George Gibbs

“ One only quarrels with an enemy or with a friend. To me society is neither." He smiled at Hermia amusedly. "Society may have its opinion of my utility and may express it freely—unchallenged."
"I don't challenge your utility," replied Hermia tartly. "I merely question your point of view. You do not see couleur de rose, Mr. Markham?"
"No. Life is not that color."
"Oh, la la!" from Olga. "Life is any color one wishes, and sometimes the color one does not wish. Very pale at times, gray, yellow and at times red—oh, so red! The soul is the chameleon which absorbs and reflects it. ”

“ I have lived to-day, John," she whispered. "I have lived every hour of it." She watched the yellow rope of smoke which rose from the damp log. "The talent for living!" she mused. "I never thought of that."
"Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have your root in the soil, Hermia—unless you're an orchid."
"That's it, I know. But I'm not an orchid any longer."
Markham rose and knocked his pipe out.
"No," he smiled, "you're a night-blooming cereus—and so am I. You must remember that in this world the darkness was made for sleep, dawn for waking. The birds know that. So does Cleofonte. ”

“ No valeting or grooming could ever make such a man a gentleman.
If he was aware of her scrutiny he gave no sign of it and leaned forward intently, his gaze on the portrait—alone, to all appearances, with the fires of his genius. Hermia's eyes followed his, the superficial and rather frivolous comment which had been on her lips stilled for the moment by the dignity of his mental attitude, into which it seemed Olga Tcherny had also unconsciously fallen. But the silence irritated Hermia—the wrapt, absorbed attitudes of the man and the woman and the air of sacro-sanctity which pervaded the place. ”

“ Here I've been holding you up as a kind of paragon, a fossilized Galahad, with a horizon just at your elbows, to find you touring France, faisant l'aimable with a frolicsome scapegrace in a bolero jacket."
"I would remind you," he broke in stiffly, "that you're speaking of
Hermia Challoner."
"Oh, I'm quite aware of it," with a careless wave of her hand. "And as to Hermia's wisdom—life has taught me this—that a woman may be clever, she may be intuitive, she may be skillful, but she's never wise. And so I say—I'm shocked, John Markham, outraged and shocked beyond expression." ”

“ 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." ”

“ 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? ”

“ Markham followed her symphonic gesture. Madame Bordier approached, leading a donkey from the stable-yard, a diminutive donkey of suspicious eye and protesting ears.
"She's very gentle," sighed the fairy godmother. "It hurts the heart to sell her. But as Monsieur knows—the times are not what they used to be." "She is adorable," cried Hermia. "Isn't she, John Markham?"
"She is," muttered Markham, caressing the stubble at his chin, "entirely so—a vagabond—I should say, every inch of her." ”

“ The remainder of Miss Van Vorst's speech was lost to Hermia, who sat staring speechless at the stage curtain, her body suddenly ice-cold, all its blood throbbing in her temples. "The Lady Orchestra!" The words had fallen so lightly that their significance had dawned upon her slowly. This play—this "comedy with a sting" was about her—Hermia—and John Markham. Olga had written it, and was even now watching her face for some sign of weakness. Olga, De Folligny—and how many others? Terror gripped her—blind terror, every instinct urging flight. ”

“ 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." ”

“ Nature breathed deeply.
Markham led the way, his hand upon Clarissa's bridle, peering along their slender trail, while Hermia, all her senses keenly alive to the witchery of the night, followed closely, casting timorous glances over her shoulder into the murky gloom, in which she fancied she could discern the shapes of pursuers. Once thinking she had heard a sound behind her, she caught Markham's arm and they stopped, breathless, and listened, but they heard nothing in the rushing blackness but the complaint of an owl and the crash of a dead limb at a distance to their right. ”

“ There had been moments of uncertainty, moments of ennui, but never of danger—until to-night, when she had fallen from grace and yielded to an impulse, once ignoble, but now ignoble no longer, to bring Markham at all hazards to her feet. It was no longer their friendship that she loved, but Markham. She loved fervently as coquettes will at last, placing in one ship the cargo that had fared forth in so many vessels. It was the coquette in her that had mocked and tantalized him, the coquette even whom he had kissed—but it was the woman who had struck and now suffered the pains of her imprudence. ”

“ 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. ”

“ He stood, his full gesture of entreaty frozen into immobility. Then slowly his arms relaxed and he stood awkwardly staring, now thoroughly awake. She meant him to understand that Vagabondia was not—that their week in Arcadia had never been.
He gaped at her a full moment before he found speech.
"You wish to deny that you and I—that you were there with me—in
Normandy?" he stammered.
"One only denies the possible, Mr. Markham," she said with a glib certitude. "The impossible needs no denial. I was in Paris and in Switzerland this summer. Obviously I couldn't have been in Normandy, too." ”

“ A whim—the dormant devil in her—to whom her better self must now pay in the loss of his friendship.
The old relation between them was dead. She had nailed it in its coffin. He did not love her, but she knew, that had she wished, she could have made him think he was, coaxed lies from his lips which both of them would have lived to regret.
The future? Had she one? Happiness? It must come soon. She had reached the beginning of wrinkles and cheekbones and her wrists were squarer than they used to be. Thirty!—a year older than Markham! Roses grown in hothouses are quick to fade. ”

“ There were possibilities in the child-and it seemed a pity that no strong guiding hand led the way on a road like hers, which had so many turnings. She was only an overgrown child as yet, flat chested, slender, almost a boy, and yet redeemed to femininity by an unconscious coquetry which she could no more control than she could the warm flush of her blood; a child indeed, full of quick impulses for good or for evil.
Markham rose, knocked the ash out of his pipe, walked over to his canvas, set it up against the porch pillar and examined it leisurely. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Markham was the most refreshingly original person she had ever met. He always said exactly what he thought and refused to speak at all unless he had something to say. Those hours in the studio when he had painted her portrait had been hours to remember, sound, sane hours in which they had discussed many things not comprehended in her philosophy, when he had led her by easy stages up the steep path he had climbed until she had gained, from the pinnacle of his successes, a vista of what had lain beneath. ”

“ 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. ”

“ How could I have known that the pergola was occupied!"
"Oh, it didn't matter in the least," she said coolly. "Markham was making love to me, that's all. Pity—isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," said Hermia slowly, "a great pity—you're no respecter of persons, Olga."
Olga shrugged effectively.
"How should I have known?"
"You have had time enough to study him, I should say. Why couldn't you let him be? When there are so many other men—"
"Hear the child! One might think that I had brought him to my knees, malice propense. I didn't. Mon Dieu, one can't always prevent the unexpected."
Hermia laughed dryly. ”

“ Hermia Challoner laughed a little bitterly. "My dear Auntie, my life has not been planned with reference to the ultimate possible good. I'm a renegade if you like, a hoyden with a shrewd sense of personal morality but with no other sense whatever. I was born under a mad moon with some wild humor in my blood from an earlier incarnation and I can't—I simply can't be conventional. I've tried doing as other—and nicer—girls do but it wearies me to the point of distraction. Their lives are so pale, so empty, so full of pretensions. They have always seemed so. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Markham had not been marked as game. He was simply a delicious accident and she had accepted him as such, grateful for the new appetite which was as healthy as it was unusual.
But it was very natural that his indifference should pique her vanity. Markham did not care for women. That was all the more a reason why he should learn to care for her. The love of being loved was habit, ingrained, and she could not dismiss it with a word. But she gave him her friendship, and having given it would not recant from her secret vow to be honest with it and with him. ”

“ 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. ”