Chapter 27

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY

The account of this atrocity did not reach John Markham for some weeks. With the exception of the people who came to the studio and the few men he met at the club where he dined, he saw little of society, and troubled himself less with its affairs. His life was more secluded, and his work more exacting than ever, and when he walked out, which he did in the late afternoons, he choose avenues which would not remind him of the things he was trying to forget. He had given up hope of Hermia, and though her vision persisted, it was not of the modish, self-contained creature who had received him so coolly that he thought.

This was not the Hermia he had loved. That other girl, the joyous companion of his summer idyl, was no more. At times it almost seemed that she had never been. She had made it clear that she wished no more of him and he had accepted her dictum without question. A more sophisticated lover would have laughed away the barriers she had interposed, followed her carelessly, and brought her to bay when he had proved or disproved the genuineness of her indifference. But Markham was singularly ingenuous, his reasoning as simple and direct as that of a child. He had never understood the woman of society and until Olga had appeared upon his horizon had let her severely alone. Hermia had been an accident--a divine accident. Her frankness had disarmed him, and he had followed his impulses blindly, as (it seemed to him then) she had followed hers. He gloried in the memory of their pilgrimage, its gayety, its freedom and the clean spirit with which they both had entered on it. He had believed in her and in believing had let his heart carry him where it would, willing to forget that she might not be infallible. He had been so sure of her--so sure--and now--

He wiped his brushes on a square of cheesecloth, cleaned his palette and lay in his chair frowning at the portrait, which smiled back at him with ironical amusement. It was curious. All his portraits now smiled. His reputation was based on his skill in making people happy in paint--painting all people happy but himself--_Punchinello_ dancing while his _Columbine_ lay dead. He straightened with a quick intake of the breath, then washed his brushes carefully and changed into street clothes. He was writing to one of his sitters when his knocker clanged and a man in livery entered bearing a note. He opened it and read:

My Dear Mr. Markham: I must see you at once on a matter of importance. Can you come up this afternoon for a dish of tea? I'm sending my car for you in the hope that your engagements will not forbid. If anything prevents to-day, won't you lunch with me to-morrow at two? Very sincerely yours, Sarah Hammond.

Markham frowned. There was no getting out of it, it seemed.

"You have Mrs. Hammond's car below?" he said to the waiting footman.

"Yes, sir. I was to get an answer or take you up, if you could go."

"I'll go. I'll be down in a moment."

The man retired, and Markham, somewhat mystified, reread Mrs. Hammond's note and got into this hat and overcoat. A matter of importance! Another commission, perhaps--she had already got him two. And yet it seemed, had it been that, she would have expressed herself differently.

He went down and got into the elegantly appointed limousine and in a while, too short to solve his problem, was set down under the _porte cochère_ of his _patronne_.

He found her at the tea table, a stout but puissant figure in mauve and black. In the studio she had not bothered him. She had been merely an amiable millionaire, in pearls and black satin. Here in the majestic drawing-room, with her small court gathered about her, she dominated him. He hesitated a second at the door before going forward, but when she saw him she rose at once and excused herself to her guests. After their departure, she motioned him to a chair beside her and entered without delay upon her subject. Her manner was kindly, if restrained, and he saw at once that the matter was of a personal nature.

"I suppose, Mr. Markham, you think it rather curious that I should have sent for you in such haste, but I shouldn't have done so had I not thought it necessary. You understand that, don't you?"

Markham murmured something and waited for her to go on.

"It seems a little difficult to begin, for there are some matters which are not easy even with a friend."

"I am sure if there is anything in which I can help you--"

"There is, Mr. Markham. I should not have dared to speak to you if I hadn't, unfortunately, found myself brought into an affair in which your name has been mentioned."

"My name?"

"Yes. Yours and Miss Challoner's."

He blanched and was immediately conscious that her small eyes were watching him keenly.

"Wh--what have you heard, Mrs. Hammond?" he blurted out.

"One moment, Mr. Markham. I don't want you to think that I am the kind of woman who seeks to pry into the affairs of other people. I don't. I abominate meddlers and will have nothing to say, even if after I tell you what my motives are, you refuse to answer my questions. But a great wrong has been done, an advantage taken of my hospitality. I speak of the theatricals which took place at my house in the country last month."

He stared at her blankly and she smiled.

"I forgot," she went on, "what a hermit you are. Of course you have not heard." She leaned over the tea table and took a slip of paper from under a tea dish. "I shall let you read this so that you may know in just what terms New York is speaking of you--of me--of us."

She handed him the clipping. It was from a weekly paper, which concerned itself with the doings of society, and he read, his eyes glowing:

The much heralded theatricals at "Roods Knoll" have come and gone, but the echoes of this affair are still reverberating the length of the Avenue. It seems that the very clever play, written by a well-known woman of society, was based upon fact, and that the hero and heroine of the adventures depicted are in New York, the girl in question a member of the hunting set and the man a distinguished portrait painter--both of whom shall be nameless. As everyone knows, the play is laid in rural France, and deals with the loves of a French countess who has fled from her husband to join her lover, also married, upon the road, where they become members of a band of strolling mountebanks, the lady masquerading as a _Dame Orchestre_ and the gentleman as an itinerant painter of portraits--

Markham stopped, his eyes seeking those of his hostess.

"The play was given," he said hoarsely, "at your house?"

"It was, Mr. Markham," she said simply. "Read it through to the end, please."

He did so, his horror increasing as the full significance of the description grew upon him. Hermia had seen--had read this. They were talking about her and about him? He could not understand.

"You said that Miss--Miss Challoner's name had been mentioned--and mine," he said slowly. "There is no name--mentioned her. The identity of the people--"

"Your names have been mentioned, Mr. Markham, in my presence. The story back of this vile clipping is on the lips of every gossip in town. Where it originated Heaven only knows, but facts are given and dates which make it ugly in the extreme. I thought it best that you should know and sent for you to assure you that I had no knowledge about the play and its possible reference to any one."

"The play," he asked quietly, "was written by Madame Tcherny?"

She nodded, her eyes regarding him soberly.

"What shall I do, Mr. Markham? If there is some basis of truth in the reports I hear, I have been grossly imposed upon and, whatever the facts, have done a great wrong both to you and Hermia. Unfortunately, she has left New York, and I don't know where to find her. She left town, I am informed, the day after the play was given. I wish she hadn't. It makes things awkward for me. I have the best intentions in the world, but if she ties my hands by silence what can I do?"

Markham had risen and was pacing the floor slowly, his head bent, all this thoughts of Hermia. Olga's cruelty stunned him. She had promised not to speak. Had she spoken other than in this ingenious drama? Or was it--De Folligny? His fists clenched and his jaws worked forward. De Folligny--a man. Here was something tangible--a man, not a woman, to deal with. He turned and stood beside the tea table, struggling for the control of his voice.

"Who has told this story, Mrs. Hammond?" he asked at last.

She shrugged her capacious shoulders and settled her head forward in his direction.

"Frankly, I don't know. Thank God, I'm not in any was responsible for that part of this misfortune. I only know that Olga Tcherny wrote the play. As to her motives in doing so I am at a loss. But if I thought she used my house, violated my hospitality at the expense of one of my guests, to serve some private end, I would--"

The good lady grew red in the face, and then, controlling herself after a moment, "I would find some means of getting her the punishment she deserved. Hermia Challoner was there," she went on quickly. "Her appearance was remarked. She looked ill and left the house before supper. You were invited, too, Mr. Markham, if you will remember, but would not come. I confess I'm at my wit's ends. I shall not question you. All I ask is your advice."

Markham raised his head and looked her in the eyes for a full moment. She was much distressed at the position, and the friendliness of her look was all that could be desired. He hesitated a moment, weighing his duty with his inclination. What was best for Hermia? How could he serve her? How build a bulwark to dyke the flood of scandal which threatened her in her flight? A lie? Obviously that wouldn't do, for Mrs. Hammond believed in him. And the story had gone too far, was too diabolic in its accuracy, for a flat denial without explanation. The truth?

His hostess still regarded him patiently. He searched her with his eyes, his gaze finally falling.

"If one is guiltless one does not fear the truth," he muttered slowly, "nor does virtue fear a lie--but a half-truth will damn even the innocent, Mrs. Hammond."

"There is some basis then for the stories they are telling?" she asked kindly.

"My lips have been sealed. I'm not sure that I have the right to open them now. But I will. I don't think I could pay you a higher compliment than by trusting Miss Challoner's fate entirely into your hands."

Mrs. Hammond, now keenly interested, smiled at him encouragingly.

"Thanks, Mr. Markham, I'm not so old that I have forgotten how to be human."

He glanced around the room and lowered his voice.

"You know--Hermia--Miss Challoner very well, Mrs. Hammond?"

"Since her infancy--a creature of moods--willful, wayward, if you like--but the soul of honor and virtue."

He bowed his head.

"Thanks. You make it easier for me," he said. "I want you to understand first, Mrs. Hammond, that I alone am responsible for this misfortune. Miss Challoner and I met upon the highroad in Normandy, entirely by chance. I was doing the country afoot, as is my custom in summer. He machine was destroyed in an accident. She was alone. I asked her to go with me. She accepted my invitation. It was mad of me to ask her, made of her to accept--but she did accept. We were together more than a week-traveling afoot by day--sleeping in the open when the weather was fine and indoors when I could find a room for her. I had moments of inquietude at my responsibility, for I had done wrong in letting her go with me. She was a child and trusted me. I began by being amused. I ended by-- Good God! Mrs. Hammond, I loved--I worshiped her. I _couldn't_ have harmed her. She was sacred to me--and is now. You _must_ understand that."

His hostess's expression, which had grown grave during this recital, relaxed a little.

"I think I understand, Mr. Markham. I am keenly interested. Where does Olga Tcherny come in?"

Her question bothered him. He thought for a moment, and then went on, deliberately postponing a reply.

"Our relations were clearly established from the first. We had met before, you know, earlier in the summer, and I had visited at Westport. She liked and understood me, and was sensible enough to tell me so; and I--she attracted me--curiously. I had always lived a solitary sort of existence. She simply ignored my prejudices and over-rode them. She invaded my life and took it by storm. She was like the sudden _capriccioso_ after the _largo_ in a symphony. She was Youth and Joy, and she got into my blood like an elixir. I loved her for all the things she was that I was not, but I did not tell her so--not then. I hid my secret, for I knew that if she guessed it would make a difference to us both." He raised his head and went on more rapidly. "We joined a company of strolling mountebanks. Oh, that was true enough--and went with them as far as Alençon. Hermia--Miss Challoner--_was_ a _Dame Orchestre_ and I a 'lightning' artist. We made our living in that way. It was quite wonderful how she played--wonderful how she forgot what she was--how she became what I wanted her to be--an earthling among earthlings. With them she lived in poverty and discomfort, learned the meaning of weariness and felt the pinch of hunger." He smiled. "I suppose you wonder why I'm telling you all this, Mrs. Hammond. I wanted you to understand just what the pilgrimage was--how little it had in common with--with what you have heard these people saying."

"I know, Mr. Markham. I understand," she said gently. Her eyes softened and she looked past him as though back through a vista of the years. "It was Romance--the true Romance," she murmured. "She borrowed a week from Immortality--that, for once, she might be herself. She was free--from this thralldom--free!"

"She worked--hard," he went on after a moment, "and she earned what money she made. And so did I. But I was bothered. My sins were pursuing me. One day we saw upon the road a man Miss Challoner had met, and at Alençon--"

"Olga Tcherny?" asked Mrs. Hammond keenly.

Markham paused, looked beyond her and went on.

"And at Alençon, when we were giving a performance, some one I knew appeared and recognized me. Need I mention names?"

"Not if you prefer to be silent. And the hunting lodge?"

"We fled from Alençon that night and took refuge from the rain in a house in the forest. Miss Challoner was dead tired. We had been up since sunrise. So we stayed there, thinking ourselves safe. But in the morning--" He paused.

Mrs. Hammond had risen and was fingering the flowers on the tea table.

"In the morning," she finished dryly, "Olga Tcherny found you there. I understand."

He rose and faced her uncomprehendingly. "Mrs. Hammond, do you mean that you believe--as she did?"

She turned quickly and thrust forth both of her plump jeweled hands, and he saw that her friendliness was in no way diminished.

"I'm not one to believe half-truths, Mr. Markham, when I hear whole ones," she said, smiling rosily. "If you had lied to me I should have known it. But you didn't and I believe in you."

She released his hand and made him sit again.

"I've never been so entertained and delighted since--since hundreds of years ago," she sighed. "You were mad--quite mad, both of you. And Hermia--" she stopped, sat quickly upright, and while he watched her, laughed deliberately. "Hermia comes back to New York and engages herself to--to Trevelyan Morehouse! The excellent Trevelyan--after Arcadia! And you?" She read his face like an open book, her humor dying in a gently smile.

"It doesn't matter about me, Mrs. Hammond," he said quietly.

"But I think it does," she insisted. "Do you mean that you can't understand?"

"Understand what, Mrs. Hammond?"

"How that poor child has suffered. Do you mean that you don't know why it is that she has ignored you and fled to Trevelyan Morehouse?"

He made no reply.

"Then I can't help you. There is nothing in the world denser than a lover. The object of his affections is large in his eyes, so large that the focus is blurred. He can't see her--that's all. Hermia was terror-stricken and you were not aware of it. She knew that she was clean and that you were, and the dirt that threatened her threatened her idyl, too."

She stopped abruptly and looked past him.

"I'm afraid I've said too much, Mr. Markham. That is because I see how foolish you have been--both of you in this affair. It's none of my business."

She fingered the clipping on the table and went on vigorously.

"As to this infamous story that they are telling, I shall find means to stop it. How, I don't know just yet. This paper shall print a retraction. I'll manage that. Olga Tcherny--"

"I beg of you--"

"Olga Tcherny's career in New York is ended. She shall never enter my house, or the house of any of my friends. That play was a lie, written with a motive. She has used me shamefully--shamefully--made me an accomplice, and placed me in the undesirable position of sponsor for her villainies."

She rose, walked to the window and looked out upon the Avenue, her lips taking firmer lines of resolution. He watched her in silence, and when she spoke her tones were short and decisive.

"With your permission, Mr. Markham," she said at last, "as Hermia's friend and yours, I shall deny this story in every detail. You must provide me with an alibi."

She turned back into the room and faced him.

"You were not in Normandy last summer--that is positive."

He smiled.

"I am in your hands," he said.

"Where were you?"

"In Holland, if you like. I've tramped there."

"And Hermia?"

"In Switzerland. She went there after leaving me. There was a party. Morehouse was with her. It's easily proved."

"Good. We must lose that week somewhere. It must be wiped from the calendar. If Hermia only hadn't run away!"

"Mrs. Westfield is still here, I believe," he ventured.

She deliberated a moment.

"Excellent. I shall see her at once. Together we will manage it. You are to leave things to me. I'm not without influence here in New York, Mr. Markham. We shall see. All I ask is that you avoid seeing Olga or taking the matter into your own hands. That would only make a noise--an unpleasant noise. Will you promise me?"

He was silent. She examined him curiously.

"You think you know who told this story?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You think it was not Olga?"

"Yes. She gave me her word she would say nothing. I believed her."

"Was it--" she paused.

"The man we met upon the road in Normandy was Monsieur de Folligny, Mrs. Hammond."

"Oh! I see." She fingered the sugar tongs a moment. "And you want to question him?" she asked then.

"Er--I would like to find out if it was he who told."

"And then thrash him? You want the papers full of the whole affair, with portraits of the principals, and a description of your romantic--"

"God forbid!"

"How like a man! To get a girl talked about and then of course to want to thrash somebody! I've no patience with you. You must promise to behave yourself or I'll wash my hands of the whole affair."

He smiled down at his clasped hands. "I suppose you are right," he muttered.

"Right! Of course I am. This is a case which will require the most careful handling--a case for the subtlest diplomacy. If I am going to risk my reputation for veracity--and jeopardize my hopes of Heaven by the fibs that I must tell in your behalf, I don't propose to have my efforts spoiled by senseless bungling. Will you give me your promise?"

He shrugged. "I suppose there is nothing left for me to do."

She leaned forward toward the tea table with a laugh.

"I'm so glad that you are sensible. Now we shall have our tea. I owe you apologies. My business seemed more urgent than my hospitality."

They sat and chatted for a while, Markham sipping his tea and wondering why he was imparting to this stout and very amiable old lady all his life's secrets. A half hour later, when he rose to go, he realized that he had told her all about his week in Vagabondia, including its sudden termination. She surprised him at intervals by the sympathy of her appreciation, and at others equally serious by an unseemly mirth or an impatience which they had not merited. But when he got up to go she followed him to the door and gave him both of her hands again.

"I like you, John Markham. You're quaint--a relic of a less flippant age. I'm sorry you won't accept any of my invitations--but I'll forgive you, if you'll promise to do as I bid you."

"I'm deeply grateful to you, Mrs. Hammond. Of course, I shall be obedient. I will do whatever you ask of me."

She released him and gave him a gentle push toward the door.

"Then go--and find Hermia!"

"I, Mrs. Hammond?"

"Yes, you. At once."

"But--"

"And when you find her--marry her, do you hear? It's the happiest issue out of your afflictions." She laughed again, rather mischievously. "You know, I think you owe her that!"

"I-- She--you--"

"She is waiting for you--somewhere. Find her: Leave the rest to me. Now go."

He halted again--incredulous, but she waved him past the door where a man appeared to help him into his coat. And so he bowed his thanks and went out into the dusk of the Avenue, his brain teeming with nebulous inconsistencies.