Читать книгу Madcap - George Gibbs - Страница 9

He rubbed his head and thatched his brows.

"Paris, perhaps—or—it couldn't have been in Normandy?" he asked.

"I've never been to Normandy. Besides, if we had met, I probably would have remembered it. I'm afraid you're thinking of some one else."

"Yes, perhaps I am," he said slowly. "I've got the worst memory in the world—"

"Mine is excellent," put in Hernia.

He looked at her soberly, and her gaze fell, but in a moment she flashed a bright smile up at him. "Of course it doesn't matter, does it? What does matter is how I'm going to get ashore."

"I've been thinking about that. I don't see how it can be managed," he replied briefly.

"Isn't there a boat-house?"

"Yes, but—unfortunately—no boats."

"It's a very awkward predicament," she murmured.

"Not nearly so awkward as it might have been if there had been no one here," he said slowly. "At least you won't starve."

"You're very kind. Oh, I hope you won't think me ungrateful. I'm not, really. I'll not bother you."

He looked at her amusedly.

"Can you cook?"

"No," she admitted, "but I'd like to try."

"I guess you'd better leave that to me," he finished grimly.

He was treating her as though she were a child, but she didn't resent it now. Indeed his attitude toward her made resentment impossible. His civility and hospitality, while lacking in the deference of other men of her acquaintance, were beyond cavil. But it was quite clear that the only impression her looks or her personality had made upon him was the slight one of having met and forgotten her—hardly flattering to her self-esteem. He was quite free from self-consciousness and at moments wore an air of abstraction which made it seem to Hermia as though he had forgotten her presence. In another atmosphere she had thought him unmannerly; here, somehow it didn't seem necessary to lay such stress upon the outward tokens of gentility. And his personal civility, more implied than expressed, was even more reassuring than the lip and eye homage to which she was accustomed.

In these moments of abstraction she inspected him curiously. His unshorn face was tanned a deep brown which with his rough clothing and longish hair gave him rather a forbidding aspect, and the lines into which his face fell in moments of repose were almost unpleasantly severe; but his eyes which had formed the painter's habit of looking critically through their lashes had a way of opening wide at unexpected moments and staring at her with the disconcerting frankness of those of a child. He turned them on her now so abruptly that she had not time to avert her gaze.

"You'll be missed, won't you?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Yes, I suppose I shall. They'll see the open hangar—"

"Do you think any one could have been watching your flight?"

"Hardly. I left at dawn. You see I've been bothered a lot by the curiosity of my neighbors. That's why I've been flying early."

"H—m. It's a pity to worry them so."

Markham rose and knocked out the ashes of his pipe.

"You see, Thimble Island is a good distance from the channel and only the smaller pleasure boats come this way. Of course there's a chance of one coming within hail. I'll keep a watch and do what I can, of course. In the meanwhile I hope you'll consider the cabin your own. I'll be quite comfortable to-night with a blanket in the boat-house."

She was silent a moment, but when she turned her head, he had already vanished into the cabin, where in a moment she heard the clatter of the dishes he was washing. At this moment Hermia was sure that she didn't dislike him at all. The clatter continued, mingled with the sound of splashing water and a shrill piping as he whistled an air from "BohÂme." Hermia gazed out over the water a moment and then her lips broke into a lovely smile. She made a quick resolution, got up and followed him indoors.

He looked over his shoulder at her as she entered.

"Do you want anything?" he asked cheerfully.

"No—nothing—except to wash those dishes."

"Nonsense. I won't be a minute. It's nothing at all."

"Perhaps that's why I insist on doing it."

She had taken off her blouse, rolled up the sleeves of her waist with a business-like air and elbowed him away from the dishpan unceremoniously.

"I'm going to wash them—wash them properly. You may wipe them if you like."

He grinned and fished around on a shelf for a dishcloth. Having found it he stationed himself beside her and took the dishes one by one as she finished with them.

"Your name is Markham, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes—how did you know?" he asked in surprise.

She indicated a packing case in the corner which was addressed in letters six inches high.

"Oh," he said. "Of course."

"You're the Mr. Markham, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure about that. I'm this Mr. Markham."

"Markham, the portrait painter?"

"That's what I profess. Why?"

"Oh, nothing."

He examined her, puzzling again, wiping the cup in his fingers with great particularity.

"Are you an anarchist?" she asked in a moment.

He laughed.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Or a gorilla?"

"One of my grandfathers was—once a long while ago."

"Or a misogynist?"

"A what?"

"A grouch. Are you?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I am."

"I don't believe it now. I did at first. You can look very cross when you like."

"I haven't been cross with you, have I?"

"No. But you didn't like being interrupted."

"Not then—but I'm rather enjoying it now." He took a dish from her fingers. "You know you did drop in rather informally. Who's been talking of me?"

"Oh, that's the penalty of distinction. One hears such things. Are you queer, morbid and eccentric?"

"I believe I am," amusedly, "now that you mention it."

She was silent a moment before she spoke again.

"I don't believe it—at all. But you are unconventional, aren't you?"

"According to the standards of your world, yes, decidedly."

"My world! What do you know about my world?"

"Only what you've told me by your opinions of mine."

"I haven't expressed my opinions."

"There's no need of your expressing them."

"If you're going to be cross I'll not wash another dish." But she handed the last of them to him and emptied the dishpan.

"Now," she exclaimed. "I wish you'd please go outside and smoke."

"Outside! Why?"

"I'm going to put this place in order. Ugh! I've never in my life seen such a mess. Won't you go?"

He looked around deprecatingly. "I'm sorry you came in here. It is rather a mess on the floor—and around," and then as though by an inspiration, "but then you know, I do keep the pots and dishes clean."

By this time she had reached the shelves over which she ran an inquisitive finger.

"Dust!" she sniffed. "Barrels of it! and the plates—?" She took one down and inspected it minutely. "I thought so. Please go out," she pleaded.

"And if I don't?"

"I'll do it anyway."

By this time she was peering into the corners, from one of which she triumphantly brought forth a mop and pail.

"Oh, I say, I'm not going to let you do that."

"I don't see that you've got any choice in the matter. I'm going to clean up, and if you don't want to be splashed, I'd advise you to clear out."

She went to the spigot and let the water run into the bucket, while she extended her palm in his direction.

"Now some soap please—hand-soap, if you have it. Any soap, if you haven't."

"I've only got this," he said lifting the soap from the dishpan.

"Oh, very well. Now please go and paint." But Markham didn't. He found it more amusing to watch her small hands rubbing the soap into the fiber of the mop.

"If you'll show me I'll be very glad—" he volunteered. But as he came forward, she brought the wet mop out of the bucket with a threatening sweep which splashed him, and set energetically to work about his very toes.

He moved to the door jamb, but she pursued him.

"Outside, please," with relentless scorn. "This is no place for a philosopher."

Markham was inclined to agree with her and retreated in utter rout.