville, the better I'll be pleased. "

She smiled down at her costume. 

"No one will possibly know me in this. That's why I got it. "

"Don't be too sure. There are people--" he paused, his thoughtsflying, curiously enough, to Olga Tcherny, "people who wouldn'tunderstand, " he finished. She laughed. 

"I don't doubt it. It's quite possible I wouldn't understand myself. We're never quite so impressed with our own virtues as when we can findflaws in other people. But you know I'm not courting discovery. "

"Nor I. We must leave here at dawn. "

"As you please. Now I'm going to bed. "

She got up and gave him her hand and he led her to the door. 

"Good night, Hermia, and pleasant dreams. You shall taste the springsat their fountain head, meet the world with naked hands, learn theluxury of contentment; or else--" as he paused she put her hand beforehis lips. 

"There is no alternative. I shall not fail you. Good night, Philidor. "

"Good night, Hermia. "

Markham sought out Duchanel and sent a telegram to Olga which Hermiahad dictated. "Have changed my plans. Am leaving with a party for atour of French Inns. Will communicate later. "

Duchanel understood. The message would be forwarded from Paris asMonsieur directed. No one in Passy or elsewhere should know. 

Markham nodded and paid the bill, producing from a wallet which Hermiahad not seen an additional amount which Duchanel found sufficient tocompensate him for his trouble. 

"You understand, Monsieur?" said Markham, as he went up to bed. "Madame and I are leaving here _ˆ pied_. We shall have coffee and_brioche_ at five. You will not remember which way we go. "

"_Parfaitement, Monsieur_. You may rely upon my discretion. "

CHAPTER XIII

VAGABONDIA

They took the road in the gray of a morning overcast with clouds andportentous of a storm. At the last moment, their host, with an eyeupon the weather (and another upon Markham's hidden wallet), hadsought to keep them until the skies were more propitious. But theywere not to be dissuaded and trudged off briskly, Monsieur Duchaneland Madam Bordier accompanying them to the cross-roads and biddingthem God-speed upon their journey. 

Markham, pipe in mouth, his hat pulled over his eyes, his coat collarturned up, showed the way, while Hermia, her finery hidden under along coat, followed, leading the donkey, which, after a fewpreliminary remonstrances, consented to accompany them. A tarpaulincovered Hermia's orchestra and Markham's knapsack which were securelypacked upon the animal--a valiant, if silent company, marchingconfidently into the unknown, Hermia smiling defiance at the clouds, Markham smoking grimly, the donkey ambling impassively, the leastconcerned of the three. 

A rain had fallen in the night but Hermia splashed through the mud andwater joyously, like a child, thankful nevertheless for Markham'sthoughtfulness which had provided her last night with a pair of stoutshoes and heavy stockings. To a spirit less blithe than hers theoutlook would have been gloomy enough, for all the morning the cloudsscurried fast overhead and squalls of rain and fog drove into themisty south. The trees turned the white backs of their shiveringleaves to the wind and dripped moisture. The birds silently preenedtheir wet plumage on the fences or sought the shelter of the hedges. Nature had conspired. But Hermia plodded on undismayed, aware of hercompanion's long stride and his indifference to discomfort. Her shoeswere soaked and at every step the donkey splashed her new stockings, but she did not care; for she had discovered a motive in life andfollowed her quest open-eyed, aware that already she was rearrangingher scale of values to suit her present condition. She was beginningto feel the "needs and hitches" of life and had a sense of the flintsstrewn under foot. Her mind was already both occupied and composed. She was quite moist and muddy. She had never been moist or muddybefore without the means at hand to become dry and clean. Those meanslacking, mere comfort achieved an extraordinary significance--reachedat a bound an importance which surprised her. 

After a while Markham glanced at her and drew alongside. 

"Discouraged?" he asked. 

"Not a bit, " she smiled at him. "But I hadn't an idea that rain was sowet. "

"I promised you the fountain springs of life--not a deluge, " helaughed. "But it won't last, " he added cheerfully with a glance atthe sky. "It should clear soon. "

"I don't care. The sunshine will be so much the more welcome. "

He smiled at her approvingly. 

"You are learning. That's the vagabond philosophy. "

He was a true prophet. In an hour a brisk wind from the west hadblown the storm away and burnished the sky like a new jewel. Allthings animate suddenly awoke and field and road were alive withpeople. The birds appeared from tree and bush and set joyously aboutgetting their belated breakfasts. A miracle had happened, it seemedto Hermia. The blood in her veins surged deliciously, and all theworld rejoiced with her. And yet--it was merely that the sun had comeout. 

They had mounted a high hill and stopped for breath at its summit. The country over which they were to travel was spread out for theirinspection. Down there in the valley the river choosing its leisurelycourse northward to the Seine, and beyond it the harlequincheckerboard of vine and meadow, the sentinel poplars, and to theeast-ward the blue hills that sheltered Ivry-la-Bataille. Tinyvillages, each with its slender campanile, made incidental notes oflife and color and here and there, afar, the tall chimneys offactories stained the sky. About them in the nearer fields werehay-wagons and workers, men and women, their shouts and songs floatingup the hill refined and mellowed by the distances. 

Hermia took the air into her lungs, and surveyed the landscape. 

"All this, " said Markham, "is yours and mine--you see, when you havenothing, everything belongs to you. "

She laughed. 

"You won't dare to put that philosophy to the test. There's adelicious odor of cooking food. If everything belongs to me, I'lltrouble you for the contents of that coffee-pot. "

"Not hungry already--!"

"Frightfully so. I haven't eaten for ages. "

He looked at his watch. 

"It's only eleven, but of course--"

"Oh, don't let me interfere with your plans. "

"You don't. I have no plans. We'll go into camp at once. "

They descended the hill and after a while found a secluded spot nearthe river bank. Markham quickly unstrapped the donkey's pack and toHermia's surprise drew forth a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottleof red wine which he set out with some pride on a flat rock near by. 

"This, " he announced, "is our _djeuner ˆ lafourchette_. I won't apologize for it. "

"Wonderful man! Somehow you remind me of the sleight-of-hand performerproducing an omelette from a silk hat. I don't think I've ever beenreally hungry before in my life. "

He opened the bottle with the corkscrew on his pocket-knife and watchedher munching hungrily at the rye-bread. 

"Half the pleasure in life, after all, is wanting a thing and gettingit, " he observed. "How can you want anything if you've already got it?"

"I can't, " she mumbled, her mouth full, "unless perhaps it's thisbread. "

He passed the bottle to her and she drank from it sparingly, passing itto him again. 

"Every wine is a vintage if you're thirsty enough, " he added. "Thetrouble with our world is that most of its people are always about halffull of food. You can't really enjoy things to eat or things to drinkunless you're quite empty. It's the same thing with ideas. You can'tthink very clearly when you're half full of other people's biases. "

"Or their b-bread and ch-cheese!" she said, choking. Further than thatshe did not reply at once. The reasons were obvious. But she munchedreflectively, and when she had swallowed:

"If all your arguments are as convincing as your fare, then you and Ishall never disagree, " she said. 

Clarissa, for that was the name she had given the beast, was turnedloose in the meadow. Markham sat beside Hermia on the warm rock, and, between them, without further words, they finished both the wine andthe food. Markham filled his pipe and stretched out at full length inlazy content while she sat beside him, brushing the dried cakes of mudfrom her skirt and stockings. 

"Well, here we are across the Rubicon, " she said at last. 

He nodded. 

"Are you sorry?"

"No, not in the least. I'm more astonished than anything else at theridiculous simplicity of my emancipation. Yesterday at this hour Iwas a highly respectable if slightly pampered person with a shrewdsense of my own importance in the economic and social scheme; to-dayI'm a mere biped--an instinct on legs, with nothing to recommend mebut an amiable disposition and an abnormal appetite. 

"You've made progress, " he laughed lazily. "Yesterday you lispedknowingly of devil-wagons. You weren't even a biped. I'll admit it'ssomething to have discovered the possession of legs. "

"I do. And it's something more to have discovered the possession of anappetite. "

"And still something more to discover a means to gratify it, " hegrunted. 

If he sought to intimidate her, he failed of his object, for she onlylaughed at him. 

"Oh, I shall not starve. Presently you shall hear me practice with myorchestra. Just now, _mon ami_, I'm too delightfully sleepy to thinkof doing anything else. "

"Sleep, then. "

He laid his coat on the rock, and she sank back upon it, but not toclose her eyes. They were turned on a squadron of clouds which sailedin the wide bay between the forest and the hilltop. Markham, leaningon an elbow, puffed at his pipe in silence. She turned her head andlooked at him. 

"It's curious--" she began, and then passed. 

"What is--curious?"

She laughed. 

"Curious with what little ceremony I threw myself on your mercy;curious that you've been so tolerant with me; curious that--you've nocuriosity. "

"I never believe in being curious, " he laughed. "When you're ready, you'll tell me and not before. 

"About what?""About young Armistead, for instance. "

"We disagreed. He insisted on marrying me. "

"That was tactless of him. "

"You know it was only a trial engagement, and it _was_--a trial--toboth of us. "

Markham grinned. 

"You've relieved my mind of one burden, at least, " he said. "I likeReggie. He's a nice boy. But I haven't any humor to find him pokingaround in these bushes with a shotgun. " "Oh, there's no danger ofthat, " she replied demurely, oblivious of his humor. "Reggie and Ihave parted. "

Markham's eyes were turned upon the clouds. "That's rather a pity--ina way, " he said quietly. "I thought you were quite suited to eachother. But then--" and he surprised a curious look in her yes "--ifyou were going to marry Reggie, you see, you couldn't be here--and Iwould be the loser. "

"I don't see that that would have made the slightest difference, " shereplied rather tartly, "provided I had not married him. "

"Oh, don't you?" he finished with a smile. 

"No, I don't. And I don't believe you when you way that you thinkReggie and I were sited to each other. Because if you thought I wasthe kind of girl to be satisfied with Reggie, you wouldn't have thoughtit worth while to make a vagabond of me. "

His brows drew downward. "I haven't made a vagabond of you--not yet. "

She examined his face steadily. 

"You mean--that you don't believe me to be sincere?"

He didn't reply at once. 

"I won't quibble with you, Hermia, " he said in a moment. "You've paidme a pretty compliment by coming with me out here. But I'm not goingto let it blind my judgment. You were hopelessly bored--back there. You've admitted it. You felt the need of some other form ofamusement--so you chose this. That's all. "

Hermia straightened and sat with her hands clasped around her knees, looking at vacancy. "That's unkind of you, " she said quietly. 

"I don't mean it to be unkind, " he went on softly. "I don't deny thegenuineness of your impulse. But you mustn't forget that you and Ihave grown up in different schools. I'm selfish in my way as you arein yours. I choose this life because I love it better than anythingelse, because it's my idea of contentment. I've approached itthoughtfully and with a great deal of respect, as a result of someyears of patient and unsuccessful experiment with other forms ofexistence. That's the reason why I'm a little jealous for it, alittle suspicious of your sudden conversion. "

[Illustration: "Even Clarissa stopped her grazing long enough to lookup. "]

"You have no right to doubt my sincerity--not yet, " she said. 

"No, " slowly. "Not yet. I'm only warning you that it isn't going tobe easy--warning you that you will be placed in positions that may beunpleasant to you, when our relations may be questioned--"

"I've considered that, " quickly. "I'm prepared for that. I will dowhat is required of me. "

He took her hand and held it for a moment in his own, but she would notlook at him. 

"Hermia--"

"What, Philidor?"

"You're not angry?"

"Not in the least. I'm not a fool--"

Suddenly she sprang down the rock away from him, and, before he knewwhat she was about, had fastened her "orchestra" around her and wasmaking the air hideous with sound. He sat up, swinging his long legsover the edge of the rock, watching her and laughing at the futileefforts of her members to achieve a concert. Even Clarissa stoppedher grazing long enough to look up, ears erect, eying the musician ingrave surprise, and then, with a contemptuous flirt of her tail, wenton with her repast. 

"Everyone knows a donkey has no soul for music, " laughed Hermia, in abreathless pause between efforts. 

"Meaning me?"

"Meaning both of you, " said Hermia. "Wait a moment. "

She tuned her mandolin, and, neglecting the harmonica, in a moment drewforth some chords and then sang:

 /*"Sur le pont d'AvignonL'on y danse, l'on y danse, Sur le pont d'AvignonL'on y danse tout en rond. " */

And then, after a pause, with an elaborate curtsey to Clarissa:

 /* "Les beaux messieurs font comme a Et puis encore comme a. " */

"The Pont d'Avignon?" he laughed with delight. "Bravo, Yvonne!"

"Now perhaps you'll believe in me. "

"I do. I will. Until the end of time, " he cried. "Once more now, with the drum _obbligato_. "

She obeyed and found it difficult because every time her elbows struckthe drum her fingers flew from the mandolin. But she managed it atlast, and in the end made shift to use the harmonica, too. 

Then followed "The Marseillaise. " That was easier. The air had aswing to it, and she managed both the drum and the cymbals. But it waswarm work and she stopped for a while, rosy and breathless. 

"What do you think?"

"Oh, magnificent. Yvonne Deschamps--_Femme Orchestre, Messieurs etDames_, queen of the lyrical world, the musical marvel of the century, artist by appointment to the President of the RŽplubliqueFranaise and all the crowned heads of Europe. How will thatdo?"

"Beautifully. And you--what will _you_ do?"

"I-- Oh, I will pass the hat. "

She laughed. "So! You intend to live in luxury at my expense. No, thank you, Monsieur Philidor. I'm doing my share. You shall doyours. I'll trouble you to keep your word. You shall paint portraitsat two francs a head. "

"I didn't really intend--"

"You shall keep your promise, " she insisted. 

"But, Hermia, I--"

"There are no 'buts'!" she broke in. "A moment ago you indulged insome fine phrases at the expense of my sincerity. Now look to yours. We'll have an honest partnership--an equal partnership, or we'll haveno partnership. "

He rubbed his head reflectively. 

"Oh, I'll do it, I suppose, " he said at last. 

She laughed at him and resumed her practicing, making some notableimprovements on her first attempts and adding "_Mre Michel_"and "_Au Claire de la Lune_, " "_Le Roi Dagobert_" to herrŽpertoire. 

"Where on earth did you learn that?" he asked in an entr'acte. 

"At school--in Paris. "

"And the mandolin?"

"A parlor trick. You see, I'm not so useless, after all. "

Presently, when she sat beside him to rest, he brought out a pad andcrayon and made a drawing of her in her cap and bells. He began alittle uncertainly, a little carelessly, but his interest growing, ina moment he was absorbed. 

Whatever knowledge of her had been hidden from him as a man, it seemedsuddenly revealed to the painter now. The broad, smooth brow whichmeant intelligence, the short nose, which meant amiability, thenostrils well arched, which meant pride, the first rounded lips, whichmeant sensibility, the sharp little declivity beneath them and thesquarish chin, which meant either willfulness or determination (hechose the former), and the eyes, gray blue, set ever so slightly at anangle, which could mean much or nothing at all. 

"Do you see me like that?" she laughed when it was finished. "I'm soglad. You _can_ draw, can't you?"

He held out his palm. "Two francs, please. "

She put the sketch behind her back. 

"Oh, no, Monsieur. Not so fast. You shall give me this for the sakeof my _belle musique_. Is not that fair?"

"But I've taken rather a fancy to it myself. "

"We'll compromise, " and she stuck it up on a crevice of the rock, "andhang it on the wall of the dining-room. "

Another rehearsal of Hermia's program, longer this time and with agreater care for details; and then Markham looked at his watch, knockedout his pipe, and reported that it was time they were on their way. 

Half an hour later they had reached a fork of the road. 

"Which way now, _camarade_?" cried Hermia, who was leading. Markhamexamined the bushes, the trees, and the fences. He stood for a momentlooking down at a minute object by the side of the road, a twig, asHermia saw, broken in the middle, the open angle toward them. 

"What does that mean?" she asked. 

"It's the _patteran_, " he replied, "and it points to the west road. "

And so to the westward they went. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE FABIANI FAMILY

The walking was easier now. It was blither, too. Hermia'sachievements in a musical way had given her confidence. If MadameBordier's defunct niece had been the best _Femme Orchestre_ in theEure, there was no reason why Hermia shouldn't fit into her reputationas comfortably as she fitted into her post-humous garments. Clarissa, too, jogged along without her bridle, and Markham found little use forthe goad he had whittled to save the use of the halter. The people onthe road looked at them curiously, passed a rough jest, and sent themon the merrier. Markham had destroyed his road map and now theyfollowed the _patteran_, leaving their destiny to fortune. In thelate afternoon, on their way through a forest, Clarissa suddenlyhalted and, in spite of much urging, refused to go on. Hermia tookthe halter and Markham the goad, and after a while they moved slowlyforward, the donkey still protesting. A scurrying in the underbrush, and several dogs appeared, barking furiously. Their offensivenesswent no further than this, however, and in a moment Markham made outthe bulk of a _roulette_ in the shadows of the wood, the shaggyspecter of a horse, a camp-fire, and a party of caravaners. There wasa strip of carpet laid out near the fire upon which a small figure, clad only in an undershirt and a pair of faded red trunks, was busilyengaged in wrapping its legs round the back of its neck. The cause ofClarissa's unhappiness was also apparent; for chained to a saplingnearby, rolling its great head foolishly from side to side, sat a tamebear. 

There were greetings as the newcomers approached, the dogs were calledoff, and a burly man rose and came to the roadside to meet them. 

"_Bona jou_, " he said, smiling, his teeth milk white under his stringyblack mustache. Markham returned the salutation. The caravanerglanced at Hermia's costume and swept off his hat. 

"You go to Alenon for the fte?" he asked in very bad French. 

Markham nodded. It was easier to nod than to explain just now. Thebig man smiled again and pointed to the fire with a gesture ofinvitation. After a glance at Hermia, in whose face he readaffirmation, Markham assented, and urging the unwilling donkey, he andHermia followed their host down the slope and into the glen. 

The small figure on the carpet, which had not for one moment ceased itscontortions, now consented to unwind its limbs and stand upright; andin this position assumed definite form as a slender slip of a girl, about twelve years of age. A man and a woman with a baby rose andgreeted them. The introductions were formal. They had fallen, itseems, upon the tender mercies of the Fabiani Family of FamousAthletes. The big man tapped his huge chest. 

"_Moi_!" he announced with pardonable pride. "I am Signor CleofonteFabiani, the world's greatest wrestler and strong man. Here, " and hepointed to the others, "is Signor Luigi Fabiani, the world's greatestacrobat; there Signora Fabiani, world famous as a juggler and handbalancer; Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder of the twentiethcentury. "

He recited this rapidly and with much more assurance than his ordinarycommand of French had indicated, giving complexion to the thought, asdid his gestures, that this was his public confession. Not to beoutdone in civility, Markham replied:

"Mademoiselle--" he paused and changed her title to "Madame" (adiscretion which the others acknowledged with nods of thehead)--Madame was Yvonne Deschamps, Premir lady musician ofthe world, who played five separate and distinct musical instrumentsat one and the same time--an artist known, as the Signor would perhapsbe aware, from Sicily to Sweden, from Brittany to the Russias. 

Hermia bowed. 

As for himself, he was Monsieur Philidor, the lightning portraitartist, of Paris. Likenesses, two francs--soldiers, ten sous. 

Signor Fabiani was glad. _Madonna mia!_ It was not often that suchpersons met. Would the visitors not join him at a pitcher of Calvadoswhich was not cooling in the stream?

Markham fastened Clarissa's halter to the wheel of the _roulette_ nearthe shaggy horse, and joined Hermia, who was already at her ease bythe fire and playing with the _bambino_. They were a jolly lot andmade a fine plea for Markham's philosophy of content. Signor Fabianibrought the pitcher from the stream and Luigi cups from thehouse-wagon, and there they all sat, as thick as thieves, drinkinghealths and wishing one another a prosperous pilgrimage. The Fabianifamily had never been to Alenon. This was one of the fewparts of the world into which their fame had not yet spread. All themore their profit and glory! _Sacro mento_! They would see what theywould see. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would snap heavy chains about hischest. He would put a great stone on his stomach, and, while hesupported himself on his feet and hands, Luigi would break the stonewith a sledge hammer. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would lift her far abovehis head, tossing her to Luigi, who would catch her upon hisshoulders. And the Signora meanwhile would juggle with a piece ofpaper, an egg, and a cannonball. _O Jesu_! They should see!

He stopped and looked at Hermia. A _Femme Orchestre_! In all histravels in Italy he had never seen one. The signora was an _artista_, though. That was clear. One only had to look at her to see that. Hewould listen with delight to her music. And Signor Philidor--wouldSignor Philidor do his portrait? He would pay--

He straightened, put his enormous hand upon his chest, elbow out, andtook a dramatic pose of the head. He was wonderful. Markham at oncefetched his sketching materials and drew him, while the others crowdedabout, looking over the shoulders of Monsieur Philidor, and watchedthe feat accomplished. Not until it was done was Cleofonte permittedto see. It would spoil the pose. 

And then! _Che magnifico pitture_! It was nothing short of amiracle! The nose perhaps a little shorter--but _Madre Dio_! whatcould one expect in twenty minutes! Did not the mustache need alittle smoothing? Upon the morning of the performance it wasCleofonte's custom to dress it with pomatum. The cap, the earrings, the mole upon his cheek--everything was as like as possible. _Si_, Monsieur Philidor was a great artist--a very great artist. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, said so. 

But when Philidor took the sketch from his pad and presented it toCleofonte with his compliments, the athlete's delight knew no bounds. He shoed his teeth, and stood first upon one foot and then upon theother, the sketch held before him by the very tips of his stubbyfingers. The Signora, relinquishing the _bambino_ to Hermia, lookedover his shoulder, more pleased, even, than he. After that nothingwould do but that the visitors must stay for supper. Nothing much--asoup, some rye bread, peas, and lettuce, but, if they wouldcondescend, he, Fabiani, would be highly honored. Hermia acceptedwith alacrity. She was hungry again. Markham smiled and glanced upat the smiling heavens, unfastened Clarissa's pack, and brought out aroasted chicken cold, a loaf of bread, a new tin pot, and a bag ofcoffee, which he brought to the fireside. 

The Signora insisted on preparing the meal, so Markham filled his pipeand helped Hermia to amuse the _bambino_. 

"You will pardon?" said Fabiani. "But this is the hour of practice, while the supper is preparing. Luigi, Stella, we will go on if youplease. "

The child rose, rather ruefully, Hermia thought, and took her placeupon the mat, where, under Luigi's direction, she went through theexercises which were to keep her young limbs supple for theapproaching performances. It was the familiar thing--the slow bendingof the back until the palms of the hands touched the ground, in whichposition the child walked backward and forward, the contortions of theslender body, the "split, " the putting of the legs around the neck. Hermia had seen these acts at the _VariŽtŽs_ and atMadison Square Garden when the circus came, but had seen them at agreat distance, under a blaze of light, as part of a great spectaclein a performance which went so smoothly that one never gave a thoughtto the difficulty of achievement. There in the silent shadows of thewood, bared of its tinsel and music, the rehearsal took on a differentcolor. She saw the straining muscles of the child, the beads ofperspiration which stood on her brow, the livid face with its torturedexpression. An exclamation of pity broke from her lips. "Is it notenough?" she asked. Cleofonte only laughed through his cigarettesmoke. It seemed like a great deal, he said. She had not had herpractice yesterday. It would be still easier to-morrow. And then hesignaled for the performance to be repeated. At last Hermia turned tothe _bambino_ and would look no more. She was tasting life, otherpeople's, at the springs, as John Markham had promised, and it was notsweet. 

There was a brief rest, after which Luigi and Stella did an acrobaticperformance of tumbling and balancing in which at the end Cleofontejoined with a masterful air, punctuating the acts with cries andhandclaps, and at the end of each act they all bowed and kissed thetips of their fingers right and left to the imaginary audience. Therehearsal ended in applause from the visitors. As for the Signora, having put the coffee on to boil, she was not nursing the _bambino_. Cleofonte came up, puffing and blowing and tapping his chest. "Theperformance is ended, " he exclaimed, "in tricks with Tomasso--that isthe name of my bear--and in great feats of strength, as I have toldyou, after which I make my great wrestling challenge, to throw any manin the world for one hundred francs. _Madre de Dio_! You can be surethat when they see Luigi break the stone upon me--they are not zealous. "

The baby bed and fast asleep, it was put to bed in the wagon and theyall sat at supper. The delight Hermia had taken in her newacquaintances--Fabiani's bombast, Luigi's grace, and the Signora'smotherly perquisites--had lost some of its spontaneity since she hadseen the expression on the face of the child Stella, when she had gonethrough her act of _dŽcarcasse_. It haunted her like thememory of a bad dream and brought into stronger contrast her owngirlhood in New York, with its nurses and governesses and thesheltered life she had led under their care and supervision. 

And when Stella, her slim figure wrapped in a shabby cloak, came fromthe _roulette_ and joined them at the fire, Hermia motioned her to theplace beside her. When she sat, Hermia put an arm around the childand kissed her softly on the brow. Stella looked up at her timidlyand then put her sinewy brown hand in Hermia's softer ones and therelet it stay. Hermia had made a friend. 

Cleofonte looked up from his chicken bone and shook his huge shoulders. 

"You are sorry, Signorina? _Jesu mio_! So am I. But what would youhave? One must eat. "

"It seems a pity, " said Hermia, smiling. 

Fabiani shrugged his shoulders and raised his brows to the sky, withthe resignation of the fatalist. "It is life--_voilˆ tout_. "

The soup was of vegetables, for which the Fabiani family had not paid, but it was none the less nourishing on that account. The chicken, aluxury, for which for many days the palate of the Fabiani family hadbeen innocent, was acclaimed with joy and dispatched with magic haste. The cheese, the rye bread, and the salad were beyond cavil; and thecoffee--of Monsieur Duchanel's best--made all things complete. 

The dusk had fallen, velvety and odorous, and the stars came peepingshyly forth. Fabiani, who for all his braggadocio did not lack acertain magnificence, had insisted that the visitors remain in campfor the night. Madame should sleep in the house-wagon with theSignora Fabiani, Stella and the baby. Were there not two beds? Asfor Monsieur Philidor--he knew a man when he saw one. The night washeaven sent. Monsieur should sleep as he and Luigi slept--_ˆla belle Žtoile_. 

Hermia's cover for the night assured, Markham had accepted theinvitation, and now, all care banished for at least twelve hours, theysat in great good fellowship before the fire, listening to Cleofonte'stales of the road. They forgave him much for his good heart and atappropriate moments led in applause of his prowess and achievements. When the conversation lagged, which it did when Cleofonte grew weary, Hermia brought forth her _orchestre_ and played for them; first thetunes she had practiced and afterward, as she gained new confidence intheir appreciation, "Santa Lucia" and "Funiculi, funicula, " to whichCleofonte, who had a soul for concord, roared a fine basso. It was anight for vagabonds, carefree, a night of laughter, of mirth and ofsong. What did it matter what happened on the morrow? Here weremeat, drink and good company. Could any mortal ask for more?

After a time, the din awakening the _bambino_, the Signora went tobed, and Hermia, her hand in Stella's, followed to the wagon. Theanimals fed and watered, Markham settled down by the fire with hisnewly found friends and lit a pipe. In a moment Luigi had fallen backon his blanket and was asleep. Markham was conscious that Fabianistill talked, but he had already learned that it was not necessary tomake replies, and so he sat, nodding or answering in monosyllables. Awarm breeze sighed in the tree tops, the rill tinkled nearby, and anight bird called in the distance. The glow of the fire painted thetrunks of the trees which rose in dim majesty to where their branchesheld eyrie among the stars. The chains of the bear still clanked ashe rolled to and fro until a gruff "Be silent, thou!" from Cleofontebrought quiet in that direction. After a while even Cleofonte grewweary of his own voice, his head fell upon his breast, and he sankprone and slept. 

Markham sat for a long while, his back against the bole of a tree, pipe in mouth, gazing into the embers of the fire. He had brought thetarpaulin which covered the donkey's pack, and Cleofonte had providedhim with a blanket, but he seemed to have no desire to sleep. Thesmile at his lips indicated that his thoughts were pleasant ones. Hermia had learned something to-day--would learn something moreto-morrow, and yet she had not flinched from the school in which hewas driving her. If he had thought by hardship to dissuade her fromher venture, it seemed that he had thus far missed his calculations. Indeed, each new experience seemed only to make her relish the keener. She was drinking in impressions avidly, absorbing the new life as asponge absorbs water, differing from this only in the particular thather capacity for retention had no limitations. He smiled because itpleased him to think that his judgment of her character had not beenat fault. Hers was a brave soul, not easily daunted or discouraged, better worthy of this life which was teaching its stoicism, charityand self-abnegation than of that other life which denied byself-sufficiency their very existence--a gallant spirit which for oncesoared free of the worldly, venal and time-serving. It pleased him tothink it was by his means that she had been bought into his valley ofcontentment and that thus far she had found it pleasant. Would thehumor last?

Fabiani snored, as he did everything, from the depths of his being, and Luigi, in the shadows, echoed him nobly. Markham looked towardthe _roulette_. The lantern which had burned there a while ago hadbeen extinguished. Strangely enough, although it was his custom to bemuch alone, Markham wanted company. He wished at least that Hermiahad bade him good night. It was curious how quickly one fell into thehabit of gregariousness. He and Hermia had fared together but for oneday, and yet he already felt a sort of material dependence upon herpresence. It was the habit of interdependence, of course--herecognized it, the same habit which led men and women in droves to thecities, to herd in the back streets of the slums when the clean valesof the open country awaited them, sweet with the smells of shrub andclover, where one could lie at one's length and look up as one shouldat the stars, lulled by the song of the stream or the whistle of thesouth wind in the-- His head nodded and his pipe dropped from histeeth. Heigho! he had almost been asleep. 

He rose and spread his tarpaulin upon the ground. As he did so a drytwig cracked nearby, a dog growled, and presently a small phantomemerged from the shadows. It was Hermia, with a finger laid upon herlips in token of silence. 

"Couldn't you sleep?" he whispered. 

"No. It was a pity to crowd them, so when Stella got to sleep I cameaway. "

He laid a log upon the fire, and made a place for her beside him. 

"It was very nice of you, " he whispered. "To tell the truth, I wantedyou. "

"Then I'm glad I came. I shall sleep here, by the fire, if you don'tmind. "

"You're not afraid of the damp?"

"I never take colds. "

She smiled at the prostrate Cleofonte, whose stertorous breathingshattered the silences. 

"He is so much in earnest about everything, " she laughed. 

"Aren't you tired?" he asked. "You've had a hard day. "

"Yes--a little. But I don't feel like sleeping. "

"Nor I--but you'd better sleep, you've been up since dawn. "

"What time is it?" she inquired. 

He looked at his watch. "There is no time in Vagabondia. The birdshave been asleep a long while. But if you must know--it's half-pastnine. "

"Only that?" in surprise. "We've turned time backward, haven't we?"

"Of life forward, " he paused and then: "You are still willing to goon?" he asked. 

She smiled into the fire. 

"I am, " quietly. "I'm committed irrevocably. "

"To me?"

"Oh, no. To myself, _mon ami_. You are merely my recording angel. "

"A vagabond angel--"

"Or an angel vagabond. I haven't disappointed you?"

He laughed softly, but made no reply. Of a truth, she had not. 

"I was just thinking what a pity it was that during all these yearsyour gifts have been so prodigally wasted. You have, I think, thegreatest gift of all. "

"And what is that?"

"The talent for living. "

"Have I? Then I've learned it to-day. I _have_ lived to-day, John, "she whispered. "I _have_ lived every hour of it. " She watched theyellow rope of smoke which rose from the damp log. "The talent forliving!" she mused. "I never thought of that. "

"Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have your root inthe soil, Hermia--unless you're an orchid. "

"That's it, I know. But I'm not an orchid any longer. "

Markham rose and knocked his pipe out. 

"No, " he smiled, "you're a night-blooming cereus--and so am I. Youmust remember that in this world the darkness was made for sleep, dawnfor waking. The birds know that. So does Cleofonte. Therefore, you, too, child, shall sleep--and at once. "

He raised the tarpaulin, scraped the ground free of twigs and stones, and then laid it back carefully, fetching his overcoat for a pillow. 

"_Voilˆ_, Mademoiselle, your sheets have been airing all day. I hope you fill find the mattress to your liking. "

"But--where will you sleep?"

"Here; nearby--in Cleofonte's blanket. "

She drew her long coat around her. 

"You're a masterful person, " she laughed. "What would happen if Irefused to obey?"

"An immovable object would encounter an irresistible force. "

She smiled and stretched herself out. He bent forward and laid theloose end of the cover over her. 

"Good night, child. As a reward of obedience, you shall dream of aporcelain bath tub and a tooth brush. "

She smiled, and, fishing in the pocket of her coat, drew out a smallobject wrapped in paper. 

"It's the only thing I've saved from the wreck of myrespectability--but the porcelain bath tub! Don't temp me. "

He turned away and picked up Fabiani's blanket. 

"Good night, Hermia, " he said. 

"Good night. "

"Pleasant dreams. "

"And you--good night. "

"Good night. "

CHAPTER XV

DANGER

It seemed to Hermia that she had hardly closed her eyes before sheopened them again and found herself broadly awake. A blue light wasfiltering softly through the tops of the trees and the birds werealready calling. She pushed her cover away and sat up, all her sensesacutely alive. The fire was out, but the air was not chill. Sheglanced at Markham's recumbent figure, at Cleofonte and Luigi, and thenstealthily arose. Tomasso, the bear, who of all the vagabond companyhad alone kept vigil, eyed her whimsically from his small eyes andmoved uneasily in his chains. 

On tiptoe she made her way to the stream, one of the dogs followingher, but she patted him on the head and sent him back to the wagon. Asshe reached the depths of the forest she relaxed her vigilance and wentrapidly down the stream, finding at last at some distance a quiet poolin the deep shadows. Here was her porcelain tub. She quicklyundressed and bathed, her teeth chattering with the cold, but beforethe caravaners were awake was back in camp, gathering wood for the fire. 

Her activities, furtive as they were, awakened Markham, who sat up, rubbing his eyes. 

"Hello!" he said. "Haven't you been asleep?"

For reply she pointed silently through the tree trunks to the rosy East. 

He got to his feet, shaking himself, rubbed his eyes sleepily, and tookfrom her hand the dead branch which she was dragging to the fire. Between them they awoke Cleofonte, who lumbered to his feet and staredabout with bleary eyes. 

"_Bon giorno, Signora--Signor_. I have slept--oh, what sleep! Luigi!Up with you. _Dio_! It is already day. "

Immediately the camp was in commotion. The Signora descended from thewagon, and with Hermia's help prepared the breakfast while Stella heldthe baby. By sunrise the gray horse was hitched to the shafts of thewagon, the bear hitched to its tail and the travelers were on theirway--the contents of one's valise is on one's back in Vagabondia. Cleofonte had invited Hermia to sit with him upon the seat of thewagon, but she had refused and taken her place by Markham's side behindClarissa, who, quite peacefully, followed in the trail of Tomasso, thebear. 

In this order the procession moved forward into the golden wake of themorning. Hermia was in a high humor--joyous, sparkling, satirical byturns. If yesterday she had found a talent for living, to-day itseemed the genius for joy had gotten into her veins. Her mood wasinfectious, and Markham found himself carried along on its tide, awarethat she was drawing him by imperceptible inches from his shell, accepting his aphorisms in one moment that she might the more readilypick them to pieces in the next. He couldn't understand her, ofcourse. She hadn't intended that he should, and this made the game somuch the more interesting for them both. He didn't mind her tearinghis dignity to taters--and this she did with a thoroughness whichsurprised him, but he discarded the rags of it with an excellent grace, meeting her humor with a gayety which left nothing to be desired. 

"O Philidor!" she cried. "What a delusion you are!"

"Me? Why?"

"Your gravity, your dignity, your wise saws and maxims--your hatred ofwomen. "

"Oh, I say. "

"All pose!" she continued gaily. "Politic but ineffective. You loveus all madly, I know. _Do_ they make love to you, Philidor?"

"Who?"

"Your beautiful sitters. "

"No, " he growled. "That's not what they're in the studio for. "

She smiled inscrutably. 

"Olga did. "

He gave Clarissa a prod. 

"Olga?"

"Yes. She told me so. "

"Curious I shouldn't have been aware of it. "

"And you weren't aware of it--er--in my perg--"

"Hermia!"

"Or of the face powder on your coat lapel?"

"No. "

"It was there, you know. You carried it quite innocently into theglare of the smoking-room. Poor Olga! And she is always so careful tocover her trails! But I warned her. She shall not trifle with youryoung affections--"

"You warned her?" he said, with a startled air. 

"Yes, that unless she intended to marry you she must leave you alone. "

Markham flicked a fly from the donkey's ear. 

"H--m, " he said, and relapsed into silence. She glanced at himsideways before she went on. 

"You know you're not really angry with me, Philidor. You couldn't be. It isn't my fault if I stumbled into the climacteric of yourinteresting romance. I wouldn't willingly have done it for worlds. But I couldn't help seeing, could I? And Olga was _so_ self-possessed! Only a woman terribly disconcerted could be quite so self-possessed asOlga was. And then the next day you went away. Flight is confession, Philidor. "

"H--m, " said Markham. "If there are any missing details that you'dlike me to supply, don't hesitate to mention them. "

"I wouldn't--if there _were_ any. "

"And you believe--"

"That you're madly in love with the most dangerous woman in New York, and that only time and distance can salve your wounds and herconscience. "

He puffed at his pipe and shrugged a shoulder. 

"That's why I say you're a fraud, Philidor, " she went on, "adelusion--also a snare. Your beetling brows, your air of indifference, your intolerance of the world, they're the defensive armor for yourshrinking susceptibilities--you a painter of beautiful women! Everysitter in your studio an enemy in the house--every tube of paint asilent witness of your frailty--every brush stroke a deliciouspain--the agony of it!"

She tweaked Clarissa's ear and whispered into its tip. "It's muchwiser to be just a donkey, isn't it, Clarissa?"

Markham grinned a little sheepishly, but like Clarissa refused to bedrawn into the discussion. Indeed, his patience, like that of theirbeast of burden, continued to be excellent. Hermia's impish spirit wasnot proof against such imperturbably good humor, and at last shesubsided. Markham walked in silence for some moments, speaking after awhile with a cool assertiveness. 

"It's rather curious, Hermia, if I'm the silly sentimental ass you'vebeen picturing me, that you'd care to trust yourself to what you arepleased to call my shrinking susceptibilities. "

"But you're in love with another woman, " she said taking to coverquickly. 

"I'm in love with _all_ other women, " he laughed. "All--thatis--except yourself. It must be a surprise to one who counts herconquests daily to discover that, of all the women in the world, youare the only female my shrinking susceptibilities are proof against. "

Her eyes were turned on him in wide amazement, eyes now quite violentand child-like. 

"I never thought of that, Philidor. It _is_ curious that I neverthought of that. It isn't very flattering to me, is it?"

"No--especially as the opportunities for indulgence in my favoritepursuit are so very obvious. "

She laughed but looked away. He had provided a sauce for the ganderwhich made him seem anything but a goose. 

"But, of course, you--you _couldn't_ take advantage of them--under thecircumstances, " she remarked. 

He shook his head, doggedly whimsical. "One never can tell just howlong one's defensive armor may hold out. I'm sure my brows arebeetling much less than usual. In fact, this morning in spite ofsevere provocation they don't seem to be beetling at all. And as formy air of indifference--I challenge you to discover it. If these areforbidding symptoms, Hermia, take warning while there's time. "

"Oh, I'm not in the least alarmed, " she said demurely. 

But she let him alone after that. They followed slowly in the trail ofthe _roulotte_. Whether because of Clarissa's habitual drowsiness ortheir own interest in other matters, the shaggy horse had gone fasterthan they, and when presently they came to a long stretch of straightroad their hosts of the night had disappeared. 

"Do you know where we're going?" asked Hermia then. 

"No, I don't. I never know where I'm going. But I'm sure of onething. We must make some money at once. "

"We'll follow Cleofonte to Alenon then, " said Hermia resolutely. 

So Markham prodded the donkey and they moved forward at a brisker pace. 

They had met few people upon the road this morning and these, as on theday before, were farmers or those who worked for them, both men andwomen. The main line of traffic from Evreux, they had learned, laysome miles to their right, and it was over this road, a much harderone, that the motorists went if southward bound. It was therefore withsome surprise that they heard behind them the sound of a motor horn. Markham caught the donkey's bridle and drew to one side, the car cameeven with them, running slowly, and stopped, its engine humming. 

"This is the way to Verneuil?" asked the man at the wheel in French. 

"I hope so, " said Markham returning their salutation. "For that's theway we're going. "

Something in Markham's manner and speech arrested the driver's eye, which passed rapidly to Hermia, who stood silently at the side of theroad, suddenly aware of an unusual interest in her appearance. The manat the wheel turned to his companion and said something in a low tone. Markham felt a warm color surge upward to his brows. 

"Will you precede us, Monsieur, " he said coolly, "we are already lateupon the way. "

But the Frenchman showed no intention of moving at once and, ignoringMarkham, questioned Hermia gaily. 

Mademoiselle was a _bohŽmienne_. Perhaps she would condescend to readtheir fortunes. 

Hermia made a pretty courtesy and laughed. 

"Unfortunately--Monsieur is mistaken, " she said easily. "I am not ateller of fortunes. But what does it matter since Monsieur's fortuneis so plainly written upon his face. "

"And what is that?"

"The fortune of the fortunate. _Bien sžr_. The _bon Dieu_ cared wellfor those who rode in automobiles. "

The Frenchman smiled and glanced at Markham, who was busying himselfwith the donkey's pack. 

"Mademoiselle is very blonde for a _tsigane_, " he ventured again. 

"I come from the North country, " said Hermia promptly. 

The Frenchman's eyes which had never left her face wore a curiousexpression. 

"It is strange, " he said, "but somewhere I have seen your face before. "

"That is where I am accustomed to wear it, Monsieur, " she said quickly. 

He laughed. 

"I can only say that it becomes your costume admirably. "

Markham straightened, frowning. 

"_Allons, Yvonne_, " he muttered. 

But Hermia only stood smiling and curtsied again. 

"_Merci, Monsieur_. You pay a high tribute to the skill of my hands. I did the best I could--and as for the matter of that, " pertly, "so didthe _bon Dieu_. "

He laughed gaily. Her ready tongue delighted him, but his face soberedas he glanced at Markham, who stood with narrowed gazed fixed on theroad ahead of them. 

"You pass through Verneuil, Mademoiselle?" the motorist went on. "Perhaps Monsieur your companion would not object if we carried youthere. "

"You are very kind, Monsieur, but riding in such state is not for me. "

"_Allons_! You will be doing us the favor of your company. "

"I should be frightened at the great speed. "

"Oh, I will run very slowly, I promise you. "

She seemed to hesitate and Markham's head slowly turned toward her, awonder growing in his eyes. Could she? Did she really think of going? She looked at the machine and then at Markham and Clarissa. 

"I will go--upon one condition, " she announced. 

"Mademoiselle has but to name it. "

"And that is, Monsieur, that you will also carry in your automobileMonsieur Philidor and the donkey. "

He looked at her a moment as if he hadn't believed his own ears, whilehis companion burst into wild laughter. 

"_TouchŽ, mon ami_, " he cried, clapping the chauffeur on the back. "My faith, but she has a pretty wit--the donkey and MonsieurPhilidor--_par exemple_!" And he roared with laughter again. 

The man at the wheel flecked his cigarette into the bushes, smilingwith as good grace as he could command. 

"You have many chaperons, Mademoiselle, " he said. "It is too bad. Ishall remember your _beaux yeux_, just the same. "

He waved a hand, then, opening the cutout, drove the machine forwardand in a moment was out of sight in a cloud of dust. 

Markham grinned at the departing vehicle and then, turning, metHermia's gleaming eyes. 

"O _mon ami_, it is to laugh!" she cried. "Imagine Clarissa seated inthe tonneau of that machine entering the gates of Verneuil! If youhave any doubt about getting the better of a Frenchman just set him upto ridicule. "

She began laughing again, her eyes on Markham. 

"My poor Philidor! Did you think I was about to desert you--andClarissa? You were really quite angry for a moment. "

"He was impertinent, " growled Markham. 

"To Hermia--but not to Yvonne. "

"You're both. "

"Oh, this will never do at all! You mustn't fly at the throat of everyman who takes a fancy to me. "

"I don't--but the man--is what is called a gentleman. There's adifference. " And while she hesitated for a reply. 

"What did he mean by saying that he had seen you before?" he asked. 

"Just that. He _had_. I remembered him perfectly. He's the Marquisde Folligny. "

"Pierre de Folligny!" in amazement. "Not _Olga's_ Pierre de Folligny?"

"The same. I knew him instantly. I met him in London, at an eveninggarden party. That is why I didn't want you to make any trouble. "

"De Folligny! I have met him. He used to wear a beard. "

"Yes, when _you_ didn't. "

"I see. " And then after a pause. "I thought he was one of thatTrouville crowd. "

"He is, I think. How lucky I hadn't seen him there!"

They walked along for some moments in silence, Markham slowly stuffingtobacco into his pipe, his gaze upon the ground. 

"Hermia, " he said briefly at last, "you'll have to be careful. "

"Well--aren't I?" reproachfully. 

"I'm not sure it's wise of us to pass through the larger towns. "

"Why not?"

"You might be recognized. "

"I'll have to take that chance. If you remove the element of dangeryou take away half the charm of our pilgrimage. "

"I'd rather the danger were mine--not yours, " he said soberly. 

She laughed at his uneasiness. "I've absolved you from allresponsibility. You are merely my Oedipus, the _vade mecum_ of myunsentimental journey. "

But he didn't laugh. 

"I'll warrant you De Folligny doesn't think that, " he said. 

"Well--suppose he doesn't. Are you and I responsible for theunpleasant cast of other people's thoughts? My conscience is clear. So is yours. _You_ know how unsentimental our journey is. So do I. Why, Philidor, can't you see? It wouldn't be quite right if it_wasn't_ unsentimental. "

"And how about my--er--my shrinking susceptibilities?" he asked. 

"Oh, that! You are losing your sense of humor, " she said promptly. "The worst of your enemies or the best of your friends would hardlycall you sentimental. I could not feel safer on that score if I wereunder the motherly wing of Aunt Harriett Westfield!"

She was a bundle of contradictions and said exactly what came into herhead. He examined her again, not sure whether it were better to beannoyed or merely amused, and saw again the wide violet gaze. Helooked away but he didn't seem quite happy. 

"I suppose that would be the truth, " he said slowly. "Unfortunatelyour vulgar conventions make no such nice distinctions. "

"But what is the difference if _we_ make them?"

"None, of course. But I would much prefer it if we gave Verneuil awide berth. "

"Oh, I'm not afraid. Fate is always kind to the utterlyirresponsible. That's their compensation for being so. What does itmatter to-morrow so long as we are happy to-day?"

His expression softened. 

"You are still contented then?"

"Blissfully so. Don't I look it?"

"If you didn't I wouldn't dare to ask you. "

By ten o'clock Hermia was hungry again and when they came to a smallvillage she vowed that without food she would walk no more. 

"Very well then, " said Markham. "We must earn the right to do it. "

They found a small _auberge_ before which Hermia unpacked her orchestraand played. A crowd of women and children soon surrounded them, andthe sounds of the drum brought the curious from the fields and moredistant houses. The _patronne_ came out and Philidor offered to do herportrait for ten sous. 

They were lucky. When the hat was passed they found the total returnsupon their venture, including the portrait, were one franc and thirtycentimes. This paid for their share of the _ragožt_, some cheese, bread and a liter of wine. When they got up to go, such was theimmediate fame of Philidor's portrait, that two other persons came withthe money in their hands to sit to him. But he shook his head. Hewould be back this way, perhaps--but now--no--they must be upon theirway. And so amid the farewells of their latest friends, the cries ofchildren and the barking of dogs they took to the road again. 

CHAPTER XVI

MANET CICATRIX

Olga Tcherny sat at a long window in the villa of the Duchesse d'Orsayand looked out over the sparkling sands upon the gleaming sea. Trouville was gay. The strand was flecked with the bright colors offashionable pilgrims who sat or strolled along the margin of the waves, basking in the warm sun, recuperating from the rigors of the Parisianspring. White sails moved to and fro upon the horizon and a mild airstirred the lace curtains in Olga's window, which undulated lightly, their borders flapping joyously with a frivolous disregard for thesomber mood of the guest of the house. 

Olga's gaze was afar, quite beyond the visible. Her horizon was inwardand limitless, and though she looked outward she saw nothing. Herbrows were tangled, the scarlet of her lips was drawn in a thin lineslightly depressed at the outer corners and the toe of her smallslipper tapped noiselessly upon the rug. It was nothing, of course, tobe bored, for when she was not gay she was always bored; but there wasa deeper discontent in her whole attitude that that which comes frommere ennui, an aggressive discontent, sentient rather than passive, akind of feline alertness which needed only an immediate incentive tobecome dangerous. Upon the dressing-table beside her was HermiaChalloner's telegram, explaining her failure to reach Trouville; in herfingers a letter from a friend in Rouen telling her of John Markham'svisit to that city and of his departure. Both the telegram and theletter were much crumpled, showing that they had been taken out andread before. There seemed no doubt about it now. John Markham hadreceived her letters announcing her arrival in Normandy and had inspite of them fled from Havre, from Rouen, to parts unknown, whereneither Olga's rosily tinted notes nor Olga's rosily tinted personcould reach him. She had hoped that Hermia's arrival from Paris wouldhave made existence at Trouville at least bearable, but Hermia's changeof mind explained by the belated telegram had made it evident that Fatewas conspiring to her discomfort and inconvenience. To make mattersthe worse the Duchesse had taken upon herself an attack of the goutwhich made her insupportable, and Pierre de Folligny, Olga's usualrefuse in hours like these, had gone off for a week of shooting at theCh‰teau of a cousin of the Duchesse's, the Comte de Cahors. 

Hermia's change of plans had disappointed her; for, jealous as she wasof the years between them, Hermia always added a definite note of colorto her surroundings, or a leaven of madness--which made even sanityendurable. There seemed just now nothing in her prospect but a drearywaste of the usual--the beach, the inevitable sea, the Casino, tea, more beach, with intervals of fretful _piquet_ with the Duchesse, anoutlook both gloomy and disheartening. Indeed it had been some weeksnow since things had gone quite to her liking, and her patience, neverproof against continued disappointment, was almost at the point ofexhaustion. The letters she had written John Markham, one from NewYork telling of her immediate departure, another from Paris hoping tosee him at her hotel, a third from Trouville, assuming the miscarriageof the other two--cool, friendly notes, tinetured with a nonchalanceshe was far from feeling, had failed of their purpose, and save for abrief letter telling of his departure form Rouen, he had not given theslightest evidence of his appreciation of her efforts toward a platonicreconciliation. She had not despaired of him and did not despair ofhim now, for it was one of her maxims that a clever woman--a woman asclever as she was--could have any man in the world if she set her capfor him. 

Her self-esteem was at stake. She consoled herself with the thoughtthat all she needed was opportunity, which being offered, she wouldsucceed in her object, by fair means if she could, by other means ifshe must. She smiled a little as she thought how easily she could haveconquered him had she chosen to be less scrupulous in the use of herweapons. She could have won him at "Wake Robin" if some sillyQuixotism hadn't steeled her breast against him--more than tat, sheknew that in spite of herself she would have won him if it hadn't beenfor Hermia. Hermia had discovered a remarkable faculty forunconsciously interfering with her affairs. Unconsciously? It seemedso--and yet--

The slipper on the floor tapped more rapidly for a moment and thenstopped. Olga rose, her lips parting in a slow smile. It was curiousabout Hermia--there were moments when Olga had caught herself wonderingwhether Hermia wasn't more than casually interested in her elusivephilosopher. Hermia's decision to follow her to Europe had been madewith a suddenness which left her motives open to suspicion. Olga hadlearned from Georgette, who had got it from Titine, that notes hadpassed between Hermia and Markham, for Georgette, whatever theindifference of her successes as a hairdresser, had a useful skill atsurreptitious investigation. This morning Georgette had received anote from Titine who was in Paris where she had been left by hermistress to do some shopping and to await Hermia's return. Titine hadexpressed bewilderment at the disappearance of her mistress, who hadleft Paris in her new machine with the avowed intention of reachingTrouville by night. Georgette had imparted this information to Madamewhile she was doing her hair in the morning, and as the hours passedOlga found her mind dwelling more insistently on the possible reasonsfor Hermia's change of plans. Where was she? And who was with her?Olga ran rapidly through her mental list of Hermia's acquaintances andseemed to be able to account for the where-abouts or engagements of allthose who might have been her companions. 

What if-- She started impatiently, walked across the room and lookedout into the Duchesse's rose garden. Really, Markham's importance inher scheme of things was getting to be intolerable. It infuriated herthat this obsession was warping her judgment to the point of imaginingimpossibilities. Hermia and Markham? The idea was absurd. And yetsomehow it persisted. She turned on her heel and paced the floor ofthe room rapidly two or three times. She paused for a moment at herdressing-table and then with a quick air of resolution rang for hermaid. 

"Georgette, " she announced, "I shall have no need of you for a day ortwo. I would like you to go to Paris, "

Georgette smiled demurely, concealing her delight with difficulty. Toinvite a French maid to go to Paris is like beckoning her within thegates of Paradise. 

"_Oui, Madame_. "

"I need two hats, a parasol and some shoes. You are to go at once. "

"_Bien, Madame_. "

"You know what I desire?"

"_Oh, oui, parfaitement, Madam_--a hat for the green afternoon robe andone of white--"

"And a parasol of the same color, shoes--of suede with the new heel, dancing slippers of white satin and a pair of pumps. "

"I comprehend perfectly. "

"You are to return her to-morrow. The train leaves in an hour. Thatis all. "

Georgette withdrew to the door but as she was about to lay her handupon the knob she paused. 

"And, Georgette, " her mistress was saying lazily, "you will see Titine, will you not?"

"If I have the time, Madame--"

"If you should see Titine, Georgette, will you not inquire where andwith whom Miss Challoner has gone automobiling?"

The eyes of the maid showed a look of comprehension, quickly veiled. "I shall make it a point to do so, Madame. "

Olga yawned and looked out the window. 

"Oh, it isn't so important as that--but, Georgette, if youcould--discreetly, Georgette--"

"I comprehend, Madame. "

When she was gone Olga threw herself on a couch upon the terrace andread a French Play just published. There was a heroine with a past wholoved quite madly a young man with a future and she succeeded inkilling his love for her by the simple expedient of telling him thetruth. At this point Olga dropped the book upon the flagging and satup abruptly, her face set in rigid lines. 

Silly fool! What more right had he to her past than she had to his. The world had changed since _that_ had been the code of life. Thatcode was a relic of the dark ages when the Tree of Knowledge grew onlyin the Garden of Eden. Now the Tree of Knowledge grew in every man'sgarden and in every woman's. 

She marveled that a dramatist of modern France could have gone backinto the past for such a theme. It was the desire to seem original, ofcourse, to be different from other writers--an affectation ofna•vetŽ, quite out of keeping with the spirit of thehour--unintelligent as well as uninteresting. (You see Olga didn'tbelieve in the double standard. )

She got up, spurning the guilty volume with her foot and walked outinto the rose garden. But their odor made her unhappy and she wentindoors. She began now to regret that she had not gone down to thehouse party of Madeleine de Cahors at Alenon. At least Pierre deFolligny would have been there--Chandler Cushing, and the Renauds--ajolly crowd of people among whom there was never time to think of one'stroubles--still less to brood over them as she had been doing to-day. 

The return of her maid from Paris added something to the sum of herinformation. Miss Challoner had left her hotel at ten in the morningin her new machine with an intention of making a record to Trouville. Titine was to follow her there when the shopping should be finished. In the meanwhile a telegram had come dated at Passy, telling of thechange in plans, with orders for Titine to remain in Paris untilfurther notice. Several days had passed and Titine still waited inMiss Challoner's apartment at the hotel which was costing, so Titinerelated, three hundred francs a day. It was all quite mystifying andTitine was worried, but then Mademoiselle was no longer a child and, ofcourse, Titine had only to obey orders. 

Olga listened carelessly, examining Georgette's purchases, and when themaid had gone she sat for a long time in her chair by the windowthinking. 

At last she got up suddenly, went down into the library and found thepaper booklet of the _Chemins de Fer de l'ƒtat. In this there was amap of Normandy and Brittany and after a long search she found the nameshe was looking for--Passy--south from Evreux on the road toDreux--this was the town from which Hermia's telegram to Titine hadbeen sent. 

Olga's long polished finger nail shuttled back and forth. Here wasParis, there Rouen, here Evreux--there Alenon. Curious! Hermia withher machine doing in half a day from Paris what John Markham had takenfour days from Rouen to do afoot. What more improbable? And yetentirely possible!

She took the _livret_ to her room where she could examine it at herease and sent to the garage for a road map which had been left in thecar of the Duchesse. The _livret_ and map she compared, and diligentlystudied, arriving, toward the middle of the afternoon, at a suddenresolution. 

CHAPTER XVII

PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES

Had Yvonne needed encouragement in her career as a bread-winner hersuccess of the morning had filled her with confidence. She had earnedthe right to live for this day at least, and looked forward to themorrow with joyous enthusiasm. Philidor, who still confessed to thepossession of a few francs of their original capital, was for puttingup at a small hotel or inn and paying for this accommodation out ofprincipal. But Yvonne would not have it so. The sum they had earnedfor the _ragožt_ had filled her with pride and cupidity, haddeveloped a niggardly desire to hoard their sous against a rainy day. They had earned the right to lunch. They must also earn the right todine and sleep!

Late in the afternoon they came to a small village where a crowd ofidlers soon surrounded them. Philidor unpacked Clarissa and recited ina loud tone the now familiar inventory of their artistic achievementsand Yvonne, smiling, donned her orchestra, tuned her mandolin andplayed. The audience jested and paid her pretty compliments, andjoined with a good will in the familiar choruses. And for his part, Philidor made a lightning sketch of an _ancien_ who stood by, leaningupon his stick, which brought him several other commissions at ten sousthe portrait. "Reduced rates!" he cried. "_Bien entendu_!" Forto-morrow at Verneuil would the people not pay him two francs fifty?This final argument was convincing to their frugal souls, and he satupon a chair until sunset making VallŽcy immortal. Philidor was toobusy even to pass the hat for the musical part of the performances, soYvonne did it herself, returning with two francs, all in coppers. Whenthis was added to the earnings of Philidor, they found that in just twohours the princely sum of six francs had been earned. 

"To-night, " whispered Philidor, "you shall sleep in a chamber onceoccupied by the Grand Monarch at the very least. We are tastingsuccess, Yvonne. "

"Yes--and it's good--but I've learned a healthy scorn of beds. You, ofcourse shall rest where you please, but as for me--I've an ungovernabledesire to sleep in a hay-mow. "

"But hay-mows are not for those who can earn six francs in two hours. We are rich, " he cried, "and who knows what to-morrow may bringbesides!"

They compromised. The _ancien_ to whom Markham applied in thisdifficulty offered them bed and board for the small sum of two francseach, and accordingly they made way to his house. The _ancien_ was aperson of some substance in the community as they soon discovered, forhis house, the last one at the end of the street, was a two storiedaffair and boasted of a wall at the side which inclosed a vegetablepatch and a small flower garden at the back. MreGuŽgou, a woman younger than her lord, looked at them askanceuntil her good man exhibited the portrait by Monsieur Philidor, whenshe burst into smiles and hospitality. 

_Oui, bien sžr_, there were rooms. This was no _auberge_, thatwas understood, but the house was very large for two old people. Yes, they rented the spare rooms by the month. Just now they werefortunately empty. Did Monsieur desire two rooms or one?

"Two, " said Philidor promptly. "We will pay of course. "

He hesitated and Mre GuŽgou examined them with newinterest, but Yvonne, with great presence of mind, flew to the rescue. 

"We--we are not married yet, Madam, " she said flushing adorably. "Oneday--perhaps--"

"Soon--Madame, " put in Philidor, rising to the situation with alacrity. "We shall be married soon. "

Madame GuŽgou beamed with delight. 

"_Tiens! C'est joli, a! GuŽgou!_" she called. "Wemust kill a chicken and cut some haricots and a lettuce. They shalldine well in VallŽcy--these two. "

GuŽgou grinned toothlessly from the doorway of the shed wherehe was stabling Clarissa, and then hobbled his way up to the garden. 

When Mre GuŽgou went into the kitchen to prepare thedinner, Yvonne and Philidor walked through the garden to a smallrustic arbor at the end which looked down over a meadow and a stream. 

"I hope the _bon Dieu_ will forgive me that fib, " she laughed. 

"It was no fib at all. " And as her eyes widened, "You merely said thatwe hadn't been married yet. We haven't you know, " he laughed. 

Her look passed his face and sought the saffron heavens across whichthe swallows were wheeling high above the tree tops. 

"Obviously, " she said coolly. "Nowadays one only marries when everyother possibility of existence is exhausted. "

He examined her gravely. 

"The _bon Dieu_ will not forgive you _that_, " he said slowly. 

"Why not?"

"Because you don't mean what you say. Whatever Hermia was--Yvonne atleast is honest. She knows as I do that she will not marry for thereasons you mention. "

She accepted his reproof smilingly and thrust out her hand--a brownerhand now, a ringless, earnest little hand--and put it into his. 

"You are right, Philidor, I shall marry--if I may--for love. Or--Ishall not marry at all. "

He turned his palm upward, but before he could seize her fingers shehad eluded him. 

"But I'm not ready yet, Philidor, " she laughed, "and when I am I shallnot seek a husband on the highroads of Vagabondia. "

Her speech puzzled him for a moment. In it were mingled craft andartlessness with a touch of dignity to make it unassailable. But in amoment she was laughing gaily. "Whom shall it be? Cleofonte ismarried. Luigi? He has a temper--"

"Marry _me_! You might do worse, " he said suddenly. 

Her face changed color and the laughter died on her lips. 

"_You_? O Philidor!"

She turned away from him and looked up at the sky. 

"I--I mean it, " he repeated. "I think you had better. "

He sought her hand and she trembled under his touch. 

"Fate has thrown us together--twice. Its intention is obvious. LetFate look after the rest--"

"You, Philidor. Oh--"

She buried her head in her arms still quivering, but he only held herhand more tightly. 

"Don't child. I did not mean to frighten you. I would not hurt youfor anything in the world. I thought you needed me--"

At that she straightened quickly, turned a flushed face toward him andhe saw that she was shaking, not with sobs, but with merriment. 

"O Philidor--_such_ a wooing! You'd marry me because I need you. Wasever a dependent female in such a position!" And she began laughingagain, her whole figure shaking. "I need you--forsooth! How do youknow I do? Have I told you so?" she asked scornfully. 

"You need me, " he repeated doggedly. 

"And that is why I should marry you? You who preach the gospel ofsincerity and love for love's sake?"

"I--I love you, " he stammered. 

But she only laughed at him the more. 

"_You_. You wear your passion lightly. _Such_ a tempestuous wooing!You ask me to marry you because you fear I might do worse--because youbelieve that I'm irresponsible, and that without you I'll end inspiritual beggary. I appreciate your motives. They're large, ingenuous and heroic. Thanks. Love is not a matter of expediency ormarriage a search for a guardian. If they were, _mon ami_, I shouldhave long ago married my Trust Company. _You_--John Markham!"

He sat silent under her mockery, his long fingers clasped over hisknees, his gaze upon the field below them, his mind recallingunpleasantly a similar incident in his unromantic career. Hermia hadstopped laughing, had left him suddenly and was now picking one ofPre GuŽgou's yellow roses. Her irony had cut him tothe quick, as Olga's had, her mockery dulled his wits and rendered himincapable of reply, but curiously enough he now felt neither anger norchagrin at her contempt--only a deep dismay that he had spoken thewords that had risen unbidden to his lips, that placed in jeopardy thejoy of their fellowship which had owed its very existence to the free, unsentimental character of their relations. He knew that, howeverawkwardly he had expressed it, he had spoken the truth. He loved her, had loved her since Thimble Island, when she had spoiled hisforeground by eliminating every detail of foreground and background bybecoming both. Since then to him she had always been Joy, Gayety, Innocence, Enchantment and he adored her in secret. 

Since they had met in France he had guarded the secret carefully--oftenby an air of indifference which fitted him well, a relic of his yearsof seclusion, and a native awkwardness which was always more or less inevidence before women. Whatever his secret misgivings, he had blessedthe opportunity which chance and her own wild will had thrown in hisway. And now--she would leave him, of course. There was nothing leftfor her to do. 

Slowly, fearfully, he raised his eyes until she came within the rangeof their vision, first to her shoes, then to her stockings, her skirt, gaudy jacket and at last met her eyes, which were smiling at himsaucily over the rosebud which she was holding to her lips. But heonly sat glowering stupidly at her. 

"O Philidor!" she cried. "You look just as you did on the night when Islipped down through the pergola. "

"Hermia!" He rose and approached her. "I forbid you. "

She retreated slowly, brandishing the blossom beneath his nose. 

"Without--er--the face powder!"

"You have no right to speak of that. "

"Oh, haven't I? You've just given it to me. "

"How?"

"By proving to me that I wasn't mistaken in you. O Philidor, did youpropose to her, too, from purely philanthropic--"

"Stop!" He seized her by both wrists and held her straight in front ofhim, while he looked squarely into her eyes. "You _shall_ not speak--"

"Or was it because she 'needed' you, Philidor, as I do?"

"There's nothing between Olga and me, " he said violently. "There neverwas--"

"Face powder, " she repeated. 

"Listen to me. You shall, " fiercely. "You've got to know the truthnow. There's no other woman in the world but you. There never hasbeen another. There won't be. I love you, child. I always have--fromthe first. I wanted to keep it form you because I didn't want to makeyou unhappy, because I wanted you here--in Vagabondia. When the chancecame to take you, I welcomed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong. I wanted to meet you on even terms, away from the reek of yourfashionable set--to see the woman in you bud and blossom under the openskies away from the hothouse plants of your vicious circle. Even thereat 'Wake Robin, ' I wanted to tear you away from them. They were notyour kind. In the end you would have been the same as they. That wasthe pity of it. Perhaps it was pity that first taught me how much youwere to me--how much you were worth saving from them--from yourself. Iseemed impossible. I was nothing to you then--less than I am now--aqueer sort of an amphibious beast that had left its more familiarelement and taken to walks abroad among the elect of the earth. But Iloved you then, Hermia, I love you now, and I've told you so. I hadn'tmeant to, but I'm not sorry. I'm glad that you know it--even thoughyour smiles deride me; even though I know I've spoiled your idyl hereand made a mockery of my own Fool's Paradise. "

Her head was lowered now and he could not see her eyes, but he was surethey must be still laughing at him. When he had finished he releasedher and turned away. 

"To-morrow we shall be in Verneuil, " he said quietly. "I will give youmoney to buy clothes and put you on the train for Paris. "

There was a long silence, broken by the sound of PreGuŽgou's chickens flapping to their roosting bars. The saffronheavens had changed to purple, and in the spire of the villagecampanile a bell tolled solemnly the strokes of Philidor's doom. Hedid not see her face. He had not dared to look at it. But when thebell stopped ringing, Hermia's voice was speaking softly. 

"Do you want me to go, Philidor?"

Her tone still mocked and he did not turn toward her. 

"No--but you had better, " he murmured. 

"Suppose I refused to go to Paris. What would you do?"

He did not reply. 

"Could you treat me so? Is it _my_ fault that you--you fell in lovewith me? _I'm_ not responsible for that--am I? I didn't _make_ you doit, did I? Would you have me give up all this? Think a moment, Philidor. Wouldn't it be cruel of you--after letting me be what Iam--after letting me know what I _can_ be--after giving me an ego, anindividuality, and making me a success in life--to send me back toParis to be a mere nonentity? You couldn't, I'll not go. "

Her voice, half mocking, half tender, rose at the end in a note ofstubbornness. 

"Of course, you will do as you please, " he muttered. 

He felt rather than heard her coming toward him. 

"Don't be cross with me, " she pleaded. "I--I don't want to goaway--from this--from _you_, Philidor. "

He turned quickly--but she thrust out her hand with a frank gesturewhich he could not misinterpret. 

"You're the best friend I have in the world, " she said. 

He took her hand in both of his and held it a moment. 

"That's something, " he muttered. "I'll try to be--to deserve yourfaith in me. "

He looked so woebegone that her heat went out to him, but she onlylaughed gaily. 

"You'll not be rid of me so easily, Monsieur. I'm not going, do youhear?"

He shrugged and smiled. 

"There!" she smiled. "I knew you wouldn't refuse me. You're an angel, Philidor, and I shall reward you. "

She touched Pre GuŽgou's blossom to her lips, then put it deftlyinto the lapel of his coat. 

"It is the Order of the Golden Rose, _mon ami_, and its motto is_Sincere et Constanter_. You will remember that motto, Philidor, andhowever mad, however inconsistent or incomprehensible I may be, knowthat I am bound to you, apprenticed to learn the trade of living andthat not until you send me away will I ever leave you. "

He smiled and lifted the blossom to his lips. 

"Friendship?" he asked. 

"Yes, that always--whatever else--"

She stopped suddenly as his eyes eagerly alight sought her face, andthen turning quickly she fled to the kitchen of MreGuŽgou and upstairs away from him. 

The GuŽgou family made good its promise, and they supped uponthe fat of VallŽcy, Mre GuŽgou waiting uponthem, her good man bringing from the cellar a cob-webbed bottle whichdated from a vintage which was still spoken of in the valley withreverence. A brave wine it was, such as one remembers in after days, and a brave night for Philidor whose heart was singing. 

"Ah! _la jeunesse_!" sighed Madame GuŽgou, setting down her glasswhen the healths were drunk. "I, too, Mademoiselle, was once young. "

Yvonne patted her cheek gently. 

"Age is only in the heart, Madame, " she said. 

"_Non, ma belle_, " cackled GuŽgou from his corner. "It's in thejoints. "

"_Tais-toi_, Jules, " scolded his wife. "What should lovers care aboutthy joints. "

"My joints are my joints, " he creaked stubbornly. "When one has ninetyyears--"

"Ninety!" cried Yvonne. "Monsieur carries his years lightly. I shouldnot have said that he had over sixty. "

"Say no more, Mademoiselle, " put in Mre GuŽgou. "Youwill render him conceited. "

Indeed it seemed that the old man had already forgotten his joints, forhe poured out another glass of wine and was pledging Yvonne withtoothless gayety. 

"_Vos beaux yeux_, Mademoiselle, " he creaked gallantly, "and to yourgood fortune, Monsieur Philidor. "

"To your roses, Monsieur GuŽgou, " replied Philidor. "In thewhole of the _Eure et Oise_ there are not such roses. To youromelette, Madame. In the country there is not such another!"

With these compliments and in others like them the minutes passedquickly. Yvonne's eyes avoided Philidor's, though he frequently soughtthem. Nor was he dismayed when, in response to Madame GuŽgou'sinterest query as to when they would marry, Yvonne shrugged hershoulders indifferently and sighed. 

"Oh, I do not know, Madame. Often I think--never. One marries andthat is the end of romance. One lover--pouf! When one may have many. "

She tossed her chin in the direction of Philidor, who looked at herover his chicken bone. 

"If one has but one lover, " she went on, "he must have all the virtuesof the many and none of the faults. He must sing when we are gay, weepwhen we are sad, and make love to us while doing either. _Enfin_, hemust be what no man is. _Voyez-vous_?" and she pointed the finger ofscorn at Philidor. "He eats just as you or I. "

Madame GuŽgou laughed. 

"What you require is no man at all. Mademoiselle Yvonne, but a saint. "

"Perhaps, " she finished, yawning. "But, _bien entendu_, I'm in nohurry. "

When the dinner was finished, Yvonne helped Mre GuŽgouwith the dishes, and when that was done went straightway to her room, with no other word for Philidor than a "_Bon soir_, " and a nod of thehead. 

Philidor sat for a long while in the arbor smoking a pipe. He had muchto think about. One by one the lights went out, and the village grewquiet. The moon rose over the forest on the hilltop beyond the stream, and he stretched his limbs and smiled at it in drowsy content. He wasso wrapped in his reflections that he hardly heard a voice which cameto him over the yellow roses. 

"_Bonne nuit_, Philidor. "

"Hermia!"

"You're to go to bed--at once. "

"I couldn't. Imagine a saint going to bed. "

"You're _not_ a saint. You're a prowler. "

"Let me prowl. I'm happy. "

"Why should you be?"

"I love you. "

The shutter above him closed abruptly. He waited in the shadow of thewall looking upward. There was no sound. 

CHAPTER XVIII

A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY

Clarissa carried a double burden the next day, but she breasted thekeen morning air so briskly that whatever her own thoughts upon thesubject she gave no sign of her increasing responsibilities. Yet Cupidsat perched upon the pack which Philidor had been at such pains tofasten. Yvonne alone of the three was out of humor and she moved alongsilently, suppressing the joyous mood of her companion by answers inmonosyllables and a forbidding expression which defied conciliation. As nothing seemed to please her, Philidor, too, relapsed into silenceand swinging his stick, walked on ahead, whistling gaily. But thatonly provoked her mood the more, and when she overtook him she made himstop. 

His silence seemed even more exasperating. 

"Oh, if you have nothing to say to me, " she said petulantly at last, "I'd much rather you whistled. "

He glanced at her before replying. 

"You motto of the Golden Rose needs amending, " he said. 

"What would you add?"

"Patience, " he laughed. 

"Clarissa is patient, " she sniffed. "The _bon Dieu_ preserve me fromthe patient man. "

It was clear that she meant to affront him and she succeeded admirably, for Philidor flushed to the brows. Then catching her in his armswithout more ado, he kissed her full on the lips. 

"I'm no more patient that I should be, " he said. 

She flung away from him, pale and red by turns, struggling betweenanger and incomprehension. 

"Oh!" she stammered at last. "That you _could_!"

She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her eyesblazing at him, turned and walked rigidly on her way. He watched her amoment, his anger cooling quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissawho had taken advantage of this interlude to browse by the wayside. Cupid had fled!

Markham drove the beast before him and strode after, his eyes on thesmall figure which had almost reached the turn in the road. She walkedwith a quick stride, her head turning neither to the left nor right, but he knew that her gaze, fixed upon the road before her, still blazedwith resentment. He goaded the donkey into a more rapid pace, but tryas he might he could not come up with her, and so giving up the chasehe let Clarissa choose her own gait, lighted a pipe to compose hisspirit and followed leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity. 

It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she stopped and waitedfor him. When he arrived with Clarissa, already chastened and evenprepared for humility, she surprised him by smiling as though nothinghad happened. 

"Which way, Philidor?" she asked. 

He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the hilltops behindthem and indicated. 

"I'm sorry, Hermia, " he said softly. "Will you forgive me?"

She shrugged. "Oh, it's of no consequence. I've been kissed before, "she said. 

His gaze was lowered, his jaw set. 

"You provoked it--"

"Did I? I know now how you consider me. I did not believe you to bethat kind of a man. "

"What kind of a man?"

"The man of promiscuous gallantries. "

"I'm not--"

She shrugged and turned away. 

"Your record is against you. "

He found no reply and she laughed at him. 

"When I wish to be kissed, " she said brazenly, "I usually find a way ofletting men know it. "

"You are speaking heresies, " he said slowly. "That is not true. "

"It is the truth, John Markham. But I did not choose yourcompanionship for that purpose. "

"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never thought that ofyou. We've had a code of our own, Hermia--all our own. Last night youmade me happy. I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I--"

She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyesflashing furiously. 

"We'll have no more of that nonsense, " she cried. "Do you hear? WhenI ask for love--uncomplaining--unselfish, I know where to seek it. "She reached up suddenly, snatched Pre GuŽgou's fadedblossom from his button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground itunder her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you, Monsieur Philidor, " she finished. And before he was really awake tothe full extent of his disaster was again on her way. 

They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkeyfollowing, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up therear. He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of herintolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity, and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the trainfor Paris. He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warnedhim against further contrition. 

His judgment was excellent. As they entered the street of the town shestopped and waited for him to join her. 

"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please, " she said acidly. "I'mgoing through the town alone. "

He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, hismanner coolly assertive. 

"No, " he said quietly. "You'll not go alone. You're in my charge. Where you go, I go--unless of course"--and he pointed toward therailroad which passed nearby, "I put you on the train for Paris. "

She had not expected that. She was powerless and knew it. Wide-eyedshe sought his face, but he met her look squarely. 

"I mean it, " he said evenly. "You shall do what I say. "

Her gaze flared angrily and then fell. 

"Oh!" she stammered. "You would _dare_!"

"Your remedy--is yonder, " he said firmly, pointing to the Gare. 

Some loiterers, a few children and a stray dog had gathered about them. The dog, a puppy, barked at Clarissa and was promptly kicked for itsprecocity. The crowd laughed. This relaxed the tension of thesituation. 

"Come, " said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter. "This willnever do. We will go on, please. "

Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and thendumbly followed. 

Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds weregathered. The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, acheek highly flushed and a lambent eye. 

"If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get you a room at aninn, " he said gently. 

But she raised her chin and looked at him with the narrow eye ofcontempt. 

"You will get me nothing, " she replied. 

"Nothing but food, " he replied. "We are now going to eat. "

If scorn could kill, Philidor must have died at once. But she followed him to the H™tel Dieu, and nibbled silently at what he had ordered. His efforts to relieve the tension were unavailing so he gave it up andat last led the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked andYvonne donned her orchestra. 

Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's share of it. Thesound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a crowd and Philidor got out hissketching block and went to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasantgirl of eighteen, in Norman headgear. She demurred at first, but shewas pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was persuasive, hisnervous crayon eloquent. He was at his best here, and when the sketchwas done he gave it to her with his compliments. The girl's lover, agardener from an estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group togroup, and Philidor's fame was again established. 

It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's orchestra was asymphonic success, for she jangled her mandolin horribly out of tune, and blew her mouth-organ atrociously. But whatever her performancelacked in artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awakingsuch a din that existence was unbearable within ten feet of them. Philidor went on with his portraits and was so absorbed that for atleast twenty minutes he neither saw nor heard what was going on abouthim. He had been aware of his companion's execrable performance awhile ago, and now realized with a suddenness which surprised him thatshe played no more. He rose and peered about over the shoulders of hisrustic admirers. Somebody directed his glance. There she was acrossthe square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman. It wastrue; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman was Pierre de Folligny. Philidor watched them uncertainly. A joke passed, they both laughedand the Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by. Then it wasthat Philidor went forth across the square, his brow a thundercloud. The girl cast a glance over her shoulder in his direction and thenfollowed the Frenchman to his machine. Philidor's long stride made thedistance quickly, and before the pair were seated, he stood beside them. 

"Where are you going, Yvonne?" he asked quietly. 

"Who knows?" she laughed. "To Paris, perhaps. "

"Mademoiselle has consented to ride with me, " said De Folligny coolly. "I trust we do not interfere with your plans. "

Philidor's eyes sought only hers. 

"You insist?" he asked of her. 

She laughed at him. 

"_Naturellement_. "

The car had begun to move. 

"One moment, Monsieur--"

De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speedingdown the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his headfull of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in allVerneuil. 

But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets andslowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa. He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared fromthe interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offerhim both questions and advice. 

He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the H™telDieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby andgoing on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful, must end unprofitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could sheafford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. What did Hermiaknow? She was mad, of course. He had thought her mad before when shehad volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now-- What could he thinkof her now? There was a difference. 

Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wanderedforth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pairhad fled. He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a countryroad which took the line of the railroad to the South. He did not knowwhere he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doingsomething. His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted onthe spot where his road entered the forest. It would have fared illwith De Folligny if they had met at that moment. Persons who met himon the road turned to look at him and passed on. Lunatics were scarcealong the Avre. 

After a while his fury passed and he brought what reason he stillpossessed to bear upon his topic. It was Hermia, not De Folligny whowas to blame--Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had rousedfrom her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, _ttebaissŽe_, upon this fool's errand--Hermia the tender, thetempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild prankshe, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked thehighroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy. 

Fool that he was! Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate, open-eyed. Last night she had laughed at him. To-day she mocked himstill--with De Folligny. 

His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her and bring thismad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow--to-night, perhaps he would puther on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind. For he would go upon his way--his own way, which he was not sure couldno longer be hers. 

Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from therailroad tracks down hill and across a level plain. From the slighteminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string beforehim, its length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a darkobject at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it a motor? This wasthe way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings. Hehurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at everystep. He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved--oftwo things--that it was not a motor. And yet there was somethingfamiliar about it. A wagon it was--a wagon with a roof, its endshowing a window which caught the reflection of the sky--a house wagon, and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a shaggy gray horse;to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among thetrees. It was the _roulotte_ of the Fabiani family and there in thewoods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable. 

He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from thehedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a smallwraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confrontedhim with outstretched hands. 

"You are late, Philidor. I've been waiting at least half an hour. "

"You've been--_what?_"

"Waiting for you, " coolly. "What kept you so long?"

He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost hissense. 

"Where is De Folligny?" he growled. 

"How should _I_ know?"

He took her by the elbows and looked into her eyes. 

"He has gone?"

"Yes. "

"What happened?"

"N-nothing. "

She met his eyes with a clear gaze--a whimsical smile twisting her lips. 

"You know, Philidor, " she said quietly, "I don't like to be kissedunless--unless--"

She stopped and slowly disengaged her elbows from his grasp, "Unless I_want_ to be kissed. "

He searched her face anxiously. 

"He--he kissed you?" he snapped savagely. 

"Almost--"

"Did he?"

"No. " She smiled up at him. "You see, " amusedly, "every time he puthis arm around me the drum and cymbals played. It quite disconcertedhim. " But Philidor found no amusement in her recital. 

"How do you happen to be here?"

His tone was still querulous. She looked at him calmly and after apause she answered evenly. 

We were driving slowly. I saw the _routlotte_ and recognized it atonce. So I switched off the magneto of his machine--I don't know whathe thought--but he looked at me as though he believed I had gonesuddenly mad, and, while he still wondered, I jumped. "

"And then?"

Hermia laughed softly. "He swore at me. 'You little devil, ' he cried, 'how did you happen to do that?'"'My elbow slipped, ' said I, from the roadside. "'Your elbow! _Ma foi_, you have educated elbows!'"'That's true, I should not play the cymbals else. '"'Cymbals! Who taught you to run a machine?'"'The _bon Dieu!_' said I, and fled to the Signora. "

She laughed gaily. "Oh, he didn't follow. I think he understood thatthere had been a mistake. He watched me a moment and then got out, cranked his car thoughtfully, and went on in a cloud of dust-- Andthat--that's' all, " she finished. 

Markham looked down the road, his narrowed eyes slowly relaxing and asmile growing under his small mustache. 

"O Hermia, --what a frolic you've had! I feared--" He paused. 

"What?"

"Anything--everything. You had no right--"

She raised a warning finger. 

"We'll speak of it no more, Philidor, " she said quietly. 

His anger flared and died; for her eyes were soft with friendship, gentleness and compassion, and her bent head begged forgiveness. Shehad been unreasonable and would make him unhappy no more. All thosethings he read. It was quite wonderful. 

She led him through the bushes to the fire where the Signora and Stellamade him welcome with their kindest smiles and the _bambino_ criedlustily. Cleofonte and Luigi presently emerged from the forest wherethey had gone in search of wood and deposited their loads by thefireside. They all made merry as befitted good comrades of the road, once more reunited, and when Philidor suggested going back to Verneuilfor the night the jovial strong man would not have it, nor wouldYvonne. So Luigi was dispatched on the gray horse to the town forClarissa and the pack, but not until Philidor had privily given himsome instructions and a piece of money which opened his sleepy eyes atrifle wider and increased the dimension of his smile. 

When he returned later with both animals laden with packages deep wasthe joy and great the astonishment of the caravaners. With an air ofmystery Luigi proudly laid his packages out in a row beside the fireand Yvonne opened them one by one, disclosing a chicken, a ham, threeloaves of bread, butter, two cheeses, some marmalade, a quart of milk, a pound of coffee, a pound of tea, a tin of crackers and two bottles ofwine. 

"_Jesu mio!_" said Cleofonte, his eyes starting from his head. "It isbeyond belief. "

"To-night you dine with me--with us, " laughed Philidor with a glance atYvonne. They all took a hand in preparing the meal, which was to bemagnificent. Luigi built another fire for the chicken which was to beroasted on a spit, and the coffee pot was soon simmering. 

Yvonne made toast, Philidor cut the ham, the Signora made vegetablesoup, and Stella hurried back and forth from the wagon, bringing theslender supply of dishes and utensils. 

When all was ready they sat and ate as though they had never eatenbefore and were never to eat again. The wine was passed and drunk byturns from two broken tumblers and two tin cups, the only vesselsavailable for both the wine and coffee, and healths were merrilypledged. Cleofonte swore an undying friendship for Philidor. Werethey not both great artists--of different _mŽtiers_, but each great inhis own profession? The world should know it. He, Cleofonte, wouldproclaim it. And the Signora Fabiani--she and the Signora were alreadysisters. They must all travel together. There was enough food for anarmy to eat. It would last a week at the very least. 

Philidor was content. And when the others had cleared away whatremained of their feast and brought out the blankets, Yvonne sat for along while by the fire with Philidor, who smoked and talked of manythings. But the train to Paris no longer interested him. 

CHAPTER XIX

MOUNTEBANKS

They reached Alenon at the end of the third day. Soon afterleaving Verneuil their road mounted a rocky country of robust woodedhills, cleft by gorges and defiles, the uplands of the Perche andNormandie, from the crests of which the pilgrims had a generous viewof the whole of the Orne. On the first day the company had dined atSt. Maurice and supped and slept near Tourouvre, in the heart of aprimeval forest of oaks and pines. Philidor and Yvonne had followedclose upon the steps of Tomasso the bear, keeping, so to speak, underthe shadow of Cleofonte's protecting wing. There was a difference intheir relations, indefinable yet quite obvious to them both, a reserveon Philidor's part, marked by consideration and deference; on Yvonne'sa gentleness and amiability which showed him how companionable shecould be. Indeed, her docility was nothing short of alarming, andPhilidor was ever on his guard against a new outbreak which, he wassure, was to be expected at any moment. But she cajoled him no more. Perhaps she understood him better now. Who knows? He spoke no moreof love, nor were the roses of Pre GuŽgou againmentioned. 

At Mortagne, which they had reached upon the second day, Philidor andYvonne had a first view of a public performance of the Fabiani family, for, the conditions being agreeable, Cleofonte had pitched their campwithin the limits of the town, and a crowd, augmented by Yvonne and herorchestra, had made their visit profitable. Yvonne had slept thatnight at a small _auberge_, her bed and board paid for with money shehad made, and Philidor, who complained of a lack of sitters, sleptquite comfortably near Clarissa in a stable. 

In the morning Yvonne had made some purchases in the town--and laterthey had caught up with their friends near La Mesle, along the Sarthe, down which their road descended by easy stages to their destination. 

Alenon was in holiday garb and the tricolor flaunted bravely frommany poles, though the beginning of the fte was not until to-morrow. The streets were gay with people, the market-place showed a number ofbooths, tents and canvas enclosures within which performances werealready in progress. The Fabiani family was late in arriving, but aspot was found, between the sword-swallower and the Circassian lady, which suited Cleofonte's purpose. So the _routlotte_ was backed intoplace and Cleofonte, his coat off, his brows beading, directed theerection of the canvas barrier within which the performances were to begiven. For let it be understood the Fabianis were no commonmountebanks for whom one passed a hat. There was to be a gate throughwhich one only passed upon the payment of ten sous, and within were tobe benches upon which one could sit in luxury while he beheld thesemarvels of the age. Philidor and Yvonne helped, too, getting out thecanvas which had been rolled and fastened beneath the wagon, and theuprights which supported it. Not satisfied with the sign which was tobe fastened over the entrance, Philidor sought out a paint shop andbefore dark painted two great posters three mtres in height;--one ofthem depicting Cleofonte with bulging muscles (real pink muscles thatone felt like pinching) in the act of breaking into bits with his barehands a great iron chain; the other showing the child Stella beingtossed in the air from Cleofonte to Luigi, her heels and head almosttouching. By sunset the paintings were finished and fastened in place, and when Cleofonte lit the torches upon either side of the entrancegate, the folk who were passing stopped in wonder to gaze. There wereto be no performances to-night, Cleofonte explained, the company wasweary; but to-morrow--! He pause and the magnificence with which hishuge fist tapped his deep chest were eloquence itself. 

Their work done for the night, Philidor set off post haste in search ofquarters for Yvonne; but the inns were full and it was too late tosearch elsewhere. So he bought a truss of straw and one of hay (forClarissa and the shaggy phantom) and brought them to the _roulotte_upon his back. The night was mild, and so he made Yvonne's bed and hisown within the enclosure, and amid a babel of sounds, above which thebarrel organ of the carousel near by wheezed tremulously, they droppedupon the blankets, dead tired, and fell asleep at once. 

The sun was not long in the heavens before the barrel organ, silencedat midnight, renewed its plaint and the business of the day began. After an early breakfast Cleofonte and Luigi retired to the dressingtent, emerging after a while in gorgeous costumes of pink fleshings andspangles, their hair well greased with pomatum, their mustachioselaborately curled. The Signora and Stella soon followed, their hairwreathed in tight braids around their heads. The _bambino_, neglected, was howling lustily, so Yvonne took him in her lap upon the straw andsoothed him to slumber while the carpet was laid and the impediments ofthe athletes brought out and placed near by for the day's work. 

More than anything else in the world, Yvonne longed for a bath, but shesuppressed this desire as unworthy of a true vagabond and washed in abucket of water which Philidor had brought from the pump, sharing atthe last in the suppressed excitement which pervaded the arena. Therewas no doubt in the minds of any that the Troupe Fabiani was to be thegreat success of the occasion. The duties and destinies of all itsmembers had already been explained and decided. A girl was hired tocare for the _bambino_. Yvonne was to beat her drum and play herorchestra on the platform outside, and this would attract the people, already anxious to behold the wonders within, a foretaste of whichwould be given, when the crowd gathered, by Cleofonte, who would life afew heavy weights and introduce the Signora, the Child Wonder, andTomasso, the bear. Philidor was to keep the gate and between theperformances was to make portraits of those who desired them. Theirorganization was perfection. Cleofonte was at his best when in theexecutive capacity. 

At nine o'clock Hermia mounted the platform (a piano box turned on itsside) and began to thump the drum and cymbals. Her position wasconspicuous and she began a little uncertainly, for it was one thing tochoose one's audience among the simple folk of the countryside, anotherto face the kind of crowd which now gathered to gaze up ather--peasants, horse-fanciers, shop people, clerks on a holiday, withhere and there a person of less humble station, but she bent to herwork with a will, encouraged by the example of the Circassian lady nextto her who was selling in brown bottles an elixir which was a cure forall things except love and the goiter. The sword-swallower next themwas already busy, and the _Homme Sauvage_, a hirsute person, whoseunprofessional mien was both kind and peaceable (as Yvonne haddiscovered unofficially last night), was roaring horribly, at two sousthe head, in his enclosure near by. 

The wooden horses of the _mange_, upon which some children and a fewsoldiers from the garrison were riding, were already whirling on theirmad career. 

While Yvonne played, Cleofonte and Philidor "barked. " That is, theyproclaimed in loud tones the prodigies that were to be disclosed andthat the performance was about to begin; to the end that, in a littlewhile, coppers and centime pieces jingled merrily in Philidor's coatpocket, the benches were filled and a crowd two deep stood behind. This augured well. Cleofonte beamed as he counted noses, and theperformance began. 

Yvonne played a lively air while Tomasso was put through his paces, walking with a stick and turning somersaults, and at the end Cleofonteput on a heavy coat to keep himself from being torn by the savage clawsof the beast and wrestled for some minutes with Tomasso, making the actmore realistic by straining from side to side and puffing violentlywhile Tomasso clung on, his muzzle sniffing the air, to be finallydragged down upon his master and proclaimed the victor. The applausefrom this part of the program was allowed to die and a dignified pauseensued, after which the signora appeared in her famous juggling act, unmindful of the cries of the _bambino_ from the _roulotte_ in activerebellion against the substitute. During Stella's performance, whichfollowed, the orchestra played jerkily and then stopped, for Yvonne hadnever yet succeeded in looking on at the child's contortions without apang of the heart. But the act went smoothly enough, and theentertainment, which lasted nearly an hour, concluded with Cleofonte'sexhibition of prowess and the stone-breaking episode of which he was sojustly proud. 

The receipts were four hundred sous--twenty francs--and there were tobe six performances a day! Well might Cleofonte wring Philidor by thehand and pay him over the five francs which he and Hermia had earned!There were no portraits to do, so Philidor sat at the entrance withYvonne until the time for the next performance. It was tiresome workand the breathing space was welcome enough. To Philidor his companionseemed already weary. But when he suggested that perhaps they hadbetter take to the road again she shook her head. 

"No, no. I've reached the soul of things--felt the pulse-beats ofhumanity. I delight with Cleofonte, suffer with Stella. I'm learningto live, that's all. "

"I thought you looked a little tired, " he said gently. 

"I am tired--but not mind-tired, heart-tired, spirit-tired as I oncewas. My elbows ache and there's a raw place on my shoulder, but it'san honorable scar and I'll wear it. And I sleep, O Philidor, I neverknew the luxury of sleep such as mine. "

"I don't want you to be ill. "

"I can do my share, " she finished steadily, "if Stella can. "

Toward three o'clock of the afternoon Yvonne mounted her piano box. The Fabiani family had been so well received that once it had beennecessary for Philidor to draw the flap at the gate because there wasno room in the enclosure for more people. As the time for thebeginning of the fourth performance drew near, a crowd had againgathered, listening to the _Femme Orchestre_ and moving in groups oftwo and three toward the entrance where Philidor in the intervalsbetween announcements pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne. Thislast occupation was one in which of late he had taken great delight. Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had also discovered, became heradmirably, the sun and wind had tanned her face and arms to a richwarmth, and this color made the blue of her eyes the more tender. Thelines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for it was thebusiness of a _Femme Orchestre_ to smile. 

Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the crowd with anappraising eye, adding his own voice to the din as Philidor paused forbreath, when in the midst of a lively air the music stopped--stopped sosuddenly that Philidor turned to see what the matter was. Yvonne gaveone startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down behind the boxand, unslinging her orchestra as she dropped, literally dove under thecanvas flap and disappeared. Philidor, who was in the act of makingchange, called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to findthat Yvonne had fled behind the wagon. 

"What is it?" he asked, alarmed. "Are you ill?"

"No, no, " breathlessly. "Olga! I saw her. She's out there. "

It was Philidor's turn to be perturbed. "Olga Tcherny! You must bemistaken. "

"I'm not. I wish I was. I saw her plainly--and the Renauds, Madeleinede Cahors and Chandler Cushing. O Philidor, they mustn't see me here!" She seized his arm and looked up into his eyes appealingly. 

His brows drew downward and he glanced toward the entrance. 

"They wouldn't come in here. "

"They might--"

He glanced irresolutely about him and then opened the door of the_roulotte_ and helped her up the steps. 

"Stay there-and lock the door. "

He paused a moment, his hand on the doorknob, looking over the head ofthe audience toward the entrance flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious ofthe tragedy which threatened the newer members of his family, stillshouted hoarsely. Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke afew words to the Signora, made his way across the arena, peering overCleofonte's shoulder, and then, his course of action chosen, slippedquickly into his accustomed place outside. 

"_Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted. "The greatest act of thisor any age--the _Famille Fabiani_, the world renowned acrobats, jugglers and strong man! Six great acts of skill and strength, any oneof which is worth the price of admission! _Entrez, Mesdames_, and seethe fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in the world, andthe savage bear captured from the forests of Siberia! A contest whichthrills the blood--for in spite of the great strength of theSignor--which has been compared to that of Samson, who once fought andconquered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from Cleofonte atthe eloquence of this comparison), in spite of the great strength ofthe Signor--I say--the danger of his destruction is ever present, asany one who has seen the contest can testify. Come one, come all, _Messieurs_, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to see theSignorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen of the Mat and Queenof the Air, in her extraordinary acts of flight and contortion--"

During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than seen the figurewhich had slowly wedged through the crowd at one side and now stoodbeside him. He knew that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared tolook at her, though he was quite sure that her head was perched on oneside in the birdlike pose she found effective, and that her eyes, mocking and mischievous, were searching him intently. But he went onextravagantly, searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives. 

"_Entrez, Messieurs_, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples, who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one andthe same time, not lets one of them touch the ground--who tosses acannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper--who spins two dishes on theend of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other--alady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe. Therewill never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpassed andeven unequaled in the history of the Oire. "

Philidor's adjectives had given out--as had his breath--and so hepaused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single butcuriously expressive syllable. 

"Well?" it asked. 

His eyes met hers without other token of recognition than a slighttwinkle of amusement. 

"Mademoiselle wishes to enter? Ten sous, if you please. " And thenwith a loud voice directed over her head, "_Entrez, Messieurs etDames_, and see the hand to hand struggle between a man and a savagebeast! A contest at once magnificent and appalling--one which you willremember to the end of your days, a spectacle to describe to yourchildren and to your children's children--"

[Illustration: "Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure whichhad slowly wedged through the crowd. "]

"John Markham!" Olga's voice sounded shrilly in English. "Stop howlingat once and listen to me. "

"_Oui, Mademoiselle_, ten sous, if you please. The performance isabout to begin and--"

"This performance has been going on quite long enough. What on earthare you doing here in Alenon?"

"Barking, " said Markham with a grin. "Also doing crayon portraits attwo francs fifty a head, " and he pointed to the sign beside the posterof Cleofonte breaking the chains which advertised the nature of histalents in glowing terms. "My name is Philidor, Mademoiselle, " bowing;"itinerant portrait painter--at your service. "

"Oh, do stop that nonsense and explain--"

"There's nothing to explain. Here I am. That's all. "

"How did you get here--to Alenon?"

"Walked--it's my custom. "

"Rom Rouen?"

He nodded. "I'm a member of the Troupe Fabiani of Strolling Acrobats, "he laughed. "I'm learning the gentle art of bear-baiting. Won't youcome in?"

She searched his face keenly and accepted his invitation, first handinghim her fifty centime piece, which he dropped without comment into hispocket. The enclosure was already filled, so he closed the entranceflap and mounted guard over it--and Olga stood beside him, her glancepassing swiftly from one object to another. Cleofonte's bout withTomasso was more than usually dramatic, but her eyes roved toward thedressing tent, eyeing with an uncommon interest the Signora when sheappeared. 

"Your troupe is not large, " Olga remarked when the program had beenexplained to her. 

"No, we are few, my dear Olga, but quite select. You have yet to seeLuigi perform and the Child Wonder--and the _Femme Orchestre_--aremarkable person who plays five instruments at the same time. "

Olga watched the show for a while with an abstracted air. 

"You surely can't mean that you enjoy this sort of thing?" shequestioned at last. 

He laughed. "I do mean just that--otherwise I shouldn't be here, should I?"

"Oh, you're impossible!" she said impatiently. 

"I know it, " she laughed with a shrug, "and the worst of it is that I'mquite shameless about it. "

He was really an extraordinary person. She couldn't help wondering howit was that she could have cared for him at all, and yet she was quitesure that he had never seemed more interesting to her than at thismoment. But it was quite evident that she did not believe him. Theperformance was soon over, the people crowded toward the entrance, Olga, alone at last, remaining. Indeed, she was making herself verymuch at home, and to Philidor's chagrin insisted upon examining theSignora's knives and torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, thechains and the larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken onCleofonte's chest. It was all very interesting. Then she sat upon abench, her glance still roving restlessly, lighting at last upon thehouse wagon. 

"And that, " she indicated, "is where you sleep?"

"Not I. That's for the women. I sleep out when I can--indoors when Imust. "

Still she gazed at it, and while Philidor, his inquietude rapidlygrowing, watched her keenly, she rose and walked slowly around the_roulette_, peering under it where the dogs lay chained, and up at itssmall windows and door as though fascinated by a new and interestingstudy of contemporary ethnology. 

The active members of the Fabiani family had all retired to thedressing tent and were occupied in the preliminaries to supper. Philidor's mind was working rapidly, but, think as he would, nothingoccurred to him which might effectually serve to stem the tide of hisvisitor's dangerous curiosity. She paused before the door, lookingupward, and Philidor watched the window fearfully. 

"It seems absurdly small for so many people. A baby, too, you said?"she asked coolly. 

"Oh, yes, there are beds, " he said; "two of them--quite comfortable, Ibelieve. "

"I'm awfully anxious to see what it's like inside. The Signorawouldn't mind, I'm sure--" She put one foot on the steps and reachedup for the knob. 

It was locked he knew, for there was a key on the inside, but theknowledge of that fact did nothing to decrease his alarm. 

"Oh, I wouldn't bother, " he muttered helplessly. "There's nothing--"

But before he could move she had stepped up and with a quick movementhad flung the door wide open. 

Philidor closed his eyes a second, praying for a miracle, then followedOlga's gaze within. The beds were there, the shelves of dishes, theracks of clothing, but of Hermia there was no sign. How the miraclehad happened Philidor knew not, unless she had gone through the roof, but with the discovery his courage returned to him in a gush, and whenOlga's eyes keenly sought his face he was calmly smoking. Just at thismoment a sound was heard, of merry, rippling laughter, light andmocking, which had a familiar ring. Olga looked around quickly towardthe spot behind her from which the sounds seemed to come, her gazemeeting nothing but the canvas wall. They heard the sounds again, thistime faintly, as though receding in the distance overhead. It was mostextraordinary. She glanced toward the dressing tent from which theSignora was just emerging. 

"Would you like to visit the green room?" asked Philidor, amusedlydirecting the way. "We are happy family, as you will see. "

"Who was laughing, John Markham?" asked his visitor. 

His eyes were blanks. 

"Laughing? I don't know. Everyone laughs here. Stella perhaps--orthe Circassian lady?"

She shook her head, still eyeing him narrowly, but he only smokedcomposedly and, after looking into the tent, threw open the flaps witha generous gesture and invited her to enter. Cleofonte and Luigi werecounting their money, but when the title of their visitor wasannounced, rose and bowed to the ground. It was seldom that theFabiani family had been done so great an honor. 

Olga returned his compliments with others quite as graceful upon thequality of the performance she had witnessed, but her eyes, as Philidorsaw, were still roving carelessly but with nice observance of minuti¾, taking in every object in sight. Upon the ground in the corner whereit had been thrown lay a drum and cymbals fastened to a framework ofwire and straps. 

Philidor grew unquiet. 

"How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the contrivance. 

"It is the music, " put in the Signora pleasantly, "of our _FemmeOrchestre_. She is ill. We were forced to leave her yesterday at LaMesle. To-morrow she will play again. The Contessa will hear her, perhaps?"

Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than his now controlledtheir destinies. Olga searched the Signora's face, which was asinnocent as that of the _bambino_. 

"_Grazia, Signora_, " she returned politely; "perhaps I shall. "

Philidor accompanied her to the gate, reassured and jocular. 

"How long are you going to persist in this foolishness?" she asked atlast irritably. 

"Who knows?" he laughed. "I think I've struck my proper level. Didyou see my posters?" he asked, pointing proudly. "Great, aren't they?"

"They're disgusting, " said Olga. 

He smiled good-humoredly. "That's too bad. I'm sorry. I thoughtyou'd like 'em. "

She only shrugged contemptuously. 

"And this is your Valhalla?" she sniffed. "A kingdom of charlatans, and tinsel and clap-trap, of fricassees and onions, and greasymendicants. Ugh! You're rather overdoing the simple life, Monsieurer--Philidor. You're very ragged and--ah--a trifle soiled. "

"Outwardly only, _chre_ Olga, " he laughed. "Inwardly my soul islily-white. "

"I'm not so sure of that. No one's soul can be lily-white whose beardis two weeks old. Also, _mon ami_, you look half famished. "

"My soul--" he began. 

"Your stomach!" she broke in. "Come with me. At least I'm going tosee you properly fed. "

"You're awfully kind, but--"

"You refuse?"

"I must--besides, you could hardly expect me to appear at your houseparty in these. "

She turned on her heel and walked away from him. 

"I hardly expect you ever to do anything that I want you to do. "

"But, Olga, --"

Without turning her head she disappeared in the crowd. 

CHAPTER XX

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Markham stood for a moment watching the white plume of Olga Tcherny'shuge straw hat until it nodded its way out of sight. Then he turnedback just in time to note a disturbance of the canvas barrier, fromunder which, her slouch hat pushed down over her ears, her gray coathiding her finery, Hermia breathlessly emerged. 

"I've never had such a fright since I was born, " she laughed nervously. "She won't come back?"

"I think not. "

He helped her to her feet. "It's lucky you weren't in the _roulotte_. "

"Not luck--forethought. I knew she'd never be content until she'd seenthe inside of that wagon. She expected to find _me_ there. "

"You! She saw you--outside?"

"No--I'll take my oath on that--you see, I saw her first. But sheexpected to find me there just the same. I can't tell you why--a womanguesses these things. I watched her. She's a deep one. " She laughedagain. "I wouldn't have her find me here for anything in the world. "She suddenly laid her hand on his arm. "Philidor! we must go on--atonce. "

"But you're tired--"

"I'd be in a worse plight if I were identified--by Olga. "

He paused a moment, and then, pointing to the dressing tent, turnedswiftly and went out, examining the street between the booths, andthen, with a pretence of looking to the fastening of the uprights, carelessly made the round outside the barrier. An atmosphere of peacepervaded the encampment and an odor of cooking food. The crowd hadscattered and of Olga, or Olga's party, he saw nothing. 

A wail went up in the dressing tent when Hermia announced her decision. What should Cleofonte do without her? It was she who attracted thecrowds--the eloquence of Monsieur Philidor which drew them within thearena. Never in their lives had the Fabiani family enjoyed suchsuccess. And now--that the Signor and Signora should go! It wasunthinkable--unbelievable! Cleofonte could not permit it. But Yvonnewas obdurate. There were reasons--the Signor would understandthat--which made this decision inevitable. They must go--at once, assoon as the night had fallen. 

The first shock over, Cleofonte clasped his hands over his knees andstared gloomily at the tent flap. If the Signora could have stopped inAlenon but two days more. He, Cleofonte, would have paid ten francsa performance--anything to keep them there. Signora Fabiani movedsilently about her tasks, but her eyes were deep with wisdom. What shewas thinking, Philidor knew not, nor did Yvonne set the matterstraight. It was necessary to go--that was all. It was very sad andmade Yvonne unhappy, but she had, unfortunately, no choice in thematter. When it was clearly to be seen that the decision wasunalterable, Cleofonte jingled his bag of coppers and sighed, Luigiscowled at vacancy and Stella unreservedly wept. 

"We could have made two thousand francs, " muttered Cleofonte. 

"More than that, " said Luigi the silent, "three thousand. "

"There will be no longer pleasure in the _dŽcarcasse_ when the musicceases to play, " sobbed Stella. 

Yvonne put her arms around the child and kissed her gently. 

"We shall meet again--soon, _cara mia_. "

"I know--in Heaven, " cried Stella, refusing to be comforted. 

"We shall find you again, child, never fear, " said Yvonne. 

Stella's eyes brightened. "Then you _will_ return?"

Yvonne patted her cheek softly. 

"Have I not said I will see you again, _carissima_?" she finished. 

After supper Philidor went forth and bought supplies which were packedsecurely upon Clarissa, together with Philidor's knapsack and otherpersonal belongings. Hermia changed her gay apparel for a shirtwaistand dark skirt, and when dusk fell, after a reconnaissance by Luigi, the back of the canvas barrier was raised and the trio quietly departedand were swallowed up in the shadows of a back street. 

The weather so far still favored them, but the night was murky and highoverhead the clouds were flying fast. Their road, and they chose thefirst one which led them forth of the town, wound up between a row ofhedges and pollard trees to an eminence form which, when they pausedfor breath, they had a view of the lights of the town. The _mange_whirled and the barrel organ still wheezed its thin thread of soundacross the still air. The _Homme Sauvage_ was roaring again and thedeep voice of Cleofonte, their late partner and companion, was heard atintervals in his familiar plaint. There was a fascination in thelights and in the medley of noises--each of which had come to possessan interest and a personality--for behind them were the pale road andthe inhospitable darkness. 

"It seems a pity to leave them, " said Hermia, thinking of Stella, "whenwe were doing so well. I shall regret the _roulotte_. "

John Markham smiled. 

"It's time we were moving, then, " he said. "Your true vagabond wantsno roots--even in a _roulotte_--nor regrets anything. "

"I can't forgive Olga for this. I consider her most intrusive, impertinent--"

Markham had laid warning fingers upon her arm. A moment ago on thehill below them a man's figure had been in silhouette against thelights. At the sound of their voices it had suddenly disappeared. They stood in silence for a moment, watching, but the figure did notreappear. 

"That was curious. I was mistaken, perhaps, " said Markham. "Come, wemust go on. "

They turned their backs resolutely to the light and in a moment hadpassed over the brow of the hill and were alone under the wan light ofthe darkening heavens. They had not traveled by night before and theobscurity closed in upon them shrouded in mystery. But as they emergedfrom beneath the trees their eyes became accustomed to the darkness andthey followed the road cheerfully enough, determined to put as manykilometers as possible between themselves and the threatening whiteplume of Olga Tcherny which seemed in the last few hours to haveachieved an appalling significance. At first Markham had been disposedto laugh at Hermia's fears. What reason in the world could Olga havehad to suspect Hermia's share in his innocent pilgrimage? Of his owntastes she had of course been ready to believe anything, and he had hadample proof that she thoroughly disapproved of his present mode ofliving. Nor was that a matter which could affect a great deal theirpersonal relations, which were already strained to the point oftolerance. But as to his companion--that was another affair. He hadnever understood the intuitions of women and thought them more oftenshrewd guesswork in which they were as likely to be wrong as right. But the more he considered what Hermia had said to him, the moredefinite became the impression that Olga Tcherny had fallen upon someclew to Hermia's whereabouts--that she had expected to find her--asHermia had said--in Cleofonte's house-wagon. He knew something of Olgaand had a wholesome respect for her intelligence. If it was to herinterest to prove Hermia his companion on this mad pilgrimage, it wasclearly to Hermia's interest to prove her own non-existence. As Hermiahad suggested, her intrusiveness was impertinent, and Markham mentallyadded the adjectives "ruthless" and "indecent. " He had been almostready to add "vengeful, " but could not really admit, even to himself, that she had anything to be vengeful about. 

Whatever Hermia's further thoughts upon the subject, for the presentshe kept them to herself. They walked along as rapidly as Clarissa'sgait would allow, for the tiny beast, never precipitate at the best oftimes, found the darkness little to her liking and pattered along withevident reluctance, mindful of the truss of hay only half eaten whichshe had left under Cleofonte's hospitable lights. 

At a turn in the road Markham determined to verify his suspicions of awhile ago, and accordingly drew Clarissa among some bushes, and, stickin hand, awaited the approach of the shadow which he was sure stillhung upon their trail. Distant objects were dimly discernible, andMarkham had almost decided that he had been mistaken when the cracklingof a twig at no great distance advised him that in the shadow of thehedge someone was approaching. He remained quiet until a man slowlyemerged from the shadows, when he stepped quickly out of his hidingplace and confronted him. 

Markham's six feet were menacing, and his pursuer stopped in histracks, eyeing Markham's stick, undecided as to whether it were thebest policy to face the thing out or take to his heels. As Markham'slegs were longer than his, he chose the former and made a brave enoughshow of indifference, though his tongue wagged uncertainly. 

"_B-bon soir, Monsieur_, " he stammered. "_Il fait beau--_"

But Markham was in no mood to pass compliments upon the weather. 

"What are you following me for?" he growled. 

"Follow you, Monsieur? I do not comprehend, " said the man. 

"I'll aid your understanding, then. You followed us up the hill out ofAlenon. I saw you. Well, here I am. What do you want?"

"The road of the Oire are free, " he answered sullenly, gaining courage. 

"Perhaps they are. But no man with honest business slinks along thehedges. You go your way, do you hear?"

"The road of France are free, " the man muttered again. 

Markham quickly struck a match, and, before the man could turn away, had looked into his face. He wore the cap and blouse of a chauffeurand his legs were encased in the black puttees of his craft. Olga'sambassador was unworthy of her. 

"Well, you go back to those who sent you here and say with thecompliments of Monsieur Philidor that the roads of the Perche aredangerous after dark. I've every right to break your head, and if Imeet you again I'll do it. _Comprenez_?"

The man eyed Markham's stick dubiously again and then, with a glancetoward the pair in the bushes, silently walked away. They watched himuntil he was lost in the shadows of the trees. 

"You see, " said Markham, "I was right. But I can't understand it. Whyshould Olga--?"

Hermia was laughing softly. 

"Don't tell me you're as stupid as _that_. "

He took Clarissa by the halter and led the way into the road again. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly. 

"I mean, _mon ami_, that you have aroused in Olga's breast a dangerousemotion. She decided some time ago to marry you. Didn't you knowthat? It's quite true. She told me so. "

"Told _you?_"

"Not in words. Oh, no. Olga never tells anything important to anyone. But she told me so just the same. I know. "

"Nonsense. She's a coquette. I've always understood that, but to_marry_--!"

"Precisely that--nothing else. She's madly in love with you, my poorfriend. She has never failed to bring a man to her feet when she madeup her mind to. The deduction is obvious. "

There was no need of daylight to see the expression on her companion'sface. Hermia could read it in the dark. 

"What you say is highly unimportant, " he said with attempt at a smile. "And because she desires to make me--er--her husband she employspersons to follow me along the byways of France?"

"Oh, no. Not to follow you, my friend. _Me_. You are merely the boneof contention. I am the impudent terrier who has interfered with thepeace of her repast. "

"Impossible. She doesn't even know you're out of Paris. How _can_ sheknow?"

"Now you're delving into the intricacies of the feminine mind--anoccupation to which you're as little suited as Clarissa--and she's awoman. You must take my word for it. Olga has often amazed me by theaccuracy of her intuitions. I have imagined that where her owninterests were involved they would be nothing short of miraculous. Sheis quite as sure that I am your companion moment as though she had seenme in the Signor Cleofonte's _roulotte_. "

"Then if she is so sure, " he asked with excellent logic, "why shouldshe make so much bother about it?"

Hermia laughed. "The mere fact that she _is_ making a bother about itis significance in itself. She'll find me if she can and confront mewith the damning fact of your presence in my society. "

"And precious little good that would do her, " he put in rather brutally. 

"Or me, " said Hermia gravely. "Hell hath no hatred--_et cetera_. You've spurned her, Philidor, --in spirit, if not in letter. Get herthe chance and she will pillory me in the market-place. "

Markham went along in silence, his earlier impressions confirmed byargument, sure that the chance of discovery must be avoided at allhazards. A watch of the road had revealed no sign of the stealthychauffeur, but that argued nothing. He was an obstinate little animal, evidently quite capable, since his discomfiture, of following theadventure through to its end. They must outmaneuver him. PresentlyMarkham discovered what he had been looking for--a path hardlyperceptible in the darkness, which led through the bushes and promisedimmunity. They followed it silently, pausing for a while to listen forsounds of pursuit, and at last, with minds relieved, if not quitecertain, plodded on into the obscurity. They had entered, it seemed, an aisle of a forest which stretched, darkly impenetrable, on eitherside. Before them, blackness, darkness within dark, like a cave, asmell of dampness like a dungeon. The sky lightened for a moment andthey saw the shape of leaves and tree fronds far above them like apattern on a carpet--a pattern which changed with elflike witchery, fora wind had blown up and sounded about them with the roar of a distantsea, rising now and then in a mighty crescendo, like the boom of anearer wave upon the shore. The tree tops swayed and joined in thesplendid diapason. Nature breathed deeply. 

Markham led the way, his hand upon Clarissa's bridle, peering alongtheir slender trail, while Hermia, all her senses keenly alive to thewitchery of the night, followed closely, casting timorous glances overher shoulder into the murky gloom, in which she fancied she coulddiscern the shapes of pursuers. Once thinking she had heard a soundbehind her, she caught Markham's arm and they stopped, breathless, andlistened, but they heard nothing in the rushing blackness but thecomplaint of an owl and the crash of a dead limb at a distance to theirright. A drop of rain fell on Markham's hand. Their prospect was notpleasant. Markham struck a match under his coat and looked at hiswatch. It was one o'clock. They had been walking for four hours. Hetried to focus his eyes upon the blackness. This path must leadsomewhere--a shed even would serve them if it rained harder. The briefglimpse he had of Hermia's face showed it pale and dark-eyed with alook he had never discovered in it before, not of fear, for fear he hadbegun to believe was foreign to her. The light had cut them off for amoment from the rest of the world, or rather had made more definite thelittle world of their own, but Hermia's eyes still peered over hershoulder, distended and alert. She was on the defensive, ready forheadlong flight, like a naiad startled. 

"I'm sorry, Hermia. You're dead tired--aren't you?"

"Yes, I--I am--a little, " she said quietly. 

"We've traveled almost far enough. We must have come a mile at leastinto this forest. It seems limitless. "

He peered about, taking a few steps forward along the path, whichwidened here. The trees, too, were further apart, and a larger patchof the windy sky was visible. Hermia followed, guiding the donkey. They emerged into a glade, their road not well defined, and made outagainst the trees beyond a rectangular bulk of gray. Markham wentforward more briskly, his spirits rising. Providence was kind to them. A house! A house in France, he had discovered, meant hospitality. To-night, at least, it meant a shelter from the rain which now patteredcrisply upon the dry leaves of a forgotten autumn. A small affair itwas, a keeper's or a forester's lodge of one story only, with a smallshed or stable at the side. There were no lights, but that wasreasonable enough. French country folk made no pretence ofentertaining visitors at such early hours of the morning. As theyapproached the building the matter of its occupancy seemed open toquestion, for the closed windows stared blankly at the leaden sky. Aneloquent shutter hung helplessly from its hinges and weeds rangedriotously about the front door, near which a wooden bench layoverturned. While Hermia waited under a tree Markham walked slowlyaround the house, returning presently with the information that itsrear confirmed the impression of desertion. But to make the mattercertain he walked to the door and vigorously clanged the knocker. Hollow echoes, but no other sound. He knocked again; to his surprisethe door yielded to the touch of his shoulder and creakily opened. 

"We'll go in, I think, " he laughed. And, leaving the patient donkeyfor the moment to her fate, he led the way indoors. A match illuminedfor a moment the hallway, showing a ladder-like stair to a trap doorabove, and then, sputtering faintly in the musty air, went out. Sincematches were scarce, he deftly made a torch of a paper from his pocketwith better success. A brief glance into the room at their left showedsigns of recent occupancy. His quick survey marked an oil lamp in thecorner, which, upon investigation, proved to be in working order, so helit it with the end of his expiring taper. 

The room was handsomely paneled in white. There was a couch in thecorner, a rug upon the floor and several easy chairs were drawnsociably toward the chimney breast; along one wall was a gun-rack andin the center of the room a table with a litter of magazines, a box ofcigars, a decanter of wine and some glasses. 

Their appraisal concluded, they faced each other blankly. Then Markhamlaughed. 

"I wonder what's the punishment for poaching in France, " he said gaily. 

Hermia dropped wearily upon the couch. 

"I'm sure I don't know--or care in the least, " she sighed. "I'll go toprison willingly in the morning if they'll only let me sleep now. I'mtired. I didn't know I could ever be so tired. "

Markham glanced at her and then quickly poured out a glass of wine, brought it to her, and in spite of her protests made her drink. 

"Stolen, " she muttered between sips. 

"It's no less useful because of that, " he said, coolly helping himself. "It's medicine--for both of us. We've had eighteen hours to-day. _Salut_, Yvonne! We'll pay for it some day. "

"To whom?"

"To the chap who owns this lodge--a man of taste, a good Samaritan anda gentleman, if a mere vagabond may be a judge of Amontillado. " Hefinished the glass at a gulp and set it upon the table. From her couchshe watched him as he opened the windows and closed and fastened theshutters. Then he went outside and she heard him pottering around inthe rain with Clarissa, undoing the pack and bringing it into thehouse, and leading the donkey off in the direction of the shed. 

"An excellent man, our host, " he laughed from the doorway. "Clarissais up to her ears in hay. "

He dripped with moisture, and, mindful of the furniture, took off hiscoat and hat and shook them in the hall. 

"Now, child, we're snug. It's raining hard. No one would venture herein such a night. You must sleep--at once. "

"What will you do?" she asked drowsily. 

"I'm perishing for a smoke. You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no, --but you must--must sleep--too. I'm--very tired--very--" Thewords trailed off into mumbling, and before he could fill his pipe shewas breathing deeply. 

He got up and laid her coat over her feet and then stood beside her, his soul in his eyes, watching. 

"Poor little madcap, " he whispered; "mad little--sad little madcap. "

He bent over her tenderly, with a longing to smooth away the tiredlines at her eyes with caresses, to take her in his arms and soothe herwith gentleness. She seemed very small, very slender, too small, toochildish to have raised such a tempest in the deeper currents of hisspirit, and he groped forward, his fingers trembling for the touch ofher. 

He straightened with a sigh. He could not and he knew it; for shetrusted him and trust in him was her defence, a valiant one evenagainst his tenderness. It had always been one of the hardest burdenshe had to bear. He watched her a while longer, then turned away andsank into a chair by the table, soberly lit his pipe and smoked, hiseyes roving. There were colored prints upon the wall, well chosen onesof deer and fox hunters in full chase; upon the table an ash tray ofSatsuma ware and several books. He took up the one nearest him, avolume on big game hunting, and turned the pages idly. Theirunconscious and unwilling host took his sports seriously, it seemed. He dropped the book upon his knees, and as he did so it fell open atthe fly leaf, upon which in a feminine scrawl a name was inscribed. Heread it with surprise and concern. "Madeleine de Cahors!" OlgaTcherny's Norman friend--who lived--

Alenon! What a dolt he was! This was the forest ofƒcouves--or a part of it--and in the night he had come into thepreserve of the wealthy marquis. Olga's friends--and Olga! A fineescape he had made of it, into the very sphere of the CountessTcherny's activities! The Ch‰teau must be near here, at themost not more than a few kilometers distant. He was a clod-pate, nothing less. For with all the Oire to choose from he had stumbledblindly into the one path that led to danger. What was to be done?He got to his feet stealthily and went through the lodge. A diningroom, kitchen and pantry upon the other side of the hallway, deserted, but like the living room, giving signs of recent use. He opened thedoor and looked out. The shadows of the forest were barelydiscernible through the driving rain. It was a boisterous night, itsinclemency heightened when viewed from the shelter of this friendlyroof, one which must defy their sleuth, the chauffeur, had he had thetemerity or the stealth to follow them through the forest. Markhamwatched for a while, nevertheless, and then, satisfied that for thenight at least they were safe from discovery, returned to the livingroom and dropped into his chair, determining to sit and listen a whileand then perhaps take a few hours of sleep. 

There was nothing else to be done. His companion was beyond moving, unless he carried her, and this he knew in his present condition couldnot be far. To-morrow morning they must be abroad early and make theirway at top speed out of the forest, trusting to luck that had so farfavored them to bring them out of harm's way. It was curious, though, the way Olga had persisted in his thoughts. Marry? _Him_?Incredible! Had she not taken the pains so long ago to make himunderstand that marriage was the last thing in the world she would everthink of again? Their agreement on the fundamentals of independencehad been one of their strongest ties. That kiss in Hermia's rosegarden meant nothing to Olga--or to him. An accident--physicalonly--the possibility of which their former agreements hadunfortunately not foreseen. Hermia was mistaken--that was all. Andyet--why this pursuit? It all seemed a little too deep for hiscomprehension at the present moment. His mind groped for lucidity, failed, and then was blank. 

CHAPTER XXI

NEMESIS

The storm had blown itself out in the night and the sun came blithelyup, awaking the forest to its orisons. The oaks dripped jewels and theblack pines lifted their gilded spires above the clearing and noddedsolemnly to the rosy East. The sun climbed higher and a thin pall ofvapor roamed up the hillside from the gorges of the stream and soughtthe open sky. 

Nature had wept out the gusts of her passion and her smiles were themore beautiful through the vestiges of her tears. The sunlight wasspattered lavishly among the shadows, glowing with a lambent light inthe hidden places under shrub and thicket and dancing madly on leaf andbough. There was mischief in the air and it took but a little flightof the fancy to conjure Pan and his nymphs gamboling about the sleepinghouse of the vagabonds. 

Morning had importuned their shutters long before Markham awoke andgazed with startled eyes at the diagonal bar of orange light which cutthe obscurity of their hiding place. Then, rubbing his eyes, hestumbled to his feet and stared at his watch. It was nine o'clock. Hermia still slept, huddled under her overcoat, one rosy cheek pillowedon her open palm, her tumbled hair flooding riotously about hershoulders. Markham stopped a moment to gaze at her again, but shestirred under his look, so he moved quickly away to the door and peeredcautiously out, searching the forest with eager eyes. Gaining courage, he went out, making the round of the house with eyes and ears intent. There was much ado among the tree tops and a scurrying of four-footedamong the underbrush, but of two-footed things he saw nothing. Hefetched a pail of water for Clarissa and was in the act of entering thehouse when a gun cracked sharply at some distance on his left. Theforest stopped to listen with him for a full moment as the echoes wentbounding among the rocks. And then a whirring of wings great andsmall, hither and yon, announced that there were other vagabonds asstartled as he. Two more shots, this time in the distance behind him, followed quickly by a startling noise close at hand. 

Clarissa, her whole soul in the note, was incontinently braying. 

It was an unearthly sound and an unfamiliar one. For never in thesmooth course of their acquaintance had she been guilty of such anindiscretion. He hurried to the shed, but before he reached the doorshe ceased, and when he entered, regarded him with a wistful eye ofrecrimination which forestalled his reproaches. After all, she wasonly an ass! The damage, if damage there was, had already been done. In grave doubt as to his own immediate course, he hurried to the lodge, where he found Hermia sitting wide-eyed upon her couch, fearfullyawaiting him. 

"What on earth has happened, Philidor?" she asked. 

"Oh, nothing, " he laughed. "Our host is abroad with a shotgun. Clarissa objects, and is so much of an ass that she can't hold hertongue about it. "

She smiled and got to her feet. 

"I must have slept--"

"Precisely seven hours. It's half-past nine. We must be off atonce--by the back door if there is one--"

"Are they coming this way?"

"I didn't stop to inquire. They're near enough, at any rate. "

"We could explain, couldn't we--I mean about the storm and the doorbeing open?"

"Hardly--this shooting lodge, my child, --this forest, too, is theproperty of the De Cahors. See--" and he showed her the book. 

"O Philidor! What shall we do?"

"Get out at once. They mustn't see you at any cost. If they come_you_ must take to the bushes, and meet me in Hauterire. It's a caseof the devil take the hindmost--the hindmost being me and the devilbeing--" he paused significantly. 

"Olga! Do you think she can be shooting, too?"

He shrugged. "She's quite apt to be doing precisely that, " he saidshortly. 

Hermia flew to the window and, unlatching the shutter, peered timidlyforth. Markham heard her gasp and looked over her shoulder through theaperture. 

"Olga!" she whispered in dismay. 

There in the path to the deep wood, smartly attired in gaiters, a shortskirt and Alpine hat, her shotgun in the hollow of her arm, wasNemesis. She came up the path at a leisurely gait, and stopped not ahundred feet away, her head held upon one side, smiling and carelesslysurveying the premises. 

Hermia shrank back and huddled down upon the couch. 

"O Philidor, we're lost--"

But he caught her by the shoulder and hurried her out into the hall. 

"Up the ladder quickly! It's our only chance. There's a window in thegable and a trellis. I saw it a while ago. You must go--that way whenI get her inside. We'll meet at Hauterire. Leave the rest to me. "

And while she went up he returned to the living room, removed the mostobvious traces of Hermia's presence, and, as the trap door was sliddown into its place, dropped into the nearest armchair, feigningslumber. He heard Olga's footsteps as she prowled around the house anddeluded himself for a moment with the thought that she had gone on, when suddenly he saw her poking at the shutters, which she finallypressed open with the butt end of her shotgun, filling the room withsunlight and revealing the prostrate Markham, who started up in dismaywhich needed little simulation. 

"Good morning, Philidor, " said she quite pleasantly. 

"Olga!"

"Did you sleep well? What a sluggard you are! Behold the ant--learnher ways and do likewise. "

He rose, and through the window offered her his hand. But she wavedhim off with the point of her gun. 

"Not so fast, my young friend!" she cried, her eyes meanwhile swiftlysearching the room. "You're a poacher. Will you surrender?"

"By all means--at discretion--if you'll please not keep pointing thatplaguey thing--"

She raised a tiny silver object suspended around her neck by a silverchain. 

"Don't you know that it's my duty to my host to whistle for the keepersto come and take you before the magistrate?"

"Of course. Whistle away. "

"But I'm not going to--at least, not yet. I want to talk to you first. I'm coming in--with your permission. "

"Charmed!" he said with a gaiety he was far from feeling, and openedthe door with a fine flourish. "It's always easy to be hospitable atsomebody else's expense, " he said. 

She entered without ceremony, gun in hand, her eyes, under loweredlids, shifting indolently, yet missing nothing--the pack on the floor, the tumbled couch, and Markham's familiar pipe. 

"Quite handsome, I'd say. The Count always had an eye for thepicturesque. "

She made the round of the lower floor, carelessly observant of itsarrangement, while Markham followed her, his ears straining for thesounds of Hermia's escape. 

"Are your friends coming here?" he asked. 

Olga poked the muzzle of her gun into a cupboard. "Not unless Iwhistle for them, Monsieur, " she said slowly. "They're below me to theleft. We have rendezvous at the lower lodge. Lucky, isn't it?"

Markham's eye lit hopefully. 

"I am, it seems, completely at your mercy, " he laughed. 

He preceded her into the living room and in doing so failed to note thebrief pause she made beside the stairs to the loft, upon the steps ofwhich, and upon the floor beneath them, plainly to be seen were anumber of small particles of mud, broken and dried. Nor did he see thequick smile of triumph replace the puzzled look with which she hadpursued her investigations. She followed him in and with a sigh ofcontent dropped into a chair by the fireplace, crossing her knees andleisurely lighting a cigarette. 

"_Enfin_, " she laughed. "Here we are gain--thou and I, _Monsieur lephilospophe_. "

He shrugged. 

"At your pleasure, " he replied. 

She examined his face a moment before she went on. And then softly:

"Why did you run away from me last night? You did, you know, Philidor, or you wouldn't be here. "

He hesitated a moment. 

"I was afraid you'd insist--on my joining your house party. "

She cast a glance around the room and laughed. 

"It seems that you've already done so. "

"Er--a mistake. I was going to camp in the woods, but it came on torain. The door of this house was unlatched. So I walked in--and hereI am. "

"Reasonable enough. It _did_ rain. I remember. And weren't youlonely here?"

"Oh, no, " he said easily, "I was asleep. "

"And I woke you. What a pity!"

"I'm sure--I'm delighted--if you don't lead me to the Ch‰teau deCahors or the magistrate. "

"What alternatives! One would think, John Markham, that you werereally an enemy of society. "

"Society with the small _S_, I am. I'm never less alone than when bymyself. "

"Which means that two is a crowd? Thanks. I shall tear myself away ina moment, but not until--"

"Don't be foolish, Olga, " he whispered. "You know that can't meanyou. "

"I don't know, " she murmured wistfully in a low, even voice, her gazeon the andirons. "You've surely given me no reasons t believe that youcared for my society. I wrote you twice from New York, once form Parisand once from Trouville, and you've only deigned me one reply--_such_ areply--with comments upon the weather (upon which I was fullyinformed), and a hope that we might meet in October in New York. Itwas sweet of you, John, when I came to Europe expressly to see you!"

"Me?" He rose, walked the length of the room and glanced anxiously outof the window. "Impossible!" he said, then turned and stood by themantel, his back toward the door, his voice tensely subdued. "Seehere, Olga, don't you think it's about time that you stopped making funof me--that you and I understood each other? For some reason, after afew years of acquaintance you've suddenly discovered that I amuse you. Why, I don't know. I'm not your sort--not the sort of man you'd findworth your while in the long run, and you know it. And I don't proposeto be caught in your silken mesh, my dear, to be left to dry in the sunwhen you find some other specimen more to your liking. "

Olga laughed silently, her head away from him, and Markham, after aquick glance over his shoulder, went on whispering. 

"I gave you my friendship-freely, unreservedly, but you weren'tsatisfied with that. Hardly! You wanted me to be in love with you. There's no doubt of it. " He laughed. "Oh, anyone else would have doneas well, but I happened along at a favorable time--on the back swing ofthe pendulum. It hurt your pride, I think, that one of my Arcadiansimplicity should fail to droop where others, more sophisticated, hadfallen swiftly. Perhaps I, too, might have fallen if you hadn't warnedme that you had no heart. You did me that kindness. "

He stopped, listening. Olga's ears, too, were alert for a sound--atiny sound of no more volume than that which might have been made by amouse that had come from overhead. 

"But you grew weary of that, " he went on quietly. "You wantedsomething to happen. Your reputation was at stake. It was time for apsychological crisis of sorts--and so you arranged it--in a rosegarden. "

Olga had stopped smiling now and her brows were narrowing painfully. "You have no right to speak to me so, " she murmured. 

"It's true, " he finished. "You didn't play fair and you know it. "

She bent forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze on the ashes. 

"You hurt me--John, " she whispered, scarcely audibly; "you hurtme--terribly. "

His eyes searched her keenly. Her head drooped to her fingers, whichpressed her temples nervously. If he had not known her so well hewould have almost been ready to believe her contrition genuine. But ina moment she straightened. 

"You advise me not to hope, then?" she murmured with a laugh. 

Doubt fled. She was mocking him. Her very presence mocked him. Therafters saw his discomfiture, though the attic heard not. Was Hermiagone? He fidgeted his feet, listening. Olga was really intolerable. 

"Oh, what's the use?" he muttered. "The humor's out of the thing. "A change, subtle and undefined, came over his visitor's expression. She rose imperturbably and walked about, fingering things, reaching atlast the book case next to the corridor, and slowly abstracted avolume, turning its leaves idly, and facing the door, spoke withperilous distinctness. 

"It is charming here, _mon ami_, " she said gaily. "If I had sent foryou, things could not have been more agreeably arranged. It is _so_long since we've met. And I've missed you dreadfully. It mustn'thappen again, _mon cher_. " She lowered the book and leaned againstthe door jamb dreamily. "You shall remain here _en vagabond_, " shewent on, "and I will visit you, bringing you crumbs from the rich men'stable, which we will enjoy _ˆ deux_. It will remind us of those daysat Compigne, those long days of sunshine and delight--of the moonlitOise, and the tiny _auberge_ at La Croix among the beeches, which eventhe motorists hadn't yet discovered. But even La Croix is not moresecluded than this. This lodge is seldom used. No one shall know--noteven Madeleine de Cahors. "

Markham listened dumbly at first in incomprehension and then inamazement. He had never been in Compigne with Olga or anyone else. And La Croix--! What was she about? Her purpose came to him slowly, and with the revelation, anger. 

He covered the distance between them in a step. 

"Silence, " he whispered, aware of the trap door about their very ears. 

She smiled up into his face sweetly. 

"I suppose you'll be denying next that you were ever in Compigne--"

"I do. "

"Or that you would have married me last summer if I--"

"Olga!"

"If I hadn't been wise enough--"

"You're mad!"

She drew back form him, her eyes wide, but she had no reply. He tookone step toward her and then stopped, impotent before her frailness, his glance wavering toward the door into the loft which mutely staredat him. Hermia would have gone by now--she _must_ have gone. The wayhad been clear for twenty minutes. He looked away, and then, sincethere seemed nothing else to do, he laughed. But Olga didn't seem tohear him. She was fingering the shotgun which lay beside her on thetable. 

"Mad? Perhaps I am, " she said with slow distinctness. "Though you'rethe last one in the world who should tell me so. "

She picked up the weapon and, before he had really guessed what she wasabout, calmly discharged one of its barrels out of the window. 

The noise was deafening and the silence which followed freighted withimportance. A scraping of feet overhead, a rattle of loose hinges, anda frightened face at the aperture. Olga Tcherny turned, took a step ortwo into the doorway, glanced upward and then let her astonished gazefall on Markham, who was peering up, imploring mutely. 

"You--and Hermia!" This from Olga, who had recovered her speech withdifficulty. "What does it mean, John?"

But John Markham thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned hisback. 

"What does it mean?" she repeated distinctly. "You and Hermia--here?I hardly understand--" But Markham, looking out of the end window, shrugged his shoulders, refusing to reply. He was fuddled with misery, bewildered by the turn of events which were quite beyond his management. 

Another long pause, during which he was conscious that Hermia, herdignity in jeopardy, was descending the ladder and now faced theirvisitor, a fugitive smile upon her lips, pale but quite composed. 

"Hello, Olga, " he heard her say. 

The Countess Tcherny's gaze traveled over her from head to heel, thegaze of one who looks at a person one has never seen before. Shelooked long but replied not; then her chin was lowered quickly thefraction of an inch, after which she raised the gun, broke it and threwout the shell from the still smoking barrel. 

"Stupid of me, wasn't it?" she said coolly. "I forgot it was loaded. "

"It's lucky you didn't hurt yourself, " said Hermia. 

"Isn't it? How dreadful, Hermia, if I had peppered the trap door!"

"I rather think you did, " said Hermia. She walked across to thefireplace with a queer laugh. "Well! You've brought down the game. Now whistle for your dogs!"

Olga's face was quite serious. 

"I'm sure that I don't in the least know what you're talking about. Your presence is surprising enough--"

Hermia looked defiance. 

"Is it? Why? You've outwitted me. I'm simply acknowledging the fact. John Markham and I have been traveling together for a week--as youperceive--_en vagabond_. We like it. It's most amusing. Indiscreet?Perhaps. If so, I'll take the consequences. Can I say more?"

Olga's smile came slowly--with difficulty. The bravado of fear? Or ofindifference? She had never really measured weapons with Hermia. 

"I'm the last person in the world whose censure you need fear, mydear, " she said suavely. 

"I don't fear it, " said Hermia promptly. "I'm quite sure I'd ratherhave had you fin me out than any one I know. "

Bravado again. 

"I'm glad, darling, " Olga purred. "It's sweet of you to say so. "

"I don't mean that I wanted to be discovered. If I had I shouldn'thave fled from the _roulotte_ of the Fabiani family yesterday when youwere looking for me. You traced us from Alenon, of course--"

"I? Why should I follow you?"

"I haven't the slightest idea--unless your conversation a moment agowith John Markham explains it. "

"You heard--that!"

"Oh, yes, --didn't you want me to? I'm not deaf. But you needn't be atall worried about it. " She paused and brushed the dust of the loftfrom her coat sleeve. "You know, Olga, I don't believe it--_any_ ofit. "

Olga smiled sagely, but Markham, who all this while had been standinglike a figure of wax, now showed signs of animation. 

"It was all a joke, of course, Hermia, " he began, moving forward. "Olga knows as well as I do that--"

But Hermia had waved him into silence. 

"Let me finish, " she insisted, and he paused. 

"I fancy the atmosphere needs clearing, " she went on coolly, "and wemay as well do it at once. As I remarked a few moments ago, I denynothing, crave no indulgences, from you, Olga, or from anyone. I cry_peccavi_. But I want you to understand that I feel no regret. Evenat the cost of this dŽnouement I should not hesitate to seek myfreedom--if I could find it with John Markham. I love him. Andhe--_do_ let me finish, Philidor, --he loves _me_. So there you are. There's nothing more to be said. What _could_ one say?"

Olga had reached the door, shrugging her shoulders very prettily. 

"Nothing, perhaps, except 'good day, '" she laughed. "It seems that I'm_de trop_. I'll go at once. "

AT the door she paused. "You will be quite secure from interruptionhere to-day, I think. When you go, take to the forest to the northwardand you should get out in safety. This secret is delicious. When youare well out of harm's way, _mess amiss_, I shall tell it, in my bestmanner, at the dinner table. "

She waved her hand and was gone. 

CHAPTER XXII

ONE GREAT PAN IS DEAD

As she went out Markham came forward, but Hermia waved him aside, and, going to the open window, stood silent, her head bent forward, hergaze fixed on Olga's diminishing back. It seemed more than usuallyshapely, that back, more than usually careless and disdainful. Herfeet spurned the ground and tripped lightly among the grasses, hershoulders swinging easily, the feather in her hat nodding, mischievously defiant. After she had melted into the thicket, Hermiastill stood watching the spot where she had disappeared. But Markham, no longer to be denied, came from behind and caught her around thewaist. 

"It's true, Hermia, " he whispered, "you love--?"

Her brow had been deep in thought, and at first it had not seemed thatshe heard him or felt his arms about her, but as his lips touched hercheek she sprang away, her eyes blazing at him. 

"You!" As she brushed the cheek his lips touched: "Hardly, "scornfully, and then, with a laugh, "I lied, that's all. "

"I'll not believe it. You love me--"

"No. I detest you. "

He saw a light. 

"You heard. You believe that Olga and I--"

"I'm not a fool. One lives and one learns. "

He caught her by the shoulders as one does a child, the impulse in himstrong to shake her, his heart denying it. 

"She knew you were listening all the while. Can't you understand?That was her game. She played it--for you. I've never been inCompigne--"

"Let me go--"

"No. Not until you look in my eyes. You love me. You've told _her_ soand _me_--"

"I lied. It was necessary--"

"Why?"

She struggled, but would not look at him. "Let me go. "

"No. Why did you say that unless--"

"The situation--demanded it, " she panted. "She had to understand--"

"The truth--"

"No--not the truth. She could not have understood the truth--so I liedto her--lied to her. "

With a supreme effort she wrenched away, putting the table between them. 

"Oh, " she gasped furiously. "That I could _ever_ have believed in you!"

But her anger failed to dismay him. There was a pause during whichtheir glances clashed, hers flashing, contemptuous--his keen, intentand a trifle amused. 

"Why did you stay--up there--when the way was clear to the forest. "

Her eyes opened a little wider. 

"I--I was afraid to go. "

"Afraid! Perhaps. But that wasn't the only thing that kept you--"

"What then?" indifferently. 

"Curiosity. "

"About what?"

"Me. "

"Oh!" scornfully. 

"It's true. You wanted to hear what passed between us. I thought youhad gone. Olga knew you hadn't. She was the cleverest of us all, yousee. "

"It hasn't made the slightest difference. "

He reached her in a stride. 

"You love me, " he laughed. "I know it now. " And as she still turnedfrom him: "And you'll marry me, too, Hermia. "

"Never!"

"Yes, " he repeated, "you'll marry me. There isn't anything else foryou to do. "

She was dumb with surprise and could only gasp with rage, but beforeshe could speak he had released her, and, catching up his hat form thetable, was out of the door and on his way to the stable. 

He laughed up at the sky. Subterfuge could not avail her now. He hadlearned the truth. Neither mockery, scorn nor any other pretence coulddivert the genial current of his soul. She loved him. And, whateverhe had shown of mastery in her presence, his precious knowledge madehim suddenly strangely gentle in his thoughts of her. The sky smiledback at him from over the leafy glades of the Comte de Cahors, and, ashis gaze sought the spot in the woods where a moment ago Olga haddisappeared, a sober look came into his eyes. Tell? Would she? WouldOlga tell? He didn't believe it. He had learned many things. Olgakindled her altar fires not for the warmth of them, but for theirincense, the odor of which was breath to her nostrils. The symbols oflove--not love itself--what could Olga know of love? He knew--andHermia? Hermia knew, for he had taught her. 

He filled his bucket at the well and sought Clarissa, who was sleepingthe sleep of satiety. She had eaten until she could eat no more. Watered, he led her back to the lodge, fastened his hitching strap atthe door and went inside, his own appetite advising him that neither henor Hermia had eaten since yesterday afternoon. His companion hadhuddled into a chair and was gazing into the fireplace. She did notoffer to continue their conversation, nor did he. And so he got outhis spirit lamp and made coffee, unpacked some chicken sandwiches, and, helping himself freely to the crockery of the Marquis, presently servedthe breakfast. 

She would not eat at first and he did not insist upon her doing so, butsat comfortably, and in a moment was smacking his lips. The coffee wasexcellent--the best that could be had in Alenon, and its odor wasdelicious. He saw from where he sat her eyes shifting uncertainly. Hedrained his cup with a great sigh of content, set it down upon thesaucer and was in the act of pouring out another helping for himselfwhen she rose and reached forward quickly, appetite triumphant. 

"I'd better eat, I suppose, " she said jerkily. 

He smiled politely and handed her the sandwiches, noting from the tailof his eye that several times during the meal her look sought his facefor an explanation of his change of manner, which, not beingforthcoming, she sat rather demurely at her meat, emptying the pot ofcoffee and finishing the last of the bread and chicken. Markham wouldhave smiled if he had dared! What chance had any of the lighterpassions against the craving hunger of the healthy young animal? Itwas another triumph of his philosophy, almost its greatest--Nature at abound eliminating art and the feminine calculus. When he had finishedeating, without a word he rose, and went out to pack Clarissa, andwhile he was thus engaged Hermia passed him silently with a bucket onthe way to the pump for water, and in another moment he was aware thatshe was washing the dishes. He made no effort to help her, but sat onthe door-sill, thoughtfully smoking his pipe. 

She came out in a moment and announced that she was ready to go, and hesaw that breakfast had done her no harm. So they followed OlgaTcherny's instructions as far as he remembered them and found a paththrough the woods which led northward. Clarissa had so gorged herselfwith the stolen fodder (which may have been sweeter on that account)that Markham had to cut a new goad to speed her upon her way. Theykept a watch ahead and behind them, and emerged as Olga had prophesiedwithout adventure or accident through a hole in a hedge upon ahighroad, along which, still bending their steps northward, they tooktheir way. 

Markham's silence had a double meaning. They were at odds just now. Awhile back Hermia had starved for food. He meant now that she shouldstarve for company. He wanted to think, too, to analyze and weigh hisown culpability in the situation where they now found themselves. Theimprudence of their venture had not seemed to matter so much back atEvreux, where accident had thrown them together and Hermia had linkedher fate to his. She had been little more to him then than anextraordinarily interesting specimen of a genus he little understood, arebellious slave of convention who had shown him the shackles whichgalled her wrists and had pleaded with him very prettily to help herstrike them off. Could any man have refused her? And yet he had knownfrom that hour that a retribution of some sort awaited themboth--Hermia, for ignoring her code; himself, for having permitted herto ignore it. There was a difference now--a difference which theirdiscovery by an outsider had made unpleasantly manifest. De Folligny'sappearance at Verneuil had made Markham thoughtful, but Olga'sintrusion now had paraphrased their pastoral lyric into unworthy prose. Parnassus wept with them, but no amount of weeping could destroy theugly doggerel as Olga had written it. Their idyl was smirched, thefair robe of _Euterpe_ was trialing in the dust. 

But it was too late for reproaches now. The mischief was done and onething only left--to emerge with as good a grace as possible from adoubtful position. As the moments passed it became more clear toMarkham in which way his duty lay--and the more he thought of it, themore he was convinced that it lay out of Vagabondia. Hermia mustgo--this very day--and he--to beard their pretty tigress. 

The shadow of his thoughts fell upon his brows, and to Hermia, whowatched him, when she could do so unobserved, he presented acountenance upon which gloom sat heavily enthroned. 

Had he spoken his thoughts as they came to him she could not have readhim more easily; and, as Markham gloomed, her own mood lightened. Though she spoke not, a dull fire slumbered in her eye which boded himmischief. Disaster had befallen--and some one was to pay for it; buthis bent head was unaware of the smile that suddenly grew, a palewintry smile which matched the devil in her eyes. 

They camped in the mellow afternoon under the trees upon a ruggedmountain that guarded the defile, through which a rushing torrent, oneof the tributaries of the Oire, dashed over the rocks on its swiftcourse to Argentan. Below them in the valley were a village and arailroad along which a tiny passenger train was slowly proceeding. Markham eyed the train with a grave and melancholy interest. They bothobserved that it stopped in the village to let off and take onpassengers. He built his fire with great deliberateness, gloomy andsilent as though performing a last rite for one departed, and atesolemnly, his face long. 

At last she could stand the stress of him no longer and burst suddenlyinto a fit of laughter which echoed madly among the rocks. 

"Oh, John Markham!" she cried. "Why so _triste_? The melancholysweetness of seeing Olga again?"

"No, " he replied calmly. "I was thinking--of other things. "

"What?"

A smile broke over his lips. He had been right. There was nothing inthe world that a woman has greater pains to endure than silence. Hehad starved her out. 

He didn't reply at once, and that angered her. 

"Must I plead with you even for speech?" she asked satirically. "Hasit come to this? Will you not smile and throw a crumb of comfort toyour bond-woman?"

"I have had nothing to say--until now, " he replied, very quietly, overhis coffee cup. 

She only laughed at him and swept the ground with a low curtsey. 

"Thy slave listens. Speak! To what decision has my lord and masterarrived?" she asked. 

He swallowed his coffee deliberately, unsmiling, his gaze over thevalley where the railroad track wormed its way into the North. 

"That you're to go to your friends in Paris--at once, " he saiddecisively. 

And while she watched him scornfully, the slow fire in her eyes burningsuddenly into brightness, he took from his pocket a wallet he had neverseen before, and counted out upon the ground some money. 

"This, " he continued calmly, "is yours. You have earned it. I havekept count. I will owe you, too--what is realized from the sale of--ofClarissa. Or, if you prefer it, I will pay you that now. I hope youwill find the arrangement satisfactory. "

He had arrested her mockery and she stood silent while he spoke, hergaze upon the ground. But her mood broke forth again with even greatervirulence. 

"So you want to be ride of me, _Monsieur mon Ma”tre--cancel myindentures--end my apprenticeship to the school of life--turn me adriftin a wicked world, which already treats me none too kindly. Is itwise, I say? Is it kind, is it human--just because a woman crosses ourpath and threatens my reputation? Look at me. Am I not the same thatI was before? Now have I fallen in your graces? You, who professed awhile ago to love me--oh, so madly?"

He was silent and would not look at her. 

"Or is it _me_ that you fear, _mon cher_?" she taunted him. "Is itthat I've learned too well your lessons? That I've foresworn theconventions which stifled me, the code which enslaved me, that I'veearned at last my right to live unbound, untrammeled--with no code butthe love of life, no law but that of my own instincts--is it because ofthis that you deny me? O John Markham! What becomes of your finephilosophy? And of your natural laws? Do they fall, with me, beforethe first challenge from the world they profess to ignore? It is tolaugh. "

While she vented her joy of him he rose and faced her, but she did notflinch. Her voice only dropped a tone, and now derided, mocked andcajoled. 

"Do you fear me so much, _Monsieur le Ma”tre_?" she laughed. "Is itthat I love you too much to love you wisely? Why should _you_ care, _mon ami_? Is it not the lot of women to give--always to give?"

Still he turned away from her, his hands fast in his pockets, but awarning murmur broke from his lips. She did not hear it and, comingaround behind him, clasped her fingers upon his arms. 

"If I tell you that I do not love you, _mon ami_, will not that beenough--enough to satisfy you that my happiness is not in danger? If Ido not love you, what can you fear for me? Why should I care what theworld thinks of us? Have I reproached you? Did I not give myself intoyour keeping, without--"

He turned and caught her into his arms and stopped her mockery withkisses, the man in him triumphant, while she struggled, her lips deniedhim, dumb and quivering in his arms. 

"Now perhaps you know----why it is that you must go, " he whispered. "Read it here. I'm mad for you, Hermia--that is why. I can't anylonger be with you without reaching forth to take you----you're mine byevery law of God or Nature. Philosophy! Who cares? Your lips havebabbled it. Let them babble it now--if they dare--"

"Let me go, Philidor, " she gasped. 

"No, not yet. I've much to say and only this hour to say it in, for ina while you shall go and I will stay with Pan and mourn. The woodswill sigh of you, for you will be a nymph no longer. But before you goyou shall look love in the eyes and see--love full grown andmasterful--here among the everlasting rocks--love so great that youshall be afraid and mock not. Look up. Look in my eyes--"

"No! No!"

"You love me. "

"No!"

"You love me. "

"N--no!"

As she protested he took her lips, pale lips that would have mockedagain, yet dared not, for her eyes had stolen a glance throughhalf-closed lashes and learned that what he said was true. The warmcolor flooded upward, staining crimson beneath the tan, and her bodywhich had relaxed for a moment under the gust of his ardor protestedanew. 

"Let me go, Philidor. I-It must not be--can't you understand? Wouldyou justify them--what they say of us? Oh, let me go. Let me--"

She wrenched away from him and stood gasping, Olga Tcherny's lastlaughter singing in her ears. 

"You've justified her--justified her, " she almost sobbed, "robbed me ofmy right to look her in the eyes--as I could do this morning. Why didyou kiss me--like that--Philidor? Oh, you've spoiled it all--spoiledit for us both. Why couldn't you have let things be--as they were--sogentle--so sweet--so sane!"

"You mocked at love, " he muttered. 

"Oh, that I should have misjudged you so. You who were so strong--sokind! Who ruled me with gentleness! and now--"

"You've tried me too far. "

She had; and she knew it. There was nothing for it but to skurry forthe wings of convention. Alas, for Pan! Hermia was a nymph nolonger--only a girl of the cities, upon the defensive for the securityof her traditions. She drew aside and sank breathless upon a rock. 

"Love is not so ruthless--it does not shock or sear, John Markham, " shegasped. 

"I've served you patiently--and long, " he muttered. 

"A week. "

"It's enough. "

"No. "

"You'll marry me. "

She raised her head and met his eyes fairly. 

"No. I refuse you. "

He could not understand. 

"You--"

"I refuse to marry you. Is that clear?" she cried. 

What had come over her? The warm color had flooded back to her heartand her eyes were cold like dead embers. 

"I won't believe you, " he said doggedly. 

"You must. It was a mistake--all this--a mistake from the first. Iwas made to have followed you. You should have denied me--then--backthere--"

"I loved you then--I know it now--and you--"

"No--not love, John Markham, " she went on. "If you had loved me youwould have sent me back to Paris--and saved me from--from myself. Youloved me then, you say, " she laughed scornfully. "What kind of love isthis that slinks in hiding, preaches of friendship for its own ends andrants of philosophy? What kind of love that scoffs at public opinionand finds itself at last a topic of amusement at a fashionable diningtable? A selfish love, a nameless love from which all tenderness, allgentleness and beauty--"

"Hermia!" He had caught her by the shoulders and held her gaze withhis own. 

"Let me go. It's true. And you ask me to marry you. Why should youmarry me when you can win my lips without it?"

She laughed up at him, a hard little laugh, like a buffet in his face. Still he held her--away from him. 

"Your lips are mine, " he said gently, "I could take them now--again andagain. But I will not. See, I am all tenderness again. Your wordscannot harm me--nor yourself. For love is greater than either of us. It is the secret you once asked of me, the secret of life. I've toldit to you. I tell it to you now--when I let you go. "

Her color came and went and her eyes drooped before him. He droppedhis hands, turned his back and walked away. 

"That is my reply, " he said softly. 

Could he have seen the glory that rode suddenly in her eyes as shelooked at him, he would have read the heart of her. But that was notto be. Followed a silence. He would not trust himself again. Theembers of their fire still smoked. With his foot he crushed them out. 

"You will go, at once, to Paris, " he said quietly, not looking at her. 

She did not move, or reply, and only watched him as he made thepreparations for departure. They went down the hill to the village insilence, Markham leading Clarissa at his side. At the _gare_ a trainwas due in half an hour, and so they sat and waited, looking straightbefore them, no word passing, and when the train came he found acompartment and put her in it, with her bundle, then stood with headuncovered, until a stain of smoke above the trees was all that remainedto him. Presently that, too, vanished, when soberly he took up hiscudgel and went his way. 

CHAPTER XXIII

A LADY IN THE DUSK

Halfway between the turbid currents of the lower city and the moreswiftly running streams to the northward sits Washington Square, anisle of rest amid the tides of humanity which lap its shores. 

Here is the true gateway to the city--below it the polyglot of Europe;above, the amalgam which makes America. It is a neighborhood oftraditions which speak in the aspect of the solidly built row of housesfacing to the south, breasting the living surge, its front unbroken. This park, with its stretch of green, its dusky maples and shadedbenches, afforded asylum to Markham, the painter, who liked to comewhen the day's work was over and watch the shadows fall across thesquare, creeping slowly up the walls of the Arch, bringing into higherrelief the rosy tints on cornice and medallion which remained animate amoment against the purple filigree beyond, a thing of joy and ofbeauty, a symbol of eternal freedom. He was never sure whether it wasmore wonderful then, or when a moment later the golden glory gone fromits cap, it stood silent amid the roar of the city wrapped in palliddignity at the end of the glittering Avenue. That Avenue was a symbol, too. It meant the world to which Markham had returned after hisglimpse of Elysium, a world not too kind, already laughing perhaps athis secret and Hermia's. 

His problem still puzzled him. He had had no word from Olga Tcherny, though he had sought her in Alenon and Trouville. She had gone toParis, he had been informed, but he had not been able to find her therein her usual haunts. 

Nor had he succeeded in finding Hermia, though he had left no stoneunturned in the search. He had watched the hotel registers, inquiredat her bankers, and scanned the sailing lists in vain. Had the earthengulfed them both they could not have more mysteriously disappeared. 

Cables to New York had been unavailing, and at last, his time growingshort, he had sailed from Cherbourg, a sadder but no wiser man. A callat the Challoner house at the upper end of the Avenue had only producedthe information that the person he so eagerly sought had not yetreturned, and that, in default of instructions to the contrary, hermail was forwarded, as before, to Paris. There was nothing for it butto wait, and Markham became aware that love, in addition to being allthe things that he and Hermia had described it, was a grievous hungerwhich would feed upon no food but itself. He was quite wretched, painted abominably by day and prowled in the streets by night, hisdisembodied spirit off among the highways of Vagabondia. 

November came, and still no letter nor any word of her. He wasdesperate. Her silence, at first only disappointing, now becameominous. Whatever their misunderstandings in the last hour of theirpilgrimage, he deserved something better of her than this. Here in NewYork it already seemed difficult to visualize her. He could seenothing but the belled cap and coarse stockings of Yvonne, the "womanorchestra. " They filled his eye as her essence filled his heart. Thebroadcloth and beaver of her metropolitan sisters puzzled and dismayedhim. He had only seen her once in town and then she had resemblednothing so much as a flippant cherub in skirts--an example of how NewYork taught the young female idea to shoot. It hadn't been the kind ofshooting he had liked. Thimble Island had individualizedher--differently; Westport had given her color; but it was Normandythat had completed the human document. She was Hermia, that was all!But here in New York, with Vagabondia but a memory, he was not surethat he would know her. The Avenue was full of young female ideas inthe process of shooting, all dressed very much alike, all flippant, allcherubic, and he scanned them with a new interest, wondering at thelapse of circumstance which somehow could not be bridged. Yvonnetailor made! The thing was impossible. 

And yet he found it necessary to realize that here in New York it wasto be no Yvonne that he would find. Her silence, too, now advised himthat she was to be upon the defensive, all her armor bristling withcommonplace, against which the flight of his quiver of memorabiliamight be dented in vain. How was she thinking of him yonder? In whatterms? Did she think of him at all? His questions had even descendedto that low condition. He had had such a little share in her lifeafter all, her real life in the cities, which laid its impress withsuch certainty on those who were its children. He saw the marks of itall about him, the thing one called "good form, " the undercurrent ofstrife for social honor, the corrugated brow of envy, the pomp andcircumstance of spilled riches--ah! here was where his shoe would pinchhim the most. For Hermia Challoner was wealthy beyond the touch ofMidas. If the Westport house or her taste in automobiles had not beengreen in his memory, it only remained to him to view the statelysplendor of the Challoner mansion up town to be reminded that hisvagabond companion of a week rightfully belonged to another world inwhich he was only a reluctant and somewhat captious visitor. Herriches bewildered him. They obtruded unbearably, proclaiming theirimportance in terms which there was no denying. Vagabondia, it seemed, was a forgotten country. 

Had Hermia forgotten? Was his idyl, the one dream of his life, to endin waking? Was Hermia's mad excursion but another item in the longlist of entertainments by means of which she exacted from life paymentin diversion which she considered her due? Had he, Markham, been butan incident in this entertainment, a humble second-liner like LuigiFabiani, who broke stones upon his mighty brother and caught the infantStella when she was hurled at him? The thought was unpleasant to him, and did his lady no honor--so he dismissed it with reservations. But, whatever unction he laid to his soul, the truth would not be downedthat two months had elapsed since that parting in the railway stationat SŽes during which time he had neither heard from nor of her. 

One comfort he had when hope was at low ebb--the vision of a pale faceat a trap-door, its eyes wide in concern--Hermia's face when Olga'sfowling piece was discharged; two comforts--the memory of the roses ofPre GuŽgou! Both gave him joy--and reconciled him toher present intolerance which time and an ardor which knew no abatingmust wipe away. If it hadn't been for Olga!

This was a most exasperating _if_, a heart-wracking _if_, an _if_ thatmade him pause among the ruins of his ancient friendship. He couldnot believe that it was altogether to chance that he and Hermia owedOlga's discovery of their strange intimacy. In his infatuation he hadforgotten that the Ch‰teau de Cahors was near Alenonand that here was a spot which should at any costs have been avoided. Hermia must have known, too, and yet it seems they had both rushed totheir danger with heedlessness which deserved no better fate. Buttheir pursuit and the certainty with which Olga provided theculminating drama created a belief, in his own mind, at least, thathad he and Hermia been in Kamschatka, their discomfiture would havebeen just as surely accomplished. If Olga's motives still remainedshrouded in mystery, it was clear that her object had been to bringtheir companionship to an end, and this she had done, though notprecisely in the way she had planned. Hermia hadn't believed that rotabout La Croix and Compigne. Olga had overshot the mark. Herpleasantry with the loaded shotgun had been better aimed and herfrightened game had fallen. It angered him to think how ruthless hadbeen her plan, medi¾val in its simplicity, and how successfulshe had been in carrying it out. As to her motives--Hermia hadinsisted that Olga wanted to marry him! Olga and he!

With a muttered word Markham rose from his bench and made his waytoward the Arch. Its phase of splendor had passed, for the dusk hadfallen swiftly, but its bulk loomed in ghostly grandeur, a solemnsentinel at the meeting place of East and West. The street lights werewinking merrily and brougham and limousine passed beneath it, movingrapidly northward. With the setting of the sun a chill had fallen onthe wonderful day of Indian summer and people moved briskly on theirhomeward way. Markham buttoned his light overcoat across his chestand bent his steps in the direction of his apartment, when at thecorner of the Avenue he found his way blocked by a solitary femaleperson fashionable attire who for some reason was laughing gaily. 

He stopped, awakened suddenly to the fact that the lady of his dreamswas before him. 

"O Monsieur Philidor!" she laughed. "Well met, upon my word! Have youwaited for me long?"

"Olga!"

"The same--flushed with victory over the passing years, joyous, too, atthe sight of you. I counted on finding you here. "

"I'm delighted--but how--"

"I know your habits, my dear. You always loved to prowl. And thereused to be a time, you know, when we prowled together. "

He found himself glad to see her--so glad that he forgot how angry hewas. 

"Let's prowl then, " he said, and turned his steps southward again. 

"I suppose you know I've been hunting for you. "

"Yes. "

She volunteered no more. 

"When did you get back?" he asked slowly. 

"Tuesday. I wasted no time, you see, in looking for you. I've justcome from the studio. "

"You might have seen me in Normandy if you had cared to. "

"Oh, I saw quite enough of you there, " she said dryly. "Besides, Iknew what you wanted. I wasn't ready to talk to you. I am now. "

He laughed uneasily, sparring for wind. 

"What have you to say to me?"

"Much. I've been thinking, John. Curious, isn't it? Wearing, too. Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy. Is beauty's ensign yet crimson inmy cheeks?"

"If you weren't sure of it you wouldn't ask me, " he laughed. "Whydidn't you want to see me?"

"I didn't say I didn't want to see you. I merely suggested that Ididn't think it wise to. "

"Why not?"

"You might not have understood my point of view. You mayn't now. Ithink I was a trifle bewildered over there. Now I'm clear again, " Shepaused, her gaze focusing quickly, "O John, what a mess you've made ofmy ideals!"

"I?" he muttered stupidly, but he knew what she meant. "What have I todo with your ideals, Olga?"

"Nothing--except that you gave them birth and then destroyed them. It's infanticide--nothing less, " she said slowly. 

He groped for a word, stammered and was silent. 

She examined him curiously, then smiled. 

"Silence? Confession!"

"I've nothing to confess. " And then desperately. "Appearancesare--were against us. If you've spoken of that--you've done a greatmischief--an irreparable wrong--to--to Hermia. "

She was laughing again, silently, inwardly, her head bent. 

"Oh, as to that, I'll relieve your anxiety at once, " she said at last. "It was to rich a secret to tell too quickly--too good a story--andthen the embroideries--I had to think of those. No, I have not toldit, John, --not yet. You see, after I left you, I changed my mind aboutthings. Your rural _amourette_ is still a secret, _mon ami_. "

He gasped a sigh of relief. How could he ever have believed it of her? He laughed lightly with an air of carelessness. 

"You wouldn't tell. I knew that. You're not that sort, Olga--"

"Not so fast, my poor friend, " she put in quickly. "I've said thatyour indiscretion was still a secret, but I still reserve the right totell it here in New York if the humor seizes me. "

"Nonsense, " he laughed. "I simply don't believe you would. "

She shrugged. 

"I have told you the truth. I mean what I say. I shall tell what Iknow, unless--"

She paused. Her moment was not yet. 

"Unless?" he questioned. 

"Unless I find reasons why I shouldn't, " she finished provokingly. 

"Meaning--what?" he persisted. 

He regarded her for a moment in silence, quickly joining in herlaughter. 

"Oh, what's the use of making such a lot of fuss over a thing? It wasimprudent, indiscreet of us, if you like. Hermia and I met byaccident. I was tramping it--as you know. I asked her if she didn'twant to go along, and she did. Simplest thing in the world. We wavedconvention aside. Nothing odd about that. We're doing it every day. "

"Oh, are we?"

"Yes. The laws of convention were only made as props and crutches forthe crooked. If you're straight, you don't need 'em. "

"Still, " she mused sweetly, "society must be protected. Who is to tellwhich of us is straight and which crooked? Even if we were crooked, you know, neither of us would be willing t admit it. "

"But it's a question not so much of my wisdom--as of Hermia's. You'lladmit--"

"I admit nothing, " she said quickly. "You've surprised, shocked andgrieved me beyond words, both of you, also made me feel a triflefoolish. My judgment is shaken to the earth. Here I've been holdingyou up as a kind of paragon, a fossilized _Galahad_, with a horizonjust at your elbows, to find you touring France, _faisant l'aimable_with a frolicsome scapegrace in a bolero jacket. "

"I would remind you, " he broke in stiffly, "that you're speaking ofHermia Challoner. "

"Oh, I'm quite aware of it, " with a careless wave of her hand. "And asto Hermia's wisdom--life has taught me this--that a woman may beclever, she may be intuitive, she may be skillful, but she's neverwise. And so I say--I'm shocked, John Markham, outraged and shockedbeyond expression. "

"Oh, you're the limit, Olga, " he blurted out. 

"Simply because I adhere to the traditions of my sex, because I adhereto the memory of my friendships. I like you, John Markham, yoursimplicity has always appealed to me. And now that you add gallantryto your more sober charms I confess you're quite irresistible. "

Markham stopped short. 

"I can't have you talking like this, " he said quietly. "I don't mindwhat you say of me, of course, but your choice of words is notfortunate. Miss Challoner and I--"

"Spare your breath, " she said, turning on him swiftly. "I'm no fool. I've lived in the world. If Hermia Challoner chooses to lay herselfopen to criticism that's her lookout. I'll say what I please of her. She has earned that retribution. Talk as you will of your own virtuesand hers you'd never succeed in convincing anyone of your innocence--meleast of all. What's the use of beating around the bush. I can seethrough a millstone--if it has a hole in it. Hermia Challoner--"

"Silence!" His fingers gripper her arm and she stopped, ready toscream with the pain of it. "You're insulting the woman I love. Doyou hear?" he whispered through set lips. "I'll hear no more of ithere--or elsewhere? We traveled together, that is all. My God--thatyou should dare!" He stopped suddenly, peering through the dusk at herface which still smiled, though the pain of her arm gave her agony, andthen he relaxed with a laugh. "You don't mean it, I know. It isn'tworthy of you. Why, Olga, you are her friend. You know herintimately--body and soul. You can't believe it. You don't--"

"I do, " fiercely. "I _do_ believe it--more's the pity. "

They had stopped and were facing each other, bayonets crossed. Thecity roared about them, but they did not hear it. He dominated her, masterful. She fought back silently, a thing of nerves and passiononly, but she did not flinch, though he had already wounded hermortally. 

"Lie, if you like to me, John Markham. Lie to me. It's your duty. Lie like a gentleman. But you can't make me believe you. I'm no fool. I'll say what I like of her--or of you, when I choose, where Ichoose--"

"I won't believe you. "

"You must. It has come to that, " she went on, whispering. "I've givenyou the best of me, the very best, what no man has had of me, affection, strong and tender, friendship, clean and wholesome. I gavegladly. I'm not sorry. They were sweeter even than the love in mybreast which stifled--which still stifles me. "

"Olga!"

The suppressed passion of her confession startled him. Her half-closedeyes burned through the dusk, then paled again. 

"It's true, " she went on haltingly. "I love you. My love--I'm proudof it--prouder of it than of anything I've ever been or known--becauseit's sweet and clean. That's why I can look you in the eyes and tellyou so. Why shouldn't I? What is my woman's pride beside that otherpride? I have not stopped--as she has--to conquer. "

"Sh--!"

"She stooped to conquer. I'm glad--glad--it shows the differencebetween us. It weighs us one against the other. You shall know. Oneday you shall know. You'll tire of her. It's always the ending of aconquest like that. "

"You're mad, " he whispered, aghast. 

She threw up her hands and pressed them to her breast a moment. Then, with a quivering intake of the breath, the tension broke, and her handsdropped to her sides, her laughter jarring him strangely. 

"Curious, isn't it?" he heard her saying. "You're the last man in theworld I would have dreamed of. I used to laugh at you, you know. Youwere so _gauche_ and _so_ ill-mannered. I took you up as a sort ofgame. It amused me to try and see what could be made of you. If you'dmade love to me, I would have laughed at you. But you didn't. Whydidn't you, John? It would have saved us all such a lot of trouble. "

Her mockery set him more at ease. He saw a refuge and took it. 

"I think you're not quite so mad--as mischievous, " he said boldly. "Your loves are too frequent to cause your friends much concern--leastof all the one you honor with your present professions. I'm notwoman-wise, Olga. And I'm not honey-mouthed. I hope you won't mind ifI say I don't believe you. "

Her smile vanished. 

"You will--in time, " she said quickly. "So will--Hermia. " She paused, and then, her fingers on his arm, her eyes to his. 

"Have you--? Has she--? You wouldn't _marry_ her, John?"

Her tone was soft, but the inference had the ominous sibilance of awhip-lash, which swirled in the air and circled over Hermia, too. Hechose his words deliberately. 

"She's the sweetest, cleanest, purest woman I've ever known. "

She shrugged and drew away. Whatever she felt, no sound escaped her. He followed toward the lights of the Avenue, aware that a crisis in hisaffairs of some sort had been reached and passed. His companion walkedmore and more rapidly, setting the pace which outdid the slow movementof his wits. 

But he caught up with her presently and took her by the arm. 

"Olga, forgive me. You maddened me. I wanted you to know--that Hermiawas not what you thought she was. You lower your own standards--can'tyou see--when you lower hers? She's only a girl--thoughtless, a thingof impulses only--mad impulses if you like--but clean, Olga, --like achild. You've only to look at her and see--"

"I did look at her--and see, " she said through her teeth. 

He stopped her by main force. 

"You've got to listen! Do you hear? It was I who put her in thisfalse position. I who must get her out of it. I owe her that and youowe it to me. "

He released her and went on more quietly. "I'm no _Galahad_ and I makeno pretences to virtue, but I'm no rake or despoiler of women either. I dare you to doubt it. You didn't doubt it--there--in the studio. You can't doubt it now. Women of your sort--and hers--are inviolable. "

Her lids flickered and fell. 

"A girl--Olga, a mere child. Think! What is this love of yours thatfeeds on hatred--on uncleanness Love is made of gentlerstuff-beautifies, uplifts--not destroys. "

Her head was bent and her face was hidden under her wide hat, but herwhisper came to him quite clearly. 

"_You_--tell _me_--what love is? _You!_"

When she raised her head her lips were smiling softly, and she movedforward slowly, he at her side. They had reached the Avenue. A motorhe had not observed stood near. 

"We part here I think. It's _adieu_, John. "

"No, " he muttered. 

"Oh, yes, it is. " And then with a gay laugh which was her bestdefence--"Too bad we couldn't have hit it off, isn't it? I would haveliked it awfully. I give you my word you've never seemed nearly sointeresting as at this moment of discomposure. There's a charm in yourawkwardness, John, --a native charm. Good night. I go alone. "

He followed her a few paces but she reached the machine before him andwas whisked away. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY

John Markham spent an unpleasant evening. He dined alone at a club, wandering afterward aimlessly from library to billiard room and thentook to the streets, trusting to physical exercise to clear his head ofthe tangle that Olga had put into it. Olga, the irrepressibleman-hunter, in love with a "fossilized Galahad_. " That was ironicallyamusing, extraordinary, if true, a punishment which fitted her crime, and something of a grim joke on the man-hunter as well as the fossil. Markham tried to view the matter with unconcern, man-like, recallingthe many times that Olga's name had been coupled with those of variousdistinguished foreigners and the frequent reports of her engagement, always denied and forgotten. And yet she worried him. For a briefmoment she had given him a glimpse of the shadowy recesses where shehid her naked soul; a glimpse only, like some of those she had givenhim when he was painting her portrait; but what he had seen now wasdifferent--an Olga no longer wistful no longer amenable; a wild, unreasoning thing who purred, cat-like, while he stroked her, sheathingand unsheathing her claws. There was mischief brewing--he felt it inher sudden access of self-control, and in the final jest with which shehad left him. He knew her better now. It was when she mocked thatOlga was most dangerous. It was clear that she had not believed himwhen he told her the truth. Her standards forbade it, of course. Itwas too bad. 

But she had not told what she knew--that was the main thing. What ifshe did tell now? Hermia could deny it, of course, and if necessary hemust lie, as Olga had said, like a gentleman. And where were Olga'sproofs? Who would confirm her? What evidence, human or documentarycould she bring forward here in New York to prove Hermia's culpability, if, as it seemed to be her intention, she insisted on carrying hersweet vengeance to its end? There was no one--he paused, his browclouding. De Foligny! Had De Folligny learned who Hermia was? HadOlga found out about the companion in his automobile at Verneuil? Hewaved the thought away. De Folligny was on the other side of theocean. The psychological moment for Olga's revelation had passed. 

Consoling himself with these thoughts he went home and to bed andmorning found him early at the studio, awaiting his new sitter, in amore quiescent, if still uncertain, frame of mind. 

The portrait of Mrs. Berkeley Hammond on which he had been working satsmugly upon one of his easels, a thing of shreds and patches (thoughthe lady was in pearls and a DrŽcoll frock), a thing "painty" withoutbeing direct, mannered without being elegant, highly colored withoutbeing colorful, a streaky thing with brilliant spots, like the work ofa promising pupil; a pretty poor Markham, which had pleased the sitterbecause its face flattered her, and for which she would gladly pay theconsiderable sum he charged, while Markham's inner consciousness loudlyproclaimed that the canvas was not worth as much as the crayon sketchof Madam Daudifret in Normandy which had been the price of a _ragožt_. Really he would have to pain better. He swung the easel around with akick of the foot and faced a new canvas, primed some days before, andbusied himself about his palette and paint tubes. 

When Phyllis Van Vorst emerged from the dressing-room a while laterinto the cool north light, Markham's eyes sparkled with a genuinedelight. Here was the sort of thing he could do--white satin withfilmy drapery from which rose the fresh-colored flower of girlhood. Without being really pretty, his model created the illusion of beautyby her youth, her abundant health and many little tricks of gesture andexpression. Her role was that of the ingŽnue and she prattledchildishly of many things, flitting like a butterfly from topic totopic, grave and gay with a careless grace which added something to thepicture she made. Markham let her talk, interjecting monosyllableslulled by the inexhaustible flow, aware, after the first pose or two, that he was painting well, with the careless brush of entireconfidence. As Olga had said, he always was at his best when a littlecontemptuous. In three hours the head was finished and the backgroundlaid in, _premier coup_-- the best thing he had done in a year. 

He twisted the canvas around to get a better look at it and groped forhis pipe, suddenly conscious of the fact that he had painted and thathis model had sat steadily for an hour and a half without a rest. 

"You poor child, " he muttered with compunction, as he helped her down, "that's the penalty of being interesting. "

"Oh, I'm so glad, " she cried, "You _can_ say nice things, can't you?"

"When I think of them, " he laughed. 

She stood before the canvas in breathless delight. 

"Oh, do I look like that, Mr. Markham, like _Psyche_ with the lamp?It's quite too wonderful for _words_. I'm a _dream_. I've never seenanything quite so flattering in my _life_. Oh, I'm _so_ glad I came toyou instead of to Teddy Vincent. You've made my poor nose quitestraight--and yet it's _my_ nose, too. How on _earth_ did you do it?You're not going to work any more--?"

"No--" he laughed, "the head is done. "

She sat in the chair he brought forward for her and Markham dropped onthe divan near her and smoked. She gazed at the head for a while inrapturous silence. 

"O Mr. Markham, will you _ever_ forgive me for being so stupid lastsummer, " she said at last, "about that upside-down painting? I've beenso humiliated--"

"I'm not really a landscape man, you know, " he said cheerfully by wayof consolation, "and it was only a sketch. "

"Oh, but they made such a lot of fun of me--at Westport. They're notvery merciful--that crowd. "

Markham's gaze shifted. 

"Yes, I know, " he said quietly. 

"Oh, have you heard?" his companion laughed suddenly. 

"About Crosby Downs. "

"No. "

"He has married Sybil Trenchard. "

Markham took a puff at his pipe. 

"Really? Why?"

She laughed. And then quickly. 

"I don't know. And Hilda and Carol--Carol Gouverneur, youknow--engaged. She has wanted him a long time. Everybody thought he'dwiggle out of it somehow, but he didn't or couldn't or something. "

He smiled. "Cupid has had a busy summer. "

"Oh, yes, quite extraordinary. You see out of all that house party, there are only three or four left. " She spoke of this wholesaleselection and apportionment as though her topic had been apples. 

"Indeed?" Markham stopped smoking. "Who else?" he asked calmly. 

"Me, " she said blushing prettily. "I mean I--I and Reggie--"

"Reginald Armistead! I thought that he and Miss Challoner--"

"Oh, that's all off, " she laughed. "They didn't really care for eachother at all--not that way--just as friends you know. Hermia is a gooddeal like a fellow. Reggie liked her that way. They were pals--hadbeen from childhood, but then one doesn't marry one's pal. "

"I'm very glad, " said Markham politely, examining her with a newinterest. "I shall make it a point at once to offer him mycongratulations. I like him. "

"He's adorable, isn't he? But I'm horribly frightened about him. He'sso dreadfully reckless--flying, I mean. If it hadn't been for Hermia, I'm sure he never would have begun it. But he has promised me to giveit up--now. Hermia may break her neck if she likes; that's Mr. Morehouse's affair, but--"

"Morehouse!" Markham broke in, wide-eyed. 

She regarded him calmly. 

"Where on earth have you been, Mr. Markham?"

"In--France, " he stammered. "Do you mean that Hermia--Miss Challoneris--"

"Engaged to Trevvy? Of _course_. It was cabled from Paris--to the_Herald_. But then nobody who knows about things is really very muchsurprised. Trevvy has been _wild_ about her for years and her familyhave all wanted it. It's really a _very_ good match. You see Trevvyis so steady and she needs a skid to her wheel--"

She rambled on but to Markham her voice was only a confused chatter ofmany voices. He rose and turned the easel into a better light, thenknocked out his pipe into the fireplace. The room whirled around himand he steadied himself against the mantel, while he tried to listen towhat else she was saying. Her loquacity, a moment ago so amusing, hadassumed a deeper significance. The phrases purled with diabolicalfluidity from her lips, searing like molten metal. Hermia! The girlwas mad. 

The confusion about him ceased and in the silence he heard her voice. 

"Are you ill, Mr. Markham?"

He straightened with a short laugh and faced toward her. 

"No--not at all. And I was really very much interested, " he saidevenly. "Miss Challoner is in Europe?" he asked carelessly. 

"Oh, yes, --or was--and Trevvy followed her there. She's home now--cameyesterday--of course, with Trevvy at her heels. Oh! he'll keep her inorder, no fear about that. It's about time that Hermia settled down. She's _quite_ the wildest thing--perfectly properly, you know, OlgaTcherny says--"

"Olga is home, too?" he interrupted, steadying himself. 

She nodded quickly and went on. "Olga says that Hermia disappearedfrom Paris for over a week and no one knew where she was. Trevvy was_crazy_ with anxiety. But she came back one night in an old gray coatand hat with a bundle--the shabbiest thing imaginable, looking like atramp. Trevvy was in the hotel and saw her. But they patched thingsup somehow. "

"Did Madame Tcherny learn where she had been?"

"Oh, no, " she laughed. "You see Olga was too busy with her ownaffairs. She has a Frenchman in tow this season--she's brought himhere with her--florid, blonde, curled and monocled, the Marquis deFolligny--"

"Pierre de Folligny!"

"You know him?"

"Yes--er--slightly. "

She had babbled her gossip so lightly and rapidly that this last pieceof information had not given him the start its significance deserved. But its import grew. 

"It's an affair of long standing, isn't it?" she asked him. 

"I--I don't know, I'm sure, " he muttered, his brow clouding. 

"Something in his manner made her glance at the clock. 

"Half-past one--and Reggie's coming to lunch at two. I'll have to_tear_. "

He opened the dressing-room for her and, after she had vanished within, stood glowering at the door like one possessed. 

A butterfly that dripped poison! He was drenched with it. How lightlyHermia's name had dropped from her satin wings! He smiled grimly atthe thought of his own situation, the central figure in at least oneact of this comedy, viewing it from the far side of the prosceniumarch, gaping like the rustic in the metropolis who sees himself for thefirst time depicted upon the stage. What right had she--this littleflutter-budget--to know these things--when he was denied them?Hermia--the report of her engagement had been disturbing, but somereason it seemed less important now than the fact that she washere--here in New York within twenty minutes of him--perhaps, upon thevery street where he might meet her when he went out. Hermia andTrevvy Morehouse! He simply would not believe it. Hermia might lookhim in the eyes and tell him so--and then-- But she would not dare. Those eyes--blue--violet--gray--all colors as the mood or the sunlightpleased--honest eyes into whose depths he had peered when they weredark with the shadows of the forest and seen his image dancing. Shewas his that day--all his. He could have taken her; and he had let hergo back to Paris--and the excellent Trevelyan. Hermia, his madvagabond Hermia, was ready to tie herself for life to that automaticnonentity at Westport who trailed, a patient shadow in Hermia'sswirling wake. Hermia and Morehouse! He simply wouldn't believe it. 

When his sitter had departed in a rush to keep her engagement, hefilled his pipe again and walked the floor smoking furiously, thescenario of Olga's little drama taking a more definite form. Heunderstood now the reasons why she had not told what she had seen. Hedoubted now whether it was her intention to tell. But she had broughtthe Frenchman De Folligny over to do the telling for her, reserving herlittle climax until all her marionettes were properly placed accordingto her own stage directions, when she would let the situation workitself out to its own conclusion. It was an ingenious plan, one whichdid her hand much credit. She had realized, of course, that arevelation of Hermia's shortcomings in Alenon, Paris or Trouvillewould have deprived her vengeance of half its sting. It required a NewYork background, a quiet drawing-room filled with Hermia's intimatesfor her "situation" to produce its most telling effect. De Follignynow had the center of the stage and at the proper moment she would pullthe necessary wires and the thing would be accomplished. 

Something must be done at once. He changed into street clothes andwent out, lunched alone on the way uptown and at three was standing atthe door of the Challoner house. 

The butler showed Markham into the drawing-room and took his card. Hedid not know whether Miss Challoner was in or not, but he would see. Markham sat and impatiently waited, his eyes meanwhile restlesslyroving the splendor of the room in search of some object which wouldsuggest Hermia--mad Hermia of Vagabondia. Opposite him upon the wallwas a portrait of her by a distinguished Frenchman, with whose_mŽtier_ he was familiar--an astounding falsehood in various shades oftooth-powder. This Hermia smirked at him like the lady in the fashionpage, exuding an atmosphere of wealth and nothing else--a strange, unreal Hermia who floated vaguely between her gilt barriers, neithersprite nor flesh and blood. How could Marsac have known the realHermia--the heart, the spirit of her as he knew them!

And yet when a few moments later she appeared in the doorway hewondered if he knew her at all. She was dressed for afternoon in someclinging dark stuff which made her figure slim almost to the point ofthinness. She wore a small hat with a tall plume and seemed to havegained in stature. Her face was paler and her modulated voice and thestudied gesture as she offered him her hand did more to convince himthat things were not as they should be. 

"_So_ good of you to come, Mr. Markham, " he heard her saying coolly. "I was wondering if I'd have the pleasure of seeing you here. "

He stood uncertainly at the point of seizing her in his arms when hewas made aware of her premeditation. The tepor of her politeness waslike a blow between the eyes, and he peered blindly into her face invain for some sign of the girl he knew. 

"Won't you sit down?" she asked, and dumbly he sat. "I hear you werein Normandy, " she went on smoothly. "Did you have a good summer? Youdid leave us rather abruptly at Westport, didn't you? But then youknow, of course, I understood that--"

"Hermia, " he broke in in a low voice. "What has happened to you? Whydidn't you answer my letters. I've been nearly mad with anxiety. " Heleaned forward toward her, the words falling in a torrent. But sheonly examined him curiously, a puzzled wrinkle at her brows vying withthe set smile she still wore. 

"Your letters, Mr. Markham!" she said in surprise. "Oh! You mean thenote about the sketch of Thimble Island? I _did_ reply, didn't I? Itwas awfully nice--"

"Good God!" he muttered, rising. "Haven't you punished me enough now, without this--" with a wave of his hand--"this extravaganza. Haven't Ipaid? I searched Paris high and low for you, Hermia, haunted yourbankers and the hotel where you had been stopping, only returning hereat the moment when my engagements in New York made it necessary. Hasit been kind of you, or just to ignore my letters and leave me allthese weeks in anxiety and ignorance? I've missed you horribly--and Ifeared--nameless things--that you had forgotten me, that you wantedeverything forgotten. " As he came forward she rose and took a steptoward an inner room, her eyes still narrowed and quizzical, watchinghim carefully. 

"Hermia--Hermia!" He stopped, the tension breaking in a laugh. "Oh, you want to punish me, of course. Don't you think you've paid me wellalready? See! I'm penitent. What do you want? Shall I go down on myknees to you. I have been on my knees to you for weeks--you must haveknow it. My letters--"

He paused and then stopped, puzzled, for she had not moved and her gazesurveyed him, coolly critical. 

"You got my letters?" he asked anxiously. 

She was silent. 

"I've written you every day--since you left me--poured my heart out toyou. You didn't get them? O Hermia, you must have known what life hasbeen without you. Do you think I could forget what I read in your eyesthat day in the forest? Could _you_ forget what you wrote there? Onlyyour lips refused me. Even when they refused me, they were warm withmy kisses. They were mine, as you were, body and soul. You loved me, Hermia--from the first. These flimsy barriers you're raising, I'llbreak them down--and take you--"

As he approached, she reached the curtains, one hand upraised. 

"You're dreaming, Mr. Markham, " she said, distinctly. "I haven't theleast idea what you're talking about. "

"You love me--" he stammered. 

"_I_?"

Her laughter checked him effectually. He stood, his full gesture ofentreaty frozen into immobility. Then slowly his arms relaxed and hestood awkwardly staring, now thoroughly awake. She meant him tounderstand that Vagabondia was not--that their week in Arcadia hadnever been. 

He gaped at her a full moment before he found speech. 

"You wish to deny that you and I--that you were there with me--inNormandy?" he stammered. 

"One only denies the possible, Mr. Markham, " she said with a glibcertitude. "The impossible needs no denial. I was in Paris and inSwitzerland this summer. Obviously I couldn't have been in Normandy, too. "

"I see, " he muttered mechanically. "You were in Switzerland. "

"Yes. In Switzerland, Mr. Markham, " she repeated. 

He turned slowly and walked toward the window, his hands behind him, struggling for control. When his voice came, it was as firm as her own. 

"Can you prove that?" he asked coldly. 

"Why should I prove it, Mr. Markham?" she asked, "My word should besufficient, I think. "

The even tones of her voice and the repetition of his name inflamedhim. There was little doubt of her apostasy. He turned toward herwith a change of manner, his eyes dark. 

"Perhaps you'll be obliged to prove it, " he muttered. 

"I? Why?"

He looked her straight in the eyes. 

"Monsieur de Folligny is with Olga Tcherny--her in New York. "

The plume on her hat nodded back, and her eyes widely opened gave him amomentary glimpse of her terror. 

"De Folligny is here--with Olga!"

"Yes. I've just learned it--to-day. "

She moved her slender shoulders upward in the gesture she had learnedfrom Olga Tcherny. 

"That will be quite pleasant, " she resumed, easily. "He will render usa little less prosy, perhaps. "

Markham watched her a moment in silence, his wounds aching dully. 

"I came here--to warn you of that--danger, " he said slowly. "Sinceyou don't feat it, my mission is ended. " He took up his hat and stickand moved toward the door. "I shall not question your wisdom or yoursense of responsibility to me or to yourself. But I think Iunderstand at last what you would have of me. Whatever you wish, ofcourse, I shall do without question. I was alone in Normandy--or withsomeone else, if you like. It was my Vagabondia--not yours. Therewas no Philidor--no Yvonne--no Cleofonte or Stella--no roses ofPre GuŽgou--no roses in my heart. They're witheredenough, God knows. You wish to forget them. You want me to rememberyou as you are--to-day. " He laughed. "I think I'll have nodifficulty in doing so--or helping by my silence or my cooperation incarrying out any plans you may have, if you should find it necessaryto call upon me. "

"I thank you, " she murmured, her head bent. 

He regarded her a moment steadily, but she would not meet his gaze. Atthe door he paused. 

"I have heard of your reported engagement, " he finished more slowly. "I'd like you to know that I had too much faith in you to believe it. But I think--indeed I'm sure I'm ready to believe it now--if you tellme it's true. "

She did not raise her head, but her lips moved inarticulately. Heglanced at her a moment longer and then, with an inclination of thehead, passed out into the hall and so to the door. 

CHAPTER XXV

CIRCE AND THE FOSSIL

Christmas had come and gone and the city had struck its highest note ofwinter activity. Those envied mortals who compose society, pausing fora brief moment of air and relaxation in the holidays, plunged againinto the arduous treadmill of the daily round, urged by the flying lashof unrest, creatures of a common fate, plodding wearily up the path ofpreferment, not daring to falter or to rest under the pain of instantoblivion. 

Olga Tcherny paused only long enough to catch a deep breath after hermomentous interview with John Markham in Washington Square and thenplunged into the busy throng with De Folligny after. She had heardwith some interest the reports of Hermia Challoner's engagement to Mr. Morehouse, but it had made no very deep impression upon her mind. Sheonly considered it, in fact, with reference to its possible effect uponthe mind of John Markham, who she soon learned was avoiding the socialscene, as had been his custom, before she had made forcible entry intohis studio last year and had dragged him forth into the company of hisfellow man. 

It was quite evident that Hermia was playing her game rather ruthlesslyand, whatever her object, John Markham and she for the present at leastwere at cross purposes. Olga did not dare to go to see him, and thoughher door stood open she had no hope that he would enter it withoutencouragement. But one blithe morning she sent him a note:

What's this I hear? Can it be true that your nymph has fled from thewoods of Pan to take shelter under the eaves of a _Morehouse_? Andwhat becomes of the faun? I can't believe it--and yet my rumor comesdirect. Do satisfy my craving for veracity, won't you? I'd likeawfully to see you, if you'll forgive and forget. I can now give youpositive assurances that you will be quite as safe in my drawing-roomas in that smudgy place where you immortalize mediocrity. I'll neverpropose to you again as long as I live. The phantasy has passed, Ithink. Do you believe me? Come and see--but _'phone_ first. Affectionately, Olga. 

To her surprise, he came the following afternoon. She received himwith a frank and careless gayety which put him very much at his ease. He marveled at her assurance and the resumption of the little airs ofproprietorship to which he had been accustomed before the visit toWestport. She was the Olga of the portrait with the added graces of anot too obtrusive sympathy and a manner which seemed subtly to suggestself-elimination. He accepted the situation without mentalreservation, sat in the chair she indicated with a grateful sigh andwatched her pretty hands busy about the tea-tray. Whatever theirrelations and however directly he could trace his present misfortunesto her very door, the illusion of her friendliness was not to bedispelled, and he relinquished himself to its charm with a gratefulsense that, for the moment at least, here was sanctuary. 

She found him thinner and said so. 

"You're working too hard, my dear Markham, " she said. "On every hand Ihear of people you've painted or are about to paint. A realsuccess--_un success fou_--and in spite of yourself! It's quitewonderful. "

"I've painted very badly, " he muttered. 

"Oh, you're too close to your work to have a perspective. Mrs. Hammondhas touted you the length and breadth of the town--you know--and thatmeans there's a pedestal for you in her Hall of Fame. What doesImmortality taste like? Sweet?"

He laughed. "Fame in New York--is merely a matter of dollars. Myprices are enormous--hence my reputation. If I charged what the thingsare worth, these people would send me back to Paris. "

"And still you refuse to go to their houses? I hear that Mrs. Hammondwanted to give a dinner for you--to all her set--and that's quiteextraordinary of her--even for a lion--"

"But I couldn't eat them, you know--"

"But you could let them watch you eat--"

"I wouldn't have eaten. You see, magnificence of that sort takes myappetite away. "

"Why?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'm a crank. They speak anotherlanguage--those people. I don't understand them. I find that noexertion of the legs brings my mind and theirs any closer together. They bore me stiff and I bore them. What's the use?"

"You have no social ambitions?"

"None whatever--in the sense you mean. I like my fellow men strippedto the bone. That's indecent when one dines out. "

"And your fellow woman?"

He shrugged and laughed. 

"She's a child--adorable always. But then I never understand her--norshe me. "

She sipped tea and smiled. 

"Woman is at once the woman and the serpent, _mon ami_. All she needsis a man and a Garden of Paradise. "

He frowned into his teacup but did not reply. 

"Is it true, John?" she asked quietly. 

"What is true?"

"That Hermia is to marry Trevvy Morehouse?"

"From whom did you hear that?" he asked. 

"From whom have I not heard it? Everyone. Hermia hasn't denied it, has she?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Why should she deny it? It's her own affair. "

His tone rebuked her. 

"I don't want to be meddlesome, you know. I only thought--"

"Oh, I'm glad you spoke, " he murmured. "I--I wanted to talk about her. You know, you and I--when you left me--there in the Park--you gave methe impression that you--er--that you didn't care for Miss Challonerany more--"

"Did I? I'm glad I did. That's the truth. I don't care for her. Shecut me very prettily on the street the week after she got back fromEurope. Evidently the antipathy is mutual. "

He paused, considering. 

"I'm sorry she saw fit to do that. That was foolish--very foolish ofher. "

"Wasn't it? Especially as I had about decided to forget that I'd everbeen in Alenon--"

He put his hand over hers and held it there a moment. 

"I want you to forget that, Olga, " he muttered. "It--it neverhappened. "

She smiled, her gaze on the andirons. 

"You're quite positive of that?"

"Yes. I was--er--in Holland last summer. "

"Oh, _were_ you?"

"Yes. And Hermia--Miss Challoner was in Switzerland. "

"Yes. So I hear. Very interesting. But how does that explain thingsto Pierre de Folligny? He met her the other day--and remembered herperfectly--"

Markham rose and paced the floor. 

"Oh, " he heard her saying, "she denied seeing him in France, ofcourse, --but it was quite awkward--for her, I mean. "

He took two or three turns, his brows serious, and then came and stoodnear her at the mantelpiece. 

"You must straighten things out, Olga--with De Folligny, " he muttered. "It will ruin her, if he speaks--you know what New York is. Gossiplike that travels like fire. And she doesn't deserve it--not that. You've told me that you don't believe in her innocence, but at heart Ithink you do. You must. I swear to you--on the honor of--"

She raised a hand. 

"Don't--!" quickly. "I'm willing to assume her innocence. Haven't Itold you that I had been prepared to forget the whole incident--whenshe cut me. Why did she do that? What does that mean?"

"Not guilt surely--wouldn't she be trying to get you on her side?"

Olga waved an expressive hand. 

"Oh, that's impossible--and she knows it. "

"Why?"

She paused, shielding her eyes with her fingers. He was such aninnocent. But she had no notion of enlightening him. 

"She has given you up--to marry. That's clear. I told her secret. The simplest way out of her difficulty is to ignore me. Well--let her. I don't mind. I'll survive. But I would give my ears to let FifthAvenue know--"

"No--no, " he put in quickly, "you mustn't do that-- If you've ceasedto care for her, you've got your duty to me to consider. Do you holdmy honor so lightly--"

"Yours?"

"Yes. She was in my care. I let her go with me. The responsibilitywas sacred. I was morally pledged to keep her from harm. Thatresponsibility has not ceased because she no longer--because she hasmade up her mind to--to marry. It's greater even. If you ever toldthat story--"

"And De Foligny? You forget him--"

He came quickly over and took her hands in his. 

"You can seal this secret, if you will, as in a tomb. Do it, Olga. Itwill be magnificent of you. Give me your word--your promise to keepsilent--to keep De Folligny silent--"

She had turned, her chin upon her shoulder, away from him. 

"You ask a great deal, " she said with reluctance. 

"Not more than you can give--not more than you _will_ give. Whateveryour--your differences she doesn't deserve this of you. Will it giveyou pleasure in after years to think of her life embittered--of _his_life embittered, too, by a piece of gossip, woven out of a tissue ofhalf-truths--that will damn her--as half-truths do?"

"You love her so much as this?" she gasped. 

He relinquished her hand--stood a moment looking dumbly at her and thenwalked the length of the room away. The little clock on the mantelticked gaily, the fire sparkled and the familiar sounds of the carelesscity came faintly to their ears. She stirred and he turned toward her. 

"Will you promise?" he asked quietly. 

"Promise what?"

"Not to speak--of what you saw at Alenon. "

"Yes. I promise that, " she said slowly at last. 

"Or let De Folligny speak?"

Another silence. And then from thinned lips. 

"I--I will use my influence--to keep him silent. "

The firmness of her tone assured him. He caught up her hands andpressed them softly to his lips. 

"I knew you would, Olga. I knew you were bigger than that. I thankyou--I will never forget--"

But before he could finish she had snatched her fingers away from himand was laughing softly at the tea-caddy. 

"Now, if you please, " she said composedly, "we will speak of pleasanterthings. "

She opened a long silver box on the table and took a cigarette, offering him one. 

"The pipe of peace?" he asked. 

"If you like. "

He drew in the smoke gratefully. 

"Olga, you're a trump, " he said with a genuine heartiness. 

"Thanks, " she said dryly. "I know it. And you're playing me quitesuccessfully--aren't you? Hearts? and I'm the 'dummy. ' I never likedplaying the 'dummy. '"

He laughed. 

"I wish I were quite sure in my mind what you _do_ like to play. "

Her look questioned coolly. 

"I mean, that, as well as I've thought I've know you, I find that I'venever known you at all. You're a creature of bewildering transitions. I hear that you're going to marry De Folligny. "

"And what if I am?" she flashed at him. 

"I'm sure I wish you every happiness. Only--"

He paused. 

"Please finish. "

"Nothing--except that you will leave me with an unpleasant sense ofhaving been made a fool of. "

She rose, flicked her cigarette into the fire and then turned as ifabout to speak. But thought better of it. There was a long silence. 

"Pierre de Folligny and I are friends of long standing, " she said atlast. "One marries some day. Why not an old friend? The age ofmadness passes--I am almost thirty and I have lived--much. It istime--" she finished wearily, "time that I married again. Weunderstand each other perfectly. " A smile slowly dawned and broke. "What one wants in a husband is not so much a rhapsodist as arhymester, not so much a lover as a walking-gentleman--Pierre is that, you know. "

She sighed again and rose. 

"It was very sweet of you to come in, John. Don't misunderstand meagain. _That_--" and she paused to give the word emphasis, "is allover. I'm quite safe as a _confidante_. Hermia has treated you verybadly, I think. I'd like to tell her so--No? Well, good-bye. Do comein again. I want you to know Pierre better. He really is all that awalking-gentleman should be. "

He laughed and kissed her fingers, and in a moment had gone. 

Olga Tcherny stood immovable where he had left her, one foot upon thefender, her gaze upon the fire. After a time she stretched forth herfingers to the blaze. All over! She straightened slowly and caught aglimpse of her face in the mirror. The firelight gleamed under herbrows, brought out with unpleasant sharpness the angle of her jaw andtouched the bones of her cheek caressingly. She looked again, thetruth compelling her, and then buried her face in her arm. Thetruth--middle age, had set its first mark upon her. The sallow fingersof Time had touched her lightly, more as a warning than as a prophecy, painted with a reluctant brush a deeper tone into the shadows, a highernote in the lights, had brushed in haltingly the false values that nowmocked at her. Time! She seemed to count it by her heart-throbs. 

She walked across the room and stood before the portrait John Markhamhad painted of her. The face gazed out from its shadows, its eyes methers for a moment, then looked through her and beyond, eyes whichlooked, yet saw not, eyes deep and inscrutable, seers of visions, bathed in memories which would not sink into oblivion. Her eyes he hadpainted carefully. For him it seemed the rest of the face had been ablank. The nose, the chin, were hers, and the mouth--the lips, ascarlet smudge of illusiveness. They were hers, too. He had haddifficulty with her lips, painting and repainting them. They hadpuzzled him. "The eyes we are born with, " he had said--how well sheremembered it now! "The lips are what we make ourselves. " At last hehad painted them in quickly--almost brutally and let them be. Theyseemed to mock at her now--to contradict the meaning of the eyes--whichwould not, could not, smile. 

Hermia had scoffed at this portrait because it was not "pretty. " Therewas something bigger than mere prettiness here. He had painted thesoul of her, reading with his art what had been hidden from the man, ashe had strayed through the labyrinth of her thoughts viewing theblighted blossom of her girlhood and wifehood and the neglected gardenof her maturity. As she viewed the portrait now in the light of timeand event, she saw, more clearly than ever, her soul and body asMarkham had seen it. He had painted her as he would have paintedcharacter--an old man or an old woman, searching for shadows ratherthan lights, seeking the anatomy of sorrow rather than that of joy--hadmade her the subject of a cool and not too flattering psychologicalinvestigation. Was this how he had always seen her? This far-looking, inscrutable, satiated woman of the world, who peered forth into thefuture, from the dull embers of the past--a being whose physical beautywas rather suggested than expressed--whose loveliness lay in what shemight have been rather than in what she was? He had always thought ofher thus?

She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Not, not always. She rememberednow--he couldn't have painted her as he had painted others--as he hadpainted a while ago the portrait of Phyllis Van Vorst--carelessly, contemptuously. He had probed deeply--painted form his own deeps. They had been very close together in those hours, mentally, spiritually, and only the barrier she herself had raised preventedtheir physical nearness. That, too, she could have had?

A mist fell across the canvas and Hermia's vision interposed, rosy andcareless, her braggart youth triumphant. 

She turned, threw herself upon the couch and buried her head, herfingers clenched, in the pillows. She made no sound and lay soimmovable that one might have thought she was sleeping. But her bloodwas coursing madly and her pulses throbbed a wrist and neck. She hadbeen true to her better self--with Markham--and her idealism hadbrought her only this void of barren regret. Whichever way she lookedinto the past or into the future, the vista was empty; behind her onlythe echoes of voices and a grim shape or two; before her--vacancy. Shehad bared her soul to Markham, there in the Square, torn away the veilof her pride and let him know the truth. Why, God knew. She had beenmad. She had believed the worst of Hermia and of him, and had offeredherself to him that he might judge between them--her heart andHermia's, her mind, her body and Hermia's. Was her own face no longerfair that he should have looked at her so curiously and turned awaywith Hermia's name on his lips, Hermia's image in his heart? A doubthad crept into her mind and lingered insidiously. Hermia innocent!She was beginning to believe it now. In spite of the damning facts shehad discovered, the evidence of Madam Bordier and Monsieur Duchanel, ofthe peasant women at Tillires and of Pierre de Folligny, thetestimony of Hermia's pale face at the shooting lodge at Alenon andof her confession which she had not thought of doubting, the belief hadslowly gained force in her mind that Markham had not lied to her. Shefound confirmation of it in Hermia Challoner's disappearance in France, in her attitude toward Markham and in the announcement of herengagement to another man. Markham could not guess, as she did now, that this was only a _ruse de femme_, born of the access of timidity atthe discovery of her indiscretion and the consciousness that she hadgone too far with Markham, who must be punished for his share in herdownfall. It seemed pitifully clear now. 

Olga's bitterness choked and whelmed her. It seemed even worse thatHermia should be innocent. She dared not think of the picture she hadmade in Markham's mind when she had thrown herself into the scales thathe might weigh their frailties and compare them. Hermia innocent! HowOlga hated her for it, and for her youth and beauty. They mocked andderided the tender flame that she had nourished, which now glowedineffectually as in another, a greater light. She hated Hermia for allthe things that she herself was not. 

Lucidity came to her slowly. After a long while she raised adisordered face and leaned her chin upon her hands, staring at thedying log. She had promised him not to speak. She could not. She hadeven promised to persuade De Folligny to silence. Had he mentioned theincident already? She did not know. He was not by nature a gossip, but Hermia had not been too tactful and it was a good story--thesanctity of which, upon the mind of a man of De Folligny's temperament, might not be impressive. She would keep her promise to Markham andpersuade Pierre to silence. No one should know by word of mouth--

Olga started up, her eyes wide open, staring at the opposite wall, where there hung a colored print of a woodland scene by Morland, and asmile slowly grew at one end of her lips, a crooked smile, that mighthave been merely quizzical, had not the impression been unpleasantlymodified by the narrowing eyes and the tiny wrinkle that suddenly grewbetween her brows. 

"I will do it, " she muttered. "It may be amusing. "

CHAPTER XXVI

MRS. BERKELEY HAMMOND ENTERTAINS

The heritage of the world comes at last to the pachyderms. Fate isnever so unkind as to those who blindly resist her and into the lap ofstoic and unimpressionable she pours the horn of plenty. 

Trevelyan Morehouse had gone through life on the low gear. In fact hehad no change of gears and needed none. He never "hit it up" on thesmooth places or burned out his tires on the rough ones, and wastherefore always to be found in perfect repair. He was a good hillclimber and had a way of arriving at his destination no matter howdifficult the going. When others passed him he let them go, andplodded on after them with solemn assurance, his gait so leisurely thatrapid travelers had the habit of regarding his conservatism withundisguised contempt. And yet his perseverance, though inconspicuous, was singularly effective. He had won his way into the sanctorum of abig corporation and his advice, though never brilliant, was always saneand peculiarly reliable. He did not mind rebuffs and was soindifferent to indignities that people had ceased to offer them. Socially he could always be trusted to do the usual thing in the usualway and was therefore always much in demand by hostesses who requiredconventional limitations. In a word he was "the excellent Trevelyan. "and the adjective fitted him as snugly as it did the well-knowncomestible with which it had come to be so comfortably and freelyassociated. His excellence lay largely in the fact that he did notexcel. He was content with his subordinate capacity, wise in hisconfidence that all things would come to him in the end, if he onlywaited long enough. 

The same rules which he found so successful in business he now appliedto his affair of the heart, and plodded off in the wake of the fastflying Hermia, imperturbable and undismayed. His flowers had been sentto her with the regularity of the clock, his visits carefully timed, and his proposals renewed with a well-bred ardor. He had waitedpatiently through Hermia's short and sportive attachment for "Reggie"Armistead, and when their "trial" engagement reached its tempestuousconclusion, had stepped softly into the breach, rosy with hope and adefinite sense that his time had come. Hermia liked him--had liked himfor years. She had gotten used to him as one does to a familiar chairor an article of diet. He was a habit with her like her bedroomslippers or her afternoon tea. He was comfortable, always safe andquite sane, which she was not, and she accepted him in the guise ofcounselor and friend with the same cheerful tolerance that she gave toher Aunt Harriet Westfield or to Mr. Winthrop of the Pilgrim TrustCompany. 

When Hermia departed suddenly for Europe, her sportive idyl so suddenlyshattered, Mr. Morehouse followed her in the next steamer. She hadgiven him no definite encouragement, it was true, and yet he foundreasons to hope that the time was at hand when she must make somedefinite decision. In Europe her brief disappearance from the scene ofher usual activities had mystified him and her return to her hotel, shabby and uncommunicative, had aroused a chagrin and an anxiety quiteunusual to him; but he had sat and waited her pleasure, survived herturbulent moods and had found his patience at last rewarded by hersilent acquiescence in his presence, and by an invitation to accompanyher to Switzerland, where she was to join her Aunt Julia and thechildren. 

From the vantage point of his office window down town, where he now satand viewed the bleak perspective of the city, his memories of thesummer with Hermia seemed a strange compound of brief blisses and moreenduring pangs. They had been much seen together and the announcementof their engagement which had appeared in the newspapers had not beensurprising. Aunt Julia had favored his suit and Mrs. Westfield hadgiven him to understand that it was time Hermia married. But the factremained that Hermia had not accepted him. His insistence had alwaysprovoked and still provoked one of two moods--either resentment ormockery. She either dismissed him in a dudgeon or cajoled him withelusive banter. Why was he so impatient? There was plenty of time?Was he sure that he wanted to marry her? What did her really knowabout her heart of hearts? Perhaps, if he knew her better he might notwant to marry her. He pleaded in patient calm. The world, it seemed, thought them engaged. Why shouldn't _he_ be permitted to think so. She only laughed at him and her heart of hearts had come to be the mostprofound enigma that it had ever been his fortune to study. So theprize, which he had thought most surely his own, still hung reluctantlyupon the lip of the horn of plenty. It would not fall, and all thetraditions of his experience forbade that he should jostle it. And sohe only watched with patient eyes and a physical restraint which couldonly be described as "excellent. "

What did she mean by saying that if he knew her better he might notwant to marry her? Vague doubts assailed him. Did he, after all, knowher? What was this chapter of her life of which he knew nothing and towhich she had so frequently alluded? Was it something which hadhappened to her in America? Or had it something to do with herdisappearance last summer from Paris, after which she had returnedsober and intolerant? He gave it up. He was always giving her up andthen putting his doubts of her in his pocket with his neathandkerchief, plodding sedulously as before. He must wait. Everythingthat he had got in life had come from waiting and Hermia, hisphilosophy told him, must be no exception to the rule. 

The winter drew on toward spring. Lent arrived, and society, quitebored and thoroughly exhausted, halted in the mad round of the"one-step" and turned to calmer delights. Country places in adjacentcounties were opened and guests flitted from one house to the other ina continuous round of visits. 

Mrs. Berkeley Hammond's invitations, whether to the big house near thePark or to Rood's Knoll, her place in the country, were much in demand. The Hammonds had unlimited means, the social instinct, worthy familytraditions, and a talent for entertainment, a combination of qualitiesand circumstances which explained the importance of this family in thesocial life of the city. The mantle of an older leader who had passedhad fallen comfortably on Mrs. Hammond's capacious shoulders and shewore it with a familiar grace which gave the impression that it hadalways been there. Conservative, the more radical called her, andradical, the conservative; but her taste and her _chef_ were both abovereproach, and her dinners, whether large or small, had the distinctionwhich only comes of a rare order of tact and discrimination. Nor wereher hospitalities confined to the entertainment of the indigenous. Visitors to New York, foreign celebrities, literary, artistic orpolitical, found within her doors a welcome and a company exactlysuited to their social requirements. She liked young people, too, andcontrived to let them know it, to the end that her dances, whileformal, were gay rather than "stodgy, " juvenescent rather thanpatriarchal. 

The house at Rood's Knoll was a huge affair, of brick and timberedplaster, set in the midst of its thousand acres of woodland in theheart of the hills. Lent found it full of people and its gayety wasreflected in other houses of the neighborhood whose owners, like theHammonds, kept open house. There was much to do. March went out likea lion and the snow which kept the more timid indoors at the cards madewonderful coasting and sledding, of which latter these wearied childrenof fortune were not slow to take advantage. The ponds were frozen, too, and skating was added to the sum of their rural delights. 

Hermia Challoner, who was visiting Caroline Anstell, joined feverishlyin these pursuits, glad of the opportunity they afforded her of relieffrom her personal problems. There were some of her intimates here inthe neighborhood, but she found greater security in the society of anolder set of whom she had seen little in town and in the pleasure ofpicking up the loose ends of these acquaintanceships she managed toforget, at least temporarily, her sword of Damocles. Olga Tcherny wasone of Mrs. Berkeley Hammond's house guests, but she had not been inevidence on either of the occasions when Hermia had called. There wassome excitement over an evening which Mrs. Hammond was planning to takeplace in the country during the latter days of Lent. The invitationswere noncommittal and merely mentioned the date and hour, but it wasunderstood that "everyone" was to be there, and that an entertainment alittle out of the ordinary was to be provided. 

It was, therefore, with a pleasurable anticipation that Hermia got downfrom the Anstell's machine on the appointed evening, and followed herparty into the great house. The rooms were comfortably filled, but notcrowded, and it seemed that the women had done their best to add theirshare to the merely decorative requirements of the occasion. Theball-room lights shimmered softly on the rich tissues of theircostumes, and caught in the facets of the jewels on their baredshoulders. Society was at its best, upon its good behavior, patientlyeking out the few short days that remained to it of the penitentialseason. Hermia managed to elude the watchful Trevelyan and entered theball-room with Beatrice Coddington and Caroline Anstell. Just insideshe found herself face to face with the Countess Tcherny. She wouldhave passed on, but Olga was not to be denied. 

"So glad to see you, Hermia, dear, " she purred, her eyes lighting. "It's really dreadfully unlucky how seldom we've met this winter. You're a little thinner, aren't you? But it becomes you awfully. "

"Thanks, " said Hermia. "I'm quite well. "

"I hope you'll like the play, you know I--" and she whispered. "Nobodyknows--_I_ wrote it. "

"Oh, really, " Hermia smiled coolly. "I hope it's quite moral. "

"Oh, you must judge for yourself, " said Olga, and disappeared. 

The men, having searched the premises vainly for the bridge tables, resigned themselves to the inevitable and drifted by twos and threesinto the ball-room, where they melted into the gay company which wasnot seated, or stood along the back and side walls, making a somberbackground for the splendid plumage of their dinner-partners. 

"_Tableaux-vivants_, for a dollar!" said Archie Westcott in boreddesperation. 

"Oh, rot!" blurted out Crosby Downs in contempt. "What's the use?They'll be havin' Mrs. Jarley's waxworks next--"

"Or the 'Dream of Fair Women'--"

"Or charades. Not a card in sight--or a cigar! Rotten taste--_I'd_call it. "

The music of the orchestra silenced these protests and a ripple ofexpectation passed over the audience as the curtain rose, disclosing asylvan glade and a startled nymph in meager draperies hiding from afaun. The music trembled for a moment and then, as the nymph wasdiscovered, broke into wild concords through which the violins sangtunefully as the chase began. It was not for some moments that theaudience awoke to the fact that these must be the Austrian dancerswhose visit to New York had been so widely heralded. Captured at last, the nymph was submissive, and the dance which followed revealedartistry of an order with which most of the spectators were unfamiliar. Even Crosby Downs ceased to grumble and wedged himself down the sidewall where he could have a better view. The dance ended amid applauseand the audience now really aroused from its lethargy eagerly awaitedthe next rise of the curtain. 

The first part of the program, it seemed, was to be a vaudeville. Afamous tenor sang folk songs of sunny Italy; two French pantomimistsdid a graceful and amusing _Pierrot_ and _Pierrette_; a comedian did ablack-face monologue; and the first part of the program concluded withthe performances of a young violinist, the son of a Russian tobacconistdown town, whom Mrs. Berkeley Hammond had "discovered" and was nowsending to Europe to complete his musical education. A budding genius, was the verdict, almost ready to blossom. The brief period of disquietwhich had followed Hermia's meeting with Olga, had been forgotten inher enjoyment of the performance and in the gay chatter of hercompanions and of her neighbors back and front. When the curtain hadfallen upon the violinist, there was a rustle of programs. 

"'The Lady Orchestra, ' some on back of her read aloud. 'Comedy with aSting--' What's coming now? What's a 'Lady Orchestra'? Does anyoneknow?"

"A 'Lady Orchestra, ' my dear Phyllis, " said Reggie Armistead, "is anorchestra lady. "

"An orchestra lady! I wonder what she plays--"

"The devil probably--he's your most familiar instrument. "

"Reggie! I'm surprised at you. You know--"

The remainder of Miss Van Vorst's speech was lost to Hermia, who satstaring speechless at the stage curtain, her body suddenly ice-cold, all its blood throbbing in her temples. "The Lady Orchestra!" Thewords had fallen so lightly that their significance had dawned upon herslowly. This play--this "comedy with a sting" was about_her_--Hermia--and John Markham. Olga had written it, and was even nowwatching her face for some sign of weakness. Olga, De Folligny--andhow many others? Terror gripped her--blind terror, every instincturging flight. But this, she knew, was impossible. She stared hard atthe red curtain, and swallowed nervously, sure now that, whatever theplay revealed, she must sit until its end, giving no sign of the tumultthat raged within her. The eyes of the audience burned into the backof her head, and she seemed to read a knowledge of her secret in everycareless glance thrown in her direction. This was a vengeance worth ofOlga--the refinement of cruelty. 

"What is it, Hermia, " she heard Caroline Anstell whispering. "Are youill, dear?"

"Oh, no, not at all. Why do you ask?" coolly. 

"I thought you looked a little tired. "

"I--I think it's the heat, " said Hermia. "Sh--Carrie, there goes thecurtain. "

If Hermia had been startled a moment ago, she now learned that shewould have need of all her courage. The curtain revealed themarket-place of a French town on a fte day. To the left a rowof penny shows, a "man hedgehog, " an "_homme sauvage_" and an Albinolady who told fortunes; to the right a platform backed by a canvaswall, surmounted by a sign in huge letters "ThŽ‰tre TonyRicardo" flanked by rudely painted representations of the acts whichwere to be seen within. The setting was admirable and brought forthimmediate applause form the audience, under which Hermia hid her gaspof dismay. There were even pictures like those which Philidor hadpainted, of Cleofonte breaking chains and of the child Stella flyingin mid-air, and at one side the legend "Artistide Bruant, painter ofportraits at two francs fifty--soldiers ten sous. " Sure now of thescene which was to follow, but outwardly quite composed, Hermialistened carelessly to the dialogue, saw the acrobat appear, and the"Lady Orchestra, " who was the guilty heroine of the piece, take herplace upon the platform beside him. Here the resemblance to realityceased, for the heroine was dark and _Aristide_ blonde and beardless, and yet this very discrimination on Olga's part seemed to point moredefinitely to Hermia even than if the characterization had beentruthfully followed. The actors were professionals who had been welldrilled in their parts and the plot developed quickly in the dialoguebetween _Madeleine_, the erring wife, and _Aristide_, the recreanthusband, who had fled from fashionable Paris, met upon the road andjoined this troupe of Caravaners that they might taste life togetherin rural simplicity and security. The dialogue was clever, if_dŽcadent_, the situations amusing, the action rapid, the firstact ending with the appearance of the irate wife of _Aristide_, andthe disappearance of the guilty couple, just in time to avoiddiscovery. 

During the _entr'acte_, though the restless guests moved about, Hermiasat rooted to her chair, fascinated with horror. Her body seemednerveless and she feared that if she rose her limbs would not supporther, or, if they did support her, she must fly like a mad thing fromthe house. And so she sat, a fixed smile frozen on her lips, greetingthose who approached her. Beatrice Coddington left her seat, andTrevvy Morehouse made haste to fill it. He had never seemed so welcometo Hermia as at the present moment, and his patient mien and quietcommonplaces did much to restore her composure; so that when the bellrang for the curtain of the second act, she was laughing with a braveshow of enjoyment at Reggie and Phyllis, who seemed at the point ofsevering their amatory relations. Hermia was prepared for anythingnow. If her breach of conventions had found her out, there was no one, not even Olga, who would look at her and say that she was showing thewhite feather. 

She could see the play to its end now, for from Reggie's program shehad learned that the setting for the second act was the interior of ashooting lodge in the forest, and when the curtain rose she was notsurprised at the setting of the stage, which represented, as accuratelyas possible, the house of the Comte de Cahors, in the forest ofƒcouves. The approach of the injured wife, discovered in time by therefugees through the half-opened shutter, gives _Aristide_ time to helpthe fictitious orchestra lady up a stair to the garret, where she is inconcealment during the dramatic interview between husband and wife, which ends in the woman seizing a loaded rifle with the intention ofkilling both herself and her husband. In the struggle which ensues forthe possession of the weapon, the gun is discharged, there is a cryoverhead and the figure of _Madeleine_ is seen to rise, opening thetrap-door, and then to fall the length of the stairs, at the feet ofthe woman who has been wronged. 

The scene was admirably done and carried the audience to its conclusionin breathless silence. The lights of the ball-room, fortunatelylowered, had hidden the pallor of Hermia's face but she realized, whenthey suddenly blazed, that Trevvy Morehouse was looking at hercuriously, that her fingers were ice-cold and that, when she spoke aword or two in reply to his anxious query, her voice was strangelyunfamiliar. As the applause ceased, there was a general movementtoward the supper-room. Hermia rose stiffly and moved as in a dream. Was it her own conscience that told her that Carol Gouverneur waslooking at her strangely? Or that there was meaning in the glance andlaughter of Mrs. Renshaw and Archie Westcott as she passed them? Shetried to smile carelessly, but her muscles would not obey her. Wouldshe never reach the door? People stopped and spoke but she only noddedand passed on, intent upon the shadows of the hallway, where the lightsglowed dimly and the gaze of these people would no longer burn past herbarriers, searching out the innermost recesses of her heart, which theyread according to the hideous lie which Olga had told. A comedy with asting, she had called it, and the sting meant for Hermia, had poisonedthe air with its venom. She leaned heavily on Trevvy's arm but she didnot hear what he was saying; and, as they passed the door into thehall, two men, neither of whom she knew, followed her pale face withtheir glances. Was it her tortured imagination that made her hear oneof them say to the other after she had passed, "That's the girl--?"

What girl? Not herself? She gasped a question to Trevvy. He smiledgaily. 

"Yes--they were pointing you out. Do you wonder that I'm so proud?"

Hermia stopped and faced him. She learned in that moment that thething he had dreamed was impossible. 

"Please order Mrs. Anstell's machine for me, " she said quickly. "I'mgoing at once. "

"Are you ill? Shall I go with you?"

"No--I want to go alone--alone--" she gasped. 

Vaguely troubled, he followed her anxiously to the door of thedressing-room, but did her bidding. 

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY

The account of this atrocity did not reach John Markham for some weeks. With the exception of the people who came to the studio and the fewmen he met at the club where he dined, he saw little of society, andtroubled himself less with its affairs. His life was more secluded, and his work more exacting than ever, and when he walked out, which hedid in the late afternoons, he choose avenues which would not remindhim of the things he was trying to forget. He had given up hope ofHermia, and though her vision persisted, it was not of the modish, self-contained creature who had received him so coolly that he thought. 

This was not the Hermia he had loved. That other girl, the joyouscompanion of his summer idyl, was no more. At times it almost seemedthat she had never been. She had made it clear that she wished no moreof him and he had accepted her dictum without question. A moresophisticated lover would have laughed away the barriers she hadinterposed, followed her carelessly, and brought her to bay when he hadproved or disproved the genuineness of her indifference. But Markhamwas singularly ingenuous, his reasoning as simple and direct as that ofa child. He had never understood the woman of society and until Olgahad appeared upon his horizon had let her severely alone. Hermia hadbeen an accident--a divine accident. Her frankness had disarmed him, and he had followed his impulses blindly, as (it seemed to him then)she had followed hers. He gloried in the memory of their pilgrimage, its gayety, its freedom and the clean spirit with which they both hadentered on it. He had believed in her and in believing had let hisheart carry him where it would, willing to forget that she might not beinfallible. He had been so sure of her--so sure--and now--

He wiped his brushes on a square of cheesecloth, cleaned his paletteand lay in his chair frowning at the portrait, which smiled back at himwith ironical amusement. It was curious. All his portraits nowsmiled. His reputation was based on his skill in making people happyin paint--painting all people happy but himself--_Punchinello_ dancingwhile his _Columbine_ lay dead. He straightened with a quick intake ofthe breath, then washed his brushes carefully and changed into streetclothes. He was writing to one of his sitters when his knocker clangedand a man in livery entered bearing a note. He opened it and read:

My Dear Mr. Markham:I must see you at once on a matter of importance. Can you come up thisafternoon for a dish of tea? I'm sending my car for you in the hopethat your engagements will not forbid. If anything prevents to-day, won't you lunch with me to-morrow at two? Very sincerely yours, Sarah Hammond. 

Markham frowned. There was no getting out of it, it seemed. 

"You have Mrs. Hammond's car below?" he said to the waiting footman. 

"Yes, sir. I was to get an answer or take you up, if you could go. "

"I'll go. I'll be down in a moment. "

The man retired, and Markham, somewhat mystified, reread Mrs. Hammond'snote and got into this hat and overcoat. A matter of importance!Another commission, perhaps--she had already got him two. And yet itseemed, had it been that, she would have expressed herself differently. 

He went down and got into the elegantly appointed limousine and in awhile, too short to solve his problem, was set down under the _portecochre_ of his _patronne_. 

He found her at the tea table, a stout but puissant figure in mauve andblack. In the studio she had not bothered him. She had been merely anamiable millionaire, in pearls and black satin. Here in the majesticdrawing-room, with her small court gathered about her, she dominatedhim. He hesitated a second at the door before going forward, but whenshe saw him she rose at once and excused herself to her guests. Aftertheir departure, she motioned him to a chair beside her and enteredwithout delay upon her subject. Her manner was kindly, if restrained, and he saw at once that the matter was of a personal nature. 

"I suppose, Mr. Markham, you think it rather curious that I should havesent for you in such haste, but I shouldn't have done so had I notthought it necessary. You understand that, don't you?"

Markham murmured something and waited for her to go on. 

"It seems a little difficult to begin, for there are some matters whichare not easy even with a friend. "

"I am sure if there is anything in which I can help you--"

"There is, Mr. Markham. I should not have dared to speak to you if Ihadn't, unfortunately, found myself brought into an affair in whichyour name has been mentioned. "

"My name?"

"Yes. Yours and Miss Challoner's. "

He blanched and was immediately conscious that her small eyes werewatching him keenly. 

"Wh--what have you heard, Mrs. Hammond?" he blurted out. 

"One moment, Mr. Markham. I don't want you to think that I am the kindof woman who seeks to pry into the affairs of other people. I don't. I abominate meddlers and will have nothing to say, even if after I tellyou what my motives are, you refuse to answer my questions. But agreat wrong has been done, an advantage taken of my hospitality. Ispeak of the theatricals which took place at my house in the countrylast month. "

He stared at her blankly and she smiled. 

"I forgot, " she went on, "what a hermit you are. Of course you havenot heard. " She leaned over the tea table and took a slip of paperfrom under a tea dish. "I shall let you read this so that you may knowin just what terms New York is speaking of you--of me--of us. "

She handed him the clipping. It was from a weekly paper, whichconcerned itself with the doings of society, and he read, his eyesglowing:

The much heralded theatricals at "Roods Knoll" have come and gone, butthe echoes of this affair are still reverberating the length of theAvenue. It seems that the very clever play, written by a well-knownwoman of society, was based upon fact, and that the hero and heroine ofthe adventures depicted are in New York, the girl in question a memberof the hunting set and the man a distinguished portrait painter--bothof whom shall be nameless. As everyone knows, the play is laid inrural France, and deals with the loves of a French countess who hasfled from her husband to join her lover, also married, upon the road, where they become members of a band of strolling mountebanks, the ladymasquerading as a _Dame Orchestre_ and the gentleman as an itinerantpainter of portraits--

Markham stopped, his eyes seeking those of his hostess. 

"The play was given, " he said hoarsely, "at your house?"

"It was, Mr. Markham, " she said simply. "Read it through to the end, please. "

He did so, his horror increasing as the full significance of thedescription grew upon him. Hermia had seen--had read this. They weretalking about her and about him? He could not understand. 

"You said that Miss--Miss Challoner's name had been mentioned--andmine, " he said slowly. "There is no name--mentioned her. The identityof the people--"

"Your names have been mentioned, Mr. Markham, in my presence. Thestory back of this vile clipping is on the lips of every gossip intown. Where it originated Heaven only knows, but facts are given anddates which make it ugly in the extreme. I thought it best that youshould know and sent for you to assure you that I had no knowledgeabout the play and its possible reference to any one. "

"The play, " he asked quietly, "was written by Madame Tcherny?"

She nodded, her eyes regarding him soberly. 

"What shall I do, Mr. Markham? If there is some basis of truth in thereports I hear, I have been grossly imposed upon and, whatever thefacts, have done a great wrong both to you and Hermia. Unfortunately, she has left New York, and I don't know where to find her. She lefttown, I am informed, the day after the play was given. I wish shehadn't. It makes things awkward for me. I have the best intentions inthe world, but if she ties my hands by silence what can I do?"

Markham had risen and was pacing the floor slowly, his head bent, allthis thoughts of Hermia. Olga's cruelty stunned him. She had promisednot to speak. Had she spoken other than in this ingenious drama? Orwas it--De Folligny? His fists clenched and his jaws worked forward. De Folligny--a man. Here was something tangible--a man, not a woman, to deal with. He turned and stood beside the tea table, struggling forthe control of his voice. 

"Who has told this story, Mrs. Hammond?" he asked at last. 

She shrugged her capacious shoulders and settled her head forward inhis direction. 

"Frankly, I don't know. Thank God, I'm not in any was responsible forthat part of this misfortune. I only know that Olga Tcherny wrote theplay. As to her motives in doing so I am at a loss. But if I thoughtshe used my house, violated my hospitality at the expense of one of myguests, to serve some private end, I would--"

The good lady grew red in the face, and then, controlling herself aftera moment, "I would find some means of getting her the punishment shedeserved. Hermia Challoner was there, " she went on quickly. "Herappearance was remarked. She looked ill and left the house beforesupper. You were invited, too, Mr. Markham, if you will remember, butwould not come. I confess I'm at my wit's ends. I shall not questionyou. All I ask is your advice. "

Markham raised his head and looked her in the eyes for a full moment. She was much distressed at the position, and the friendliness of herlook was all that could be desired. He hesitated a moment, weighinghis duty with his inclination. What was best for Hermia? How could heserve her? How build a bulwark to dyke the flood of scandal whichthreatened her in her flight? A lie? Obviously that wouldn't do, forMrs. Hammond believed in him. And the story had gone too far, was toodiabolic in its accuracy, for a flat denial without explanation. Thetruth?

His hostess still regarded him patiently. He searched her with hiseyes, his gaze finally falling. 

"If one is guiltless one does not fear the truth, " he muttered slowly, "nor does virtue fear a lie--but a half-truth will damn even theinnocent, Mrs. Hammond. "

"There is some basis then for the stories they are telling?" she askedkindly. 

"My lips have been sealed. I'm not sure that I have the right to openthem now. But I will. I don't think I could pay you a highercompliment than by trusting Miss Challoner's fate entirely into yourhands. "

Mrs. Hammond, now keenly interested, smiled at him encouragingly. 

"Thanks, Mr. Markham, I'm not so old that I have forgotten how to behuman. "

He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. 

"You know--Hermia--Miss Challoner very well, Mrs. Hammond?"

"Since her infancy--a creature of moods--willful, wayward, if youlike--but the soul of honor and virtue. "

He bowed his head. 

"Thanks. You make it easier for me, " he said. "I want you tounderstand first, Mrs. Hammond, that I alone am responsible for thismisfortune. Miss Challoner and I met upon the highroad in Normandy, entirely by chance. I was doing the country afoot, as is my custom insummer. He machine was destroyed in an accident. She was alone. Iasked her to go with me. She accepted my invitation. It was mad of meto ask her, made of her to accept--but she did accept. We weretogether more than a week-traveling afoot by day--sleeping in the openwhen the weather was fine and indoors when I could find a room for her. I had moments of inquietude at my responsibility, for I had done wrongin letting her go with me. She was a child and trusted me. I began bybeing amused. I ended by-- Good God! Mrs. Hammond, I loved--Iworshiped her. I _couldn't_ have harmed her. She was sacred tome--and is now. You _must_ understand that. "

His hostess's expression, which had grown grave during this recital, relaxed a little. 

"I think I understand, Mr. Markham. I am keenly interested. Where doesOlga Tcherny come in?"

Her question bothered him. He thought for a moment, and then went on, deliberately postponing a reply. 

"Our relations were clearly established from the first. We had metbefore, you know, earlier in the summer, and I had visited at Westport. She liked and understood me, and was sensible enough to tell me so;and I--she attracted me--curiously. I had always lived a solitary sortof existence. She simply ignored my prejudices and over-rode them. She invaded my life and took it by storm. She was like the sudden_capriccioso_ after the _largo_ in a symphony. She was Youth and Joy, and she got into my blood like an elixir. I loved her for all thethings she was that I was not, but I did not tell her so--not then. Ihid my secret, for I knew that if she guessed it would make adifference to us both. " He raised his head and went on more rapidly. "We joined a company of strolling mountebanks. Oh, that was trueenough--and went with them as far as Alenon. Hermia--MissChalloner--_was_ a _Dame Orchestre_ and I a 'lightning' artist. Wemade our living in that way. It was quite wonderful how sheplayed--wonderful how she forgot what she was--how she became what Iwanted her to be--an earthling among earthlings. With them she livedin poverty and discomfort, learned the meaning of weariness and feltthe pinch of hunger. " He smiled. "I suppose you wonder why I'mtelling you all this, Mrs. Hammond. I wanted you to understand justwhat the pilgrimage was--how little it had in common with--with whatyou have heard these people saying. "

"I know, Mr. Markham. I understand, " she said gently. Her eyessoftened and she looked past him as though back through a vista of theyears. "It was Romance--the true Romance, " she murmured. "Sheborrowed a week from Immortality--that, for once, she might be herself. She was free--from this thralldom--free!"

"She worked--hard, " he went on after a moment, "and she earned whatmoney she made. And so did I. But I was bothered. My sins werepursuing me. One day we saw upon the road a man Miss Challoner hadmet, and at Alenon--"

"Olga Tcherny?" asked Mrs. Hammond keenly. 

Markham paused, looked beyond her and went on. 

"And at Alenon, when we were giving a performance, some one I knewappeared and recognized me. Need I mention names?"

"Not if you prefer to be silent. And the hunting lodge?"

"We fled from Alenon that night and took refuge from the rain in ahouse in the forest. Miss Challoner was dead tired. We had been upsince sunrise. So we stayed there, thinking ourselves safe. But inthe morning--" He paused. 

Mrs. Hammond had risen and was fingering the flowers on the tea table. 

"In the morning, " she finished dryly, "Olga Tcherny found you there. Iunderstand. "

He rose and faced her uncomprehendingly. "Mrs. Hammond, do you meanthat you believe--as she did?"

She turned quickly and thrust forth both of her plump jeweled hands, and he saw that her friendliness was in no way diminished. 

"I'm not one to believe half-truths, Mr. Markham, when I hear wholeones, " she said, smiling rosily. "If you had lied to me I should haveknown it. But you didn't and I believe in you. "

She released his hand and made him sit again. 

"I've never been so entertained and delighted since--since hundreds ofyears ago, " she sighed. "You were mad--quite mad, both of you. AndHermia--" she stopped, sat quickly upright, and while he watched her, laughed deliberately. "Hermia comes back to New York and engagesherself to--to Trevelyan Morehouse! The excellent Trevelyan--afterArcadia! And you?" She read his face like an open book, her humordying in a gently smile. 

"It doesn't matter about me, Mrs. Hammond, " he said quietly. 

"But I think it does, " she insisted. "Do you mean that you can'tunderstand?"

"Understand what, Mrs. Hammond?"

"How that poor child has suffered. Do you mean that you don't know whyit is that she has ignored you and fled to Trevelyan Morehouse?"

He made no reply. 

"Then I can't help you. There is nothing in the world denser than alover. The object of his affections is large in his eyes, so largethat the focus is blurred. He can't see her--that's all. Hermia wasterror-stricken and you were not aware of it. She knew that she wasclean and that you were, and the dirt that threatened her threatenedher idyl, too. "

She stopped abruptly and looked past him. 

"I'm afraid I've said too much, Mr. Markham. That is because I see howfoolish you have been--both of you in this affair. It's none of mybusiness. "

She fingered the clipping on the table and went on vigorously. 

"As to this infamous story that they are telling, I shall find means tostop it. How, I don't know just yet. This paper shall print aretraction. I'll manage that. Olga Tcherny--"

"I beg of you--"

"Olga Tcherny's career in New York is ended. She shall never enter myhouse, or the house of any of my friends. That play was a lie, writtenwith a motive. She has used me shamefully--shamefully--made me anaccomplice, and placed me in the undesirable position of sponsor forher villainies. "

She rose, walked to the window and looked out upon the Avenue, her lipstaking firmer lines of resolution. He watched her in silence, and whenshe spoke her tones were short and decisive. 

"With your permission, Mr. Markham, " she said at last, "as Hermia'sfriend and yours, I shall deny this story in every detail. You mustprovide me with an alibi. "

She turned back into the room and faced him. 

"You were not in Normandy last summer--that is positive. "

He smiled. 

"I am in your hands, " he said. 

"Where were you?"

"In Holland, if you like. I've tramped there. "

"And Hermia?"

"In Switzerland. She went there after leaving me. There was a party. Morehouse was with her. It's easily proved. "

"Good. We must lose that week somewhere. It must be wiped from thecalendar. If Hermia only hadn't run away!"

"Mrs. Westfield is still here, I believe, " he ventured. 

She deliberated a moment. 

"Excellent. I shall see her at once. Together we will manage it. Youare to leave things to me. I'm not without influence here in New York, Mr. Markham. We shall see. All I ask is that you avoid seeing Olga ortaking the matter into your own hands. That would only make anoise--an unpleasant noise. Will you promise me?"

He was silent. She examined him curiously. 

"You think you know who told this story?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

"You think it was not Olga?"

"Yes. She gave me her word she would say nothing. I believed her. "

"Was it--" she paused. 

"The man we met upon the road in Normandy was Monsieur de Folligny, Mrs. Hammond. "

"Oh! I see. " She fingered the sugar tongs a moment. "And you want toquestion him?" she asked then. 

"Er--I would like to find out if it was he who told. "

"And then thrash him? You want the papers full of the whole affair, with portraits of the principals, and a description of your romantic--"

"God forbid!"

"How like a man! To get a girl talked about and then of course to wantto thrash somebody! I've no patience with you. You must promise tobehave yourself or I'll wash my hands of the whole affair. "

He smiled down at his clasped hands. "I suppose you are right, " hemuttered. 

"Right! Of course I am. This is a case which will require the mostcareful handling--a case for the subtlest diplomacy. If I am going torisk my reputation for veracity--and jeopardize my hopes of Heaven bythe fibs that I must tell in your behalf, I don't propose to have myefforts spoiled by senseless bungling. Will you give me your promise?"

He shrugged. "I suppose there is nothing left for me to do. "

She leaned forward toward the tea table with a laugh. 

"I'm so glad that you are sensible. Now we shall have our tea. I oweyou apologies. My business seemed more urgent than my hospitality. "

They sat and chatted for a while, Markham sipping his tea and wonderingwhy he was imparting to this stout and very amiable old lady all hislife's secrets. A half hour later, when he rose to go, he realizedthat he had told her all about his week in Vagabondia, including itssudden termination. She surprised him at intervals by the sympathy ofher appreciation, and at others equally serious by an unseemly mirth oran impatience which they had not merited. But when he got up to go shefollowed him to the door and gave him both of her hands again. 

"I like you, John Markham. You're quaint--a relic of a less flippantage. I'm sorry you won't accept any of my invitations--but I'llforgive you, if you'll promise to do as I bid you. "

"I'm deeply grateful to you, Mrs. Hammond. Of course, I shall beobedient. I will do whatever you ask of me. "

She released him and gave him a gentle push toward the door. 

"Then go--and find Hermia!"

"I, Mrs. Hammond?"

"Yes, you. At once. "

"But--"

"And when you find her--marry her, do you hear? It's the happiestissue out of your afflictions. " She laughed again, rathermischievously. "You know, I think you owe her that!"

"I-- She--you--"

"She is waiting for you--somewhere. Find her: Leave the rest to me. Now go. "

He halted again--incredulous, but she waved him past the door where aman appeared to help him into his coat. And so he bowed his thanks andwent out into the dusk of the Avenue, his brain teeming with nebulousinconsistencies. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE BRASS BELL

Hermia, waiting for him! What did Mrs. Hammond mean? Was the womanmad? Hermia had fled from New York, her proud little head bent beforethis cruel story which, of course, had gathered impetus in the tellingand now indicted her of sins unwritten in the fair page of herexperience. Poor child! She had suffered--and he, fool that he was, had sat in his studio, the victim of his false pride, wrapped in hisown ego while this vile plot was brewing. He might have done somethingif he had had his wits about him, instead of hiding his head like anostrich and imagining himself unseen. Olga--he did not dare to thinkof Olga Tcherny or of De Folligny. He had given his word to Mrs. Hammond to leave the entire matter in her hands. Even while she hadgiven him her word not to speak she had been planning this refinedvengeance, probably knew that Pierre de Folligny had already made agood story of their adventure for some of his new intimates at theClub. He would have a reckoning with her--some day--and with DeFolligny! His fingers tightened on his stick, and an angry tide warmedhis face and temples. Had he met them, there upon the Avenue at thatmoment, all his promises to Mrs. Hammond must have been forgotten--andhe would have made short work of that unspeakable gentleman. Of OlgaTcherny he thought with hardly less rancor. At one time--a year agonow--Olga had loomed large upon his horizon. Now in the light of hispresent knowledge of her he wondered how he could have ever thought ofher friendship seriously. 

She belonged in an atmosphere too sophisticated for his simple rusticsoul. She had always lied to him; her friendship was a lie; her love, too--a lie. That declaration--Good God!--and he had been actually atthe point of being sorry for her. He had nothing to regret now withregard to Olga Tcherny. She had wiped the slate clean, and made a newaccount at poor Hermia's expense. 

Hermia in exile--and suffering! Her innocence could not make her heartpangs any the less real. Like a child she had followed the line ofleast resistance, and seeking freedom from the trammels of conventionhad obeyed her impulses blindly. It was such a trivial transgressionto find so crushing a retribution. And he, Markham, walked the streetsof New York the envied hero of an "armourette. " This was the law, which says that women may sin if they are not found out and that menmay sin when they please. 

Poor little penitent, atoning for sins uncommitted! All his heart wentout to her, and his memory, passing the forbidding vision of her lastappearance, now pictured the real Hermia that he knew, a brave, buoyantHermia, who knew nothing of discouragements and greeted the sunrisewith a smile, her head now bowed and, like _Niobe_, "all tears. "

Was she waiting for him? If so, why had she not written? A line, andhe would have sped to her. She knew that. She must have known it whenshe had fled. Where was she now? At Westport, perhaps? In the Southsomewhere, alone with her maid, avoiding the newspapers, seeking thecompany of strangers that her ears might not hear or her eyes see therecord of her transgression? Had she gone abroad again? Who wouldknow? He might inquire of Phyllis Van Vorst or Caroline Anstell overthe telephone. But when he reached his rooms and had taken up thereceiver he saw that even this information was denied to him. Anymanifest interest or anxiety on his part with regard to Hermia would beregarded with suspicion. Nor was he any more positive than before thathis quest would meet with the approval of its object. He waspowerless. There was nothing for him but to wait. 

The thought of going to his club to dine was repellant to him. Thestory that Mrs. Hammond had let him read was not common property and, though none of his acquaintances would have had the bad taste tomention his connection with it, his appearance among them must reviveits disagreeable details, at Hermia's expense. So for some days hedined alone at an obscure restaurant, glooming over the evening paperand wondering what could be done. Night after night he walked thestreet until, at last, wearied and no nearer the solution of hisproblem, he went home and to bed, to toss restlessly most of the nightand plan impossibilities. Through his thoughts, the friendship of Mrs. Berkeley Hammond hovered comfortingly. She was not a woman to promiseidly. She had been interested in his story and felt herself morallybound to make some sort of restitution to Hermia for her own unwillingresponsibility in the attention that had been drawn to it. He did notdoubt that she would use all her influence to minimize the effect ofOlga's machinations, and he felt sure with such a friend at court thatHermia need have little fear from the opinions of Mrs. Hammond'sfriends and her own, and these after all were the only opinions thatmattered to her. 

An early morning, a few days after the interview with Mrs. Hammond, found Markham at his studio, somber and dark eyed, regarding his latestwork with a savage eye of disapproval. He didn't feel like working, and by a piece of good fortune his time was free for him to do what hechose. He would have liked above all things to have employed it in avisit to the house of Olga Tcherny and thence with dispatch to thehotel of Monsieur de Folligny, where what remained of his wrath couldbe honestly expended in a manner befitting the occasion. Thisoccupation being denied him, there was nothing left but to take whatpleasure he could from the mental picture that he made of it. 

At last he rose and groped for his tobacco. A precious lot of goodthat would do him! It would have been a pity, too, because murder, even such justifiable murder, had not yet received the sanction ofsociety as represented in the New York Department of Police. He pacedthe floor restlessly and brought up before his desk, where the janitorof the building had a few moments ago laid the morning mail. He tookit up idly--and glanced over it--a note or two in the fashionablefeminine scrawl about sittings, a letter from a framemaker, one fromhis Paris agent, and the usual litter of circulars. He took them upone by one, opened them, put some of them aside and consigned others tothe paper basket. A small package lay at the bottom of the pile, anunobtrusive package neatly tied with string--evidently an advertisementof some sort--of a paint or of a canvas. He was about to drop it withthe others when he was made aware that as he turned the small parcelover it emitted a tinkle as of two metal objects striking together. Heturned it again and examined the address and stamp. His name wasprinted in ink as though with a bad pen and the stamp was French. Nowreally curious as to its contents and aware of its individuality, hecut the string and opened it. There was an inner wrapping of tissuepaper containing a small white pasteboard box which bore the name of afashionable New York jeweler, and inside the box the origin of thetinkle was revealed in a small brass bell. 

He took the object out, his wonder growing, and held it suspendedbetween his thumb and forefinger. A brass bell no larger than histhumbnail, a tarnished little trinket, no longer new, which tinkledmerrily under his astonished gaze. He examined the thing morecarefully, his bewilderment increasing, noting the curiousconstruction, which was unlike that of the toy bells which had adornedthe necks of the wooly beasts abroad at Christmas-time. It was heavyfor its size, and when he moved it had a decisive and very mellow note. Who would send him a thing like this and why? There must have been amistake. He took up the paper wrapper from the waste basket andexamined it with renewed interest. 

 John Markham, Esquire, --West--th Street, New York City. 

With a stamp of the French Republic and a postmark of--What were thepostmarks? Paris. Of course. And the other? VAL-E--? Valence?Valence was in the South of France on the Rhone. He had never beenthere. No. That wouldn't do. VAL-L-E--VallŽcy!

A brass bell from VallŽcy! Still he did not understand. He took theobject up again and scrutinized it, its meaning dawning slowly. VallŽcy! That was the village where he and Hermia had stayed withMre GuŽgou. There was the garden of the golden roses where--Thebell! It was from Hermia's head-dress--the belled cap of the _FemmeOrchestre_! He knew it now. It was a token. Hermia had sent it--fromVallŽcy. A token. 

In high excitement he examined the obscure postmark again. The accenton the E, a little smudged, but quite legible. Hermia had sent thebell as a token from Vagabondia which meant that she was there in PreGuŽgou's garden, whither she had fled when her own world had renouncedher. She was waiting for him. She needed him, and took this means ofshowing him that all things that had happened to them both since theyhad parted in the forest at SŽes were to be forgotten--that they wereboth to take life up--from VallŽcy. He stood a moment in joyousuncertainty, his glance on the clock, then, quickly wrapping thememento in its tissue paper, thrust it into his coat pocket and in amoment was striding like a madman down the street. At his apartment herang for a taxicab, thrust a few things into a suitcase, wrote a noteor two and in half an hour was on his way to the bank and then to thesteamship wharf. 

He had no definite plans except that he must take the first steamerwhich left New York for Europe. A brief glance at his morning paperadvised him of two sailings this morning, one for Havre and the otherfor Cherbourg, and he had made up his mind to take one steamer or theother. The taxicab crawled, it seemed, and on the way downtown wascaught in a block of traffic which delayed him for ten minutes, duringwhich he fumed silently. But he reached the dock with scarcely aquarter of an hour to spare, and after a difficulty which was clearedaway, found himself upon the deck of the _Kaiserin Augusta_, a somewhatflustered individual, with many loose ends dangling in retrospect, withno cabin as yet assigned to him, sober of face but inexpressibly happy. 

It was really not until his ship was well out at sea and the voyagefairly begun that Markham had the opportunity to settle downcomfortably and mediate upon the surprising events of the morning. Hefound a steamer chair in a quiet place and then gave himself up to histhoughts. He took the tiny object from his breast pocket and turnedit over in his fingers. Of course it was Hermia's. The wonder wasthat he had not recognized it at first glance. This bell and itsother small companions had tinkled their way into his heart at eachstep she had taken down the long road from Evreux toAlenon--tinkled merrily at Passy, joyously at VallŽcy, disdainfully at Verneuil, and contentedly at La Mesle. Alenonhad made them tragic so they had been packed in Hermia's bundle whichwent with her to SŽes and were heard no more, except in a fainttinkle of protest as she was put aboard the train for Paris. Wonderful bells they were, tiny chimes that had rung in the season oftheir joy and lingered in their memory never to be forgotten. Tokens--Hermia had realized it--symbols of her greatest happiness andhis, with life reduced to the simplest elements, in which there hadbeen no place for the extravagant commonplaces of the other life whichthey both had lived and endured. Hermia had fled to VallŽcy tothe motherly breast of Mre GuŽgou, and there perhapswas weeping out her troubles. He took out the square of paper (he hadclipped it with his penknife) which bore the address and examined itagain. This and the bell were all he had had to start him off on hisfateful pilgrimage. But they were enough. She could not have writtenhim after her treatment of him in New York. She had thrown herselfupon his mercy, given her message ambiguity that he might ignore it ifhe chose, or read, as she had hoped he would, the message of herheart, across the distances. It was the message of a vagabond likehimself, as definite a message as the gypsy _patteran_ which shows theway from one camp to another. His _patteran_ pointed toVallŽcy, that lovely village by the Arth where he had firsttold Hermia that he loved her. Beyond VallŽcy had comemisunderstanding, bitterness, misfortune. She had chosen that spot asthough by instinct. She wanted him to remember her there where lovehad first been spoken. Alone and waiting for him among the roses ofPre GuŽgou--

He started up from his chair in bewilderment, staring blankly at thesunlit sea, suddenly mindful of the fact that in the hurry of gettingaway he had not cabled her. He threw his rugs aside and made his wayhastily to the office, to find unluckily that the wireless had gottenout of order, and that it might be several hours before it wasrepaired. He strolled on deck again, thoughtful, suddenly impressedwith the potency of the charm that had called him. The thought ofreplying to her message had not until this moment entered his head. All that he had been able to think of was that he must get to her atonce, follow the _patteran_ at top speed. He had done so and nowunhappily remembered a dozen neglected people who must wonder at hisextraordinary disappearance. But he only smiled joyously. He hadanother engagement. 

He took up his walk along the promenade deck, careless of the enemieshe had made, careless of the friendships he might lose, all histhoughts of the small vagabond at VallŽcy. His inability tocommunicate with her by wireless set him thinking. Wasn't that, too, asymbol? If he got a message over what would be its effect? Would shestill wait for him, looking forward to the precious hour of theirmeeting? Or would her mind change at the last moment and send herflying from him again? This was more like Hermia, the real Hermia thathe knew. He feared her moods still. And if he refused to cable herwould her patience last until he got to France? He cast is memory overthe months that had passed in New York. He guessed how much she hadsuffered. He had followed her social career through the newspapers andhe knew now that she had gone gaily that she might hide her terror. She was tired--poor child--tired in body and spirit, and that was whyshe had not stayed in Paris among the fashionable people she knewthere; that was why she had fled to VallŽcy, where at least she mightbe at peace, unreminded by those of her own social sphere of thevillainous story which pursued her. There at VallŽcy she sat remote, with her own innocence for company, convalescent--amid these primitivesurroundings--from the sickness that her world had given her. Shewould wait for him _if she wasn't sure that he would come_. He smiled. He would not send the wireless. Nor would he wire her from Cherbourg. 

A search of the postmark of his much-beloved package revealed the date"_Av. 22_. " She had sent her token on the twenty-second of April andit was now only the second of May. Ten days only had passed, and hewas already well on his way to her. In less than a week more he wouldbe in VallŽcy. She would wait for him. Markham, as will be observed, was learning something about women--about one woman at least, the onlywoman in the world who mattered. 

The voyage seemed interminable, through the ship was a fast one, andthe day's run (on paper) highly satisfactory. He knew no one aboardbut some of the officers, with whom he had crossed before, and he wasthankful that he was therefore left alone with his thoughts, which wereinfinitely more pleasing to him than the chatter of the salon orsmoking-room. He read novels, or tried to, but his own story was somuch more interesting, so much more real than those he could find thathe gave them up after a trial or two and lived again his own romance. The time to take it up again where he had left it off came slowly, butat last the _Lizard_ hove into sight and the passengers for Franceprepared for debarkation. Morning of the next day found Markham in theexpress to Paris. Evreux was his station, and from there to Verneuilwas a little over an hour, most of it along the road he and Hermia hadso blithely traveled. The road from Verneuil to VallŽcy--he wouldcover it afoot if there were no vehicles to be begged, borrowed orstolen. 

CHAPTER XXIX

DUO

At some distance from the village street he dismissed the vehicle whichhad brought him from Verneuil, a rickety affair drawn by an emaciatedhorse, and suitcase in hand strode up the hill toward the house ofMadame GuŽgou, the garden wall of which was visible beyond theflowering orchard. The air was laden with odors, sweet with the smellof the fruit blossoms and early shrubs. In the meadow to the left somegoats were grazing and, as he passed, the wether raised his head andexamined him incuriously, its bell clanking solemnly. The sun wasalready beyond the profile of the forest; beyond the sleepy village andagainst the warm sky thin threads of purple smoke ascended inperpendicular lines and then drifted lazily down to the mist of thevalley below. Nature breathed slowly, deeply, as though aware that itsstate was not a matter of days or even of years, but of an eternity, during which its evolution must not be hurried. 

After the turmoil of steamer and railroad this silence was oppressive. Minute sounds came to Markham across the distances, the bark of a dog, the lowing of cattle, a shutter closing, human voices near and far, each one distinct, but each mellowed and softened as though strainedthrough a silver mesh. He missed the shudder of the steamer, therattle of the train, the jolting even of the station wagon from whichhe had just descended; for they were all a part of the fever of hisvoyage made in such mad haste, sounds which had soothed and given himpatience, their very turbulence assuring him that he was losing no timeupon the way. And now that he had reached his destination, a violentreaction had set in. He was still moving forward toward the house withthe walled garden, but a fear obsessed him that perhaps after all therehad been a mistake. What if, after all, Hermia were not here? Hissuitcase gained in weight and he perspired gently. Why hadn't hecabled her at the first moment of his decision to sail or why hadn't herelayed his wireless across when the opportunity had offered? All hishopes seemed to be slipping from his finger ends. Was this Vagabondia? It seemed different somehow. He was aware of his neatly creasedtrousers, his bowler hat, his gloves, and the leather bag which reekedof sophistication. He was an anachronism, or VallŽcy was. They werenot attune. He and VallŽcy clashed discordantly. 

Timorously, almost upon tiptoe, he reached the village street. A dogemerged from a field, sniffed at the crease of his trouserssuspiciously and growled. At this moment Markham desired anything butcommotion, so he chirped to the animal and stroke on, his head bent, his gaze on the portal of the _ancien_, which, as he noted, wasforbiddingly closed. He paused a moment, eyeing the cur which stoppedwhen he stopped, still regarding him uncertainly. And then summoninghis courage he went to the door and knocked. This noise, which soundedfaintly enough to Markham, seemed to be the demonstration of hostilitythe dog was waiting for, and it began barking furiously, snappingalmost at Markham's immaculate heels, a signal which was taken upimmediately, near and far, by every cur in the village. Curious headswere poked out of windows, and at last after a few moments his door wasopened just wide enough for the head of his former hostess to inspecthim. 

"Madame GuŽgou, " he began uncertainly and then paused. 

The door opened a trifle wider. 

"It is I, " she remarked, her gaze on the suitcase. "I can buy nothing, Monsieur. "

He laughed uneasily. 

"You do not remember me, Madame?" he asked. 

She relinquished the door-knob and emerged, inspecting his clothing. 

"You are from Paris, of course. Last year perhaps, you came--"

"I did--last summer, Madame. I am Philidor--the artist. "

"You! Monsieur! _You_ Philidor!" She leaned forward upon the step, her eyes searching his face. "Philidor was not such as you. He wore abeard and--" She suddenly caught him by the shoulder and turned himtoward the sunset. "I might think--and yet--"

"I am Philidor, " he repeated, laughing. "I came in search of--ofYvonne. "

"You--are he! It is true. The saints be praised!" She threw the doorinside open and called: "Jules! Jules! He is come. MonsieurPhilidor is here!"

The _ancien_ limped forward from the inner darkness, showing his gums. 

"I knew it, " he cried triumphantly. "Did I not say that he wouldreturn?"

Markham took the bony fingers, his anxious gaze going past them towardthe glow of the kitchen. 

"And Yvonne?" he asked feverishly. "She is within?"

"She is here, yes, she is here--waiting for you. "

He dropped his valise and strode past them eagerly. A pot simmeredupon the fire, the table gave evidence of a recent repast, and a pileof dishes nearby stood mutely in evidence, but of Hermia there was nosign. 

"_Tiens_!" Madame GuŽgou was muttering. "She was here but a momentago. In the garden, perhaps--"

He dashed out of the rear door and down the graveled walk. 

"Hermia!" he called, and then again, "Hermia!"

He reached the arbor just in time to see her speed across the lower endof the meadow and vanish into the trees. Hatless he leaped the lowwall and followed, joy giving him wings, while the old couplewonderingly watched from the doorway. They were mad, these two. Shehad been waiting for him a month and now--she fled. Mad? But what waslove but madness?

Markham sprang into the cover of the trees where he had seen herdisappear and followed the path up the hill breathlessly. She wouldescape him now, even, when she had sent for him and he had come toher! She could not go far. The cover was thin. He would have calledagain, but he spared his breath, for he knew that she would not reply. He reached the end of the path and scanned the hill beyond. She couldnot have gone that way. He turned and plunged among the pine trees tohis right where the woods were thicker. It was getting darker, but hesaw her white skirt, gray in the shadows--saw it--lost it and found itagain in the deep wood. He sprang forward over fallen trees, throughbrambles, over rocks, down the slope to the streamside and caught herbehind a tree where she had hidden away from him. 

"Hermia!" he cried. "Hermia, you witch! What a dance you've led me!But I have you now--I have you--"

And so he had--in both of his arms, his lips seeking hers. But shedenied him. 

"Did you think you could escape me--again?" he laughed, "when I've comehalf across the world for you?"

"You--you frightened me, " she gasped. 

"How did I frighten you?"

"I did--didn't expect you--"

"You sent for me?"

"I--I thought you would have cabled--"

He laughed joyously. 

"Cabled the hour of my arrival, and found you--missing! I know younow, you see. I took no chances. As it is, you tried to get away--"

"I didn't get far--"

"That wasn't your fault. You tried. Why did you run?"

She was silent, her head still hidden. He repeated the question. 

"I--I don't know. "

"Do I frighten you now?"

"Not so much. "

He held her more closely in his arms, and kissed the crown of her head, which was the only object offered. 

"I know, " he whispered, "because you had given me everything exceptyourself--and you knew that I would take that. "

"No, no. "

"What, then?"

Silence. 

"I had feared--" she paused. 

"What had you feared?"

"That you might not come. You didn't reply--"

"This is my reply. "

He raised her lips slowly to his own and took them. Her eyes wereclosed as though she feared to open them, and show him the dawn of herwomanhood. But in a moment her figure relaxed in his arms and her headsank upon his shoulder in token of surrender. 

"Mad little Hermia!" he whispered. 

"Mad no longer, " she sighed. 

"You must prove it. I'll not let you go until I'm sure you won't goflying from me again. "

"I don't want you to let me go. I want you to hold me tight. Itis--rest. I'm tired of going. I want to stay--here. "

"You love me?"

This time she opened her eyes wide and let him see that what she saidwas true. She had outgrown her adolescence--her madness, unless itcould be called madness to love as she did. Her eyes were deep wellsof mystery, in which he saw, as from the distant brink above, his ownimage, clear amid the shadows. There were signs of trouble in them, too, as though she had thought long and distressfully, but greater thanthe marks of pain were the sweeter tokens of a love and trustunalterable. 

She sank upon a rock, he beside her, her head on his breast. The duskfell swiftly, its shadows enfolding them. He kissed her again andagain, her lips trembled upon his as she murmured the words so longunspoken. 

"Philidor, I love you--I love you. It was so long--the waiting. "

"You needn't have waited, dear, " he said gently. 

"Oh, don't reproach me! I can't bear it. It had to be. Olga--shesmirched us--your love and mine--made--"

He stopped her lips with kisses, smiling inwardly and thinking of thewisdom of Mrs. Hammond. 

"There is no Olga--" he murmured, "no gossip but the whisper of thestream which knows the truth. "

"Yes--the truth. That is all that matters, isn't it? But thatplay--shall I ever forget it?"

"Sh--child. You must forget. A lie never lives. "

"I will forget. I don't care--now. Let them say what they choose. But I _did_ suffer, Philidor. "

"And I. You were cruel, dear. "

"I had to be cruel. I feared that you--that I--"

She paused and he questioned gravely. 

"I feared that you, too, might have misjudged me--there in the woods atSŽes--that I had cheapened myself to you--that I had been unwomanly. "

"Hermia!"

"I don't know what possessed me after Olga appeared. She poisoned thevery air with doubt. I was desperate. I didn't seem to care whathappened. I don't know what I wanted. I think if you had taken methen and held me--as you do now--held me close to you and had not letme go, as you did, you might have had me to do as you willed. But yourelinquished me--"

"I had to, dear. "

"Yes, I understand now. I couldn't then. I wanted to hurt you--as Iwas hurt. Your sanity made me desperate. I couldn't understand whyyou should be so sane while I was not. You were greater than I--andthough I loved you for it (O Philidor, how I loved you!) I meant thatyou should pay for my heart-throbs--that you should pay for Olga--foreverything. "

"I have paid. "

"Forgive me. I suffered doubly in knowing that you suffered. I fledfrom you and hid my heart as a miser would buy his treasure. But yourletters, forwarded from Paris, followed me. O Philidor! I did notread them--not at first. I saw Olga telling that story at the dinnertable and my pride revolted. I put them away--unopened, and kept themconcealed--from others, from myself and tried to forget them. Icouldn't. They were you. I would take them out and look at them. Islept with them under my pillow. At last I could stand it no longer. I took them and disappeared for a whole day from the rest of my party. I read them alone on the summit of a mountain. " She broke off with asigh. "Ah me! If you had come to me there you would not need to havepleaded, Philidor. "

"My Hermia!"

"You were with me that day. Didn't you know it?"

"I was with you every day, child. "

She smiled happily. 

"When I got down to Evian at nightfall they were searching for me. They thought that I had fallen and been killed. They reproved me. Iwas calm and smiling, my spirit still soaring to you across thedistances. I had made up my mind to go to you the next day. "

"Oh, if you had--!"

"In the morning, " she went on, "came your letter telling me that youwere sailing for New York. It wasn't like the other letters. You werereproachful and you were going away from me. It chilled me alittle--after the day before. Olga's face interposed--again. And so Ilet you go. You see I'm telling you everything. "

"Go on, dear. "

"I got no more of your letters for a time--for a long time--"

"I wrote you--"

"Yes--from New York. There was some mistake. I didn't get thoseletters until long after--until I reached New York--until after I hadseen you. Meanwhile, I feared--that you had cooled--that Olga had donesomething to change you--"

"Not that--"

"I feared her. I knew then that she was capable of anything. I heardthat she was again in New York and sensed that you must have seen her--"

"I did see her, " he put in grimly. 

"I didn't know what had happened. I made up my mind to ignore her--toignore _you_--to forget you and to make you forget, if I could, whathad happened. "

"That was impossible. "

"I knew it, but I tried. O my dear, if you had known my pains atmaking you suffer! It was hard. But I did it. When you came to thehouse--"

"Don't speak of that, " he muttered. "It was not Hermia that I saw. "

"Not _this_ Hermia. It was a girl that even _I_ did not know. I hadrehearsed that conversation and I carried it through to the end. "

"The end--of all things, it seemed. "

She drew more closely into the shelter of his arms and drew his lipsdown to hers. 

"Yes--but we shall make a new beginning----And then, " she went on, after a moment, "I saw Olga and cut her. I hadn't meant to--but Icouldn't help it. The sight of her turned me to ice. And Pierre deFolligny--" She stopped again, her brows tangling. "That man! Heremembered me. He presumed. He was odious. I had the butler show himthe door. I--I wasn't very wise, I think. But I couldn't, Philidor, --I simply _couldn't_ temporize with a man of his caliber. "

"D--n him!" said Markham. 

"He told--I think--of Olga did--"

"It was De Folligny, " he groaned. "But I couldn't do anything. Thatwould have made things worse. "

"Oh, yes--and then the play--that dreadful play! That was Olga'sdoing. I was _there_, Philidor, at Rood's Knoll. I saw it all. Listened in terror to every word of the dreadful sacrilege. It _was_sacrilege!--to see my love and yours pictured the dreadful thing thatthat love was. I got out somehow. They were talking of me--lightly. I heard them; as they talked of--of other women who do not know rightfrom wrong--as they would have talked of that dreadful Frenchwomanwho--who was killed. "

She was sobbing gently on his shoulder, her slender body quivering anddrawing closer. "Oh, I have paid--paid in full for my fault--"

He soothed her, but she started back, holding him at arm's length, hereyes the more lovely through their tears, "But I regret nothing. Iwould suffer more, if I might, to know what I know. I have learned themeaning of life, Philidor. I bless my pain for the new meaning it hasgiven my joy. I bless _your_ pain even, dear, for the new meaning ithas given your unselfishness. You thought only of me, of my happinesswhen I had paid you only misery. "

"There shall be no more pain, " he murmured. "There is no room for it. Joy shall crowd it out. "

"Will you forgive me?" she asked. 

"I'll try, " he smiled. "Will you promise never to run away from meagain?

"Where should I run?"

He meditated a moment and then said with a smile:

"To Trevelyan M--"

But she put her fingers over his lips before he could finish. 

"Don't Philidor. Wherever I went, I should not go to Trevvy. " Shelaughed. "He cast me off, you know. "

"Cast _you_ off?"

She nodded. "He heard that story at Rood's Knoll after I had gone. The next day he came to my house in town. I saw him. He wore awoe-begone expression and silently presented a clipping from a paper. "She laughed again. "He looked like a virtuous undertaker presenting abill, long overdue, for the interment of some lightly mourned relative. He asked me if the story were true. I said it was--and he went out ofthe house--casting not even one longing, lingering look behind!"

"But it _wasn't_ true. "

"That's just the point--but he thought so. Would _you_ have believedme that kind of a girl? You could have, you know, and didn't. " Shesighed happily, and sank back into his arms. "I think I don't wantpeople to be _too_ excellent, Philidor. Just human--"

"Were you"--he hesitated a moment--"were you engaged to him, Hermia?"

She gazed at him wide-eyed. 

"Never, " she asserted, and then repeated, "Never, never, never!"

"But the newspapers--"

"O Philidor! How could I have been engaged to Trevvy when I--I wasalready engaged to you?"

"Engaged. "

"Yes, promised. After the forest at SŽes I knew it then. I couldnever have loved anyone else. Why, Philidor, you held me like this, and kissed me--"

"You loved me then--and before--?"

She hesitated demurely. 

"Yes--before. "

"Before, Alenon?"

"Y--yes. "

"Before Verneuil?"

She smiled and nodded. 

"Here--at VallŽcy?"

"Before that. "

"You adorable child! Passy?"

"Yes?"

He was now really astounded. What she added astounded him still more. 

"I think it began before 'Wake Robin'?"

"Thimble Island?"

She stammered. "I--I think it really began in your studio. "

"In New York?"

"You interested me--and you snubbed me so completely. You were soimpolite, John Markham. I was curious about you. You were like no manI had ever met. You told me the truth. I didn't like it, but Irespected you for telling it. When I went away I remember wanting tosee you again. AT Thimble Island--"

"Yes?"

She hid her face in his breast and the words came slowly. 

"My visit to--to Thimble Island--I--I knew you were there. My m--motor_didn't_ miss fire, Philidor?"

He raised her head and made her look at him. Even in the wan light herface was rosy with her confession. But she laughed joyously. 

"I wanted to snub you for being so rude to me. Alas! I ended by--byscrubbing your floor. "

"Diana of the Tubs! How you scrubbed!"

"I liked it. You were very nice at Thimble Island, Philidor. " Shepaused a moment. "Then Olga came--and the others. She quite ownedyou, then, didn't she?"

"No, " he replied slowly. 

"I don't think I really liked Olga's face-powder on your coat, dear. "

He was silent. 

"I knew you didn't love her. You couldn't. She wasn't your sort. "

More silence. 

"You didn't care for her, did you?" jerkily. 

He looked down into her eyes tenderly but made no reply. She sighedbut asked no more questions. And, when he knew that she understood themeaning of his silence, he took her head between his hands and made herlook at him. 

"Isn't it enough for me to say to you that I love you better than allthe world, dear, that I am yours--wholly and indivisibly--my past, myfuture--"

"Oh, I am content, " she whispered quickly. "Your past--shall be whatyou have made it. I'm not afraid. But your future--"

She caught one of his hands in both of her own and held it to herheart. "That is mine. "

There was a silence rich with meaning. The stream, the whisperingboughs, the rising breeze in the tree-tops joined in the soft chorus oftheir nuptial-song. The night fell, shrouded in mystery. Behind themover their shoulders a new moon rose, a harbinger of good fortune, butthey did not turn to look at it. It could not foretell them a fortunethat was already theirs. Its light flowed through the shadows, palingthe silhouette of the leaves against the afterglow, bathing them bothin liquid silver. He told her many of the things that she alreadyknew, but each reiteration had a new meaning and a new delight. Thesame immortal questions and answers, ever new, ever mystifying. Thetouch of hands, of eyes, the physical contact, outward tokens of thespiritual pact made already, the welding of the bonds which were tomake them one! The moments of their more intimate confessions past, hetold her of the friendship of Mrs. Hammond and what she had done to setthe story right, but she did not seem to hear him. Her gaze was uponthe pale rim of light along the hill-top beyond, a gaze which lookedand saw nothing beyond the rosy aura of her thoughts. 

"What does it matter now?" she murmured. "What does anythingmatter--after this?"

"You will marry me--soon?" he urged her. 

She sighed softly and laid her hand in his. 

"Whenever you want me to, " she said, with eloquent simplicity. 

"To-morrow?"

She smiled mischievously. 

"I must, I think, Philidor. Would you have me compromised?"

He laughed happily. 

"Yes. Compromised by reverence, pilloried by tenderness--"

"Not reverence, Philidor. I'm only a little devil, after all. "

"Then devils are angels in Vagabondia. Your wings are white, Hermia. "

"They're trailing now--"

"Brave wings--fluttering--weary of flight. They shall fly no more--"

"Not alone--broader ones shall bear them company. "

A pause. 

"After to-morrow--shall we go?"

"Afoot, Philidor--as before. "

And then. "Poor Clarissa!"

He laughed. "You shall have her. "

She started up in delight. 

"You mean that you--?"

"Clarissa is languishing in a stable in Paris>"

She spoke of Cleofonte and the Signora. 

"We must find them, too, Philidor. And Stella--I promised her. Wemust do something for Stella. "

It was growing late. There was a sound in the thicket behind them. They started up and were confronted by the _ancien_, who hobbled towardthem, with his stick and lantern, like _Diogenes_ searching for anhonest man. 

"God be praised!" he croaked. "You are here. We feared you might havefallen among the rocks. "

"Among the roses, Pre GuŽgou. _Thy_ roses--" saidYvonne, her hand in Philidor's. 

The old man stared at them witlessly, then turned and lighted them upontheir way. 

The End