Part 22 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the rest of her body emerged upon the scene Markham noted that Hermia's transformation was in other respects complete; for she wore a zouave jacket of red, a white blouse and a blue skirt. Upon her back was a round object which upon close inspection turned out to be a drum, the sticks of which were fastened to her elbows, and attached to her neck was a harmonica, so placed that she had only to bend her head forward to reach it with her lips. In her right hand was a mandolin which she waved at him triumphantly as she reached him with a grand crash, squeak, tinkle and thump of all the instruments at once.

Too amazed to speak, Markham stood grinning at her foolishly!

”Well?” she said, throwing her head and elbows back, provoking an unintentional thump and tinkle. ”How do you like me?”

”Immensely! But what does it all mean?”

”Foolish man. Mean! It means that Yvonne Deschamps has found a fairy G.o.dmother who has transformed her. She has now become a _Femme Orchestre_ and for two sous will discourse sweet music to the rustic ear--mandolin and mouth organ, bells, cymbals and drum--”

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

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

”Do you mean that you're going to _wear_ that harness?”

”I do.”

”But you can't walk in that.”

”The orchestra is detachable, _mon ami_.”

”It is incredible--”

”And I have engaged a creature to carry it--”