"Parfaitement, Monsieur. You may rely upon my discretion."
CHAPTER XIII
VAGABONDIA
They took the road in the gray of a morning overcast with clouds and portentous of a storm. At the last moment, their host, with an eye upon the weather (and another upon Markham's hidden wallet), had sought to keep them until the skies were more propitious. But they were not to be dissuaded and trudged off briskly, Monsieur Duchanel and Madam Bordier accompanying them to the cross-roads and bidding them God-speed upon their journey.
Markham, pipe in mouth, his hat pulled over his eyes, his coat collar turned up, showed the way, while Hermia, her finery hidden under a long coat, followed, leading the donkey, which, after a few preliminary remonstrances, consented to accompany them. A tarpaulin covered Hermia's orchestra and Markham's knapsack which were securely packed upon the animal—a valiant, if silent company, marching confidently into the unknown, Hermia smiling defiance at the clouds, Markham smoking grimly, the donkey ambling impassively, the least concerned of the three.
A rain had fallen in the night but Hermia splashed through the mud and water joyously, like a child, thankful nevertheless for Markham's thoughtfulness which had provided her last night with a pair of stout shoes and heavy stockings. To a spirit less blithe than hers the outlook would have been gloomy enough, for all the morning the clouds scurried fast overhead and squalls of rain and fog drove into the misty south. The trees turned the white backs of their shivering leaves to the wind and dripped moisture. The birds silently preened their wet plumage on the fences or sought the shelter of the hedges. Nature had conspired. But Hermia plodded on undismayed, aware of her companion's long stride and his indifference to discomfort. Her shoes were soaked and at every step the donkey splashed her new stockings, but she did not care; for she had discovered a motive in life and followed her quest open-eyed, aware that already she was rearranging her scale of values to suit her present condition. She was beginning to feel the "needs and hitches" of life and had a sense of the flints strewn under foot. Her mind was already both occupied and composed. She was quite moist and muddy. She had never been moist or muddy before without the means at hand to become dry and clean. Those means lacking, mere comfort achieved an extraordinary significance—reached at a bound an importance which surprised her.
After a while Markham glanced at her and drew alongside.
"Discouraged?" he asked.
"Not a bit," she smiled at him. "But I hadn't an idea that rain was so wet."
"I promised you the fountain springs of life—not a deluge," he laughed. "But it won't last," he added cheerfully with a glance at the sky. "It should clear soon."