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 'You must flirt, Mr. Markham and make pretty speeches'" 
 
 [PAGE 67]
 
 MADCAP 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE GIBBS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 THE FORBIDDEN WAY, ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 PUBLISHERS'
 
 COPYBIGHT, 1913, BY 
 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1913, by the ASSOCIATED SUMDAY MAGAZINES, INCORPORATED 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 TO 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 HORACE HOWARD FURNESS 
 
 2135750
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. HEEMIA . . . . . . 1 
 
 II. THE GORILLA 10 
 
 III. THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT . . . . . . ~.7 19 
 
 IV. MAROONED .'"."" 30 
 
 V. BREAD AND SALT 39 
 
 VI. THE RESCUE 47 
 
 VII. "WAKE ROBIN" . . 57 
 
 VIII. OLGA TCHERNY ~T 69 
 
 IX. OUT OF His DEPTH 80 
 
 X. THE FUGITIVE 92 
 
 XI. THE GATES OF CHANCE 101 
 
 XII. THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 113 
 
 XIII. VAGABONDIA 128 
 
 XIV. THE FABIANI FAMILY 140 
 
 XV. DANGER 153 
 
 XVI. MANET CICATRIX 165 
 
 XVII. PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 172 
 
 XVIII. A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 184 
 
 XIX. MOUNTEBANKS 196 
 
 XX. THE EMPTY HOUSE 211 
 
 XXI. NEMESIS 226 
 
 XXII. GREAT PAN is DEAD 239
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTEB , 
 
 XXIII. A LADY IN THE DUSK 252 
 
 XXIV. THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 266 
 
 XXV. ClRCE AND THE FOSSIL 280 
 
 XXVI. MRS. BERKELEY HAMMOND ENTERTAINS . . . 293 
 
 XXVII. THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 305 
 
 XXVIII. THE BRASS-BELL 320 
 
 XXIX. Duo 330
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "'You must flirt, Mr. Markham and make pretty 
 speeches '" Frontispiece 
 
 "Markham stood up and watched her, his arms 
 
 a-kimbo, a tangle at his brow " 32 
 
 "Even Clarissa stopped her grazing long enough to 
 
 lookup" 136 
 
 "Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which 
 
 had slowly wedged through the crowd " . . . . 204
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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, she 
 was sure that Miss Challoner had arisen and departed for 
 a morning ride before the breaking of the dawn. She 
 peered out of the window and contracted her shoulders 
 expressively. To ride in the cold morning air upon a 
 violent horse when she had been out late ! B r ! But 
 then, Mademoiselle was a wonderful person like no one 
 since the beginning of the world. She made her own laws 
 and Titine was reluctantly obliged to confess that she her- 
 self was delighted to obey them. 
 
 Another slight shrug of incomprehension of abso- 
 lution from such practices and Titine moved to the linen 
 cabinet and took out some fluffy things of lace and ribbon, 
 then to a closet from which she brought a soft room-gown, 
 a pair of silk stockings and some very small suede 
 slippers. 
 
 She had hardly completed these preparations when 
 there was the sound of a door hurriedly closed downstairs, 
 a series of joyous yelps from a dog, a rush of feet on the 
 stairs and the door of the room gave way before the 
 
 1
 
 MADCAP 
 
 precipitate entrance of a slight, almost boyish, female 
 person, with blue eyes, the rosiest of cheeks and a mass 
 of yellow hair, most of which had burst from its confines 
 beneath her hat. 
 
 To the quiet Titine her mistress created an impression 
 of bringing not only herself into the room, but also the 
 violent horse and the whole of the out-of-doors besides. 
 
 "Down, Domino! Down, I say!" to the clamorous 
 puppy. "Now out with you!" And as he refused to 
 obey she waved her crop threateningly and at a propitious 
 moment banged the door upon his impertinent snub-nose. 
 
 "Quick, Titine, my bath and why, what are you look- 
 ing 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 was smashed in at one side and several 
 dark stains disfigured her cheek and temple. 
 
 "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 got on without help, too. Lordy, but 
 I did take it out of him ! Oh, didn't I !" 
 
 Her eye lighted gayly as though in challenge at noth- 
 ing at all as she removed her gloves and tossed her hat and 
 crop on the bed and sprawled into a chair with a sigh, 
 while Titine removed her boots and made tremulous and 
 reproachful inquiries. 
 
 "Mademoiselle will will kill herself, I am sure." 
 
 Hermia Challoner laughed.
 
 HERMIA 
 
 "Better die living than be living dead. Besides, no 
 one ever dies who doesn't care whether he dies or not. I 
 shall die comfortably in 'bed at the age of eighty- three, 
 I'm sure of it. Now, my bath. Vite, Titinel I have a 
 hunger like that which never was before." 
 
 Miss Challoner undressed and entered her bathroom, 
 where she splashed industriously for some minutes, emerg- 
 ing at last radiant and glowing with health and a delight 
 in the mere joy of existence. While Titine brushed her 
 hair, the girl sat before her dressing-table putting lotion 
 on her injured cheeks and temple. Her hair arranged, she 
 sent the maid for her breakfast tray while she finished her 
 toilet in leisurely fashion and went into her morning 
 room. The suede slippers contributed their three inches 
 to her stature, the long lines of the flowing robe added 
 their dignity, and the strands of her hair, each woven 
 carefully into its appointed place, completed the trans- 
 formation from the touseled, hoydenish boy-girl of half 
 an hour before into the luxurious and somewhat bored 
 young lady of fashion. 
 
 But she sank into the chair before her breakfast tray 
 and ate with an appetite which took something from this 
 illusion, while Titine brought her letters and a long box 
 of flowers which were unwrapped and placed in a floor- 
 vase of silver and glass in an embrasure of the window. 
 The envelope which accompanied the flowers Titine 
 handed to her mistress, who opened it carelessly between 
 mouthfuls and finally added it to the accumulated litter of 
 fashionable stationery. Hermia eyed her Dresden choco- 
 late-pot uncheerfully. This breakfast gift had reached 
 her with an ominous regularity on Mondays and Thurs- 
 days for a month, and the time had come when something 
 must be done about it. But she did not permit unpleasant 
 
 3
 
 MADCAP 
 
 thoughts, if unpleasant they really were, to distract her 
 from the casual delights of retrospection and the pleas- 
 ures of her repast, which she finished with a thoroughness 
 that spoke more eloquently of the wholesomeness of her 
 appetite even than the real excellence of the cooking. 
 Upon Titine, who brought her the cigarettes and a brazier, 
 she created the impression as she always did indoors 
 of a child, greatly overgrown, parading herself with mock- 
 ing ostentation in the garments of maturity. The cigar- 
 ette, too, was a part of this parade, and she smoked it 
 daintily, though without apparent enjoyment. 
 
 Her mail finished, she was ready to receive feminine 
 visitors. She seldom lacked company, for it is not the 
 fate of a girl of Hermia Challoner's condition to be left 
 long to her own devices. Her father's death, some years 
 before, had fallen heavily upon her, but youth and health 
 had borne her above even that sad event triumphant, and 
 now at three and twenty, with a fortune which loomed 
 large even in a day of large fortunes, she lived alone with 
 a legion of servants in the great house, with no earthly 
 ties but an ineffectual aunt and a Trust Company. 
 
 But she did not suffer for lack of advice as to the con- 
 duct of her life or of her affairs, and she always took it 
 with the sad devotional air which its givers had learned 
 meant that in the end she would do exactly as she chose. 
 And so the Aunt and the Trust Company, like the scan- 
 dalized Titine, ended inevitably in silent acquiescence. 
 
 Of her acquaintances much might be said, both good 
 and bad. They represented almost every phase of so- 
 ciety from the objects of her charities (which were many 
 and often unreasoning) to the daughters of her father's 
 friends who belonged in her own sphere of existence. And 
 if one's character may be judged by that of one's friends, 
 
 4
 
 Hermia was of infinite variety. Perhaps the sportive were 
 most often in her company, and it was against these that 
 Mrs. Westfield ineffectually railed, but there was a warmth 
 in her affection for Gertrude Brotherton, who liked quiet 
 people as a rule (and made Hermia the exception to prove 
 it), and an intellectual flavor in her attachment for An- 
 gela Reeves, who was interested in social problems, which 
 more than compensated for Miss Challoner's intimacy with 
 those of a gayer sort. 
 
 Her notes written, she dressed for the morning, then 
 lay back in her chair with a sharp little sigh and pen- 
 sively touched the scratches on her face, her expression 
 falling suddenly into lines of discontent. It was a kind 
 of reaction which frequently followed moments of intense 
 activity and, realizing its significance, she yielded to it 
 sulkily, her gaze on the face of the clock which was tick- 
 ing off purposeless minutes with maddening precision. 
 She glanced over her shoulder in relief as her maid ap- 
 peared in the doorway. 
 
 "Will Mademoiselle see the Countess Tcherny and 
 Mees Ashhurst?" Titine was a great believer in social dis- 
 tinctions. 
 
 "Olga ! Yes, I was expecting her. Tell them to come 
 right up." 
 
 The new arrivals entered the room gayly with the 
 breezy assertiveness of 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 
 of familiarity with many tongues and rebuked the nasal 
 greeting of her more florid companion. Hermia met them 
 with a sigh. Only yesterday Mrs. Westfield had protested 
 again about Hennia's growing intimacy with the Countess, 
 
 5
 
 MADCAP 
 
 who had quite innocently taken unto herself all of the 
 fashionable vices of polite Europe. 
 
 Hilda Ashhurst watched Hermia's expression a mo- 
 ment and then laughed. 
 
 "Been catching it haven't you? PoorHermia! It's 
 dreadful to be the one chick in a family of ugly duck- 
 lings " 
 
 "Or the ugly duckling in a family of virtuous chicks 
 
 
 
 "Not ugly, cherle" laughed the Countess. "One is 
 never ugly with a million francs a year. Such a fortune 
 would beautify a satyr. It even makes your own pretti- 
 ness unimportant." 
 
 "It is unimportant " 
 
 "Partly because you make it so. You don't care. You 
 don't think about it, voila 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 herself beautiful, a beautiful woman 
 Dieul There is nothing in the world that a clever, beauti- 
 ful woman cannot be." 
 
 "I'm not clever or " 
 
 "I shall not flatter you, cara mia. You are er 
 quite handsome enough. If you cared for the artistic you 
 could go through a salon like the Piper of Hamelin with 
 a queue of gentlemen reaching back into the corridors of 
 infinity. Instead of which you wear mannish clothes, do 
 your hair in a Bath-bun, and permit men the privilege of 
 equality. Oh, la, la! A man is no longer useful when 
 one ceases to mystify him." 
 
 She strolled to the window, sniffed at Trewy More- 
 house's roses, helped herself to a cigarette and sat 
 down. 
 
 6
 
 HERMIA 
 
 Hermia was not inartistic and she resented the impu- 
 tation. It was only that her art and Olga's differed by 
 the breadth of an ocean. 
 
 "For me, when a man becomes mystified he ceases to 
 be useful," laughed Hermia. 
 
 "Pouf! my dear," said the Countess with a wave of 
 her cigarette. "I simply do not believe you. A man is 
 never so useful as when he moves in the dark. Women 
 were born to mystify. Some of us do it one way some 
 in another. If you wear mannish clothes and a Bath-bun, 
 it is because they become you extraordinarily well and be- 
 cause they form a disguise more complete and mystifying 
 than anything else you could assume." 
 
 "A disguise!" 
 
 "Exactly. You wish to create the impression that you 
 are indifferent to men that men, by the same token, are 
 indifferent to you." The Countess Olga smiled. "Your 
 disguise is complete, mon enfant except for one thing 
 your femininity which refuses to be extinguished. You 
 do not hate men. If you did you would not go to so 
 much trouble to look like them. One day you will love 
 
 very badly very madly. And then " the Countess 
 
 paused and raised her eyebrows and her hands express- 
 ively. "You're like me. It's simple enough," she con- 
 tinued. "You have everything you want, including 
 men who amuse but do not inspire. Obviously, you 
 will only be satisfied with 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. 
 
 7
 
 MADCAP 
 
 " 'Aimer pour etre aime, c'est de Vhomme, 
 Aimer pour aimer, c'est presque de range.' ' 
 
 "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 af- 
 fections away upon that owl-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. He has the mind of a philosopher, the 
 soul of a child, the heart of a woman " 
 
 " the manners of a boor and the impudence of the 
 
 devil," added Hilda spitefully. 
 
 Hermia laughed but the Countess Olga's narrowed 
 eyes passed Hilda scornfully. 
 
 "Any one can have good manners. They're the hall- 
 mark of mediocrity. And as for impudence that is the 
 one sin a man may commit which a woman forgives." 
 
 "7 can't," said Hilda. 
 
 The Countess Olga's right shoulder moved towarcl her 
 ear the fraction of an 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 ador- 
 able philosopher, with the impudence of the devil, and 
 the blue chin of a gorilla ! When did you meet this logi- 
 cal the zoological paradox?" 
 
 "Oh, in Paris. I knew him only slightly, but he moved 
 
 8
 
 HERMIA 
 
 in a set whose edges touched mine the talented people of 
 mine. He had already made his way. He has been back 
 in America only a year. We met early in the winter quite 
 by chance. You know the rest. He has painted my por- 
 trait a really great portrait. You shall see." 
 
 "Oh, it was this morning we were going, wasn't it? 
 I'll be ready in a moment, dear." 
 
 "But Hilda shall be left in the shopping district," fin- 
 ished Olga. 
 
 "By all means," said Miss Ashhurst scornfully.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE GORILLA 
 
 OF all her friends Olga Tcherny was the one who 
 amused and entertained Hermia the most. She 
 was older than Hermia, much more experienced 
 and to tell the truth quite as mad in her own way as 
 Hermia was. There were times when even Hermia could 
 not entirely approve of her, but she forgave her much 
 because she was herself and because, no matter what de- 
 pended upon it, she could not be different if she tried. 
 Olga Egerton had been born in Russia, where her father 
 had been called as consulting engineer of the railway de- 
 partment of the Russian Government. Though American 
 born, the girl had been educated according to the Euro- 
 pean fashion and at twenty had married and lost the 
 young nobleman whose name she bore, and had buried 
 him in his family crypt in Moscow with the simple forti- 
 tude of one who is well out of a bad bargain. But she 
 had paid her toll to disillusion and the age of thirty 
 found her a little more careless, a little more worldly- 
 wise than was necessary, even in a cosmopolitan. Her 
 comments spared neither friend nor foe and Hilda Ash- 
 hurst, whose mind grasped only the obvious facts of ex- 
 istence, came in for more than a share of the lady's 
 invective. 
 
 Indeed, Markham, the painter, seemed this morning 
 to be the only luminous spot on the Countess Olga's social 
 
 10
 
 THE GORILLA 
 
 horizon and by the time the car had reached lower Fifth 
 Avenue she had related most of the known facts of his 
 character and career including his struggle for recogni- 
 tion in Europe, his revolutionary attitude toward the Art 
 of the Academies as well as toward modern society, and 
 the consequent and self-sought isolation which deprived 
 him of the intercourse of his fellows and seriously retarded 
 his progress toward a success that his professional talents 
 undoubtedly merited. 
 
 Hermia listened with an abstracted air. Artists she 
 remembered were a race of beings quite apart from the 
 rest of humanity and with the exception of a few money- 
 seeking foreigners, one of whom had painted her portrait, 
 and Teddy Vincent, a New Yorker socially prominent 
 (who was unspeakable), her acquaintance with the cult 
 had been limited and unfavorable. When, therefore, her 
 car drew alongside the curb of the old-fashioned building 
 to which Olga directed the chauffeur, Hermia was already 
 prepared to dislike Mr. Markham cordially. She had not 
 always cared for Olga's friends. 
 
 There was no elevator in the building before which 
 they stopped, and the two women mounted the stairs, 
 avoiding both the wall and the dusty baluster, contact 
 with either of which promised to defile their white gloves, 
 reaching, somewhat out of breath, a door with a Floren- 
 tine knocker bearing the name "Markham." 
 
 Olga knocked. There was no response. She knocked 
 again while Hermia waited, a question on her lips. There 
 was a sound of heavy footsteps and the door was flung 
 open wide and a big man with rumpled hair, a well-smeared 
 painting-smock and wearing a huge pair of tortoise-shell 
 goggles peered out into the dark hall-way, blurting out 
 impatiently, 
 
 11
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "I'm very busy. I don't need any models. Come an- 
 other day " 
 
 He was actually on the point of banging the door in 
 their faces when the Countess interposed. 
 
 "Such hospitality!" 
 
 At the sound of her voice Markham paused, the huge 
 palette and brushes suspended 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 I suppose 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 in a pleasanter mood." 
 
 He showed his white teeth as he laughed. 
 
 "Oh, Lord ! Pleasant !" And then as an afterthought, 
 very frankly, "I don't suppose I am very pleasant !" He 
 stood aside bowing as Hermia emerged from the shadows 
 and Olga Tcherny presented him. It was a stiff bow, 
 rather awkward and impatient and revealed quite plainly 
 his disappointment at her presence, but Hermia followed 
 Olga into the room with a slight inclination of her head, 
 conscious that in the moment that his eyes passed over 
 [her they made a brief note which classified her among 
 the unnecessary nuisances to which busy geniuses must 
 be subjected. 
 
 Olga Tcherny, who had now taken full possession of 
 the studio, fell into its easiest chair and looked up at the 
 painter with her caressing smile. 
 
 "You've been working. You've got the fog of it on 
 you. Are we de trop?" 
 
 "Er no. It's in rather a mess here, that's all. I 
 was working, but I'm quite willing to stop." 
 
 "I'm afraid you've no further wish for me now that 
 
 12
 
 THE GORILLA 
 
 I'm no longer useful," she sighed. "You're not going to 
 discard me so easily. Besides, we're not going to stay 
 long only a minute. I was hoping Miss 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 portrait isn't finished. It's dried in, too but " 
 
 He laid his palette slowly down and wiped his brushes 
 carefully on a piece of cheese-cloth, put a canvas in a 
 frame upon the easel and shoved it forward into a better 
 light. 
 
 Hermia followed his movements curiously, sure that 
 he was the most inhospitable human being upon whom 
 two pretty women had ever condescended to call, and 
 stood uncomfortably, realizing that he had not even of- 
 fered her a chair. But when the portrait was turned 
 toward the 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 her pound of flesh and 
 called it pleasure. The Olga Tcherny which looked at 
 Hermia from the canvas was the one that Hermia had 
 glimpsed in the brief moments between bitterness and 
 frivolity, a woman with a soul which 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 the capacity for analysis which had made 
 the painter's delineation of character so remarkable, and 
 his brush so unerring. She stole another a more curious 
 glance at him. The hideous goggles and the rumpled 
 
 13
 
 MADCAP 
 
 hair could not disguise the strong lines of his face which 
 she saw in profile the heavy brows, the straight nose, the 
 thin, rather sensitive lips and the strong, cleanly cut chin. 
 Properly dressed and valeted this queer creature might 
 have been made presentable. But his manners ! No valet- 
 ing or grooming could ever make such a man a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 If he was aware of her scrutiny he gave no sign of it 
 and leaned forward intently, his gaze on the portrait < 
 alone, to all appearances, with the fires of his genius. 
 Hermia's eyes followed his, the superficial and rather 
 frivolous comment which had been on her lips stilled for 
 the moment by the dignity of his mental attitude, into 
 which it seemed Olga Tcherny had also unconsciously 
 fallen. But the silence irritated Hermia the wrapt, 
 absorbed attitudes of the man and the woman and the air 
 of sacro-sanctity which pervaded the place. It was like 
 a ceremonial in which this queer animal was being deified. 
 She, at least, wouldn't deify him. 
 
 "It's like you Olga, of course," she said flippantly, 
 "but it's not at all pretty." 
 
 The words fell sharply and Markham and the Countess 
 turned toward the Philistine who stood with her head 
 cocked on one side, her arms a-kimbo. Markham's eyes 
 peered forward somberly for a moment and he spoke with 
 slow gravity. 
 
 "I don't paint 'pretty' portraits," he said. 
 
 "Mr. Markham means, Hermia, that he doesn't be- 
 lieve in artistic lies," said Olga smoothly. 
 
 "And I contend," Hermia went on undaunted, "that 
 it's an artistic lie not to paint you as pretty as you are." 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Markham doesn't think me as pretty 
 as you do "
 
 THE GORILL'A 
 
 Markham bowed his head as though to absolve him- 
 self from the guilt suggested. 
 
 "I try not to think in terms of prettiness," he ex- 
 plained slowly. "Had you been merely pretty I don't 
 think I should have attempted " 
 
 "But isn't the mission of Art to beautify to 
 adorn ?" broke in Hermia, mercilessly bromidic. 
 
 Markham turned and looked at her as though he had 
 suddenly discovered the presence of an insect which 
 needed extermination. 
 
 "My dear young lady, the mission of Art is to tell the 
 truth," he growled. "When I find it impossible to do 
 that, I shall take up another trade." 
 
 "Oh," said Hermia, enjoying herself immensely. "I 
 didn't mean to discourage you." 
 
 "I don't really think that you have," put in Mark- 
 ham. 
 
 Olga Tcherny laughed from her chair in a bored 
 amusement. 
 
 "Hermia, dear," she said dryly, "I hardly brought you 
 here to deflect the orbit of genius. Poor Mr. Markham! 
 I shudder to think of his disastrous career if it depended 
 upon your approval." 
 
 Hermia opened her mouth to speak, paused and then 
 glanced at Markham. His thoughts were turned inward 
 again and excluded her completely. Indeed it was diffi- 
 cult to believe that he remembered what she had been 
 talking about. In addition to being unpardonably rude, 
 he now simply ignored her. His manner enraged her. 
 
 "Perhaps my opinion doesn't matter to Mr. Mark- 
 ham," she probed with icy distinctness. "Nevertheless, 
 I represent the public which judges pictures and buys 
 them. Which orders portraits and pays for them. It's 
 
 15
 
 MADCAP 
 
 my opinion that counts my money upon which the fash- 
 ionable portrait painter must depend for his success. He 
 must please me or people like me and the way to please 
 most easily is to paint me as I ought to be rather than as 
 I am." 
 
 Markham slowly turned so that he faced her and 
 eyed her with a puzzled expression as he caught the 
 meaning of her remarks, more personal and arrogant 
 than his brief acquaintance with her seemed in any way 
 to warrant. 
 
 "I'm not a fashionable portrait painter, thank God," 
 he said with some warmth. "Fortunately I'm not obliged 
 to depend upon the whims or upon the money of the 
 people whose judgment you consider so important to an 
 artistic success. I have no interest in the people who 
 compose fashionable society, nor in their money nor their 
 aims, ideals or the lack 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 
 York society 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 but- 
 terfly on the wheel?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and turned aside. 
 
 "Not if it jars upon your sensibilities. I have no 
 quarrel with your society. One only quarrels with an 
 enemy or with a friend. To me society is neither." He 
 smiled at Hermia amusedly. "Society may have its opin- 
 
 16
 
 THE GORILLA 
 
 ion of my utility and may express it freely unchal- 
 lenged." 
 
 "I don't challenge your utility," replied Hermia 
 tartly. "I merely question 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 sometimes the color one does not wish. Very pale 
 at times, gray, yellow and at times red oh, so red! The 
 soul is the chameleon which absorbs and reflects it. To- 
 day," she sighed, "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 already depressed me to the point of dissolution. 
 I've no patience with you with either of you. You've 
 spoiled my morning, and I'll not stay here another min- 
 ute." She reached for her trinkets on the table and rat- 
 tled them viciously. "It's too bad. With the best in- 
 tentions in the world I bring two of my friends together 
 and they fall instantly into verbal fisticuffs. Hermia, you 
 deserve no better fate than to be locked in here with this 
 bear of a man until you both learn civility." 
 
 But Hermia had already preceded the Countess to 
 the door, whither Markham 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, I don't mind your being bearish with 
 me. In fact, I've taken it as the greatest of compliments. 
 I thought that humor of yours was my special prerogative 
 of friendship. But now alas ! When I see how uncivil 
 
 17
 
 MADCAP 
 
 you can be to others I have a sense of lost caste. And 
 you instead of being amusingly whimsical and entete 
 are in danger of becoming merely bourgeois. I warn 
 you now that if you plan to be uncivil 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 my displeasure. 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 hallway into which Miss Challoner had van- 
 ished and then turned back and took up his palette and 
 brushes.
 
 CHAPTER IH 
 
 THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT 
 
 THE two women had hardly reached the limousine 
 before the vials of Hermia's wrath were opened. 
 "What a dreadful person! Olga, how could 
 you have stood him all the while he painted you?" 
 
 "We made out very nicely, thank you." 
 
 "Hilda was right. He is a gorilla. Do you know 
 he never even offered me a chair?" 
 
 "I suppose he thought you'd have sense enough to sit 
 down if you wanted to." 
 
 "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 every one?" 
 
 "No. That's just the point. He isn't. I think, 
 Hermia, dear," and she laughed, "that he didn't like 
 you." 
 
 "Me! Why not?" 
 
 "He doesn't like Bath-buns. He once told me so. Be- 
 sides, I don't think 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't typify anything." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do, to a man like Markham. From the 
 eyrie where his soul is wont to sit, John Markham has a 
 fine perspective on life yours and mine. But I imagine 
 
 19
 
 that you make the more conspicuous silhouette. To him 
 you represent 'the New York Idea' only more so. Be- 
 sides that you're a vellum edition of the Feminist Move- 
 ment with suffrage expurgated. In other words, darling, 
 to a lonely and somewhat morbid philosopher like Mark- 
 ham you're a horrible example of what may become of a 
 female person of liberal views who has had the world 
 suddenly laid in her lap ; the spoiled child launched into 
 the full possession of a fabulous 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 too cheerfully. I think I'll leave you now, if you'll 
 drop me at the Blouse 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 women and the Countess departed, while 
 Hermia quizzically watched her graceful back until it had 
 disappeared in the shadows of the store. The current 
 that usually flowed between them was absent now, so 
 Hermia let her go ; for Olga Tcherny, when in this mood, 
 wore an armor which Hermia, clever as she thought her- 
 self, had never been able to penetrate. 
 
 Hermia continued on her way uptown, aware that the 
 change in the Countess Olga was due to intangible in- 
 fluences which she could not define but which she was sure 
 had something to do with the odious person whose studio 
 she had visited. Could it be that Olga really cared for 
 this queer Markham of the goggled eyes, this absent- 
 minded, self-centered creature, who rumpled his hair 3 
 
 20
 
 THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT 
 
 smoked a pipe and growled his cheap philosophy? A 
 pose, of course, aimed this morning at Hcrmia. He flat- 
 tered her. She felt obliged for the line of demarcation 
 he had so carefully drawn between his life and hers. As 
 if she needed the challenge of his impudence to become 
 aware of it! And yet in her heart she found herself de- 
 nying that his impudence had irritated her less than his 
 indifference. To tell the truth, Hermia did not like being 
 ignored. It was the first time in fact, that any man had 
 ignored her, and she did not enjoy the sensation. She 
 shrugged her shoulders carelessly and glanced out of the 
 window of her car and to be ignored by such a person 
 as this grubby painter it was maddening! She thought 
 of him as "grubby," whatever that meant, because she 
 did not like him, but it was even more maddening for her 
 to think of Olga Tcherny's portrait, which, in spite of her 
 flippant remarks, she had been forced to admit revealed 
 a knowledge of feminine psychology that had excited her 
 amazement and admiration. 
 
 One deduction led to another. She found herself won- 
 dering what kind of a portrait this Markham would make 
 of her, whether he would see, as he had seen in Olga the 
 things that lay below the surface the dreams that came, 
 the aspirations, half-formed, toward something different, 
 the moments of revulsion at the emptiness of her life, 
 which, in spite of the material benefits it possessed, was, 
 after all, only material. Would he paint those the 
 shadows as well as the lights? Or would he see her as 
 Marsac, the Frenchman, had seen her, the pretty, irre- 
 sponsible child of fortune who lived only for others who 
 were as gay as herself with no more serious purpose in 
 life than to become, as Olga had said, "the champeen 
 lady-aviator of Madison Avenue." 
 
 21
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Hermia lunched alone out of humor with all the 
 world and went upstairs with a volume of plays which 
 had just come from the stationer. But she had hardly 
 settled herself comfortably when Titine announced Mrs. 
 Westfield. 
 
 It was the ineffectual Aunt. 
 
 "Oh, yes," with an air of resignation, "tell Mrs. West- 
 field to come up." 
 
 She pulled the hair over her temples to conceal the 
 scars of her morning's accident and met Mrs. Westfield 
 at the landing outside. 
 
 "Dear Aunt Harriet. So glad," she said, grimacing 
 cheerfully to salve 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 than usually acidulous, but Hermia only 
 smiled sweetly, for Mrs. Westfield's forbidding aspect, as 
 she well knew, concealed the most indulgent of disposi- 
 tions. 
 
 "Playing polo with men, racing in your motor and 
 getting yourself talked about in the papers ! Really, 
 Hermia, what will you be doing next ?" 
 
 "Flying," said Hermia. 
 
 Mrs. Westfield hesitated between a gasp and a smile. 
 
 "I don't doubt it. You are quite capable of anything 
 
 )nly your wings will 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.
 
 THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT 
 
 You knoT7 I never could bear having Reggie Armistead 
 do anything I couldn'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 around Mrs. Westfield's neck. "O Auntie, dear, 
 don't bother. I'm absolutely impossible anyway. I can't 
 be happy doing the things that other girls do, 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 wonder how 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 your amusements within the bounds of reason and 
 without avail, but I wouldn't be doing my duty to your 
 sainted mother if I didn't try to save you from yourself. 
 I shall do something to prevent this this madcap ven- 
 ture I don't know what. I shall see Mr. Winthrop at 
 the Trust Company. There must be some way ' 
 
 The pendants in the good lady's ears trembled in the 
 light, and her hand groped for her handkerchief. "You 
 can't, Hermia. I'll not permit it. I'll get out an injunc- 
 tion or something. It was all very well when you were a 
 child but now do you realize that you're a woman, a 
 grown woman, with responsibilities to the community? 
 It's time that you married, settled down and took your 
 proper place in New York. I had hoped that you would 
 have matured and forgotten the childish pastimes of your 
 girlhood but now now " 
 
 23
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Mrs. Westfield, having found her handkerchief, wept 
 into it, her emotions too deep for other expression, while 
 Hermia, now really moved, sank at her feet upon the 
 floor, her arms about her Aunt's shoulders, and tried to 
 comfort her. 
 
 "I'm not the slightest use in the world, Auntie, dear. 
 I haven't a single homely virtue to recommend me. I'm 
 only fit to ride and dance and motor and frivol. And 
 whom should I marry? Surely not Reggie Armistead or 
 Crosby Downs ! Reggie and I have always fought like 
 cats across a wire, and as for Crosby I would as lief 
 marry the great Cham of Tartary. No, dear, I'm not 
 ready for marriage yet. I simply couldn't. There, there, 
 don't cry. You've done your duty. I'm not worth both- 
 ering about. I'm not going to 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 mind taking 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 life has not been planned with reference to 
 the ultimate possible good. I'm a renegade if you like, 
 a hoyden with a shrewd sense of personal morality but 
 with no other sense whatever. I was born under a mad 
 moon with some wild humor in my blood from an earlier 
 incarnation and I can't I simply can't be conventional. 
 I've tried doing as other and nicer girls do but it 
 wearies me to the point of distraction. Their lives are so 
 pale, so empty, so full of pretensions. They have always
 
 THE INEFFECTUAL 
 
 seemed so. When I used to romp like a boy my elders 
 told me it was an unnatural way for little girls to play. 
 But I kept on romping. If it hadn't been natural I 
 shouldn't have romped. Perhaps Sybil Trenchard is nat- 
 ural or Caroline Anstell. They're conventional girls 
 automatic parts of the social machinery, eating, sleeping, 
 decking themselves for the daily round, mere things of 
 sex, their whole life planned so that they may make a 
 desirable marriage. Good Lord, Auntie ! And whom will 
 they marry? Fellows like Archie Westcott or Carol 
 Gouverneur, fellows with notorious habits which marriage 
 is not likely to mend. How could it? No one expects it 
 to. The girls who marry men like that get what they bar- 
 gain for looks for money money for looks - " 
 
 "But Trevelyan Morehouse!" 
 
 Hermia paused and examined the roses in the silver 
 vase with a quizzical air. 
 
 "If I were not so rich, I should probably love Trewy 
 madly. But, you see, then Trewy wouldn't love me. He 
 couldn't afford to. He's ruining himself with roses as it 
 is. And, curiously enough, I have a notion when I marry,, 
 to love and be loved for myself alone. I'm not in love 
 with Trewy or any one else or likely to be. The man I 
 marry, Auntie, isn't doing what Trewy and Crosby and 
 Reggie Armistead are doing. He's different somehow 
 different from any man I've ever met." 
 
 "How, child?" 
 
 "I don't know," she mused, with a smile. "Only he 
 isn't like Trewy Morehouse." 
 
 "But Mr. Morehouse is a very promising young 
 man - " 
 
 "The person I marry won't be a promising young 
 man. Promising young men continually remind me of my 
 
 25
 
 MADCAP 
 
 r ~ 
 
 own deficiencies. Imagine domesticating a critic like that, 
 marrying a mirror for one's foibles and 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 he isn't the kind of man who'd send me 
 roses. I think he's something between a pilgrim and a 
 vagabond, a knight-errant from somewhere between 
 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 in spite of himself." 
 
 "Hermia! A Bohemian! Such a person will hardly 
 be found " 
 
 "0 Auntie, you don't understand. I'm not likely to 
 find him. I'm not even looking for him, you know, and 
 just now I don't want to marry anybody." 
 
 "I only hope when you do, Hermia, that you will com- 
 mit no imprudence," said Mrs. Westfield severely. 
 
 Hermia turned quickly. 
 
 "Auntie, Captain Lundt of the Kaiser Wilhelm used 
 to tell me that there were two ways of going into a fog," 
 she said. "One was to go slow and use the siren. The 
 other was to crowd on steam and go like h ." 
 
 "Hermia!" 
 
 "I'm sorry, Auntie, but that describes the situation 
 exactly. I'm too wealthy to risk marrying prudently. 
 I'd have to find a man who was as prudent 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, a financial abnormity, with just about as 
 much chance of being loved for myself alone as a fox in 
 
 26
 
 THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT 
 
 November. When men used to propose to me I halted 
 them, pressed their hands, bade them be happy and wept 
 a tear or two for the thing that could not be. Now I fix 
 them with a cold appraising eye and let them stammer 
 through to the end. I've learned something. The pos- 
 session of money may have its disadvantages, but it sharp- 
 ens one's wits amazingly." 
 
 "I'm afraid it sharpens them too much, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Westfield coldly. She looked around the room help- 
 lessly as if seeking in some mute object tangible evidence 
 of her niece's sanity. 
 
 "Oh, well," she finished. "I shall hope and pray for a 
 miracle to bring you 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 be finished. My machine is promised by 
 the end of May. They're sending a perfectly 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 which relief and guilt were strangely min- 
 gled. Her conscience always smote her after one of her 
 declarations of independence to her Aunt, whose mild- 
 ness and ineptitude in the unequal struggle always left the 
 girl with an unpleasant sense of having taken a mean 
 advantage of a helpless adversary. To Hermia Mrs. 
 Westfield's greatest effectiveness was 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. 
 
 27
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "I'll never do that," icily. "I don't approve of you at 
 ill. Why should I mince matters? You're gradually 
 alienating me, Hermia cutting yourself off from the few 
 blood relations yu have on earth." 
 
 "From Millicent and Theodore? I thought that Milly 
 fairly doted on me " 
 
 Mrs. Westfield stammered helplessly. 
 
 "It's I I who object. I don't like your friends. I 
 idon't think I would be doing my duty to their sainted 
 father if " 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Hermia thoughtfully. "You think 
 I may pervert 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 
 thoroughly antipathetic now. 
 
 "That, of course, will be as you please," she said 
 coldly. "Since Thimble Cottage burned, I've tried to 
 make you understand that you are to 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 visit you as usual. Thimble Cottage will be 
 rebuilt as soon as the plans are finished. 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."
 
 THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT 
 
 And then after a, pause: "Who has rented Thimble 
 Island?" 
 
 "An artist who will occupy the bark cabin. My 
 agents thought it as well 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 shall care to cultivate." 
 
 And then as her Aunt wavered uncertainly. "Oh, of 
 course I shall get along. I can't protest. It's your priv- 
 ilege to choose Milly's friends, even if you mean to exclude 
 me. It's also my privilege to choose my friends and I 
 shall do so. If this means that I am taboo at your houses, 
 I shall respect your wishes but I hope you'll remember 
 that you are all welcome at 'Wake-Robin' or here when- 
 ever you see fit to visit me." 
 
 Having delivered herself of this speech, Hermia 
 paused, sure of her effect, and calmly awaited the usual 
 recantation and reconciliation. But to her surprise Mrs. 
 Westfield continued to move slowly toward the door, 
 through which, after a formal word of farewell, she pres- 
 ently disappeared and was gone. 
 
 Hermia stared at the empty door and pondered 
 really on the verge of tears. The whole proceeding vio- 
 lated all precedents established for ineffectual aunts.
 
 MAROONED 
 
 IN the course of an early pilgrimage in search of an 
 unfrequented spot where he might work out of doors 
 undisturbed in June before going to Normandy, 
 Markham had stumbled quite by accident on Thimble 
 Island. There, to his delight, he had discovered the exact 
 combination of rocks, foliage and barren he was looking 
 for the painter's landscape. The island was separated 
 from the mainland by an arm of the sea, wide enough to 
 keep at a safe distance the fashionable cottagers in the 
 adjacent community. 
 
 Fire had destroyed the large frame cottage which the 
 Westfields had occupied, but there was a small bark 
 bungalow of two rooms and a kitchen that had been 
 used, he learned, as quarters for extra guests, which would 
 exactly suit his purposes. Somewhat doubtfully, he made 
 inquiries upon the mainland and communicated with the 
 agents of Mrs. Westfield in New York, with whom, to his 
 delight, he managed to make the proper arrangements 
 pending the rebuilding of the house. 
 
 He had established himself bag and baggage and at 
 the end of two weeks a row of canvases along the wall of 
 his room bore testimony to his diligence. To Markham 
 they had been weeks of undiluted happiness. He was 
 working out in his own way some themes of color which 
 would in time prove to others that he knew Nature as 
 well as he knew humanity; that the brutal truths people 
 
 30
 
 MAROONED 
 
 saw in his portraits were only brutal because 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 had risen before daylight to try 
 an effect in grays that he had misssed two days before. 
 The day had just begun and Markham stood before his 
 tripod facing to the westward painting madly, trying, in 
 the few short moments that remained to him before sun- 
 rise, to put upon his canvas the evanescent tints of the 
 dawn. He painted madly because the canvas was not yet 
 covered and because he knew that within twenty minutes 
 at the most the sun would rise behind him and the witching 
 mystery of the half-light be gone. He stood upright 
 painting at arm's length with a full brush and broad sweep 
 of wrist and arm. Gobs of paint from the tubes melted 
 into pearly-grays and purples in the middle of his palette 
 to be quickly transposed and placed tone beside tone like 
 a pale mosaic enriched and blended by the soft fingers of 
 Time. His motive was simple a rock, some trees, a 
 stretch of sandy waste, backed by a rugged hill and a 
 glimpse of sea, all bathed in mist; and his brush moved 
 decisively, heavily at times, lightly, caressingly at others 
 as the sketch grew to completion, while his dark eyes 
 glowed behind their hideous 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, grow- 
 ing larger with every moment, but he did not see it or 
 hear the faint staccato sounds which proclaimed its iden- 
 tity. The speck moved toward the sea and then, making 
 a wide turn over the beach, swept inland near the earth 
 noiselessly, and deposited itself with a quivering groan 
 
 31
 
 MADCAP 
 
 which startled 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 with the dew, rich with the broken gra}'s and 
 violets of the reflected heavens. And now 
 
 He dropped his palette and brushes and ran forward, 
 suddenly alive to the serious nature of the interruption. 
 Upon the grass, stretched prone, face downward, lay a 
 figure in leather cap, blouse and leggings. But as his 
 hand touched the leather shoulder, the aviator moved and 
 then sat upright, facing him. At the same moment the 
 sun, which had been hesitating for some moments on the 
 brink of the horizon, came up with a rush and bathed the 
 face of the small person before him in liquid gold. The 
 leather cap had fallen backward and a mass of golden 
 hair which now tumbled about the face proclaimed with 
 startling definiteness the sex of Markham's unexpected 
 guest. 
 
 "Sorry to bother you," said the guest weakly. "She 
 missed fire and I had to 'plane' down." 
 
 "Are you hurt ?" he asked. 
 
 "No, I think not," she replied, running her fingers 
 over her leather jerkin to reassure herself as to the fact. 
 "Just shaken up a little that's all." 
 
 Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, 
 a tangle at his brow. It was quite evident to Hermia 
 Challoner that he hadn't the slightest recollection of her. 
 
 "What are you doing out at this time of day?" he 
 asked. "Don't you know you might have drowned your- 
 self? Where did you come from? Where are you going?" 
 The tone of his voice was not unkind it was even solici- 
 
 32
 
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 5 
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 12 
 
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 MAROONED 
 
 tous for her welfare, but it reminded her unpleasantly of 
 his attitude toward her the last time they had met. 
 
 "That," she replied, getting rather unsteadily to her 
 feet, "is a matter of no importance." 
 
 The effort in rising cost her trouble and as she moved 
 toward the machine her face went white and she would 
 have fallen had not Markham caught her by the arm. 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right," she faltered. But he led her up 
 the hill to the cabin 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 his unshorn face and shock of disorderly 
 hair, the color rising slowly to her cheeks. But she obeyed 
 him, and drank what remained in the glass without ques- 
 tion, sinking back upon the pillow, her lips firmly com- 
 pressed, 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 there are no bones broken. You'll be all 
 right soon. Go to sleep if you can." 
 
 She tried to sit up, thought better of it and lay back 
 again with eyes closed, while Markham moved on tiptoe 
 around the room putting things to rights, all the while 
 swearing silently. What in the name of all that was un- 
 pleasant did this philandering little idiot mean by trying 
 to destroy herself on the front lawn of his holiday house? 
 Surely the world was big enough, the air broad enough. 
 He glanced at her for a moment, then crept over on tip- 
 toe and peered at her secretively. He straightened and 
 
 33
 
 ^ MADCAP 
 
 scratched his head, fumbling for his pipe, puzzled. She 
 resembled somebody he knew or whom he had met. Where ? 
 When? 
 
 He gave it up at last and strolled out of doors 
 lighted his pipe and sauntered down the hill toward the 
 devilish thing of canvas and wire that had brought her 
 here. He knew nothing of aeroplanes, but even to his 
 unskilled eye it was apparent that without repairs the 
 thing would fly no more, for the canvas covering flapped 
 suggestively in the wind. A broken wing! And the bird 
 was in his cage. His situation and hers began to as- 
 sume unpleasant definiteness. For three 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 his pipe, his mind still pondering gloomily over 
 his neglected foreground. Then regretfully, tenderly, he 
 undid the clips that fastened the canvas, unlooped the 
 cords from his stone anchors, wiped his brushes, shut his 
 paint-box and moved slowly up the hill toward the house, 
 his mind protestingly adjusting itself to the situation. 
 What was he to do with this surprising female until the 
 boat arrived. Common decency demanded 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 
 long wonderful daylight hours in this chosen spot, the 
 hourly calls of sea and sky in this painters' paradise. 
 Silly little fool! If she had had to tumble why couldn't 
 she have done it on the West shore where there were 
 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 
 
 34
 
 MAROONED 
 
 cautiously peered around the jamb of the door to find his 
 unwelcome guest sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a 
 cigarette. He straightened sheepishly, not knowing 
 whether to grin or to scowl. Neither of them spoke for a 
 moment. 
 
 "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 aeroplane it won't fly?" 
 
 She stopped in the doorway and glanced anxiously 
 down the slope where her Bleriot had fallen. 
 
 "One wing is broken, you see." 
 
 She went down the hill, Markham following. She stood 
 before the broken machine and looked at it dejectedly. 
 
 "Well?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're right. It will have to be repaired. 
 I'll go back by boat." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "Of course. But in the meanwhile I'm afraid you'll 
 have to trust to my hospitality such as it is." 
 
 She turned toward him quickly. 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "The boat my only means of communication, won't 
 be here until Thursday." 
 
 35
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 be interrupted " And hastily: "Of 
 
 course, I'm glad to be of service to you, 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 stopping of my own volition." And then, 
 as though aware of her discourtesy, she turned toward 
 him, a smile for the first time illumining the pallor of her 
 face. 
 
 "I'm afraid there's nothing left for me then but to 
 accept your kind offer." 
 
 When they reached the cabin he brought out a wicker 
 chair and put it in the shade. 
 
 "If you'll sit here and try to make yourself comfor- 
 table, I'll see what can be done about breakfast." 
 
 She thanked him with a smile, sat submissively and 
 he disappeared indoors, where she heard him pottering 
 about in the small kitchen. It was very quiet, very rest- 
 ful there under the trees and an odor of cooking coffee, 
 eggs, bacon and toast which the breeze wafted in her 
 direction from the open window reminded her that the 
 hour of breakfast was approaching. But, alluring as the 
 odor was, she had no appetite. Her knee and shoulder 
 hurt her much less than they deserved to, much less than 
 the state of her mind at finding herself suddenly at the 
 mercy of this young man who had aroused both her choler 
 and her curiosity. Last night after her guests had gone 
 
 36
 
 MAEOONED 
 
 to bed she had sat alone for a long while on the porch 
 which overlooked the bay, unconsciously surveying with 
 her eye the water which separated Thimble Island from 
 the mainland. But it was a mad impulse that had sent 
 her over the sea this morning, a madder impulse that had 
 sent her to Thimble Island of all places, upon which she 
 had descended with an audacity and a recklessness which 
 surprised even herself. She realized that a while ago she 
 had lied glibly to Markham about her mishap. Her 
 Bleriot had not missed fire. From the perch of her lofty 
 reconnaissance she had espied the painter working at his 
 canvas, but her notion of visiting him she knew had been 
 born not this morning, but last night when she had sat 
 alone on the terrace and watched the pale moon wreathing 
 fitfully among the clouds which hovered uncertainly off- 
 shore. She had come to Thimble Island simply because 
 impulse had led her here, and because she was accustomed, 
 with possible reservations, to follow her impulses wherever 
 they might lead her. That they had led her to Markham 
 signified nothing except that she found herself more curi- 
 ous about him than she had supposed herself to be. 
 
 Her plans for the morning had provided for a brief 
 landing while she tinkered with the machine, scorning his 
 proffers of help ; for a snub, if he chose to take advantage 
 of their slight acquaintance; and for a triumphant de- 
 parture when her pride and her curiosity had been ap- 
 peased. Her plans had not included the miscalculation of 
 distance and the projecting branch of the tree which had 
 been her undoing. She found it difficult to scorn the 
 proffers of help of a man who helped without proffering. 
 It was impossible to snub a man for taking advantage of 
 a slight acquaintance when he refused to remember that 
 such an acquaintance had ever existed. The triumphant 
 
 37
 
 MADCAP 
 
 departure now refused to be triumphant or indeed even 
 a departure. At the present moment her pride and her 
 curiosity still clamored and Markham in his worried, 
 absent-minded way was repaying her with kindness a 
 kindness every moment of which increased Hermia's ob- 
 ligation and diminished her importance. 
 
 She sang very small now in Markham's scheme of 
 things and sat very quietly in her chair, like a rebellious 
 child which has been punished by being put alone in a 
 corner. She listened to his footsteps within, the clattering 
 of dishes, the tinkle of table service and in a little while 
 he appeared in the door of the cabin, redolent with the 
 odor of coffee and bacon, and announced breakfast.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BREAD AND SALT 
 
 T 
 
 HANKS," 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 me feel faint. I've never done such a 
 thing in all my life before. But you 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 the towers 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 and went abruptly into the cabin 
 whence he presently emerged carrying a tray 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, and stood before her, his six feet of stature domi- 
 nating. 
 
 "Now eat !" he said, quietly. 
 
 She looked down at the food and then uncertainly up 
 to his face. Never in her life, that she could remember, 
 had she been addressed so peremptorily. His lips smiled, 
 
 39
 
 MADCAP 
 
 but there was no denying the note of command in his 
 voice and in his attitude. Curiously enough she found 
 herself fingering at the coffee cup. 
 
 "There's a lump of sugar in it," he added, "and an- 
 other 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 her for a moment and then went in 
 at the door, returning in a moment with another cup of 
 coffee and another dish. Without a word he sat on the 
 step of the porch and followed her example, munching 
 his toast and sipping his coffee with grave deliberateness, 
 his eyes following hers to the distant shore. 
 
 Hermia's appetite had come with eating and she had 
 discovered that his coffee was delicious. She made a 
 belated resolution that, if she must stay here, she would 
 do it with a good grace. He had offered to fill her coffee 
 cup and to bring more toast, but, beyond inquiring 
 politely how she felt, had asked her no other questions. 
 When he had breakfasted he took her dishes and his own 
 indoors and put them in the kitchen sink, then came to the 
 door stuffing some tobacco into the bowl of his disrepu- 
 table pipe. 
 
 "I hope I'm safe in assuming that tobacco smoke is un- 
 objectionable to you." 
 
 "Oh, quite." 
 
 A glance at his eyes revealed the suspicion of a smile. 
 There wag 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, 
 40
 
 BREAD AND SALT 
 
 puff "though not so much about the where" puff 
 "as about the why. Other forms of suicide may be less 
 picturesque than flying, but they doubtless have other 
 homelier virtues to recommend them. If I wished to die 
 suddenly I think I should simply blow out the gas. 
 Do you come from Quemscott, Simsbury or perhaps 
 further?" 
 
 He asked the questions as though more from a desire 
 to be polite than from 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've got a notion that somewhere but not in 
 Westport you and I have met before." 
 
 "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 Nor- 
 mandy?" he asked. 
 
 "I've never been in Normandy. Besides, if we had met, 
 I probably would 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 the world " 
 
 "Mine is excellent," put in Hermia. 
 
 He looked at her soberly, and her gaze fell, but in a 
 moment she flashed a bright smile up at him. "Of course 
 it doesn't matter, does it? 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," he replied 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 
 
 41
 
 MADCAP 
 
 had been no one here," 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 resent it now. Indeed his attitude toward her 
 made resentment impossible. His civility and hospitality, 
 while lacking in the deference of other men of her ac- 
 quaintance, were beyond cavil. But it was quite clear that 
 the only impression her looks or her personality had made 
 upon him was the slight one of having met and forgotten 
 her hardly flattering to her self-esteem. He was quite 
 free from self-consciousness and at moments wore an air 
 of abstraction which made it seem to Hermia as though 
 he had forgotten her presence. In another atmosphere 
 she had thought him unmannerly ; here, somehow it didn't 
 seem necessary to lay such stress upon the outward tokens 
 of gentility. And his personal civility, more implied than 
 expressed, was even more reassuring than the lip and eye 
 homage to which she was accustomed. 
 
 In these moments of abstraction she inspected him 
 curiously. His unshorn face was tanned a deep brown 
 which with his rough clothing and longish hair gave him 
 rather a forbidding aspect, and the lines into which his 
 face fell in moments of repose were almost unpleasantly 
 severe ; but his eyes which had formed the painter's habit 
 of looking critically through their lashes had a way of 
 opening wide at unexpected moments and staring at her 
 
 42
 
 BREAD AND SALT 
 
 with the disconcerting frankness of those of a child. He 
 turned them on her now so abruptly that she had 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 han- 
 gar " 
 
 "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 the curiosity 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 only the smaller pleasure boats come this 
 way. Of course there's a chance of one coming within 
 hail. I'll keep a watch and do what I can, of course. 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 already vanished into the cabin, where in a 
 moment she heard the clatter of the dishes he was washing. 
 At this moment Hermia was sure that she didn't dislike 
 him at all. The clatter continued, mingled with the sound 
 of splashing water and a shrill piping as he whistled an 
 air from "Boheme." Hermia gazed out over the water 
 a moment and then 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." 
 
 43
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 a business-like air and elbowed him away 
 from the dishpan unceremoniously. 
 
 "I'm going to wash them wash them properly. You 
 may wipe them if you like." 
 
 He grinned and fished around on a shelf for a dish- 
 cloth. Having found it he stationed himself beside her 
 and took the dishes one by one as she 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 in letters 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 with great 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 when you like." 
 
 44
 
 BREAD AND SALT 
 
 "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 her fingers. "You know you did drop 
 in rather informally. Who's been talking 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 unconven- 
 tional, aren't you?" 
 
 "According to the standards of your world, yes, de- 
 cidedly." 
 
 "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 she handed the last of them to him and emp- 
 tied the dishpan. 
 
 "Now," she exclaimed. "I wish you'd please go out- 
 side and smoke." 
 
 "Outside! Why?" 
 
 "I'm going to put this place in order. Ugh! I've 
 never in my life seen 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 an inspiration, "but then 
 you know, I do keep the pots and dishes clean." 
 
 By this time she had reached the shelves over which 
 she ran an inquisitive finger. 
 
 "Dust!" she sniffed. "Barrels of it! and the plates 
 
 45
 
 MADCAP 
 
 ?" She took one down and inspected it minutely. 
 
 "I thought so. Please go out," she pleaded. 
 
 "And if I don't?" 
 
 "I'll do it anyway." 
 
 By this time she was peering into the corners, from 
 one of which she triumphantly 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 to clean up, and if you don't want to be 
 splashed, I'd advise you to clear out." 
 
 She went to the spigot and let the water run into the 
 bucket, while she extended her palm in his direction. 
 
 "Now some soap please sand-soap, if you have it. 
 Any soap, if you haven'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. He found it more amusing to watch her 
 small hands rubbing the soap into the fiber of the mop. 
 
 "If you'll show me I'll be very glad " he volun- 
 teered. But as he came forward, she brought the wet 
 mop out of the bucket with a threatening sweep which 
 splashed him, and set energetically to work about his 
 very toes. 
 
 He moved to the door j amb, but she pursued him. 
 
 "Outside, please," with relentless scorn. "This is no 
 place for a philosopher." 
 
 Markham was inclined to agree with her and re- 
 treated in utter rout.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 ON the porch he sank into the wicker chair, filled his 
 pipe and looked afar, his ear attuned to the 
 sounds of his domestic upheaval, not quite sure 
 whether he was provoked or amused. At moments, by her 
 pluck she had excited his admiration, at others she had 
 seemed a little less worthy of consideration than a spoiled 
 child, but her present role amused him beyond expres- 
 sion., Whoever she was, whatever her mission in life, she 
 was quite the most remarkable young female person in his 
 experience. Who? It didn't matter in the least of course, 
 but he found himself somewhat chagrined that his memory 
 had played him such a trick. Young girls, especially the 
 impudent, self-satisfied kind that one met in America, had 
 always filled Markham with a vague alarm. He didn't 
 understand them in the least, nor did they understand 
 him, and he had managed with some discretion to confine 
 his attentions to women of a riper growth. Madame 
 Tcherny, for instance ! 
 
 Markham sat suddenly upright in his chair, a look of 
 recognition in his eyes. 
 
 Olga Tcherny ! Of course, he remembered now. And 
 this was the cheeky little thing Olga had brought to the 
 studio to see her portrait, who had strutted around and 
 talked about money Miss er funny he couldn't think 
 of her name ! He got up after a while, walked around and 
 peered in at the kitchen door. 
 
 47
 
 MADCAP 
 
 His visitor had washed the shelves with soap and 
 water, and now he found her down on her knees with the 
 bucket and scrubbing-brush working like 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 up to that sort of work. You haven't got any 
 right to do a thing like this. 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 unsecured 
 floor before she even replied. Then she got up and looked 
 at her work admiringly. 
 
 "There !" she said as though to herself. "That's bet- 
 ter." 
 
 The area of damp floor lay betwee'n them and when 
 he made a step to relieve her of the bucket she had lifted, 
 she waved him back. 
 
 "Don't you dare walk on it after all my trouble. Go 
 around the other way." 
 
 He obeyed with a meekness that surprised him, but 
 when he reached the other door she had already emptied 
 her bucket and her roving eye was seeking 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 chair on the porch into which she sank, red 
 of face and out of breath. 
 
 48
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 "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 coolty. 
 
 "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 imagina- 
 tion. What should I remember?" 
 
 "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 Markham and his visitor glanced over their 
 shoulders past the angle of the cottage to where in the 
 bright sunlight into which she had emerged, stood the 
 Countess Olga. 
 
 "Hermia, thank the Lord!" she was saying. "How 
 
 49
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 
 dbracadabrant! Here I've been harrowing my soul all 
 morning with thoughts of your untimely death, Hermia, 
 dear, turning Westport topsy-turvy, to find you at your 
 ease snugly wrapped in tete-h-tete with this charming 
 social renegade. It is almost too much for one's pa- 
 tience !" 
 
 Hermia rose laughing, and faced the rescue party 
 which came forward chattering congratulations. 
 
 "I thought my friends were too wise ever to be worried 
 about me" she said coolly. "But I'm awfully obliged and 
 flattered. Hilda, have you met Mr. Markham? Miss 
 Ashurst, Miss Van Vorst, and Mr. Armistead, Mr. Mark- 
 ham's island fortunately happened to be just underneath 
 where my machine 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 the damage. 
 
 "How on earth did you happen to know that you 
 could find me here?" asked Hermia. 
 
 "We didn't know it," replied the countess. "We took 
 a chance and came, worried to death. The head coach- 
 man's wife who was up with a sick child heard you get off 
 and watched your flight over the bay in this direction. 
 She didn't see you fall. But when you didn't return she 
 became frightened and alarmed the household woke us 
 all at half-past five. Think of it!" She yawned and 
 dropped wearily on the step of the porch. And then, as 
 Markham went indoors in search of chairs, in a lower tone 
 
 50
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 to Hermia, "With a person you have professed to detest 
 you seem to be getting on famously, my dear." 
 
 "One hardly quarrels with the individual who pro- 
 vides one with breakfast," she said coolly. 
 
 At the call of Salignac, the mechanician, Hermia fol- 
 1 lowed the others down 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 for- 
 warded here." 
 
 "Oh!" And then: "I didn't know just what to think 
 i unless that you had 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's place," she said pettishly, "and that I 
 was sure there would be one or two 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'm due 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's really quite degrading the way I'm pur- 
 suing you. It almost seems as if you didn't want me." 
 
 He leaned over the back of her chair, his lips close to 
 her ear. 
 
 "You know better than that. But I'm such hopeless 
 material to work with. These people, the kind of people 
 
 51
 
 MADCAP 
 
 one has to paint they want lies. It gives me a diabolical 
 pleasure to tell them the truth. I'll never succeed. 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 guard- 
 ians? 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 the opposite 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 now approaching and Markham 
 straightened as Hermia came toward him. 
 
 "Olga, dear, we must be going. It's too bad to have 
 spoiled your morning, 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 clean kitchen." 
 
 No flattery there. Hermia colored gently. 
 
 "I I scrubbed his floor," she explained to Olga. "It 
 was filthy." 
 
 52
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 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 ingenue by this time was 
 prying about outside the bungalow, on the porch of which 
 she espied Markham's unfinished sketch. 
 
 "A painting ! May I look ? It's all wet and sticky." 
 She had turned it face outward and stood before it utter- 
 ing childish panegyric. "Oh, it's too perfectly sweet for 
 anything. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so 
 wonderful. Won't you explain it all to me, Mr. Mark- 
 ham?" 
 
 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 and reported to Hermia that he had 
 found nothing wrong with the engine and that the dam- 
 aged wing could be repaired with a piece of wire. 
 
 Hermia's eyes sparkled. The time for her triumphant 
 departure, it seemed, had only been delayed. "Good 
 news," she said quietly. "In that case I intend flying back 
 to 'Wake-Robin'." 
 
 A chorus of protests greeted her decision. 
 
 "You shan't, Hermia," shouted Reggie Armistead, 
 "until cither Salignac or I have tried it out." 
 
 "You will oblige me, Reggie," replied Hermia calmly, 
 "by minding your own business." 
 
 "O Hermia, after falling this morning ! How can you 
 dare?" cried Miss Van Vorst, with a genteel shudder. 
 
 "Si Mademoiselle me permettrait " began Salig- 
 nac. 
 
 But she waved her hand in negation and indicated the 
 
 53
 
 MADCAP 
 
 wide lawn in front of the ruined buildings which sloped 
 gently to the water's edge. 
 
 "Wheel it there, Salignac," in French, "and, Reggie, 
 please go at once and help." 
 
 Armistead's boyish face turned toward her in admira- 
 tion and in protest, but he followed Salignac without a 
 word. 
 
 "It's folly, Hermia," added Hilda. "Something must 
 be wrong with the thing. 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 no humor to waste her breath. And 
 Markham stood beside the group, his arms folded, his 
 head bowed, listening. But when Hermia went into the 
 cottage 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 this morning." 
 
 She paused in the act of putting on her gauntlets and 
 held one small bare hand under his nose that he might see 
 how steady it was. He grasped it in both of his own and 
 then, with an impulse that he couldn't explain, kissed it 
 again and again. 
 
 "Don't go, child," he whispered gently. "Not to- 
 day." 
 
 She struggled to withdraw her hand, a warm flush 
 stealing up her neck and temples. 
 
 "Let me go, Mr. Markham. Let me go." 
 
 He relinquished her and stood aside. 
 
 54
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 "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," he persisted, "the fatuity of mere bravado, the 
 uses of life. You couldn't play with it if you knew some- 
 thing 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 another day. Meanwhile " and she 
 
 pointed her gauntleted hand toward the open doorway, 
 "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 and preliminary experiments had proven 
 that all was ready. Hermia climbed into the seat unaided, 
 while Markham stood at one side and watched the pro- 
 pellers started. Faster and faster they flew, the machine 
 held by Armistead and the Frenchman, while Hermia sat 
 looking straight before her down the lawn through the 
 opening between the rocks which led to open water. 
 
 "Au revolr, my friends," she cried and gave the word, 
 at which the men sprang clear, and amid cries of encour- 
 agement and congratulation the machine moved down the 
 lawn, gathering momentum with every second, rising 
 gracefully with its small burden just before it reached the 
 water and soaring into the air. The people on the lawn 
 
 55
 
 MADCAP 
 
 watched for a moment and then with one accord rushed 
 for the launch. 
 
 Olga Tcherny paused a moment, her hand on Mark- 
 ham'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 the distant 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 her footsteps. 
 
 "A bientot," she cried. 
 
 "Au revoir, Madame." 
 
 He saw her hurried into the launch, which immediately 
 got under way, its exnauct snorting furiously, and van- 
 ished around the point of rocks. In a moment there was 
 nothing left of his visitors to Markham but the lapping oi 
 the waves from the launch upon the beach and the spot in 
 the air which was now almost imperceptible. 
 
 He stood there until he could see it no more, when he 
 turned and took his pipe thoughtfully from his trousers 
 pocket and addressed it with conviction. 
 
 "Mad !" he muttered. "All quite mad !"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "WAKE ROBIN" 
 
 MARKHAM climbed the hill slowly, pushing to- 
 bacco into his pipe. Once or twice he stopped 
 and turned, looking out over the bay toward 
 the distant launch. The aeroplane had vanished. When 
 he reached the bungalow he dropped into a chair, his gaze 
 on space, and smoked silently for many minutes. 
 
 Mad! Were they? Madness after all was merely a 
 matter of relative mental attitudes. Doubtless he was as 
 mad in the eyes of his visitors as they we:?" to him. In 
 his present mood he was almost ready to aoimt that the 
 sanest philosophy of life was that which brought the 
 greatest happiness. And sanity such as his own was only 
 a sober kind of madness after all, a quiet mania which 
 sought out the soul of things and in the seeking fed itself 
 upon the problems of the world, a diet which too much 
 prolonged might lead to mental indigestion. Morbid 
 was he? Introspective? A "grouch"? He was he must 
 be all of these things. 
 
 His small inquisitor had neglected none of his failings, 
 had practiced her glib tongue at his expense in the few 
 hours in which she had taken possession of Thimble Island 
 and of him. What a child she was, how spoiled and how 
 utterly irresponsible! He identified her completely now, 
 Hermia Challoner, the sole heiress of all Peter Challoner's 
 hard-gotten millions, the heiress, too, it was evident, of 
 his attitude toward the world, the flesh and the devil;, 
 
 57
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Peter Challoner, by profession banker and captain of in- 
 dustry, a man whose name was remembered the breadth of 
 the land for his masterly manipulation of a continental 
 railroad which eventually came under his control ; an or- 
 ganizer of trusts, a patron saint of political lobbyists, a 
 product of the worst and of the best of modern business ! 
 This girl who had fallen like a bright meteor across Mark- 
 ham's sober sky this morning was Peter Challoner's 
 daughter. He remembered now the stories he had heard 
 and read of her caprices, the races on the beach at Or- 
 monde, her fearlessness in the hunting field and the wom- 
 an's polo team she had organized at Cedarcroft which 
 she had led against a team of men on a Southern field. It 
 had all been in the newspapers and he had read of her 
 with a growing distaste for the type of woman which 
 American society made possible. Peter Challoner's 
 daughter, the spoiled darling of money idolaters, scrub- 
 bing the floor of his kitchen ! 
 
 As he sat looking out over the bay thinking of his vis- 
 itor, a picture rose and wreathed itself amid the smoke 
 of his tobacco the vision of a little working girl in New 
 York, a girl with tired eyes and a patient smile, with the 
 faded hair and the faded skin which came from too few 
 hours of recreation from too many uninterrupted hours 
 of plodding grind at the tasks her employers set for 
 her, a girl who would have been as pretty as Hermia 
 Challoner if her youth had only been given its chance. 
 This was Dorothy Herrick, whose father, a friend of 
 Markham's father, had been swallowed up in one of the 
 great industrial combinations which Peter Challoner had 
 planned. Markham, who had been studying in Paris at 
 the time, had forgotten the details of Oliver Herrick's 
 downfall, but he remembered that the transaction which 
 
 58
 
 'WAKE ROBIN 3 
 
 had brought it about had not even been broadly in ac- 
 cordance with the ethics of modern business, and that 
 there had been something in the nature of sharp practice 
 on Peter Challoner's part which had enabled him to ob- 
 tain for his combination the mills in the Wyoming Valley 
 which had been in the Herrick family for three genera- 
 tions. 
 
 Markham knew little of business and hated it cor- 
 dially, but he had heard enough of this affair to be sure 
 that, whatever the courts had decided, Oliver Herrick had 
 been unfairly dealt with and that a part, at least, of 
 Peter Challoner's fortune belonged morally, at least, to 
 the inconsiderable mite of femininity who read proof in 
 a publisher's office in New York. He knew something of 
 the law of the survival of the fittest, for he himself had 
 survived the long struggle for honors which had put him 
 at last in a position where he felt secure at least from the 
 pinch of poverty, and whatever Oliver Herrick's failings 
 among the larger forces with which he had been brought 
 into contact, Markham knew him to have been an honest 
 man, a good father and a faithful gentleman. Something 
 was wrong with a world which pinched the righteous be- 
 tween the grindstones of progress and let the evil prosper. 
 
 It was an unfairness which descended to the second 
 generation and would descend through the years until 
 the equalizing forces of character and will or the lack 
 of them brought later generations to the same level 
 of condition. Markham could not help comparing Her- 
 mia Challoner with her less fortunate sister Hermia 
 Challoner, the courted, the feted, who had but to wish for 
 a thing to have it granted, with Dorothy Herrick, the 
 neglected and forgotten, who was bartering her youth for 
 twelve dollars a week and was glad to get the money ; one, 
 
 59
 
 who boasted that the only value life had for her was what 
 she could get out of it, with the other, who almost felt it 
 a privilege to be permitted to live at all. The more he 
 thought of these two girls, the more convincing was his 
 belief that Miss Herrick did not suffer by the comparison. 
 She was doing just what thousands of other girls were 
 doing in New York, with no more patience and no more 
 self-sacrifice than they, but the childish vagaries of his 
 visitor, still fresh in his memory, seemed to endow Dor- 
 othy Herrick with a firmer contour, a stronger claim on 
 his interest and sympathies. 
 
 And yet this little madcap aviatrix disclosed a win- 
 ning directness and simplicity which charmed and sur- 
 prised him. She was a joyous soul. He could not remem- 
 ber a morning when he had been so completely abstracted 
 from the usual current of thought and occupation as to- 
 day, and whatever the faults bequeathed by her intrepid 
 father, she was, as Markham had said to Olga, quite 
 human. There were possibilities in the child and it 
 seemed a pity that no strong guiding hand led the way on 
 a road like hers, which had so many turnings. She was 
 only an overgrown child as yet, flat chested, slender, al- 
 most a boy, and yet redeemed to femininity by an uncon- 
 scious coquetry which she could no more control than she 
 could the warm flush of her blood; a child indeed, full of 
 quick impulses for good or for evil. 
 
 Markham rose, knocked the ash out of his pipe, 
 walked over to his canvas, 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 the living-room, 
 fetching a fresh canvas and carrying his easel and paint- 
 box over the hill to another spot, a shady one among the 
 rocks where he had already painted many times. 
 
 60
 
 WAKE ROBIN" 
 
 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 this impressionable child? The 
 Countess was clever, generous and wonderfully attractive 
 to men and to women but, as Markham knew, her views 
 of life were liberal and she was not wise at least, not 
 with a wisdom which would help Hermia Challoner. One 
 doesn't live for ten years in Paris in the set in which 
 Markham had met her without absorbing something of its 
 careless creed, its loose ethical and moral standards. New 
 York society, he knew, reflected much that was bad, and 
 much that was good of the gay worlds of Paris and Lon- 
 don; for Americans are unexcelled in the talent of imita- 
 tion, but from phrases that had passed Olga's lips he 
 knew that she had outgrown her own country. 
 
 Markham tried to paint but things went wrong and so 
 he gave it up, swearing silently at the interruption which 
 had spoiled his day. After lunch he tried it again with no 
 better success, and finally gave it up and, taking a book, 
 went out on a point of rocks where the tide swirled and 
 cast in a fishing line, not because he hoped to catch any- 
 thing but because fishing, of all the resources available, 
 had most surely the ways of peace. The book was a 
 French treatise on the Marxian philosophies dull read- 
 ing for a summer's day when the water lapped merrily at 
 one's feet, the breeze sighed softly, laden with the odors 
 of the mysterious deeps, and sea and sky beckoned him 
 invitingly into the 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 awak- 
 ened by the exhaust of a launch close at hand and sat up 
 so quickly that "Karl Marx," rudely jostled by his elbow, 
 
 61
 
 MADCAP 
 
 went sliding over the edge of the rock and into the sea. 
 But there was no time at present to bewail this calamity 
 for the man in the launch had brought her inshore and 
 hailed him politely. 
 
 "Mr. Markham?" he questioned. 
 
 Markham nodded. "That's my name," he said. 
 
 "A note for you." The launch moved slowly in to- 
 ward the landing and Markham met his visitor, already 
 aware that there was to be a further intrusion 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 with- 
 out penalty. I am safe at home again, my philosophy tri- 
 umphant over yours. There isn't a great deal of difference 
 between them after all. You, too, take from life, Mr. Mark- 
 ham you take what you need just as I do; but just because 
 your needs differ from mine, manlike, you assume that I must 
 be wrong. Perhaps I am. Then so must you, because you 
 give less than I do. 
 
 There is but one way to justify yourself, and that is to 
 give up what you are hoarding what you prize most highly 
 your solitude. We want you at "Wake Robin," Mr. Mark- 
 ham. Will you come to dine and stay the night? By so 
 doing you will at least show an amiable disposition, which is 
 .more to the point than all the philosophy in the world. We 
 are very informal and dine at eight. 
 
 ft I am sure that if you disappoint us Madame Tcherny, who 
 is already tired of us all, will perish of ennui. 
 
 Very cordially yours, 
 
 HERMIA CHALLONER. 
 
 Markham read the note through and turned toward 
 the cabin for pen and paper. 
 
 62
 
 "WAKE ROBIN" 
 
 "Will you moor the launch and come ashore?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir," said the man, tinkering with the engine, 
 "I'll wait for you here. Miss Challoner said that I was 
 to wait." 
 
 When Markham reached the bungalow he remembered 
 suddenly that he had no ink, pen or indeed paper, and 
 yet a verbal reply would hardly be courteous. He stood 
 in the doorway puzzling a moment and then went over to 
 a trunk in the corner, opened it and began pitching its 
 contents about. He straightened at last, put some gar- 
 ments on the bed and looked at them with a ruminative 
 eye. 
 
 "Oh, I had better go," he muttered, rubbing the rough- 
 ness on his chin. "I owe it to Olga. But why the devil 
 
 they can't leave a fellow alone " and, fuming silently, 
 
 he shaved, made a toilet, and packing some things in a 
 much battered suit case made his way to the launch. 
 
 At the Westport landing he found the Countess Olga, 
 wonderfully attired in an afternoon costume of pale green, 
 awaiting him in a motor. 
 
 "There's a chance for you still, my friend," she 
 laughed. "You have won my fond regard and, inciden- 
 tally, the cost of a new frock." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes. We laid a bet as to whether you would come, 
 Hermia and I. We've been watching the island through 
 the telescope, and saw you embark so to 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 full grown man. I have been bored oh, so bored 1 
 Will you be nice to me?" 
 
 63
 
 MADCAP 
 
 The motor skimmed smoothly over the perfect roads, 
 mounting the hills through the village and spinning along 
 a turnpike flanked by summer residences. "Wake Robin" 
 stood at some distance from the village on the highest 
 point of the hills and made a very imposing vista from the 
 driveway an English house with long wings at either 
 side, flanked by terraces, lawns and gardens, guarded from 
 the intrusive eyes of the highway by a high privet hedge. 
 The tennis courts seemed to be the center of interest and 
 in a corner of the terrace which faced the bay were some 
 people taking tea and watching a match of singles be- 
 tween Reggie Armistead and their hostess. The chauffeur 
 took the suit case to the butler and Olga Tcherny led the 
 way to the tea table where Phyllis Van Vorst was pouring 
 tea. Beside her sat a tall handsome woman with a hard 
 mouth, dressed in white linen and a picture hat, who 
 ogled him tentatively through a lorgnon during the mo- 
 ment of introduction before permitting her face to relax 
 into a smile of welcome. 
 
 "So glad," she purred at last, extending a long slim 
 hand in Markham's direction. "Phyllis, do give Mr. 
 Markham some tea." 
 
 "How d'ye do, Mr. Markham," chortled Miss Van 
 Vorst. "Pm afraid you'll have to put up with the Philis- 
 tines for a while. Hermia's beating Reggie Armistead at 
 tennis, and it's as much as one's life is worth to inter- 
 rupt." 
 
 "That's no joke," said Archie Westcott, who was 
 watching the game. "Some tennis, that. They're one set 
 all and Hermia just broke through Reggie's service. 
 That makes it five four." 
 
 Markham, teacup in hand, followed the Countess to 
 the balustrade and watched. One would never have sup- 
 
 64
 
 "WAKE ROBIN" 
 
 posed from the way she played that this girl had been up 
 since dawn and suffered an accident which had tempo- 
 rarily incapacitated her. Youth was triumphant. Vigor, 
 suppleness and grace marked every movement, the smash- 
 ing overhand service, the cat-like spring to the net, the 
 quick recovery, the long free swing of the volley from the 
 back-court, all of which showed form of a high order. It 
 was man's tennis that the girl was playing and Reggie 
 Armistead needed all his cleverness to hold her at even 
 terms. It was an ancient grudge, Markham learned, and 
 an even thing in the betting, but Armistead pulled through 
 by good passing and made the sets deuce. 
 
 "Gad ! It makes me hot to look at 'em !" said Crosby 
 Downs, fingering at his 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 earth even 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 Willie feelin' and a devourin' thirst. But I 
 lost four pounds," he added more cheerfully his fingers 
 demonstrating in his waistband. "Oh, I'll put it on again 
 to-night at dinner. Silly ass business this runnin' 
 around in the sun." 
 
 "Quite so," Olga agreed, "but everything we do is silly 
 and asinine." 
 
 65
 
 MADCAP 
 
 There was an outburst of applause from the others 
 at a particularly brilliant shot below. 
 
 "By George!" cried Westcott, "she's got him. It's 
 Hermia's vantage and forty-love. O Reggie! A love 
 game, by Jiminy! Hermia, you've won me a cool hun- 
 dred." 
 
 The game was over and the players shook hands be- 
 fore the net, Hermia laughing gaily, Armistead's eyes full 
 of honest adoration. They were handsome children, those 
 two. 
 
 Hermia climbed the steps slowly amid the congratula- 
 tions of the guests and smiled as Markham came forward 
 to meet her. She was rosy as a cherub, her bright hair 
 tumbled beneath her crimson hair-band. 
 
 "Very good of you to come, Mr. Markham," she said 
 breathlessly. "I had my eye in, and couldn't stop. I 
 simply had to beat Reggie, you know," And then as her 
 responsibilities recurred to her, "You've met everybody? 
 Mrs. Renshaw, Miss Coddington Mr. Markham the 
 Hermit of Thimble Island." 
 
 With a laugh she led him away from the others and 
 threw herself in a lounge chair and motioned him to a seat 
 nearby. 
 
 "You see," she said gaily, "here I am quite safe 
 and ready to mock at all seriousness the grasshopper 
 entertaining the ant. Do you think you can 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 born old. Show me how to be young and 
 I'll give you anything I possess." 
 
 "That's tempting. I think I'll begin at once." 
 
 66
 
 "WAKE ROBIN" 
 
 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 frovrn." 
 
 "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 their faces." 
 
 "Did I do that?" 
 
 "Er figuratively, yes. You were very impolite." 
 She lay back and laughed 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 frank agreement. 
 
 "I'm glad of that," he said, with a slow smile. "I like 
 you a great deal." 
 
 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 the first lesson. It is 
 time to dress. We will resume after dinner. That is," 
 she added, "if Olga will spare you for a few moments." 
 
 "Olga Madame Tcherny won't mind in the least," he 
 
 67
 
 MADCAP 
 
 laughed. "If you can make me anybody but myself, she 
 will thank you from the bottom of her heart. Madame 
 Tcherny is already at the point of giving me up as a hope- 
 less case." 
 
 "In what respect?" 
 
 "Oh, in all respects. I'm a great disappointment to 
 her " He stopped suddenly. "I mean socially pro- 
 fessionally. You see I'm not the stuff that successful por- 
 trait 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 before dinner it was apparent to 
 Markham that, unless he obeyed the injunctions 
 of his small perceptor, he would be quite forgotten amid 
 this gay company. On Thimble Island, as in New York, 
 he had not found them necessary to his own existence, and 
 it was quite clear that here at "Wake-Robin" they re- 
 turned his indifference. After the first nod and apprais- 
 ing glance in his direction, Crosby Downs and Carol 
 Gouverneur had completely ignored him. Archie West- 
 cott had unbent to the point of offering him a cigarette, 
 and Trewy Morehouse, who had joined them over the 
 cocktails, and injected polite bromidics into the conver- 
 sation which Reggie Armistead, who knew nothing of 
 Markham's art and cared less, only saved by some whole- 
 some enthusiasm, in which all joined, over the "sand" and 
 all-around good fellowship of their hostess. 
 
 But it required little assurance to make one's self at 
 home here where informality seemed to be the rule, and 
 before Hermia and the Countess came down Markham 
 found himself on easy terms with the group he had j oined. 
 Mrs. Renshaw's appraisal and patronizing air dismayed 
 him less than the china blue eyes of Phyllis Van Vorst 
 which she raised with a pretty effectiveness to his ; Hilda 
 Ashhurst hadn't even taken the trouble to notice him. 
 When Carol Gouverneur was in her neighborhood there 
 were no other men in the world. 
 
 69
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 paying him an assiduous attention 
 which detracted something from Reggie Armistead's in- 
 terest, as well as Olga's, in that repast. 
 
 With a carelessness which put him off his guard Her- 
 mia drew him into the general conversation, aroused his 
 sense of humor, until with a story of an experience in 
 France, which he told with a dry wit that well suited him, 
 he found himself the center of interest at the head of the 
 table. 
 
 Out on the terrace over the coffee and tobacco, the 
 compound slowly resolved 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. The 
 heavy odor of the roses was about them, unstirred by the 
 land breeze which faintly sighed in the treetops. A warm 
 moon hung over Thimble Island, its soft lights catching 
 in the ornaments Markham's companion wore, caressing 
 her white shoulders and dusky hair, and softening the 
 shadows in her eyes which peered like those of a seer 
 down the path of light where the moonbeams played upon 
 the water. 
 
 He had always thought her handsome, but to-night 
 she was a fragment of the night itself, with all its tender- 
 ness and its melancholy mystery. He watched her slender 
 figure as she reached forward, plucked a rose and raised 
 its petals to her lips a full blown rose, wasting its last 
 hours of loveliness. She fastened it in her corsage and 
 led the way to a stone bench beneath an arbor at the end 
 of the wall where she sat and motioned to the place be- 
 side her. 
 
 70
 
 The accord which existed between these two was un- 
 usual because of the total difference in their points of 
 view on life and the habits of thought which made each 
 the negative pole of the other. However unusual Mark- 
 ham may have appeared to a person of Olga Tcherny's 
 training, he was not an unusual young man in the ordi- 
 nary sense. He had always taken life seriously, from the 
 hour when as a clerk in a broker's office he had started to 
 work at night at the League in New York, with the inten- 
 tion of becoming a painter. He was no more serious tha,n 
 thousands of other young men who plan their lives early 
 ~~i live them up to specifications; but Olga Tcherny, 
 wno had flitted a zig-zag butterfly course among the ex- 
 otics, now found in the meadows she had scorned a shrub 
 quite to her liking. Markham was the most refreshingly 
 original person she had ever met. He always said exactly 
 what he thought and refused to speak at all unless he had 
 something to say. Those hours in the studio when he had 
 painted her portrait had been hours to remember, sound, 
 sane hours in which they had discussed many things not 
 comprehended in her philosophy, when he had led her by 
 easy 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 its own existence, it had 
 awakened to life and responded to his. To make her men- 
 ,tal subjection the more complete, he had in his simplicity 
 peered like a child through all her disguises and painted 
 her soul as he saw it as it was. The flattery was the 
 more effectual because of its subtlety and because she 
 knew, as he did, that in it there was no guile, no self- 
 interest or sentimentality. And in return she could have 
 paid him no higher compliment than when coolly, almost 
 
 71
 
 MADCAP 
 
 coldly, she told him of her life and what she had made 
 of it. 
 
 She was very winning to-night very gentle and wom- 
 anly more English than French or Russian, more Ameri- 
 can than either. Neither of them spoke for a long while. 
 Such words as they could speak would have taken some- 
 thing from the perfection of their background. But 
 Markham thought of her as he had frequently done, 
 thankful again for the benefits of her regard, the genuine- 
 ness of which she had brought home to him in many ma- 
 terial ways. 
 
 To Olga alone there was a peril in the silence, a peril 
 for the sanity he had taught her, for the pact which , 
 had made with herself. She had 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 nature 
 well. She had not been a student of men all her life for 
 nothing. It would have been so easy to lie to him, to be- 
 fuddle and bewitch him, to bring him to her feet by unfair 
 means. But she had scorned to use them. For her, John 
 Markham had been taboo. But there was peril in the 
 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 and fact. 
 
 "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 move beneath his touch or return his pressure. 
 
 "Yes," she said cooUy, "I think I have." 
 
 "Have I offended you?" 
 
 "No. Not at all only disappointed me a little. I 
 had such nice plans for you." 
 
 72
 
 OLGA TCHERNY 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Olga, you're the most wonderful woman in the world. 
 I don't deserve your friendship. But I did want to loaf 
 I worked pretty hard last winter." 
 
 "Oh, you needn't evade me. I can't make you like my 
 friends. But I hoped you wouldn't disappoint them. Mrs. 
 Berkley Hammond, the Gormeley twins, and now Her- 
 mia " 
 
 "Miss Challoner!" in surprise. "Her portrait! I 
 thought she disapproved of my method." 
 
 She smiled. "Oh, you don't know Hermia as I do. 
 One is never more certain 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 speak to 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 will do you a lot of good. Besides, you 
 paint better when you're a little contemptuous." 
 
 "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's sure, and " 
 
 73
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 are you. Mrs. Renshaw, a woman notorious 
 even in New York, who at the age of thirty has already 
 changed husbands three times, drained them and thrown 
 them aside as one would a rotten orange ; Hilda Ashhurst 
 who plays cards for a living and knows how to win; 
 Crosby Downs, a merciless voluptuary who makes a god 
 of his belly; Archie Westcott, the man Friday of every 
 Western millionaire with social ambitions who comes to 
 New York a man who lives by his social connections, his 
 wits and his looks ; Carol Gouverneur, his history needn't 
 be repeated " 
 
 "Nor mine " finished Olga quietly, "you needn't 
 
 go on." The calmness of her tone only brought its bitter- 
 ness into higher relief. Markham stopped, turned and 
 caught both her hands in his. 
 
 "No, not yours, Olga. God knows I didn't mean that. 
 You're not their kind, soulless, cynical, selfish and narrow 
 social parasites who poison what they feed on and live in 
 the idleness that better men and women have bought for 
 them. Call them your crowd if you like. I know better. 
 You've only taken people as you've found them taken 
 life as it was planned for you moved along the line of 
 least resistance because 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 a chance." 
 
 Her fingers clutched his and then quickly released 
 them. 
 
 74
 
 OLGA TCHERNY 
 
 "Oh, what's the use?" she went on in a stifled tone. 
 "Why couldn't you have let me live on, steeped in my 
 folly? It's too late for me to change. I can't. I'm 
 pledged. If I gamble, keep late hours, and do all the 
 things that this set does it's because if I didn't I should 
 die of 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 you hear?" 
 
 He looked up at her in surprise. One of her hands 
 was clenched on the balustrade and her dark eyes re- 
 garded him scornfully. 
 
 "I've made you angry ? I'm sorry," he said. 
 
 The tense lines of her figure suddenly relaxed as she 
 leaned against the pergola and then laughed up at the 
 sky. 
 
 "Would you preach to the stars, John Markham? 
 They're a merry congregation. They're laughing at you 
 as I am. A sermon by moonlight with only the stars 
 and a scoffer to listen !" 
 
 Her mockery astonished and bewildered him. His in- 
 dictment of those with whom she affiliated was no new 
 thing in their conversations, and he 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 to- 
 ward the moonlit sea. 
 
 "What a night for the moralities for the ashes of 
 repentance! I ask a man into the rose-garden to make 
 love to me and he preaches to me instead preaches to me! 
 of the world, the flesh and the devil, par exemple! Was 
 ever a pretty woman in a more humiliating position !" 
 
 She approached him again and leaned over him, the 
 
 75
 
 MADCAP 
 
 strands of her hair brushing his temples, her voice whis- 
 pering mockingly just at his ear. 
 
 "Oh, la la ! You make such a pretty lover, John. If 
 I could only paint you in your sackcloth and ashes, I 
 should die in content. What is it like, man ami, to feel 
 like moralizing in a rose-garden by moonlight? What do 
 they tell you the roses? Of the dull earth from which 
 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 of dying? Or don't they say any- 
 thing to you at all except that they are merely roses, 
 John?" 
 
 She brushed the blossom in her fingers lightly across 
 his lips and sprang away from him. But it was too late. 
 She had gone too far and she realized it in a moment ; for 
 though she eluded him once, he caught 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 de- 
 served this revenge she knew, but not the carelessness of 
 these kisses of retribution, 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 paid me, 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 
 
 76
 
 friendship ... it was so clean . , , 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 lips were insensate, and upon his hand a 
 drop of moisture fell a tear limpid, pure from the hidden 
 springs of the spirit. He kissed its piteous course upon 
 her cheek. 
 
 "Olga !" he whispered softly. "What have I done?" 
 
 "Killed something in me I think something gentle 
 and noble that was trying 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 away while with an anxious gaze he followed her. 
 
 "Our friendship I cared for that more than anything 
 else in the world," 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 shoul- 
 ders holding him at arm's length, flushed with her empty 
 victory ice-cold with self contempt at the means she 
 had used to accomplish it. Another man a man of her 
 own world would have played the game as she had played 
 it, mistrusting the tokens she had shown and taking her 
 
 77
 
 coquetry at its worldly value ; would have kissed and per- 
 haps forgotten the next morning. But as she looked in 
 Markham's eyes she saw with dismay that he still read her 
 heart correctly and that the pact of truthfulness which 
 neither of them had broken was considered a pact between 
 them still. Her gaze fell before his and she turned away, 
 sure now that for the sake of her pride she must deceive 
 him. 
 
 "No, I can teach you nothing, it seems, except, per- 
 haps, that you should not make the arms of your lady 
 black and blue. Love is a zephyr, mon ami, not a tor- 
 nado." 
 
 He stared at her, bewildered by the sudden transfor- 
 mation. 
 
 "I I kissed you," he said stupidly. "You wanted 
 me to." 
 
 "Did I?" she taunted him. "Who knows? If I did" 
 examining her wrist "I have now every reason to re- 
 gret it." 
 
 He stood peering down at her from his great height, 
 his thoughts tumbling into words. 
 
 "Don't lie to me, Olga. You were not content with 
 friendship. No woman ever is. You wanted me to do 
 what I have done." 
 
 "Perhaps," she admitted calmly, "but not the way you 
 did it. Kissing should be done upon the soft pedal mon 
 ami, adagio, con amore. Your technique 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. 
 
 78
 
 OLGA TCHERNY 
 
 "Thank you, no " she cried. 
 
 He went toward her again, but she sprang behind the 
 bench, Markham following, both intent upon their game. 
 He had seized her again when suddenly over their very 
 heads there was a sound of feminine laughter among the 
 vines from which there immediately emerged a white satin 
 slipper, a slender white ankle, followed quickly by another 
 draperies, and at last Hermia Challoner, who, swinging 
 for a moment by her hands, dropped breathlessly upon 
 the bench between them. Markham, whose nose had been 
 narrowly missed by the flying slippers, drew back in as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 "Hello!" panted Hermia, laughing. "Reggie was 
 chasing me, so I slipped over the balustrade onto the 
 pergola " She stopped and looked with quick intui- 
 tion from one to the other. "Sorry I blunder'd in here, 
 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 in 
 French heels. Mr. Markham and I were just trying to 
 decide whether this stone bench wouldn't be just the place 
 
 to do your portrait. If you'll observe " 
 
 The situation was so palpable. Hermia looked from 
 one to the other amusedly. Markham was following 
 Olga's artistic dissertation with the eye of dubiety, but 
 their hostess was merciless. 
 
 "Olga, dear," she inquired sweetly, "did you know your 
 back hair was down?" 
 
 "Oh, is it? How provoking! Georgette is positively 
 worthless !" 
 
 Even Olga's resourcefulness was not proof against 
 Hermia's persistent audacity, especially as she was aware 
 of a smudge of face-powder on John Markham's coat 
 lapel which could not have been attributed by any chance 
 to the deficiencies of her unlucky maid. 
 
 "Poor Georgette!" said Hermia softly, watching 
 Olga's fingers quickly twist the erring strand into place. 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of footsteps on the 
 walk and Reggie Armistead, who, like an ubiquitous ter- 
 rier, had at last found the scent, came down the arbor on 
 the run with Trewy Morehouse after him, a poor second, 
 and emerged upon the scene. 
 
 80
 
 OUT OF HIS DEPTH 
 
 "You're mine " cried Reggie triumphantly. "I 
 
 win !" He moved forward and 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 up languidly. 
 
 "Would you mind telling us what it all means?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Hermia laughed. "May I, Trewy?" 
 
 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 min- 
 utes' start from the house the two of them. Oh, what a 
 lark!" she laughed. "I made for the Maze, while they 
 watched me from the drawing-room windows ; but instead 
 of going in, I skirted the edge and crept through the 
 bushes on the other side. By the time they had reached 
 the privet hedge, I had gone through the house from the 
 kitchen to the terrace again, where I sat for ten minutes 
 entirely alone laughing and watching those geese chasing 
 each other around in the moonlight. I've never had such 
 fun since 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 
 
 81
 
 MADCAP 
 
 pergola, down which I crept on my 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 asked curiously. 
 
 "Yes for a month," said Reggie. "The idea was to 
 try and see if she really could like either of us well 
 enough to " 
 
 "I didn't really promise anything," Hermia broke in, 
 severely. "I merely 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 actually quarreling already." 
 
 "We always do " 
 
 "Then marry at once, my dears." 
 
 Hermia glanced at Markham, who was leaning over 
 the back of the bench watching the scene with alien eyes. 
 She turned toward Armistead frankly with an extended 
 hand, which he promptly seized. 
 
 "You are a nice boy, Reggie. I'll try it. But you'll 
 have to promise " 
 
 "Oh, I'll promise anything," cried Reggie rapturously. 
 
 The excellent Trevelyan watched them a moment in 
 silence, and then lighting his cigarette slowly wandered 
 away. 
 
 Hermia and Armistead followed hand in hand, but not 
 before Hermia had turned her head over her shoulder and 
 whispered mischievously to Olga: 
 
 82
 
 OUT OF HIS DEPTH 
 
 "You can sit as many risks as you run, Olga, dar- 
 ling." 
 
 In the moments which had passed during this interest- 
 ing revelation Olga Tcherny had been thinking desper- 
 ately. The taste of life had never been so sweet in her 
 mouth nor so bitter. With the departure of the trio 
 Markham had not moved, but his eyes followed the two 
 figures through the rose garden. The moon was suddenly 
 snuffed out and the sea grew lead-color like a passion 
 that has gone stale. Markham's silhouette loomed mon- 
 strous against the sky, and the silence was abruptly 
 broken by the rough laughter of Crosby Downs from 
 somewhere 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 his fingers from her arm. 
 
 "It's a pity " he stopped again. "What you said 
 
 was true. You and I one of us has killed the old rela- 
 tion 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 your- 
 self much to forgive if you really care !" 
 
 His ingenuousness was alarming. 
 
 " 'Par exemple!" She bantered him. "You mean that 
 I that I love you?" 
 
 83
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Yes, I mean just that." 
 
 She took quick refuge in laughter. 
 
 "You are the most surprising creature! Much as I 
 esteem, I cannot flatter you so much as that." And she 
 drew away from him, still laughing 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, gently ironical. "Your code is meshed in the cob- 
 webs of antiquity. One kisses 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 minnows and 
 caught a Tartar voila tout. I love you I do love you 
 but only when you paint, monsieur I'artiste then you 
 are magnificent a companion to the gods! When you 
 kiss Oh, la la ! You are er paleozoic !" 
 
 It was Olga's master stroke. She could parry no 
 longer and must thrust if she would survive. The tender- 
 ness that his gaucherie aroused in her made her the more 
 merciless in her mockery ! And she was aware of a throb 
 of exaltation as she made the sacrifice which prevented the 
 declaration that was hanging on his lips. In making a 
 fool 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. He was no squire of dames he knew, 
 and what she said of him touched him on the raw of his 
 self-esteem. Paleozoic he might be, but it stung him 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, do it as other gods do by messenger. 
 Otherwise your Elysian dignity is in jeopardy. You are 
 
 84
 
 OUT OF HIS DEPTH 
 
 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 figure rebuking his insufficiency, and he followed 
 dumbly, aware of it. 
 
 Upon the terrace occupied by couples intent upon 
 private matters, she promptly deserted him, leaving him 
 without a word to his own devices. He stood for a mo- 
 ment of uncertainty, and then fumbling in his pocket for 
 his pipe, which was not there, went into the smoking-room 
 in search of a cigarette. 
 
 "Two spades," declared Archie Westcott at the auc- 
 tion table, and then when Markham went out, "Odd fish 
 that." 
 
 "Three hearts," said Mrs. Renshaw. "Why Hermia 
 asks such people I can't imagine. You're never certain 
 whom you're asked to meet nowadays. 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. Remember that queer little French marquis 
 who trailed around after her at Monte Carlo ?" 
 
 "Oh, play ball," growled Gouverneur. "Who cares 
 so long as he keeps out of here." 
 
 Unaware of these unflattering comments, Markham 
 strolled out of doors and into a lonely armchair on the 
 terrace, and smoked in solitary dignity. Indeed solitude 
 seemed to be the only thing left to him. He was not a 
 man who made friends rapidly, and the three or four peo- 
 ple whom he might have cared to cultivate had other fish 
 
 85
 
 MADCAP 
 
 to fry to-night and were not frying them on the terrace. 
 Olga, it seemed, had no intention of returning and Hermia 
 Challoner was doubtless already in that happy phase of 
 experimentation so warmly advocated by Reggie Armis- 
 tead. 
 
 He envied those two young people their carelessness, 
 their grace, their ruddy delights which by contrast added 
 conviction to Olga's indictment of him. He tried with 
 some difficulty to analyze the precise nature of his senti- 
 ments toward Olga Tcherny, and found at the end of a 
 quarter of an hour, to his surprise, that the only feeling of 
 which he was conscious was one of dull resentment at her 
 for having made a fool of him. 
 
 Whatever Markham the painter had accomplished in 
 the delineation of character of the fashionable women he 
 had painted, the truth was that Markham both feared and 
 misunderstood them. Their changing moods, their unac- 
 countable likes and dislikes, their petty ambitions and 
 vanities he accepted as part of the heritage of a race of 
 beings apart from his own, and he hid his timidity under a 
 brusque manner which gave him credit for a keener pene- 
 tration than he actually possessed. And, strangely 
 enough, Fate, with sardonic humor, had given him a knack, 
 which so few painters possess, of catching on canvas the 
 elusive charm of his feminine sitters, of investing with 
 grace those characteristics he professed so much to de- 
 spise. He had told Hermia Challoner that he did not 
 paint "pretty" portraits, but as Olga knew, it was upon 
 his delineation of beauty, his manipulation of dainty dra- 
 peries, the sheen of silk and satin, that his reputation so 
 securely rested. It was perhaps merely a contemptuous 
 cleverness which had given him the name among his craft 
 of being a "master brushman." 
 
 86
 
 OUT OF HIS DEPTH 
 
 Into Olga Tcherny's portrait he had put something 
 more of his sitter than usual. He had painted the soul of 
 the girl in the body of the woman of thirty, and if he ren- 
 dered his subject in a manner more stilted than usual, he 
 repaid her in the real interest with which her portrait was 
 invested. He liked Olga. He had accepted her warily at 
 first until he had proved to his own satisfaction the dis- 
 interestedness of her regard and then he had given her his 
 friendship without reserve, his first real friendship with a 
 woman of the world, conscious of the charm of their rela- 
 tion from which all sentiment had been banished. 
 
 He had awakened rudely to-night. He was now aware 
 that sentiment on Olga's part had never been banished 
 nor could ever be banished with a woman of her type. He 
 had made the mistake of judging her by the records of 
 their friendship, unmindful of her history as to which he 
 had 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 reasons of her own she wanted 
 him. She had been playing him skillfully for months, giv- 
 ing him all the line in her reel that he might be hooked the 
 more easily. And to what end? Their friendship had 
 fallen into shreds. What was to follow? 
 
 Of one thing he was certain. He was learning some- 
 thing, also progressing. In the twelve hours that had 
 passed he had kissed two women something of a record 
 for a man of his prejudices. He rose and threw the un- 
 satisfactory cigarette into the bushes. It was high time 
 he was making his way back to Thimble Island and soli- 
 tude. 
 
 There was a rustle of silk behind him, and he turned. 
 
 87
 
 "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 her juvenility. 
 
 "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 sat and 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 the face " 
 
 "But I can and I find it very pleasant." 
 
 "Oh shame! To take advantage of my childish 
 credulity my trusting innocence. You make me believe 
 you to be a fossilized pedant a philosopher prematurely 
 aged willing to barter your hope of salvation for a 
 draught of the Fountain of Youth and I find you making 
 love to my chaperon and most distinguished woman guest ! 
 And I was actually offering to teach you! Aren't you a 
 little ashamed of yourself?" 
 
 "No, I think not," he said slowly. "You know Mad- 
 ame Tcherny is a very old friend of mine." 
 
 "So she is of mine. She's a perfectly adorable chap- 
 eron but then there 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 mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "Oh, Olga is quite capable of taking care of herself. 
 It isn't Olga I'm thinking about at all. It's you, my poor 
 
 88
 
 OUT OF HIS DEPTH 
 
 friend. Did you know that Olga has the reputation of 
 being quite the most dangerous woman in Europe?" 
 
 "All women are dangerous. Fortunately I'm not the 
 kind of man such women 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 most of the characteristics of an 
 amiable gorilla ; on Thimble Island you seemed like Di- 
 ogenes without the tub; to-night you're Lothario, Blue- 
 beard, and Lancelot all in one." 
 
 "I'm afraid you flatter me. First impressions are 
 usually correct, I think. I'm an amiable gorilla. Per- 
 haps by the time you visit my studio again, I may have 
 reached the next link in the chain to the human." He 
 laughed and then quickly turned the conversation to a 
 topic less 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 that you 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 passage is booked for Europe early in the 
 month. I leave Thimble Island almost at once." 
 
 "Oh, that's unkind of you. Don't you find it suffi- 
 ciently attractive here?" 
 
 "Yes, I do. Unfortunately, I can't consult my own 
 wishes in the matter." 
 
 She had been examining him narrowly. 
 
 "You don't want to stay, Mr. Markham," she an- 
 nounced, decisively. 
 
 He looked her in the eyes, but made no reply. 
 
 89
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 here because you thought you ought to 
 be polite. You go because you think you have been quite 
 polite enough. Isn't that true?" 
 
 "Figuratively, yes," he replied frankly. "I'm not 
 gregarious by instinct. 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 I see 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 but a 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 at her inquisitively, but she went up the steps, 
 one hand extended over the baluster to his, laughing mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 90
 
 OUT OF HIS DEPTH 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Markham. Thanks for the break- 
 fast and the philosophy. But please remember that 
 people who love in glass houses shouldn't cast asper- 
 sions."
 
 LIKE the skillful general who covers his retreat by 
 an unexpected show of strength, Olga Tcherny 
 had retired in good order, with colors flying. She 
 had struck hard, spent some ammunition and endangered 
 her line of communications, but she had reached the cover 
 of the tall timbers, where for the moment it was safe to 
 go into camp, repair damages and take account of in- 
 juries. 
 
 At the beginning of their acquaintance her interest in 
 Markham had not been unlike that of the motherly hen in 
 the doings of the newly hatched duckling with which she 
 differed as to the practical utility of duckponds. She 
 had been intensely interested in his work and in his career 
 which during the winter in Paris had been definitely 
 shaped as a painter of successful portraits. She had 
 liked the man from the first, liked him well enough to be 
 as genuine as he was, and found delight in a companion- 
 ship which led her down pleasant lanes of thought 
 which terminated, as they had begun, in quiet satisfaction. 
 He neither lied to her nor flattered her; his speech had 
 the simple directness of a child's, and while she frequently 
 reproved him for his rusticity, in secret she adored it. 
 She had been used all her life to the polish of Europe, sa- 
 tiated with its compliments, glutted with its hypocrisy, 
 courted by men with manner and no manners, whom she 
 had met with their own weapons. She had never known a 
 
 92
 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 real friendship in man or woman had not even sought 
 friendship, because life had taught her that, for her, such 
 things did not exist. In Markham she had found the myth 
 without searching, and once found she had grappled it to 
 her soul with hoops of steel. His friendship it was that 
 she had loved not Markham. He was her own discovery, 
 her very own, and she followed her first sober impulse, 
 calmly, giving him the best of her, scorning the arts which 
 she had been accustomed to employ on other men with so 
 much success. 
 
 A born coquette is much like the hunter who hunts 
 for the love of hunting and has no appetite for game 
 upon his own table. Olga Tcherny had hunted in all the 
 covers of sportive Europe with an appetite which always 
 ended with the chase. Markham had not been marked as 
 game. He was 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 he should learn to 
 care for her. The love of being loved was habit, in- 
 grained, and she could not dismiss it with a word. But 
 she gave him her friendship, and having given it would 
 not recant from her secret vow to be honest with it and 
 with him. 
 
 There had been moments of uncertainty, moments of 
 ennui, but never of danger until to-night, when she had 
 fallen from grace and yielded to an impulse, once ignoble, 
 but now ignoble no longer, to bring Markham at all haz- 
 ards to her feet. It was no longer their friendship that 
 she loved, but Markham. She loved fervently as coquettes 
 will at last, placing in one ship the cargo that had fared 
 
 93
 
 MADCAP 
 
 forth in so many vessels. It was the coquette in her that 
 had mocked and tantalized him, the coquette even whom 
 he had kissed but it was the woman who had struck and 
 now suffered the pains of her imprudence. 
 
 Olga dismissed the unfortunate Georgette when she 
 came to brush her hair and threw herself on the bed, both 
 hands supporting her chin, staring at vacancy. He had 
 guessed the truth the agony of it ! She had wept real 
 tears, the tears of subjection. She had begun a coquette, 
 trusting to her skill in dissimulation, but her heart had 
 betrayed her. She had wept and Markham had seen her 
 tears. Even a less sophisticated man than he would have 
 known that women of her type only weep when they are 
 stirred to the lees. Had she deceived him in the end? 
 The doubt still assailed her. She had cut him deeply, hurt 
 his amour propre and left him scowling in Arcadian re- 
 sentment. Would the lesson last? Or must she seek 
 further means to convince him of her indifference? Why 
 had she provoked him? A whim the dormant devil in 
 her to whom her better self must now pay in the loss of 
 his friendship. 
 
 The old relation between them was dead. She had 
 nailed it in its coffin. He did not love her, but she knew, 
 that had she wished, she could have made him think he was, 
 coaxed lies from his lips which both of them would have 
 lived to regret. 
 
 The future? Had she one? Happiness? It must 
 come soon. She had reached the beginning of wrinkles 
 and cheekbones and her wrists were squarer 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 
 
 94
 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 in a hand-mirror with assiduous care. Yes, crow's feet 
 three of them at each eye, and two tiny wrinkles leading 
 into her dimples. She was positively haggard to-night. 
 It did not do for the woman of thirty to cry. Her hair 
 another gray one she plucked it out viciously. She 
 would not grow old. Age was a disease which could be 
 prevented by the use of proper precautions. She must 
 stop playing cards so late, get up earlier, 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 upon the wall beside her which bore a photo- 
 graph of her young hostess astride her favorite hunter. 
 Hermia's youth and her own knowledge of the world 
 what would she not give for that indomitable combina- 
 tion ! She was glad in a way that Markham had decided 
 to postpone the painting of Hermia's portrait. She 
 wasn't quite certain about Hermia.. It was never wise to 
 be certain about any girl especially if that girl was 
 seven years younger than you were and quite as pretty. 
 And what on earth did Hermia mean by scrubbing John 
 Markham's floor? In her present mood it seemed a sym- 
 bol was it prophetic? Markham was candid in his likes 
 and dislikes and he made no bones now of the pleasure in 
 Hermia's society. Hermia was a surprising person. Her 
 love of mischief was increasing with her years, her ca- 
 pacity for making it only limited by the end of oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 She was not surprised when she came downstairs 
 rather late the next morning to learn that Markham had 
 returned to the island. This meant that he was still 
 angry which was healthful. She needed a little time for 
 reconstruction, too, and Markham's anger was a more 
 
 95
 
 MADCAP 
 
 pleasant thought for contemplation than his repentance, 
 apology or sentiment, all of which he would have offered 
 as sops to her pride, and none of which could have been 
 genuine. His departure without seeing her meant that he 
 had believed her spoken word rather than that which had 
 been written in silence, the testimony of her drooping fig- 
 ure and her unlucky tears. 
 
 A walk refreshed her. By the time she returned to 
 "Wake-Robin" all doubts had been cleared from her mind. 
 She would wait. He would come to 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. She stopped and watched them for a 
 moment, when Hermia joined her and they walked toward 
 the house together. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, Olga " Hermia paused. 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Last night. How should / have known that the per- 
 gola was occupied !" 
 
 "Oh, it didn't matter in the least," she said coolly. 
 "Markham was making love to me, that's all. Pity isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes, it is," said Hermia slowly, "a great pity 
 you're no respecter of persons, Olga." 
 
 Olga shrugged effectively. 
 
 "How should 7 have known?" 
 
 "You have had time enough to study him, I should say. 
 Why couldn't you let 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 the unexpected." 
 
 96
 
 Hermia laughed dryly. "One doesn't plan the unex- 
 pected quite so carefully 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 first time in her life she had made a mistake 
 in judgment ; for Mr. Markham did not return to "Wake- 
 Robin." And when she went to the island in the 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 him dated 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 or two. What is the use? I have forgotten my mis- 
 adventure and will consider it a warning against rosegardens. 
 I'll not venture into a rose garden by moonlight again unless 
 quite alone. It's dangerous even with a sworn friend. It 
 wasn't altogether your fault or mine, and you served me quite 
 properly in cutting my self-esteem to ribbons. But it hurt, 
 Olga. You know the least of us mortals thinks he's a heart- 
 breaker, if he tries to be. You've put me back upon my shelf 
 among the cobwebs and there I shall remain. I'm hopeless 
 material to work with socially and deserve no better fate than 
 to be laid 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 human somehow. But your world of dis- 
 satisfied women and unsatisfied men! It gets on my nerves, 
 and so I've cut it and run. 
 
 97
 
 MADCAP 
 
 I'm painting an antiquated countess in Havre, and then 
 I'm off for the open country with a thumb box, a toothbrush 
 and a smile, and with this equipment I have all that the world 
 can offer. I shall live upon the fat of the land at forty sous 
 a day ripaille under the trees a sound red wine to wash 
 the dust from one's throat and an appetite and a thirst such 
 as Westport will never know. 
 
 An revoir, chere Olga. I could wish you with me, but I 
 shall be many honest kilometers from a limousine, which is 
 not your idea of a 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 rather churlish departure from "Wake Robin," and, if it 
 isn't already too late to restore myself to your graces, I hope 
 you will accept my regrets and apologies, and the sketch from 
 Thimble Island, which goes to you by express. I hope you 
 will like it. I do. That's why I'm giving it to you. But it's 
 hardly complete without the wrecked monoplane and the small 
 person who came with it. Perhaps some day you'll "drop 
 in" on me again somewhere and I can finish it. Meanwhile 
 please think seriously about the portrait. I don't believe I'm 
 just the man to do it. I can't seem to see you somehow. My 
 business is to portray the social anachronism. That is easy 
 a matter of clothes. But how shall a mere mortal define in 
 terms of paint the dwellers of the air? You have me guess- 
 ing, dear lady. Imagine Ariel in the conventional broadcloth 
 of commerce. It's preposterous. I can't lend myself to any 
 such deception. 
 
 The rest of the letter was more formal and finished 
 with a message of congratulation to Mr. Armistead and a 
 
 98
 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 word of thanks for her own hospitality. And he hoped to 
 remain very cordially "John Markham." 
 
 Hermia smiled as she finished it and then read it over 
 again. The letter with its mixture of the formal and 
 whimsical both pleased and reassured her. It represented 
 more the Markham of Thimble Island, a person whose 
 identity had lost something of its definiteness since her 
 talks with Olga in the days that had followed his depar- 
 ture from "Wake-Robin." She had been aware of a sense 
 of doubt and disappointment in him and she had not been 
 quite so sure that she liked him now. Of course, if he 
 chose to make a fool of himself over Olga it was none of 
 her affair, and she had been obliged to admit that her 
 discovery had taken from him some of the charm of origi- 
 nality. She did not know what had passed between her 
 guests before her abrupt descent through the pergola, but 
 she was quite certain she had fallen into the middle of a 
 psychological moment. Whose moment was it, Olga's or 
 his? She couldn't help wondering. Olga had intimated 
 that Markham was in love with her. Hermia now doubted. 
 Indeed a suspicion was 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 matter to her, 
 of course, only interested her a great deal, but she 
 couldn't help wondering why, if Markham was so deeply 
 under the spell of Olga's worldliness, he had not come 
 back to her when she had wanted him. 
 
 A northeaster had set in along the coast, and the 
 guests of "Wake Robin" were driven indoors. Olga, when 
 she wasn't playing auction, wandered from window to 
 window, looking out at the dreary skies, venting her en- 
 nui on anyone within earshot. Archie Westcott, who was 
 losing more money than he could afford to lose, now 
 
 99
 
 MADCAP 
 
 lacked the buoyant spirits which carried him so blithely 
 along the crest of the social wave and scowled gloomily 
 at his cards which persisted in favoring his opponents. 
 Crosby Downs, whose waistband had again reached its 
 fullest tension, sought the tall grasses of the smoking- 
 room and refused to be dislodged. Without the shadows 
 of her hat and veil Mrs. Renshaw showed her age to a day, 
 and that ,didn't improve her temper. Beatrice Codding- 
 ton had an attack of the megrims and remained in her 
 room. 
 
 Hermia played bottle pool and pinochle with Reggie 
 Armistead until they began discussing the exact terms of 
 Hermia's promise when there began a quarrel which 
 lasted the entire afternoon and ended in Reggie's going 
 out 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 sat pretending that he was in- 
 terested in Phyllis Van Vorst and casting gloomy looks 
 in the direction of the oblivious Hermia. At the end. of 
 three days there were no more than two people in the 
 house on terms of civility, and most of Hermia's guests 
 had departed. 
 
 Olga Tcherny, after an afternoon alone in her room, 
 came downstairs at the last extremity of fatigue. 
 
 "I can't stand it another hour, Hermia. I am 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 anti- 
 quated countess in Havre and abandoning the 
 luxuries of the Hotel Frascati had taken to the 
 road with his knapsack and painting kit for a two months' 
 jaunt along unfrequented Norman byways. This had 
 been his custom since his first year in Paris, when his 
 means were small and the wanderlust drove him forth 
 from the streets of Paris. He had walked from the Sa- 
 voie to Brittany, from Belgium to Provence and the 
 vagabond instinct in him had grown no less with advanc- 
 ing years. He liked the long days in the open. The 
 slowly moving panorama of hill and dell, which was lost 
 upon the touring motorists who continually passed him, 
 filling the air with their evil smells and clouds of dust. 
 He liked the odor of the loam in the early morning, the 
 clean air washed by the dew and redolent of burning wood, 
 the drowsy hour of noon with its meal of cheese and bread 
 eaten at the shady brink of some musical stream and the 
 day-dream or doze that followed it; the long mellow aft- 
 ernoons under the blue arch of sky where the pink clouds 
 moved as lazily as he, in vagabond procession, across the 
 zenith. His aimlessness and theirs made them brothers 
 of the air, and he followed them under the trackless sky, 
 aware that his destination for the night lay somewhere 
 ahead of him, leaving the rest to chance and the patron 
 saint of Nomads. He liked the rugged faces he saw on 
 
 101
 
 MADCAP 
 
 the road, the Norman welcome of his host and the deep 
 sleep of utter weariness and content which defied the 
 tooth of time and discomfort. 
 
 After a few days in Rouen, where he always lingered 
 longer than he intended to, he had crossed the river at 
 Sotteville and had followed main roads which led him to 
 the south and east through the heart of the 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 looked askance at his dusty clothes and 
 general air of disrepute. He was not in the humor for 
 Olga's kind of friends cr indeed for Olga, if as the last 
 note from her had indicated she, too, had arrived on this 
 side of the water. He was sufficient unto himself and 
 gloried in his selfishness. Song he would have and did 
 often have at night with his chance companions of the 
 road, and wine or the sound Norman cider which was 
 better but no women no women for him ! 
 
 It was on the road beyond Evreux that he thus con- 
 gratulated himself for the twentieth time. His path 
 passed near the brink of a river fringed with trees and to 
 the right the hills mounted abruptly to a rocky eminence, 
 crowned with an ancient castle which stolidly sat as it 
 had done for a thousand years and guarded the peaceful 
 valley beneath. It had looked down upon the pageantry 
 of an earlier day when knights in armor 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 
 in the distance the clash of Ivry. To-day a railroad 
 wound around the base of its pedestal, reminding it of 
 the new order of things and of its own antiquity. 
 
 As Markham approached the railroad crossing, from 
 102
 
 THE GATES OF CHANCE 
 
 the opposite direction, in a cloud of dust, came an auto- 
 mobile. But as it neared the track a woman waving a red 
 flag and blowing a horn came running from a small house 
 by the roadside and pulled the gates across the road. 
 The automobile, which had only one occupant, came to 
 a sudden stop and an argument followed. Markham was 
 too far away to hear what was said, but the gestures of 
 the disputants could be easily understood. There was no 
 train in sight and plenty of time to cross, said the mo- 
 torist. The peasant waved her flag and pointed down the 
 track. More words, more gesticulations, but the gate- 
 keeper was obdurate. The motorist looked up the track 
 and at the gate and road, and then followed explosives, 
 smoke and dust from the impatient machine, which slowly 
 moved backward a short distance up the road again. 
 Markham, slowly approaching, watched the comedy with 
 interest. An impatient Parisian, jealous of the passing 
 minutes, and an obstinate peasant to whom passing min- 
 utes had no significance could any two humans be more 
 definitely antagonistic? 
 
 What was the person in the car about? More explo- 
 sions and the blue of burning oil as the car came forward, 
 its cutout open, turning to the left off the road over a 
 ditch and into a field. The gate-keeper ran forward shak- 
 ing her flag and screaming as she guessed the motorist's 
 intention. But it was too late. The car was hidden for 
 a moment from Markham's view in the declivity upon the 
 other side of the railroad embankment, the exhaust roar- 
 ing furiously, and leaped into sight, the front wheels high 
 in the air as it took the near rail and then fell heavily 
 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 
 103
 
 MADCAP 
 
 crying in French to the chauffeur to jump, for around the 
 profile of the hill the locomotive of the oncoming train 
 was emerging. The motorist looked at Markham and 
 then at the advancing train in bewilderment ; then j umped 
 clear of the track beside Markham as the freight train, 
 its brakes creaking, its steam shrieking, crashed into the 
 unfortunate machine, turning it over and then crumpling 
 it into a shapeless mass, through which it tore, its im- 
 petus carrying it well down the road and scattering the 
 torn fragments of nickel and steel on both sides of the 
 tracks. 
 
 It was not until the train had been brought to a stop 
 that Markham had had time to notice that the motorist 
 was a woman not until she turned a rather wan face in 
 his direction that he saw that the victim of this misfor- 
 tune 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 waited a moment " 
 
 "It was a new machine," she stammered. 'I was try- 
 ing for a record to Trouville from Paris 
 
 "It was a d n fool thing to do," he blurted forth 
 
 angrily. "You might have 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 petrified with fright, now resumed her screams 
 and gesticulations as the crew of the train descended. In 
 a few moments they surrounded Hermia, all shouting at 
 once, and waving their arms under Hermia's nose. She 
 attempted replies, but the noise was deafening and no 
 
 104
 
 THE GATES OF CHANCE 
 
 one listened to her. Peasants working in the fields nearby 
 who had heard the crash came running and added their 
 numbers and temperaments to the Babel. The gate- 
 keeper thrust herself violently into the midst of the group 
 pointing at the wreck of the machine and at Hermia, her 
 remarks as unintelligible to the train crew as they were 
 to Markham. 
 
 Hermia stood her ground, but when one of the train 
 crew seized her by the arm and thrust his grimy face 
 close to her own she grew pale and drew back. Markham 
 stepped between and gave the fellow a shove which sent 
 him sprawling. There was a pause and for a moment mat- 
 ters looked difficult. But Markham mounted the embank- 
 ment, drew Hermia up beside him, put his back against a 
 car, held up his hand and in French demanded silence. 
 His voice rang true and they listened. He had seen the 
 accident from the road and would bear witness. It was 
 not the fault of the gate-keeper or of the lady who drove 
 the car. It was simply an accident in which lives had 
 fortunately been spared. The axle of the machine had 
 broken upon the track. If there was any claim for dam- 
 ages 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 the investigation and, after a number of 
 questions of Hermia and the gate-keeper, sent the train 
 upon its way. 
 
 Amid the turmoil of the gate-keeper's voice who was 
 recounting the affair to the latest arrivals Hermia 
 watched the train as it passed between the fragments of 
 what a few minutes before had been a new French machine. 
 Some of the peasants had already gathered around the 
 
 105
 
 MADCAP ^^ 
 
 wreck and one of them restored her leather bag, which had 
 been tossed some distance into the ditch. To all appear- 
 ances this was the only salvage and she took it gratefully. 
 A walk down the track convinced Markham 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 
 and led her away. She followed him silently up the road 
 by which she had come until they had left the gaping 
 crowd behind them. Then he made her sit on a bank by 
 the roadside and unslinging his knapsack dropped beside 
 her. 
 
 "Well?" he asked. 
 
 She looked down the road toward the scene of her mis- 
 fortune, the smile, half plaintive, half whimsical, that had 
 been hovering on her lips suddenly 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 hu- 
 man so intelligent " a tear trembled on her lashes 
 
 and fell "and I've only had it two days." 
 
 She was the child with a broken toy. It was the child 
 he wanted to comfort. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said genuinely. "I wish I could put it 
 together for you 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 wounded animal. You heard it, didn't 
 you? And it was all my fault. That's what hurts me 
 so." 
 
 "One gets over being hurt, but one doesn't get over 
 being dead. You only missed being killed by the part of 
 .a second." 
 
 106
 
 THE GATES OF CHANCE 
 
 She dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of 
 her hand. 
 
 "Oh, I know. And I'm awfully grateful. I really am. 
 I don't know why I 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 were there." 
 
 She buried her face in her hands a moment and when 
 she straightened was quite calm again. 
 
 "It's all over now, Mr. Markham, and I'm awfully 
 obliged," she said with a laugh. "You seem fated to be 
 the recording angel of my maddest ventures." 
 
 "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 a smile as one would have done from a mis- 
 chievous child. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "The world is very small, isn't it, Mr. Markham?" she 
 asked. "What on earth 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 high and low for you ?" 
 
 "No. I didn't know it. Where is she now?" 
 
 "At Trouville. And I was to have dined with her to- 
 night." 
 
 "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 
 
 107
 
 MADCAP 
 
 wondered what it would be like to be a vagabond ? I think 
 I really am one deep down in my heart." 
 
 "Vagabonds are born not made, Miss Challoner. 
 They belong to the immortal Fellowship of the Open Air, 
 an association which dates from Esau an exclusive com- 
 pany, I can tell you, which black-balled brother Jacob, 
 and made Fra^ois Villon its laureate. It is the only club 
 in the world where the possession of money is looked on 
 with suspicion. Imagine a vagabond in a six thousand- 
 dollar motor car !" 
 
 She opened her eyes wide and threw out her hands with 
 a hopeless gesture. 
 
 "But I'm not responsible for the money. / didn't 
 make it. I don't see 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 unfortunate millions. 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 
 conventional instinct. I've never had. I hate convention. 
 It fetters and stifles me. My money ! If you only knew 
 how I loathe the responsibilities, the endless formalities, 
 the people who prey upon me and those who would like to, 
 the toadying of the older people, the hypocrisy of the 
 younger ones. It isn't me that they care for. I have no 
 friends. No one as rich as I am can have friends. I dis- 
 trust everyone. Sometimes I've thought of going away 
 from it all disappearing and never coming back again. 
 I'm so tired of having everything I want. I want to want 
 something I can't get. I am weary of everything that 
 life can offer me. I have to choose unhealthy excitements 
 
 108
 
 THE GATES OF CHANCE 
 
 to keep my soul alive. Speed danger they're the only 
 things that seem to make life worth while." 
 
 He shook his head as she paused for breath. 
 
 "Oh, I know you think I'm mad. I seem so by con- 
 trast to your content. You seem so happy, Mr. Mark- 
 ham." 
 
 "I am," he said. "All vagabonds are happy." 
 
 She looked at him enviously as though she might by 
 chance discover his secret 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 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 Trou- 
 ville 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 
 
 109
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 indif- 
 ference 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, sling- 
 ing 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 grass 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. Mark- 
 ham, 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 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 
 110
 
 THE GATES OF CHANCE 
 
 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 natter and use me, the people 
 of society who invite me to their houses and take my char- 
 acter when my back is turned. I'm a slave, John Mark- 
 ham, a moral coward, afraid of my enemies afraid of my 
 friends, afraid to hate, afraid to love distrusting every- 
 one 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?" 
 
 Ill
 
 MADCAP __^ 
 
 "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 flat- 
 tered 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 be- 
 lieve 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 in- 
 nocence which was appalling. 
 
 "The roads of France are free," he laughed gayly. 
 "How should / 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 his gaze, but she 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 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." 
 
 "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," he replied. "The person by the name of Hermia 
 Challoner from this point simply 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 of France, at two francs the head." 
 
 "Delicious! And I ?" 
 
 "You? You'll have to be my er sister." 
 113
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Oh, never ! I simply won't be your sister. That's en- 
 tirely too respectable. A pretty vagabond you'll have 
 me ! You'll be giving me a green umbrella and a copy of 
 Baedeker nest. I'll be something devilish and French or 
 I'll be Hermia. Yvonne that's my name Yvonne Des- 
 champs, 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, and then smiled and shrugged a shoulder with 
 an air of accepting the inevitable. 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 Mark- 
 ham, after some searching among the bushes, found the 
 number of the machine still clinging to the ruins of the 
 radiator. This he unstrapped and slipped into his knap- 
 sack, presently joining Hermia, who was making her peace 
 with the gate-keeper. 
 
 "Two tires, one wheel the speedometer," she was say- 
 ing in French. "I will leave them for you to sell, 
 Madame, if you can. And Monsieur he may have what- 
 ever else is left. That is understood between you, and 
 these gentlemen will bear witness. As for me never will 
 I ride in an automobile again. If it pleases you, say noth- 
 ing more of this than may be necessary. Adieu, Madame 
 ct Monsieur." 
 
 There were offers of conveyance to Evreux (for a con- 
 114
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 sideration), which Markham refused, and the two com- 
 panions took to the road and soon passed out of sight, 
 leaving the group of peasants staring after them, still 
 mystified as to the whole occurrence and wondering with 
 Norman stolidity whether Hermia was mad or just a fool. 
 \ As Hermia followed Markham over the ridge and down 
 the long slope that led to Vagabondia a deep-drawn 
 breath of delight escaped her. 
 
 The gray road descended slowly into a valley, already 
 filled with the long shadows of the afternoon a valley of 
 ripening crops laid out in lozenges of green and purple 
 and gold, like a harlequin suit, girdled at the waist by the 
 blue ribbon of the river, a cap of green and purple where 
 a clump of young oaks perched jauntily on the bald con- 
 tour of the distant hilltop; above, a sky of blue flecked 
 with saffron and silver like a turquoise matrix against 
 which the tall poplars marched in stately procession, their 
 feathery tops nodding solemnly 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 the stretch of road in front 
 of her, its "thank ye marms," its ditches and its speed 
 signs. 
 
 She glanced up at Markham, who strode silently be- 
 side her, his pipe hanging bowl-downward from his teeth, 
 his lips smiling under the shadowy mustache, his eyes 
 blinking merrily at the sky. She guessed now at the rea- 
 son for the serenity in his face, as to which she had been 
 so curious. It was the reflection of the wide blue vault 
 above him, 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." 
 
 115
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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, that this 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 under the circumstances. You aren't re- 
 gretting this madness? There's still time 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 town huddled among the trees along the river 
 bank. They were still on the main line of communication 
 between Paris and the Coast, and here perhaps they would 
 find a telephone or telegraph office. Hermia made a wry 
 face. 
 
 "I didn't know there were any telephones in Vaga- 
 bondia." 
 
 "There aren't. We haven't reached there yet." He 
 glanced at her modish French suit and hat and down at 
 the English leather traveling case she was carrying. 
 
 "If you think you look like a vagabond in that get up 
 you're much mistaken," he laughed. 
 
 "I don't. I know I don't," looking ruefully at her 
 clothes. "But I will before long. You'll see." 
 
 The village upon closer inspection achieved a dignity 
 which the distance denied it. There was a row of small 
 shops, a brasserie and an inn, all slumbering under the 
 shadows of a grove of trees. The road became a street. 
 Upon their left a gate into an open-air cabaret under the 
 trees next to a wine shop stood invitingly open, and the 
 
 116
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 pilgrims entered. There were wooden tables and benches 
 upon which sat some workmen in their white smocks drink- 
 ing beer and discussing politics. 
 
 The proprietor of the place, a motherly person, took 
 Markham's order and went indoors, presently emerging 
 with a tray which bore a pitcher of cider, a wonderful 
 cheese and a tower of bread, all of which she deposited 
 before them. She only glanced at Markham, for she was 
 used to the visits of traveling craftsmen along the high- 
 way but she studied Hermia's modish frock with a crit- 
 ical eye. After the first polite greetings she lingered 
 nearby, her curiosity getting the better of her discretion. 
 
 "Monsieur and Madame are stopping at the Inn?" she 
 asked at last. 
 
 Markham smiled. It was the curiosity of interest 
 rather than intrusiveness. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame had not decided yet. Was the 
 inn a good one? 
 
 Very good. Monsieur Duchanel, a cousin of hers, took 
 great pride in receiving guests who knew good fare. 
 
 All the while she was appraising with a Norman eye 
 the value of the feather in Hermia's hat. 
 
 "We thought of going on to Boisset," Markham went 
 on. "Perhaps it is too far to reach by nightfall." 
 
 "Oh, mon Dieu, yes if one is walking ten kilometers 
 at the least. Did Monsieur and Madame desire a car- 
 
 riage 
 
 'r"' 
 
 "No, perhaps after all we will stay here." 
 
 This wouldn't do at all. To be taken for persons who 
 
 were accustomed to the excellences of French cuisine was 
 
 not Hermia's idea of being a vagabond. She had been 
 
 studying the face of their hostess and came to a sudden 
 
 117
 
 MADCAP 
 
 resolution. Here was the person who could, if she would, 
 complete her emancipation. Turning to Markham she 
 said smoothly in French : 
 
 "Will you go on to the Inn and see if you can find 
 accommodations? In the meanwhile I will stay here and 
 talk with Madame." 
 
 Taking the hint Markham finished his glass and leav- 
 ing 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 neck more securely than any 
 millstone. And this one Hermia Challoner, an enthusi- 
 ast 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 enthusi- 
 asm 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 imper- 
 tinent 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 
 
 118
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 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 Mark- 
 ham women were good or they were bad and there weren't 
 any women to speak of between these two classifications. 
 He had seen Kermia first as the protegee and boon com- 
 panion 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 ob- 
 livion. 
 
 This hapless waif of good fortune had thrown her- 
 self 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 a VAmericain the way to 
 Evreux. He directed them and then, finding that he had 
 
 119
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 passed the hos- 
 telry 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 entree 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 glass of cider, filled his 
 pipe and waited. 
 
 The political argument of his neighbors drew to an 
 120
 
 THE "FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 end with the end of their beer and they passed 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 pre- 
 ferred 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 tran- 
 quilly, 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 heard 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 all be about, a blonde head stuck out past the 
 edge of the door and peered around at the deserted cab- 
 aret. 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 closer 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 instru- 
 ments at once. 
 
 121
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 Des- 
 champs has found a fairy godmother who has transformed 
 her. She has now become a Femme Orchestre and for two 
 sous will discourse sweet music to the rustic ear man- 
 dolin 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 har- 
 ness ?" 
 
 "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 protest- 
 ing ears. 
 
 "She's very gentle," sighed the fairy godmother. "It 
 hurts the heart to sell her. But as Monsieur knows 
 the times are not what they used to be."
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 "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 Mon- 
 sieur Duchanel some time later that Hermia, having di- 
 vested 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 accoutre- 
 ment. 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. Hermia wanted a blouse, 
 skirt and hat somewhat worn. But in the act of search- 
 ing 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 re- 
 cesses of the matte 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 lis- 
 tened calmly while the "great idea" was slowly being born. 
 It was the daughter of Madame Bordier's late sister 
 pauvre file 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 sur, but Tielasl 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
 
 MADCAP _^^ 
 
 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 Hotel 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 petits pois a la creme, an entree, then 
 poulet roti, salade endive, cheese and coffee a meal for 
 the gods 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?
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 Fifty francs twenty of it at least must go for this din- 
 ner I can observe it in the eye of Monsieur Duchanel 
 ten more for your chambre 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 tiling as a banker in the world." 
 
 "You will wish there were before the week is out." 
 
 "Will I? You shaU 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 re- 
 minded him that, whatever her indifference to conse- 
 quences, his obligation to protect her from her own im- 
 prudences became the more urgent. But there was a 
 charm in the situation which quite surpassed 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 pre- 
 sided 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 h3r 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." 
 
 125
 
 MAVC'AP 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "The sooner we're far away from the high road be- 
 tween 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. 
 
 "I don't doubt it. It's quite possible I wouldn't under- 
 stand myself. We're never quite so impressed with our 
 own virtues as when we can find flaws 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 springs at their fountain head, meet the world 
 with naked hands, learn the luxury of contentment; or 
 else " as he paused she put her hand before his 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 Hermia had dictated. "Have changed my 
 plans. Am leaving with a party for a tour of French 
 Inns. Will communicate later." 
 
 Duchanel understood. The message would be for- 
 warded from Paris as Monsieur directed. No one in 
 Passy or elsewhere should know. 
 
 Markham nodded and paid the bill, producing from a 
 
 126
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 
 
 wallet which Hermia had not seen an additional amount 
 which Duchanel found sufficient to compensate him for 
 his trouble. 
 
 "You understand, Monsieur?" said Markham, as he 
 went up to bed. "Madame and I are leaving here a pied. 
 We shall have coffee and brioche at five. You will not 
 remember which way we go." 
 
 "Parfaitement, Monsieur. You may rely upon my dis- 
 cretion."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 VAGABONDIA 
 
 THEY took the road in the gray of a morning over- 
 cast with clouds and portentous of a storm. At 
 the last moment, their host, with an eye upon the 
 weather (and another upon Markham's hidden wallet), 
 had sought to keep them until the skies were more pro- 
 pitious. But they were not to be dissuaded and trudged 
 off briskly, Monsieur Duchanel and Madame Bordier ac- 
 companying them to the cross-roads and bidding them 
 God-speed upon their journey. 
 
 Markham, pipe in mouth, his hat pulled over his eyes, 
 his coat collar turned up, showed the way, while Hermia, 
 her finery hidden under a long coat, followed, leading the 
 donkey, which, after a few preliminary remonstrances, 
 consented to accompany them. A tarpaulin covered Her- 
 mia's orchestra and Markham's knapsack which were se- 
 curely packed upon the animal a valiant, if silent com- 
 pany, marching confidently into the unknown, Hermia 
 smiling defiance at the clouds, Markham smoking grimly, 
 the donkey ambling impassively, the least concerned of 
 the three. 
 
 A rain had fallen in the night but Hermia splashed 
 through the mud and water joyously, like a child, thank- 
 ful nevertheless for Markham's thoughtfulness which had 
 provided her last night with a pair of stout shoes and 
 heavy stockings. To a spirit less blithe than hers the 
 outlook would have been gloomy enough, for all the morn- 
 ing the clouds skurried fast overhead and squalls of rain 
 
 128
 
 FAGABONDIA 
 
 and fog drove into the misty south. The trees turned the 
 white backs of their shivering leaves to the wind and 
 dripped moisture. The birds silently preened their wet 
 plumage on the fences or sought the shelter of the hedges. 
 Nature had conspired. But Hermia plodded on undis- 
 mayed, aware of her companion's long stride and his in- 
 difference to discomfort. Her shoes were soaked and at 
 every step the donkey splashed her new stockings, but 
 she did not care; for she had discovered a motive in life 
 and followed her quest open-eyed, aware that already 
 she was rearranging her scale of values to suit her pres- 
 ent condition. She was beginning to feel the "needs and 
 hitches" of life and had a sense of the flints strewn under 
 foot. Her mind was already both occupied and composed. 
 She was quite moist and muddy. She had never been 
 moist or muddy before without the means at hand to be- 
 come dry and clean. Those means lacking, mere comfort 
 achieved an extraordinary significance reached at 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 so wet." 
 
 "I promised you the fountain springs of life not 
 a deluge," he laughed. "But it won't last," he added 
 cheerfully with a glance at the 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 philos- 
 ophy." 
 
 129
 
 MADCAP 
 
 He was a true prophet. In an hour a brisk wind from 
 the west had blown the storm away and burnished the 
 sky like a new jewel. All things animate suddenly awoke 
 and field and road were alive with people. The birds ap- 
 peared from tree and bush and set joyously about get- 
 ting their belated breakfasts. A miracle had happened, 
 it seemed to Hermia. The blood in her veins surged de- 
 liciously, and all the world rejoiced with her. And yet 
 it was merely that the sun had come out. 
 
 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 their inspection. Down there in the 
 valley the river choosing its leisurely course northward to 
 the Seine, and beyond it the harlequin checkerboard of 
 vine and meadow, the sentinel poplars, and to the east- 
 ward the blue hills that sheltered Ivry-la-Bataille. Tiny 
 villages, each with its slender campanile, made incidental 
 notes of life and color and here and there, afar, the tall 
 chimneys of factories stained the sky. About them in the 
 nearer fields were hay-wagons and workers, men and 
 women, their shouts and songs floating up 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 have nothing, everything belongs to you." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "You won't dare to put that philosophy to the test. 
 There's a delicious odor of cooking food. If everything 
 belongs to me, I'll trouble you for the contents of that 
 coffee-pot." 
 
 "Not hungry already !" 
 
 130
 
 FAGABONDIA 
 
 "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 near the river bank. Markham quickly un- 
 strapped the donkey's pack and to Hermia's surprise 
 drew forth a loaf of bread, some cheese and a bottle of 
 red wine which he set out with some pride on a flat rock 
 near by. 
 
 "This," he announced, "is our dejeuner a la fourchette. 
 I won't apologize for it." 
 
 "Wonderful man! Somehow you remind me of the 
 sleight-of-hand performer producing an omelette from a 
 silk hat. I don't think I've ever been really hungry before 
 in my life." 
 
 He opened the bottle with the corkscrew on his 
 pocket-knife and watched her munching hungrily at the 
 rye-bread. 
 
 "Half the pleasure in life, after all, is wanting a thing 
 and getting it," he observed. "How can you want any- 
 thing if you've already got it?" 
 
 "I can't," she mumbled, her mouth full, "unless per- 
 haps it's this bread." 
 
 He passed the bottle to her and she drank from it 
 sparingly, passing it to him again. 
 
 "Every wine is a vintage if you're thirsty enough," he 
 added. "The trouble with our world is that most of 
 its people are always about half full of food. You can't 
 really enjoy things to eat or things to drink unless you're 
 quite empty. It's the same thing with ideas. You can't 
 
 131
 
 MADCAP 
 
 think very clearly when you're half full of other people's 
 biases." 
 
 "Or their b-bread and ch-cheese !" she said, choking. 
 Further than that she did not reply at once. The reasons 
 were obvious. But she munched reflectively, and when 
 she had swallowed: 
 
 "If all your arguments are as convincing as your fare, 
 then you and I shall never disagree," she said. 
 
 Clarissa, for that was the name she had given the beast, 
 was turned loose in the meadow. Markham sat beside 
 Hermia on the warm rock, and, between them, without 
 further words, they finished both the wine and the food. 
 Markham filled his pipe and stretched out at full length 
 in lazy content while she sat beside him, brushing the dried 
 cakes of mud from 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 any- 
 thing else at the ridiculous simplicity of my emancipa- 
 tion. Yesterday at this hour I was a highly respectable 
 if slightly pampered person with a shrewd sense of my 
 own importance in the economic and social scheme; to- 
 day I'm a mere biped an instinct on legs, with nothing 
 to recommend me but an amiable disposition and an ab- 
 normal appetite." 
 
 "You've made progress," he laughed lazily. "Yester- 
 day you lisped knowingly of devil-wagons. You weren't 
 even a biped. I'll admit it's something to have discovered 
 the possession of legs." 
 
 "I do. And it's something more to have discovered the 
 possession of an appetite."
 
 FAGABONDIA 
 
 "And still something more to discover a means to 
 gratify it," he grunted. 
 
 If he sought to intimidate her, he failed of his object, 
 for she only laughed at him. 
 
 "Oh, I shall not starve. Presently you shall hear me 
 practice with my orchestra. Just now, mon ami, I'm too 
 delightfully sleepy to think of doing anything else." 
 
 "Sleep, then." 
 
 He laid his coat on the rock, and she sank back upon 
 it, but not to close her eyes. They were turned on a 
 squadron of clouds which sailed in the wide bay between 
 the forest and the hilltop. Markham, leaning on an el- 
 bow, puffed at his pipe in silence. She turned her head 
 and looked at him. 
 
 "It's curious " she began, and then paused. 
 
 "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 no curiosity." 
 
 "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 to both of us." 
 
 Markham grinned. 
 
 "You've relieved my mind of one burden, at least," he 
 said. "I like Reggie. He's a nice boy. But I haven't 
 any humor to find him poking around in these bushes with 
 a shotgun." 
 
 133
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Oh, there's no danger of that," she replied demurely, 
 oblivious of his humor. "Reggie and I have parted." 
 
 Markham's eyes were turned upon the clouds. "That's 
 rather a pity in a way," he said quietly. "I thought 
 you were quite suited to each other. But then " and / 
 he surprised a curious look in her eyes " if you were 
 going to marry Reggie, you see, you couldn't be here 
 and I would be the loser." 
 
 "I don't see that that would have made the slightest 
 (difference," she replied 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 say 
 that you think Reggie and I were suited to each other. Be- 
 cause if you thought I was the kind of girl to be satisfied 
 with Reggie, you wouldn't have thought it worth while 
 to make a vagabond of me." 
 
 His brows drew downward. "I haven't made a vaga- 
 bond 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 mo- 
 ment. "You've paid me a pretty compliment by coming 
 with me out here. But I'm not going to let it blind my 
 judgment. You were hopelessly bored back there. 
 You've admitted it. You felt the need of some other 
 form of amusement 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 the genuineness of your impulse. But you 
 
 134
 
 "Even Clarissa stopped her grazing long enough to look up."
 
 FAGABONDIA 
 
 mustn't forget that you and I have grown up in different 
 schools. I'm selfish in my way as you are in yours. I 
 choose this life because I love it better than anything else, 
 because it's my idea of contentment. I've approached it 
 thoughtfully and with a great deal of respect, as a result 
 of some years of patient and unsuccessful experiment 
 with other forms of existence. That's the reason why I'm 
 a little jealous for it, a little suspicious of your sudden 
 conversion." 
 
 "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 to be easy warning you that you will be 
 placed in positions that may be unpleasant to you, when 
 our relations may be questioned " 
 
 "I've considered that," quickly. "I'm prepared for 
 that. I will do what is required of me." 
 
 He took her hand and held it for a moment in his own, 
 but she would not look 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 knew what she was about, had fastened her 
 "orchestra" around her and was making the air hideous 
 with sound. He sat up, swinging his long legs over the 
 edge of the rock, watching her and laughing at the futile 
 efforts of her members to achieve a concert. Even Clar- 
 issa stopped her grazing long enough to look up, ears 
 erect, eying the musician in grave surprise, and then, 
 with a contemptuous flirt of her tail, went on with her 
 repast. 
 
 135
 
 MADCAP ^^^ 
 
 "Everyone knows a donkey has no soul for music," 
 laughed Hermia, in a breathless pause between efforts. 
 
 "Meaning me?" 
 
 "Meaning both of you," said Hermia. "Wait a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 She tuned her mandolin, and, neglecting the harmon- 
 ica, in a moment drew forth some chords and then sang: 
 
 "Sur le pont cT Avignon 
 I? on y danse, Von y danse, 
 Sur le pont d' 'Avignon 
 L'on y danse tout en rond." 
 
 And then, after a pause, with an elaborate curtsey to 
 Clarissa : 
 
 "Les beaux messieurs font comme ca 
 Et puts encore comme ca." 
 
 "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 struck the drum her fingers flew from the 
 mandolin. But she managed it at last, and in the end 
 made shift to use the harmonica, too. 
 
 Then followed "The Marseillaise." That was easier. 
 The air had a swing to it, and she managed both the drum 
 and the cymbals. But it was warm work and she stopped 
 for a while, rosy and breathless. 
 
 "What do you think?" 
 
 "Oh, magnificent. Yvonne Deschamps Femme Or- 
 
 136
 
 VAGABONDIA 
 
 chestre, Messieurs et Dames, queen of the lyrical world, 
 the musical marvel of the century, artist by appointment 
 to the President of the Republique Francaise and all the 
 crowned heads of Europe. How will that do?" 
 
 "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 do yours. I'll trouble you to keep your word. 
 You shall paint portraits at 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 in some fine phrases at the expense of my 
 sincerity. Now look to yours. We'll have an honest 
 partnership an equal partnership, or we'll have no part- 
 nership." 
 
 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 notable improvements on her first attempts and add- 
 ing "Mere Michel" and "Au Claire de la Lune" "Le Roi 
 Dagobert" to her repertoire. 
 
 "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 and crayon and made a drawing of her in her 
 
 137
 
 MADCAP 
 
 cap and bells. He began a little uncertainly, a little 
 carelessly, but his interest growing, in a moment he was 
 absorbed. 
 
 Whatever knowledge of her had been hidden from him 
 as a man, it seemed suddenly revealed to the painter now. 
 The broad, smooth brow which meant intelligence, the 
 short nose, which meant amiability, the nostrils well 
 arched, which meant pride, the firm rounded lips, which 
 meant sensibility, the sharp little declivity beneath them 
 and the squarish chin, which meant either wilfulness or 
 determination (he chose the former), and the eyes, gray 
 blue, set ever so slightly at an angle, which could mean 
 much or nothing at all. 
 
 "Do you see me like that?" she laughed when it was 
 finished. "I'm so glad. 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 sake of 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, "and hang it on the wall of the dining-room." 
 
 Another rehearsal of Hermia's program, longer this 
 time and with a greater care for details ; and then Mark- 
 ham looked at his watch, knocked out his pipe, and re- 
 ported 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. Markham examined the bushes, the trees, and 
 the fences. He stood for a moment looking down at a 
 
 138
 
 VAGAEONDIA 
 
 minute object by the side of the road, a twig, as Hermia 
 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's achievements in a musical way had 
 given her confidence. If Madame Bordier's de- 
 funct niece had been the best Femme Orcliestre in the 
 Eure, there was no reason why Hermia shouldn't fit into 
 her reputation as comfortably as she fitted into her post- 
 humous garments. Clarissa, too, jogged along without 
 her bridle, and Markham found little use for the goad he 
 had whittled to save the use of the halter. The people on 
 the road looked at them curiously, passed a rough jest, 
 and sent them on the merrier. Markham had destroyed 
 his road map and now they followed the patter an, leaving 
 their destiny to fortune. In the late afternoon, on their 
 way through a forest, Clarissa suddenly halted and, in 
 spite of much urging, refused to go on. Hermia took the 
 halter and Markham the goad, and after a while they 
 moved slowly forward, the donkey still protesting. A 
 skurrying in the underbrush, and several dogs appeared, 
 barking furiously. Their offensiveness went no further 
 than this, however, and in a moment Markham made out 
 the bulk of a roulotte in the shadows of the wood, the 
 shaggy specter of a horse, a camp-fire, and a party of 
 caravaners. There was a 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 busily engaged in 
 
 140
 
 THE FABIANI FAMILY 
 
 wrapping its legs round the back of its neck. The cause 
 of Clarissa's unhappiness was also apparent ; for chained 
 to a sapling nearby, rolling its great head foolishly from 
 side to side, sat a tame bear. 
 
 There were greetings as the newcomers approached, 
 the dogs were called off, and a burly man rose and came 
 to the roadside to meet them. 
 
 "Bona jou," he said, smiling, his teeth milk white un- 
 der his stringy black mustache. Markham returned the 
 salutation. The caravaner glanced at Hermia's costume 
 and swept off his hat. 
 
 "You go to Alencon for the fete?" he asked in very 
 bad French. 
 
 Markham nodded. It was easier to nod than to ex- 
 plain just now. The big man smiled again and pointed 
 to the fire with a gesture of invitation. After a glance at 
 Hermia, in whose face he read affirmation, Markham as- 
 sented, and urging the unwilling donkey, he and Hermia 
 followed their host down the slope and into the glen. 
 
 The small figure on the carpet, which had not for one 
 moment ceased its contortions, now consented to unwind 
 its limbs and stand upright ; and in 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 and greeted 
 them. The introductions were formal. They had fallen, 
 it seems, upon the tender mercies of the Fabiani Family 
 of Famous Athletes. The big man tapped his huge 
 chest. 
 
 "J/oz/" he announced with pardonable pride. "I am 
 Signer Cleofonte Fabiani, the world's greatest wrestler 
 and strong man. Here," and he pointed to the others, "is 
 Signor Luigi Fabiani, the world's greatest acrobat ; there 
 Signora Fabiani, world famous as a juggler and hand
 
 MADCAP 
 
 balancer; Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder of 
 the twentieth century." 
 
 He recited this rapidly and with much more assurance 
 than his ordinary command of French had indicated, giv- 
 ing complexion to the thought, as did his gestures, that 
 this was his public confession. 
 
 Not to be outdone in civility, Markham replied: 
 
 "Mademoiselle " he paused and changed her title 
 
 to "Madame" (a discretion which the others acknowl- 
 edged with nods of the head) Madame was Yvonne 
 Deschamps, premiere lady musician of the world, who 
 played five separate and distinct musical instruments at 
 one and the same time an artist known, as the Signer 
 would perhaps be aware, from Sicily to Sweden, from 
 Brittany to the Russias. 
 
 Hermia bowed. 
 
 As for himself, he was Monsieur Philidor, the light- 
 ning portrait artist, of Paris. Likenesses, two francs 
 soldiers, ten sous. 
 
 Signer Fabiani was glad. Madonna mia! It was not 
 often that such persons met. Would the visitors not join 
 him at a pitcher of Calvados which was now cooling in 
 the stream? 
 
 Markham fastened Clarissa's halter to the wheel of the 
 roulotte near the shaggy horse, and joined Hermia, who 
 was already at her ease by the fire and playing with the 
 bambino. They were a jolly lot and made a fine plea for 
 Markham's philosophy of content. Signor Fabiani 
 brought the pitcher from the stream and Luigi cups from 
 the house-wagon, and there they all sat, as thick as 
 thieves, drinking healths and wishing one another a pros- 
 perous pilgrimage. The Fabiani family had never been 
 to Alen9on. This was one of the few parts of the world 
 
 142
 
 THE FABIANI FAMILY 
 
 into which their fame had not yet spread. All the more 
 their profit and glory! Sacro mento! They would see 
 what they would see. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would snap 
 heavy chains about his chest. He would put a great 
 stone on his stomach, and, while he supported himself on 
 his feet and hands, Luigi would break the stone with a 
 sledge hammer. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would lift the 
 girl child there from the ground with one hand lift her 
 far above his head, tossing her to Luigi, who would catch 
 her upon his shoulders. And the Signora meanwhile 
 would juggle with a piece of paper, an egg, and a cannon- 
 ball. Jesu! They should see! 
 
 He stopped and looked at Hermia. A Femme Orches- 
 tre! In all his travels 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. He would lis- 
 ten with delight to her music. And Signor Philidor 
 would Signor Philidor do his portrait? He would 
 pay 
 
 He straightened, put his enormous hand upon his chest, 
 elbow out, and took a dramatic pose of the head. He 
 was wonderful. Markham at once fetched his sketching 
 materials and drew him, while the others crowded about, 
 looking over the shoulders of Monsieur Philidor, and 
 watched the feat accomplished. Not until it was done 
 was Cleofonte permitted to see. It would spoil the pose. 
 
 And then! Che magnifico pitture! It was nothing 
 short of a miracle ! The nose perhaps a little short but 
 Madre Dio! what could one expect in twenty minutest 
 Did not the mustache need a little smoothing? Upon the 
 morning of the performance it was Cleofonte'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 art- 
 ist. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, said so. 
 
 But when Philidor took the sketch from his pad and 
 presented it to Cleofonte with his compliments, the ath- 
 lete's delight knew no bounds. He showed his teeth, and 
 stood first upon one foot and then upon the other, the 
 sketch held before him by the very tips of his stubby 
 fingers. The Signora, relinquishing the bambino to Her- 
 mia, looked over his shoulder, more pleased, even, than 
 he. After that nothing would do but that the visitors must 
 stay for supper. Nothing much a soup, some rye bread, 
 peas, and lettuce, but, if they would condescend, he, 
 Fabiani, would be highly honored. Hermia accepted with 
 alacrity. She was hungry again. Markham smiled and 
 glanced up at the smiling heavens, unfastened Clarissa's 
 pack, and brought out a roasted chicken cold, a loaf of 
 bread, a new tin pot, and a bag of coffee, which he 
 brought to the fireside. 
 
 The Signora insisted on preparing the meal, so Mark- 
 ham filled his pipe and 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 you please." 
 
 The child rose, rather ruefully, Hermia thought, and 
 took her place upon the mat, where, under Luigi's direc- 
 tion, she went through the exercises which were to keep 
 her young limbs supple for the approaching perform- 
 ances. It was the familiar thing the slow bending of the 
 back until the palms of the hands touched the ground, 
 in which position the child walked backward and forward, 
 the contortions of the slender body, the "split," the put- 
 ting of the legs around the neck. Hermia had seen these
 
 THE FABIANI FAMILY 
 
 acts at the Varietes and at Madison Square Garden when 
 the circus came, but had seen them at a great distance, 
 under a blaze of light, as part of a great spectacle in a 
 performance which went so smoothly that one never gave 
 a thought to the difficulty of achievement. There in the 
 silent shadows of the wood, bared of its tinsel and music, 
 the rehearsal took on a different color. She saw the 
 straining muscles of the child, the beads of perspiration 
 which stood on her brow, the livid face with its tortured 
 expression. An exclamation of pity broke from her lips. 
 
 "Is it not enough?" she asked. Cleofonte only laughed 
 through his cigarette smoke. It seemed like a great deal, 
 he said. She had not had her practice yesterday. It 
 would be still easier to-morrow. And then he signaled 
 for the performance to be repeated. At last Hermia 
 turned to the bambino and would look no more. She was 
 tasting life, other people's, at the springs, as John Mark- 
 ham had promised, and it was not sweet. 
 
 There was a brief rest, after which Luigi and Stella 
 did an acrobatic performance of tumbling and balancing 
 in which at the end Cleofonte joined with a masterful 
 air, punctuating the acts with cries and handclaps, and 
 at the end of each act they all bowed and kissed the tips 
 of their fingers right and left to the imaginary audience. 
 The rehearsal ended in applause from the visitors. As 
 for the Signora, having put the coffee on to boil, she 
 was now nursing the bambino. Cleofonte came up, puffing 
 and blowing and tapping his chest. "The performance 
 is ended," he exclaimed, "in tricks with Tomasso that is 
 the name of my bear and in great feats of strength, as 
 I have told you, after which I make my great wrestling 
 challenge, to throw any man in the world for one hun- 
 dred francs. Madre de Dio! You can be sure that when 
 
 145
 
 they see Luigi break the stone upon me they are not 
 zealous." 
 
 The baby fed and fast asleep, it was put to bed in the 
 wagon and they all sat at supper. The delight Hermia 
 had taken in her new acquaintances Fabiani's bombast, 
 Luigi's grace, and the Signora's motherly perquisites 
 had lost some of its spontaneity since she had seen the 
 expression on the face of the child Stella, when she had 
 gone through her act of decarcasse. It haunted her like 
 the memory of a bad dream and brought into stronger 
 contrast her own girlhood in New York, with its nurses 
 and governesses and the sheltered life she had led under 
 their care and supervision. 
 
 And when Stella, her slim figure wrapped in a shabby 
 cloak, came from the roulotte and joined them at the 
 fire, flermia motioned her to the place beside her. When 
 she sat, Hermia put an arm around the child and kissed 
 her softly on the brow. Stella looked up at her timidly 
 and then put her sinewy brown hand in Hermia's softer 
 ones and there let it stay. Hermia had made a friend. 
 
 Cleofonte looked up from his chicken bone and shook 
 his huge shoulders. 
 
 "You are sorry, Signorina? Jesu miol So am I. 
 But what would you have? One must eat." 
 
 "It seems a pity," said Hermia, smiling. 
 
 Fabiani shrugged his shoulders and raised his brows 
 to the sky, with the resignation of the fatalist. 
 
 "It is life voila 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, a luxury, for which for 
 many days the palate of the Fabiani family had been 
 innocent, was acclaimed with joy and dispatched with 
 
 146
 
 THE FABIANI FAMILY 
 
 magic haste. The cheese, the rye bread, and the salad 
 were beyond cavil; and the coffee of Monsieur Du- 
 chanel's best made all things complete. 
 
 The dusk had fallen, velvety and odorous, and the 
 stars came peeping shyly forth. Fabiani, who for all his 
 braggadocio did not lack a certain magnificence, had in- 
 sisted that the visitors remain in camp for the night. 
 Madame should sleep in the house-wagon with the Sig- 
 nora Fabiani, Stella and the baby. Were there not two 
 beds? As for Monsieur Philidor he knew a man when 
 he saw one. The night was heaven sent. Monsieur 
 should sleep as he and Luigi slept a la belle etoile. 
 
 Hermia's cover for the night assured, Markham had 
 accepted the invitation, and now, all care banished for at 
 least twelve hours, they sat in great good fellowship be- 
 fore the fire, listening to Cleofonte's tales of the road. 
 They forgave him much for his good heart and at appro- 
 priate 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 the tunes she had 
 practiced and afterward, as she gained new confidence in 
 their appreciation, "Santa Lucia" and "Funiculi, funi- 
 cula," to which Cleofonte, who had a soul for concord, 
 roared a fine basso. It was a night for vagabonds, care- 
 4 free, a night of laughter, of mirth and of song. What 
 did it matter what happened on the morrow? Here 
 were meat, drink and good company. Could any mortal 
 ask for more? 
 
 After a time, the din awakening the bambino, the 
 Signora went to bed, and Hermia, her hand in Stella's, 
 followed to the wagon. The animals fed and watered, 
 Markham settled down by the fire with his newly found 
 
 147
 
 MADCAP 
 
 friend and lit a pipe. In a moment Luigi had fallen back 
 on his blanket and was asleep. Markham was conscious 
 that Fabiani still talked, but he had already learned that 
 it was not necessary to make replies, and so he sat, nod- 
 ding or answering in monosyllables. A warm breeze 
 sighed in the tree tops, the rill tinkled nearby, and a 
 night bird called in the distance. The glow of the fire 
 painted the trunks of the trees which rose in dim majesty 
 to where their branches held eyrie among the stars. The 
 chains of the bear still clanked as he rolled to and fro 
 until a gruff "Be silent, thou!" from Cleofonte brought 
 quiet in that direction. After a while even Cleofonte 
 grew weary of his own voice, his head fell upon his breast, 
 and he sank prone 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 the tarpaulin which covered 
 the donkey's pack, and Cleofonte had provided him with 
 a blanket, but he seemed to have no desire to sleep. The 
 smile at his lips indicated that his thoughts were pleas- 
 ant ones. Hermia had learned something to-day would 
 learn something more to-morrow, and yet she had not 
 flinched from the school in which he was driving her. 
 If he had thought by hardship to dissuade her from her 
 venture, it seemed that he had thus far missed his calcula- 
 tions. Indeed, each new experience seemed only to make 
 her relish the keener. She was drinking in impressions 
 avidly, absorbing the new life as a sponge absorbs water, 
 differing from this only in the particular that her capac- 
 ity for retention had no limitations. He smiled because 
 it pleased him to think that his judgment of her charac- 
 ter had not been at fault. Hers was a brave soul, not 
 easily daunted or discouraged, better worthy of this 
 
 148
 
 THE FABIANI FAMILY 
 
 life which was teaching its stoicism, charity and self- 
 abnegation than of that other life which denied by self- 
 sufficiency their very existence a gallant spirit which 
 for once soared free of the worldly, venal and time-serv- 
 ing. It pleased him to think it was by his means that she 
 had been brought into his valley of contentment and that 
 thus far she had found it pleasant. Would the humor 
 last? 
 
 Fabiani snored, as he did everything, from the depths 
 of his being, and Luigi, in the shadows, echoed him nobly. 
 Markham looked toward the roulotte. The lantern which 
 had burned there a while ago had been extinguished. 
 Strangely enough, although it was his custom to be much 
 alone, Markham wanted company. He wished at least 
 that Hermia had bade him good night. It was curious 
 how quickly one fell into the habit of gregariousness. 
 He and Hermia had fared together but for one day, and 
 yet he already felt a sort of material dependence upon 
 her presence. It was the habit of interdependence, of 
 course he recognized it, the same habit which led men 
 and women in droves to the cities, to herd in the back 
 streets of the slums when the clean vales of the open 
 country awaited them, sweet with the smells of shrub and 
 clover, where one could lie at one's length and look up as 
 one should at the stars, lulled by the song of the stream 
 
 or the whistle of the south wind in the His head 
 
 nodded and his pipe dropped from his teeth. Heigho ! he 
 had almost been asleep. 
 
 He rose and spread his tarpaulin upon the ground. As 
 he did so a dry twig cracked nearby, a dog growled, and 
 presently a small phantom emerged from the shadows. 
 It was Hermia, with a finger laid upon her lips in token 
 of silence. 
 
 149
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Couldn't you sleep ?" he whispered. 
 
 "No. It was a pity to crowd them, so when Stella got 
 to sleep I came away." 
 
 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 wanted you." 
 
 "Then I'm glad I came. I shall sleep here, by the fire, 
 if you don't mind." 
 
 "You're not afraid of the damp?" 
 
 "I never take colds." 
 
 She smiled at the prostrate Cleofonte, whose stertor- 
 ous breathing shattered 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 Vaga- 
 bondia. The birds have been asleep a long while. But 
 if you must know it's half-past nine." 
 
 "Only that?" in surprise. "We've turned time back- 
 ward, haven't we ?" 
 
 "Or lif e forward," he paused and then : "You are still 
 willing to go on?" 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." 
 
 150
 
 THE FABIANI FAMILY 
 
 "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 years your gifts have been so prodigally wasted. 
 You have, I think, the greatest 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 the yellow rope of smoke which rose 
 from the damp log. "The talent for living!" she mused. 
 "I never thought of that." 
 
 "Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have 
 your root in the 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. You must remember that in this world the 
 darkness was made for sleep, dawn for 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, fetch- 
 ing his overcoat for a pillow. 
 
 "Voila, Mademoiselle, your sheets have been airing all 
 day. I hope you will find the mattress to your liking." 
 
 "But where will you sleep?" 
 
 "Here ; nearby in Cleofonte's blanket." 
 
 She drew her long coat around her. 
 151
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "You're a masterful person," she laughed. "What 
 would happen if I refused to obey?'* 
 
 "An immovable object would encounter an irresistible 
 force." 
 
 She smiled and stretched herself out. He bent forward 
 and laid the loose end of the cover over her. 
 
 "Good night, child. As a reward of obedience, you 
 shall dream of a porcelain bath tub and a tooth brush." 
 
 She smiled, and, fishing in the pocket of her coat, drew 
 out a small object wrapped in paper. 
 
 "It's the only thing I've saved from the wreck of my 
 respectability but the porcelain bath tub ! Don't tempt 
 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 she opened them again and found herself 
 broadly awake. A blue light was filtering softly 
 through the tops of the trees and the birds were already 
 calling. She pushed her cover away and sat up, all her 
 senses acutely alive. The fire was out, but the air was 
 not chill. She glanced at Markham's recumbent figure, at 
 Cleofonte and Luigi, and then stealthily arose. Tomasso* 
 the bear, who of all the vagabond company had alone kept 
 vigil, eyed her whimsically from his small eyes and moved 
 uneasily in his chains. 
 
 On tiptoe she made her way to the stream, one of the 
 dogs following her, but she patted him on the head and 
 sent him back to the wagon. As she reached the depths, 
 of the forest she relaxed her vigilance and went rapidly 
 down the stream, finding at last at some distance a quiet 
 pool in the deep shadows. Here was her porcelain tub. 
 She quickly undressed and bathed, her teeth chattering 
 with the cold, but before the caravaners were awake was 
 back in camp, gathering wood for the fire. 
 
 Her activities, furtive as they were, awakened Mark- 
 ham, 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. 
 153
 
 MADCAP 
 
 sleepily, and took from her hand the dead branch which 
 she was dragging to the fire. Between them they awoke 
 Cleofonte, who lumbered to his feet and stared about with 
 bleary eyes. 
 
 "Bon giorno, Signora Signor. I have slept oh, 
 what sleep! Luigi! Up with you. Diol It is already 
 day." 
 
 Immediately the camp was in commotion. The Sig- 
 nora descended from the wagon, and with Hermia's help 
 prepared the breakfast while Stella held the baby. By 
 sunrise the gray horse was hitched to the shafts of the 
 wagon, the bear hitched to its tail and the travelers were 
 on their way 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 the wagon, but she had refused and 
 taken her place by Markham's side behind Clarissa, who, 
 quite peacefully, followed in the trail of Tomasso, the 
 bear. 
 
 In this order the procession moved forward into the 
 golden wake of the morning. Hermia was in a high 
 humor joyous, sparkling, satirical by turns. If yester- 
 day she had found a talent for living, to-day it seemed the 
 genius for joy had gotten into her veins. Her mood was 
 infectious, and Markham found himself carried along on 
 its tide, aware that she was drawing him by impercepti- 
 ble inches from his shell, accepting his aphorisms in one 
 moment that she might the more readily pick them to 
 pieces in the next. He couldn't understand her, of course. 
 She hadn't intended that he should, and this made the 
 game so much the m$are interesting for them both. He 
 didn't mind her tearing his dignity to tatters and this 
 she did with a thoroughness which surprised him, but he 
 discarded the rags of it with an excellent grace, meeting 
 
 154
 
 DANGER 
 
 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 of women." 
 
 "Oh, I say." 
 
 "All pose!" she continued gaily. "Politic but inef- 
 fective. You love us 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 inno- 
 cently into the glare of the smoking-room. Poor Olga! 
 And she is always so careful to cover her trails ! But I 
 warned her. She shall not trifle with your young affec- 
 tions " 
 
 "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. 
 155
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "H m," he said, and relapsed into silence. She 
 glanced at him sideways before she went on. 
 
 "You know you're not really angry with me, Phili- 
 dor. You couldn't be. It isn't my fault if I stumbled 
 into the climacteric of your interesting 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 as Olga 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'd like 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 her conscience." 
 
 He puffed at his pipe and shrugged a shoulder. 
 
 "That's why I say you're a fraud, Philidor," she went 
 on, "a delusion also a snare. Your beetling brows, your 
 air of indifference, your intolerance of the world, they're 
 the defensive armor for your shrinking susceptibilities 
 you a painter of beautiful women! Every sitter in your 
 studio an enemy in the house every tube of paint a silent 
 . witness of your frailty every brush stroke a delicious 
 pain the agony of it!" 
 
 She tweaked Clarissa's ear and whispered into its tip. 
 "It's much wiser to be just a donkey, isn't it, Clarissa?" 
 
 Markham grinned a little sheepishly, but like Clarissa 
 refused to be drawn into the discussion. Indeed, his pa- 
 tience, like that of their beast of burden, continued to be 
 excellent. Hermia's impish spirit was not proof against 
 
 156
 
 DANGER 
 
 such imperturbable good humor, and at last she subsided. 
 Markham walked in silence for some moments, speaking 
 after a while with a cool assertiveness. 
 
 "It's rather curious, Hermia, if I'm the silly senti- 
 mental ass you've been picturing me, that you'd care to 
 trust yourself to what you are pleased to call my shrink- 
 ing susceptibilities." 
 
 "But you're in love with another woman," she said 
 taking to cover quickly. 
 
 "I'm in love with all other women," he laughed. "All 
 that is except yourself. It must be a surprise to one 
 who counts her conquests daily to discover that, of all 
 the women in the world, you are the only female my 
 shrinking susceptibilities are proof against." 
 
 Her eyes were turned on him in wide amazement, eyes 
 now quite violent and child-like. 
 
 "I never thought of that, Philidor. It is curious that 
 I never thought of that. It isn't very flattering to me, is 
 it?" 
 
 "No especially as the opportunities for indulgence 
 in my favorite pursuit are so very obvious." 
 
 She laughed but looked away. He had provided a 
 sauce for the gander which made him seem anything but a 
 goose. 
 
 "But, of course, you you couldn't take advantage of 
 them under the circumstances," she remarked. 
 
 He shook his head, doggedly whimsical. "One never 
 can tell just how long one's defensive armor may hold 
 out. I'm sure my brows are beetling much less than 
 usual. In fact, this morning in spite of severe provoca- 
 tion they don't seem to be beetling at all. And as for 
 my air of indifference I challenge you to discover it. If 
 
 157
 
 MADCAP 
 
 these are forbidding 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 of the roulotte. Whether because of 
 Clarissa's habitual drowsiness or their own interest in 
 other matters, the shaggy horse had gone faster than 
 they, and when presently they came to a long stretch of 
 straight road 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 one thing. We must make some money at 
 once." 
 
 "We'll follow Cleofonte to Alenon then," said Hermia 
 resolutely. 
 
 So Markham prodded the donkey and they moved for- 
 ward at a brisker pace. 
 
 They had met few people upon the road this morning 
 and these, as on the day before, were farmers or those 
 who worked for them, both men and women. The main 
 line of traffic from Evreux, they had learned, lay some 
 miles to their right, and it was over this road, a much 
 harder one, that the motorists went if southward bound. 
 It was therefore with some surprise that they heard be- 
 hind them the sound of a motor horn. Markham caught 
 the donkey's bridle and drew to one side, the car came 
 even 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 the way we're going." 
 
 158
 
 DANGER 
 
 Something in Markham' s manner and speech arrested 
 the driver's eye, which passed rapidly to Hermia, who 
 stood silently at the side of the road, suddenly aware of 
 an unusual interest in her appearance. The man at 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 late upon the way." 
 
 But the Frenchman showed no intention of moving at 
 once and, ignoring Markham, questioned Hermia gaily. 
 
 Mademoiselle was a bohemienne. Perhaps she would 
 condescend to read their fortunes. 
 
 Hermia made a pretty curtesy and laughed. 
 
 "Unfortunately Monsieur is mistaken," she said 
 easily. "I am not a teller of fortunes. But what does it 
 matter since Monsieur's fortune is so plainly written 
 upon his face." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 "The fortune of the fortunate. Bien sur. The bon 
 Dleu cared well for those who rode in automobiles." 
 
 The Frenchman smiled and glanced at Markham, who 
 was busying himself with the donkey's pack. 
 
 "Mademoiselle is very blonde for a tsigane," he ven- 
 tured again. 
 
 "I come from the North country," said Hermia 
 promptly. 
 
 The Frenchman's eyes which had never left her face 
 wore a curious expression. 
 
 "It is strange," he said, "but somewhere I have seen 
 your face before." 
 
 "That is where I am accustomed to wear it, Mon- 
 sieur," she said quickly. 
 
 159
 
 MADCAP 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "I can only say that it becomes your costume admir- 
 ably." 
 
 Markham straightened, frowning. 
 
 "AUons, Yvonne," he muttered. 
 
 But Hermia only stood smiling and curtesied 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 did the bon Dieu." 
 
 He laughed gaily. Her ready tongue delighted him, 
 but his face sobered as he glanced at Markham, who stood 
 with narrowed gaze fixed on the road ahead of them. 
 
 "You pass through Verneuil, Mademoiselle?" the mo- 
 torist went on. "Perhaps Monsieur your companion 
 would not object if we carried you there." 
 
 "You are very kind, Monsieur, but riding in such 
 state is not for me." 
 
 "Allans! You will be doing us the favor of your com- 
 pany." 
 
 "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, a wonder 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 automobile Monsieur Philidor and the donkey." 
 
 He looked at her a moment as if he hadn't believed 
 his own ears, while his companion burst into wild 
 laughter. 
 
 160
 
 DANGER 
 
 "Touclie, mon ami," he cried, clapping the chauffeur 
 on the back. "My faith, but she has a pretty wit the 
 donkey and Monsieur Philidor par exemple!" And he 
 roared with laughter again. 
 
 The man at the wheel flecked his cigarette into the 
 bushes, smiling with as good grace as he could command. 
 
 "You have many chaperons, Mademoiselle," he said. 
 "It is too bad. I shall remember your beaux yeux, just 
 the same." 
 
 He waved a hand, then, opening the cutout, drove the 
 machine forward and in a moment was out of sight in a 
 cloud of dust. 
 
 Markham grinned at the departing vehicle and then, 
 turning, met Hermia's gleaming eyes. 
 
 "O mon ami, it is to laugh!" she cried. "Imagine 
 Clarissa seated in the tonneau of that machine entering 
 the gates of Verneuil! If you have any doubt about 
 getting the better of a Frenchman just set him up to 
 ridicule." 
 
 She began laughing again, her eyes on Markham. 
 
 "My poor Philidor! Did you think I was about to 
 desert you and Clarissa? 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 every man who takes a fancy to me." 
 
 "I don't but the man is what is called a gentle- 
 man. There's a difference." And while she hesitated for 
 a reply. 
 
 "What did he mean by saying that he had seen you 
 before?" he asked. 
 
 161
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Just that. He had. I remembered him perfectly. 
 He's the Marquis de Folligny." 
 
 "Pierre de Folligny!" in amazement. "Not Olga's 
 Pierre de Folligny?" 
 
 "The same. I knew him instantly. I met him in Lon- 
 don, at an evening garden 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 that Trouville crowd." 
 
 "He is, I think. How lucky I hadn't seen him 
 there !" 
 
 They walked along for some moments in silence, 
 Markham slowly stuffing tobacco into his pipe, his gaze 
 upon the ground. 
 
 "Hermia," ke 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 danger you 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 all responsibility. You are merely my CEdipus, the 
 vade mecum of my unsentimental journey." 
 
 But he didn't laugh. 
 
 162
 
 DANGER 
 
 "I'll warrant you De Folligny doesn't think that," he 
 said. 
 
 "Well suppose he doesn't. Are you and I responsi- 
 ble for the unpleasant cast of other people's thoughts? 
 My conscience is clear. So is yours. You know how un- 
 sentimental our journey is. So do I. Why, Philidor, 
 can't you see ? It wouldn't be quite right if it wasn't un- 
 sentimental." 
 
 "And how about my er my shrinking susceptibili- 
 ties?" 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 hardly call you sentimental. I 
 could not feel safer on that score if I were under the 
 motherly wing of Aunt Harriett Westfield !" 
 
 She was a bundle of contradictions and said exactly 
 what came into her head. He examined her again, not 
 sure whether it were better to be annoyed or merely 
 amused, and saw again the wide violet gaze. He looked 
 away but he didn't seem quite happy. 
 
 "I suppose that would be the truth," he said slowly. 
 "Unfortunately our 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 a wide berth." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not afraid. Fate is always kind to the ut- 
 terly irresponsible. That's their compensation for being 
 so. What does it matter 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?" 
 163
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 small village she vowed that without food 
 she would walk no more. 
 
 "Very well then," said Markham. "We must earn the 
 right to it." 
 
 They found a small auberge before which Hermia un- 
 packed her orchestra and played. A crowd of women 
 and children soon surrounded them, and the sounds of the 
 drum brought the curious from the fields and more dis- 
 tant houses. The patronne came out and Philidor offered 
 to do her portrait for ten sous. 
 
 They were lucky. When the hat was passed they 
 found the total returns upon their venture, including the 
 portrait, were one franc and thirty centimes. This paid 
 for their share of the ragout, some cheese, bread and a 
 liter of wine. When they got up to go, such was the im- 
 mediate fame of Philidor's portrait, that two other persons 
 came with the money in their hands to sit to him. But he 
 shook his head. He would be back this way, perhaps 
 but now no they must be upon their way. And so 
 amid the farewells of their latest friends, the cries of 
 children 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'Orsay and looked out over the 
 sparkling sands upon the gleaming sea. Trou- 
 ville was gay. The strand was flecked with the bright 
 colors of fashionable pilgrims who sat or strolled along 
 the margin of the waves, basking in the warm sun, re- 
 cuperating from the rigors of the Parisian spring. White 
 sails moved to and fro upon the horizon and a mild air 
 stirred the lace curtains in Olga's window, which undu- 
 lated lightly, their borders flapping joyously with a 
 frivolous disregard for the somber mood of the guest of 
 the house. 
 
 Olga's gaze was afar, quite beyond the visible. Her 
 horizon was inward and limitless, and though she looked 
 outward she saw nothing. Her brows were tangled, the 
 scarlet of her lips was drawn in a thin line slightly de- 
 pressed at the outer corners and the toe of her small slip- 
 per tapped noiselessly upon the rug. It was nothing, of 
 course, to be bored, for when she was not gay she was 
 always bored; but there was a deeper discontent in her 
 whole attitude than that which comes from mere ennui, 
 an aggressive discontent, sentient rather than passive, a 
 kind of feline alertness which needed only an immediate 
 incentive to become dangerous. Upon the dressing-table 
 beside her was Hermia Challoner's telegram, explaining 
 her failure to reach Trouville ; in her fingers a letter from 
 
 165
 
 MADCAP 
 
 a friend in Rouen telling her of John Markham's visit to 
 that city and of his departure. Both the telegram and 
 the letter were much crumpled, showing that they had been 
 taken out and read before. There seemed no doubt about 
 it now. John Markham had received her letters announc- 
 ing her arrival in Normandy and had in spite of them fled 
 from Havre, from Rouen, to parts unknown, where 
 neither Olga's rosily tinted notes nor Olga's rosily tinted 
 person could reach him. She had hoped that Hermia's 
 arrival from Paris would have made existence at Trou- 
 ville at least bearable, but Hermia's change of mind ex- 
 plained by the belated telegram had made it evident that 
 Fate was conspiring to her discomfort and inconvenience. 
 To make matters the worse the Duchesse had taken upon 
 herself an attack of the gout which made her insupporta- 
 ble, and Pierre de Folligny, Olga's usual refuge in hours 
 like these, had gone off for a week of shooting at the Cha- 
 teau of a cousin of the Duchesse's, the Comte de Cahors. 
 Hermia's change of plans had disappointed her; for, 
 jealous as she was of the years between them, Hermia al- 
 ways added a definite note of color to her surroundings, or 
 a leaven of madness which made even sanity endurable. 
 There seemed just now nothing in her prospect but a 
 dreary waste of the usual the beach, the inevitable sea, 
 the Casino, tea, more beach, with intervals of fretful 
 piquet with the Duchesse, an outlook both gloomy and 
 disheartening. Indeed it had been some weeks now since 
 things had gone quite to her liking, and her patience, 
 never proof against continued disappointment, was al- 
 most at the point of exhaustion. The letters she had 
 written John Markham, one from New York telling of 
 her immediate departure, another from Paris hoping to 
 see him at her hotel, a third from Trouville, assuming the 
 
 166
 
 MANET CICATEIX 
 
 miscarriage of the other two cool, friendly notes, tinc- 
 tured with a nonchalance she was far from feeling, had 
 failed of their purpose, and save for a brief letter telling 
 of his departure from Rouen, he had not given the slight- 
 est evidence of his appreciation of her efforts toward a 
 platonic reconciliation. She had not despaired of him 
 and did not despair of him now, for it was one of her 
 maxims that a clever woman a woman as clever as she 
 was could have any man in the world if she set her cap 
 for him. 
 
 Her self-esteem was at stake. She consoled herself 
 with the thought that all she needed was opportunity, 
 which being offered, she would succeed in her object, by 
 fair means if she could, by other means if she must. She 
 smiled a little as she thought how easily she could have 
 conquered him had she chosen to be less scrupulous in the 
 use of her weapons. She could have won him at "Wake 
 Robin" if some silly Quixotism hadn't steeled her breast 
 against him more than that, she knew that in spite of 
 herself she would have won him if it hadn't been for Her- 
 mia. Hcrmia had discovered a remarkable faculty for 
 unconsciously interfering with her affairs. Uncon- 
 sciously? It seemed so and yet 
 
 The slipper on the floor tapped more rapidly for a 
 moment and then stopped. Olga rose, her lips parting in 
 a slow smile. It was curious about Hermia there were 
 moments when Olga had caught herself wondering whether 
 Hermia wasn't more than casually interested in her elu- 
 sive philosopher. Hermia's decision to follow her to 
 Europe had been made with a suddenness which left her 
 motives open to suspicion. Olga had learned from 
 Georgette, who had got it from Titine, that notes had 
 passed between Hermia and Markham, for Georgette, 
 
 167,
 
 MADCAP 
 
 whatever the indifference of her successes as a hair- 
 dresser, had a useful skill at surreptitious investigation. 
 This morning Georgette had received a note from Titine 
 who was in Paris where she had been left by her mistress 
 to do some shopping and to await Hermia's return. Ti- 
 tine had expressed bewilderment at the disappearance of 
 her mistress, who had left Paris in her new machine with 
 the avowed intention of reaching Trouville by night. 
 Georgette had imparted this information to Madame 
 while she was doing her hair in the morning, and as the 
 hours passed Olga found her mind dwelling more insist- 
 ently on the possible reasons for Hermia's change of 
 plans. Where was she? And who was with her? Olga 
 ran rapidly through her mental list of Hermia's acquaint- 
 ances and seemed to be able to account for the where- 
 abouts or engagements of all those who might have been 
 her companions. 
 
 What if She started impatiently, walked across 
 
 the room and looked out into the Duchesse's rose garden. 
 Really, Markham's importance in her scheme of things 
 was getting to be intolerable. It infuriated her that this 
 obsession was warping her judgment to the point of im- 
 agining impossibilities. Hermia and Markham? The 
 idea was absurd. And yet somehow it persisted. She 
 turned on her heel and paced the floor of the room rap- 
 idly two or three times. She paused for a moment at her 
 dressing-table and then with a quick air of resolution rang 
 for her maid. 
 
 "Georgette," she announced, "I shall have no need of 
 you for a day or two. I would like you to go to Paris," 
 
 Georgette smiled demurely, concealing her delight with 
 difficulty. To invite a French maid to go to Paris is like 
 beckoning her within the gates of Paradise. 
 
 168
 
 MANET CICATRIX 
 
 "Out, 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, Madame a hat for the green 
 afternoon robe and one 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 here to-morrow. The train leaves 
 in an hour. That is all." 
 
 Georgette withdrew to the door but as she was about 
 to lay her hand upon 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 in- 
 quire where and with whom Miss Challoner has gone auto- 
 mobiling?" 
 
 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 of the window. 
 
 "Oh, it isn't so important as that but, Georgette, 
 if you could discreetly, Georgette " 
 
 "I comprehend, Madame." 
 
 When she was gone Olga threw herself on a couch 
 upon the terrace and read a French play just published. 
 There was a heroine with a past who loved quite madly 
 a young man with a future and she succeeded in killing 
 his love for her by the simple expedient of telling him the 
 
 169
 
 MADCAP 
 
 truth. At this point Olga dropped the book upon the 
 flagging and sat up 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. That code was a relic of the dark 
 ages when the Tree of Knowledge grew only in the Gar- 
 den of Eden. Now the Tree of Knowledge grew in every 
 man's garden and in every woman's. 
 
 She marveled that a dramatist of modern France 
 could have gone back into the past for such a theme. It 
 was the desire to seem original, of course, to be different 
 from other writers an affectation of naivete, quite out of 
 keeping with the spirit of the hour unintelligent as well 
 as uninteresting. (You see Olga didn't believe in the 
 double standard.) 
 
 She got up, spurning the guilty volume with her foot 
 and walked out into the rose garden. But their odor 
 made her unhappy and she went indoors. She began now 
 to regret that she had not gone down to the house party 
 of Madeleine de Cahors at Alen9on. At least Pierre de 
 Folligny would have been there Chandler Gushing, and 
 the Renauds a jolly crowd of people among whom there 
 was never time to think of one's troubles 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 her information. Miss Challoner had left 
 her hotel at ten in the morning in 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 the change in plans, with orders for Titine to 
 remain in Paris until further notice. Several days had 
 passed and Titine still waited in Miss Challoner's apart- 
 
 170
 
 MANET CICATRIX 
 
 ment at the hotel which was costing, so Titine related, 
 three hundred francs a day. It was all quite mystifying 
 and Titine was worried, but then Mademoiselle was no 
 longer a child and, of course, Titine had only to obey 
 orders. 
 
 Olga listened carelessly, examining Georgette's pur- 
 chases, and when the maid had gone she sat for a long 
 time in her chair by the window thinking. 
 
 At last she got up suddenly, went down into the li- 
 brary and found the paper booklet of the Chemins de 
 Per de VEtat. In this there was a map of Normandy and 
 Brittany and after a long search she found the name she 
 was looking for Passy south from Evreux on the road 
 to Dreux this was the town from which Hermia's tele- 
 gram to Titine had been sent. 
 
 Olga's long polished finger nail shuttled back and 
 forth. Here was Paris, there Rouen, here Evreux there 
 Alen9on. Curious! Hermia with her machine doing in 
 half a day from Paris what John Markham had taken 
 four days from Rouen to do afoot. What more improb- 
 able? And yet entirely possible! 
 
 She took the livret to her room where she could ex- 
 amine it at her ease and sent to the garage for a road 
 map which had been left in the car of the Duchesse. The 
 livret and map she compared, and diligently studied, ar- 
 riving, toward the middle of the afternoon, at a sudden ' 
 resolution.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 
 
 HAD Yvonne needed encouragement in her career 
 as a bread-winner her success of the morning 
 had filled her with confidence. She had earned 
 the right to live for this day at least, and looked forward 
 to the morrow with joyous enthusiasm. Philidor, who 
 still confessed to the possession of a few francs of their 
 original capital, was for putting up at a small hotel or inn 
 and paying for this accommodation out of principal. 
 But Yvonne would not have it so. The sum they had 
 earned for the ragout had filled her with pride and cu- 
 pidity, had developed a niggardly desire to hoard their 
 sous against a rainy day. They had earned the right to 
 lunch. They must also earn the right to dine and sleep ! 
 Late in the afternoon they came to a small village 
 where a crowd of idlers soon surrounded them. Philidor 
 unpacked Clarissa and recited in a loud tone the now 
 familiar inventory of their artistic achievements and 
 Yvonne, smiling, donned her orchestra, tuned her mando- 
 lin and played. The audience jested and paid her 
 pretty compliments, and joined with a good will in the fa- 
 miliar choruses. And for his part, Philidor made a light- 
 ning sketch of an ancien who stood by, leaning upon his 
 stick, which brought him several other commissions at 
 ten sous the portrait. "Reduced rates !" he cried. "Bien 
 entendu!" For to-morrow at Verneuil would the people 
 
 172
 
 PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 
 
 not pay him two francs fifty? This final argument was 
 convincing to their frugal souls, and he sat upon a chair 
 until sunset making Vallecy immortal. Philidor was too 
 busy even to pass the hat for the musical part of the per- 
 formance, so Yvonne did it herself, returning with two 
 francs, all in coppers. When this was added to the earn- 
 ings of Philidor, they found that in just two hours the 
 princely sum of six francs had been earned. 
 
 "To-night," whispered Philidor, "you shall sleep in a 
 chamber once occupied by the Grand Monarch at the 
 very least. We are tasting success, Yvonne." 
 
 "Yes and it's good but I've learned a healthy scorn 
 of beds. You, of course, shall rest where you please, but 
 as for me I've an ungovernable desire 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 bring besides !" 
 
 They compromised. The ancien to whom Markham 
 applied in this difficulty offered them bed and board for 
 the small sum of two francs each, and accordingly they 
 made way to his house. The ancien was a person of some 
 substance in the community as they soon discovered, for 
 his house, the last one at the end of the street, was a two 
 storied affair and boasted of a wall at the side which 
 inclosed a vegetable patch and a small flower garden at 
 the back. Mere Guegou, a woman younger than her lord, 
 looked at them askance until her good man exhibited the 
 portrait by Monsieur Philidor, when she burst into smiles 
 and hospitality. 
 
 Oui, bien sur, there were rooms". This was no au- 
 berge, that was understood, but the house was very large 
 for two old people. Yes, they rented the spare rooms by 
 
 173
 
 MADCAP 
 
 the month. Just now they were fortunately empty. Did 
 Monsieur desire two rooms or one? 
 
 "Two," said Philidor promptly. "We will pay of 
 course." 
 
 He hesitated and Mere Guegou examined them with 
 new interest, but Yvonne, with great presence of mind, 
 flew to the rescue. 
 
 "We we are not married yet, Madame," she said 
 flushing adorably. "One day perhaps " 
 
 "Soon Madame," put in Philidor, rising to the situa- 
 tion with alacrity. "We shall be married soon." 
 
 Madame Guegou beamed with delight. 
 
 "Tiens! Cest joli, fa! Guegou!" she called. "We 
 must kill a chicken and cut some haricots and a lettuce. 
 They shall dine well in Vallecy these two." 
 
 Guegou grinned toothlessly from the doorway of the 
 shed where he was stabling Clarissa, and then hobbled his 
 way up to the garden. 
 
 When Mere Guegou went into the kitchen to prepare 
 the dinner, Yvonne and Philidor walked through the gar- 
 den to a small rustic 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 that we hadn't been married yet. We haven't, 
 you know," he laughed. 
 
 Her look passed his face and sought the saffron heav- 
 ens across which the swallows were wheeling high above 
 the tree tops. 
 
 "Obviously," she said coolly. "Nowadays one only 
 marries when every other possibility of existence is ex- 
 hausted." 
 
 174
 
 PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 
 
 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 at least is honest. She knows as I 
 do that she will not marry for the reasons you mention." 
 
 She accepted his reproof smilingly and thrust out her 
 hand a browner hand now, a ringless, earnest little 
 hand and put it into his. 
 
 "You are right, Philidor, I shall marry if I may 
 for love. Or I shall not marry at all." 
 
 He turned his palm upward, but before he could seize 
 her fingers she had eluded him. 
 
 "But I'm not ready yet, Philidor," she laughed, "and 
 when I am I shall not seek a husband on the highroads of 
 Vagabondia." 
 
 Her speech puzzled him for a moment. In it were 
 mingled craft and artlessness with a touch of dignity to 
 make it unassailable. But in a moment she was laugh- 
 ing gaily. "Whom shall it be? Cleofonte is married. 
 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 bet- 
 ter." 
 
 He sought her hand and she trembled under his touch. 
 
 "Fate has thrown us together twice. Its intention 
 is obvious. Let Fate look after the rest " 
 
 "You, Philidor. Oh " 
 
 175
 
 MADCAP 
 
 She buried her head in her arms still quivering, but he 
 only held her hand more tightly. 
 
 "Don't, child. I did not mean to frighten you. I 
 would not hurt you for anything in the world. I thought 
 you needed me " 
 
 At that she straightened quickly, turned a flushed face 
 toward him and he saw that she was shaking, not with 
 sobs, but with merriment. 
 
 "O Philidor such a wooing! You'd marry me be- 
 cause I need you. Was ever a dependent female in such 
 a position!" And she began laughing again, her whole 
 figure shaking. "I need you forsooth! How do you 
 know 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 of sincerity 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 tem- 
 pestuous wooing ! You ask me to marry you because you 
 fear I might do worse because you believe that I'm irre- 
 sponsible, and that without you I'll end in spiritual beg- 
 gary. I appreciate your motives. They're large, ingenu- 
 ous and heroic. Thanks. Love is not a matter of expe- 
 diency or marriage a search for a guardian. If they were, 
 mon ami, I should have long ago married my Trust Com- 
 pany. You John Markham !" 
 
 He sat silent under her mockery, his long fingers 
 clasped over his knees, his gaze upon the field below 
 them, his mind recalling unpleasantly a similar incident 
 in his unromantic career. Hermia had stopped laughing, 
 had left him suddenly and was now picking one of Pere 
 Guegou's yellow roses. Her irony had cut him to the 
 
 176
 
 quick, as Olga's had, her mockery dulled his wits and ren- 
 dered him incapable of reply, but curiously enough he 
 now felt neither anger nor chagrin at her contempt 
 only a deep dismay that he had spoken the words that 
 had risen unbidden to his lips, that placed in jeopardy the 
 joy of their fellowship which had owed its very existence 
 to the free, unsentimental character of their relations. He 
 knew that, however awkwardly he had expressed it, he had 
 spoken the truth. He loved her, had loved her since 
 Thimble Island, when she had spoiled his foreground by 
 eliminating every detail of foreground and background 
 by becoming 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 se- 
 cret carefully often by an air of indifference which fitted 
 him well, a relic of his years of seclusion, and a native awk- 
 wardness which was always more or less in evidence before 
 women. Whatever his secret misgivings, he had blessed 
 the opportunity which chance and her own wild will had 
 thrown in his way. And now she would leave him, of 
 course. There was nothing left for her to do. 
 
 Slowly, fearfully, he raised his eyes until she came 
 within the range of their vision, first to her shoes, then 
 to her stockings, her skirt, gaudy jacket and at last met 
 her eyes, which were smiling at him saucily over the rose- 
 bud which she was holding to her lips. But he only sat 
 glowering stupidly at her. 
 
 "O Philidor!" she cried. "You look just as you did 
 on the night when I slipped down through the pergola." 
 
 "Hermia!" He rose and approached her. "I forbid 
 you." 
 
 177
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 you propose to her, too, from purely 
 philanthropic " 
 
 "Stop!" He seized her by both wrists and held her 
 straight in front of him, 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 vio- 
 lently. "There never was " 
 
 "Face powder," she repeated. 
 
 "Listen to me. You shall," fiercely. "You've got to 
 know the truth now. There's no other woman in the 
 world but you. There never has been another. There 
 won't be. I love you, child. I always have from the 
 first. I wanted to keep it from you because I didn't want 
 to make you unhappy, because I wanted you here in 
 Vagabondia. When the chance came to take you, I wel- 
 comed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong. I 
 wanted to meet you on even terms, away from the reek of 
 your fashionable set to see the woman in you bud and 
 blossom under the open skies away from the hothouse 
 plants of your vicious circle. Even there at 'Wake 
 Robin,' I wanted to tear you away from them. They 
 were not your kind. In the end you would have been the 
 same as they. That was the pity of it. Perhaps it was 
 pity that first taught me how much you were to me how 
 much you were worth saving from them from yourself. 
 
 178
 
 PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 
 
 It seemed impossible. I was nothing to you then less 
 than I am now a queer sort of an amphibious beast that 
 had left its more familiar element and taken to walks 
 abroad among the elect of the earth. But I loved you 
 then, Hermia, I love you now, and I've told you so. I 
 hadn't meant to, but I'm not sorry. I'm glad that you 
 know it even though your smiles deride me ; even though 
 I know I've spoiled your idyl here and made a mockery 
 of my own Fool's Paradise." 
 
 Her head was lowered now and he could not see her 
 eyes, but he was sure they must be still laughing at him. 
 When he had finished he released her and turned away. 
 
 "To-morrow we shall be in Verneuil," he said quietly. 
 "I will give you money to buy clothes and put you on the 
 train for Paris." 
 
 There was a long silence, broken by the sound of Pere 
 Guegou's chickens flapping to their roosting bars. The 
 saffron heavens had changed to purple, and in the spire 
 of the village campanile a bell tolled solemnly the strokes 
 of Philidor's doom. He did not see her face. He had 
 not dared to look at it. But when the bell stopped ring- 
 ing, 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 love with me? I'm not responsible for that 
 am I? I didn't make you do it, 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 I am after 
 
 179
 
 MADCAP 
 
 letting me know what I can be after giving me an ego, 
 an individuality, and making me a success in life to send 
 me back to Paris 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 of stubbornness. 
 
 "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 go away from this from you, Philidor." 
 
 He turned quickly but she thrust out her hand with 
 a frank gesture which 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 your faith in me." 
 
 He looked so woebegone that her heart went out to 
 him, but she only laughed gaily. 
 
 "You'll not be rid of me so easily, Monsieur. I'm not 
 going, do you hear?" 
 
 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 Pere Guegou's blossom to her lips, then 
 put it deftly into 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, and however mad, however inconsistent 
 or incomprehensible I may be, know that I am bound to 
 you, apprenticed to learn the trade of living and that not 
 until you send me away will I ever leave you." 
 He smiled and lifted the blossom to his lips. 
 "Friendship?" he asked. 
 
 180
 
 PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 
 
 "Yes, that always whatever else " 
 
 She stopped suddenly as his eyes eagerly alight sought 
 her face, and then turning quickly she fled to the kitchen 
 of Mere Guegou and upstairs away from him. 
 
 The Guegou family made good its promise, and they 
 supped upon the fat of Vallecy, Mere Guegou waiting 
 upon them, her good man bringing from the cellar a cob- 
 webbed bottle which dated from a vintage which was still 
 spoken of in the valley with reverence. 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 Guegou, setting 
 down her glass when 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 Guegou from his corner. 
 "It's in the joints." 
 
 "Tais-toi, Jules," scolded his wife. "What should 
 lovers care about thy joints." 
 
 "My joints are my joints," he creaked stubbornly. 
 "When one has ninety years " 
 
 "Ninety !" cried Yvonne. "Monsieur carries his years 
 lightly. I should not have said that he had over sixty." 
 
 "Say no more, Mademoiselle," put in Mere Guegou, 
 "You will render him conceited." 
 
 Indeed it seemed that the old man had already forgot- 
 ten his joints, for he poured out another glass of wine 
 and was pledging Yvonne with toothless gayety. 
 
 "Vos beaux yeux, Mademoiselle," he creaked gallantly, 
 "and to your good fortune, Monsieur Philidor." 
 
 "To your roses, Monsieur Guegou," replied Philidor. 
 "In the whole of the Eure et Oise there are not such roses. 
 
 181
 
 MADCAP 
 
 To your omelette, Madame. In the country there is not 
 such another !" 
 
 With these compliments and in others like them the 
 minutes passed quickly. Yvonne's eyes avoided Philidor's, 
 though he frequently sought them. Nor was he dismayed 
 when, in response to Madame Guegou's interested query as 
 to when they would marry, Yvonne shrugged her shoul- 
 ders indifferently and sighed. 
 
 "Oh, I do not know, Madame. Often I think never. 
 One marries and that 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 her over his chicken bone. 
 
 "If one has but one lover," she went on, "he must 
 have all of the virtues of the many and none of the faults. 
 He must sing when we are gay, weep when we are sad, 
 and make love to us while doing either. Enfin, he must 
 be what no man is. Voyez-vous?" and she pointed the 
 finger of scorn at Philidor. "He eats just as you or I." 
 
 Madame Guegou laughed. 
 
 "What you require is no man at all. Mademoiselle 
 Yvonne, but a saint." 
 
 "Perhaps," she finished, yawning. "But, bien entendu, 
 I'm in no hurry." 
 
 When the dinner was finished, Yvonne helped Mere 
 Guegou with 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 the head. 
 
 Philidor sat for a long while in the arbor smoking a 
 pipe. He had much to think about. One by one the 
 lights went out, and the village grew quiet. The moon 
 rose over the forest on the hilltop beyond the stream, and 
 he stretched his limbs and smiled at it in drowsy content. 
 
 182
 
 PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES 
 
 He was so wrapped in his reflections that he hardly heard 
 a voice which came to 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 the wall looking upward. There was 
 no sound.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 
 
 LARISSA carried a double burden the next day, 
 S , but she breasted the keen morning air so briskly 
 that whatever her own thoughts upon the sub- 
 ject she gave no sign of her increasing responsibilities. 
 Yet Cupid sat perched upon the pack which Philidor had 
 been at such pains to fasten. Yvonne alone of the three 
 was out of humor and she moved along silently, suppress- 
 ing the joyous mood of her companion by answers in 
 monosyllables and a forbidding expression which defied 
 conciliation. As nothing seemed to please her, Philidor, 
 too, relapsed into silence and swinging his stick, walked 
 on ahead, whistling gaily. But that only provoked her 
 mood the more, and when she overtook him she made him 
 stop. 
 
 His silence seemed even more exasperating. 
 
 "Oh, if you have nothing to say to me," she said petu- 
 lantly at last, "I'd much rather you whistled." 
 
 He glanced at her before replying. 
 
 "Your motto of the Golden Rose needs amending," 
 he said. 
 
 "What would you add?" 
 
 "Patience," he laughed. 
 
 "Clarissa is patient," she sniffed. "The bon Dieu pre- 
 serve me from the patient man." 
 
 It was clear that she meant to affront him and she 
 184.
 
 A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 
 
 succeeded admirably, for Philidor flushed to the brows. 
 Then catching her in his arms without more ado, he kissed 
 her full on the lips. 
 
 "I'm no more patient than I should be," he said. 
 
 She flung away from him, pale and red by turns, 
 struggling between anger and incomprehension. 
 
 "Oh!" she stammered at last. "That you could!" 
 
 She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and 
 then her eyes blazing at him, turned and walked rigidly 
 on her way. He watched her a moment, his anger cooling 
 quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissa who 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 the small figure which had almost reached the 
 turn in the road. She walked with 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 blazed 
 with resentment. He goaded the donkey into a more 
 rapid pace, but try as he might he could not come up with 
 her, and so giving up the chase he let Clarissa choose her 
 own gait, lighted a pipe to compose his spirit and followed 
 leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity. 
 
 It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she 
 stopped and waited for him. When he arrived with Cla- 
 rissa, already chastened and even prepared for humility, 
 she surprised him by smiling as though nothing had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 " Which way, Philidor?" she asked. 
 
 He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the 
 hilltops behind them and indicated. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Hermia," he said softly. "Will you for- 
 give me?" 
 
 185
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 be that 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 usu- 
 ally find a way of letting 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 
 jour companionship for that purpose." 
 
 "No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never 
 thought that of you. We've had a code of our own, 
 Hermia all our own. Last night you made me happy. 
 I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I 
 
 She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the 
 way, her eyes flashing furiously. 
 
 "We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried. 
 "Do you hear? When I ask for love uncomplaining 
 unselfish, I know where to seek it." She reached up sud- 
 denly, snatched Pere Guegou's faded blossom from his 
 button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it under 
 her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you, 
 Monsieur Philidor," she finished. And before he was 
 really awake to the full extent of his disaster was again 
 on her way. 
 
 186
 
 A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 
 
 They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the 
 lead, the donkey following, and Philidor, now thoroughly 
 disillusioned, bringing up the rear. He was thinking 
 deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her intolerant 
 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 train for Paris. He had done what he could 
 to atone but some instinct warned him against further 
 contrition. 
 
 His judgment was excellent. As they entered the 
 street of the town she stopped and waited for him to join 
 her. 
 
 "You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said 
 acidly. "I'm going through the town alone." 
 
 He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already 
 fingering, his manner 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 the railroad which passed nearby, 
 "I put you on the train for Paris." 
 
 She had not expected that. She was powerless and 
 knew it. Wide-eyed she 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 its precocity. The 
 crowd laughed. This relaxed the tension of the situation. 
 
 187
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's 
 halter. "This will never do. We will go on, please." 
 
 Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her 
 arms akimbo and then dumbly followed. 
 
 Markham led the way toward the market-place, where 
 the crowds were gathered. The glance he stole at Hermia 
 revealed a set expression, a cheek highly flushed and a 
 lambent eye. 
 
 "If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get 
 you a room at an inn," he said gently. 
 
 But she raised her chin and looked at him with the 
 narrow eye of contempt. 
 
 "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 Hotel Dieu, and nibbled si- 
 lently at what he had ordered. His efforts to relieve the 
 tension were unavailing so he gave it up and at last led 
 the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked 
 and Yvonne donned her orchestra. 
 
 Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's 
 share of it. The sound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a 
 crowd and Philidor got out his sketching block and went 
 to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasant girl of eight- 
 een, in Norman headgear. She demurred at first, but she 
 was pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was per^ 
 suasive, his nervous crayon eloquent. He was at his best 
 here, and when the sketch was done he gave it to her with 
 his compliments. The girl's lover, a gardener from an 
 estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group to group, 
 And Philidor's fame was again established. 
 
 It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's or- 
 188
 
 V A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 
 
 chestra was a symphonic success, for she jangled her man- 
 dolin horribly out of tune, and blew her mouth-organ 
 atrociously. But whatever her performance lacked in 
 artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awak- 
 ing such a din that existence was unbearable within ten 
 feet of them. Philidor went on with his portraits and 
 was so absorbed that for at least twenty minutes he 
 neither saw nor heard what was going on about him. He 
 had been aware of his companion's execrable performance 
 a while ago, and now realized with a suddenness which 
 surprised him that she played no more. He rose and 
 peered about over the shoulders of his rustic admirers. 
 Somebody directed his glance. There she was across the 
 square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman. 
 It was true; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman 
 was Pierre de Folligny. Philidor watched them uncer- 
 tainly. A joke passed, they both laughed and the 
 Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by. 
 Then it was that Philidor went forth across the square, 
 his brow a thundercloud. The girl cast a glance over her 
 shoulder in his direction and then followed the French- 
 man to his machine. Philidor's long stride made the dis- 
 tance 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. " 
 
 189
 
 MADCAP 
 
 The car had begun to move. 
 "One moment, Monsieur- 
 
 De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a 
 moment was speeding down the cobbled street, leaving 
 Philidor staring after them, his head full of wild 
 thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all 
 Verneuil. 
 
 But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in 
 his pockets and slowly made his way through the piles of 
 vegetables back to Clarissa. He bundled his materials 
 into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from the in- 
 terested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled eo 
 offer him both questions and advice. 
 
 He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting 
 at the Hotel Dieu to await developments or of hiring a 
 car at the garage nearby and going on a wild-goose chase 
 which, whether successful or unsuccessful, must end un- 
 profitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could 
 she afford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. 
 What did Hermia know? She was mad, of course. He 
 had thought her mad before when she had volunteered 
 
 with him for Vagabondia, but now What could he 
 
 think of her now? There was a difference. 
 
 Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out 
 
 and wandered forth, his footsteps taking him down the 
 
 ! street through which the pair had fled. He followed it to 
 
 (its end, emerging presently on a country road which took 
 
 v the line of the railroad to the South. He did not know 
 
 where he was going, and did not much care so long as he 
 
 was doing something. His stride lengthened, his jaw was 
 
 set, his gaze riveted on the spot where his road entered 
 
 the forest. It would have fared ill with De Folligny if 
 
 they had met at that moment. Persons who met him on 
 
 190
 
 <A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 
 
 the road turned to look at him and passed on. Lunatics 
 were scarce along the Avre. 
 
 After a while his fury passed and he brought what 
 reason he still possessed to bear upon his topic. It was 
 Hermia, not De Folligny who was to blame Hermia, the 
 mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused from her idyl 
 in their happy valley and driven forth, tete baissee, upon 
 this fool's errand Hermia the tender, the tempestuous, 
 the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks 
 he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now 
 stalked the highroads 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 at him still with De Folligny. 
 
 His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her 
 and bring this mad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow 
 to-night, perhaps he would put her on a train which would 
 take her back to the, people of her own kind, or he would 
 go upon his way his own way, which he was now sure 
 could no longer be hers. 
 
 Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn 
 away from the railroad tracks down hill and across a 
 level plain. From the slight eminence upon which he 
 stood, his road lay straight as a string before him, its 
 length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a 
 dark object at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it 
 a motor? This was the way De Folligny had come, for 
 there had been no turnings. He hurried on, his gaze on 
 the distant object which grew nearer at every step. He 
 was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved 
 of two things that it was not a motor. And yet there 
 was something familiar about it. A wagon it was a 
 
 191
 
 MADCAP 
 
 wagon with a roof, its end showing 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 the trees. It was the roulotte of the 
 Fabiani family and there in the woods was his friend of 
 a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable. 
 
 He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the 
 fire when from the hedge beside the road there came 
 sounds of tinkling bells and a small wraith in red and blue 
 rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted him 
 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 his senses. 
 
 "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 kissed unless unless " 
 
 She stopped and slowly disengaged her elbows from 
 his grasp, "Unless I want to be kissed." 
 
 He searched her face anxiously. 
 
 192
 
 "He he kissed you?" he snapped savagely. 
 
 "Almost " 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 "No." She smiled up at him. "You see," amusedly, 
 "every time he put his arm around me the drum and 
 cymbals played. It quite disconcerted him." But Phili- 
 dor found no amusement in her recital. 
 
 "How do you happen to be here?" 
 
 His tone was still querulous. She looked at him calm- 
 ly and after a pause she answered evenly. 
 
 "We were driving slowly. I saw the roulotte and 
 recognized it at once. So I switched off the magneto of 
 his machine I don't know what he thought but he 
 looked at me as though he believed I had gone suddenly 
 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 that there had been a mistake. He watched 
 me a moment and then got out, cranked his car thought- 
 fully, and went on in a cloud of dust And that 
 
 thats' all," she finished. 
 
 Markham looked down the road, his narrowed eyes 
 slowly relaxing and a smile growing under his small 
 mustache. 
 
 "O Hermia, what a frolic you've had ! I feared " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 193
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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. She had been unreasonable and 
 would make him unhappy no more. All those things he 
 read. It was quite wonderful. 
 
 She led him through the bushes to the fire where the 
 Signora and Stella made him welcome with their kindest 
 smiles and the bambino cried lustily. Cleof onte and Luigi 
 presently emerged from the forest where they had gone in 
 search of wood and deposited their loads by the fireside. 
 They all made merry as befitted good comrades of the 
 road, once more reunited, and when Philidor suggested 
 going back to Verneuil for the night the jovial strong 
 man would not have it, nor would Yvonne. So Luigi was 
 dispatched on the gray horse to the town for Clarissa and 
 the pack, but not until Philidor had privily given him 
 some instructions and a piece of money which opened his 
 sleepy eyes a trifle wider and increased the dimension of 
 his smile. 
 
 When he returned later with both animals laden with 
 packages deep was the joy and great the astonishment of 
 the caravaners. With an air of mystery Luigi proudly 
 laid his packages out in a row beside the fire and Yvonne 
 opened them one by one, disclosing a chicken, a ham, three 
 loaves 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 of wine. 
 
 "Jesu mio!" said Cleofonte, his eyes starting from his 
 head. "It is beyond belief." 
 
 194
 
 A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY 
 
 "To-night you dine with me with us," laughed Phili- 
 dor with a glance at Yvonne. They all took a hand in 
 preparing the meal, which was to be magnificent. Luigi 
 built another fire for the chicken which was to be roasted 
 on a spit, and the coffee pot was soon simmering. 
 
 Yvonne made toast, Philidor cut the ham, the Signora 
 made vegetable soup, and Stella hurried back and forth 
 from the wagon, bringing the slender supply of dishes 
 and utensils. 
 
 When all was ready they sat and ate as though they 
 had never eaten before and were never to eat again. The 
 wine was passed and drunk by turns from two broken 
 tumblers and two tin cups, the only vessels available for 
 both the wine and coffee, and healths were merrily 
 pledged. Cleofonte swore an undying friendship for Phili- 
 dor. Were they not both great artists of different 
 metiers, but each great in his own profession? The world 
 should know it. He, Cleofonte, would proclaim it. And 
 the Signora Fabiani she and the Signora were already 
 sisters. They must all travel together. There was enough 
 food for an army to eat. It would last a week at the 
 very least. 
 
 Philidor was content. And when the others had cleared 
 away what remained of their feast and brought out the 
 blankets, Yvonne sat for a long while by the fire with 
 Philidor, who smoked and talked of many things. But the 
 train to Paris no longer interested him.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 THEY reached Alen9on at the end of the third day. 
 Soon after leaving Verneuil their road mounted a 
 rocky country of robust wooded hills, cleft by 
 gorges and defiles, the uplands of the Perche and Nor- 
 mandie, from the crests of which the pilgrims had a gen- 
 erous view of the whole of the Orne. On the first day the 
 company had dined at St. Maurice and supped and slept 
 near Tourouvre, in the heart of a primeval forest of oaks 
 and pines. Philidor and Yvonne had followed close upon 
 the steps of Tomasso the bear, keeping, so to speak, under 
 the shadow of Cleofonte's protecting wing. There was 
 a difference in their relations, indefinable yet quite ob- 
 vious to them both, a reserve on Philidor's part, marked 
 by consideration and deference ; on Yvonne's a gentleness 
 and amiability which showed him how companionable she 
 could be. Indeed, her docility was nothing short of alarm- 
 ing, and Philidor was ever on his guard against a new 
 outbreak which, he was sure, was to be expected at any 
 moment. But she cajoled him no more. Perhaps she 
 understood him better now. Who knows? He spoke no 
 more of love, nor were the roses of Pere Guegou again 
 mentioned. 
 
 At Mortagne, which they had reached upon the sec- 
 ond day, Philidor and Yvonne had a first view of a public 
 performance of the Fabiani family, for, the conditions 
 
 196
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 being agreeable, Cleofonte had pitched their camp within 
 the limits of the town, and a crowd, augmented by 
 Yvonne and her orchestra, had made their visit profitable. 
 Yvonne had slept that night at a small auberge, her bed 
 and board paid for with money she had made, and Phili- 
 dor, who complained of a lack of sitters, slept quite com- 
 fortably near Clarissa in a stable. 
 
 In the morning Yvonne had made some purchases in 
 the town and later they had caught up with their friends 
 near La Mesle, along the Sarthe, down which their road 
 descended by easy stages to their destination. 
 
 Alen9on was in holiday garb and the tricolor flaunted 
 bravely from many poles, though the beginning of the 
 fete was not until to-morrow. The streets were gay with 
 people, the market-place showed a number of booths, tents 
 and canvas enclosures within which performances were 
 already in progress. The Fabiani family was late in ar- 
 riving, but a spot was found, between the sword-swallower 
 and the Circassian lady, which suited Cleofonte's purpose. 
 So the roulotte was backed into place and Cleofonte, his 
 coat off, his brows beading, directed the erection of the 
 canvas barrier within which the performances were to be 
 given. For let it be understood the Fabianis were no 
 common mountebanks for whom one passed a hat. There 
 was to be a gate through which one only passed upon the 
 payment of ten sous, and within were to be benches upon 
 which one could sit in luxury while he beheld these mar- 
 vels of the age. Philidor and Yvonne helped, too, getting 
 out the canvas which had been rolled and fastened be- 
 neath the wagon, and the uprights which supported it. 
 Not satisfied with the sign which was to be fastened over 
 the entrance, Philidor sought out a paint shop and before 
 dark painted two great posters three metres in height ; 
 
 197
 
 MADCAP 
 
 one of them depicting Cleofonte with bulging muscles 
 (real pink muscles that one felt like pinching) in the act 
 of breaking into bits with his bare hands a great iron 
 chain; the other showing the child Stella being tossed in 
 the air from Cleofonte to Luigi, her heels and head almost 
 touching. By sunset the paintings were finished and 
 fastened in place, and when Cleofonte lit the torches upon 
 either side of the entrance gate, the folk who were passing 
 stopped in wonder to gaze. There were to be no per- 
 formances to-night, Cleofonte explained, the company was 
 weary ; but to-morrow ! His pause and the magnificence 
 with which his huge fist tapped his deep chest were elo- 
 quence itself. 
 
 Their work done for the night, Philidor set off post 
 haste in search of quarters for Yvonne ; but the inns were 
 full and it was too late to search elsewhere. So he bought 
 a truss of straw and one of hay (for Clarissa 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 his own within the enclosure, and amid a babel of 
 sounds, above which the barrel organ of the carousel near 
 by wheezed tremulously, they dropped upon the blankets, 
 dead tired, and fell asleep at once. 
 
 The sun was not long in the heavens before the barrel 
 organ, silenced at midnight, renewed its plaint and the 
 business of the day began. After an early breakfast 
 Cleofonte and Luigi retired to the dressing tent, emerging 
 after a while in gorgeous costumes of pink fleshings and 
 spangles, their hair well greased with pomatum, their 
 mustachios elaborately curled. The Signora and Stella 
 soon followed, their hair wreathed in tight braids around 
 their heads. The bambino, neglected, was howling lustily, 
 so Yvonne took him in her lap upon the straw and soothed 
 
 198
 
 him to slumber while the carpet was laid and the impedi- 
 menta of the 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 she suppressed this desire as unworthy of 
 a true vagabond and washed in a bucket of water which 
 Philidor had brought from the pump, sharing at the last 
 in the suppressed excitement which pervaded the arena. 
 There was no doubt in the minds of any that the Troupe 
 Fabiani was to be the great success of the occasion. The 
 duties and destinies of all its members had already been 
 explained and decided. A girl was hired to care for the 
 bambino. Yvonne was to beat her drum and play her 
 orchestra on the platform outside, and this would attract 
 the people, already anxious to behold the wonders within, 
 a foretaste of which would be given, when the crowd gath- 
 ered, by Cleofonte, who would lift a few heavy weights 
 and introduce the Signora, the Child Wonder, and To- 
 masso, the bear. Philidor was to keep the gate and be- 
 tween the performances was to make portraits of those 
 who desired them. Their organization was perfection. 
 Cleofonte was at his best when in the executive capacity. 
 
 At nine o'clock Hermia mounted the platform (a 
 piano box turned on its side) and began to thump the 
 drum and cymbals. Her position was conspicuous and 
 she began a little uncertainly, for it was one thing to 
 choose one's audience among the simple folk of the coun- 
 tryside, another to face the kind of crowd which now 
 gathered to gaze up at her peasants, horse-fanciers, 
 shop people, clerks on a holiday, with here and there a 
 person of less humble station, but she bent to her work 
 with a will, encouraged by the example of the Circassian 
 lady next to her who was selling in brown bottles an elixir 
 
 199
 
 MADCAP 
 
 which was a cure for all things except love and the goiter. 
 The sword-swallower next them was already busy, and the 
 Homme Sauvage, a hirsute person, whose unprofessional 
 mien was both kind and peaceable (as Yvonne had dis- 
 covered unofficially last night), was roaring horribly, at 
 two sous the head, in his enclosure near by. 
 
 The wooden horses of the manege, upon which some 
 children and a few soldiers from the garrison were riding, 
 were already whirling on their mad career. 
 
 While Yvonne played, Cleofonte and Philidor 
 "barked." That is, they proclaimed in loud tones the 
 prodigies that were to be disclosed and that the perform- 
 ance was about to begin ; to the end that, in a little while, 
 coppers and centime pieces jingled merrily in Philidor's 
 coat pocket, the benches were filled and a crowd two deep 
 stood behind. This augured well. Cleofonte beamed as 
 he counted noses, and the performance began. 
 
 Yvonne played a lively air while Tomasso was put 
 through his paces, walking with a stick and turning som- 
 ersaults, and at the end Cleofonte put on a heavy coat 
 to keep himself from being torn by the savage claws of 
 the beast and wrestled for some minutes with Tomasso, 
 making the act more realistic by straining from side to 
 side and puffing violently while Tomasso clung on, his 
 muzzle sniffing the air, to be finally dragged down upon 
 his master and proclaimed the victor. The applause from 
 this part of the program was allowed to die and a dig- 
 nified pause ensued, after which the Signora appeared in 
 her famous juggling act, unmindful of the cries of the 
 bambino from the roulotte in active rebellion against the 
 substitute. During Stella's performance, which followed, 
 the orchestra played jerkily and then stopped, for Yvonne 
 had never yet succeeded in looking on at the child's con- 
 
 200
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 tortions without a pang of the heart. But the act went 
 smoothly enough, and the entertainment, which lasted 
 nearly an hour, concluded with Cleofonte's exhibition of 
 prowess and the stone-breaking episode of which he was 
 so justly proud. 
 
 The receipts were four hundred sous twenty francs 
 and there were to be six performances a day! Well 
 might Cleofonte wring Philidor by the hand 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 with Yvonne until the time for the next perform- 
 ance. It was tiresome work and the breathing space was 
 welcome enough. To Philidor his companion seemed al- 
 ready weary. But when he suggested that perhaps they 
 had better take to the road again she shook her head. 
 
 "No, no. I've reached the soul of things felt the 
 pulse-beats of humanity. I delight with Cleofonte, suf- 
 fer with Stella. I'm learning to 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 once was. My elbows ache and there's a raw 
 place on my shoulder, but it's an honorable scar and I'll 
 wear it. And I sleep, O Philidor, I never knew 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 been necessary for Phili- 
 dor to draw the flap at the gate because there was no 
 room in the enclosure for more people. As the time for 
 the beginning of the fourth performance drew near, a 
 
 201
 
 MADCAP 
 
 crowd had again gathered, listening to the Femme Orches- 
 tre and moving in groups of two and three toward the en- 
 trance where Philidor in the intervals between announce- 
 ments pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne. This 
 last occupation was one in which of late he had taken 
 great delight. Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had 
 also discovered, became her admirably, the sun and wind 
 had tanned her face and arms to a rich warmth, and this 
 color made the blue of her eyes the more tender. The 
 lines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for 
 it was the business of a Femme Orchestre to smile. 
 
 Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the 
 crowd with an appraising eye, adding his own voice to the 
 din as Philidor paused for breath, when in the midst of a 
 lively air the music stopped stopped so suddenly that 
 Philidor turned to see what the matter was. Yvonne gave 
 one startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down 
 behind the box and, unslinging her orchestra as she 
 dropped, literally dove under the canvas flap and disap- 
 peared. Philidor, who was in the act of making change, 
 called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to find 
 that 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 be mistaken." 
 
 "I'm not. I wish I was. I saw her plainly and the 
 Renauds, Madeleine de Cahors and Chandler Gushing. 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. 
 
 202
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 "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, look- 
 ing over the heads of the audience toward the entrance 
 flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious of the tragedy which 
 threatened the newer members of his family, still shouted 
 hoarsely. Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke 
 a few words to the Signora, made his way across the 
 arena, peering over Cleofonte's shoulder, and then, his 
 course of action chosen, slipped quickly into his accus- 
 tomed place outside. 
 
 "Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted. "The 
 greatest act of this or any age the Famille Fabiani, the 
 world renowned acrobats, jugglers and strong man! Six 
 great acts of skill and strength, any one of which is 
 worth the price of admission! Entrez, Mes dames, and see 
 the fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in 
 the world, and the savage bear captured from the forests 
 of Siberia! A contest which thrills the blood for in 
 spite of the great strength of the Signor which has been 
 compared to that of Samson, who once fought and con- 
 quered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from 
 Cleofonte at the eloquence of this comparison), in spite 
 of the great strength of the Signor I say the danger 
 of his destruction is ever present, as any one who has 
 seen the contest can testify. Come one, come all, Mes- 
 sieurs, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to 
 see the Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen 
 of the Mat and Queen of the Air, in her extraordinary 
 acts of flight and contortion " 
 
 203
 
 MADCAP 
 
 During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than 
 seen the figure which had slowly wedged through the 
 crowd at one side and now stood beside him. He knew 
 that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared to look 
 at her, though he was quite sure that her head was 
 perched on one side in the birdlike pose she found effec- 
 tive, and that her eyes, mocking and mischievous, were 
 searching him intently. But he went on extravagantly, 
 searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives. 
 
 "Entrez, Messieurs, and see the beautiful female 
 Juggler of Naples, who tosses ten sharp knives and burn- 
 ing brands into the air at one and the same time, nor lets 
 one of them touch the ground who tosses a cannon ball, 
 an apple and a piece of paper who spins two dishes on 
 the end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop 
 with the other a lady who has acted before all of the 
 crowned heads of Europe. There will never again be 
 such great artists, a performance unsurpassed and even 
 unequaled in the history of the Oire." 
 
 Philidor's adjectives had given out as had his breath 
 and so he paused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice 
 beside him in a single but curiously expressive syllable. 
 
 "Well?" it asked. 
 
 His eyes met hers without other token of recognition 
 than a slight twinkle of amusement. 
 
 "Mademoiselle wishes to enter? Ten sous, if you 
 please." And then with a loud voice directed over her 
 head, "Entrez, Messieurs et Dames, and see the hand to 
 hand struggle between a man and a savage beast ! A con- 
 test at once magnificent and appalling one which you 
 will remember to the end of your days, a spectacle to 
 describe to your children and to your children's chil- 
 dren " 
 
 204
 
 Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which had slowly 
 wedged through the crowd."
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 "John Markham!" Olga's voice sounded shrilly in 
 English. "Stop howling at once and listen to me." 
 
 "Owi, Mademoiselle, ten sous, if you please. The per- 
 formance is about to begin and " 
 
 "This performance has been going on quite long 
 enough. What on earth are you doing here in Alen9on?" 
 
 "Barking," said Markham with a grin. "Also doing 
 crayon portraits at two francs fifty a head," and he 
 pointed to the sign beside the poster of Cleofonte break- 
 ing the chains which advertised the nature of his talents 
 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 Alen9on?" 
 
 "Walked it's my custom." 
 
 "From 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 you come in?" 
 
 She searched his face keenly and accepted his invita- 
 tion, first handing him her fifty centime piece, which he 
 dropped without comment into his pocket. The enclos- 
 ure was already filled, so he closed the entrance flap and 
 mounted guard over it and Olga stood beside him, her 
 glance passing swiftly from one object to another. Cleo- 
 fonte's bout with Tomasso was more than usually dra- 
 matic, but her eyes roved toward the dressing tent, eyeing 
 with an uncommon interest the Signora when she ap- 
 peared. 
 
 "Your troupe is not large," Olga remarked when the 
 program had been explained to her. 
 
 205
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "No, we are few, ray dear Olga, but quite select. You 
 have yet to see Luigi perform and the Child Wonder 
 and the Femme Orchestre a remarkable 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?" she questioned 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," he laughed with a shrug, "and the worst 
 of it is that I'm quite shameless about it." 
 
 He was really an extraordinary person. She couldn't 
 help wondering how it was that she could have cared for 
 him at all, and yet she was quite sure that he had never 
 seemed more interesting to her than at this moment. But 
 it was quite evident that she did not believe him. The 
 performance was soon over, the people crowded toward 
 the entrance, Olga, alone at last, remaining. Indeed, she 
 was making herself very much at home, and to Philidor's 
 chagrin insisted upon examining the Signora's knives and 
 torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, the chains and the 
 larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken on 
 Cleofonte's chest. It was all very interesting. Then 
 she sat upon a bench, her glance still roving restlessly, 
 lighting at last upon the house wagon. 
 
 "And that," she indicated, "is where you sleep?" 
 
 "Not I. That's for the women. I sleep out when I 
 can indoors when I must." 
 
 Still she gazed at it, and while Philidor, his inquietude 
 rapidly growing, watched her keenly, she rose and 
 walked slowly around the rotdotte, peering under it where 
 
 206
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 the dogs lay chained, and up at its small windows and 
 door as though fascinated by a new and interesting study 
 of contemporary ethnology. 
 
 The active members of the Fabiani family had all 
 retired to the dressing tent and were occupied in the pre- 
 liminaries to supper. Philidor's mind was working rap- 
 idly, but, think as he would, nothing occurred to him 
 which might effectually serve to stem the tide of his visi- 
 tor's dangerous curiosity. She paused before the door, 
 looking upward, and Philidor watched the window fear- 
 fully. 
 
 "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, I believe." 
 
 "I'm awfully anxious to see what it's like inside. The 
 
 Signora wouldn't mind, I'm sure " She put one foot 
 
 on the steps and reached up for the knob. 
 
 It was locked he knew, for there was a key on the 
 inside, but the knowledge of that fact did nothing to de- 
 crease 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 movement had flung the door wide open. 
 
 Philidor closed his eyes a second, praying for a mir- 
 acle, then followed Olga's gaze within. The beds were 
 there, the shelves of dishes, the racks of clothing, but of 
 Hermia there was no sign. How the miracle had hap- 
 pened Philidor knew not, unless she had gone through 
 the roof, but with the discovery his courage returned to 
 him in a gush, and when Olga's eyes keenly sought his 
 face he was calmly smoking. Just at this moment a sound 
 
 207
 
 MADCAP 
 
 was heard, of merry, rippling laughter, light and mock- 
 ing, which had a familiar ring. Olga looked around 
 quickly toward the spot behind her from which the sounds 
 seemed to come, her gaze meeting nothing but the canvas 
 wall. They heard the sounds again, this time faintly, as 
 though receding in the distance overhead. It was most 
 extraordinary. She glanced toward the dressing tent 
 from which the Signora was just emerging. 
 
 "Would you like to visit the green room?" asked Phili- 
 dor, amusedly directing the way. "We are a happy fam- 
 ily, 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 or the Circassian lady?" 
 
 She shook her head, still eyeing him narrowly, but 
 he only smoked composedly and, after looking into the 
 tent, threw open the flaps with a generous gesture and 
 invited her to enter. Cleofonte and Luigi were counting 
 their money, but when the title of their visitor was an- 
 nounced, rose and bowed to the ground. It was seldom 
 that the Fabiani family had been done so great an honor. 
 
 Olga returned his compliments with others quite as 
 graceful upon the quality of the performance she had 
 witnessed, but her eyes, as Philidor saw, were still roving 
 carelessly but with nice observance of minutiae, taking in 
 every object in sight. Upon the ground in the corner 
 where it had been thrown lay a drum and cymbals fastened 
 to a framework of wire and straps. 
 
 Philidor grew unquiet. 
 
 "How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the con- 
 trivance. 
 
 208
 
 MOUNTEBANKS 
 
 "It is the music," put in the Signora pleasantly, "of 
 our Femme Orcliestre. She is ill. We were forced to 
 leave her yesterday at La Mesle. To-morrow she will 
 play again. The Contessa will hear her, perhaps?" 
 
 Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than 
 his now controlled their destinies. Olga searched the Sig- 
 nora' s face, which was as innocent 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 foolish- 
 ness?" she asked at last irritably. 
 
 "Who knows?" he laughed. "I think I've struck my 
 proper level. Did you see my posters ?" he asked, point- 
 ing proudly. "Great, aren't they?" 
 
 "They're disgusting," said Olga. 
 
 He smiled good-hum o redly. "That's too bad. I'm 
 sorry. I thought you'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 greasy mendicants. Ugh! You're rather 
 overdoing the simple life, Monsieur er Philidor. You're 
 very ragged and ah a trifle soiled." 
 
 "Outwardly only, chere Olga," he laughed. "Inwardly 
 my soul is lily-white." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that. No one's soul can be lily- 
 white whose beard is 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 to see you properly fed." 
 
 209
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "You're awfully kind, but " 
 
 "You refuse?" 
 
 "I must besides, you could hardly expect me to 
 appear at your house party 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's huge straw hat until 
 it nodded its way out of sight. Then he turned 
 back just in time to note a disturbance of the canvas 
 barrier, from under which, her slouch hat pushed down 
 over her ears, her gray coat hiding 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 con- 
 tent until she'd seen the inside of that wagon. She ex- 
 pected to find me there." 
 
 "You! She saw you outside?" 
 
 "No I'll take my oath on that you see, I saw her 
 first. But she expected to find me there just the same. 
 I can't tell you why a woman guesses these things. I 
 watched her. She's a deep one." She laughed again. 
 "I wouldn't have her find me here for anything in the 
 world." She suddenly laid her hand on his arm. "Phili- 
 dor ! we must go on at once." 
 
 "But you're tired " 
 
 211
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "I'd be in a worse plight if I were identified by 
 Olga." 
 
 He paused a moment, and then, pointing to the dress- 
 ing tent, turned swiftly and went out, examining the 
 street between the booths, and then, with a pretence of 
 looking to the fastenings of the uprights, carelessly made 
 the round outside the barrier. An atmosphere of peace 
 pervaded the encampment and an odor of cooking food. 
 The crowd had scattered and of Olga, or Olga's party, he 
 saw nothing. 
 
 A wail went up in the dressing tent when Hermia an- 
 nounced her decision. What should Cleofonte do without 
 her? It was she who attracted the crowds the eloquence 
 of Monsieur Philidor which drew them within the arena. 
 Never in their lives had the Fabiani family enjoyed such 
 success. And now that the Signor and Signora should 
 go! It was unthinkable unbelievable! Cleofonte could 
 not permit it. But Yvonne was obdurate. There were 
 reasons the Signor would understand that which made 
 this decision inevitable. They must go at once, as soon 
 as the night kad fallen. 
 
 The first shock over, Cleofonte clasped his hands over 
 his knees and stared gloomily at the tent flap. If the 
 Signora could have stopped in Alenon but two days 
 more. He, Cleofonte, would have paid ten francs a 
 performance anything to keep them there. Signora 
 Fabiani moved silently about her tasks, but her eyes were 
 deep with wisdom. What she was thinking, Philidor knew 
 not, nor did Yvonne set the matter straight. It was 
 necessary to go that was all. It was very sad and made 
 Yvonne unhappy, But she had, unfortunately, no choice 
 in the matter. When it was clearly to be seen that the 
 decision was unalterable, Cleofonte jingled his bag of
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 coppers and sighed, Luigi scowled at vacancy and Stella 
 unreservedly wept. 
 
 "We could have made two thousand francs," mut- 
 tered Cleofonte. 
 
 "More than that," said Luigi the silent, "three thou- 
 sand." 
 
 "There will be no longer pleasure in the decarcasse 
 when the music ceases to play," sobbed Stella. 
 
 Yvonne put her arms around the child and kissed her 
 gently. 
 
 "We shall meet again soon, car a 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 packed securely upon Clarissa, together with 
 Philidor's knapsack and other personal belongings. Her- 
 mia changed her gay apparel for a shirtwaist and dark 
 skirt, and when dusk fell, after a reconnaissance by 
 Luigi, the back of the canvas barrier was raised and 
 the trio quietly departed and were swallowed up in the 
 shadows of a back street. 
 
 The weather so far still favored them, but the night 
 was murky and high overhead the clouds were flying fast. 
 Their road, and they chose the first one which led them 
 forth of the town, wound up between a row of hedges and 
 pollard trees to an eminence from which, when they 
 paused for breath, they had a view of the lights of the
 
 MADCAP 
 
 town. The manege whirled and the barrel organ still 
 wheezed its thin thread of sound across the still air. The 
 Homme Sauvage was roaring again and the deep voice of 
 Cleofonte, their late partner and companion, was heard at 
 intervals in his familiar plaint. There was a fascination 
 in the lights and in the medley of noises each of which 
 had come to possess an interest and a personality for be- 
 hind them were the pale road and the inhospitable dark- 
 ness. 
 
 "It seems a pity to leave them," said Hermia, thinking 
 of Stella, "when we were doing so well. I shall regret the 
 roulotte." 
 
 John Markham smiled. 
 
 "It's time we were moving, then," he said. "Your true 
 vagabond wants no roots even in a roulotte nor re- 
 grets 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 the hill below them a man's figure had 
 been in silhouette against the lights. At the sound of 
 their voices it had suddenly disappeared. They stood 
 in silence for a moment, watching, but the figure did not 
 reappear. 
 
 "That was curious. I was mistaken, perhaps," said 
 Markham. "Come, we must go on." 
 
 They turned their backs resolutely to the light and 
 in a moment had passed over the brow of the hill and 
 were alone under the wan light of the darkening heavens. 
 They had not traveled by night before and the obscurity 
 closed in upon them shrouded in mystery. But as they 
 emerged from beneath the trees their eyes became accus- 
 tomed to the darkness and they followed the road cheer- 
 
 214
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 fully enough, determined to put as many kilometers as 
 possible between themselves and the threatening white 
 plume of Olga Tcherny which seemed in the last few 
 hours to have achieved an appalling significance. At 
 first Markham had been disposed to laugh at Hermia's 
 fears. What reason in the world could Olga have had to 
 suspect Hermia's share in his innocent pilgrimage? Of 
 his own tastes she had of course been ready to believe 
 anything, and he had had ample proof that she thor- 
 oughly disapproved of his present mode of living. Nor 
 was that a matter which could affect a great deal their 
 personal relations, which were already strained to the 
 point of tolerance. But as to his companion that was 
 another affair. He had never understood the intuitions 
 of women and thought them more often shrewd guess- 
 work in which they were as likely to be wrong as right. 
 But the more he considered what Hermia had said to him, 
 the more definite became the impression that Olga 
 Tcherny had fallen upon some clew to Hermia's where- 
 abouts that she had expected to find her as Hermia 
 had said in Cleofonte's house-wagon. He knew some- 
 thing of Olga and had a wholesome respect for her intel- 
 ligence. If it was to her interest to prove Hermia his 
 companion on this mad pilgrimage, it was clearly to 
 Hermia's interest to prove her own non-existence. As 
 Hermia had suggested, her intrusiveness was impertinent, 
 and Markham mentally added the adjectives "ruthless" 
 and "indecent." He had been almost ready to add "venge- 
 ful," but could not really admit, even to himself, that she 
 had anything to be vengeful about. 
 
 Whatever Hermia's further thoughts upon the sub- 
 ject, for the present she kept them to herself. They 
 walked along as rapidly as Clarissa's gait would allow, 
 
 215
 
 MADCAP 
 
 for the tiny beast, never precipitate at the best of times, 
 found the darkness little to her liking and pattered along 
 with evident reluctance, mindful of the truss of hay only 
 half eaten which she had left under Cleof onte's hospitable 
 lights. /, 
 
 At a turn in the road Markham determined to verify ' 
 
 . i 
 
 his suspicions of a while ago, and accordingly drew 
 
 Clarissa among some bushes, and, stick in hand, awaited 
 the approach of the shadow which he was sure still hung 
 upon their trail. Distant objects were dimly discernible, 
 and Markham had almost decided that he had been mis- 
 taken when the crackling of a twig at no great distance 
 advised him that in the shadow of the hedge someone was 
 approaching. He remained quiet until a man slowly 
 emerged from the shadows, when he stepped quickly out 
 of his hiding place and confronted him. 
 
 Markham's six feet were menacing, and his pursuer 
 stopped in his tracks, eyeing Markham's stick, undecided 
 as to whether it were the best policy to face the thing 
 out or take to his heels. As Markham's legs were longer 
 than his, he chose the former and made a brave enough 
 show of indifference, though his tongue wagged uncer- 
 tainly. 
 
 "B-bon soir, Monsieur," he stammered. "ZZ 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 of Alen9on. I saw you. Well, here I am. 
 What do you want?" 
 
 216
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 "The roads of the Oire are free," he answered sul- 
 lenly, gaining courage. 
 
 "Perhaps they are. But no man with honest business 
 slinks along the hedges. You go your way, do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "The roads 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 chauffeur and his legs were encased 
 in the black puttees of his craft. Olga's ambassador was 
 unworthy of her. 
 
 "Well, you go back to those who sent you here and 
 say with the compliments of Monsieur Philidor that the 
 roads of the Perche are dangerous after dark. I've every 
 right to break your head, and if I meet you again I'll do 
 it. Comprenez?" 
 
 The man eyed Markham's stick dubiously again and 
 then, with a glance toward the pair in the bushes, silently 
 walked away. They watched him until he was lost in the 
 shadows of the trees. 
 
 "You see," said Markham, "I was right. But I can't 
 understand it. Why should 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 dangerous emotion. She decided some time ago 
 to marry you. Didn't you know that? It's quite true. 
 She told me so." 
 
 "Told you?" 
 
 "Not in words. Oh, no. Olga never tells anything 
 217
 
 MADCAP 
 
 important to anyone. But she told me so just the same. 
 I know." 
 
 "Nonsense. She's a coquette. I've always under- 
 stood that, but to marry /" 
 
 "Precisely that nothing else. She's madly in love 
 with you, my poor friend. She has never failed to bring 
 a man to her feet when she made up her mind to. The 
 deduction is obvious." 
 
 There was no need of daylight to see the expression 
 on her companion's face. Hermia could read it in the 
 dark. 
 
 "What you say is highly unimportant," he said with an 
 attempt at a smile. "And because she desires to make me 
 er her husband she employs persons to follow me 
 along the byways of France?" 
 
 "Oh, no. Not to follow you, my friend. Me. You 
 are merely the bone of contention. I am the impudent 
 terrier who has interfered with the peace of her repast." 
 
 "Impossible. She doesn't even know you're out of 
 Paris. How can she know?" 
 
 "Now you're delving into the intricacies of the femi- 
 nine mind an occupation to which you're as little suited 
 as Clarissa and she's a woman. You must take my 
 word for it. Olga has often amazed me by the accuracy 
 of her intuitions. I have imagined that where her own 
 interests were involved they would be nothing short of 
 miraculous. She is quite as sure that I am your com- 
 panion at the present moment as though she had seen me 
 in the Signer Cleofonte's roulotte." 
 
 "Then if she is so sure," he asked with excellent logic, 
 "why should she make so much bother about it?" 
 
 Hermia laughed. "The mere fact that she is making 
 a bother about it is significance itself. She'll find me if 
 
 218
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 she can and confront me with 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 her the chance and she will pillory me 
 in the market-place." 
 
 Markham went along in silence, his earlier impres- 
 sions confirmed by the argument, sure that the chance of 
 discovery must be avoided at all hazards. A watch of the 
 road had revealed no sign of the stealthy chauffeur, but 
 that argued nothing. He was an obstinate little animal, 
 evidently quite capable, since his discomfiture, of follow- 
 ing the adventure through to its end. They must outman- 
 euver him. Presently Markham discovered what he had 
 been looking for a path hardly perceptible in the dark- 
 ness, which led through the bushes and promised immu- 
 nity. They followed it silently, pausing for a while to 
 listen for sounds of pursuit, and at last, with minds re- 
 lieved, if not quite certain, plodded on into the obscur- 
 ity. They had entered, it seemed, an aisle of a forest 
 which stretched, darkly impenetrable, on either side. Be- 
 fore them, blackness, darkness within dark, like a cave, 
 a smell of dampness like a dungeon. The sky lightened 
 for a moment and they saw the shape of leaves and tree 
 fronds far above them like a pattern on a carpet a pat- 
 tern which changed with elflike witchery, for a wind had 
 blown up and sounded about them with the roar of a dis- 
 tant sea, rising now and then in a mighty crescendo, like 
 the boom of a nearer wave upon the shore. The tree tops 
 swayed and joined in the splendid diapason. Nature 
 breathed deeply. 
 
 219
 
 Markham led the way, his hand upon Clarissa's bridle, 
 peering along their slender trail, while Hermia, all her 
 senses keenly alive to the witchery of the night, followed 
 closely, casting timorous glances over her shoulder into 
 the murky gloom, in which she fancied she could discern 
 the shapes of pursuers. Once thinking she had heard a 
 sound behind her, she caught Markham's arm and they 
 stopped, breathless, and listened, but they heard nothing 
 in the rushing blackness but the complaint of an owl and 
 the crash of a dead limb at a distance to their right. A 
 drop of rain fell on Markham's hand. Their prospect 
 was not pleasant. Markham struck a match under his 
 coat and looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. They 
 had been walking for four hours. He tried to focus his 
 eyes upon the blackness. This path must lead somewhere 
 a shed even would serve them if it rained harder. The 
 brief glimpse he had of Hermia's face showed it pale and 
 dark-eyed with a look he had never discovered in it be- 
 fore, not of fear, for fear he had begun to believe was 
 foreign to her. The light had cut them off for a moment 
 from the rest of the world, or rather had made more defi- 
 nite the little world of their own, but Hermia's eyes 
 still peered over her shoulder, distended and alert. She 
 was on the defensive, ready for headlong 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 least into this forest. It seems limitless." 
 
 He peered about, taking a few steps forward along 
 the path, which widened here. The trees, too, were further 
 apart, and a larger patch of the windy sky was visible. 
 Hermia followed, guiding the donkey. They emerged into 
 
 220
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 a glade, their road now well defined, and made out against 
 the trees beyond a rectangular bulk of gray. Markham 
 went forward 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 pattered crisply upon 
 the dry leaves of a forgotten autumn. A small affair it 
 was, a keeper's or a forester's lodge of one story only, 
 with a small shed or stable at the side. There were no 
 lights, but that was reasonable enough. French country 
 folk made no pretence of entertaining visitors at such 
 early hours of the morning. As they approached the 
 building the matter of its occupancy seemed open to ques- 
 tion, for the closed windows stared blankly at the leaden 
 sky. An eloquent shutter hung helplessly from its hinges 
 and weeds ranged riotously about the front door, near 
 which a wooden bench lay overturned. While Hermia 
 waited under a tree Markham walked slowly around the 
 house, returning presently with the information that its 
 rear confirmed the impression of desertion. But to make 
 the matter certain he walked to the door and vigorously 
 clanged the knocker. Hollow echoes, but no other sound. 
 He knocked again ; to his surprise the door yielded to the 
 touch of his shoulder and creakily opened. 
 
 "We'll go in, I think," he laughed. And, leaving the 
 patient donkey for the moment to her fate, he led the 
 way indoors. A match illumined for a moment the hall- 
 way, showing a ladder-like stair to a trap door above, 
 and then, sputtering faintly in the musty air, went out. 
 Since matches were scarce, he deftly made a torch of a 
 paper from his pocket with better success. A brief glance 
 into the room at their left showed signs of recent occu- 
 pancy. His quick survey marked an oil lamp in the
 
 MADCAP 
 
 corner, which, upon investigation, proved to be in work- 
 ing order, so he lit it with the end of his expiring taper. 
 
 The room was handsomely paneled in white. There 
 was a couch in the corner, a rug upon the floor and sev- 
 eral easy chairs were drawn sociably toward the chimney 
 breast; along one wall was a gun-rack and in the center 
 of the room a table with a litter of magazines, a box of 
 cigars, a decanter of wine and some glasses. 
 
 Their appraisal concluded, they faced each other 
 blankly. Then Markham laughed. 
 
 "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 to prison willingly in the morning if 
 they'll only let me sleep now. I'm tired. 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 pro- 
 tests 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 and a gentleman, if a mere vagabond may 
 be a judge of Amontillado." He finished the glass at a 
 gulp and set it upon the table. From her couch she 
 watched him as he opened the windows and closed and 
 fastened the shutters. Then he went outside and she 
 heard him pottering around in the rain with Clarissa, 
 
 222
 
 THE 1EMPTT HOUSE 
 
 undoing the pack and bringing it into the house, and lead- 
 ing the donkey off in the direction of the shed. 
 
 "An excellent man, our host," he laughed from the 
 doorway. "Clarissa is up to her ears in hay." 
 
 He dripped with moisture, and, mindful of the fur- 
 niture, took off his coat and hat and shook them in the 
 hall. 
 
 "Now, child, we're snug. It's raining hard. No one 
 would venture here in 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 " The words trailed off into mum- 
 bling, and before he could fill his pipe she was 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 tired lines at her eyes with caresses, to take 
 her in his arms and soothe her with gentleness. She 
 seemed very small, very slender, too small, too childish 
 to have raised such a tempest in the deeper currents of 
 his spirit, and he groped forward, his fingers trembling 
 for the touch of her. 
 
 He straightened with a sigh. He could not and he 
 knew it; for she trusted him and trust in him was her 
 defence, a valiant one even against his tenderness. It 
 had always been one of the hardest burdens he had to 
 bear. He watched her a while longer, then turned away 
 
 223
 
 MADCAP 
 
 and sank into a chair bj the table, soberly lit his pipe 
 and smoked, his eyes roving. There were colored prints 
 upon the wall, well chosen ones of deer and fox hunters 
 in full chase; upon the table an ash tray of Satsuma 
 ware and several books. He took up the one nearest him, 
 a volume on big game hunting, and turned the pages idly. 
 Their unconscious and unwilling host took his sports 
 seriously, it seemed. He dropped the book upon his 
 knees, and as he did so it fell open at the fly leaf, upon 
 which in a feminine scrawl a name was inscribed. He 
 read it with surprise and concern. "Madeleine de 
 
 Cahors !" Olga Tcherny's Norman friend who lived 
 
 Alen^on ! What a dolt he was ! This was the forest 
 of Ecouves or a part of it and in the night he had 
 come into the preserve of the wealthy marquis. Olga's 
 friends and Olga ! A fine escape he had made of it, into 
 the very sphere of the Countess Tcherny's activities ! 
 The chateau must be near here, at the most not more 
 than a few kilometers distant. He was a clod-pate, noth- 
 ing less. For with all the Oire to choose from he had 
 stumbled blindly 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 dining room, kitchen and 
 pantry upon the other side of the hallway, deserted, but, 
 like the living room, giving signs of recent use. He 
 opened the door and looked out. The shadows of the 
 forest were barely discernible through the driving rain. 
 It was a boisterous night, its inclemency heightened when 
 viewed from the shelter of this friendly roof, one which 
 must defy their sleuth, the chauffeur, had he had the 
 temerity or the stealth to follow them through the forest. 
 Markham watched for a while, nevertheless, and then, 
 satisfied that for the night at least they were safe from 
 
 224
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 discovery, returned to the living room and dropped into 
 his chair, determining to sit and listen a while and 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 could not be far. To-mor- 
 row morning they must be abroad early and make their 
 way at top speed out of the forest, trusting to the luck 
 that had so far favored 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 him understand 
 that marriage was the last thing in the world she would 
 ever think of again? Their agreement on the funda- 
 mentals of independence had been one of their strongest 
 ties. That kiss in Hermia's rose garden meant nothing 
 to Olga or to him. An accident physical only the 
 possibility of which their former agreements had unfor- 
 tunately not foreseen. Hermia was mistaken that was 
 all. And yet why this pursuit? It all seemed a little 
 too deep for his comprehension 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 blithely up, awaking the forest to its 
 orisons. The oaks dripped jewels and the black 
 pines lifted their gilded spires above the clearing and 
 nodded solemnly to the rosy East. The sun climbed 
 higher and a thin pall of vapor roamed up the hillside 
 from the gorges of the stream and sought the open sky. 
 Nature had wept out the gusts of her passion and 
 her smiles were the more beautiful through the vestiges of 
 her tears. The sunlight was spattered lavishly among the 
 shadows, glowing with a lambent light in the hidden places 
 under shrub and thicket and dancing madly on leaf and 
 bough. There was mischief in the air and it took but a 
 little flight of the fancy to conjure Pan and his nymphs 
 gamboling about the sleeping house of the vagabonds. 
 
 Morning had importuned their shutters long before 
 Markham awoke and gazed with startled eyes at the diag- 
 onal bar of orange light which cut the obscurity of their 
 hiding place. Then, rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to his 
 feet and stared at his watch. It was nine o'clock. Hermia 
 still slept, huddled under her overcoat, one rosy cheek 
 pillowed on her open palm, her tumbled hair flooding 
 riotously about her shoulders. Markham stopped a mo- 
 ment to gaze at her again, but she stirred under his look, 
 so he moved quickly away to the door and peered cau- 
 
 226
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 tiously out, searching the forest with eager eyes. Gain- 
 ing 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-footed things 
 among the underbrush, but of two-footed things he saw 
 ^nothing. He fetched a pail of water for Clarissa and 
 was in the act of entering the house when a gun cracked 
 sharply at some distance on his left. The forest stopped 
 to listen with him for a full moment as the echoes went 
 bounding among the rocks. And then a whirring of wings 
 great and small, hither and yon, announced that there 
 were other vagabonds as startled 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 the smooth course of their acquaintance had 
 she been guilty of such an indiscretion. He hurried to 
 the shed, but before he reached the door she ceased, and 
 when he entered regarded him with a wistful eye of 
 recrimination which forestalled his reproaches. After all, 
 she was only 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, fearfully await- 
 ing 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 her tongue about it." 
 
 She smiled and got to her feet. 
 227
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "I must have slept " 
 
 "Precisely seven hours. It's half-past nine. We must 
 be off at once 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 door being open?" 
 
 "Hardly this shooting lodge, my child, this forest, 
 
 too, is the property of the De Cahors. See " and he 
 
 showed her the book. 
 
 "OPhilidor! 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 case of the devil take the hindmost 
 
 the hindmost being me and the devil being " he paused 
 
 significantly. 
 
 "Olga ! Do you think she can be shooting, too ?" 
 
 He shrugged. "She's quite apt to be doing precisely 
 that," he said shortly. 
 
 Hermia flew to the window and, unlatching the shut- 
 ter, peered timidly forth. Markham heard her gasp and 
 looked over her shoulder through the aperture. 
 
 "Olga!" she whispered in dismay. 
 
 There in the path to the deep wood, smartly attired 
 in gaiters, a short skirt and Alpine hat, her shotgun in 
 the hollow of her arm, was Nemesis. She came up the 
 path at a leisurely gait, and stopped not a hundred feet 
 away, her head held upon one side, smiling and carelessly 
 surveying the premises. 
 
 Hermia shrank back and huddled down upon the 
 couch. 
 
 "0 Philidor, we're lost " 
 
 228
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 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 the gable and a trellis. I saw it 
 a while ago. You must go that way when I 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 most obvious traces of Hermia's pres- 
 ence, and, as the trap door was slid down into its place, 
 dropped into the nearest armchair, feigning slumber. 
 He heard Olga's footsteps as she prowled around the 
 house and deluded himself for a moment with the thought 
 that she had gone on, when suddenly he saw her poking 
 at the shutters, which she finally pressed open with the 
 butt end of her shotgun, filling the room with sunlight and 
 revealing the prostrate Markham, who started up in a dis- 
 may which needed little simulation. 
 
 "Good morning, Philidor," said she quite pleasantly. 
 
 "Olga!" 
 
 "Did you sleep well ? What a sluggard you are ! Be- 
 hold the ant learn her ways and do likewise." 
 
 He rose, and through the window offered her his 
 hand. But she waved him off with the point of her gun. 
 
 "Not so fast, my young friend!" she cried, her eyes 
 meanwhile swiftly searching the room. "You're a 
 poacher. Will you surrender?" 
 
 "By all means at discretion if you'll please not 
 keep pointing that plaguey thing " 
 
 She raised a tiny silver object suspended around her 
 neck by a silver chain. 
 
 "Don't you know that it's my duty to my host to 
 whistle for the keepers to come and take you before the 
 magistrate?" 
 
 229
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 permis- 
 sion." 
 
 "Charmed!" he said with a gaiety he was far from 
 feeling, and opened the door with a fine flourish. "It's 
 always easy to be hospitable at somebody else's expense," 
 he said. 
 
 She entered without ceremony, gun in hand, her eyes, 
 under lowered lids, shifting indolently, yet missing noth- 
 ing the pack on the floor, the tumbled couch, and Mark- 
 ham's familiar pipe. 
 
 "Quite handsome, I'd say. The Count always had an 
 eye for the picturesque." 
 
 She made the round of the lower floor, carelessly ob- 
 servant of its arrangement, while Markham followed her, 
 his ears straining for the sounds of Hermia's escape. 
 
 "Are your friends coming here ?" he asked. 
 
 Olga poked the muzzle of her gun into a cupboard. 
 "Not unless I whistle for them, Monsieur," she said 
 slowly. "They're below me to the left. We have rendez- 
 vous 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 the brief pause she made beside the stairs 
 to the loft, upon the steps of which, and upon the floor 
 beneath them, plainly to be seen were a number of small 
 particles of mud, broken and dried. Nor did he see the 
 quick smile of triumph replace the puzzled look with 
 which she had pursued her investigations. She followed 
 him in and with a sigh of content dropped into a chair 
 
 230
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 by the fireplace, crossing her knees and leisurely lighting 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "Enfin," she laughed. "Here we are again thou and 
 I, Monsieur le philosopke." 
 
 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 to rain. The door of this house was un- 
 latched. So I walked in and here I am." 
 
 "Reasonable enough. It did rain. I remember. And 
 weren't you lonely 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 
 Chateau de Cahors or the magistrate." 
 
 "What alternatives! One would think, John Mark- 
 ham, that you were really an enemy of society." 
 
 "Society with the small S, I am. I'm never less alone 
 than when by myself." 
 
 "Which means that two is a crowd? Thanks. I shall 
 tear myself away in a moment, but not until " 
 
 "Don't be foolish, Olga," he whispered. "You know 
 that can't mean you." 
 
 "I don't know," she murmured wistfully in a low, even 
 231
 
 MADCAP 
 
 voice, her gaze on the andirons. "You've surely given me 
 no reasons to believe that you cared for my society. I 
 wrote you twice from New York, once from Paris and 
 once from Trouville, and you've only deigned me one re- 
 ply such a reply with comments upon the weather 
 (upon which I was fully informed), and a hope that we 
 might meet in October in New York. It was 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 out of the window. "Impossible!" he 
 said, then turned and stood by the mantel, his back 
 toward the door, his voice tensely subdued. "See here, 
 Olga, don't you think it's about time that you stopped 
 making fun of me that you and I understood each other? 
 For some reason, after a few 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 find 
 worth your while in the long run, and you know it. And 
 I don't propose to be caught in your silken mesh, my dear, 
 to be left to dry in the sun when you find some other 
 specimen more to your liking." 
 
 Olga laughed silently, her head away from him, and 
 Markham, after a quick glance over his shoulder, went 
 on whispering. 
 
 "I gave you my friendship freely, unreservedly, but 
 you weren't satisfied 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 done as well, but I 
 happened along at a favorable time on the back swing 
 of the pendulum. It hurt your pride, I think, that one 
 of my Arcadian simplicity should fail to droop where 
 others, more sophisticated, had fallen swiftly. Perhaps 
 
 232
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 I, too, might have fallen if you hadn't warned me that 
 you had no heart. You did me that kindness." 
 
 He stopped, listening. Olga's ears, too, were alert 
 for a sound a tiny sound of no more volume than that 
 which might have been made by a mouse that had come 
 from overhead. 
 
 "But you grew weary of that," he went on quietly. 
 "You wanted something to happen. Your reputation was 
 at state. It was time for a psychological crisis of sorts 
 and so you arranged it in a rose garden." 
 
 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 audi- 
 bly; "you hurt me terribly." 
 
 His eyes searched her keenly. Her head drooped to 
 her fingers, which pressed her temples nervously. If he 
 had not known her so well he would have almost been 
 ready to believe her contrition genuine. But in a moment 
 she straightened. 
 
 "You advise me not to hope, then?" she murmured 
 with a laugh. 
 
 Doubt fled. She was mocking him. Her very pres- 
 ence mocked him. The rafters saw his discomfiture, 
 though the attic heard not. Was Hermia gone? He 
 fidgeted his feet, listening. Olga was really intolerable. 
 
 "Oh, what's the use?" he muttered. "The humor's out 
 of the thing." 
 
 233
 
 MADCAP 
 
 A change, subtle and undefined, came over his visitor's 
 expression. She rose imperturbably and walked about, 
 fingering things, reaching at last the book case next to 
 the corridor, and slowly abstracted a volume, turning its 
 leaves idly, and, facing the door, spoke with perilous dis- 
 tinctness. 
 
 "It is charming here, mon ami," she said gaily. "If I 
 had sent for you, things could not have been more agree- 
 ably arranged. It is so long since we've met. And I've 
 missed you dreadfully. It mustn't happen again, mon 
 cher." She lowered the book and leaned against the door 
 jamb dreamily. "You shall remain here en vagabond," 
 she went on, "and I will visit you, bringing you crumbs 
 from the rich men's table, which we will enjoy a deux. 
 It will remind us of those days at Compiegne, those long 
 days of sunshine and delight of the moonlit Oise, and 
 the tiny auberge at La Croix among the beeches, which 
 even the motorists hadn't yet discovered. But even La 
 Croix is not more secluded than this. This lodge is sel- 
 dom used. No one shall know not even Madeleine de 
 Cahors." 
 
 Markham listened dumbly at first in incomprehension 
 and then in amazement. He had never been in Compiegne 
 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 Compiegne " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 234
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 'Or that you would have married me last summer if 
 
 "Olga !" 
 
 "If I hadn't been wise enough " 
 
 "You're mad!" 
 
 She drew back from him, her eyes wide, but she had 
 no reply. He took one step toward her and then stopped, 
 impotent before her frailness, his glance wavering toward 
 the door into the loft which mutely stared at him. Her- 
 mia would be gone by now she must have gone. The 
 way had been clear for twenty minutes. He looked away, 
 and then, since there seemed nothing else to do, he laughed. 
 But Olga didn't seem to hear him. She was fingering the 
 shotgun which lay beside her on the table. 
 
 "Mad? Perhaps I am," she said with slow distinct- 
 ness. "Though you're the last one in the world who 
 should tell me so." 
 
 She picked up the weapon and, before he had really 
 guessed what she was about, calmly discharged one of its 
 barrels out of the window. 
 
 The noise was deafening and the silence which fol- 
 lowed freighted with importance. A scraping of feet 
 overhead, a rattle of loose hinges, and a frightened face 
 at the aperture. Olga Tcherny turned, took a step or 
 two into the doorway, glanced upward and then let her 
 astonished gaze fall on Markham, who was peering up, 
 imploring mutely. 
 
 "You and Hermia!" This from Olga, who had 
 recovered speech with difficulty. "What does it mean, 
 John?" 
 
 But John Markham thrust his hands deep into his 
 pockets and turned his back. 
 
 "What does it mean?" she repeated distinctly. "You 
 235
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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, her dignity in jeopardy, was descending the 
 ladder and now faced their visitor, 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, the gaze of one who looks at a person one 
 has never seen before. She looked long but replied not; 
 then her chin was lowered quickly the fraction of an inch, 
 after which she raised the gun, broke it and threw out 
 the shell from the still smoking barrel. 
 
 "Stupid of me, wasn't it?" she said coolly. "I for- 
 got it was loaded." 
 
 "It's lucky you didn't hurt yourself," said Hermia. 
 
 "Isn't it? Plow dreadful, Hermia, if I had peppered 
 the trap door!" 
 
 "I rather think you did," said Hermia. She walked 
 across to the fireplace 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 you perceive en vaga- 
 bond. We like it. It's most amusing. Indiscreet? Per- 
 haps. If so, I'll take the consequences. Can I say more?"
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 Olga's smile came slowly with difficulty. The bra- 
 vado of fear? Or of indifference? She had never really 
 measured weapons with Hermia. 
 
 "I'm the last person in the world whose censure you 
 need fear, my dear," she said suavely. 
 
 "I don't fear it," said Hermia promptly. "I'm quite 
 sure I'd rather have had you find 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't have fled from the roulotte of the Fabi- 
 ani family yesterday when you were 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 conversa- 
 tion a moment ago with John Markham explains it." 
 
 "You heard that!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, didn't you want me to? I'm not deaf. 
 But you needn't be at all worried about it." She paused 
 and brushed the dust of the loft from her coat sleeve. 
 "You know, Olga, I don't believe it any of it." 
 
 Olga smiled sagely, but Markham, who all this while 
 had been standing like 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 we may as well do it at once. As I re- 
 marked a few moments ago, I deny nothing, crave no 
 
 237
 
 MADCAP 
 
 indulgences, from you, Olga, or from anyone. I cry 
 peccavi. But I want you to understand that I feel no 
 regret. Even at the cost of this denouement I should not 
 hesitate to seek my freedom if I could find it with John 
 Markham. I love him. And he do let me finish, Phili- 
 dor, 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 interruption here to-day, I think. When you go, 
 take to the forest to the northward and you should get 
 out in safety. This secret is delicious. When you are well 
 out of harm's way, mes amis, I shall tell it, in my best 
 manner, at the dinner table." 
 
 She waved her hand and was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 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, her gaze 
 fixed on Olga's diminishing back. It seemed more than 
 usually shapely, that back, more than usually careless 
 and disdainful. Her feet spurned the ground and tripped 
 lightly among the grasses, her shoulders swinging easily, 
 the feather in her hat nodding, mischievously defiant. 
 After she had melted into the thicket, Hermia still stood 
 watching the spot where she had disappeared. But Mark- 
 ham, no longer to be denied, came from behind and caught 
 her around the waist. 
 
 "It's true, Hermia," he whispered, "you love ?" 
 
 Her brow had been deep in thought, and at first it 
 had not seemed that she heard him or felt his arms about 
 her, but as his lips touched her cheek 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, 
 239
 
 MADCAP 
 
 the impulse in him strong to shake her, his heart deny- 
 ing 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 in Compiegne " 
 
 "Let me go " 
 
 "No. Not until you look in my eyes. You love me. 
 You've told her so and 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 lied to her lied to her." 
 
 And with a supreme effort she wrenched away, put- 
 ting 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 which their glances clashed, hers flashing, 
 contemptuous his keen, intent and 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." 
 
 240
 
 GREAT PAN IS ftEAD 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Me." 
 
 "Oh!" scornfully. 
 
 "It's true. You wanted to hear what passed between 
 us. I thought you had gone. Olga knew you hadn't. 
 She was the cleverest of us all, you see." 
 
 "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 turned from him : "And you'll marry me, too, 
 Hermia." 
 
 "Never !" 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, "you'll marry me. There isn't 
 anything else for you to do." 
 
 She was dumb with surprise and could only gasp with 
 rage, but before she could speak he had released her, and, 
 catching up his hat from the table, 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 had learned the truth. Neither mock- 
 ery, scorn nor any other pretence could divert the genial 
 current of his soul. She loved him. And, whatever he 
 had shown of mastery in her presence, his precious knowl- 
 edge made him suddenly strangely gentle in his thoughts 
 of her. The sky smiled back at him from over the leafy 
 glades of the Comte de Cahors, and, as his gaze sought 
 the spot in the woods where a moment ago Olga had dis- 
 appeared, a sober look came into his eyes. Tell? Would 
 she? Would Olga tell? He didn't believe it. He had 
 learned many things. Olga kindled her altar fires not 
 for the warmth of them, but for their incense, the odor 
 of which was breath to her nostrils. The symbols of love 
 not love itself what could Olga know of love? He
 
 MADCAP 
 
 knew and Hermla? Hermia knew, for he had taught 
 her. 
 
 He filled his bucket at the well and sought Clarissa, 
 who was sleeping the sleep of satiety. She had eaten 
 until she could eat no more. Watered, he led her back 
 to the lodge, fastened his hitching strap at the door and 
 went inside, his own appetite advising him that neither 
 he nor Hermia had eaten since yesterday afternoon. His 
 companion had huddled into a chair and was gazing into 
 the fireplace. She did not offer to continue their conver- 
 sation, nor did he. And so he got out his spirit lamp and 
 made coffee, unpacked some chicken sandwiches, and, help- 
 ing himself freely to the crockery of the Marquis, pres- 
 ently served the breakfast. 
 
 She would not eat at first and he did not insist upon 
 her doing so, but sat comfortably, and in a moment was 
 smacking his lips. The coffee was excellent the best 
 that could be had in Alencon, and its odor was delicious. 
 He saw from where he sat her eyes shifting uncertainly. 
 He drained his cup with a great sigh of content, set it 
 down upon the saucer and was in the act of pouring out 
 another helping for himself when 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 tail of his eye that several times during 
 the meal her look sought his face for an explanation of 
 his change of manner, which, not being forthcoming, she 
 sat rather demurely at her meat, emptying the pot of 
 coffee and finishing the last of the bread and chicken. 
 Markham would have smiled if he had dared! What 
 chance had any of the lighter passions against the crav- 
 ing hunger of the healthy young animal? It was another
 
 GREAT PAN IS DEAD 
 
 triumph of his philosophy, almost its greatest Nature 
 at a bound eliminating art and the feminine calculus. 
 When he had finished eating, without a word he rose, and 
 went out to pack Clarissa, and while he was thus en- 
 gaged Hermia passed him silently with a bucket on the 
 }~wa.y to the pump for water, and in another moment he 
 was aware that she was washing the dishes. He made 
 no effort to help her, but sat on the door-sill, thoughtfully 
 smoking his pipe. 
 
 She came out in a moment and announced that she 
 was ready to go, and he saw that breakfast had done her 
 no harm. So they followed Olga Tcherny's instructions 
 as far as he remembered them and found a path through 
 the woods which led northward. Clarissa had so gorged 
 herself with 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. They kept a watch 
 ahead and behind them, and emerged as Olga had prophe- 
 sied without adventure or accident through a hole in a 
 hedge upon a highroad, along which, still bending their 
 steps northward, they took their way. 
 
 Markham's silence had a double meaning. They were 
 at odds just now. A while back Hermia had starved for 
 food. He meant now that she should starve for company. 
 He wanted to think, too, to analyze and weigh his own 
 culpability in the situation where they now found them- 
 selves. The imprudence of their venture had not seemed 
 to matter so much back at Evreux, where accident had 
 thrown them together and Hermia had linked her fate to 
 his. She had been little more to him then than an ex- 
 traordinarily interesting specimen of a genus he little 
 understood, a rebellious slave of convention who had 
 shown him the shackles which galled her wrists and had
 
 MADCAP 
 
 pleaded with him very prettily to help her strike them 
 off. Could any man have refused her? And yet he had 
 known from that hour that a retribution of some sort 
 awaited them both Hermia, for ignoring her code ; him- 
 self, for having permitted her to ignore it. There was a 
 difference now a difference which their discovery by an 
 outsider had made unpleasantly manifest. De Folligny's 
 appearance at Verneuil had made Markham thoughtful, 
 but Olga's intrusion now had paraphrased their pastoral 
 lyric into unworthy prose. Parnassus wept with them, 
 but no amount of weeping could destroy the ugly doggerel 
 as Olga had written it. Their idyl was smirched, the 
 fair robe of Euterpe was trailing in the dust. 
 
 But it was too late for reproaches now. The mischief 
 was done ard one thing only left to emerge with as good 
 a grace as possible from a doubtful position. As the mo- 
 ments passed it became more clear to Markham in which 
 way his duty lay and the more he thought of it, the 
 more he was convinced that it lay out of Vagabondia. 
 Hermia must go this very day and he to beard their 
 pretty tigress. 
 
 The shadow of his thoughts fell upon his brows, and 
 to Hermia, who watched him, when she could do so unob- 
 served, he presented a countenance upon which gloom sat 
 heavily enthroned. 
 
 Had he spoken his thoughts as they came to him she 
 could not have read him more easily; and, as Markham 
 gloomed, her own mood lightened. Though she spoke not, 
 a dull fire slumbered in her eye which boded him mischief. 
 Disaster had befallen and some one was to pay for it; 
 but his bent head was unaware of the smile that suddenly 
 grew, a pale wintry smile which matched the devil in her 
 eyes. 
 
 244
 
 GREAT PAN IS DEAD 
 
 They camped in the mellow afternoon under the trees 
 upon a rugged mountain that guarded the defile, through 
 which a rushing torrent, one of the tributaries of the 
 Oire, dashed over the rocks on its swift course to Argen- 
 tan. Below them in the valley were a village and a rail- 
 road along which a tiny passenger train was slowly pro- 
 ceeding. Markham eyed the train with a grave and mel- 
 ancholy interest. They both observed that it stopped in 
 the village to let off and take on passengers. He built his 
 fire with great deliberateness, gloomy and silent as though 
 performing a last rite for one departed, and ate solemnly, 
 his face long. 
 
 At last she could stand the stress of him no longer and 
 burst suddenly into a fit of laughter which echoed madly 
 among the rocks. 
 
 "Oh John Markham!" she cried. "Why so triste? 
 The melancholy sweetness 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 in the world that a woman has greater pains 
 to endure than silence. He had starved her out. 
 
 He didn't reply at once, and that angered her. 
 
 "Must I plead with you even for speech?" she asked 
 satirically. "Has it come to this? Will you not smile 
 and throw a crumb of comfort to your bond-woman?" 
 
 "I have had nothing to say until now," he replied, 
 very quietly, over his coffee cup. 
 
 She only laughed at him and swept the ground with a 
 low curtesy. 
 
 "Thy slave listens. Speak! To what decision has 
 my lord and master arrived?" she asked.
 
 ' He swallowed his coffee deliberately, unsmiling, his 
 gaze over the valley where the railroad track wormed its 
 way into the North. 
 
 "That you're to go to your friends in Paris at 
 once," he said decisively. 
 
 And while she watched him scornfully, the slow fire in 
 her eyes burning suddenly into brightness, he took from 
 his pocket a wallet she had never seen before, and counted 
 out upon the ground some money. 
 
 "This," he continued calmly, "is yours. You have 
 earned it. I have kept count. I will owe you, too what 
 is realized from the sale of of Clarissa. Or, if you pre- 
 fer it, I will pay you that now. I hope you will find the 
 arrangement satisfactory." 
 
 He had arrested her mockery and she stood silent 
 while he spoke, her gaze upon the ground. But her mood 
 broke forth again with even greater virulence. 
 
 "So you want to be rid of me, Monsieur mon Maitre 
 cancel my indentures end my apprenticeship to the 
 school of life turn me adrift in a wicked world, which 
 already treats me none too kindly. Is it wise, I say? Is 
 it kind, is it human just because a woman crosses our 
 path and threatens my reputation? Look at me. Am I 
 not the same that I was before? How have I fallen in 
 your graces ? You, who professed a while 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 it that I've learned too well your lessons ? That 
 I've foresworn the conventions which stifled me, the code 
 which enslaved me, that I've earned at last my right to 
 live unbound, untrammeled with no code but the love of 
 life, no law but that of my own instincts is it because 
 
 246
 
 GREAT PAN IS DEAD 
 
 of this that you deny me? O John Markham! What be- 
 comes of your fine philosophy? And of your natural 
 laws? Do they fall, with me, before the first challenge 
 from the world they profess to ignore? It is to laugh." 
 
 While she vented her joy of him he rose and faced 
 her, but she did not flinch. Her voice only dropped a 
 tone, and now derided, mocked and cajoled. 
 
 "Do you fear me so much, Monsieur le Maitre?" she 
 laughed. "Is it that 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 a warning murmur broke from his lips. She 
 did not hear it and, coming around behind him, clasped 
 her fingers upon his arms. 
 
 "If I tell you that I do not love you, mon ami, will 
 not that be enough enough to satisfy you that my hap- 
 piness is not in danger? If I do not love you, what can 
 you fear for me? Why should I care what the world 
 thinks of us? Have I reproached you? Did I not give 
 myself into your keeping, without " 
 
 He turned and caught her into his arms and stopped 
 her mockery with kisses, the man in him triumphant, 
 while she struggled, her lips denied him, dumb and quiv- 
 ering 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 any longer be with 
 you without reaching forth to take you . . . you're 
 mine by every law of God or Nature. Philosophy ! Who 
 cares? Your lips have babbled it. Let them babble it 
 now if they dare " 
 
 "Let me go, Philidor," she gasped. 
 247
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "No, not yet. I've much to say and only this hour 
 to say it in, for in a while you shall go and I will stay 
 with Pan and mourn. The woods will sigh of you, for 
 you will be a nymph no longer. But before you go you 
 shall look love in the eyes and see love full grown and 
 masterful here among the everlasting rocks love so 
 great that you shall 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 mocked again, yet dared not, for her eyes had stolen 
 a glance through half-closed lashes and learned that what 
 he said was true. The warm color flooded upward, stain- 
 ing crimson beneath the tan, and her body which had re- 
 laxed for a moment under the gust of his ardor protested 
 anew. 
 
 "Let me go, Philidor. I It must not be can't you 
 understand? Would you justify them what they say of 
 us? Oh, let me go. Let me " 
 
 She wrenched away from him and stood gasping, Olga 
 Tcherny's last laughter singing in her ears. 
 
 "You've justified her justified her," she almost 
 sobbed, "robbed me of my right to look her in the eyes 
 as I could do this morning. Why did you kiss me like 
 that Philidor? Oh, you've spoiled it all spoiled it for 
 us both. Why couldn't you have let things be as they 
 were so gentle so sweet so sane !" 
 
 "You mocked at love," he muttered. 
 
 "Oh, that I should have misjudged you so. You who 
 248
 
 GREAT PAN IS DEAD 
 
 were so strong so kind ! Who ruled me with gentleness 1 
 and now " 
 
 "You've tried me too far." 
 
 She had ; and she knew it. There was nothing for it 
 but to skurry for the wings of convention. Alas, for 
 Pan! Hermia was a nymph no longer only a girl of 
 the cities, upon the defensive for the security of her tra- 
 ditions. She drew aside and sank breathless upon a rock. 
 
 "Love is not so ruthless it does not shock or sear, 
 John Markham," she gasped. 
 
 "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 heart and 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. I was mad to have followed you. You 
 should have denied me then back there 
 
 "I loved you then I know it now and you " 
 
 "No not love, John Markham," she went on. "If 
 you had loved me you would have sent me back to Paris 
 saved me from from myself. You loved me then, you 
 say," she laughed scornfully. "What kind of love is this 
 that slinks in hiding, preaches of friendship for its own 
 
 249
 
 MADCAP 
 
 ends and rants of philosophy? What kind of love that 
 scoffs at public opinion and finds itself at last a topic of 
 amusement at a fashionable dining table? A selfish love, 
 a nameless love from which all tenderness, all gentleness 
 and beauty " 
 
 "Hermia !" He had caught her by the shoulders and 
 held her gaze with his own. 
 
 "Let me go. It's true. And you ask me to marry 
 you. Why should you marry 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 and again. But I will not. See. I am 
 all tenderness again. Your words cannot 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 told 
 it 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 dropped his 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 she looked at him, he would have read the 
 heart of her. But that was not to be. Followed a silence. 
 He would not trust himself again. The embers 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 the preparations for departure. They went down 
 the hill to the village in silence, Markham leading Clarissa 
 at his side. At the gare a train was due in half an hour, 
 
 250
 
 GREAT PAN IS VEAD 
 
 and so they sat and waited, looking straight before them, 
 no word passing, and when the train came he found a com- 
 partment and put her in it, with her bundle, then stood 
 with head uncovered, until a stain of smoke above the 
 trees was all that remained to him. Presently that, too, 
 vanished, when soberly he took up his cudgel and went his. 
 way.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 A LADY IN THE DUSK 
 
 HALFWAY between the turbid currents of the 
 lower city and the more swiftly running streams 
 to the northward sits Washington Square, an 
 isle 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 of traditions which speak 
 in the aspect of the solidly built row of houses facing to 
 the south, breasting the living surge, its front unbroken. 
 This park, with its stretch of green, its dusky maples and 
 shaded benches, afforded asylum to Markham, the painter, 
 who liked to come when the day's work was over and watch 
 the shadows fall across the square, creeping slowly up the 
 walls of the Arch, bringing into higher relief the rosy 
 tints on cornice and medallion which remained animate a 
 moment against the purple filagree beyond, a thing of joy 
 and of beauty, a symbol of eternal freedom. He was 
 never sure whether it was more wonderful then, or when 
 a moment later the golden glory gone from its cap, it 
 stood silent amid the roar of the city wrapped in pallid 
 dignity at the end of the glittering Avenue. That Avenue 
 was a symbol, too. It meant the world to which Markham 
 had returned after his glimpse of Elysium, a world not 
 too kind, already laughing perhaps at his secret and Her- 
 mia's. 
 
 252
 
 A LADY IN THE DUSK 
 
 His problem still puzzled him. He had had no word 
 from Olga Tcherny, though he had sought her in Alen9on 
 and Trouville. She had gone to Paris, he had been in- 
 formed, but he had not been able to find her there in her 
 usual haunts. 
 
 Nor had he succeeded in finding Hermia, though he had 
 left no stone unturned in the search. He had watched 
 the hotel registers, inquired at her bankers, and scanned 
 the sailing lists in vain. Had the earth engulfed them 
 both they could not have more mysteriously disappeared. 
 
 Cables to New York had been unavailing, and at last, 
 his time growing short, he had sailed from Cherbourg, a 
 sadder but no wiser man. A call at the Challoner house 
 at the upper end of the Avenue had only produced the in- 
 formation that the person he so eagerly sought had not 
 yet returned, and that, in default of instructions to the 
 contrary, her mail was forwarded, as before, to Paris. 
 There was nothing for it but to wait, and Markham be- 
 came aware that love, in addition to being all the things 
 that he and Hermia had described it, was a grievous hun- 
 ger which would feed upon no food but itself. He was 
 quite wretched, painted abominably by day and prowled 
 in the streets by night, his disembodied spirit off among 
 the highways of Vagabondia. 
 
 November came, and still no letter nor any word of 
 her. He was desperate. Her silence, at first only disap- 
 pointing, now became ominous. Whatever their mis- 
 understandings in the last hour of their pilgrimage, he 
 deserved something better of her than this. Here in New 
 York it already seemed difficult to visualize her. He could 
 see nothing but the belled cap and coarse stockings of 
 Yvonne, the "woman orchestra." They filled his eye as 
 her essence filled his heart. The broadcloth and beaver of 
 
 253
 
 MADCAP ' 
 
 her metropolitan sisters puzzled and dismayed him. He 
 had only seen her once in town and then she had resem- 
 bled nothing so much as a flippant cherub in skirts an 
 example of how New York taught the young female idea 
 to shoot. It hadn't been the kind of shooting he had 
 liked. Thimble Island had individualized her differ- 
 ently; Westport had given her color; but it was Nor- 
 mandy that had completed the human document. She 
 was Hermia, that was all! But here in New York, with 
 Vagabondia but a memory, he was not sure that he would 
 know her. The Avenue was full of young female ideas in 
 the process of shooting, all dressed very much alike, all 
 flippant, all cherubic, and he scanned them with a new 
 interest, wondering at the lapse of circumstance which 
 somehow could not be bridged. Yvonne tailor made! 
 The thing was impossible. 
 
 And yet he found it necessary to realize that here in 
 New York it was to be no Yvonne that he would find. 
 Her silence, too, now advised him that she was to be upon 
 the defensive, all her armor bristling with commonplace, 
 against which the flight of his quiver of memorabilia 
 might be dented in vain. How was she thinking of him 
 yonder? In what terms? Did she think of him at all? 
 His questions had even descended to that low condition. 
 He had had such a little share in her life after all, her real 
 life in the cities, which laid its impress with such certainty 
 on those who were its children. He saw the marks of it 
 all about him, the thing one called "good form," the un- 
 dercurrent of strife for social honor, the corrugated brow 
 of envy, the pomp and circumstance of spilled riches^ ah ! 
 here was where his shoe would pinch him the most. For 
 Hermia Challoner was wealthy beyond the touch of 
 Midas. If the Westport house or her taste in automobiles
 
 LADY IN THE DUSK 
 
 had not been green in his memory, it only remained to him 
 to view the stately splendor of the Challoner mansion up 
 town to be reminded that his vagabond companion of a 
 week rightfully belonged to another world in which he was 
 only a reluctant and somewhat captious visitor. Her 
 riches bewildered him. They obtruded unbearably, pro- 
 claiming their importance 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 end in waking? Was Hermia's mad excur- 
 sion but another item in the long list of entertainments 
 by means of which she exacted from life payment in di- 
 version which she considered her due? Had he, Markham, 
 been but an incident in this entertainment, an humble sec- 
 ond-liner like Luigi Fabiani, who broke stones upon his 
 mighty brother and caught the infant Stella when she was 
 hurled at him? The thought was unpleasant to him, and 
 did his lady no honor so he dismissed it with reserva- 
 tions. But, whatever unction he laid to his soul, the truth 
 would not be downed that two months had elapsed since 
 that parting in the railway station at Sees 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 face at a trap-door, its eyes wide in con- 
 cern Hermia's face when Olga's fowling piece was dis- 
 charged; two comforts the memory of the roses of Pere 
 Guegou ! Both gave him joy and reconciled him to her 
 present intolerance which time and an ardor which knew 
 no abating must wipe away. If it hadn't been for Olga! 
 
 This was a most exasperating if, a heart-wracking if, 
 an if that made him pause among the ruins of his ancient 
 friendship. He could not believe that it was altogether 
 to chance that he and Hermia owed Olga's discovery of 
 
 255
 
 MADCAP 
 
 their strange intimacy. In his infatuation he had forgot- 
 ten that the Chateau de Cahors was near Alen9on and 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 to their danger with a heedlessness 
 which deserved no better fate. But their pursuit and the 
 certainty with which Olga provided the culminating 
 drama created a belief, in his own mind, at least, that had 
 he and Hermia been in Kamschatka, their discomfiture 
 would have been just as surely accomplished. If Olga's 
 motives still remained shrouded in mystery, it was clear 
 that her object had been to bring their companionship to 
 an end, and this she had done, though not precisely in the 
 way that she had planned. Hermia hadn't believed that 
 rot about La Croix and Compiegne. Olga had overshot 
 the mark. Her pleasantry with the loaded shotgun had 
 been better aimed and her frightened game had fallen. It 
 angered him to think how ruthless had been her plan, me- 
 diaeval in its simplicity, and how successful she had been 
 in carrying it out. As to her motives Hermia had in- 
 sisted that Olga wanted to marry him ! Olga and he ! 
 
 With a muttered word Markham rose from his bench 
 and made his way toward the Arch. Its phase of splen- 
 dor had passed, for the dusk had fallen swiftly, but its 
 bulk loomed in ghostly grandeur, a solemn sentinel at the 
 meeting place of East and West. The street lights were 
 winking merrily and brougham and limousine passed be- 
 neath it, moving rapidly northward. With the setting 
 of the sun a chill had fallen on the wonderful day of In- 
 dian summer and people moved briskly on their homeward 
 way. Markham buttoned his light overcoat across his 
 chest and bent his steps in the direction of his apartment, 
 
 256
 
 'A LADY IN THE DUSK 
 
 when at the corner of the Avenue he found his way blocked 
 by a solitary female person in fashionable attire who for 
 some reason was laughing gaily. 
 
 He stopped, awakened suddenly to the fact that the 
 lady of his dreams was before him. 
 
 "O Monsieur Philidor!" she laughed. "Well met, 
 upon my word! Have you waited for me long?" 
 
 "Olga!" 
 
 "The same flushed with victory over the passing 
 years, joyous, too, at the 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 there used to be a time, you know, when we 
 prowled together." 
 
 He found himself glad to see her so glad that he for- 
 got how angry he was. 
 
 "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 just come 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, I knew 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? 
 257
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Wearing, too. Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy. Is 
 beauty's ensign yet crimson in my cheeks ?" 
 
 "If you weren't sure of it you wouldn't ask me," he 
 laughed. "Why didn't you want to see me ?" 
 
 "I didn't say I didn't want to see you. I merely sug- 
 gested that I didn't think it wise to." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You might not have understood my point of view. 
 You mayn't now. I think I was a trifle bewildered over 
 there. Now I'm clear again." She paused, her gaze focus- 
 ing quickly, "O John, what a mess you've made of my 
 ideals !" 
 
 "I?" he muttered stupidly, but he knew what she 
 meant. "What have I to do 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. 
 "Appearances are were against us. If you've spoken of 
 that you've done a great mischief 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 too rich a secret to tell too quickly 
 too good a story and then the embroideries I had to 
 think of those. No, I have not told it, John, not yet. 
 You see, after I left you, I changed my mind about things. 
 Your rural amourette is still a secret, mon ami." 
 
 He gasped a sigh of relief. How could he ever have 
 258
 
 A LADY IN THE DUSK 
 
 believed it of her ? He laughed lightly with an air of care- 
 lessness. 
 
 "You wouldn't tell. I knew that. You're not that 
 sort, Olga " 
 
 "Not so fast, ray poor friend," she put in quickly. 
 "I've said that your indiscretion was still a secret, but I 
 still reserve the right to tell 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 I know, 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 join- 
 ing in her laughter. 
 
 "Oh, what's the use of making such a lot of fuss over a 
 thing? It was imprudent, indiscreet of us, if you like. 
 Hermia and I met by accident. I was tramping it as 
 you know. I asked her if she didn't want to go along, 
 and she did. Simplest thing in the world. We waved 
 convention 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 for the crooked. If you're straight, 
 you don't need 'em." 
 
 "Still," she mused sweetly, "society must be protected. 
 Who is to tell which of us is straight and which crooked? 
 
 259
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Even if we were crooked, you know, neither of us would 
 be willing to admit it." 
 
 "But it's a question not so much of my wisdom as 
 of Hermia's. You'll admit " 
 
 "I admit nothing," she said quickly. "You've sur- 
 prised, shocked and grieved me beyond words, both of 
 you, also made me feel a trifle foolish. My judgment 
 is shaken to the earth. Here I've been holding you up 
 as a kind of paragon, a fossilized Galahad, with a horizon 
 just at your elbows, to find you touring France, faisant 
 I'aimable with a frolicsome scapegrace in a bolero jacket." 
 
 "I would remind you," he broke in stiffly, "that you're 
 speaking of Hermia Challoner." 
 
 "Oh, I'm quite aware' of it," with a careless wave of 
 her hand. "And as to Hermia's wisdom life has taught 
 me this that a woman may be clever, she may be intui- 
 tive, she may be skillful, but she's never wise. And so I 
 say I'm shocked, John Markham, outraged and shocked 
 beyond expression." 
 
 "Oh, you're the limit, Olga," he blurted out. 
 
 "Simply because I adhere to the traditions of my sex, 
 because I adhere to the memory of my friendships. I 
 like you, John Markham, your simplicity has always ap- 
 pealed to me. And now that you add gallantry to 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 mind what you say of me, of course, but your 
 
 choice of words is not fortunate. Miss Challoner and 
 j 
 
 "Spare your breath," she said, turning on him swiftly. 
 "I'm no fool. I've lived in the world. If Hermia Chal- 
 loner chooses to lay herself open to criticism that's her 
 
 260
 
 A LADY IN THE DUSK 
 
 lookout. I'll say what I please of her. She has earned 
 that retribution. Talk as you will of your own virtues 
 and hers you'd never succeed in convincing anyone of 
 your innocence me least of all. What's the use of beat- 
 ing around the bush. I can see through a millstone if 
 it has a hole in it. Hermia Challoner " 
 
 "Silence!" His fingers gripped her arm and she 
 stopped, ready to scream with the pain of it. "You're 
 insulting the woman I love. Do you hear?" he whispered 
 through set lips. "I'll hear no more of it here or else- 
 where? We traveled together, that is all. My God 
 that you should dare !" He stopped suddenly, peering 
 through the dusk at her face which still smiled, though the 
 pain of her arm gave her agony, and then he relaxed with 
 a laugh. "You don't mean it, I know. It isn't worthy 
 of you. Why, Olga, you are her friend. You know her 
 intimately 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, bay- 
 onets crossed. The city roared about them, but they did 
 not hear it. He dominated her, masterful. She fought 
 back silently, a thing of nerves and passion only, but she 
 did not flinch, though he had already wounded her mor- 
 tally. 
 
 "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 I choose " 
 
 "I won't believe you." 
 
 "You must. It has come to that," she went on, whis- 
 pering. "I've given you the best of me, the very best, 
 what no man has had of me, affection, strong and tender, 
 
 261
 
 MADCAP 
 
 friendship, clean and wholesome. I gave gladly. I'm not 
 sorry. They were sweeter even than the love in my breast 
 which stifled which still stifles me." 
 
 "Olga!" 
 
 The suppressed passion of her confession startled r 
 him. Her half-closed eyes burned through the dusk, thenj 
 paled again. 
 
 "It's true," she went on haltingly. "I love you. My 
 love I'm proud of it prouder of it than of anything 
 I've ever been or known because it's sweet and clean. 
 That's why I can look you in the eyes and tell you so. 
 Why shouldn't I? What is my woman's pride beside that 
 other pride? I have not stooped as she has to con- 
 quer." 
 
 "Sh i" 
 
 "She stooped to conquer. I'm glad glad it shows 
 the difference between us. It weighs us one against the 
 other. You shall know. One day you shall know. You'll 
 tire of her. It's always the ending of a conquest 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 hands dropped to her sides, 
 her laughter jarring him strangely. 
 
 "Curious, isn't it?" he heard her saying. "You're the 
 last man in the world I would have dreamed of. I used 
 to laugh at you, you know. You were so gauche and so 
 ill-mannered. I took you up as a sort of game. It 
 amused me to try and see what could be made of you. 
 If you'd made love to me, I would have laughed at you. 
 But you didn't. Why didn't you, John? It would have 
 saved us all such a lot of trouble."
 
 A LZDY IN THE DUSK 
 
 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 least of all the one you honor 
 with your present professions. I'm not woman-wise, 
 Olga. And I'm not honey-mouthed. I hope you won't 
 mind if I 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 a whip-lash, which swirled in the air and 
 circled over Hermia, too. He chose his words delib- 
 erately. 
 
 "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 his affairs of some sort had 
 been reached and passed. His companion walked more 
 and more rapidly, setting the pace which outdid the slow 
 movement of 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 Hermia was not what you thought she 
 was. You lower your own standards can't you see j 
 when you lower hers? She's only a girl thoughtless, a 
 thing of impulses only mad impulses if you like but 
 
 263
 
 MADCAP . 
 
 clean, Olga, like a child. You've only to look at her 
 and see " x 
 
 "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 this false position. I who must get her out 
 of it. I owe her that and you owe it to me." 
 
 He released her and went on more quietly. "'I'm no 
 Galahad and I make no 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 that feeds on hatred on uncleanness ? Love 
 is made of gentler stuff beautifies, uplifts not de- 
 stroys." 
 
 Her head was bent and her face was hidden under her 
 wide hat, but her whisper came to him quite clearly. 
 
 "You tell me what love is? You!" 
 
 When she raised her head her lips were smiling softly, 
 and she moved forward slowly, he at her side. They had 
 reached the Avenue. A motor he 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 best defence "Too bad we couldn't have hit it 
 off, isn't it? I would have liked it awfully. I give you 
 my word you've never seemed nearly so interesting as at 
 this moment of discomposure. There's a charm in your
 
 awkwardness, John, a native charm. Good night. I 
 go alone." 
 
 He followed her a few paces but she reached the ma- 
 chine before him and was 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 then 
 took to the streets, trusting to physical exercise to clear 
 his head of the tangle that Olga had put into it. Olga, 
 the irrepressible man-hunter, in love with a "fossilized 
 Galahad." That was ironically amusing, extraordinary, 
 if true, a punishment which fitted her crime, and some- 
 thing of a grim joke on the man-hunter as well as the 
 fossil. Markham tried to view the matter with uncon- 
 cern, man-like, recalling the many times that Olga's name 
 had been coupled with those of various distinguished for- 
 eigners and the frequent reports of her engagement, al- 
 ways denied and forgotten. And yet she worried him. 
 For a brief moment she had given him a glimpse of the 
 shadowy recesses where she hid her naked soul ; a glimpse 
 only, like some of those she had given him when he was 
 painting her portrait; but what he had seen now was 
 different an Olga no longer wistful, no longer amenable ; 
 a wild, unreasoning thing who purred, cat-like, while he 
 stroked her, sheathing and unsheathing her claws. There 
 was mischief brewing he felt it in her sudden access of 
 self-control, and in the final jest with which she had left 
 him. He knew her better now. It was when she mocked 
 that Olga was most dangerous. It was clear that she had 
 
 266
 
 THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 not believed him when he told her the truth. Her stand- 
 ards forbade it, of course. It was too bad. 
 
 But she had not told what she knew that was the 
 main thing. What if she did tell now? Hermia could 
 deny it, of course, and if necessary he must lie, as 
 Olga had said, like a gentleman. And where were Olga's 
 proofs? Who would confirm her? What evidence, human 
 or documentary, could she bring forward here in New 
 York to prove Hermia's culpability, if, as it seemed to be 
 her intention, she insisted on carrying her sweet venge- 
 ance to its end? There was no one he paused, his 
 brow clouding. De Folligny! Had De Folligny learned 
 who Hermia was? Had Olga found out about the com- 
 panion in his automobile at Verneuil? He waved the 
 thought away. De Folligny was on the other side of the 
 ocean. The psychological moment for Olga's revelation 
 had passed. 
 
 * Consoling himself with these thoughts he went home 
 and to bed and morning found him early at the studio, 
 awaiting his new sitter, in a more quiescent, if still un- 
 certain, frame of mind. 
 
 The portrait of Mrs. Berkeley Hammond on which 
 he had been working sat smugly upon one of his easels, a 
 thing of shreds and patches (though the lady was in 
 pearls and a Drecoll frock), a thing "painty" without 
 being direct, mannered without being elegant, highly col- 
 ored without being colorful, a streaky thing with brilliant 
 spots, like the work of a promising pupil; a pretty poor 
 Markham, which had pleased the sitter because its face 
 flattered her, and for which she would gladly pay the con- 
 siderable sum he charged, while Markham's inner con- 
 sciousness loudly proclaimed that the canvas was not 
 worth as much as the crayon sketch of Madame Daudi- 
 
 267
 
 MADCAP 
 
 fret in Normandy which had been the price of a ragout. 
 Really he would have to paint better. He swung the 
 easel around with a kick of the foot and faced a new 
 canvas, primed some days before, and busied himself about 
 his palette and paint tubes. 
 
 When Phyllis Van Vorst emerged from the dressing- 
 room a while later into the cool north light, Markham's 
 eyes sparkled with a genuine delight. Here was the sort 
 of thing he could do white satin with filmy drapery from 
 which rose the fresh-colored flower of girlhood. With- 
 out being really pretty, his model created the illusion of 
 beauty by her youth, her abundant health and many 
 little tricks of gesture and expression. Her role was 
 that of the ingenue and she prattled childishly of many 
 things, flitting like a butterfly from topic to topic, grave 
 and gay with a careless grace which added something to 
 the picture she made. Markham let her talk, interjecting 
 monosyllables lulled by the inexhaustible flow, aware, after 
 the first pose or two, that he was painting well, with the 
 careless brush of entire confidence. As Olga had said, he 
 always was at his best when a little contemptuous. In 
 three hours the head was finished and the background laid 
 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 for his pipe, suddenly conscious of the fact 
 that he had painted and that his 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 interest- 
 ing." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad," she cried, "you can say nice things, 
 can't you?" 
 
 "When I think them," he laughed. 
 268
 
 THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 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 seen anything quite so flattering in 
 my life. Oh, I'm so glad I came to you instead of to 
 Teddy Vincent. You've made my poor nose quite straight 
 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 on the divan near her and smoked. 
 She gazed at the head for a while in rapturous silence. 
 
 "O Mr. Markham, will you ever forgive me for being 
 so stupid last summer," she said at last, "about that up- 
 side-down painting? I've been so humiliated " 
 
 "I'm not really a landscape man, you know," he said 
 cheerfully by way of consolation, "and it was only a 
 sketch." 
 
 "Oh, but they made such a lot of fun of me at West- 
 port. They're not very merciful that crowd." 
 
 Markham's gaze shifted. 
 
 "Yes, I know," he said quietly. 
 
 "Oh, have you heard?" his companion laughed sud- 
 idenly. 
 
 "About what ?" asked Markham startled. 
 
 "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 Gouver- 
 neur, you know engaged. She has wanted him a long 
 
 269
 
 time. Everybody thought he'd wiggle 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 wholesale selection 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 each other at all not that way just as friends 
 you know. Hermia is a good deal like a fellow. Reggie 
 liked her that way. They were pals had been from 
 childhood, but then one doesn't marry one's pal." 
 
 "I'm very glad," said Markham politely, examining 
 her with a new interest. "I shall make it a point at once 
 to offer him my congratulations. I like him." 
 
 "He's adorable, isn't he? But I'm horribly fright- 
 ened about him. He's so 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 give 
 it 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 Challoner is " 
 
 "Engaged to Trewy? Of course. It was cabled 
 270
 
 THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 from Paris to the Herald. But then nobody who knows 
 about things is really very much surprised. Trewy has 
 been wild about her for years and her family have all 
 wanted it. It's really a very good match. You see 
 Trewy is so steady and she needs a skid to her 
 wheel " 
 
 She rambled on but to Markham her voice was only a 
 confused chatter of many voices. He rose and turned 
 the easel into a better light, then knocked out his pipe 
 into the fireplace. The room whirled around him and he 
 steadied himself against the mantel, while he tried to listen 
 to what else she was saying. Her loquacity, a moment 
 ago so amusing, had assumed a deeper significance. The 
 phrases purled with diabolical fluidity from her lips, 
 searing like molten metal. Hermia ! The girl was 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 inter- 
 ested," he said evenly. "Miss Challoner is in Europe?" 
 he asked carelessly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, or was and Trewy followed her there. 
 She's home now came yesterday of course, with Trewy 
 at her heels. Oh! he'll keep her in order, no fear about 
 that. It's about time that Hermia settled down. She's 
 quite the wildest thing perfectly properly, you know, 
 Olga Tcherny says " 
 
 "Olga is home, too?" he interrupted, steadying him- 
 self. 
 
 She nodded quickly and went on. "Olga says that 
 Hermia disappeared from Paris for over a week and no 
 
 271
 
 MADCAP 
 
 one knew where she was. Trewy was crazy with anxiety. 
 But she came back one night in an old gray coat and hat 
 with a bundle the shabbiest thing imaginable, looking 
 like a tramp. Trewy was in the hotel and saw her. But 
 they patched things up somehow." 
 
 "Did Madame Tcherny learn where she had been?" 
 
 "Oh, no," she laughed. "You see Olga was too busy 
 with her own affairs. She has a Frenchman in tow this 
 season she's brought him here with her florid, blonde, 
 curled and monocled, the Marquis de Folligny " 
 
 "Pierre de Folligny !" 
 
 "You know him?" 
 
 "Yes er slightly." 
 
 She had babbled her gossip so lightly and rapidly 
 that this last piece of 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 lightly Hermia's name had dropped from 
 her satin wings ! He smiled grimly at the thought of his 
 own situation, the central figure in at least one act of this 
 comedy, viewing it from the far side of the proscenium 
 arch, gaping like the rustic in the metropolis who sees him- 
 self for the first time depicted upon the stage. What 
 
 272
 
 THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 right had she this little flutter-budget to know these 
 things when he was denied them? Hermia the report 
 of her engagement had been disturbing, but for some rea- 
 son it seemed less important now than the fact that she 
 was here here in New York within twenty minutes of 
 him perhaps, upon the very street where he might meet 
 her when he went out. Hermia and Trevvy Morehouse! 
 He simply would not believe it. Hermia might look him 
 
 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 sunlight pleased honest eyes into whose 
 depths he had peered when they were dark with the shad- 
 ows of the forest and seen his image dancing. She was 
 his that day all his. He could have taken her; and he 
 had let her go back to Paris and the excellent Trevelyan. 
 Hermia, his mad vagabond Hermia, was ready to tie her- 
 self for life to that automatic nonentity at Westport who 
 trailed, a patient shadow in Hermia's swirling wake. 
 Hermia and Morehouse! He simply wouldn't believe it. 
 When his sitter had departed in a rush to keep her 
 engagement, he filled his pipe again and walked the floor 
 smoking furiously, the scenario of Olga's little drama 
 taking a more definite form. He understood now the 
 reasons why she had not told what she had seen. He 
 doubted now whether it was her intention to tell. But 
 she had brought the Frenchman De Folligny over to do 
 the telling for her, reserving her little climax until all her 
 marionettes were properly placed according to her own 
 stage directions, when she would let the situation work 
 itself out to its own conclusion. It was an ingenious 
 plan, one which did her hand much credit. She had rea- 
 lized, of course, that a revelation of Hermia's shortcom- 
 ings in Alen9on, Paris or Trouville would have deprived 
 
 273
 
 MADCAP 
 
 her vengeance of half its sting. It required a New York 
 background, a quiet drawing-room filled with Hermia's 
 intimates for her "situation" to produce its most telling 
 effect. De Folligny now had the center of the stage and 
 at the proper moment she would pull the necessary wires 
 and the thing would be accomplished. 
 
 Something must be done at once. He changed into 
 street clothes and went out, lunched alone on the way 
 uptown and at three was standing at the door of the 
 Challoner house. 
 
 The butler showed Markham into the drawing-room 
 and took his card. He did not know whether Miss Chal- 
 loner was in or not, but he would see. Markham sat and 
 impatiently waited, his eyes meanwhile restlessly roving 
 the splendor of the room in search of some object which 
 would suggest Hermia mad Hermia of Vagabondia. 
 Opposite him upon the wall was a portrait of her by a 
 distinguished Frenchman, with whose metier he was fa- 
 miliar an astounding falsehood in various shades of 
 tooth-powder. This Hermia smirked at him like the 
 lady in the fashion page, exuding an atmosphere of 
 wealth and nothing else a strange, unreal Hermia who 
 floated vaguely between her gilt barriers, neither sprite 
 nor flesh and blood. How could Marsac have known 
 the real Hermia the heart, the spirit of her as he knew 
 them! 
 
 And yet when a few moments later she appeared in 
 the doorway he wondered if he knew her at all. She was 
 dressed for afternoon in some clinging dark stuff which 
 made her figure slim almost to the point of thinness. She 
 wore a small hat with a tall plume and seemed to have 
 gained in stature. Her face was paler and her modulated 
 voice and the studied gesture as she offered him her hand
 
 did more to convince him that 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 he was made aware of her premeditation. 
 The tepor of her politeness was like a blow between the 
 eyes, and he peered blindly into her face in vain for some 
 sign of the girl he knew. 
 
 "Won't you sit down?" she asked, and dumbly he sat. 
 "I hear you were in Normandy," she went on smoothly. 
 "Did you have a good summer? You did leave us rather 
 abruptly at Westport, didn't you? But then you know, 
 of course, I understood that " 
 
 "Hermia," he broke in in a low voice. "What has 
 happened to you? Why didn't you answer my letters. 
 I've been nearly mad with anxiety." He leaned forward 
 toward her, the words falling in a torrent. But she only 
 examined him curiously, a puzzled wrinkle at her brows 
 vying with the set smile she still wore. 
 
 "Your letters, Mr. Markham!" she said in surprise. 
 "Oh! You mean the note about the sketch of Thimble 
 Island? I did reply, didn't I? It was awfully nice " 
 
 "Good God !" he muttered, rising. "Haven't you pun- 
 1 ished me enough now, without this " with a wave of his 
 lhand "this extravaganza. Haven't I paid? I searched 
 Paris high and low for you, Hermia, haunted your bank- 
 ers and the hotel where you had been stopping, only re- 
 turning here at the moment when my engagements in 
 New York made it necessary. Has it been kind of you, 
 or just, to ignore my letters and leave me all these weeks 
 in anxiety and ignorance? I've missed you horribly 
 
 275
 
 _ MADCAP _ 
 
 .-ind I feared nameless things that you had forgotten 
 me, that you wanted everything forgotten." As he came 
 forward she rose and took a step toward an inner room, 
 her eyes still narrowed and quizzical, watching him care- 
 fully. 
 
 "Hermia Hermia !" He stopped, the tension break- 
 ing in a laugh. "Oh, you want to punish me, of course. 
 Don't you think you've paid me well already? See! I'm 
 penitent. What do you want? Shall I go down on my 
 knees to you. I have been on my knees to you for weeks 
 you must have known it. My letters - " 
 
 He paused and then stopped, puzzled, for she had not 
 moved and her gaze surveyed 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 to you. You didn't get them? O 
 Hermia, you must have known what life has been without 
 you. Do you think I could forget what I read in your 
 eyes that day in the forest? Could you forget what you 
 wrote there ? Only your lips refused me. Even when they 
 refused me, they were warm with my kisses. They were 
 mine, as you were, body and soul. You loved me, Hermia 
 from the first. These flimsy barriers you're raising, 
 I'll break them down and take you - ' 
 
 As he approached, she reached the curtains, one hand 
 upraised. 
 
 "You're dreaming, Mr. Markham," she said, dis- 
 tinctly. "I haven't the least idea what you're talking 
 about." 
 
 "You love me - " he stammered. 
 
 Her laughter checked him effectually. He stood, his 
 276
 
 THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 full gesture of entreaty frozen into immobility. Then 
 slowly his arms relaxed and he stood awkwardly staring, 
 now thoroughly awake. She meant him to understand 
 that Vagabondia was not that their week in Arcadia 
 had never 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 in Normandy?" he stammered. 
 
 "One only denies the possible, Mr. Markham," she 
 said with a glib certitude. "The impossible needs no 
 denial. I was in Paris and in Switzerland 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 be sufficient, I think." 
 
 The even tones of her voice and the repetition of his 
 name inflamed him. There was little doubt of her apos- 
 tasy. He turned toward her with 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 here 
 in New York." 
 
 The plume on her hat nodded back, and her eyes 
 widely opened gave him a momentary glimpse of her 
 terror.
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "De Folligny is here with Olga !" 
 
 "Yes. I've just learned it to-day." 
 
 She moved her slender shoulders upward in the ges- 
 ture she had learned from Olga Tcherny. 
 
 "That will be quite pleasant," she resumed, easily. 
 "He will render us a 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. "Since you don't fear it, my mission is ended." 
 He took up his hat and stick and moved toward the door. 
 "I shall not question your wisdom or your sense of re- 
 sponsibility to me or to yourself. But I think I under- 
 stand at last what you would have of me. Whatever you 
 wish, of course, I shall do without question. I was alone 
 in Normandy or with someone else, if you like. It was 
 my Vagabondia not yours. There was no Philidor 
 no Yvonne no Cleofonte or Stella no roses of Pere 
 Guegou no roses in my heart. They're withered enough, 
 God knows. You wish to forget them. You want me to 
 remember you as you are- to-day." He laughed. "I 
 think I'll have no difficulty in doing so or helping by 
 my silence or my cooperation in carrying out any plans 
 you may have, if you should find it necessary to call upon 
 me." 
 
 "I thank you," she murmured, her head bent. 
 
 He regarded her a moment steadily, but she would not 
 meet his gaze. 'At the door he paused. 
 
 "I have heard of your reported engagement," he fin- 
 ished 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 tell me it's true." 
 
 278
 
 THE WINGS OF THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 She did not raise her head, but her lips moved inarticu- 
 lately. He glanced at her a moment longer and then, 
 with an inclination of the head, 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 of winter activity. Those 
 envied mortals who compose society, pausing for 
 a brief moment of air and relaxation in the holidays, 
 plunged again into the arduous treadmill of the daily 
 round, urged by the flying lash of unrest, creatures of a 
 common fate, plodding wearily up the path of preferment, 
 not daring to falter or to rest under the pain of instant 
 oblivion. 
 
 Olga Tcherny paused only long enough to catch a 
 deep breath after her momentous interview with John 
 Markham in Washington Square and then plunged into 
 the busy throng with De Folligny after. She had heard 
 with some interest the reports of Hermia Challoner's 
 engagement to Mr. Morehouse, but it had made no very 
 deep impression upon her mind. She only considered it, 
 in fact, with reference to its possible effect upon the mind 
 of John Markham, who she soon learned was avoiding the 
 social scene, as had been his custom, before she had made 
 forcible entry into his studio last year and had dragged 
 him forth into the company of his fellow men. 
 
 It was quite evident that Hermia was playing her 
 ^ame rather ruthlessly and, whatever her object, John 
 "Markham and she for the present at least were at cross 
 purposes. Olga did not dare to go to see him, and though 
 her door stood open she had no hope that he would enter 
 
 280
 
 CIRCE AND THE FOSSIL 
 
 it without encouragement. But one blithe morning she 
 sent him a note : 
 
 What's this I hear? Can it be true that your nymph has 
 fled from the woods of Pan to take shelter under the eaves of 
 a Morehouse? And what becomes of the faun? I can't be- 
 lieve it and yet my rumor comes direct. Do satisfy my 
 craving for veracity, won't you? I'd like awfully to see you, 
 if you'll forgive and forget. I can now give you positive 
 assurances that you will be quite as safe in my drawing-room 
 as in that smudgy place where you immortalize mediocrity. 
 I'll never propose to you again as long as I live. The phan- 
 tasy has passed, I think. Do you believe me? Come and see 
 but 'phone first. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 OLGA. 
 
 To her surprise, he came the following afternoon. 
 She received him with a frank and careless gayety which 
 put him very much at his ease. He marveled at her as- 
 surance and the resumption of the little airs of proprie- 
 torship to which he had been accustomed before the visit 
 to Westport. She was the Olga of the portrait with the 
 added graces of a not too obtrusive sympathy arid a man- 
 ner which seemed subtly to suggest self-elimination. He 
 accepted the situation without mental reservation, sat in 
 the chair she indicated with a grateful sigh and watched 
 her pretty hands busy about the tea-tray. Whatever 
 their relations and however directly he could trace his 
 present misfortunes to her very door, the illusion of her 
 friendliness was not to be dispelled, and he relinquished 
 himself to its charm with a grateful sense that, for the 
 moment at least, here was sanctuary. 
 
 She found him thinner and said so. 
 281
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "You're working too hard, my dear Markham," she 
 said. "On every hand I hear of people you've painted 
 or are about to paint. A real success un succes fou 
 and in spite of yourself! It's quite wonderful." 
 
 "I've painted very badly," he muttered. 
 
 "Oh, you're too close to your work to have a per- 
 spective. Mrs. Hammond has touted you the length and 
 breadth of the town you know and that means there's 
 a pedestal for you in her Hall of Fame. What does 
 Immortality taste like? Sweet?" 
 
 He laughed. "Fame in New York is merely a mat- 
 ter of dollars. My prices are enormous hence my repu- 
 tation. If I charged what the things are worth, these 
 people would send me back to Paris." 
 
 "And still you refuse to go to their houses? I hear 
 that Mrs. Hammond wanted to give a dinner for you 
 to all her set and that's quite extraordinary 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 my appetite away." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't know. I suppose I'm a crank. They speak 
 another language those people. I don't understand 
 them. I find that no exertion 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 stripped to the bone. That's indecent when 
 one dines out." 
 
 "And your fellow woman?" 
 282
 
 CIRCE AND THE FOSSIL 
 
 He shrugged and laughed. 
 
 "She's a child adorable always. But then I never 
 understand her nor she me." 
 
 She sipped tea and smiled. 
 
 "Woman is at once the woman and the serpent, mon 
 ami. All she needs is a man and a Garden of Para- 
 dise." 
 
 He frowned into his teacup but did not reply. 
 
 "It is 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. Her- 
 mia 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 me the im- 
 pression that you er that you didn't care for Miss 
 Challoner any more 
 
 "Did I? I'm glad I did. That's the truth. I don't 
 care for her. She cut me very prettily on the street the 
 week after she got back from Europe. Evidently the 
 antipathy is mutual." 
 
 He paused, considering. 
 
 "I'm sorry she saw fit to do that. That was foolish 
 very foolish of her." 
 
 "Wasn't it? Especially as I had about decided to 
 
 forget that I'd ever been in Alenfon " 
 
 283
 
 MADCAP 
 
 He put his hand over hers and held it there a moment. 
 
 "I want you to forget that, Olga," he muttered. "It 
 it never happened." 
 
 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 Switzer- 
 land." 
 
 "Yes. So I hear. Very interesting. But how does 
 that explain things to Pierre de Folligny? He met her 
 the other day and remembered her perfectly " 
 
 Markham rose and paced the floor. 
 
 "Oh," he heard her saying, "she denied seeing him in 
 France, of course, but it was quite awkward for her, I 
 mean." 
 
 He took two or three turns, his brows serious, and 
 then came and stood near her at the mantelpiece. 
 
 "You must straighten things out, Olga with De Fol- 
 ligny," he muttered. "It will ruin her, if he speaks 
 you know what New York is. Gossip like 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 I think 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 inno- 
 cence. Haven't I told you that I had been prepared to 
 forget the whole incident when she 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. 
 284
 
 CIRCE ZND THE FOSSIL 
 
 "Oh, that's impossible and she knows it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She paused, shielding her eyes with her fingers. He 
 was such an innocent. But she had no notion of enlight- 
 ening him. 
 
 "She has given you up to marry. That's clear. I 
 hold her secret. The simplest way out of her difficulty 
 is to ignore me. Well let her. I don't mind. I'll sur- 
 vive. But I would give my ears to let Fifth Avenue 
 know " 
 
 "No no," he put in quickly, "you mustn't do that 
 If you've ceased to care for her, you've got your duty 
 to me to consider. Do you hold my honor so lightly " 
 
 "Yours?" 
 
 "Yes. She was in my care. I let her go with me. 
 The responsibility was sacred. I was morally pledged 
 to keep her from harm. That responsibility has not 
 ceased because she no longer because she has made up 
 her mind to to marry. It's greater even. If you ever 
 told that story " 
 
 "And De Folligny? 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. It will be magnificent of you. Give me your 
 word your promise to keep silent 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. Whatever your your differences she doesn't 
 deserve this of you. Will it give you pleasure in after 
 years to think of her life embittered of his life embit- 
 
 285
 
 MADCAP ^^ 
 
 tered, too, by a piece of gossip, woven out of a tissue of 
 half-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 then walked the length of the room 
 away. The little clock on the mantel ticked gaily, the 
 fire sparkled and the familiar sounds of the careless city 
 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 Alen9on." 
 
 "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 and pressed them softly to his lips. 
 
 "I knew you would, Olga. I knew you were bigger 
 than that. I thank you I will never forget " 
 
 But before he could finish she had snatched her fingers 
 away from him and was laughing softly at the tea-caddy. 
 
 "Now, if you please," she said composedly, "we will 
 speak of pleasanter things." 
 
 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 hearti- 
 ness. 
 
 "Thanks," she said dryly. "I know it. And you're 
 playing me quite successfully aren't you? Hearts? 
 
 286
 
 CIRCE 'AND THE FOSSIL 
 
 and I'm the 'dummy.' I never liked playing 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 known you, 
 I find that I've never 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 un- 
 pleasant sense of having been made a fool of." 
 
 She rose, flicked her cigarette into the fire and then 
 turned as if about to speak. But thought better of it. 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 "Pierre de Folligny and I are friends of long stand- 
 ing," she said at last. "One marries some day. Why 
 not an old friend? The age of madness passes I am 
 
 almost thirty and I have lived much. It is time " 
 
 she finished wearily, "time that I married again. We 
 understand each other perfectly." A smile slowly dawned 
 and broke. "What one wants in a husband is not so 
 much a rhapsodist as a rhymester, 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 me again. That " and she paused to 
 
 give the word emphasis, "is all over. I'm quite safe as a 
 confidante. Hermia has treated you very badly, I think. 
 
 287
 
 MADCAP 
 
 I'd like to tell her so No? Well, good-bye. Do come 
 in again. I want you to know Pierre better. He really 
 is all that a walking-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 the fender, her gaze upon the fire. After a 
 time she stretched forth her fingers to the blaze. All 
 over! She straightened slowly and caught a glimpse of 
 her face in the mirror. The firelight gleamed under her 
 brows, brought out with unpleasant sharpness the angle 
 of her jaw and touched the bones of her cheek caressingly. 
 She looked again, the truth compelling her, and then 
 buried her face in her arm. The truth middle age, had 
 set its first mark upon her. The sallow fingers of 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 higher note in the lights, had 
 brushed in haltingly the false values that now mocked at 
 her. Time ! She seemed to count it by her heart-throbs. 
 
 She walked across the room and stood before the por- 
 trait John Markham had painted of her. The face gazed 
 out from its shadows, its eyes met hers for a moment, 
 then looked through her and beyond, eyes which looked, 
 yet saw not, eyes deep and inscrutable, seers of visions, 
 bathed in memories which would not sink into oblivion. 
 Her eyes he had painted carefully. For him it seemed 
 the rest of the face had been a blank. The nose, the chin, 
 were hers, and the mouth the lips, a scarlet smudge of 
 illusiveness. They were hers, too. He had had difficulty 
 with her lips, painting and repainting them. They had 
 puzzled him. "The eyes we are born with," he had said 
 
 288
 
 CIRCE r AND THE FOSSIL 
 
 how well she remembered it now! "The lips are what we 
 make ourselves." At last he had painted them in quickly 
 almost brutally and let them be. They seemed to mock 
 at her now to contradict the meaning of the eyes 
 which would not, could not, smile. 
 
 Hermia had scoffed at this portrait because it was 
 not "pretty." There was something bigger than mere 
 prettiness here. He had painted the soul of her, reading 
 with his art what had been hidden from the man, as he had 
 strayed through the labyrinth of her thoughts viewing the 
 blighted blossom of her girlhood and wifehood and the 
 neglected garden of her maturity. As she viewed the 
 portrait now in the light of time and event, she saw, more 
 clearly than ever, her soul and body as Markham had seen 
 it. He had painted her as he would have painted char- 
 acter an old man or an old woman, searching for shad- 
 ows rather than lights, seeking the anatomy of sorrow 
 rather than that of joy had made her the subject of a 
 cool and not too flattering psychological investigation. 
 Was this how he had always seen her? This far-looking, 
 inscrutable, satiated woman of the world, who peered 
 forth into the future, from the dull embers of the past 
 a being whose physical beauty was rather suggested 
 than expressed whose loveliness lay in what she might 
 have been rather than in what she was? He had always 
 thought of her thus? 
 
 She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Not, not 
 always. She remembered now he couldn't have painted 
 her as he had painted others as he had painted a while 
 ago the portrait of Phyllis Van Vorst carelessly, con- 
 temptuously. He had probed deeply painted from his 
 own deeps. They had been very close together in those 
 hours, mentally, spiritually, and only the barrier she her- 
 
 289
 
 MADCAP 
 
 self had raised prevented their physical nearness. That, 
 too, she could have had? 
 
 A mist fell across the canvas and Hermia's vision in- 
 terposed, rosy and careless, her braggart youth trium- 
 phant. 
 
 She turned, threw herself upon the couch and buried 
 her head, her fingers clenched, in the pillows. She made 
 no sound and lay so immovable that one might have 
 thought she was sleeping. But her blood was coursing 
 madly and her pulses throbbed at wrist and neck. She 
 had been true to her better self with Markham and her 
 idealism had brought her only this void of barren regret. 
 Whichever way she looked into the past or into the future, 
 the vista was empty ; behind her only the echoes of voices 
 and a grim shape or two ; before her vacancy. She had 
 bared her soul to Markham, there in the Square, torn 
 away the veil of her pride and let him know the truth. 
 Why, God knew. She had been mad. She had believed 
 the worst of Hermia and of him, and had offered herself 
 to him that he might judge between them her heart and 
 Hermia's, her mind, her body and Hermia's. Was her 
 own face no longer fair that he should have looked at her 
 so curiously and turned away with Hermia's name on his 
 lips, Hermia's image in his heart? A doubt had crept into 
 her mind and lingered insidiously. Hermia innocent! 
 She was beginning to believe it now. In spite of the 
 damning facts she had discovered, the evidence of Ma- 
 dame Bordier and Monsieur Duchanel, of the peasant 
 woman at Tillieres and of Pierre de Folligny, the testi- 
 mony of Hermia's pale face at the shooting lodge at 
 Alen9on and of her confession which she had not thought 
 of doubting, the belief had slowly gained force in her 
 mind that Markham had not lied to her. She found con- 
 
 290
 
 CIRCE 5LND THE FOSSIL 
 
 firmation of it in Hermia Challoner's disappearance in 
 France, in her attitude toward Markham and in the an- 
 nouncement of her engagement to another man. Mark- 
 ham could not guess, as she did now, that this was only a 
 ruse de femme, born of the access of timidity at the dis- 
 'covery of her indiscretion and the consciousness that she 
 had gone too far with Markham, who must be punished for 
 his share in her downfall. It seemed pitifully clear now. 
 
 Olga's bitterness choked and whelmed her. It seemed 
 even worse that Hermia should be innocent. She dared 
 not think of the picture she had made in Markham's 
 mind when she had thrown herself into the scales that he 
 might weigh their frailties and compare them. Hermia 
 innocent ! How Olga hated her for it, and for her youth 
 and beauty. They mocked and derided the tender flame 
 that she had nourished, which now glowed ineffectually 
 as in another, a greater light. She hated Hermia for all 
 the things that she herself was not. 
 
 Lucidity came to her slowly. After a long while she 
 raised a disordered face and leaned her chin upon her 
 hands, staring at the dying log. She had promised him 
 not to speak. She could not. She had even promised 
 to persuade De Folligny to silence. Had he mentioned 
 the incident 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 the sanctity of which, upon the 
 mind of a man of De Folligny's temperament, might not 
 be impressive. She would keep her promise to Markham 
 and persuade 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 wood- 
 land scene by Morland, and a smile slowly grew at one end 
 
 291
 
 MADCAP 
 
 of her lips, a crooked smile, that might have been merely 
 quizzical, had not the impression been unpleasantly modi- 
 fied by the narrowing eyes and the tiny wrinkle that sud- 
 denly grew between 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 is never so unkind as to those 
 who blindly resist her and into the lap of stoic 
 and unimpressionable she pours the horn of plenty. 
 
 Trevelyan Morehouse had gone through life on the 
 low gear. In fact he had no change of gears and needed 
 none. He never "hit it up" on the smooth places or 
 burned out his tires on the rough ones, and was therefore 
 always to be found in perfect repair. He was a good hill 
 climber and had a way of arriving at his destination no 
 matter how difficult the going. When others passed him 
 he let them go, and plodded on after them with solemn 
 assurance, his gait so leisurely that rapid travelers had 
 the habit of regarding his conservatism with undisguised 
 contempt. And yet his perseverance, though inconspicu- 
 ous, was singularly effective. He had won his way into 
 the sanctorum of a big corporation and his advice, though 
 never brilliant, was always sane and peculiarly reliable. 
 He did not mind rebuffs and was so indifferent to indig- 
 nities that people had ceased to offer them. Socially he 
 could always be trusted to do the usual thing in the 
 usual way and was therefore always much in demand by 
 hostesses who required conventional limitations. In a 
 word he was "the excellent Trevelyan." and the adjective 
 
 293
 
 MADCAP 
 
 fitted him as snugly as it did the well-known comestible 
 with which it had come to be so comfortably and freely 
 associated. His excellence lay largely in the fact that he 
 did not excel. He was content with his subordinate ca- 
 pacity, wise in his confidence that all things would come 
 to him in the end, if he only waited long enough. 
 
 The same rules which he had found so successful in 
 business he now applied to his affair of the heart, and 
 plodded off in the wake of the fast flying Hermia, imper- 
 turbable and undismayed. His flowers had been sent to 
 her with the regularity of the clock, his visits carefully 
 timed, and his proposals renewed with a well-bred ardor. 
 He had waited patiently through Hermia's short and 
 sportive attachment for "Reggie" Armistead, and when 
 their "trial" engagement reached its tempestuous conclu- 
 sion, had stepped softly into the breach, rosy with hope 
 and a definite sense that his time had come. Hermia liked 
 him had liked him for years. She had gotten used to 
 him as one does to a familiar chair or an article of diet. 
 He was a habit with her like her bedroom slippers or her 
 afternoon tea. He was comfortable, always safe and 
 quite sane, which she was not, and she accepted him in the 
 guise of counselor and friend with the same cheerful tol- 
 erance that she gave to her Aunt Harriet Westfield or to 
 Mr. Winthrop of the Pilgrim Trust Company. 
 
 When Hermia departed suddenly for Europe, her 
 sportive idyl so suddenly shattered, Mr. Morehouse fol- 
 lowed her in the next steamer. She had given him no 
 definite encouragement, it was true, and yet he found 
 reasons to hope that the time was at hand when she must 
 make some definite decision. In Europe her brief disap- 
 pearance from the scene of her usual activities had mysti- 
 fied him and her return to her hotel, shabby and uncom- 
 
 294
 
 MRS. HAMMOND ENTERTAINS 
 
 municative, had aroused a chagrin and an anxiety quite 
 unusual to him; but he had sat and waited her pleasure, 
 survived her turbulent moods and had found his patience 
 at last rewarded by her silent acquiescence in his pres- 
 ence, and by an invitation to accompany her to Switzer- 
 land, where she was to join her Aunt Julia and the chil- 
 dren. 
 
 From the vantage point of his office window down 
 town, where he now sat and viewed the bleak perspective 
 of the city, his memories of the summer with Hermia 
 seemed a strange compound of brief blisses and more en- 
 during pangs. They had been much seen together and 
 the announcement of their engagement which had ap- 
 peared in the newspapers had not been surprising. Aunt 
 Julia had favored his suit and Mrs. Westfield had given 
 him to understand that it was time Hermia married. But 
 the fact remained that Hermia had not accepted him. 
 His insistence had always provoked and still provoked 
 one of two moods either resentment or mockery. She 
 either dismissed him in a dudgeon or cajoled him with 
 elusive banter. Why was he so impatient? There was 
 plenty of time? Was he sure that he wanted to marry 
 her ? Wliat did he really know about her heart of hearts ? 
 Perhaps, if he knew her better he might not want to 
 marry her. He pleaded in patient calm. The world, it 
 seemed, thought them engaged. Why shouldn't heJae per- 
 mitted to think so. She only laughed at him and her 
 heart of hearts had come to be the most profound enigma 
 that it had ever been his fortune to study. So the prize, 
 which he had thought most surely his own, still hung 
 reluctantly upon the lip of the horn of plenty. It would 
 not fall, and all the traditions of his experience forbade 
 that he should jostle it. And so he only watched with 
 
 295
 
 patient eyes and a physical restraint which could only be 
 described as "excellent." 
 
 What did she mean by saying that if he knew her 
 better he might not want to marry her? Vague doubts 
 assailed him. Did he, after all, know her? What was 
 this chapter of her life of which he knew nothing and to 
 which she had so frequently alluded? Was it some- 
 thing which had happened to her in America? Or had it 
 something to do with her disappearance last summer from 
 Paris, after which she had returned sober and intolerant? 
 He gave it up. He was always giving her up and then 
 putting his doubts of her in his pocket with his neat hand- 
 kerchief, plodding sedulously as before. He must wait. 
 Everything that he had got in life had come from waiting 
 and Hermia, his philosophy told him, must be no excep- 
 tion to the rule. 
 
 The winter drew on toward spring. Lent arrived, 
 and society, quite bored and thoroughly exhausted, halted 
 in the mad round of the "one-step" and turned to calmer 
 delights. Country places in adjacent counties were 
 opened and guests flitted from one house to the other in a 
 continuous round of visits. 
 
 Mrs. Berkeley Hammond's invitations, whether to the 
 big house near the Park or to Rood's Knoll, her place 
 in the country, were much in demand. The Hammonds 
 had unlimited means, the social instinct, worthy family 
 traditions, and a talent for entertainment, a combina- 
 tion of qualities and circumstances which explained the 
 importance of this family in the social life of the city. 
 The mantle of an older leader who had passed had fallen 
 comfortably on Mrs. Hammond's capacious shoulders and 
 she wore it with a familiar grace which gave the impres- 
 sion that it had always been there. Conservative, the 
 
 296
 
 MRS. HAMMOND ENTERTAINS 
 
 more radical called her, and radical, the conservative; 
 but her taste and her chef were both above reproach, and 
 her dinners, whether large or small, had the distinction 
 which only comes of a rare order of tact and discrimina- 
 tion. Nor were her hospitalities confined to the entertain- 
 ment of the indigenous. Visitors to New York, foreign 
 celebrities, literary, artistic or political, found within her 
 doors a welcome and a company exactly suited to their 
 social requirements. She liked young people, too, and 
 contrived to let them know it, to the end that her dances, 
 while formal, were gay rather than "stodgy," juvenescent 
 rather than patriarchal. 
 
 The house at Rood's Knoll was a huge affair, of brick 
 and timbered plaster, set in the midst of its thousand 
 acres of woodland in the heart of the hills. Lent found 
 it full of people and its gayety was reflected in other 
 houses of the neighborhood whose owners, like the Ham- 
 monds, kept open house. There was much to do. March 
 went out like a lion and the snow which kept the more 
 timid indoors at the cards made wonderful coasting and 
 sledding, of which latter these wearied children of fortune 
 were not slow to take advantage. The ponds were frozen, 
 too, and skating was added to the sum of their rural de- 
 lights. 
 
 Hermia Challoner, who was visiting Caroline Anstell, 
 joined feverishly in these pursuits, glad of the oppor- 
 tunity they afforded her of relief from her personal prob- 
 lems. There were some of her intimates here in the neigh- 
 borhood, but she found greater security in the society of 
 an older set of whom she had seen little in town and in the 
 pleasure of picking up the loose ends of these acquaint- 
 anceships she managed to forget, at least temporarily, 
 her sword of Damocles. Olga Tcherny was one of Mrs 
 
 297
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Berkeley Hammond's house guests, but she had not been 
 in evidence on either of the occasions when Hermia had 
 called. There was some excitement over an evening which 
 Mrs. Hammond was planning to take place in the country 
 during the latter days of Lent. The invitations were 
 noncommittal and merely mentioned the date and hour, 
 but it was understood that "everyone" was to be there, 
 and that an entertainment a little out of the ordinary 
 was to be provided. 
 
 It was, therefore, with a pleasurable anticipation that 
 Hermia got down from the Anstell's machine on the ap- 
 pointed evening, and followed her party into the great 
 house. The rooms were comfortably filled, but not 
 crowded, and it seemed that the women had done their best 
 to add their share to the merely decorative requirements 
 of the occasion. The ball-room lights shimmered softly 
 on the rich tissues of their costumes, and caught in the 
 facets of the jewels on their bared shoulders. Society 
 was at its best, upon its good behavior, patiently eking 
 out the few short days that remained to it of the peni- 
 tential season. Hermia managed to elude the watchful 
 Trevelyan and entered the ball-room with Beatrice Cod- 
 dington and Caroline Anstell. Just inside she found her- 
 self face to face with the Countess Tcherny. She would 
 have 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 
 
 ^hispered. "Nobody knows / wrote it." 
 
 298
 
 MRS. HAMMOND ENTERTAINS 
 
 "Oh, really," Hermia smiled coplly. "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 threes into the ball-room, where they 
 melted into the gay company which was now seated, or 
 stood along the back and side walls, making a somber 
 background for the splendid plumage of their dinner- 
 partners. 
 
 "Tableaux-vivants, for a dollar!" said Archie West- 
 cott in bored desperation. 
 
 "Oh, rot !" blurted out Crosby Downs in contempt. 
 "What's the use? They'll be havin' Mrs. Jarley's wax- 
 works 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 of expectation passed over the audience as 
 the curtain rose, disclosing a sylvan glade and a startled 
 nymph in meager draperies hiding from a faun. The 
 music trembled for a moment and then, as the nymph was 
 discovered, broke into wild concords through which the 
 violins sang tunefully as the chase began. It was not for 
 some moments that the audience awoke to the fact that 
 these must be the Austrian dancers whose visit to New 
 York had been so widely heralded. Captured at last, 
 the nymph was submissive, and the dance which followed 
 revealed artistry of an order with which most of the spec- 
 tators were unfamiliar. Even Crosby Downs ceased to 
 grumble and wedged himself down the side wall where he 
 
 299
 
 could have a better view. The dance ended amid applause 
 and the audience now really aroused from its lethargy 
 eagerly awaited the next rise of the curtain. 
 
 The first part of the program, it seemed, was to be a 
 vaudeville. A famous tenor sang folk songs of sunny 
 Italy; two French pantomimists did a graceful and 
 amusing Pierrot and Pierrette; a comedian did a black- 
 face monologue; and the first part of the program con- 
 cluded with the performance of a young violinist, the son 
 of a Russian tobacconist down town, whom Mrs. Berkeley 
 Hammond had "discovered" and was now sending to 
 Europe to complete his musical education. A budding 
 genius, was the verdict, almost ready to blossom. The 
 brief period of disquiet which had followed Hermia's 
 meeting with Olga, had been forgotten in her enjoyment 
 of the performance and in the gay chatter of her com- 
 panions and of her neighbors back and front. When the 
 curtain had fallen upon the violinist, there was a rustle 
 of programs. 
 
 " 'The Lady Orchestra,' some one back of her read 
 
 aloud. 'A Comedy with a Sting 5 What's coming 
 
 now? What's a 'Lady Orchestra'? Does anyone know?" 
 
 "A 'Lady Orchestra,' my dear Phyllis," said Reggie 
 Armistead, "is an orchestra lady." 
 
 "An orchestra lady! I wonder what she plays ' 
 
 "The devil probably he's your most familiar instru- 
 ment." 
 
 "Reggie! I'm surprised at you. You know " 
 
 The remainder of Miss Van Vorst's speech was lost 
 to Hermia, who sat staring speechless at the stage cur- 
 tain, her body suddenly ice-cold, all its blood throbbing 
 in her temples. "The Lady Orchestra !" The words had 
 fallen so lightly that their significance had dawned upon 
 
 300
 
 MRS. HAMMOND ENTERTAINS 
 
 her slowly. This play this "comedy with a sting" was 
 about her Hermia and John Markham. Olga had 
 written it, and was even now watching her face for some 
 sign of weakness. Olga, De Folligny and how many 
 others ? Terror gripped her blind terror, every instinct 
 urging flight. But this, she knew, was impossible. She 
 stared hard at the red curtain, and swallowed nervously, 
 sure now that, whatever the play revealed, she must sit 
 until its end, giving no sign of the tumult that raged 
 within her. The eyes of the audience burned into the 
 back of her head, and she seemed to read a knowledge 
 of her secret in every careless glance thrown in her direc- 
 tion. This was a vengeance worthy of Olga the refine- 
 ment of cruelty. 
 
 "What is it, Hermia," she heard Caroline Anstell 
 whispering. "Are you ill, 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 the curtain." 
 
 If Hermia had been startled a moment ago, she now 
 learned that she would have need of all her courage. The 
 curtain revealed the market-place of a French town on a 
 fete day. To the left a row of penny shows, a "man 
 hedgehog," an "homme sauvage" and an Albino lady who 
 told fortunes ; to the right a platform backed by a canvas 
 wall, surmounted by a sign in huge letters "Theatre Tony 
 Ricardo" flanked by rudely painted representations of the 
 acts which were to be seen within. The setting was ad- 
 mirable and brought forth immediate applause from the 
 audience, under which Hermia hid her gasp of dismay. 
 There were even pictures like those which Philidor had 
 painted, of Cleofonte breaking chains and of the child 
 
 301
 
 MADCAP 
 
 Stella flying in mid-air, and at one side the legend "Aris- 
 tide Bruant, painter of portraits at two francs fifty 
 soldiers ten sous." Sure now of the scene which was to 
 follow, but outwardly quite composed, Hermia listened 
 carelessly to the dialogue, saw the acrobat appear, and 
 the "Lady Orchestra," who was the guilty heroine of the 
 piece, take her place upon the platform beside him. Here 
 the resemblance to reality ceased, for the heroine was 
 dark and Aristide blonde and beardless, and yet this very 
 discrimination on Olga's part seemed to point more defi- 
 nitely to Hermia even than if the characterization had 
 been truthfully followed. The actors were professionals 
 who had been well drilled in their parts and the plot de- 
 veloped quickly in the dialogue between Madeleine, the 
 erring wife, and Aristide, the recreant husband, who had 
 fled from fashionable Paris, met upon the road and joined 
 this troupe of Caravaners that they might taste life to- 
 gether in rural simplicity and security. The dialogue 
 was clever, if decadent, the situations amusing, the action 
 rapid, the first act ending with the appearance of the 
 irate wife of Aristide, and the disappearance of the guilty 
 couple, just in time to avoid discovery. 
 
 During the entr'acte, though the restless guests moved 
 about, Hermia sat rooted to her chair, fascinated with 
 horror. Her body seemed nerveless and she feared that 
 if she rose her limbs would not support her, or, if they 
 did support her, she must fly like a mad thing from 
 the house. And so she sat, a fixed smile frozen on her 
 lips, greeting those who approached her. Beatrice Cod- 
 dington left her seat, and Trewy Morehouse made haste 
 to fill it. He had never seemed so welcome to Hermia as 
 at the present moment, and his patient mien and quiet 
 commonplaces did much to restore her composure; so 
 
 302
 
 MRS. HAMMOND ENTERTAINS 
 
 that when the bell rang for the curtain of the second act, 
 she was laughing with a brave show of enjoyment at 
 Reggie and Phyllis, who seemed at the point of severing 
 their amatory relations. Hermia was prepared for any- 
 thing now. 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 the white feather. 
 
 She could see the play to its end now, for from 
 Reggie's program she had learned that the setting for the 
 second act was the interior of a shooting lodge in the 
 forest, and when the curtain rose she was not surprised at 
 the setting of the stage, which represented, as accurately 
 as possible, the house of the Comte de Cahors, in the 
 forest of Ecouves. The approach of the injured wife, 
 discovered in time by the refugees through the half-opened 
 shutter, gives Aristide time to help the fictitious orchestra 
 lady up a stair to the garret, where she is in concealment 
 during the dramatic interview between husband and wife, 
 which ends in the woman seizing a loaded rifle with the 
 intention of killing both herself and her husband. In 
 the struggle which ensues for the possession of the 
 weapon, the gun is discharged, there is a cry overhead and 
 the figure of Madeleine is seen to rise, opening the trap- 
 door, and then to fall the length of the stairs, at the feet 
 of the woman who has been wronged. 
 
 The scene was admirably done and carried the audi- 
 ence to its conclusion in breathless silence. The lights of 
 the ball-room, fortunately lowered, had hidden the pallor 
 of Hermia's face but she realized, when they suddenly 
 blazed, that Trevvy Morehouse was looking at her curi- 
 ously, that her fingers were ice-cold and that, when she 
 spoke a word or two in reply to his anxious query, her 
 voice was strangely unfamiliar. As the applause ceased, 
 
 303
 
 MADCAP 
 
 there was a general movement toward the supper-room. 
 Hermia rose stiffly and moved as in a dream. Was it her 
 own conscience that told her that Carol Gouverneur was 
 looking at her strangely? Or that there was meaning 
 in the glance and laughter of Mrs. Renshaw and Archie 
 Westcott as she passed them? She tried to smile care- 
 lessly, but her muscles would not obey her. Would she 
 never reach the door? People stopped and spoke but 
 she only nodded and passed on, intent upon the shadows 
 of the hallway, where the lights glowed dimly and the 
 gaze of these people would no longer burn past her bar- 
 riers, searching out the innermost recesses of her heart, 
 which they read according to the hideous lie which Olga 
 had told. A comedy with a sting, she had called it, and 
 the sting meant for Hermia, had poisoned the air with 
 its venom. She leaned heavily on Trewy's arm but she 
 did not hear what he was saying ; and, as they passed the 
 door into the hall, two men, neither of whom she knew, 
 followed her pale face with their glances. Was it her 
 tortured imagination that made her hear one of them say 
 to the other after she had passed, "That's the girl ?" 
 
 What girl? Not herself? She gasped a question to 
 Trewy. He smiled gaily. 
 
 "Yes they were pointing you out. Do you wonder 
 that I'm proud?" 
 
 Hermia stopped and faced him. She learned in that 
 moment that the thing he had dreamed was impossible. 
 
 "Please order Mrs. Anstell's machine for me," she 
 said quickly. "I'm going 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 the dressing-room, but did her bidding. 
 
 304
 
 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 few 
 men he met at the club where he dined, he saw little of so- 
 ciety, and troubled himself less with its affairs. His life 
 was more secluded, and his work more exacting than ever, 
 and when he walked out, which he did in the late after- 
 noons, he choose avenues which would not remind him of 
 the things he was trying to forget. He had given up hope 
 of Hermia, 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 joyous companion of his 
 summer idyl, was no more. At times it almost seemed that 
 she had never been. She had made it clear that she wished 
 no more of him and he had accepted her dictum without 
 question. A more sophisticated lover would have laughed 
 away the barriers she had interposed, followed her care- 
 lessly, and brought her to bay when he had proved or 
 disproved the genuineness of her indifference. But Mark- 
 ham was singularly ingenuous, his reasoning as simple and 
 direct as that of a child. He had never understood the 
 woman of society and until Olga had appeared upon his 
 horizon had let her severely alone. Hermia had been an 
 accident a divine accident. Her frankness had disarmed 
 
 305
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 had entered on 
 it. He had believed in her and in believing had let his 
 heart carry him where it would, willing to forget that she 
 might not be infallible. He had been so sure of her so 
 
 sure and now 
 
 He wiped his brushes on a square of cheesecloth, 
 cleaned his palette and lay in his chair frowning at the 
 portrait, which smiled back at him with ironical amuse- 
 ment. It was curious. All his portraits now smiled. His 
 reputation was based on his skill in making people happy 
 in paint painting all people happy but himself Ptmchi- 
 nello dancing while his Columbine lay dead. He straight- 
 ened with a quick intake of the breath, then washed his 
 brushes carefully and changed into street clothes. He 
 was writing to one of his sitters when his knocker clanged 
 and 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 this afternoon for a dish of tea? I'm sending 
 my car for you in the hope that 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. 
 
 306
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "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's note and got into his hat and 
 overcoat. A matter of importance ! Another commission, 
 perhaps she had already got him two. And yet it 
 seemed, had it been that, she would have expressed herself 
 differently. 
 
 He went down and got into the elegantly appointed 
 limousine and in a while, too short to solve his problem, 
 was set down under the porte cochere of his patrowne. 
 
 He found her at the tea table, a stout but puissant 
 figure in mauve and black. In the studio she had not 
 bothered him. She had been merely an amiable million- 
 aire, in pearls and black satin. Here in the majestic 
 drawing-room, with her small court gathered about her, 
 she dominated him. He hesitated a second at the door 
 before going forward, but when she saw him she rose at 
 once and excused herself to her guests. After their de- 
 parture, she motioned him to a chair beside her and en- 
 tered without 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 curi- 
 ous that I should have sent for you in such haste, but I 
 shouldn't have done so had I not thought 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 which are not easy even with a friend." 
 
 307
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 I hadn't, unfortunately, found myself 
 brought into an affair in which your name has been men- 
 tioned." 
 
 "My name?" 
 
 "Yes. Yours and Miss Challoner's." 
 
 He blanched and was immediately conscious that her 
 small eyes were watching 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 kind of woman who seeks to pry into 
 the affairs of other people. I don't. I abominate med- 
 dlers and will have nothing to say, even if after I tell you 
 what my motives are, you refuse to answer my questions. 
 But a great wrong has been done, an advantage taken of 
 my hospitality. I speak of the theatricals which took 
 place at my house in the country last month." 
 
 He stared at her blankly and she smiled. 
 
 "I forgot," she went on, "what a hermit you are. Of 
 course you have not heard." She leaned over the tea table 
 and took a slip of paper from under a tea dish. "I shall 
 let you read this so that you may know in just what terms 
 New York is speaking of you of me of us." 
 
 She handed him the clipping. It was from a weekly 
 paper, which concerned itself with the doings of society, 
 and he read, his eyes glowing: 
 
 The much heralded theatricals at "Roods Knoll" have 
 come and gone, but the echoes of this affair are still rever- 
 berating the length of the Avenue. It seems that the very 
 
 308
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 clever play, written by a well-known woman of society, was 
 based upon fact, and that the hero and heroine of the adven- 
 tures depicted are in New York, the girl in question a member 
 of the hunting set and the man a distinguished portrait 
 painter both of whom shall be nameless. As everyone 
 ( knows, the play is laid in rural France, and deals with the 
 loves of a French countess who has fled from her husband to 
 join her lover, also married, upon the road, where they become 
 members of a band of strolling mountebanks, the lady mas- 
 querading as a Dame Orchestre and the gentleman as an itin- 
 erant painter 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 signifi- 
 cance of the description grew upon him. Hermia had 
 seen had read this. They were talking about her and 
 about him ? He could not understand. 
 
 "You said that Miss Miss Challoner's name had been 
 mentioned and mine," he said slowly. "There is no 
 name mentioned here. The identity of the people " 
 
 "Your names have been mentioned, Mr. Markham, In 
 my presence. The story back of this vile clipping is on 
 the lips of every gossip in town. Where it originated 
 Heaven only knows, but facts are given and dates which 
 make it ugly in the extreme. I thought it best that you 
 should know and sent for you to assure you that I had 
 no knowledge about the play and its possible reference to 
 
 any one." 
 
 309
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 the reports I hear, I have been grossly 
 imposed upon and, whatever the facts, 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 
 left town, I am informed, the day after the play was 
 given. I wish she hadn't. It makes things awkward for 
 me. I have the best intentions in the 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, all his thoughts of Hermia. Olga's cruelty 
 stunned him. She had promised not to speak. Had she 
 spoken other than in this ingenious drama? Or was 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 for the 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 in his direction. 
 
 "Frankly, I don't know. Thank God, I'm not in any 
 way responsible for that part of this misfortune. I only 
 know that Olga Tcherny wrote the play. As to her mo- 
 tives in doing so I am at a loss. But if I thought she 
 used my house, violated my hospitality at the expense of 
 one of my guests, to serve some private end, I would " 
 
 The good lady grew red in the face, and then, con- 
 trolling herself after a moment, "I would find some means 
 
 310
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 i 
 
 of getting her the punishment she deserved. Hermia 
 Challoner was there," she went on quickly. "Her appear- 
 ance was remarked. She looked ill and left the house be- 
 fore supper. You were invited, too, Mr. Markham, if 
 you will remember, but would not corne. I confess I'm at 
 my wit's ends. I shall not question you. 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 posi- 
 tion, and the friendliness of her look was all that could 
 be desired. He hesitated a moment, weighing his duty 
 with his inclination. What was best for Hermia? How 
 could he serve her? How build a bulwark to dyke the 
 flood of scandal which threatened her in her flight? A 
 lie? Obviously that wouldn't do, for Mrs. Hammond be- 
 lieved in him. And the story had gone too far, was too 
 diabolic in its accuracy, for a flat denial without expla- 
 nation. The truth? 
 
 His hostess still regarded him patiently. He searched 
 her with his eyes, 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 the innocent, Mrs. Hammond." 
 
 "There is some basis then for the stories they are tell- 
 ing?" she asked kindly. 
 
 "My lips have been sealed. I'm not sure that I have 
 the right to open them now. But I will. I don't think 
 I could pay you a higher compliment than by trusting 
 Miss Challoner's fate entirely into your hands." 
 
 Mrs. Hammond, now keenly interested, smiled at him 
 encouragingly. 
 
 "Thanks, Mr. Markham, I'm not so old that I have 
 forgotten how to be human." 
 
 311
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 you like but the soul of honor and virtue." 
 
 He bowed his head. 
 
 "Thanks. You make it easier for me," he said. "I 
 want you to understand first, Mrs. Hammond, that I 
 alone am responsible for this misfortune. Miss Challoner 
 and I met upon the highroad in Normandy, entirely by 
 chance. I was doing the country afoot, as is my custom 
 in summer. Her machine was destroyed in an accident. 
 She was alone. I asked her to go with me. She accepted 
 my invitation. It was mad of me to ask her, mad of her 
 to accept but she did accept. We were together more 
 than a week traveling afoot by day sleeping in the 
 open when 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 wrong in letting her go with 
 me. She was a child and trusted me. I began by being 
 
 amused. I ended by Good God! Mrs. Hammond, I 
 
 loved I worshiped her. I couldn't have harmed her. 
 She was sacred to me and is now. You must understand 
 that." 
 
 His hostess's expression, which had grown grave dur- 
 ing this recital, relaxed a little. 
 
 "I think I understand, Mr. Markham. I am keenly 
 interested. Where does Olga Tcherny come in?" 
 
 Her question bothered him. He thought for a mo- 
 ment, and then went on, deliberately postponing a reply. 
 
 "Our relations were clearly established from the first. 
 We had met before, you know, earlier in the summer, and 
 I had visited at Westport. She liked and understood me, 
 
 312
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 and was sensible enough to tell me so; and I she at- 
 tracted me curiously. I had always lived a solitary sort 
 of 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 the things she 
 was that I was not, but I did not tell her so not then. 
 I hid my secret, for I knew that if she guessed it would 
 make a difference to us both." He raised his head and 
 went on more rapidly. "We joined a company of stroll- 
 ing mountebanks. Oh, that was true enough and went 
 with them as far as Alen9on. Hermia Miss Challoner 
 was a Dame Orchestre and I a 'lightning' artist. We 
 made our living in that way. It was quite wonderful how 
 she played wonderful how she forgot what she was 
 how she became what I wanted her to be an earthling 
 among earthlings. With them she lived in poverty and 
 discomfort, learned the meaning of weariness and felt the 
 pinch of hunger." He smiled. "I suppose you wonder 
 why I'm telling you all this, Mrs. Hammond. I wanted 
 you to understand just what the pilgrimage was how 
 little it had in common with with what you have heard 
 these people saying." 
 
 "I know, Mr. Markham. I understand," she said 
 gently. Her eyes softened and she looked past him as 
 though back through a vista of the years. "It was Ro- 
 mance the true Romance," she murmured. "She bor- 
 rowed 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 what money she made. And so did I. 
 But I was bothered. My sins were pursuing me. One 
 
 313
 
 MADCAP 
 
 day we saw upon the road a man Miss Challoner had met, 
 and at Alen^on " 
 
 "Olga Tcherny?" asked Mrs. Hammond keenly. 
 
 Markham paused, looked beyond her and went on. 
 
 "And at Alenfon, when we were giving a performance, 
 some one I knew appeared and recognized me. Need I 
 mention names?" 
 
 "Not if you prefer to be silent. And the hunting 
 lodge?" 
 
 "We fled from Alen9on that night and took refuge 
 from the rain in a house in the forest. Miss Challoner 
 was dead tired. We had been up since sunrise. So we 
 stayed there, thinking ourselves safe. But in the morn- 
 ing " He paused. 
 
 Mrs. Hammond had risen and was fingering the flow- 
 ers on the tea table. 
 
 "In the morning," she finished dryly, "Olga Tcherny 
 found you there. I understand." 
 
 He rose and faced her uncomprehendingly. "Mrs. 
 Hammond, do you mean that 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 whole ones," she said, smiling rosily. "If you 
 had lied to me I should have known 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 of years ago," she sighed. "You were 
 
 mad quite mad, both of you. And Hermia " she 
 
 stopped, sat quickly upright, and while he watched her, 
 laughed deliberately. "Hermia comes back to New York 
 
 314
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 and engages herself to to Trevelyan Morehouse ! The 
 excellent Trevelyan after Arcadia! And you?" She 
 read his face like an open book, her humor dying in a 
 gentle 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't understand?" 
 
 "Understand what, Mrs. Hammond?" 
 
 "How that poor child has suffered. Do you mean 
 that you don't know why it 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 a lover. The object of his affections 
 is large in his eyes, so large that the focus is blurred. 
 He can't see her that's all. Hermia was terror-stricken 
 and you were not aware of it. She knew that she was 
 clean and that you were, and the dirt that threatened her 
 threatened her idyl, too." 
 
 She stopped abruptly and looked past him. 
 
 "I'm afraid I've said too much, Mr. Markham. That 
 is because I see how foolish you have been both of you 
 in this affair. It's none of my business." 
 
 She fingered the clipping on the table and went on 
 vigorously. 
 
 "As to this infamous story that they are telling, I 
 shall find means to stop it. How, I don't know just yet. 
 This paper shall print a retraction. I'll manage that. 
 Olga Tcherny " 
 
 "I beg of you " 
 
 "Olga Tcherny's career in New York is ended. She 
 shall never enter my house, or the house of any of my 
 
 315
 
 MADCAP 
 
 friends. That play was a lie, written with a motive. She 
 has used me shamefully shamefully made me an accom- 
 plice, and placed me in the undesirable position of spon- 
 sor for her villainies." 
 
 She rose, walked to the window and looked out upon 
 the Avenue, her lips taking firmer lines of resolution. 
 He watched her in silence, and when she spoke her tones 
 were short and decisive. 
 
 "With your permission, Mr. Markham," she said at 
 last, "as Hermia's friend and yours, I shall deny this 
 story in every detail. You must provide 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 the calendar. 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. You are 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 or tak- 
 ing the matter into your own hands. That would only 
 
 316
 
 make a noise 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 to question 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 want to thrash somebody! I've no pa- 
 tience with you. You must promise to behave yourself or 
 I'll wash my hands of the whole affair." 
 
 He smiled down at his clasped hands. "I suppose you 
 are right," he muttered. 
 
 "Right! Of course I am. This is a case which will 
 require the most careful handling a case for the subtlest 
 diplomacy. If I am going to risk my reputation for 
 veracity and jeopardize my hopes of Heaven by the fibs 
 that I must tell in your behalf, I don't propose to have 
 my efforts spoiled by senseless bungling. Will you give 
 me your promise ?" 
 
 He shrugged. "I suppose there is nothing left for 
 me to do." 
 
 317
 
 MADCAP 
 
 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 owe you apologies. My business seemed more 
 urgent than my hospitality." 
 
 They sat and chatted for a while, Markham sipping his 
 tea and wondering why he was imparting to this stout and 
 very amiable old lady all his life's secrets. A half hour 
 later, when he rose to go, he realized that he had told her 
 all about his week in Vagabondia, including its sudden 
 termination. She surprised him at intervals by the sym- 
 pathy of her appreciation, and at others equally serious 
 by an unseemly mirth or an impatience which they had 
 not merited. But when he got up to go she followed 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 flippant age. I'm sorry you won't accept any 
 of my invitations but I'll forgive you, if you'll promise 
 to do as I bid you." 
 
 "I'm deeply grateful to you, Mrs. Hammond. Of 
 course, I shall be obedient. 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 happiest issue out of your afflictions." She laughed 
 again, rather mischievously. "You know, I think you owe 
 her that!" 
 
 "I She you " 
 
 318
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "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 a man appeared to help him into his coat. 
 And so he bowed his thanks and went out into the dusk of 
 the Avenue, his brain teeming with nebulous inconsis- 
 tencies.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE BRASS BELL 
 
 HERMIA, waiting for him ! What did Mrs. Ham- 
 mond mean? Was the woman mad? Hermia 
 had fled from New York, her proud little head 
 bent before this cruel story which, of course, had gathered 
 impetus in the telling and now indicted her of sins un- 
 written in the fair page of her experience. Poor child! 
 She had suffered and he, fool that he was, had sat in his 
 studio, the victim of his false pride, wrapped in his own 
 ego while this vile plot was brewing. He might have done 
 something if he had had his wits about him, instead of 
 hiding his head like an ostrich and imagining himself un- 
 seen. Olga he did not dare to think of 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 
 had given him her word not to speak she had been plan- 
 ning this refined vengeance, probably knew that Pierre de 
 Folligny had already made a good story of their adven- 
 ture for some of his new intimates at the Club. He would 
 have a reckoning with her some day and with De Fol- 
 ligny! His fingers tightened on his stick, and an angry 
 tide warmed his face and temples. Had he met them, 
 there upon the Avenue at that moment, all his promises to 
 Mrs. Hammond must have been forgotten and he would 
 have made short work of that unspeakable gentleman. Of 
 Olga Tcherny he thought with hardly less rancor. At
 
 THE BRASS BELL 
 
 one time a year ago now Olga had loomed large upon 
 his horizon. Now in the light of his present knowledge 
 of her he wondered how he could have ever thought of her 
 friendship seriously. 
 
 She belonged in an atmosphere too sophisticated for 
 his simple rustic soul. She had always lied to him; her 
 friendship was a lie; her love, too a lie. That declara- 
 tion Good God! and he had been actually at the point 
 of being sorry for her. He had nothing to regret now 
 with regard to Olga Tcherny. She had wiped the slate 
 clean, and made a new account at poor Hermia's expense. 
 
 Hermia in exile and suffering ! Her innocence could 
 not make her heart pangs any the less real. Like a child 
 she had followed the line of least resistance, and seeking 
 freedom from the trammels of convention had obeyed her 
 impulses blindly. It was such a trivial transgression to 
 find so crushing a retribution. And he, Markham, walked 
 the streets of New York the envied hero of an 
 "amourette." This was the law, which says that women 
 may sin if they are not found out and that men may sin 
 when they please. 
 
 Poor little penitent, atoning for sins uncommitted! 
 All his heart went out to her, and his memory, passing 
 the forbidding vision of her last appearance, now pictured 
 the real Hermia that he knew, a brave, buoyant Hermia, 
 who knew nothing of discouragements and greeted the 
 sunrise with 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, and he would have sped to her. She 
 knew that. She must have known it when she had fled. 
 Where was she now? At Westport, perhaps? In the 
 South somewhere, alone with her maid, avoiding the news- 
 
 321
 
 MADCAP 
 
 papers, seeking the company of strangers that her ears 
 might not hear or her eyes see the record of her trans- 
 gression? Had she gone abroad again? Who would 
 know? He might inquire of Phyllis Van Vorst or Caroline 
 Anstell over the telephone. But when he reached his rooms 
 and had taken up the receiver he saw that even this in- 
 formation was denied to him. Any manifest interest or 
 anxiety on his part with regard to Hermia would be re- 
 garded with suspicion. Nor was he any more positive 
 than before that his quest would meet with the approval of 
 its object. He was powerless. There was nothing for him 
 but to wait. 
 
 The thought of going to his club to dine was repellant 
 to him. The story that Mrs. Hammond had let him read 
 was now common property and. though none of his ac- 
 quaintances would have had the bad taste to mention his 
 connection with it, his appearance among them must 
 revive its disagreeable details, at Hermia's expense. So 
 for some days he dined alone at an obscure restaurant, 
 glooming over the evening paper and wondering what 
 could be done. Night after night he walked the street un- 
 til, at last, wearied and no nearer the solution of his 
 problem, he went home and to bed, to toss restlessly most 
 of the night and plan impossibilities. Through his 
 thoughts, the friendship of Mrs. Berkeley Hammond hov- 
 ered comfortingly. She was not a woman to promise idly. 
 She had been interested in his story and felt herself mor- 
 ally bound to make some sort of restitution to Hermia 
 for her own unwilling responsibility in the attention that 
 had been drawn to it. He did not doubt that she would 
 use all her influence to minimize the effect of Olga's machi- 
 nations, and he felt sure with such a friend at court that 
 Hermia need have little to fear from the opinions of Mrs. 
 
 322
 
 THE VRASS BELL 
 
 Hammond's friends and her own, and these after all were 
 the only opinions that mattered 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 latest work 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 he 
 chose. He would have liked above all things to have em- 
 ployed it in a visit to the house of Olga Tcherny and 
 thence with dispatch to the hotel of Monsieur de Folligny, 
 where what remained of his wrath could be honestly ex- 
 pended in a manner befitting the occasion. This occupa- 
 tion being denied him, there was nothing left but to take 
 what pleasure he could from the mental picture that he 
 made of it. 
 
 At last he rose and groped for his tobacco. A pre- 
 cious lot of good that would do him ! It would have been 
 a pity, too, because murder, even such justifiable murder, 
 had not yet received the sanction of society as repre- 
 sented in the New York Department of Police. He paced 
 the floor restlessly and brought up before his desk, where 
 the janitor of the building had a few moments ago laid 
 the morning mail. He took it up idly and glanced over 
 it a note or two in the fashionable feminine scrawl about 
 sittings, a letter from a framemaker, one from his Paris 
 agent, and the usual litter of circulars. He took them up 
 one by one, opened them, put some of them aside and con- 
 signed others to the paper basket. A small package lay 
 at the bottom of the pile, an unobtrusive package neatly 
 tied with string evidently an advertisement of some sort 
 of a paint or of a canvas. He was about to drop it 
 with the others when he was made aware that as he turned 
 the small parcel over it emitted a tinkle as of two metal 
 
 883
 
 MADCAP 
 
 objects striking together. He turned it again and ex- 
 amined the address and stamp. His name was printed in 
 ink as though with a bad pen and the stamp was French. 
 Now really curious as to its contents and aware of its 
 individuality, he cut the string and opened it. There was 
 an inner wrapping of tissue paper containing a small 
 white pasteboard box which bore the name of a fashion- 
 able New York jeweler, and inside the box the origin of 
 the tinkle was revealed in a small brass bell. 
 
 He took the object out, his wonder growing, and held 
 it suspended between his thumb and forefinger. A brass 
 bell no larger than his thumbnail, a tarnished little trinket, 
 no longer new, which tinkled merrily under his astonished 
 gaze. He examined the thing more carefully, his bewilder- 
 ment increasing, noting the curious construction, which 
 was unlike that of the toy bells which had adorned the 
 necks of the woolly beasts abroad at Christmas-time. It 
 was heavy for its size, and when he moved it had a de- 
 cisive and very mellow note. Who would send him a thing 
 like this and why? There must have been a mistake. He 
 took up the paper wrapper from the waste basket and ex- 
 amined it with renewed interest. 
 
 JOHN MAEKHAM, ESQUIRE, 
 
 West th Street, 
 
 New York City. 
 
 With a stamp of the French Republic and a postmark of 
 What were the postmarks? Paris. Of course. And 
 the other? VAL-E ? Valence? Valence was in the 
 South of France on the Rhone. He had never been there. 
 No. That wouldn't do. VAL-L-E Vallecy ! 
 
 A brass bell from Vallecy! Still he did not under- 
 324-
 
 THE BRASS BELL 
 
 stand. He took the object up again and scrutinized it, 
 its meaning dawning slowly. Vallecy ! That was the vil- 
 lage where he and Hermia had stayed with Mere Guegou. 
 There was the garden of the golden roses where The bell ! 
 It was from Hermia' s head-dress the belled cap of the 
 Femme Or chest re! He knew it now- It was a token. 
 Hermia had sent it from Vallecy. A token. 
 
 In high excitement he examined the obscure postmark 
 again. The accent on the E, a little smudged, but quite 
 legible. Hermia had sent the bell as a token from Vaga- 
 bondia which meant that she was there in Pere Guegou's 
 garden, whither she had fled when her own world had re- 
 nounced her. She was waiting for him. She needed him, 
 and took this means of showing him that all things that 
 had happened to them both since they had parted in the 
 forest at Sees were to be forgotten that they were both 
 to take life up from Vallecy. He stood a moment in j oy- 
 ous uncertainty, his glance on the clock, then, quickly 
 wrapping the memento in its tissue paper, thrust it into 
 his coat pocket and in a moment was striding like a mad- 
 man down the street. At his apartment he rang for a 
 taxicab, thrust a few things into a suitcase, wrote a note 
 or two and in half an hour was on his way to the bank 
 and then to the steamship wharf. 
 
 He had no definite plans except that he must take the 
 first steamer which left New York for Europe. A brief 
 glance at his morning paper advised him of two sailings 
 this morning, one for Havre and the other for Cherbourg, 
 and he had made up his mind to take one steamer or the 
 other. The taxicab crawled, it seemed, and on the way 
 downtown was caught in a block of traffic which delayed 
 him for ten minutes, during which he fumed silently. But 
 he reached the dock with scarcely a quarter of an hour 
 
 325
 
 to spare, and after a difficulty which was cleared away, 
 found himself upon the deck of 'the Kaiserin Augusta, a 
 somewhat flustered individual, with many loose ends dan- 
 gling in retrospect, with no 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 voyage fairly begun that Markham had the oppor- 
 tunity to settle down comfortably and meditate upon the 
 surprising events of the morning. He found a steamer 
 chair in a quiet place and then gave himself up to his 
 thoughts. He took the tiny object from his breast 
 pocket and turned it over in his fingers. Of course it was 
 Hermia's. The wonder was that he had not recognized 
 it at a first glance. This bell and its other small com- 
 panions had tinkled their way into his heart at each step 
 she had taken down the long road from Evreux to Alen- 
 9on tinkled merrily at Passy, joyously at Vallecy, dis- 
 dainfully at Verneuil, and contentedly at La Mesle. Alen- 
 9on had made them tragic so they had been packed in Her- 
 mia's bundle which went with her to Sees and were heard 
 no more, except in a faint tinkle of protest as she was 
 put aboard the train for Paris. Wonderful bells they 
 were, tiny chimes that had rung in the season of their 
 joy and lingered in their memory never to be forgotten. 
 Tokens Hermia had realized it symbols of her great- 
 est happiness and his, with life reduced to the simplest ele- 
 ments, in which there had been no place for the extrava- 
 gant commonplaces of the other life which they both had 
 lived and endured. Hermia had fled to Vallecy to the 
 motherly breast of Mere Guegou, and there perhaps was 
 weeping out her troubles. He took out the square of 
 paper (he had clipped it with his penknife) which bore the 
 address and examined it again. This and the bell were all 
 
 326
 
 THE BRASS BELL 
 
 he had had to start him off on this fateful pilgrimage. 
 But they were enough. She could not have written him 
 after her treatment of him in New York. She had thrown 
 herself upon his mercy, given her message ambiguity that 
 he might ignore it if he chose, or read, as she had hoped he 
 would, the message of her heart, across the distances. It 
 was the message of a vagabond like himself, as definite a 
 message as the gypsy patter an which shows the way from 
 one camp to another. His patter an pointed to Vallecy, 
 that lovely village by the Arth where he had first told 
 Hermia that he loved her. Beyond Vallecy had come mis- 
 understanding, bitterness, misfortune. She had chosen 
 that spot as though by instinct. She wanted him to re- 
 member her there where love had first been spoken. Alone 
 and waiting for him among the roses of Pere Guegou 
 
 He started up from his chair in bewilderment, staring 
 blankly at the sunlit sea, suddenly mindful of the fact 
 that in the hurry of getting away he had not cabled her. 
 He threw his rugs aside and made his way hastily to the 
 office, to find unluckily that the wireless had gotten out of 
 order, and that it might be several hours before it was re- 
 paired. He strolled on deck again, thoughtful, suddenly 
 impressed with the potency of the charm that had called 
 him. The thought of replying to her message had not un- 
 til this moment entered his head. All that he had been 
 able to think of was that he must get to her at once, fol- 
 low the patteran at top speed. He had done so and now 
 unhappily remembered a dozen neglected people who must 
 wonder at his extraordinary disappearance. But he only 
 smiled joyously. He had another engagement. 
 
 He took up his walk along the promenade deck, care- 
 less of the enemies he had made, careless of the friendships 
 
 327
 
 MADCAP 
 
 he might lose, all his thoughts of the small vagabond at 
 Vallecy. His inability to communicate with her by wire- 
 less set him thinking. Wasn't that, too, a symbol? If he 
 got a message over what would be its effect? Would she 
 still wait for him, looking forward to the precious hour 
 of their meeting? Or would her mind change at the last 
 moment and send her flying from him again? This was 
 more like Hermia, the real Hermia that he knew. He 
 feared her moods still. And if he refused to cable her 
 would her patience last until he got to France? He cast 
 his memory over the months that had passed in New York. 
 He guessed how much she had suffered. He had followed 
 her social career through the newspapers and he knew 
 now that she had gone gaily that she might hide her ter- 
 ror. She was tired poor child tired in body and spirit, 
 and that was why she had not stayed in Paris among the 
 fashionable people she knew there; that was why she had 
 fled to Vallecy, where at least she might be at peace, un- 
 reminded by those of her own social sphere of the villain- 
 ous story which pursued her. There at Vallecy she sat 
 remote, with her own innocence for company, convalescent 
 amid these primitive surroundings from the sickness 
 that her world had given her. She would 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 Cher- 
 bourg. 
 
 A search of the postmark of his much-beloved package 
 revealed the date "Av. %2" She had sent her token on the 
 twenty-second of April and it was now only the second of 
 May. Ten days only had passed, and he was already well 
 on his way to her. In less than a week more he would be 
 in Vallecy. She would wait for him. Markham, as will 
 be observed, was learning something about women about 
 
 328
 
 one woman at least, the only woman in the world who 
 mattered. 
 
 The voyage seemed interminable, though the ship was 
 a fast one, and the day's run (on paper) highly satisfac- 
 tory. He knew no one aboard but some of the officers, i 
 with whom he had crossed before, and he was thankful , 
 that he was therefore left alone with his thoughts, which 
 were infinitely more pleasing to him than the chatter of 
 the salon or smoking-room. He read novels, or tried to, 
 but his own story was so much more interesting, so much 
 more real than those he could find that he 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, but at last the Lizard hove into sight and the pas- 
 sengers for France prepared for debarkation. Morning 
 of the next day found Markham in the express to Paris. 
 Evreux was his station, and from there to Verneuil was a 
 little over an hour, most of it along the road he and Her- 
 mia had so blithely traveled. The road from Verneuil to 
 Vallecy he would cover it afoot if there were no vehicles 
 to be begged, borrowed or stolen.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 DUO 
 
 AT some distance from the village street he dismissed 
 the vehicle which had brought him from Verneuil, 
 a rickety affair drawn by an emaciated horse, and 
 suitcase in hand strode up the hill toward the house of 
 Madame Guegou, the garden wall of which was visible be- 
 yond the flowering orchard. The air was laden with 
 odors, sweet with the smell of the fruit blossoms and early 
 shrubs. In the meadow to the left some goats were graz- 
 ing and, as he passed, the wether raised his head and ex- 
 amined him incuriously, its bell clanking solemnly. The 
 sun was already beyond the profile of the forest; beyond 
 the sleepy village and against the warm sky thin threads 
 of purple smoke ascended in perpendicular lines and then 
 drifted lazily down to the mist of the valley below. Na- 
 ture breathed slowly, deeply, as though aware that its 
 state 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 dis- 
 tinct, but each mellowed and softened as though strained 
 through a silver mesh. He missed the shudder of the 
 steamer, the rattle of the train, the jolting even of the 
 
 330
 
 DUO 
 
 station wagon from which he had just descended ; for they 
 were all a part of the fever of his voyage made in such 
 mad haste, sounds which had soothed and given him pa- 
 tience, their very turbulence assuring him that he was los- 
 ing no time upon the way. And now that he had reached 
 his destination, a violent reaction had set in. He was still 
 moving forward toward the house with the walled garden, 
 but a fear obsessed him that perhaps after all there had 
 been a mistake. What if, after all, Hermia were not here? 
 His suitcase gained in weight and he perspired gently. 
 Why hadn't he cabled her at the first moment of his de- 
 cision to sail or why hadn't he relayed his wireless across 
 when opportunity had offered? All his hopes seemed to 
 be slipping from his finger ends. Was this Vagabondia? 
 It seemed different somehow. He was aware of his neatly 
 creased trousers, his bowler hat, his gloves, and the leather 
 bag which reeked of sophistication. He was an ana- 
 chronism, or Vallecy was. They were not attune. He 
 and Vallecy clashed discordantly. 
 
 Timorously, almost upon tiptoe, he reached the village 
 street. A dog emerged from a field, sniffed at the crease 
 of his trousers suspiciously and growled. At this mo- 
 ment Markham desired anything but commotion, so he 
 chirped to the animal and strode on, his head bent, his 
 gaze on the portal of the ancien, which, as he noted, was 
 forbiddingly closed. He paused a moment, eyeing the cur 
 which stopped when he stopped, still regarding him un- 
 certainly. And then summoning his courage he went to 
 the door and knocked. This noise, which sounded faintly 
 enough to Markham, seemed to be the demonstration of 
 hostility the dog was waiting for, and it began barking 
 furiously, snapping almost at Markham's immaculate 
 heels, a signal which was taken up immediatley, near and 
 
 331
 
 MADCAP 
 
 far, by every cur in the village. Curious heads were poked 
 out of windows, and at last after a few moments his door 
 was opened just wide enough for the head of his former 
 hostess to inspect him. 
 
 "Madame Guegou," 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, inspect- 
 ing 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 for- 
 ward upon the step, her eyes searching his face. "Phili- 
 dor was not such as you. He wore a beard and 
 
 She suddenly caught him by the shoulder and turned him 
 toward the sunset. "I might think and yet 
 
 "I am Philidor," he repeated, laughing. "I came in 
 search of of Yvonne." 
 
 "You are he! It is true. The saints be praised!" 
 She threw the door inside open and called : "Jules ! Jules ! 
 He is come. Monsieur Philidor 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 would return?" 
 
 Markham took the bony fingers, his anxious gaze 
 going past them toward the glow of the kitchen. 
 
 332
 
 DUO 
 
 "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 simmered upon the fire, the table gave evidence of a 
 recent repast, and a pile of dishes nearby stood mutely 
 in evidence, but of Hermia there was no sign. 
 
 "Tiens!" Madame Guegou was muttering. "She was 
 
 here but a moment ago. 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 end of the meadow and vanish into the 
 trees. Hatless he leaped the low wall and followed, joy 
 giving him wings, while the old couple wonderingly 
 watched from the doorway. They were mad, these two. 
 She had been waiting for him a month and now she fled. 
 Mad? But what was love but madness? 
 
 Markham sprang into the cover of the trees where 
 he had seen her disappear and followed the path up the 
 hill breathlessly. She would escape him now, even, when 
 she had sent for him and he had come to her ! She could 
 not go far. The cover was thin. He would have called 
 again, 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 could not have gone that 
 way. He turned and plunged among the pine trees to 
 his right where the woods were thicker. It was getting 
 darker, but he saw her white skirt, gray in the shadows 
 saw it lost it and found it again in the deep wood. He 
 sprang forward over fallen trees, through brambles, over 
 rocks, down the slope to the streamside and caught her 
 behind a tree where she had hidden away from him. 
 
 333
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "Hennia!" 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 she denied him. 
 
 "Did you think you could escape me again?" he 
 laughed, "when I've come half 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 you now, 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 except yourself and you knew that I would 
 take that." 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "What, then?" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "I had feared " she paused. 
 
 334
 
 DUO 
 
 "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 were closed as though she feared to open them, 
 and show him the dawn of her womanhood. But in a 
 moment her figure relaxed in his arms and her head sank 
 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 go flying from me again." 
 
 "I don't want you to let me go. I want you to hold 
 me tight. It is 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 said was true. She had outgrown her ado- 
 lescence her madness, unless it could be called madness 
 to love as she did. Her eyes were deep wells of mystery, 
 in which he saw, as from the distant brink above, his own 
 image, clear amid the shadows. There were signs of 
 trouble in them, too, as though she had thought long 
 and distressfully, but greater than the marks of pain were 
 the sweeter tokens of a love and trust unalterable. 
 
 She sank upon a rock, he beside her, her head on his 
 breast. The dusk fell swiftly, its shadows enfolding them. 
 He kissed her again and again, and her lips trembled upon 
 his as she murmured the words so long unspoken. 
 
 "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 
 335
 
 MADCAP 
 
 be. Olga she smirched us your love and mine 
 made " 
 
 He stopped her lips with kisses, smiling inwardly and 
 thinking of the wisdom of Mrs. Hammond. 
 
 "There is no Olga " he murmured, "no gossip but 
 the whisper of the stream which knows the truth." 
 
 "Yes the truth. That is all that matters, isn't it? 
 But that play 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 at Sees 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 the very air with doubt. I was desperate. 
 I didn't seem to care what happened. I don't know what 
 I wanted. I think if you had taken me then and held me 
 as you do now held me close to you and had not let me 
 go, as you did, you might have had me to do as you willed. 
 But you relinquished me " 
 
 "I had to, dear." 
 
 "Yes, I understand now. I couldn't then. I wanted 
 to hurt you as I was hurt. Your sanity made me des- 
 perate. I couldn't understand why you should be so sane 
 while I was not. You were greater than I and though I 
 loved you for it (O Philidor, how I loved you!) I meant 
 that you should pay for my heart-throbs that you 
 should pay for Olga for everything." 
 
 336
 
 DUO 
 
 "I have paid." 
 
 "Forgive me. I suffered doubly in knowing that you 
 suffered. I fled from you and hid my heart as a miser 
 would bury his treasure. But your letters, forwarded 
 from Paris, followed me. O Philidor! I did not read 
 them not at first. I saw Olga telling that story at the 
 dinner table and my pride revolted. I put them away 
 unopened, and kept them concealed from others, from 
 myself and tried to forget them. I couldn't. They were 
 you. I would take them out and look at them. I slept 
 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 a sigh. "Ah, 
 me ! If you had come to me there you would not need to 
 have pleaded, 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. I was calm and smiling, 
 my spirit still soaring to you across the distances. 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 tell- 
 ing me that you were sailing for New York. It wasn't 
 like the other letters. You were reproachful and you 
 were going away from me. It chilled me a little after 
 the day before. Olga's face interposed again. And so 
 I let you go. You see I'm telling you everything." 
 
 "Go on, dear." 
 
 337
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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 
 cidn't get those letters until long after until I reached 
 New York until after I had seen you. Meanwhile, I 
 feared that you had cooled that Olga had done some- 
 thing to change you " 
 
 "Not that" 
 
 "I feared her. I knew then that she was capable of 
 anything. I heard that 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 to ignore you to forget you and 
 to make you forget, if I could, what had happened." 
 
 "That was impossible." 
 
 "I knew it, but I tried. O my dear, if you had known 
 my pains at making you suffer! It was hard. But I 
 clid it. When you came to the house " 
 
 "Don't speak of that," he muttered. "It was not 
 Hennia that I saw." 
 
 "Not this Hermia. It was a girl that even / did not 
 know. I had rehearsed 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 lips down 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 I couldn't help it. The 
 sight of her turned me to ice. And Pierre de Folligny " 
 She stopped again, her brows tangling. "That man ! He 
 
 33'8
 
 DUO 
 
 remembered me. He presumed. He was odious. I had 
 the butler show him the door. I I wasn't very wise, I 
 think. But I couldn't, Philidor, I simply couldn't tem- 
 porize with a man of his caliber." 
 
 "D n him !" said Markham. 
 
 "He told I think or Olga did" 
 
 "It was De Folligny," he groaned. "But I couldn't 
 do anything. That would have made things worse." 
 
 "Oh, yes and then the play that dreadful play ! 
 That was Olga's doing. 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 that that 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 right from wrong as they would have 
 talked of that dreadful Frenchwoman who who was 
 killed." 
 
 She was sobbing gently on his shoulder, her slender 
 body quivering and drawing closer. "Oh, I have paid 
 paid in full for my fault " 
 
 He soothed her, but she started back, holding him at 
 arm's length, her eyes the more lovely through their tears. 
 "But I regret nothing. I would suffer more, if I might, 
 to know what I know. I have learned the meaning of life, 
 Philidor. I bless my pain for the new meaning it has 
 given my joy. I bless your paia even, dear, for the new 
 meaning it has given your unselfishness. You thought 
 only of me, of my happiness when 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. 
 
 339
 
 MADCAP 
 
 / 
 
 "I'll try," he smiled. "Will you promise never to run 
 away from me again?" 
 
 "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 Trewy." She laughed. "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 a woe-begone expression and 
 silently presented a clipping from a paper." She laughed 
 again. "He looked like a virtuous undertaker presenting 
 a bill, 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 of the 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 believed me that kind of a girl? You could 
 have, you know, and didn't." She sighed happily, and 
 sank back into his arms. "I think I don't want people 
 to be too excellent, Philidor. Just human " 
 
 "Were you" he hesitated a moment "were you en- 
 gaged to him, Hermia?" 
 
 She gazed at him wide-eyed. 
 
 "Never," she asserted, and then repeated, "Never, 
 never, never!" 
 
 "But the newspapers " 
 
 "0 Philidor! How could I have been engaged to 
 Trewy when I I was already engaged to you?" 
 
 340
 
 DUO 
 
 "Engaged." 
 
 "Yes, promised. After the forest at Sees I knew it 
 then. I could never have loved anyone else. Why, Phili- 
 dor, you held me like this, and kissed me " 
 
 "You loved me then and before ?" 
 
 She hesitated demurely. 
 
 "Yes before." 
 
 "Before Alen9on?" 
 
 "Y yes." 
 
 "Before Verneuil?" 
 
 She smiled and nodded. 
 
 "Here at Vallecy?" 
 
 "Before that." 
 
 "You adorable child ! Passy?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 He was now really astounded. What she added as- 
 tounded 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 com- 
 pletely. You were so impolite, John Markham. I was 
 curious about you. You were like no man I had ever 
 met. You told me the truth. I didn't like it, but I 
 respected you for telling it. When I went away I re- 
 member wanting to see 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?" 
 
 341
 
 MADCAP 
 
 He raised her head and made her look at him. Even 
 in the wan light her face was rosy with her confession. 
 But she laughed joyously. 
 
 "I wanted to snub you for being so rude to me. Alas ! 
 I ended by by scrubbing your floor." 
 
 "Diana of the Tubs ! How you scrubbed !" 
 
 "I liked it. You were very nice at Thimble Island, 
 Philidor." She paused a moment. "Then Olga came 
 and the others. She quite owned you, 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 sighed but asked no more questions. And, 
 when he knew that she understood the meaning of his 
 silence, he took her head between his hands and made her 
 look at him. 
 
 "Isn't it enough for me to say to you that I love you 
 better than all the world, dear, that I am yours wholly 
 and indivisibly my past, my future " 
 
 "Oh, I am content," she whispered quickly. "Your 
 past shall be what you 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 her heart. "That is mine." 
 
 There was a silence rich with meaning. The stream, 
 the whispering boughs, the rising breeze in the tree-tops 
 joined in the soft chorus of their nuptial-song. The
 
 DUO 
 
 night fell, shrouded in mystery. Behind them over their 
 shoulders a new moon rose, a harbinger of good fortune, 
 but they did not turn to look at it. It could not foretell 
 them a fortune that was already theirs. Its light flowed 
 through the shadows, paling the silhouette of the leaver 
 against the afterglow, bathing them both in liquid silver. 
 He told her many of the things that she already knew, bu<:. 
 each reiteration had a new meaning and a new delight. 
 The same immortal questions and answers, ever new, ever 
 mystifying! The touch of hands, of eyes, the physical 
 contact, outward tokens of the spiritual pact made al- 
 ready, the welding of the bonds which were to make them 
 one! The moments of their more intimate confessions 
 past, he told her of the friendship of Mrs. Hammond and 
 what she had done to set the story right, but she did not 
 seem to hear him. Her gaze was upon the pale rim of 
 light along the hill-top beyond, a gaze which looked and 
 saw nothing beyond the rosy aura of her thoughts. 
 
 "What does it matter now?" she murmured. "What 
 Idoes anything matter 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 com- 
 promised?" 
 
 He laughed happily. 
 
 "Yes. Compromised by reverence, pilloried by tender- 
 ness " 
 
 "Not reverence, Philidor. I'm only a little devil, after 
 all." 
 
 343
 
 MADCAP 
 
 "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. We must 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 toward them, with his stick and 
 lantern, like Diogenes searching for an honest man. 
 
 "God be praised!" he croaked. "You are here. We 
 feared you might have fallen among the rocks." 
 
 "Among the roses, Pere Guegou. Thy roses " said 
 Yvonne, her hand in Philidor's. 
 
 The old man stared at them witlessly, then turned and 
 lighted them upon their way. 
 
 (2) 
 
 THE END
 
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