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 "Bohème." 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.