_The Prisoner of Chillon_
"Where are you going, Philippa?" Mrs. Jackman asked sharply as Flip
turned away from the group of tourists standing about in the cold hall
of the Chateau of Chillon.
"I'm going for a walk," Flip said.
Her father put his hand on her shoulder. "I'd rather you stayed with
us, Flip."
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with pleading. "_Please_,
father!" she whispered. Then she turned and ran out of the chateau,
away from the dark, prisoning stones, and out into the sunlight that
was as bright and as sudden as bugles. She ran down a small path that
led to Lake Geneva, and because she was blinded by sudden tears and by
the sunlight striking on the lake she did not see the boy or the dog
sitting on a rock at the lake's edge, and she crashed into them.
"I'm sorry!" she gasped as the boy slid off the rock and one of his
legs went knee deep into the water before he was able to regain his
balance. She looked at his angry, handsome face and said quickly, this
time in French, "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't see you."
"You should watch where you're going!" the boy cried, and bent down to
wring the water out of his trouser leg. The dog, a large and ferocious
brindle bull, began leaping up at Flip, threatening to knock her down.
"Oh--" she gasped. "Please--please--"
"Down, Ariel. Down!" the boy commanded, and the bulldog dropped to his
feet and then lay down in the path in front of Flip, his stump of a
tail wagging with such frenzy that his whole body quivered.
The boy looked at Flip's navy blue coat. "I'm afraid Ariel got your
coat dirty. His paws are always muddy."
"That's all right," Flip said. "If I let it dry it will brush off."
She looked up at the boy standing very straight and tall, one foot on
the rock. Flip was tall for fifteen ("I do hope you won't grow any
_taller_, Philippa dear," Mrs. Jackman kept saying,) but this boy was
even taller than she was and perhaps a year older.
"I'm sorry I knocked you into the lake," Flip said.
"Oh, that's all right. I'll dry off." The boy smiled; Flip had not
realized how somber his face was until he smiled. "Is anything the
matter?" he asked.
Flip brushed her hand across her eyes and smiled back. "No. I was
just--in a rage. I always cry when I'm mad. It's terrible!" She blew
her nose furiously.
The boy laughed. "May I ask you a question?" he said. "It's to settle
a kind of bet." He reached down and took hold of the bulldog's collar,
forcing him to rise to his feet. "Now sit properly, Ariel," he
commanded, and the dog dropped obediently to its haunches, its tongue
hanging out as it panted heavily. "And try not to drool, Ariel," the
boy said. Then he smiled at Flip again. "You _are_ staying at the
Montreux Palace, aren't you?"
"Yes." Flip nodded. "We came in from Paris last night."
"Are you Norwegian?"
"No. I'm American."
"She was right, then," the boy said.
"Right? About what? Who?" Flip asked. She sat down on the rock at the
edge of the water and Ariel inched over until he could rest his head on
her knee.
"My mother. We play a game whenever we're in hotels, my parents and
I. We look at all the people in the dining room and decide what
nationalities they are. It's lots of fun. My mother thought you were
American but my father and I thought maybe you were Norwegian, because
of your hair, you know."
Flip reached up and felt her hair. It was the color of very pale corn
and she wore it cut quite short, parted on the side with a bang falling
over her rather high forehead. Mrs. Jackman had suggested that she have
a permanent but for once Flip's father had not agreed. "She has enough
wave of her own and it suits her face this way," he said, and Mrs.
Jackman subsided.
"Your hair's very pretty," the boy said quickly. "And it made me wonder
if you mightn't be Scandinavian. Your father's so very fair, too. But
my mother said that your mother couldn't be anything but American. She
said that only an American could wear clothes like that. She's very
beautiful, your mother."
"She isn't my mother," Flip said. "My mother is dead."
"Oh." The boy dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Mrs. Jackman came from Paris with father and me." Flip's voice was as
hard and sharp as the stone she had picked up and was holding between
her fingers. "She's always being terribly kind and doing things for me
and I hate her."
"Watch out that Ariel doesn't drool on your skirt," the boy said. "One
of his worst faults is drooling. What's your name?"
"Philippa Hunter. What's yours?" Her voice still sounded angry.
"Paul Laurens. People--" he hesitated, "people who aren't your own
parents can sometimes be--be wonderful."
"Not Mrs. Jackman," Flip said. "She makes me call her Eunice. I feel
funny calling her Eunice. And when she calls my father 'darling' I hate
her. She's the one I got so mad at just now." She looked up at Paul
in surprise. "I've never talked about Eunice before. Not to anyone. I
shouldn't have talked like that. I'm sorry."
"That's all right," Paul said. "Ariel's made your coat very dirty. I
hope it will brush off. You have on a uniform, don't you?"
"Yes," Flip answered, and her voice was harsh because for the moment
tears were threatening her again. "I'm being sent to a boarding school
and I don't want to go. Mrs. Jackman arranged it all." She looked out
across the brilliant expanse of lake, scowling unhappily, and forced
the tears back.
"What do you want to do?" Paul asked.
"I want to be an artist some day, like my father. School won't help me
to be an artist." She continued to stare out over the water and her
eyes rested on a small lake steamer, very clean and white, passing by.
"I should like to get on that boat," she said, "and just ride and ride,
forever and ever."
"But the boat comes to shore and everybody has to get off at last,"
Paul told her.
"Why?" Flip asked. "Why?" She looked longingly after the boat for a
moment and then she looked at the mountains that seemed to be climbing
up into the sky. They looked like the mountains that she had often made
up out of cloud formations during the long slow summers in Connecticut,
only she was in Switzerland now; these were real mountains; this was
real snow on their shining peaks. "Well--" she stood up, dislodging
Ariel. "I'd better go back now. Mrs. Jackman will think I'm off weeping
somewhere."
Paul shook her hand. His grip was firm and strong. "Ariel doesn't
usually take to people the way he has to you. When Ariel doesn't like
people I know I'm never going to like them either. He has very good
taste. Perhaps we'll meet again sometime."