She had just fallen asleep for the second time, when the cessation of
the engines woke her, and a few moments later they had descended in a
field adjoining his aerodrome.
He jumped from the pilot's seat and lifted her out. "Quick, Pippa," he
said. "They'll be here in a few minutes for the machine. I had to land
here because that light was my only guide. Do you see that heavy tree
over there by the road? Wait by it until I return with a motor-cycle.
Hurry, youngster; they're coming."
She did as he bade her, and took refuge in the shadow of a huge tree,
just as men's voices told her the mechanics had come. The rolling of
distant guns, like thunder echoing through cavernous depths, traveled
on the wings of the wind and left her heart fluttering from a sudden
contraction of pain. For one day, in the restful meadows of England and
in the fascination of the unmarred City of Adventure, she had forgotten
France's agony. With the thought came a sudden bitterness.
Ten minutes later she heard him coming with a motor-cycle, to which a
side-car was attached. She took her seat in the car, and he fastened
the rubber cover over her knees. Then, opening the throttle, they sped
through the night towards her home.
It was just twenty minutes to twelve when they reached the mill.
Hurrying across the foot-bridge which spanned the chute, she entered
the cottage and lit the lamp.
"Louis!" she cried. "Louis!"
That patient feline awoke from slumber and stretched in the most blasé
manner; but his little mistress, gathering him in her arms, pressed her
cheek against his head, asking a dozen questions at once, to which he
deigned no reply other than blinking into space and licking his chops,
as though the ways of women were beyond him, but 'twere best to let
them have their own way.
The airman followed her in.... The prevaricating clock continued its
dilatory march of time. Marshal Joffre was, if anything, more paternal
than before, and the geranium-colored table cover lent its unsubtle
glow to the scene.
"Good-by, Pippa," he said.
The girl stood motionless, and there was a quick stab in her heart. She
had known that this moment would come, but had kept her thoughts from
it ... and now ... he was going....
Once more she would have only her little world of make-believe. She
released the cat from her arms and turned her eyes away.
"You have been very kind, monsieur," she said.
He fingered his helmet absent-mindedly. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked
aimlessly.
"It was wonderful," she said quietly, still looking into distance; "I
have seen so much. This morning I was just a little girl, but now----"
His fingers ceased turning the helmet, and he frowned at it intently.
"We do not grow old with years but by moments," he said. "For a long
time one is a child; then there comes an instant of suffering, or of
love ... and one is no longer a child. That is all."
She slowly sank into a chair by the table, and, folding her hands,
appeared engrossed in the table cover. "Your Majesty," she said, "do
you remember the poor lady with the violets?"
"Yes, Pippa."
"What did she say to you?"
He smiled awkwardly. "It--it is rather hard to explain, little one. She
told me to--to take care of you."
"Why did she say that?" she asked without removing her eyes for a
moment from the table.
"Well--perhaps you do not know this--but men are sometimes very unkind
to women."
"I know, monsieur. Simon Barit, he often beats his wife."
He sat down on a chair opposite her. "There are many more ways of being
cruel than that," he said. "Sometimes a kiss, or the gift of a flower,
is worse than a blow. Often, Pippa, men play with women's hearts
as--well, as Louis does with a spool."
A shadow fell on her face. "I think I understand, monsieur. That poor
lady was afraid I should fall in love with you, but that you would not
love me."
"That is partly what she meant."
Pippa rose and walked to the window. "To-night I think," she said,
after a minute's silence, "that women have the most sorrow in life."
"They do, little one."
"But also the most joy, monsieur."
He rested his chin on his hand, but said nothing.
"All to-day," resumed the girl, "when men seemed happiest it was
because they were with women. Also when they looked most cruel--you
perhaps know what I mean--there were women there too with the faces
that frightened me. And all those lovely children playing in the
park--always they seemed so merry because their mothers were near them.
But also, you remember the poor soldier in the chair?--no legs and but
one arm. His face was so sad until once the lady with him--a nurse, you
said--spoke to him and he looked at her and smiled. It was lovely,
monsieur. I think I wept a little."
He made no comment, but his left hand ran slow arpeggios on the table.
From the window she could see the water of the chute, all silvery in
the moonlight.
"So to-night, monsieur," she went on, "I am not the same as this
morning. Then I thought that we who are women are the happiest; but now
I think, in the real world, it is we who give pleasure or unhappiness.
Perhaps, monsieur"--she turned around and faced him--"perhaps a woman
finds joy only when she gives it to others."
He looked at her, and his eyebrows were raised in wonder. When he had
said we grow old by moments, was it more than just a well-turned
phrase?
She returned to her chair by the table.
"When Louis and I are alone," she murmured, "I shall not dream the same
as before. Then we had only young people, brave and handsome, but now I
shall pretend that there are many old and sad ones, who perhaps will be
glad if I am with them. And----"
"Pippa, my dear"--he looked into her eyes that met his without
timidity, and there was a pleading note in his voice--"you may be
lonely here, but you saw to-day how many discouraged, unhappy people
there are--how much sickness and unkindness there is. Keep to your
little world here with its Fairy Princes and the music of the wind. It
is better, Pippa.... Perhaps it is even more real than the other."
She smiled, patiently, and, for the second time that day, felt a
motherly pity for his youthfulness.
"Your Majesty," she said, "in my book, _The Fairy Prince_, the girl
sings a song about love, and she asks her mother, '_Est-ce plaisir,
est-ce tourment?_' I know now that it is both. Ah! I think it is too
wonderful to be a woman; for some day, perhaps yes, perhaps no, I shall
have my own children and a husband and friends. And sometimes, when my
husband, he is much discouraged if the mill makes no money, though he
works so hard, or if my children are perhaps sick and cry--then it is I
who smile and say: '_Mes enfants_'--for he, too, will be only a big
child--'_Mes enfants_, can you see the sunshine? Do you hear the birds?
Can you smell these flowers?--So!' _Et alors_--perhaps they smile too.
So I sing a pretty song and say to my husband '_Courage, mon ami!_ Have
you not your little wife?' And after that we are all happy.... And now,
that is why I think it is so wonderful to be a woman."
The clock hiccoughed, and struck eight.
The airman looked at his watch. "By Jove, it is midnight!" he said.
"Pippa, our day is over----"
Tears sprang to her eyes, and her hands groped for his. "But no,
monsieur," she cried, "you must not go. It will be so lonely."
He leaned over and covered her little hands with his large, tanned
ones. "It will be lonely for me as well," he said.
"But you will come back, Your Majesty? Perhaps--next Easter?"
He gently stroked her hand. "On my honor," he said, "I will come on the
Tuesday at dawn. You will be there?"
He released her hands as she slowly rose and crossed once more to the
window.
"At daybreak," she said very quietly, gazing at the steely brilliance
of the running water, "I will watch from the hill. And if you do not
come, though I shall weep a little, I shall say, 'He is fighting, and
could not leave for little Pippa. Next year he will come.'"
"And supposing, little one, he does not come the next year either?"
She leaned her arm against the window-pane and rested her cheek on it.
"I shall watch again at dawn, monsieur"--the words were spoken very
slowly--"and I shall say, 'He is not coming.... He has gone to be with
his brothers who went, out into the sunlight, smiling so bravely----'"
Her words ended in a half-sob, and she pressed her face with both
hands.
"But every Easter," she said, her voice very soft and trembling, "on
the Tuesday I will watch the dawn from the hill, and perhaps, monsieur,
you will see me."
He stood motionless for a moment, slowly reached for her leather coat
and helmet, and placed them over his arm. "Good-by, Pippa," he said,
and he held out his hands.
Timidly, and with cheeks that went all white, then crimson, she came
towards him and raised her face for him to kiss. For a moment he held
her in his arms, which quivered oddly.... Then, stooping, he gently
kissed her--not on the upturned, trembling lips, but on the cheek, just
beside her mouth.
Without a word he gently released her from his arms, flung the door
open and went out into the night.
Motionless, with the burning memory of his hot lips upon her cheek, she
stood until the sound of his footsteps was lost in the song of the
chute. Slowly her hands dropped to her side and she sank into the chair
by the table. The cat looked up from the task of licking his paws, and
sprang upon her lap.
"Louis!" she cried, smothering him in an embrace that threatened to
snuff out his nine lives prematurely, while tears from her eyes fell
glistening on his fur. "Louis!"