It had been a lovely foreground of sand and stubble, iridescent with the dew, rich with the broken grays and violets of the reflected heavens. And now—
He dropped his palette and brushes and ran forward, suddenly alive to the serious nature of the interruption. Upon the grass, stretched prone, face downward, lay a figure in leather cap, blouse and leggings. But as his hand touched the leather shoulder, the aviator moved and then sat upright, facing him. At the same moment the sun, which had been hesitating for some moments on the brink of the horizon, came up with a rush and bathed the face of the small person before him in liquid gold. The leather cap had fallen backward and a mass of golden hair which now tumbled about the face proclaimed with startling definiteness the sex of Markham's unexpected guest.
"Sorry to bother you," said the guest weakly. "She missed fire and I had to 'plane' down."
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No, I think not," she replied, running her fingers over her leather jerkin to reassure herself as to the fact. "Just shaken up a little—that's all."
Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, a tangle at his brow. It was quite evident to Hermia Challoner that he hadn't the slightest recollection of her.
"What are you doing out at this time of day?" he asked. "Don't you know you might have drowned yourself? Where did you come from? Where are you going?" The tone of his voice was not unkind—it was even solicitous for her welfare, but it reminded her unpleasantly of his attitude toward her the last time they had met.
[Illustration: "Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, a tangle at his brow."]
"That," she replied, getting rather unsteadily to her feet, "is a matter of no importance."
The effort in rising cost her trouble and as she moved toward the machine her face went white, and she would have fallen had not Markham caught her by the arm.
"Oh, I'm all right," she faltered. But he led her up the hill to the cabin where he put her on a couch and gave her some whisky and water.
"Here, drink this," he said gently. "It will do you good."
She glanced around the room at the piles of canvases against the wall, at the tin coffee pot on the wooden table, and then back at his unshorn face and shock of disorderly hair, the color rising slowly to her cheeks. But she obeyed him, and drank what remained in the glass without question, sinking back upon the pillow, her lips firmly compressed, her gaze upon the ceiling.
"I—I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble," she murmured.
"Oh, that's all right," he muttered. "You got a bad shock. But there are no bones broken. You'll be all right soon. Go to sleep if you can."
She tried to sit up, thought better of it and lay back again with eyes closed, while Markham moved on tiptoe around the room putting things to rights, all the while swearing silently. What in the name of all that was unpleasant did this philandering little idiot mean by trying to destroy herself on the front lawn of his holiday house? Surely the world was big enough, the air broad enough. He glanced at her for a moment, then crept over on tip-toe and peered at her secretively. He straightened and scratched his head, fumbling for his pipe, puzzled. She resembled somebody he knew or whom he had met. Where? When? He gave it up at last and strolled out of doors—lighted his pipe and sauntered down the hill toward the devilish thing of canvas and wire that had brought her here. He knew nothing of aÂroplanes, but even to his unskilled eye it was apparent that without repairs the thing would fly no more, for the canvas covering flapped suggestively in the wind. A broken wing! And the bird was in his cage. His situation—and hers—began to assume unpleasant definiteness. For three days at least, until his supply boat arrived, from the mainland, they would be prisoners here together. A pretty prospect!
He strolled to his belated canvas and stood for a while puffing at his pipe, his mind still pondering gloomily over his neglected foreground. then regretfully, tenderly, he undid the clips that fastened the canvas, unlooped the cords from his stone anchors, wiped his brushes, shut his paint-box and moved slowly up the hill toward the house, his mind protestingly adjusting itself to the situation. What was he to do with this surprising female until the boat arrived. Common decency demanded hospitality, and of course he must give it to her, his bed, his food, his time. That was the thing he begrudged her most—the long wonderful daylight hours in this chosen spot, the hourly calls of sea and sky in his painters' paradise. Silly little fool! If she had had to tumble why couldn't she have done it on the West shore where there were women, doctors and medicines?
He placed the canvas and easel against the corner of his house, knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot and cautiously peered around the jamb of the door to find his unwelcome guest sitting on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette. He straightened sheepishly, not knowing whether to grin or to scowl. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
"Feeling better?" he asked at last, for the silence embarrassed him.
"Oh, yes, thanks."
She rose and flicked her cigarette out of the window.
"Where are you going?" he asked again.
"Home—to breakfast."
"Impossible!"
"Why?"
"You're not fit—"
"Oh, yes I am—"
"Besides, you can't—"
"Why not?"
"Your aÂroplane—it won't fly?"
She stopped in the doorway and glanced anxiously down the slope where her Bleriot had fallen.
"One wing is broken, you see."
She went down the hill, Markham following. She stood before the broken machine and looked at it dejectedly.
"Well?" he asked.
"I'm afraid you're right. It will have to be repaired. I'll go back by boat."
He smiled.
"Of course. But in the meanwhile I'm afraid you'll have to trust to my hospitality—such as it is."
She turned toward him quickly.
"You mean—"
"The boat—my only means of communication, won't be here until
Thursday."
Her jaw dropped and her blue eyes were quite round in dismay.
"You can't mean it!"
"It's the truth."
"Have you no boats? Does no one come here from the mainland?"
"No. I arranged that. I came here to work and didn't want to be interrupted—" And hastily: "Of course, I'm glad to be of service to you, and if you'll put up with what I can offer—"
"Thanks," she said. "I hope it's apparent to you that I'm not stopping of my own volition." And then, as though aware of her discourtesy, she turned toward him, a smile for the first time illumining the pallor of her face.
"I'm afraid there's nothing left for me then but to accept your kind offer."
When they reached the cabin he brought out a wicker chair and put it in the shade.
"If you'll sit here and try to make yourself comfortable, I'll see what can be done about breakfast."
She thanked him with a smile, sat submissively and he disappeared indoors, where she heard him pottering about in the small kitchen. It was very quiet, very restful there under the trees and an odor