Madcap Part 22

Taking the hint Markham finished his gla.s.s and leaving his knapsack on the bench went out into the high road in the direction indicated. He walked slowly, his head bent deep in thought, realizing for the first time the exact nature of the extraordinary compact which he had made with the little nonconformist who had chosen him for a traveling companion. The more he thought of the situation the more apparent became the gravity of his responsibility. Why had he yielded to her reckless whim? Only this morning he had been thanking his lucky stars that he was well rid of women of the world for a month at least. And now--Shades of Pluto! He had one hanging around his nick more securely than any millstone. And this one--Hermia Challoner, an enthusiast without a mission--a feminine abnormity, half child, half oracle, wholly irresponsible and yet, by the same token, wholly and delightfully human!

But in spite of the charm of her amiability and enthusiasm he felt it his duty to think of her at this moment as the daughter of Peter Challoner, the arrogant, hard-fisted harvester of millions--to think of her as he had thought of her when she had left his studio in New York with Olga Tcherny, as the spoiled and rather impertinent example of the evils of careless bringing up, but try as he might he only succeeded in visualizing the tired and rather unhappy little girl who wanted to learn "how to live." Whether that confession were genuine or not it made an appealing picture--one which he could not immediately forget. Markham had lived in the thick of life for a good many years as a man must who wins his way in Paris, but his view of women was elemental, like that of the child who chooses for itself at an early age between the only alternatives it knows, "good" and "bad."

To Markham women were good or they were bad and there weren't any women to speak of between these two cla.s.sifications. He had seen Hermia first as the prot?g?e and boon companion of the Countess Tcherny, had afterward met her as the intimate of such men as Crosby Downs and Carol Gouverneur, and of such women as Mrs. Renshaw, and yet it had never occurred to him to think of Hermia as anything but the spoiled child of Peter Challoner's too eloquent millions, the rebellious victim of environment which meant the end of idealism, the beginning of oblivion.

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

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

A motor approached and stopped beside him, the man at the wheel asking in French _? l'Am?ricain_ the way to Evreux. He directed them and then, finding that he had emerged upon the other side of the town, returned in search of the Inn, his stride somewhat more rapid than before. Of one thing he was now certain. They must get away from the main road without any further delay.

He found Monsieur Duchanel smoking a pipe upon his door-sill. It was no wonder that he had pa.s.sed the hostelry by; for saving a small sign obscured by the shadows of the trees, the house, an ancient affair of timber and plaster, differed little from the others which faced the street.

Monsieur Duchanel was a short, round-bellied, dust-colored man, with gray hair and a tuft upon his chin. He was the same color as his house and his sign and gave Markham the impression of having sat upon this same door-sill since the years of a remote antiquity. But he got up blithely enough when the painter announced the object of his visit and showed him, with an air of great pride, through the sleeping apartments which at the present moment were all without occupants.

One room with a four-poster, which the host announced had once been occupied by no less a personage than Henri Quatre, Markham picked out for Hermia, and chose for himself a small room overlooking the courtyard at the rear. He ordered dinner, a good dinner, with soup, an entr?e and a roast to be served in a private room. The American motorist had warned him. But Vagabondia should not begin until to-morrow.

These arrangements made, he returned to the cabaret under the trees.

Hermia had disappeared, so he sat at the table, poured out another gla.s.s of cider, filled his pipe and waited.

The political argument of his neighbors drew to an end with the end of their beer and they pa.s.sed him on their way to the gate, each with a friendly glance and a "_Bon soir, Monsieur_"--which Markham returned in kind. After that it was very quiet and restful under the trees.

Markham was not a man to borrow trouble and preferred to reach his bridges before he crossed them, and so whatever the elements Hermia was to inject into the even tenor of his holiday, Markham awaited them tranquilly, though not without a certain mild curiosity as to what was to happen next.

But he was not destined to remain long in doubt; for in a few minutes he hears Hermia's light laugh in the door of the wine-shop, followed by the beating of a drum, the ringing of bells, the crashing of cymbals, the notes of some other instrument sounding discordantly between whiles. And as he started to his feet, wondering what it could be all about, a blonde head stuck out past the edge of the door and peered around at the deserted cabaret. He had hardly succeeded in identifying the head as Hermia's because it wore a scarlet cap embroidered with small bells which explained the bedlam of tinkling.

When the rest of her body emerged upon the scene Markham noted that Hermia's transformation was in other respects complete; for she wore a zouave jacket of red, a white blouse and a blue skirt. Upon her back was a round object which upon close inspection turned out to be a drum, the sticks of which were fastened to her elbows, and attached to her neck was a harmonica, so placed that she had only to bend her head forward to reach it with her lips. In her right hand was a mandolin which she waved at him triumphantly as she reached him with a grand crash, 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 an unintentional 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 fairy G.o.dmother who has transformed her. She has now become a _Femme Orchestre_ and for two sous will discourse sweet music to the rustic ear--mandolin and mouth organ, bells, cymbals and drum--"

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

"Oh, I don't do it very well yet. It's the first time--but you shall see--"

"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 of suspicious eye and protesting ears.

"She's very gentle," sighed the fairy G.o.dmother. "It hurts the heart to sell her. But as Monsieur knows--the times are not what they used to 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 some time later that Hermia, having divested herself of the orchestral adjuncts of her costume, confided to Markham the stroke of good fortune which had put her into possession of this providential accoutrement. She had confessed her predicament to Madame Bordier, who, after a.s.suring herself that Hermia was not an escaping criminal, had entered with grace and even some avidity upon the bargain. Hermia wanted a blouse, skirt and hat somewhat worn. But in the act of searching in the garret of the wine-shop among the effects of a departed relative the great discovery had been made. As Madame Bordier went deeper and deeper into the recesses of the _malle_ there was a tinkling sound and she emerged with the cap that Hermia wore and looked at it with sighs followed by tears. At the appearance of each article of apparel, Madame wept anew, and Hermia listened calmly while the "great idea" was slowing being born. It was the daughter of Madame Bordier's late sister--_Pauvre fille_--who had worn the costume. She was a _Femme Orchestre_ of such skill that her name was known from one end of the Eure to another. She made money, too, _bien s?r_, but _h?las!_ she married a _vaurien_ acrobat who had taken her off to America, where she had died last year. Those clothes--_bon Dieu!_--they recalled the days of happiness; but if Mademoiselle desired them, she, Madame Bordier, could not stand in the way. Times were hard, as Mademoiselle knew, and if she would give two hundred francs--

"Two hundred francs!" put in Markham at this point.

"I paid it," said Hermia, firmly, "and two hundred more for the donkey. It was all I had. And now, as you see, I must work for my living."

Markham laughed. His responsibilities, it seemed, were increasing with the minutes.

They dined alone at the _H?tel des Rois_, Monsieur Duchanel himself doing them the honor of serving the repast, which Hermia soon discovered had none of the characteristics of the vagabond fare promised her--a velvety soup--_pet.i.ts pois ? la crme_, an _entr?e_, then _poulet r?ti, salade endive_, cheese and coffee--a meal for the G.o.ds, which these mortals partook of with unusual enjoyment. The coffee served, their host departed with one last inquiry for their comfort, which more even than the cooking and service betrayed his appreciation of their proper condition.

"Such a dinner!" said Hermia contemptuously when he went out. "I'm so disappointed. Where are your crust and sour wine, John Markham? I'm losing faith in your sincerity. I 'ask for bread' and you give me _poulet Duchanel_. I want to be bourgeois and everyone treats me like--like a rich American. Shall I never escape?" she sighed.

"To-morrow--" said Markham through a cloud of smoke. "To-morrow you shall 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 the table. "That's all I have, do you see? Fifty francs--twenty of it at least must go for this dinner--I can observe it in the eye of Monsieur Duchanel--ten more for your chamber Henri Quatre--five for mine--leaving us in all fifteen francs to begin life on. You will not feel like a rich American to-morrow--unless you care to send to your bankers--"

"Sh--!" she whispered theatrically. "There is no such thing as a banker 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 begotten of a _poulet Duchanel_ might easily account for such optimism. Indeed to-night Markham himself was disposed to see all things the color of roses. The small voice of his conscience still protested faintly at the unconventional character of their fellowship and reminded him that, whatever her indifference to consequences, his obligation to protect her from her own imprudences became the more urgent. But there was a charm in the situation which quite surpa.s.sed anything in his experience. She was a child to-night--nothing more--and the zouave jacket and short skirt quite obliterated the memory of that young lady of fashion who had presided a short time ago at the head of the long dinner-table at "Wake Robin." If there was any doubt in her mind as to the propriety of what she had done--of what she planned to do, or any doubt as to his own share in the arrangement, her gay mood gave no sign of it, and the frankness of her friendship for him left nothing to be desired. What did it matter, after all, so long as they were 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 and Trouville, 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 thoughts flying, curiously enough, to Olga Tcherny, "people who wouldn't understand," he finished. She laughed.