This eBook was produced by Carolyn Derkatch.
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. Père Guégou'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, _chérie_," 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, _voilà 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 être aimé, 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.