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MADCAP
by
George Gibbs
[Illustration: "'You must flirt, Mr. Markham-and make pretty
speeches-'"]
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. Hermia
II. The Gorilla
III. The Ineffectual Aunt
IV. Marooned
V. Bread and Salt
VI. The Rescue
VII. "Wake Robin"
VIII. Olga Tcherny
IX. Out of His Depth
X. The Fugitive
XI. The Gates of Chance
XII. The Fairy Godmother
XIII. Vagabondia
XIV. The Fabiani Family
XV. Danger
XVI. Manet Cicatrix
XVII. Pre Gugou's Roses
XVIII. A Philosopher in a Quandary
XIX. Mountebanks
XX. The Empty House
XXI. Nemasis
XXII. Great Pan is Dead
XXIII. A Lady in the Dark
XXIV. The Wings of the Butterfly
XXV. Circe and the Fossil
XXVI. Mrs. Berkeley Hammond Entertains
XXVII. The Seats of the Mighty
XXVIII. The Brass Bell
XXIX. Duo
CHAPTER I
HERMIA
Titine glanced at the parted curtains and empty bed, then at the clock,
and yawned. It was not yet eight o'clock. From the look of things, 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 herself was delighted to obey them.
Another slight shrug of incomprehension--of absolution 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 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 looking at?"
"Your hat, Mademoiselle," in alarm, "It is broken, and your face--"
"It's a perfectly good face. What's the matter with it?"
By this time Miss Challoner had reached the cheval glass. Her hat 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 gaily as though in challenge at nothing 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.
"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_, Titine! I have a hunger like that which never was before."
Miss Challoner undressed and entered her bathroom, where she splashed
industriously for some minutes, emerging 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 transformation
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 form 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 chocolate-pot uncheerfully. This breakfast gift had
reached her with an ominous regularity on Mondays and Thursdays for a
month, and the time had come when something must be done about it.
But she did not permit unpleasant thoughts, if unpleasant they really
were, to distract her from the casual delights of retrospection and
the pleasures 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 mocking ostentation in the garments of maturity. The cigarette,
too, was a part of this parade, and she smoked it daintily, though
without apparent enjoyment.
Her meal 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 conduct 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
scandalized Titine, ended inevitably in silent acquiescence.
Of her acquaintances much might be said, both good and bad. They
represented almost every phase of society 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, 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 Angela 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 pensively 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 ticking off purposeless
minutes with maddening precision. She glanced over her shoulder in
relief as her maid appeared in the doorway.
"Will Mademoiselle see the Countess Tcherny and Mees Ashhurst?" Titine
was a great believer in social distinctions.
"Olga! Yes, I was expecting her. Tell them to come right up."
The new arrivals entered the room gaily with the breezy 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 Hermia's growing intimacy
with the Countess, who had quite innocently taken unto herself all of
the fashionable vices of polite Europe.
Hilda Ashhurst watched Hermia's expression a moment and then laughed.
"Been catching it--haven't you? Poor Hermia! It's dreadful to be the
one chick in a family of ugly ducklings--"
"Or the ugly duckling in a family of virtuous chicks--"
"Not ugly, _chrie_," 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 prettiness unimportant."
"It is unimportant--"
"Partly because you make it so. You don't care. You don't think about
it, _voil 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--_Dieu_! There is nothing in the world
that a clever, beautiful 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 Trevvy Morehouse's roses, helped
herself to a cigarette and sat down.
Hermia was not inartistic and she resented the imputation. 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 because 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 expressively. "You're like me. It's simple
enough," she continued. "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.
/*
_"'Aimer pour tre aim, c'est de l'homme,
Aimer pour aimer, c'est Presque de l'ange.'"
*/
"I'm afraid I'm not that kind of an angel."
Hilda Ashhurst laughed.
"Olga is."
"Olga!" exclaimed Hermia with a glance of inquiry.
"Haven't you heard? She has thrown her young affections away upon 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 hallmark of mediocrity.
And as for impudence--that is the one sin a man may commit which a
woman forgives."
"_I_ can't," said Hilda.
The Countess Olga's right shoulder moved toward 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 adorable philosopher, with
the impudence of the devil, and the blue chin of a gorilla! When did
you meet this logical--the zoological paradox?"
"Oh, in Paris. I knew him only slightly, but he moved 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
portrait--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, finished Olga.
"By all means," said Miss Ashhurst scornfully.
CHAPTER II
THE GORILLA
Of all her friends Olga Teherny was the one who amused and 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
depended upon it, she could not be different if she tried. Olga
Egerton had been born in Russia, where her father had been called as a
consulting engineer of the railway department of the Russian
Government. Though American born, the girl had been educated
according to the European 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 fortitude 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 Ashhurst, whose mind grasped
only the obvious facts of existence, came in for more than a share of
the lady's invective.
Indeed, Markam, the painter, seemed this morning to be the only
luminous spot on the Countess Olga's social 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
recognition 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 Florentine
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,
"I'm very busy. I don't need any models. Come another day--"
He was actually on the point of banging the door in their faces 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 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 has
not even offered 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 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 valeting or grooming could ever make such a man a
gentleman.
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, couldn'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 believe 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--"
Markham bowed his head as though to absolve himself from the guilt
suggested.
"I try not to think in terms of prettiness," he explained 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 Markham.
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 moth to speak, paused and then glanced at Markham.
His thoughts were turned inward again and excluded her completely.
Indeed it was difficult to believe that he remembered what she 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. Markham," 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 my opinion that
counts--my money upon which the fashionable 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, not 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 butterfly 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 opinion of my utility and may express it freely--unchallenged."
"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. Today," she signed, "my chameleon has taken a vacation."
She rose abruptly and threw out her arms with a dramatic gesture.
"Oh, you two infants--with your wise talk of life--you have 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 minute." She reached for her trinkets on the table and
rattled them viciously. "It's too bad. With the best intentions 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 you
can be to others I have a sense of lost caste. And you--instead of
being amusingly whimsical and _entt_--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 vanished and then turned back and took up
his palette and brushes.
CHAPTER III
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
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