Madcap Part 43

"Let me finish," she insisted, and he paused.

"I fancy the atmosphere needs clearing," she went on coolly, "and we may as well do it at once. As I remarked a few moments ago, I deny nothing, crave no indulgences, from you, Olga, or from anyone. I cry _peccavi_. But I want you to understand that I feel no regret. Even at the cost of this d?nouement I should not hesitate to seek my freedom--if I could find it with John Markham. I love him. And he--_do_ let me finish, Philidor,--he loves _me_. So there you are.

There's nothing more to be said. What _could_ one say?"

Olga had reached the door, shrugging her shoulders very prettily.

"Nothing, perhaps, except 'good day,'" she laughed. "It seems that I'm _de trop_. I'll go at once."

AT the door she paused. "You will be quite secure from interruption here to-day, I think. When you go, take to the forest to the northward and you should get out in safety. This secret is delicious. When you are well out of harm's way, _mess amiss_, I shall tell it, in my best manner, at the dinner table."

She waved her hand and was gone.

CHAPTER XXII

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 diminis.h.i.+ng 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 gra.s.ses, 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 Compigne--"

"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 flas.h.i.+ng, 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 pa.s.sed 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.