Madcap Part 20

"'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 in it. You see the Ancient Order of Vagabonds never used purses--unless they were other people's."

He stopped with a laugh and glanced down the road toward the scene of Hermia's accident. "All of which is interesting," he said with a practical air, "but doesn't exactly solve the problem of how we're to get 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 knapsack between them, while Hermia peered over his shoulder and followed his long forefinger.

"Evreux, Conches, Breteuil--we must be about here--yes--and there's your crooked railroad. It goes around to Evreux, where there's a through line to the coast. You might hire a horse and wagon--but even then 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 me whether 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 going at once."

He folded his map, put it in his pocket and rose, slinging his knapsack across his shoulder and offering her a hand to rise. But she didn't move or look at him. She had plucked a blade of gra.s.s and was nibbling 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 feel pretty sure that you'd understand what I mean I don't think I'd have the courage to speak to you. You once told me you liked me a great deal, Mr. Markham, and I--I know you meant it because you're not a man to 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 whose opinions were not tainted with self-interest. Can you wonder that I value 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 as you 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. When I 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 dollars and cents. I'm only twenty-three, John Markham, but I've bought from life already all it has to offer. Isn't there something else? Isn't there something that one can't buy?"

"Yes," he said. "Freedom."

"That's it," she cried. "Freedom--I'm a slave. I've always been-a slave to my lawyers and trustees, a tool in the hands of the people who fatten on me, the servants who rob me, the guests who flatter and use me, the people of society to invite me to their houses and take my character when my back is turned. I'm a slave, John Markham, a moral coward, 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 eyes were alight with comprehension. She thrust out her hands impulsively and caught his in her own.

"Take me with you, John Markham. I want to learn what makes you happy--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'd understand."

He tangled his brows in perplexity. "Yes--I'm flattered--but have you thought? 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 him with an impulsive gesture.

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

"No," he muttered. "I won't tell you that. But have you thought of the 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 a moment had troubled him went flying to the winds in the treetops. For all her experience with the world she was a child--with a trust in him or 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, John Markham, you're a jewel of a man."

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII

THE FAIRY G.o.dMOTHER

He threw the knapsack over his shoulder and picked up Hermia's leather bag which had been saved from the wreck of the machine, but she quickly took 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, looking down the hill toward the gate-keeper's cottage around which a small crowd still hovered. "But there's something to do before we go."