Markham was inclined to agree with her and retreated in utter rout.
CHAPTER VI
THE RESCUE
On the porch he sank into the wicker chair, filled his pipe and looked afar, his ear attuned to the sounds of his domestic upheaval, not quite sure whether he was provoked or amused. At moments, by her pluck she had excited his admiration, at others she had seemed a little less worthy of consideration than a spoiled child, but her present role amused him beyond expression. Whoever she was, whatever her mission in life, she was quite the most remarkable young female person in his experience. Who? It didn't matter in the least of course, but he found himself somewhat chagrined that his memory had played him such a trick. Young girls, especially the impudent, self-satisfied kind that one met in America, had always filled Markham with a vague alarm. He didn't understand them in the least, nor did they understand him, and he had managed with some discretion to confine his attentions to women of a riper growth. Madame Tcherny, for instance!
Markham sat suddenly upright in his chair, a look of recognition in his eyes.
Olga Tcherny! Of course, he remembered now. And this was the cheeky little thing Olga had brought to the studio to see her portrait, who had strutted around and talked about money—Miss—er—funny he couldn't think of her name! He got up after a while, walked around and peered in at the kitchen door.
His visitor had washed the shelves with soap and water, and now he found her down on her knees with the bucket and scrubbing-brush working like a fury.
"See here, I can't let you do that—" he began again.
She turned a flushed face up at him and then went on scrubbing.
"You've got to stop it, do you hear? I won't have it. You're not up to that sort of work. You haven't got any right to do a thing like this. Get up at once and go out of doors!"
She made no reply and backed away toward the door of the living-room, finishing the last strip of unscoured floor before she even replied. Then she got up and looked at her work admiringly.
"There!" she said as though to herself. "That's better."
The area of damp floor lay between them and when he made a step to relieve her of the bucket she had lifted, she waved him back.
"Don't you dare walk on it—after all my trouble. Go around the other way."
He obeyed with a meekness that surprised him, but when he reached the other door she had already emptied her bucket and her roving eye was seeking new fields to conquer.
"You've got to stop it at once," he insisted.
"It's the least I can do to earn my board. This room must be dusted, the bed made and—"
"No. I won't have it."
He took her by the elbows and pushed her out of the door to the chair on the porch into which she sank, red of face and out of breath.
"I'll only rest for a minute," she protested.
"We'll see about that later," he said with a smile. "For the present, strange as it may seem, you're really going to obey orders!"
She squared her chin at him defiantly.
"Really! Are you sure?"
"Positive!"
"It's more than I am."
"I'm bigger than you are."
"I'm not in the least afraid of you."
He laughed.
"You hardly know me well enough to be afraid of me."
"Then I don't want to know you any better."
"You're candid at any rate. But when I like I can be most unpleasant.
Ask Olga Tcherny."
Her gaze flickered then flared into steadiness as she said coolly.
"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about."
"Do you mean to say that you don't remember?" he asked smiling.
"My memory is excellent. Perhaps I lack imagination. What should I remember?"
"My studio—in New York. You visited me with the Countess Tcherny."
"I do not know—I have never met the Countess Tcherny."
The moment was propitious. There was a sound of voices, and Markham and his visitor glanced over their shoulders past the angle of the cottage to where in the bright sunlight into which she had emerged, stood the Countess Olga.
"Hermia, thank the Lord!" she was saying. "How you've frightened us, child!" She came quickly forward, but when Markham rose she stopped, her dark eyes round with astonishment.
"You! John Markham! Well, upon my word! C'est abracadabrant! Here I've been harrowing my soul all morning with thoughts of your untimely death, Hermia, dear, turning Westport topsy-turvy, to find you at your ease snugly wrapped in tÂte-Â-tÂte with this charming social renegade. It is almost too much for one's patience!"
Hermia rose laughing, and faced the rescue party which came forward chattering congratulations.
"I thought my friends were too wise ever to be worried about me," she said coolly. "But I'm awfully obliged and flattered. Hilda, have you met Mr. Markham? Miss Ashhurst, Miss Van Vorst, and Mr. Armistead, Mr. Markham's island fortunately happened to be just underneath where my machine decided to miss fire—"
"You did fall then?"
"Well rather—look at my poor bird, there."
Salignac, the mechanician, was already on the spot confirming the damage.
"How on earth did you happen to know that you would find me here?" asked Hermia.
"We didn't know it," replied the countess. "We took a chance and came, worried to death. The head coachman's wife who was up with a sick child heard you get off and watched your flight over the bay in this direction. She didn't see you fall. But when you didn't return she became frightened and alarmed the household—woke us all at half-past five. Think of it!" She yawned and dropped wearily on the step of the porch. And then, as Markham went indoors in search of chairs, in a lower tone to Hermia, "With a person you have professed to detest you seem to be getting on famously, my dear."
"One hardly quarrels with the individual who provides one with breakfast," she said coolly.
At the call of Salignac, the mechanician, Hermia followed the others down the slope to the machine, leaving the Countess and Markham alone.
"Well," Olga questioned, "what on earth are you doing here?"
He couldn't fail to note the air of proprietorship.
"What should I be doing?" and he made a gesture toward his idle easel.
"Why didn't you answer my letters?"
"I have never received them. No mail has been forwarded here."
"Oh!" And then: "I didn't know just what to think—unless that you had gone back to Normandy."
"I'm going next month. Meanwhile I rented Thimble Island—"
"I wrote you that I was coming here to 'Wake-Robin,' Miss Challoner's place," she said pettishly, "and that I was sure there would be one or two commissions for you in the neighborhood if you cared to come."
"It was very kind of you. I'm sorry. It's a little too late now. I'm due at Havre in August."
She made a gesture of mock helplessness.
"There. I thought so. My plans for you never seem to work out. It's really quite degrading the way I'm pursuing you. It almost seems as if you didn't want me"
He