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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
"Thanks," said Hermia. "I'm not hungry."
"But you can't get on without food."
"I'm not hungry," she repeated.
"Do you feel ill? Perhaps--"
"No. I'm all right again--quite all right. I don't know what made 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 dominating.
"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 to
peremptorily. His lips smiled, 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 another on the saucer.
I have no cream."
"I--I don't care for cream, thanks."
There seemed nothing to do, since he still stood there looking at her,
but to eat, and she did so without further remarks. He watched 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 disreputable pipe.
"I hope I'm safe in assuming that tobacco smoke is unobjectionable to
you."
"Oh, quite."
A glance at his eyes revealed the suspicion of a smile. There _was_
humor in the man, after all. She looked up at him more graciously.
"I suppose you're wondering where I dropped from," she said at last.
"Yes," he replied, "I confess--I'm curious"--puff, puff--"though not 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
not 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 Normandy?" he asked.
"I've never been to 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 Hernia.
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 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 acquaintance, 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 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 hangar--"
"Do you think any one could have been watching your flight?"
"Hardly. I left at dawn. You see I've been bothered a lot by 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 "Bohme." 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."
"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 dishcloth. 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."
"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_ unconventional, aren't you?"
"According to the standards of _your_ world, yes, decidedly."
"_My_ world! What do you know about my world?"
"Only what you've told me by your opinions of mine."
"I haven't expressed my opinions."
"There's no need of your expressing them."
"If you're going to be cross I'll not wash another dish." But she
handed the last of them to him and emptied the dishpan.
"Now," she exclaimed. "I wish you'd please go outside and smoke."
"Outside! Why?"
"I'm going to put this place in order. Ugh! I've never in my 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--?" 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--hand-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 volunteered. 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 jamb, but she pursued him.
"Outside, please," with relentless scorn. "This is no place for a
philosopher."
Markham was inclined to agree with her and retreated in utter rout.
CHAPTER VI
THE RESCUE
On the porch he sank into the wicker chair, filled his pipe and 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 expression. 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.
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 unscoured floor before she even replied.
Then she got up and looked at her work admiringly.
"There!" she said as though to herself. "That's better."
The area of damp floor lay between them and when he made a step 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.
"I'll only rest for a minute," she protested.
"We'll see about that later," he said with a smile. "For the present,
strange as it may seem, you're really going to obey orders!"
She squared her chin at him defiantly.
"Really! Are you sure?"
"Positive!"
"It's more than I am."
"I'm bigger than you are."
"I'm not in the least afraid of you."
He laughed.
"You hardly know me well enough to be afraid of me."
"Then I don't want to know you any better."
"You're candid at any rate. But when I like I can be most unpleasant.
Ask Olga Tcherny."
Her gaze flickered then flared into steadiness as she said coolly.
"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about."
"Do you mean to say that you don't remember?" he asked smiling.
"My memory is excellent. Perhaps I lack imagination. What should 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 you've frightened us,
child!" She came quickly forward, but when Markham rose she stopped,
her dark eyes round with astonishment.
"You! John Markham! Well, upon my word! _C'est abracadabrant_!
Here I've been harrowing my soul all morning with thoughts of your
untimely death, Hermia, dear, turning Westport topsy-turvy, to find
you at your ease snugly wrapped in _tte--tte_
with this charming social renegade. It is almost too much for one's
patience!"
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 Ashhurst, Miss Van Vorst, and Mr. Armistead, Mr.
Markham'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 would find me here?"
asked Hermia.
"We didn't know it," replied the countess. "We took a chance and
came, worried to death. The head coachman'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 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 provides one with
breakfast," she said coolly.
At the call of Salignac, the mechanician, Hermia followed 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 forwarded here."
"Oh!" And then: "I didn't know just what to think--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 pursuing 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 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 guardians? Do _you_
encourage this sort of thing?"
"I--_Dieu_! No! She will kill herself next. I have no influence.
She does exactly as she pleases. Advice merely decides her to do 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 not 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."
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 ingnue 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 uttering 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. Markham?"
Markham good-humoredly took up the canvas.
"Very glad," he said, "only you've got it upside down."
In the pause which followed the laughter Salignac came up the slope and
reported to Hermia that he had found nothing wrong with the engine and
that the damaged wing could be repaired with a piece of wire.
Hermia's eyes sparkled. The time for her triumphant departure, it
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