|
|
opinions were not tainted with self-interest. Can you wonder that I
value them?"
"I'm glad of that," he said genuinely. "I'd like to help you if I can."
"Would you?" she asked, "would you really?" She rose and faced him.
"Then teach me the secret of your happiness, John Markham," she cried.
"Show me how to live my life so that I can get as much out of it as
you get out of yours. There is--there must be some way to learn.
I've always wanted to be happy, but I've never known how to be. When
I grew up, people told me how much better off I was than other people,
how happy I would be--that anything I wanted was mine for the asking,
measuring my future happiness--as the world will--in terms of dollars
and cents. I'm only twenty-three, John Markham, but I've bought from
life already all it has to offer. Isn't there something else? Isn't
there something that one can't buy?"
"Yes," he said. "Freedom."
"That's it," she cried. "Freedom--I'm a slave. I've always been-a
slave to my lawyers and trustees, a tool in the hands of the people who
fatten on me, the servants who rob me, the guests who flatter and use
me, the people of society to invite me to their houses and take my
character when my back is turned. I'm a slave, John Markham, a moral
coward, afraid of my enemies--afraid of my friends, afraid to hate,
afraid to love--distrusting everyone--even myself."
He did not speak, but as she turned toward him she saw that his eyes
were alight with comprehension. She thrust out her hands impulsively
and caught his in her own.
"Take me with you, John Markham. I want to learn what makes you
happy--I want to learn your secret of living."
"Impossible!" he stammered.
She dropped his hands and turned away.
"You refuse then?"
"I--I didn't say so. But I can't believe--"
"You must. I've paid you the high compliment of thinking you'd
understand."
He tangled his brows in perplexity. "Yes--I'm flattered--but have you
thought? I'm afoot--eating and drinking where and what I can get,
sleeping where I may. It wouldn't be easy--for a girl."
"I'm not made of tender stuff--" she broke off and turned toward him
with an impulsive gesture.
"If you don't want me," she cried, "tell me so. I'll believe you and
go."
"No," he muttered. "I won't tell you that. But have you thought of
the consequences? Of what people will think?"
"Let them think what they choose," she said.
She met the inquisition of his eyes frankly and the thought which for a
moment had troubled him went flying to the winds in the treetops. For
all her experience with the world she was a child--with a trust in him
or an innocence which was appalling.
"The roads of France are free," he laughed gaily. "How should _I_
stop you."
She looked up at him in delight. "You mean it? I may go? Oh, John
Markham, you're a jewel of a man."
"Perhaps you won't think so when we're vagabonds together; for
vagabonds you must be--taking what comes without complaint--sour
wine--a crust--"
"Here's my hand on it--a vagabond--with vagabond's luck--vagabond's
fare."
He studied her a moment again, soberly testing her with this gaze, but
she did not flinch.
"This," he said at last, "is the maddest thing--you've ever done."
CHAPTER XII
THE FAIRY 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."
"Oh, never! I simply _won't_ be your sister. That's entirely too
respectable. A pretty vagabond you'll have me! You'll be giving e a
green umbrella and a copy of Baedeker next. I'll be something devilish
and French or I'll be Hermia. Yvonne--that's my name--Yvonne
Deschamps, _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 Markham, 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 knapsack,
presently joining Hermia, who was making her peace with the
gate-keeper.
"Two tires, one wheel--the speedometer," she was saying in French. "I
will leave them for you to sell, Madame, if you can. And Monsieur--he
may have whatever 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 nothing more of this than may
be necessary. Adieu, Madame et Monsieur."
There were offers of conveyance to Evreux (for a consideration), which
Markham refused, an the two companions 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
contour 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 beside 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 reason 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."
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 regretting 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 Vagabondia."
"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
pilgrims entered. There were wooden tables and benches upon which sat
some workmen in their white smocks drinking beer and discussing
politics.
The proprietor of the place, a motherly person, took Markham's order
and went indoors, presently emerging with a try 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 highway--but she
studied Hermia's modish frock with a critical 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 carriage?"
"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 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 leaving his knapsack on
the bench went out into the high road in the direction indicated. He
walked slowly, his head bent deep in thought, realizing for the first
time the exact nature of the extraordinary compact which he had made
with the little nonconformist who had chosen him for a traveling
companion. The more he thought of the situation the more apparent
became the gravity of his responsibility. Why had he yielded to her
reckless whim? Only this morning he had been thanking his lucky stars
that he was well rid of women of the world for a month at least. And
now--Shades of Pluto! He had one hanging around his nick more securely
than any millstone. And this one--Hermia Challoner, an enthusiast
without a mission--a feminine abnormity, half child, half oracle,
wholly irresponsible and yet, by the same token, wholly and
delightfully human!
But in spite of the charm of her amiability and enthusiasm he felt it
his duty to think of her at this moment as the daughter of Peter
Challoner, the arrogant, hard-fisted harvester of millions--to think
of her as he had thought of her when she had left his studio in New
York with Olga Tcherny, as the spoiled and rather impertinent example
of the evils of careless bringing up, but try as he might he only
succeeded in visualizing the tired and rather unhappy little girl who
wanted to learn "how to live." Whether that confession were genuine
or not it made an appealing picture--one which he could not
immediately forget. Markham had lived in the thick of life for a good
many years as a man must who wins his way in Paris, but his view of
women was elemental, like that of the child who chooses for itself at
an early age between the only alternatives it knows, "good" and "bad."
To Markham women were good or they were bad and there weren't any
women to speak of between these two classifications. He had seen
Hermia first as the protge and boon companion of the
Countess Tcherny, had afterward met her as the intimate of such men as
Crosby Downs and Carol Gouverneur, and of such women as Mrs. Renshaw,
and yet it had never occurred to him to think of Hermia as anything
but the spoiled child of Peter Challoner's too eloquent millions, the
rebellious victim of environment which meant the end of idealism, the
beginning of oblivion.
This hapless waif of good fortune had thrown herself upon his
protection and had paid him the highest compliment that a woman could
pay a man--a faith in him that was in itself an inspiration.
Was she in earnest and worth teaching? That was the rub, or would
weary feet, hunger, thirst, the chance mishaps of the road bring
recantation and flight to Trouville or to Paris? He would put her
intentions to the test. She could be pretty sure of that--and if she
survived this week under his program of peregrination and philosophy
there were hopes for her to justify his rather impulsive acquiescence.
A motor approached and stopped beside him, the man at the wheel asking
in French _ l'Amricain_ the way to Evreux. He
directed them and then, finding that he had emerged upon the other
side of the town, returned in search of the Inn, his stride somewhat
more rapid than before. Of one thing he was now certain. They must
get away from the main road without any further delay.
He found Monsieur Duchanel smoking a pipe upon his door-sill. It was
no wonder that he had passed the hostelry by; for saving a small sign
obscured by the shadows of the trees, the house, an ancient affair of
timber and plaster, differed little from the others which faced the
street.
Monsieur Duchanel was a short, round-bellied, dust-colored man, with
gray hair and a tuft upon his chin. He was the same color as his
house and his sign and gave Markham the impression of having sat upon
this same door-sill since the years of a remote antiquity. But he got
up blithely enough when the painter announced the object of his visit
and showed him, with an air of great pride, through the sleeping
apartments which at the present moment were all without occupants.
One room with a four-poster, which the host announced had once been
occupied by no less a personage than Henri Quatre, Markham picked out
for Hermia, and chose for himself a small room overlooking the
courtyard at the rear. He ordered dinner, a good dinner, with soup,
an entre 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 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 preferred to reach his
bridges before he crossed them, and so whatever the elements Hermia
was to inject into the even tenor of his holiday, Markham awaited them
tranquilly, though not without a certain mild curiosity as to what was
to happen next.
But he was not destined to remain long in doubt; for in a few minutes
he hears Hermia's light laugh in the door of the wine-shop, followed
by the beating of a drum, the ringing of bells, the crashing of
cymbals, the notes of some other instrument sounding discordantly
between whiles. And as he started to his feet, wondering what it
could be all about, a blonde head stuck out past the edge of the door
and peered around at the deserted cabaret. He had hardly succeeded in
identifying the head as Hermia's because it wore a scarlet cap
embroidered with small bells which explained the bedlam of tinkling.
When the rest of her body emerged upon the scene Markham noted that
Hermia's transformation was in other respects complete; for she wore a
zouave jacket of red, a white blouse and a blue skirt. Upon her back
was a round object which upon close inspection turned out to be a
drum, the sticks of which were fastened to her elbows, and attached to
her neck was a harmonica, so placed that she had only to bend her head
forward to reach it with her lips. In her right hand was a mandolin
which she waved at him triumphantly as she reached him with a grand
crash, squeak, tinkle and thump of all the instruments at once.
Too amazed to speak, Markham stood grinning at her foolishly!
"Well?" she said, throwing her head and elbows back, provoking an
unintentional thump and tinkle. "How do you like me?"
"Immensely! But what does it all mean?"
"Foolish man. Mean! It means that Yvonne Deschamps has found a fairy
godmother who has transformed her. She has now become a _Femme
Orchestre_ and for two sous will discourse sweet music to the rustic
ear--mandolin and mouth organ, bells, cymbals and drum--"
She ignored the protest of his upraised hand and again made the air
hideous with sound, ending it all with a laugh that made the bells in
her cap tinkle merrily.
"Oh, I don't do it very well yet. It's the first time--but you shall
see--"
"Do you mean that you're going to _wear_ that harness?"
"I do."
"But you can't walk in that."
"The orchestra is detachable, _mon ami_."
"It is incredible--"
"And I have engaged a creature to carry it--"
"Meaning--"
"Not you--behold."
Markham followed her symphonic gesture. Madame Bordier approached,
leading a donkey from the stable-yard, a diminutive donkey of
suspicious eye and protesting ears.
"She's very gentle," sighed the fairy godmother. "It hurts the heart
to sell her. But as Monsieur knows--the times are not what they used
to be." "She is adorable," cried Hermia. "Isn't she, John Markham?"
"She is," muttered Markham, caressing the stubble at his chin,
"entirely so--a vagabond--I should say, every inch of her."
It was not until they had reached the Inn of Monsieur Duchanel some
time later that Hermia, having divested herself of the orchestral
adjuncts of her costume, confided to Markham the stroke of good
fortune which had put her into possession of this providential
accoutrement. She had confessed her predicament to Madame Bordier,
who, after 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
searching in the garret of the wine-shop among the effects of a
departed relative the great discovery had been made. As Madame
Bordier went deeper and deeper into the recesses of the _malle_ there
was a tinkling sound and she emerged with the cap that Hermia wore and
looked at it with sighs followed by tears. At the appearance of each
article of apparel, Madame wept anew, and Hermia listened calmly while
the "great idea" was slowing being born. It was the daughter of
Madame Bordier's late sister--_Pauvre fille_--who had worn the
costume. She was a _Femme Orchestre_ of such skill that her name was
known from one end of the Eure to another. She made money, too, _bien
sr_, but _hlas!_ she married a _vaurien_ acrobat who
had taken her off to America, where she had died last year. Those
clothes--_bon Dieu!_--they recalled the days of happiness; but if
Mademoiselle desired them, she, Madame Bordier, could not stand in the
way. Times were hard, as Mademoiselle knew, and if she would give two
hundred francs--
"Two hundred francs!" put in Markham at this point.
"I paid it," said Hermia, firmly, "and two hundred more for the
donkey. It was all I had. And now, as you see, I must work for my
living."
Markham laughed. His responsibilities, it seemed, were increasing with
the minutes.
They dined alone at the _Htel 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 la crme_,
an _entre_, then _poulet rti, 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? Fifty francs--twenty of it at
least must go for this dinner--I can observe it in the eye of Monsieur
Duchanel--ten more for your chamber Henri Quatre--five for
mine--leaving us in all fifteen francs to begin life on. You will not
feel like a rich American to-morrow--unless you care to send to your
bankers--"
"Sh--!" she whispered theatrically. "There is no such thing as a
banker in the world."
"You will wish there were before the week is out."
"Will I? You shall see."
So far her enthusiasm was genuine enough. But the philosophy begotten
of a _poulet Duchanel_ might easily account for such optimism. Indeed
to-night Markham himself was disposed to see all things the color of
roses. The small voice of his conscience still protested faintly at
the unconventional character of their fellowship and reminded him
that, whatever her indifference to consequences, his obligation to
protect her from her own imprudences became the more urgent. But
there was a charm in the situation which quite 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 presided a short time ago at the head of
the long dinner-table at "Wake Robin." If there was any doubt in her
mind as to the propriety of what she had done--of what she planned to
do, or any doubt as to his own share in the arrangement, her gay mood
gave no sign of it, and the frankness of her friendship for him left
nothing to be desired. What did it matter, after all, so long as they
were happy--so long as no one learned the secret.
His brow clouded and she read his thought.
"You're worried about me."
He nodded.
"The sooner we're far away from the high road between Paris and
Trouville, the better I'll be pleased."
She smiled down at her costume.
"No one will possibly know me in this. That's why I got it."
"Don't be too sure. There are people--" he paused, his thoughts
flying, curiously enough, to Olga Tcherny, "people who wouldn't
understand," he finished. She laughed.
"I don't doubt it. It's quite possible I wouldn't understand 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 forwarded from Paris as
Monsieur directed. No one in Passy or elsewhere should know.
Markham nodded and paid the bill, producing from a 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 _ pied_. We shall have coffee and
_brioche_ at five. You will not remember which way we go."
"_Parfaitement, Monsieur_. You may rely upon my discretion."
CHAPTER XIII
VAGABONDIA
They took the road in the gray of a morning overcast 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 propitious. But they
were not to be dissuaded and trudged off briskly, Monsieur Duchanel
and Madam Bordier accompanying 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 Hermia's orchestra and Markham's knapsack which were securely
packed upon the animal--a valiant, if silent company, 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, thankful 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 morning the clouds
scurried fast overhead and squalls of rain 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 undismayed, aware of her
companion's long stride and his indifference 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 present 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 become 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 philosophy."
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 appeared from tree and bush and set joyously about
getting their belated breakfasts. A miracle had happened, it seemed
to Hermia. The blood in her veins surged deliciously, 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
|
