THE GATES OF CHANCE
Markham had finished the portrait of his antiquated countess in Havre
and abandoning the luxuries of the Hotel Frascati had taken to the
road with his knapsack and painting kit for a two months' jaunt along
unfrequented Norman byways. This had been his custom since his first
year in Paris, when his means were small and the _wanderlust_ drove
him forth from the streets of Paris. He had walked from the Savoie to
Brittany, from Belgium to Provence and the vagabond instinct in him
had grown no less with advancing years. He liked the long days in the
open. The slowly moving panorama of hill and dell, which was lost
upon the touring motorists who continually passed him, filling the air
with their evil smells and clouds of dust. He liked the odor of the
loam in the early morning, the clean air washed by the dew and
redolent of burning wood, the drowsy hour of noon with its meal of
cheese and bread eaten at the shady brink of some musical stream and
the day-dream or doze that followed it; the long mellow afternoons
under the blue arch of sky where the pink clouds moved as lazily as
he, in vagabond procession, across the zenith. His aimlessness and
theirs made them brothers of the air, and he followed them under the
trackless sky, aware that his destination for the night lay somewhere
ahead of him, leaving the rest to chance and the patron saint of
Nomads. He liked the rugged faces he saw on the road, the Norman
welcome of his host and the deep sleep of utter weariness and content
which defied the tooth of time and discomfort.
After a few days in Rouen, where he always lingered longer than he
intended to, he had crossed the river at Sotteville an had followed
main roads which led him to the south and east through the heart of
the historic Eure.
He had given Trouville a wide berth; for he knew some people there,
friends of Olga Tcherny's, people of fashion who would have looked
askance at his dusty clothes and general air of disrepute. He was not
in the humor for Olga's kind of friends or indeed for Olga, if as the
last note from her had indicated she, too, had arrived on this side of
the water. He was sufficient unto himself and gloried in his
selfishness. Song he would have and did often have at night with his
chance companions of the road, and wine or the sound Norman cider
which was better--but no women--no women for him!
It was on the road beyond Evreux that he thus congratulated himself for
the twentieth time. His path passed near the brink of a river fringed
with trees and to the right the hills mounted abruptly to a rocky
eminence, crowned with an ancient castle which stolidly sat as it had
done for a thousand years and guarded the peaceful valley beneath. It
had looked down upon the pageantry of an earlier day when knights in
armor had ridden forth of its portals for the honor of their ladies,
had listened to the hoof-beats of more than one army, and had heard in
the distance the clash of Ivry. To-day a railroad wound around the
base of its pedestal, reminding it of the new order of things and of
its own antiquity.
As Markham approached the railroad crossing, from the opposite
direction, in a cloud of dust, came an automobile. But as it neared
the track a woman waving a red flag and blowing a horn came running
from a small house by the roadside and pulled the gates across the
road. The automobile, which had only one occupant, came to a sudden
stop and an argument followed. Markham was too far away to hear what
was said, but the gestures of the disputants could be easily
understood. There was no train in sight and plenty of time to cross,
said the motorist. The peasant waved her flag and pointed down the
track. More words, more gesticulations, but the gate-keeper was
obdurate. The motorist looked up the track and at the gate and road,
and then followed explosives, smoke and dust from the impatient
machine, which slowly moved backward a short distance up the road
again. Markham, slowly approaching, watched the comedy with interest.
An impatient Parisian, jealous of the passing minutes, and an
obstinate peasant--to whom passing minutes had no significance--could
any two humans be more definitely antagonistic?
What was the person in the car about? More explosions and the blue of
burning oil as the car came forward, its cutout open, turning to the
left off the road over a ditch and into a field. The gate-keeper ran
forward shaking her flag and screaming as she guessed the motorist's
intention. But it was too late. The car was hidden for a moment from
Markham's view in the declivity upon the other side of the railroad
embankment, the exhaust roaring furiously, and leaped into sight, the
front wheels high in the air as it took the near rail and then fell
heavily with a complaining groan across the track and moved no more,
its rear axle snapped in two.
Of all the fool performances! Markham ran forward crying in French to
the chauffeur to jump, for around the profile of the hill the
locomotive of the oncoming train was emerging. The motorist looked at
Markham and then at the advancing train in bewilderment; then jumped
clear of the track beside Markham as the freight train, its brakes
creaking, its steam shrieking, crashed into the unfortunate machine,
turning it over and then crumpling it into a shapeless mass, through
which it tore, its impetus carrying it well down the road and
scattering the torn fragments of nickel and steel on both sides of the
tracks.
It was not until the train had been brought to a stop that Markham had
had time to notice that the motorist was a woman--not until she turned
a rather wan face in his direction that he saw that the victim of this
misfortune was Hermia Challoner.
"You, child!" he gasped. "What in the name of all that's impossible--"
"John Markham!"
"Good Lord, but you had a close call for it! Couldn't you have waited
a moment--"
"It was a new machine," she stammered. "I was trying for a record to
Trouville from Paris."
"It was a d--n fool thing to do," he blurted forth angrily. "You might
have been killed."
She looked at him, her lips compressed, but made no reply.
The gate-woman, who for a few moments had stood as though petrified
with fright, now resumed her screams and gesticulations as the crew of
the train descended. In a few moments they surrounded Hermia, all
shouting at once, and waving their arms under Hermia's nose. She
attempted replies, but the noise was deafening and no one listened to
her. Peasants working in the fields nearby who had heard the crash
came running and added their numbers and temperaments to the Babel.
The gate-keeper thrust herself violently into the midst of the group
pointing at the wreck of the machine and at Hermia, her remarks as
unintelligible to the train crew as they were to Markham.
Hermia stood her ground, but when one of the train crew seized her by
the arm and thrust his grimy face close to her own she grew pale and
drew back. Markham stepped between and gave the fellow a shove which
sent him sprawling. There was a pause and for a moment matters looked
difficult. But Markham mounted the embankment, drew Hermia up beside
him, put his back against a car, held up his hand and in French
demanded silence. His voice rang true and they listened. He had seen
the accident from the road and would bear witness. It was not the
fault of the gate-keeper or of the lady who drove the car. It was
simply an accident tin which lives had fortunately been spared. The
axle of the machine had broken upon the track. If there was any claim
for damages he would testify that the engineer was not to blame.
A man in a peasant's smock from a neighboring field, who, it appeared,
held some local office of authority, now took a hand in the
investigation and, after a number of questions of Hermia and the
gate-keeper, sent the train upon its way.
Amid the turmoil of the gate-keeper's voice who was recounting the
affair to the latest arrivals Hermia watched the train as it passed
between the fragments of what a few minutes before had been a new
French machine. Some of the peasants had already gathered around the
wreck and one of them restored her leather bag, which had been tossed
some distance into the ditch. To all appearances this was the only
salvage and she took it gratefully. A walk down the track convinced
Markham that what was left of the car was only fit for the scrap-heap.
And as the crowd still surrounded Hermia he put his arm in hers and
led her away. She followed him silently up the road by which she had
come until they had left the gaping crowd behind them. Then he made
her sit on a bank by the roadside and unslinging his knapsack dropped
beside her. "Well?" he asked.
She looked down the road toward the scene of her misfortune, the smile,
half plaintive, half whimsical, that had been hovering on her lips
suddenly breaking.
"If you scold me I shall cry."
"I'm not going to scold," he said kindly. "That wouldn't help matters."
"It was such a beautiful piece of mechanism--so human--so
intelligent--" a tear trembled on her lashes and fell--"and I've only
had it two days."
She was the child with a broken toy. It was the child he wanted to
comfort.
"I'm sorry," he said genuinely. "I wish I could put it together for
you again."
"It's gone--irretrievably. There's nothing to be done, of course."
And then, "Oh! it seems so cruel! The thing cried out like a wounded
animal. You heard it, didn't you? And it was all my fault. That's
what hurts me so."
"One gets over being hurt, but one doesn't get over being dead. You
only missed being killed by the part of a second."
She dashed the tears form her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Oh, I know. And I'm awfully grateful. I really am. I don't know why
I didn't jump sooner. I saw the train, too. I simply couldn't move.
I seemed to be glued there--until you shouted. It was lucky you were
there."
She buried her face in her hands a moment and when she straightened was
quite calm again.
"It's all over now, Mr. Markham, and I'm awfully obliged," she said
with a laugh. "You seem fated to be the recording angel of my maddest
ventures."
"It _was_ madness," he insisted.
"I know it," she sighed. "And yet I'm quite sure I would do it again."
"I don't doubt that in the least," he replied gravely, concealing a
smile as one would have done from a mischievous child.
There was a silence.
"The world is very small, isn't it, Mr. Markham?" she asked. "What on
earth are you doing here?
"I? Oh, vagabonding. It's a habit I have, I'm doing Normandy."
She examined him from top to toe and then said amusedly:
"Did you know that for the past week Olga has been searching Havre high
and low for you?"
"No. I didn't know it. Where is she now?"
"At Trouville. And I was to have dined with her tonight."
"I'm afraid you'll hardly get there," he said, looking at his watch.
"This line doesn't connect."
"Doesn't it? Oh, some line will, I suppose." And then irrelevantly,
"Do you know, Mr. Markham, I've often wondered what it would be like to
be a vagabond? I think I really am one deep down in my heart."
"Vagabonds are born--not made, Miss Challoner. They belong to the
immortal Fellowship of the Open Air, an association which dates from
Esau--an exclusive company, I can tell you, which black-balled brother
Jacob, and made François Villon its laureate. It is the only
club in the world where the possession of money is looked on with
suspicion. Imagine a vagabond in a six thousand-dollar motor car!"
She opened her eyes wide and threw out her hands with a hopeless
gesture.
"But I'm not responsible for the money. _I_ didn't make it. I don't
see why I haven't just as much right to be a vagabond as you have."
He examined her amusedly.
"You would have the right perhaps if it wasn't for your unfortunate
millions. It's too bad. I'm really very sorry for you."
His irony passed beyond her.
"I _am_ a vagabond," she insisted. "I haven't a single conventional
instinct. I've never had. I hate convention. It fetters and stifles
me. My money! If you only knew how I loathe the responsibilities,
the endless formalities, the people who prey upon me and those who
would like to, the toadying of the older people, the hypocrisy of the
younger ones. It isn't me that they care for. I have no friends. No
one as rich as I am _can_ have friends. I distrust everyone.
Sometimes I've thought of going away from it all--disappearing and
never coming back again. I'm so tired of having everything I want. I
want to want something I can't get. I am weary of everything that
life can offer me. I have to choose unhealthy excitements to keep my
soul alive. Speed--danger--they're the only things that seem to make
life worth while."
He shook his head as she paused for breath.
"Oh, I know you think I'm mad. I seem so by contrast to your content.
You seem so happy, Mr. Markham."
"I am," he said. "All vagabonds are happy."
She looked at him enviously as though she might by chance discover his
secret of life, but he lit his pipe and puffed at it silently.
"What is your secret of happiness, Mr. Markham?" she asked wistfully.
"Tell me, won't you?"
"'An open hand, an easy shoe and a hope to make the day go through,'"
he quoted with a quick laugh.
"What else?"
"Thirst--and a good inn to quench it at."
"Yes--"
"A conscience," he finished, "with little on it--a purse with little in
it. You see the Ancient Order of Vagabonds never used purses--unless
they were other people's."
He stopped with a laugh and glanced down the road toward the scene of
Hermia's accident. "All of which is interesting," he said with a
practical air, "but doesn't exactly solve the problem of how we're to
get you to Trouville in time for dinner with the Countess Tcherny."
He took a road map from his pocket and spread it out on his knapsack
between them, while Hermia peered over his shoulder and followed his
long forefinger.
"Evreux, Conches, Breteuil--we must be about here--yes--and there's
your crooked railroad. It goes around to Evreux, where there's a
through line to the coast. You might hire a horse and wagon--but even
then you would hardly get to Evreux before sunset. Miss Challoner,
I'm afraid you'll not reach Trouville to-night--"
"Oh, I don't care," she said. "It's a matter of indifference to me
whether I reach Trouville at all--"
"But your friends will worry."
"Oh, no--I could wire them, I suppose--"
"Oh yes. And there's a good inn at Evreux. But we had better be going
at once."
He folded his map, put it in his pocket and rose, slinging his
knapsack across his shoulder and offering her a hand to rise. But she
didn't move or look at him. She had plucked a blade of grass and was
nibbling at it, her gaze on the distant landscape to the southward.
"Wait a moment, please. I--I've something more to say to you."
He looked at her keenly, then leaned against the bole of a tree,
listening.
"I--I don't know just what you'll think of me, but if I--I didn't feel
pretty sure that you'd understand what I mean I don't think I'd have
the courage to speak to you. You once told me you liked me a great
deal, Mr. Markham, and I--I know you meant it because you're not a man
to say things you don't mean."
"That's true," he confirmed to her. "I'm not."
"And I think that's one of the reasons I believe in you," she went on,
smiling, "and why I thought your friendship might be worth while.
You're the only person I've ever met in my world or out of it whose
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."