He got up and laid her coat over her feet and then stood beside her, his soul in his eyes, watching.
"Poor little madcap," he whispered; "mad little—sad little madcap."
He bent over her tenderly, with a longing to smooth away the tired lines at her eyes with caresses, to take her in his arms and soothe her with gentleness. She seemed very small, very slender, too small, too childish to have raised such a tempest in the deeper currents of his spirit, and he groped forward, his fingers trembling for the touch of her.
He straightened with a sigh. He could not and he knew it; for she trusted him and trust in him was her defence, a valiant one even against his tenderness. It had always been one of the hardest burdens he had to bear. He watched her a while longer, then turned away and sank into a chair by the table, soberly lit his pipe and smoked, his eyes roving. There were colored prints upon the wall, well chosen ones of deer and fox hunters in full chase; upon the table an ash tray of Satsuma ware and several books. He took up the one nearest him, a volume on big game hunting, and turned the pages idly. Their unconscious and unwilling host took his sports seriously, it seemed. He dropped the book upon his knees, and as he did so it fell open at the fly leaf, upon which in a feminine scrawl a name was inscribed. He read it with surprise and concern. "Madeleine de Cahors!" Olga Tcherny's Norman friend—who lived—
Alençon! What a dolt he was! This was the forest of Écouves—or a part of it—and in the night he had come into the preserve of the wealthy marquis. Olga's friends—and Olga! A fine escape he had made of it, into the very sphere of the Countess Tcherny's activities! The Château must be near here, at the most not more than a few kilometers distant. He was a clod-pate, nothing less. For with all the Oire to choose from he had stumbled blindly into the one path that led to danger. What was to be done? He got to his feet stealthily and went through the lodge. A dining room, kitchen and pantry upon the other side of the hallway, deserted, but like the living room, giving signs of recent use. He opened the door and looked out. The shadows of the forest were barely discernible through the driving rain. It was a boisterous night, its inclemency heightened when viewed from the shelter of this friendly roof, one which must defy their sleuth, the chauffeur, had he had the temerity or the stealth to follow them through the forest. Markham watched for a while, nevertheless, and then, satisfied that for the night at least they were safe from discovery, returned to the living room and dropped into his chair, determining to sit and listen a while and then perhaps take a few hours of sleep.
There was nothing else to be done. His companion was beyond moving, unless he carried her, and this he knew in his present condition could not be far. To-morrow morning they must be abroad early and make their way at top speed out of the forest, trusting to luck that had so far favored them to bring them out of harm's way. It was curious, though, the way Olga had persisted in his thoughts. Marry? Him? Incredible! Had she not taken the pains so long ago to make him understand that marriage was the last thing in the world she would ever think of again? Their agreement on the fundamentals of independence had been one of their strongest ties. That kiss in Hermia's rose garden meant nothing to Olga—or to him. An accident—physical only—the possibility of which their former agreements had unfortunately not foreseen. Hermia was mistaken—that was all. And yet—why this pursuit? It all seemed a little too deep for his comprehension at the present moment. His mind groped for lucidity, failed, and then was blank.
CHAPTER XXI
NEMESIS
The storm had blown itself out in the night and the sun came blithely up, awaking the forest to its orisons. The oaks dripped jewels and the black pines lifted their gilded spires above the clearing and nodded solemnly to the rosy East. The sun climbed higher and a thin pall of vapor roamed up the hillside from the gorges of the stream and sought the open sky.
Nature had wept out the gusts of her passion and her smiles were the more beautiful through the vestiges of her tears. The sunlight was spattered lavishly among the shadows, glowing with a lambent light in the hidden places under shrub and thicket and dancing madly on leaf and bough. There was mischief in the air and it took but a little flight of the fancy to conjure Pan and his nymphs gamboling about the sleeping house of the vagabonds.