Читать книгу Madcap - George Gibbs - Страница 8

"Thanks," said Hermia. "I'm not hungry."

"But you can't get on without food."

"I'm not hungry," she repeated.

"Do you feel ill? Perhaps—"

"No. I'm all right again—quite all right. I don't know what made me feel faint. I've never done such a thing in all my life before. But you needn't worry. I'm not going to faint again."

Markham recalled the cigarette and believed her.

"But you can't get along all morning without food," he said.

She looked away from him toward the shore of the mainland where the towers of "Wake-Robin" made a gray smudge against the trees.

"Oh, yes, I can," she said shortly.

Markham eyed her curiously for a moment, then turned on his heel and went abruptly into the cabin whence he presently emerged carrying a tray which bore a cup of steaming coffee, some toast and an egg. Before she was well aware of it, he had placed the tray on her lap, and stood before her, his six feet of stature dominating.

"Now eat!" he said, quietly.

She looked down at the food and then uncertainly up to his face. Never in her life, that she could remember, had she been addressed to peremptorily. His lips smiled, but there was no denying the note of command in his voice and in his attitude. Curiously enough she found herself fingering at the coffee cup.

"There's a lump of sugar in it," he added, "and another on the saucer.

I have no cream."

"I—I don't care for cream, thanks."

There seemed nothing to do, since he still stood there looking at her, but to eat, and she did so without further remarks. He watched her for a moment and then went in at the door, returning in a moment with another cup of coffee and another dish. Without a word he sat on the step of the porch and followed her example, munching his toast and sipping his coffee with grave deliberateness, his eyes following hers to the distant shore.

Hermia's appetite had come with eating and she had discovered that his coffee was delicious. She made a belated resolution that, if she must stay here, she would do it with a good grace. He had offered to fill her coffee cup and to bring more toast, but, beyond inquiring politely how she felt, had asked her no other questions. When he had breakfasted he took her dishes and his own indoors and put them in the kitchen sink, then came to the door stuffing some tobacco into the bowl of his disreputable pipe.

"I hope I'm safe in assuming that tobacco smoke is unobjectionable to you."

"Oh, quite."

A glance at his eyes revealed the suspicion of a smile. There was humor in the man, after all. She looked up at him more graciously.

"I suppose you're wondering where I dropped from," she said at last.

"Yes," he replied, "I confess—I'm curious"—puff, puff—"though not so much about the where"—puff—"as about the why. Other forms of suicide may be less picturesque than flying, but they doubtless have other—homelier—virtues to recommend them. If I wished to die suddenly I think I should simply blow out the gas. Do you come from Quemscott, Simsbury or perhaps further?"

He asked the questions as though more from a desire to be polite than from any actual interest.

"No—from Westport. You know I live there."

"No—I didn't know it. Curiously enough in the back of my head I've not a notion that somewhere—but not in Westport—you and I have met before."

"I can't imagine where," said Hermia promptly.