ONE GREAT PAN IS DEAD
As she went out Markham came forward, but Hermia waved him aside, and,
going to the open window, stood silent, her head bent forward, her
gaze fixed on Olga's diminishing back. It seemed more than usually
shapely, that back, more than usually careless and disdainful. Her
feet spurned the ground and tripped lightly among the grasses, her
shoulders swinging easily, the feather in her hat nodding,
mischievously defiant. After she had melted into the thicket, Hermia
still stood watching the spot where she had disappeared. But Markham,
no longer to be denied, came from behind and caught her around the
waist.
"It's true, Hermia," he whispered, "you love--?"
Her brow had been deep in thought, and at first it had not seemed that
she heard him or felt his arms about her, but as his lips touched her
cheek she sprang away, her eyes blazing at him.
"You!" As she brushed the cheek his lips touched: "Hardly,"
scornfully, and then, with a laugh, "I lied, that's all."
"I'll not believe it. You love me--"
"No. I detest you."
He saw a light.
"You heard. You believe that Olga and I--"
"I'm not a fool. One lives and one learns."
He caught her by the shoulders as one does a child, the impulse in him
strong to shake her, his heart denying it.
"She knew you were listening all the while. Can't you understand?
That was her game. She played it--for you. I've never been in
Compiègne--"
"Let me go--"
"No. Not until you look in my eyes. You love me. You've told _her_ so
and _me_--"
"I lied. It was necessary--"
"Why?"
She struggled, but would not look at him. "Let me go."
"No. Why did you say that unless--"
"The situation--demanded it," she panted. "She had to understand--"
"The truth--"
"No--not the truth. She could not have understood the truth--so I lied
to her--lied to her."
With a supreme effort she wrenched away, putting the table between them.
"Oh," she gasped furiously. "That I could _ever_ have believed in you!"
But her anger failed to dismay him. There was a pause during which
their glances clashed, hers flashing, contemptuous--his keen, intent
and a trifle amused.
"Why did you stay--up there--when the way was clear to the forest."
Her eyes opened a little wider.
"I--I was afraid to go."
"Afraid! Perhaps. but that wasn't the only thing that kept you--"
"What then?" indifferently.
"Curiosity."
"About what?"
"Me."
"Oh!" scornfully.
"It's true. You wanted to hear what passed between us. I thought you
had gone. Olga knew you hadn't. She was the cleverest of us all, you
see."
"It hasn't made the slightest difference."
He reached her in a stride.
"You love me," he laughed. "I know it now." And as she still turned
from him: "And you'll marry me, too, Hermia."
"Never!"
"Yes," he repeated, "you'll marry me. There isn't anything else for
you to do."
She was dumb with surprise and could only gasp with rage, but before
she could speak he had released her, and, catching up his hat form the
table, was out of the door and on his way to the stable.
He laughed up at the sky. Subterfuge could not avail her now. He had
learned the truth. Neither mockery, scorn nor any other pretence could
divert the genial current of his soul. She loved him. And, whatever
he had shown of mastery in her presence, his precious knowledge made
him suddenly strangely gentle in his thoughts of her. The sky smiled
back at him from over the leafy glades of the Comte de Cahors, and, as
his gaze sought the spot in the woods where a moment ago Olga had
disappeared, a sober look came into his eyes. Tell? Would she? Would
Olga tell? He didn't believe it. He had learned many things. Olga
kindled her altar fires not for the warmth of them, but for their
incense, the odor of which was breath to her nostrils. The symbols of
love--not love itself--what could Olga know of love? He knew--and
Hermia? Hermia knew, for he had taught her.
He filled his bucket at the well and sought Clarissa, who was sleeping
the sleep of satiety. She had eaten until she could eat no more.
Watered, he led her back to the lodge, fastened his hitching strap at
the door and went inside, his own appetite advising him that neither he
nor Hermia had eaten since yesterday afternoon. His companion had
huddled into a chair and was gazing into the fireplace. She did not
offer to continue their conversation, nor did he. And so he got out
his spirit lamp and made coffee, unpacked some chicken sandwiches, and,
helping himself freely to the crockery of the Marquis, presently served
the breakfast.
She would not eat at first and he did not insist upon her doing so, but
sat comfortably, and in a moment was smacking his lips. The coffee was
excellent--the best that could be had in Alençon, and its odor was
delicious. He saw from where he sat her eyes shifting uncertainly. He
drained his cup with a great sigh of content, set it down upon the
saucer and was in the act of pouring out another helping for himself
when she rose and reached forward quickly, appetite triumphant.
"I'd better eat, I suppose," she said jerkily.
He smiled politely and handed her the sandwiches, noting from the tail
of his eye that several times during the meal her look sought his face
for an explanation of his change of manner, which, not being
forthcoming, she sat rather demurely at her meat, emptying the pot of
coffee and finishing the last of the bread and chicken. Markham would
have smiled if he had dared! What chance had any of the lighter
passions against the craving hunger of the healthy young animal? It
was another triumph of his philosophy, almost its greatest--Nature at a
bound eliminating art and the feminine calculus. When he had finished
eating, without a word he rose, and went out to pack Clarissa, and
while he was thus engaged Hermia passed him silently with a bucket on
the way to the pump for water, and in another moment he was aware that
she was washing the dishes. He made no effort to help her, but sat on
the door-sill, thoughtfully smoking his pipe.
She came out in a moment and announced that she was ready to go, and he
saw that breakfast had done her no harm. So they followed Olga
Tcherny's instructions as far as he remembered them and found a path
through the woods which led northward. Clarissa had so gorged herself
with the stolen fodder (which may have been sweeter on that account)
that Markham had to cut a new goad to speed her upon her way. They
kept a watch ahead and behind them, and emerged as Olga had prophesied
without adventure or accident through a hole in a hedge upon a
highroad, along which, still bending their steps northward, they took
their way.
Markham's silence had a double meaning. They were at odds just now. A
while back Hermia had starved for food. He meant now that she should
starve for company. He wanted to think, too, to analyze and weigh his
own culpability in the situation where they now found themselves. The
imprudence of their venture had not seemed to matter so much back at
Evreux, where accident had thrown them together and Hermia had linked
her fate to his. She had been little more to him then than an
extraordinarily interesting specimen of a genus he little understood, a
rebellious slave of convention who had shown him the shackles which
galled her wrists and had pleaded with him very prettily to help her
strike them off. Could any man have refused her? And yet he had known
from that hour that a retribution of some sort awaited them
both--Hermia, for ignoring her code; himself, for having permitted her
to ignore it. There was a difference now--a difference which their
discovery by an outsider had made unpleasantly manifest. De Folligny's
appearance at Verneuil had made Markham thoughtful, but Olga's
intrusion now had paraphrased their pastoral lyric into unworthy prose.
Parnassus wept with them, but no amount of weeping could destroy the
ugly doggerel as Olga had written it. Their idyl was smirched, the
fair robe of _Euterpe_ was trialing in the dust.
But it was too late for reproaches now. The mischief was done and one
thing only left--to emerge with as good a grace as possible from a
doubtful position. As the moments passed it became more clear to
Markham in which way his duty lay--and the more he thought of it, the
more he was convinced that it lay out of Vagabondia. Hermia must
go--this very day--and he--to beard their pretty tigress.
The shadow of his thoughts fell upon his brows, and to Hermia, who
watched him, when she could do so unobserved, he presented a
countenance upon which gloom sat heavily enthroned.
Had he spoken his thoughts as they came to him she could not have read
him more easily; and, as Markham gloomed, her own mood lightened.
Though she spoke not, a dull fire slumbered in her eye which boded him
mischief. Disaster had befallen--and some one was to pay for it; but
his bent head was unaware of the smile that suddenly grew, a pale
wintry smile which matched the devil in her eyes.
They camped in the mellow afternoon under the trees upon a rugged
mountain that guarded the defile, through which a rushing torrent, one
of the tributaries of the Oire, dashed over the rocks on its swift
course to Argentan. Below them in the valley were a village and a
railroad along which a tiny passenger train was slowly proceeding.
Markham eyed the train with a grave and melancholy interest. They both
observed that it stopped in the village to let off and take on
passengers. He built his fire with great deliberateness, gloomy and
silent as though performing a last rite for one departed, and ate
solemnly, his face long.
At last she could stand the stress of him no longer and burst suddenly
into a fit of laughter which echoed madly among the rocks.
"Oh, John Markham!" she cried. "Why so _triste_? The melancholy
sweetness of seeing Olga again?"
"No," he replied calmly. "I was thinking--of other things."
"What?"
A smile broke over his lips. He had been right. There was nothing in
the world that a woman has greater pains to endure than silence. He
had starved her out.
He didn't reply at once, and that angered her.
"Must I plead with you even for speech?" she asked satirically. "Has
it come to this? Will you not smile and throw a crumb of comfort to
your bond-woman?"
"I have had nothing to say--until now," he replied, very quietly, over
his coffee cup.
She only laughed at him and swept the ground with a low curtsey.
"Thy slave listens. Speak! To what decision has my lord and master
arrived?" she asked.
He swallowed his coffee deliberately, unsmiling, his gaze over the
valley where the railroad track wormed its way into the North.
"That you're to go to your friends in Paris--at once," he said
decisively.
And while she watched him scornfully, the slow fire in her eyes burning
suddenly into brightness, he took from his pocket a wallet he had never
seen before, and counted out upon the ground some money.
"This," he continued calmly, "is yours. You have earned it. I have
kept count. I will owe you, too--what is realized from the sale of--of
Clarissa. Or, if you prefer it, I will pay you that now. I hope you
will find the arrangement satisfactory."
He had arrested her mockery and she stood silent while he spoke, her
gaze upon the ground. But her mood broke forth again with even greater
virulence.
"So you want to be ride of me, _Monsieur mon Maître--cancel my
indentures--end my apprenticeship to the school of life--turn me adrift
in a wicked world, which already treats me none too kindly. Is it
wise, I say? Is it kind, is it human--just because a woman crosses our
path and threatens my reputation? Look at me. Am I not the same that
I was before? Now have I fallen in your graces? You, who professed a
while ago to love me--oh, so madly?"
He was silent and would not look at her.
"Or is it _me_ that you fear, _mon cher_?" she taunted him. "Is it
that I've learned too well your lessons? That I've foresworn the
conventions which stifled me, the code which enslaved me, that I've
earned at last my right to live unbound, untrammeled--with no code but
the love of life, no law but that of my own instincts--is it because of
this that you deny me? O John Markham! What becomes of your fine
philosophy? And of your natural laws? Do they fall, with me, before
the first challenge from the world they profess to ignore? It is to
laugh."
While she vented her joy of him he rose and faced her, but she did not
flinch. Her voice only dropped a tone, and now derided, mocked and
cajoled.
"Do you fear me so much, _Monsieur le Maître_?" she laughed. "Is it
that I love you too much to love you wisely? Why should _you_ care,
_mon ami_? Is it not the lot of women to give--always to give?"
Still he turned away from her, his hands fast in his pockets, but a
warning murmur broke from his lips. She did not hear it and, coming
around behind him, clasped her fingers upon his arms.
"If I tell you that I do not love you, _mon ami_, will not that be
enough--enough to satisfy you that my happiness is not in danger? If I
do not love you, what can you fear for me? Why should I care what the
world thinks of us? Have I reproached you? Did I not give myself into
your keeping, without--"
He turned and caught her into his arms and stopped her mockery with
kisses, the man in him triumphant, while she struggled, her lips denied
him, dumb and quivering in his arms.
"Now perhaps you know----why it is that you must go," he whispered.
"Read it here. I'm mad for you, Hermia--that is why. I can't any
longer be with you without reaching forth to take you----you're mine by
every law of God or Nature. Philosophy! Who cares? Your lips have
babbled it. Let them babble it now--if they dare--"
"Let me go, Philidor," she gasped.
"No, not yet. I've much to say and only this hour to say it in, for in
a while you shall go and I will stay with Pan and mourn. The woods
will sigh of you, for you will be a nymph no longer. But before you go
you shall look love in the eyes and see--love full grown and
masterful--here among the everlasting rocks--love so great that you
shall be afraid and mock not. Look up. Look in my eyes--"
"No! No!"
"You love me."
"No!"
"You love me."
"N--no!"
As she protested he took her lips, pale lips that would have mocked
again, yet dared not, for her eyes had stolen a glance through
half-closed lashes and learned that what he said was true. The warm
color flooded upward, staining crimson beneath the tan, and her body
which had relaxed for a moment under the gust of his ardor protested
anew.
"Let me go, Philidor. I-It must not be--can't you understand? Would
you justify them--what they say of us? Oh, let me go. Let me--"
She wrenched away from him and stood gasping, Olga Tcherny's last
laughter singing in her ears.
"You've justified her--justified her," she almost sobbed, "robbed me of
my right to look her in the eyes--as I could do this morning. Why did
you kiss me--like that--Philidor? Oh, you've spoiled it all--spoiled
it for us both. Why couldn't you have let things be--as they were--so
gentle--so sweet--so sane!"
"You mocked at love," he muttered.
"Oh, that I should have misjudged you so. You who were so strong--so
kind! Who ruled me with gentleness! and now--"
"You've tried me too far."
She had; and she knew it. There was nothing for it but to skurry for
the wings of convention. Alas, for Pan! Hermia was a nymph no
longer--only a girl of the cities, upon the defensive for the security
of her traditions. She drew aside and sank breathless upon a rock.
"Love is not so ruthless--it does not shock or sear, John Markham," she
gasped.
"I've served you patiently--and long," he muttered.
"A week."
"It's enough."
"No."
"You'll marry me."
She raised her head and met his eyes fairly.
"No. I refuse you."
He could not understand.
"You--"
"I refuse to marry you. Is that clear?" she cried.
What had come over her? The warm color had flooded back to her heart
and her eyes were cold like dead embers.
"I won't believe you," he said doggedly.
"You must. It was a mistake--all this--a mistake from the first. I
was made to have followed you. You should have denied me--then--back
there--"
"I loved you then--I know it now--and you--"
"No--not love, John Markham," she went on. "If you had loved me you
would have sent me back to Paris--and saved me from--from myself. You
loved me then, you say," she laughed scornfully. "What kind of love is
this that slinks in hiding, preaches of friendship for its own ends and
rants of philosophy? What kind of love that scoffs at public opinion
and finds itself at last a topic of amusement at a fashionable dining
table? A selfish love, a nameless love from which all tenderness, all
gentleness and beauty--"
"Hermia!" He had caught her by the shoulders and held her gaze with
his own.
"Let me go. It's true. And you ask me to marry you. Why should you
marry me when you can win my lips without it?"
She laughed up at him, a hard little laugh, like a buffet in his face.
Still he held her--away from him.
"Your lips are mine," he said gently, "I could take them now--again and
again. But I will not. See, I am all tenderness again. Your words
cannot harm me--nor yourself. For love is greater than either of us.
It is the secret you once asked of me, the secret of life. I've told
it to you. I tell it to you now--when I let you go."
Her color came and went and her eyes drooped before him. He dropped
his hands, turned his back and walked away.
"That is my reply," he said softly.
Could he have seen the glory that rode suddenly in her eyes as she
looked at him, he would have read the heart of her. But that was not
to be. Followed a silence. He would not trust himself again. The
embers of their fire still smoked. With his foot he crushed them out.
"You will go, at once, to Paris," he said quietly, not looking at her.
She did not move, or reply, and only watched him as he made the
preparations for departure. They went down the hill to the village in
silence, Markham leading Clarissa at his side. At the _gare_ a train
was due in half an hour, and so they sat and waited, looking straight
before them, no word passing, and when the train came he found a
compartment and put her in it, with her bundle, then stood with head
uncovered, until a stain of smoke above the trees was all that remained
to him. Presently that, too, vanished, when soberly he took up his
cudgel and went his way.