Reversing these, checking off the separate words, and then reversing the
entire sequence of words, he had as the complete translation of his
letter, including the first paragraph, the following information and
admonition:
"War sure. We move. Hide. You are trailed. Wait word to proceed
Calais."
"War sure!" That was easily understood. "We move." That meant England
was already mobilizing on land and sea. And the remainder became plain
enough; he must stay very quietly where he was until further
instructions arrived.
He read through his notes and his letter once more, then twisted letter,
envelope, and penciled memoranda into a paper spiral, set fire to it
with a match, and leisurely lighted his pipe with it.
When the flame of the burning paper scorched his fingers, he laid it
carefully on the grass, where it was presently consumed. The charred
remnants he ground to dust under his heel as he got up and brushed a
spear or two of hay from his clothing.
Then he looked at the Harem, all busily committing felony with brush and
colors; and, as he gazed upon them, he politely stifled a yawn.
*CHAPTER VII*
Warner, conscientious but not hopeful, circulated among the easels of
the Harem. Halkett strolled at his heels.
Stopping in front of Alameda Golden's large canvas, which was all
splashed with primary and aggressive colors, he gazed, uncomforted, upon
what she had wrought there. After a few moments he said very patiently:
"You should not use a larger canvas than I have recommended to the
class. Mere size is not necessarily a synonym for distinction, nor does
artistic strength depend upon the muscular application of crude paint. A
considerable majority of our countrymen comprehend only what is large,
gaudy, and garrulous. Bulk and noise only can command their attention.
On the other hand, only what is weak, vague, and incoherent appeals to
the precious--the incapables and eccentrics among us. But there is a
sane and healthy majority: enroll yourself there, Miss Golden!
"Be honest, reticent, and modest. If you have anything to say in paint,
say it without self-consciousness, frankly, but not aggressively.
Behave on canvas as you would bear yourself in the world at large, with
freedom but with dignity, with sincerity governed by that intelligent
consideration for truth which permits realism and idealism, both of
which are founded upon fact."
Miss Golden pouted:
"But I _see_ haystacks this way!" she insisted. "I see them in large
and brilliant impressions. To me nothing looks like what it is.
Haystacks appear this way to my eyes!"
"My dear child, then paint them that way. But the popular impression
will persist that you have painted the battle of Trafalgar."
Miss Golden wriggled on her camp chair.
"Everything," she explained, "is one monstrous, gaudy, and brutal
impression to me. I see a million colors in everything and very little
shape to anything. I see only cosmic vigor; and I paint it with a punch.
Can't you see all those colors in those haystacks? To me they resemble
gigantic explosions of glorious color. And really, Mr. Warner, if I am
to be true to myself, I must paint them as I see them."
Warner, horribly discouraged, talked sanely to her for a while, then
with a pleasant nod he passed to the next easel, remarking to Halkett
under his breath:
"It's a case for a pathologist, not for a painter."
And so for an hour he prowled about among the Harem, ministering to
neurotics, inspiring the sluggish, calming despair, gently discouraging
self-complacency.
"Always," he said, "we must remain students, because there is no such
thing as mastery in any art. If ever we believe we have attained
mastery, then our progress ceases; and we do not even remain where we
are; we retrograde--and swiftly, too.
"The life work of the so-called 'master' is passed only in solving newer
problems. There is no end to the problems, there is an end only to our
lives.
"Look at the matter in that way, not as a race toward an attainable
goal, nor as an eternally hopeless effort in a treadmill; but as a sane
and sure and intelligent progress from one wonder-chamber to a chamber
still more wonderful--locked rooms which contain miracles, and which
open only when we find the various keys which fit their locks....
"That is all for this morning, young ladies."
He lifted his hat, turned, and strolled away across the meadow, Halkett
at his side.
"Some lecture!" he commented with a faint grin.
"It's sound," said Halkett.
"I do the best I can with them. One might suppose I know how to paint,
by the way I pitch into those poor girls. Yet, I myself never pick up a
brush and face my canvas but terror seizes me, and my own ignorance of
all I ought to know scares me almost to death. It's not modesty; I can
paint as well as many, better than many. But, oh, the long, long way
there is to travel! The stars are very far away, Halkett."
He pitched his easel, secured a canvas, took a freshly-set palette and
brushes from his color-box, and, still standing, went rapidly about his
business, which was to sketch in an impression of what lay before him.
Halkett, watching him over his shoulder, saw the little river begin to
glimmer on the canvas, saw a tender golden light grow and spread,
bathing distant hills; saw the pale azure of an arching sky faintly
tinting with reflections the delicate green of herbage still powdered
with the morning dew.
"This is merely a note," remarked Warner, painting away leisurely but
steadily. "Some day I may pose my models somewhere outdoors under
similar weather conditions; and you may see dragoons in their saddles,
carbines poised, the sunlight enveloping horses and men--or perhaps a
line of infantry advancing in open order with shrapnel exploding in
their faces.... Death in the summer sunshine is the most terrifying of
tragedies.... I remember once after Lule Burgas---- Never mind, I
shan't spoil the peaceful beauty of such a morning.
"War? War _here_!--In this still meadow, bathed in the heavenly
fragrance of midsummer! ... Well, Halkett, the government of any nation
which _attacks_ another nation is criminal, and all the arguments of
church and state and diplomacy cannot change that hellish fact.
"There is only one right in any combat, only one side in any war. And
no reasoning under the sun can invest an aggressor with that right.
"He who first draws and strikes forestalls God's verdict."
Halkett said:
"How about your own wars?"
"Halkett, the United States is the only nation which ever entered a war
from purely sentimental reasons. It was so in the Revolution; it was so
in 1812, in the War of Secession, in Mexico, in the Cuban War.
"All our wars have been undertaken in response to armed aggression; all
were begun and carried on in defense of purely sentimental principles.
I do not say it because I am a Yankee, but our record is pretty clean,
so far, in a world which, since our birth, has accused us of ruthless
materialism."
He continued to paint for a while in silence; and when his color notes
were sufficiently complete for his purpose, and when the Harem had filed
before the canvas and had adoringly inspected it, Warner packed up his
kit, and, taking the wet canvas, walked with Halkett back to the Golden
Peach.
There Halkett was made acquainted with Madame Arlon, the stout, smiling
proprietress of the inn, who sturdily refused to believe that war was
possible, and who explained why to Halkett with animation while Warner
went indoors to deposit his sketches in his studio.
He returned presently, saying that he would take Halkett to Sister
Eila's school across the fields; so the two young men lighted their
pipes and strolled away together through the sunshine.
Eastward, far afield, the gay aprons and sunbonnets of the Harem still
dotted the distance with flecks of color; beyond, the Recollette
glimmered, and beyond that hazy hills rolled away southward toward the
Vosges country.
Halkett looked soberly into the misty east.
"It won't come from that direction," he said, half to himself.
Warner glanced up, understood, and sauntered on in silence.
"By the way," remarked the Englishman, "I shall stay here tonight."
"I'm very glad," returned Warner cordially.
"So am I, Warner. Ours is an agreeable--acquaintance."
"It amounts to a little more than that, doesn't it?"
"Yes. It's a friendship, I hope."
"I hope so."
After a moment he added laughingly:
"I've fixed up your bally envelope for you."
"How?"
"Covered it with a thick, glossy layer of Chinese white. I put in a
dryer. In a day or two I shall make a pretty little picture on it. And
nobody on earth could suspect that embedded under the paint and varnish
of my canvas your celebrated document reposes."
They took a highway to the left, narrow and tree-shaded.
"When do you get the newspapers here?" inquired Halkett.
"After lunch, usually. The _Petit Journal d'Ausone_ arrives then.
Nobody bothers with any Paris papers. But I think I shall subscribe,
now.... There's the school, just ahead."
It was a modern and very plain two-storied building of stone and white
stucco, covered with new red tiles. A few youthful vines were beginning
to climb gratefully toward the lower window sills; young linden trees
shaded it. A hum, like the low, incessant murmur of a hive, warned them
as they approached that the children were reciting in unison; and they
halted at the open door.
Inside the big, clean room, the furniture of which was a stove and a
score or more of desks, two dozen little girls, neatly but very poorly
dressed, stood beside their desks reciting. On a larger desk stood a
glass full of flowers which Halkett recognized; and beside this desk,
slenderly erect, he saw Sister Eila, facing the children, her white
hands linked behind her back.
Seated behind the same desk was another Sister--a buxom one with the
bright, clear coloring of a healthy peasant--more brilliant, even, for
the white wimple, collarette, and wide-winged headdress which seemed to
accent the almost riotous tint of physical health.
The childish singsong presently ceased; Sister Eila turned pensively,
took a step or two, lifted her eyes, and beheld Halkett and Warner at
the doorway.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Please come in, Messieurs. I have been wondering
whether Mr. Warner would bring you before luncheon.... Sister Felicite,
this is Monsieur Halkett, who so amiably aided me to gather my bouquet
this morning."
Sister Felicite became all animation and vigor; she was cordial to
Halkett, greeted Warner with the smiling confidence of long
acquaintance.
It lacked only a few minutes to noon, and so lessons were suspended, and
the children put through one or two drills for Halkett's benefit.
Out in the kitchen a good, nourishing broth was simmering for them, and
Sister Eila slipped away during the brief exhibition to prepare
twenty-four bowls and spoons and tartines for these ever-hungry little
children of the poor, orphaned for the most part, or deserted, or having
parents too poor to feed them.
At noon Sister Felicite dismissed the school; and the little girls
formed in line very demurely and filed off to the kitchen.
"What a delicious odor!" exclaimed Halkett, nose in the air.
Sister Felicite sniffed the soup.
"We do our best," she said. "The poor little things fatten here, God be
praised." And, to Warner, in her vigorous, alert manner: "What is all
this talk concerning war? The children prattle about it. They must
have heard such gossip among the quarry people."
Warner said:
"It begins to look rather serious, Sister."
"Is it Germany again?"
"I fear so."
Sister Felicite's pink cheeks flushed:
"Is it the noisy boaster who rules those Germans who would bring the
sword upon us again? Is there not enough of barbaric glory in his
Empire for him and his that he should invade the civilized world to seek
for more? It is a vile thing for any man, be he ruler or subject, to
add one featherweight to the crushing burden of the world's misery!"
"To declare war is the heaviest of all responsibilities," admitted
Warner.
"Is it already declared?"
"No. That is to say, Austria has declared war against Servia, Russia is
mobilizing, and Germany has warned her."
"Is that an excuse for anybody to attack France?"
"Russia is mobilizing, Sister," he repeated meaningly.
"What then?"
"France must follow."
"And then?"
Warner shrugged his shoulders.
Sister Eila came out, nodding to Sister Felicite, who usually presided
at the lunch hour: and the latter went away with Warner toward the
kitchen, still plying the American with questions. Sister Eila bent her
head, inhaled the perfume of the flowers on her desk, and then looked up
at Halkett.
"Don't you ever lunch?" he asked.
"Yes; I tasted the soup. You lunch at one at the inn."
"I suppose so. What a charming country this is--this little hamlet of
Sais! Such exquisite peace and stillness I have seldom known."
Sister Eila's eyes grew vague; she looked out through the sunny doorway
across the fields towards a range of low hills. The quarries were
there.
"It is a tranquil country," she said pensively, "but there is misery,
too. Life in the quarries is hard, and wages are not high."
"Mr. Warner tells me they are a hard lot, these quarrymen."
"There is intemperance among the quarrymen, and among the cement
workers, too: and there is roughness and violence--and crime, sometimes.
But it is a very hard _metier_, Mr. Halkett, and the lime dust blinds
and sears and incites a raging thirst. God knows there is some excuse
for the drunkenness there. We who are untempted must remain gentle in
our judgments."
"I could not imagine Sister Eila judging anybody harshly."
Sister Eila looked up and laughed:
"Oh, Mr. Halkett, I have confessed to impatience too many times to
believe that I could ever acquire patience. Only today I scolded our
children because they tore down a poster which had been pasted on the
public wall at the crossroad. I said to them very severely, 'It is a
sin to destroy what others have paid for to advertise their
merchandise.'"
"That was a terrible scolding," admitted Halkett, laughing.
"I'll show you the poster," volunteered Sister Eila, going over to her
desk. Raising the lid, she picked up and displayed an advertisement.
*CHAPTER VIII*
Halkett looked curiously at this specimen of a poster which was already
very familiar to him. The dead walls of northern and eastern France and
Belgium had been plastered with such advertisements for the last year or
two, extolling the Savon de Calypso. But what had recently interested
Halkett in these soap advertisements was that posters, apparently
exactly similar, appeared to differ considerably in detail when examined
minutely.
The picture in this advertisement represented, as always, the nymph,
Calypso, seated upon the grass, looking out over the sea where the sun
shone in a cloudless sky upon a fleet of Grecian ships which were
sailing away across the blue waves of the AEgean.
Where details varied was in the number of ships in the fleet, the number
and grouping of sails, sea birds flying, of waves, and of clouds--when
there were any of the latter--the number of little white or blue or pink
blossoms in the grass, the height of the sun above the horizon line and
the number and size of its rays.
There was always at least one ship--never more than a dozen; he had
counted twenty white blossoms on some posters; varying numbers on
others, of white, of blue, or of pink, but never less than three of any
one color. Sometimes there were no sea birds.
As for the sun, sometimes it hung well above the ocean, often its yellow
circle dipped into it, and then again only the rays spread fanlike above
the horizon line.
[Illustration: Savon de Calypso poster]
And concerning the nymph, her pose and costume did not seem to vary at
all in the various poster specimens which he had seen; the wind was
always blowing her red hair and white, transparent scarf; she always sat
gazing laughingly seaward, one hand resting on the grass, the other
clutching a cake of soap to her bosom.
Still examining the sheet of paper, he counted the white flowers
scattered over the grass around the seated nymph. There were _ten_ of
them.
"Sister Eila," he said carelessly, "how many kilometers is it to the
next town south of us? I mean by the military road."
"To Rosieres-sous-Bois?"
"Yes."
"About ten kilometers by the military road."
He nodded and counted the ships. There were three.
"Is there more than one road which runs to Rosieres-sous-Bois?" he
asked.
"Yes. One may go by this road, or cross the bridge by the quarries and
go by the river road, or there is still a better and shorter highway
which runs west of Sais."
"Then there are _three_ main roads to Rosieres-sous-Bois?"
"Yes. The road to the west is shorter. It is not more than seven miles
that way."
Halkett casually counted the sea gulls. Seven gulls were flying around
one of the ships; thirteen around another.
"And the river road, Sister?" he inquired.
"By the quarry bridge? Oh, that is longer--perhaps twelve or thirteen
kilometers."
"I see.... Rosieres-sous-Bois is not a garrison town?"
"No. There are only a few gendarmes there."
Halkett examined the picture attentively. The sun appeared to be about
three hours high above the horizon.
"The nearest military post must be about three hours' journey from
here," he ventured.
Sister Eila thought a moment, then nodded:
"Yes, about three hours. You mean the fort above the Pass of the
Falcons? That is the nearest."
He counted the rays of the sun. There were three long ones and two
short ones.
"I suppose there are three or four battalions garrisoned there," he
remarked.
"Three, I think. And a company of engineers and one company of Alpine
chasseurs."
All the time, with a detached air, the young Englishman was examining
the colored poster, searching it minutely for variations from other
posters of the same sort which he had recently investigated.
There remained in his mind little or no doubt that the number and
position of the groups of pointed wavelets signified something
important; that the number of sails set on the ships, which varied in
every poster, contained further information; that the sky, cloudless in
some posters, dotted with clouds in others, was destined to convey
topographical particulars to somebody.
These colored advertisements of a soap made in Cologne by Bauermann and
Company, and plastered over the landscape of Northern and Eastern
Belgium and France, concealed a wealth of secret information for anybody
who possessed the key to the messages so clearly and craftily expressed
in pictograph and cipher code.
The sinister significance of the sheet in his hand was becoming more
apparent every minute. He had made a study of these posters--was just
beginning to find them interesting, when he had been ordered to America.
Now, all his interest in them returned.
Sister Eila had seated herself at her desk, and, while he was still
examining the poster, she continued serenely to correct the pile of inky
copybooks.
He watched her for a while, where she bent above the scrawled pages, her
pen poised, her lovely face framed in the snowy wimple under the pale
shadow of her wide-winged coiffe.
"Sister Eila?"
She turned her head tranquilly.
"You are English, you tell me?"
"Irish." She smiled.
"It's the same. Tell me, have you had enough experience in your world
of duty and of unhappiness to know an honest man when you encounter
him?"
Sister Eila laid aside her pen and turned toward him.
"I don't think I understand," she said.
"I mean, could you make up your mind about--well--about such a man as I
am--merely by inspecting me and hearing me speak?"
Sister Eila laughed:
"I think I could very easily."
"Have you already done so?"
"Why, yes, I suppose so."
"Do you think I am honest enough to be trusted?"
Sister Eila laughed again, deliciously.
"Yes, I think so," she said.
He remained silent and his face, already grave, grew more serious.
Sister Eila's smile faded as she watched him. It was becoming very
plain to her that here was a man in trouble.
Silent there together in the cool stillness of the schoolroom, they
heard the distant clatter of little feet, the vigorous voice of command
from Sister Felicite; and a moment later a double file of chattering
children passed in the sunshine outside the window, led toward their
noonday playground by Sister Felicite accompanied by Warner.
"What is on your mind, Mr. Halkett?" asked Sister Eila, still watching
him.
"If I tell you," he said, "will you ask me no more than I offer to tell
you?"
She flushed:
"Naturally, Monsieur----"
"You don't quite understand, Sister. What I have to say I wish you to
write down for me in the form of a letter of information to the French
Government."
"You wish _me_ to write it?"
"Please. And that is what I mean. Naturally, you might ask me why I do
not write it myself.... Don't ask me, Sister.... If you really do
trust me."
He turned, met her gaze, saw two clear, sweet eyes unspoiled and
unsaddened by the wisdom she had learned in dark and wretched places;
saw in them only a little wonder, a faintly questioning surprise.
"What is your answer, Sister?" he asked.
"My answer is--I--I _do_ trust you.... What am I to write?"
She took a few loose leaves of paper from the desk, and sat looking at
him, pen lifted.
He said:
"Write to the chief of the general staff at the Ministry of War in
Paris."
And when she had properly addressed the personage in question, he
dictated his letter very slowly in English; and Sister Eila, her
expressionless young face bent above the letter paper, translated into
French as he dictated, and wrote down the exact meaning of every word he
uttered:
"Information has come to me that the advertisements of Bauermann and
Company, of Cologne, Prussia, which are posted everywhere throughout
Belgium and Northern and Eastern France, conceal military and
topographical details concerning the vicinity where these advertisements
are displayed.
"Such information could be of use only to a prowling spy or an invading
enemy.
"Therefore, acting upon the incomplete information offered me, I deem it
my duty to bring this matter to the notice of the Government.
"It would appear that:
"1st. Secret information is contained in the details of the picture
which embellishes this advertisement, a sample of which I inclose
herewith.
"2nd. These details vary in every poster. Presumably their number,
color, groupings, and general distribution constitute a secret code
which is calculated to convey information to the enemies of France.
"3rd. In the sample which is inclosed with this letter, the number of
ships probably represents the number of highways leading from Sais to
Rosieres-sous-Bois; the sea gulls flying above two of the ships give the
distance in kilometers; the ten white flowers give the distance by the
military road.
"The sun, in the picture, appears to be about three hours high above the
horizon; and it is _three hours'_ journey from here to the nearest
French fortified post, the Pass of the Falcons in the Vosges.
"The rays of the sun are five in number, three long ones and two short
ones; and there are _three battalions_ of the line guarding the fort at
the pass, and _two companies_, one of engineers, one of Alpine infantry.
"My informant, who desires to remain anonymous, further declares it to
be his belief that an exhaustive study of this and similar posters would
reveal perfectly clear messages in every detail of color, drawing, and
letter-press; and that it is his firm conviction that these posters,
representing a German firm which manufactures soap, have been placed
throughout Belgium and France for the convenience of an invading army.
"Immediate removal of these advertisements seems advisable in the
opinion of my informant.
"(Signed), SISTER EILA,
"Of the Daughters of St. Vincent de Paul at Sais."
When she had finished the letter and had unhesitatingly signed it, she
lifted her clear eyes to him in silence. Her breath came a trifle
unevenly; the tint of excitement grew and waned in her cheeks.
"At least," he said, "you will understand that I am a friend to France."
"Yes, that is evident."
"Will you direct and seal the packet and give it to the postman?"
"Yes."
"And, Sister Eila, if they send gendarmes or other officials to question
you?"
She looked straight into his eyes, deeply, so that her gaze seemed to
plunge into the depths of his very soul.
Then, lifting the cross from the rosary at her girdle, she slipped out
of her chair and knelt down beside her desk, her young head bent low
over the crucifix which she held between the palms of her joined hands.
Halkett, head also lowered, stood motionless.
After a few moments she rose lightly from her knees.
"It is a vow, now," she said. "I have bound myself to silence
concerning the source of my information--" her untroubled eyes rested
again on his--"because I believe in you, Monsieur."
He started to speak, but seemed to find no word to utter. A bright
color mounted to his brow; he turned abruptly from the desk and stepped
toward the open door.
And the instant he appeared there, framed by the doorway, a shot rang
out, knocking a cloud of stucco and plaster from the wall beside him.
*CHAPTER IX*
He shrank back flat against the wall, edged along it, and slipped
swiftly inside the house. A thick veil of lime dust hung across the open
doorway, gilded by the sunlight. Crumbs of plaster and mortar still
fell to the schoolroom floor.
Through the heated silence of early afternoon he could hear the distant
cries of the children from their playground; there was no other sound;
nothing stirred; nobody came.
If Warner had noticed the shot at all, no doubt he supposed it to be the
premature report of some piece. To the gaunt, furtive Vosges poacher no
close season exists. If it did exist, he would cease to.
Halkett slowly turned his head and saw Sister Eila behind him. She had
risen from her chair at the desk; now she came slowly forward, her deep,
grey eyes fixed on him. But before she could take another step he laid
his hand firmly on her wide, blue sleeve and forced her back into the
room.
"Keep away from that door," he said quietly.
"Did somebody try to kill you?" she asked. Her voice was curious, but
perfectly calm.
"I think so.... Don't show yourself near that door. They might not be
able to distinguish their target at such a range."
"They? Who are 'they'?"
"Whoever fired.... I must ask you again to please keep out of range of
that doorway----"
"The shot came from the river willows across the fields, did it not?"
she interrupted.
"I'm very sure of it. You need not feel any anxiety for the children,
Sister; I am going. There'll be no more shots."
"There is a door at the back by the kitchen yard, Mr. Halkett. They
will not see you if you leave that way."
He stood thinking for a while; then:
"On your account, and on the children's, I'll have to show myself again
when I leave the house, so that there'll be no mistake about my
identity. Don't move until after I have gone some distance along the
road. And please say to Mr. Warner that I've returned to the inn for
luncheon----"
"There is a door in the rear! You must not show yourself----"
"Indeed, I must. Otherwise, they might mistake you or Sister Felicite
or one of the children for me----"
"Mr. Halkett!" He had already started.
"Yes?" he replied, halting and glancing back; and found her already at
his elbow.
"Why were you shot at?" she asked. "I desire to know."
He looked her straight in the eyes:
"I can't tell you why, Sister."
"You say you are English, and that you are a friend to France. If that
is true, then tell me who shot at you! Do you know?"
"In a general way, I suppose I do know."
"Do you not trust a French Sister of Charity sufficiently to tell her?"
"What man would not trust a daughter of St. Vincent de Paul?" he said
pleasantly.
"Then tell me. Perhaps I already guess. Has it to do with your
knowledge of German advertisements?"
He was silent.
"You are evidently a British agent." Her deep, grey eyes grew more
earnest. "You are _more_!" she said, clasping her hands with sudden
conviction. "I suspected it the first time I saw you----"
"Please do not say to anybody what it is that you suspect----"
"You are a British officer!" she exclaimed.
"Sister Eila; you could do me much harm by mentioning to others this
belief of yours, or anything concerning this affair. And--do you
remember that you once said you trusted me?"
"I said it--yes."
"Do you still have confidence in me?"
Their eyes met steadily.
"Yes," she said. "I believe you to be a friend to France, and to me."
A slight flush edged the snowy wimple which framed the lovely oval of
her face.
"I _am_ your friend; and I am a friend to France--I say as much as that
to you. I say it because of what you are, and because--you are _you_.
But ask me no more, Sister. For men of my profession there are
confessionals as secret and as absolute in authority as those which
shrive the soul."
He hesitated, his eyes shifted from her to the fresh flowers on the
desk, which they had both gathered; he reached over and drew a white
blossom from the glass.
"May I take it with me?"
She bent her head in silence.
Then he turned to go through the deadly doorway, carrying his flower in
his hand; but, as he walked out into the sunshine, Sister Eila stepped
swiftly in front of him, turned on the doorstep, screening him with
extended arms.
"This is the best way," she said. "They ought to see quite clearly that
I am a Sister of Charity, and they won't fire at me----"
But he tried to push her aside and spring past her:
"Stand clear of me, for God's sake!" he said.
"Wait----"
"Sister! Are you insane?"
"_You_ must be, Mr. Halkett----"
"Keep away, I tell you----"
"Please don't be rough with me----"
He tried to avoid her, but her strong, young hands had caught both his
wrists.
"They won't shoot at a Sister of Charity!" she repeated. "--And I shall
not permit them to murder you! Be reasonable! I am not afraid."
She held on to his wrists, keeping always between him and the distant
glimmer of the river:
"I shall walk to the road with you this way; don't try to shake me off;
I am strong, I warn you!" She was even laughing now. "Please do not
wriggle! Only schoolboys wriggle. Do you suppose I am _afraid_? Since
when, Monsieur, have Sisters of Charity taken cover from the enemies of
France?"
"This is shameful for me----"
"You behave, as I have said, like a very bad schoolboy, Mr. Halkett----"
He tried vainly to place himself between her and the river, but could
not disengage her grasp without hurting her. Then, over his shoulder,
he saw three men come out of the river willows.
"You shall not take this risk----" he insisted.
"Please listen----"
"I take no risk worth mentioning. It was you who would have walked out
to face their fire--with that smile on your lips and a flower in your
hand! Did you think that a Grey Sister would permit that? Soyez
convenable, Monsieur. They will not fire while I am walking beside
you." She looked over her shoulder. One of the men by the willows was
raising a rifle.
They reached the highway at the same moment, and the roadside bank
sheltered them. Here she released his arm.
"I beg you to be a little reasonable," she said. "You must leave Sais at
once. Promise me, Mr. Halkett----"
"I cannot."
"Why?"
"Sister, if I am really a soldier, as you suppose me to be, perhaps I
have--_orders_--to remain at Sais."
"Have you?" she asked frankly.
He turned and looked at her:
"Yes, little comrade."
"That is really serious."
"It must not cause you any anxiety. I shall 'wriggle'--as you say--out
of this mess when the time comes. I may start tonight."
"For London? Do you wriggle as far as that?"
He said gravely:
"You know more about me now from my own lips than I would admit, even
prompted by a firing squad. I trusted you even before you faced death
for me on that doorstep a moment ago. _Did you see that man come out of
the willows and level his rifle at us?_"
She said tranquilly:
"We daughters of St. Vincent de Paul never heed such things."
"I know you don't; I know what are your traditions. Many a Sister of
your Order has fallen under rifle and shell fire on the battlefields of
the world; many have died of the pest in hospitals; many have succumbed
to exposure. The history of modern war is the history of the Grey
Sisters. What you have just done, as a matter of course, is already
part of that history. And so--" he looked down at her crucifix and
rosary--"and so, Sister, and comrade, I shall tell you what it would not
be possible for me to admit to any other living soul in France. Yes; I
_am_ a British officer on special and secret duty. I left the United
States two weeks ago. Trouble began in Holland. I am now on my way to
London. Orders came today halting me at Sais. Enemies of France are
annoying me--people who are becoming more desperate and more determined
as the hours pass and the moment approaches swiftly when they can no
longer hope to interfere with me. That moment will come when war is
declared. It will be declared. I shall be very glad to arrive in
England. Now I have told you almost everything, Sister Eila. My honor
is in your keeping; my devotion is for my own country, for France--and
for you."
"I have made one vow of silence," she said simply. "I shall make
another--never to breathe one word of this."
"You need not. Just say to me that you will not speak."
Her lovely face became as solemn as a child's:
"I shall not speak, Mr. Halkett."
"That settles it," he said. "If it lay with me, I'd trust you with
every secret in our War Office!" He checked himself, hesitated, then:
"Sister Eila, if anything happens to me, go to Mr. Warner and ask him
for _that envelope_. There are sure to be British soldiers in France
before very long. Give that envelope to some British officer."
After a moment she laughed:
"Englishmen are odd--odd! They are just boys. They are delightful. I
shall do what you ask.... And there is your inn.... Am I tired? _I_?
Vous plaisantez, Monsieur! But, Mr. Halkett, what would be the object
in your walking back with me? I should only have to walk back here
again with you! It would continue _ad infinitum_."
They both laughed.
"When trouble finally comes, and if I am hit, I pray I may lie in your
ward," he said gayly.
Her smile faded:
"I shall pray so, too," she said.
"I'd feel like a little boy safe in his own nursery," he added, still
smiling.
"I am--happy--to have you think of me in that way." Her smile glimmered
anew in her eyes. "I should be a devoted nurse." She made him a
friendly little signal of adieu and turned away.
Hat in hand, he stood looking after the grey-blue figure under the snowy
headdress.
At the turn of the road she looked back, saw him, still standing there;
and again, from the distance, she made him a pretty gesture of caution
and of farewell. Then the grassy bank hid her from view.
At the Inn of the Golden Peach, Warner's Harem was already lunching.
Through the open windows of the dining-room came a discreet clatter of
tableware and crockery, and a breezy, cheery tumult like the chatter in
an aviary.
Halkett, not fancying it, went around the house to the quiet garden.
Here he wandered to and fro among the trees or stood about aimlessly,
looking down at the flower beds where, kneeling beside Sister Eila, he
had aided her to fill her ozier basket.
Later Warner found him seated under the arbor with Ariadne on his knee;
and a few moments afterward the maid, Linette, served their luncheon.
Neither of the young men was very communicative, but after the dishes
and cloth had been removed, and when Halkett, musing over his cigarette
and coffee, still exhibited no initiative toward conversation, Warner
broke the silence:
"What about that shot?" he asked bluntly.
"What shot?"
"Don't you want to talk about it?"
Halkett glanced up, amused:
"Well, I suppose there was no hiding that bullet hole and the plaster
dust from Sister Felicite."
"Of course not. The bullet ripped out the lathing. Who was it fired at
the school? Or was it at you they let go?"
"Didn't you ask Sister Eila?"
"I did. She absolutely refused to discuss it, and referred us both to
you. It was no accident, was it?"
"No."
"Somebody tried to get _you_?"
"It rather looked that way."
"Our friends in the grey car, of course!" concluded Warner.
"Not necessarily. _They_ have other friends who might be equally
attentive to me. I don't know who shot at me. There were three of them
over by the river."
"Well, Halkett, don't you think you had better remain indoors for a
while?"
"I'd better, I suppose." He laughed. "Honestly, I'm sick of being shot
at. One of these days they'll hit me, if they're not very careful."
But Warner did not smile.
"Do you promise to stay indoors?" he insisted.
"I'll see. Perhaps."
"Don't you think it advisable for you to carry some sort of a
firearm--one of my automatics, for example?"
"Thanks, old fellow. I think I'll do that, if you can spare a section
of your artillery for a day or two."
Warner promptly fished an automatic out of his hip pocket, and Halkett
took it and examined it.
"So I'm to do the Wild West business after all," he said gayly. "Right
you are, old chap. I know how it's done; I've read about it in your
novels. You wait till your enemy takes a drop, then you get the drop!"
He laughed at his British joke. And, having no hip pocket, he stowed
away the lumpy bluish weapon in a side pocket of his coat.
"Now, don't let me interfere with your daily routine," he continued. "I
shall do very well here in the arbor while you lead your Harem toward
the Olympian heights."
"Sometimes I feel like pushing 'em off those cliffs," muttered Warner.
"All right; I fancy you'll be snug enough in the garden, here with
Ariadne, till I return. We shall have the whole house to ourselves after
dinner. The Harem migrates to Ausone for overnight to do street
sketches tomorrow, and returns the next morning for a general criticism.
So if you'll amuse yourself----"
"I shall be quite comfortable, thanks. If anybody climbs the wall to
pot me, we'll turn loose on 'em, this time--won't we, old
girl?"--caressing Ariadne, who had returned to his knee.
Half an hour afterward Warner went away in the wake of the Harem; and at
the end of the second hour he gave them a final criticism before they
started for Ausone.
Much good it did them; but they adored it; they even adored his
sarcasms. For the Harem truly worshiped this young man--a fact of which
he remained uncomfortably conscious, timidly aware that warier men than
he had been landed by maidens less adept than they.
So it was with his usual sense of deep relief that he saluted the Harem,
picked up his own kit and canvases, and wandered at hazard through a
little poplar grove and out of it on the other edge.
A wild meadow, deep with tasseled grasses and field flowers, stretched
away before him, where swallows sailed and soared and skimmed--where
blue lupin, _bouton d'or_, meadowsweet, and slender, silvery stems
crowned with queen's lace grew tall, and the heliotrope perfume of
hidden hawkweed scented every fitful little wind.
But what immediately fixed his attention was a distant figure wading
waist-deep amid the grasses--a slim, brilliant shape, which became oddly
familiar as it drew nearer, moving forward with light and boyish grace,
stirring within him vaguely agreeable recollections.
Then, in spite of her peasant's dress, he recognized her; and he walked
swiftly forward to meet her. The figure out there in the sunshine saw
him coming and lifted one arm in distant recognition and salute.
They met in mid-meadow, Warner and the girl Philippa.
Her short skirt and low peasant bodice had faded to a rose-geranium
tint; her white chemisette, laced with black, was open wide below the
throat. Black velvet straps crossed it on the shoulders and around the
cuffs. Her hair was tied with a big black silk bow.
"How in the world did you come to be here?" he asked, not yet releasing
the eager, warm little hands so frankly clasped between both of his.
Philippa laughed with sheerest happiness:
"Figurez-vous, Monsieur. I have been punting since early morning; and
when I found myself so near to Sais I was ready to drop with heat and
fatigue: 'Mais, n'importe! Allons!' I said to myself. 'Courage, little
one! Very soon you shall see Mr. Warner painting a noble picture by the
river!' Et puis----" She tightened her clasp on his hands with an
adorable laugh, "Nous voici enfin ensemble--tous les deux--vous et moi!
Et je suis bien content et bien fatiguee."
"But, Philippa--how in the world do you propose to get back to Ausone
tonight?"
She shrugged, looked up as though protesting to the very skies:
"I have this instant arrived, and his first inquiry is concerning my
departure! That is not a very friendly welcome."
"Philippa, I _am_ glad to see you----"
"It is time you said so----"
"I thought you understood----"
The girl laughed:
"I understand how glad I am to see _you_!" She looked about her in the
sunshine, and touched a tall blossom of queen's lace with outstretched
fingers.
"How heavenly beautiful is this world of God!" she said with that
charming lack of self-consciousness which the skies of France seem to
germinate even in aliens. "I am very glad to see you," she repeated
abruptly, "and I am awaiting the expression of your sentiments."
"Of course I am glad to see you, Philippa----"
"That makes me quite happy." She smiled on him and then looked
curiously at his painting kit. "If you will choose your picture," she
added, "I shall sit beside you and watch you at your painting. It will
be agreeable. We can converse."
So he chose a ferny spot at the wood's edge, pitched his field easel and
camp stool, and opened his color box; and Philippa seated herself
cross-legged on the short grass beside him, gathering both slim ankles
into her hands.
While he was fussing with his canvas, she sang to herself blithely,
radiantly contented, rocking herself to and fro to the rhythm of her
song:
"'Hussar en vedette,
What do you see?
The sun has set
And a voice is calling me
Across the Recollette,
Where the scented rushes fret
In the May wind's breath--
Et garde a vous, Hussar!
'Tis the voice of Death!
'Hussar en vedette,
What do you see?
The moon has set
And a white shape beckons me
Across the Recollette,
Where the scented rushes fret
In the night wind's breath--
Et garde a vous, Hussar!
'Tis the shape of Death!'"
Singing away with the serene unconsciousness of a bird, rocking her
lithe young body, and watching his every movement out of wide grey eyes,
Philippa assisted at the artistic preparations with great content,
missing nothing.
"To squeeze color from tubes must be amusing," she remarked. "I like to
squeeze out tooth paste."
"I am very sure," said Warner, "that you accomplish more charming
results with your tooth paste than I do with my colors."
The girl laughed, showing her snowy teeth:
"Do you find them pretty, Monsieur?"
"Quite perfect, and therefore in keeping with the remainder of you,
Philippa."
"He really seems to mean it," she said, addressing a grasshopper which
had alighted on her knee. And to Warner: "Is my face sufficiently
scrubbed to suit you?"
He glanced down at her:
"You have kept your word, haven't you?"
"Ma foi! My word is my word.... Listen; I came to Sais to see you; and
partly because I have something to show you. It concerns your friend, I
think."
"Mr. Halkett?"
"Yes. After the fight in our cabaret there was much excitement, but
when you had disappeared, and before the agents de police and the
gendarmes arrived, I found on the floor under the overturned table a
portfolio. In that portfolio was part of an unfinished letter. It is
written in German. I could not read it; but, studying it, I recognized
Mr. Halkett's name written several times. So I said nothing to anybody,
but I have brought it. Here it is."
She drew from her bosom a small leather pocketbook.
"Before you examine it," she continued, "I ought to tell you what really
happened at the cabaret. Those men who attacked Mr. Halkett were in the
employment of Monsieur Wildresse."
"What!" exclaimed Warner.
"It is true. I was furious when I noticed them creeping up behind him.
I realized instantly what they meant to do, and I cried out--too late.
You ought to be told about this. Therefore, I came here to tell you.
"And I desire to tell you more. The three men who were seated across
the hall, and who attempted to pick a quarrel with Mr. Halkett, were
'provocative agents'--Germans.
"The _patron_ knew them and interfered. Besides, he had his own ideas
and his own ends to serve just then.
"But I saw those three German agents whisper to a fourth--a stranger.
And that man came and seated himself with three other men directly
behind Mr. Halkett, where he stood while you were talking to me----"
"Philippa," he interrupted with blunt impatience, "I don't understand
all this that you are saying to me. Give me that letter if it concerns
Mr. Halkett."
The girl colored painfully.
"Please don't speak rudely to me," she said. "I am trying to behave
honestly----"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak roughly. Please continue."
"Yes; it is better you should know what happened before you read this
letter. Well, then, the men who attacked Mr. Halkett naturally got
away; the patron attended to that. Naturally, also, he desired to have
people believe that the German agents were responsible for the fight,
and they were, therefore, detained by Monsieur Wildresse and were asked
for an explanation. Then they declared that Mr. Halkett was a British
spy, and that they were Belgian police agents with full authority to
arrest him in France. Which was a lie, of course, but it served its
purpose by increasing the tumult."
"Did they say that they were Belgians?"
"Yes. I heard them. They lied. There was much confusion and
shouting--everybody crowding around and disputing. The three Germans
pushed their way toward the door; nobody knew whether or not to stop
them." She shrugged. "They were gone before people could make up their
minds. And, as usual, the police came in too late. Now you know all
there is to tell about what happened after you left the cabaret."
Warner laid aside his brushes, looked curiously at the portfolio which
she held out to him, hesitated, then opened it and drew out three pages
of a letter in German, but written in English script. Evidently it was
an unfinished fragment of a letter. He translated it rather freely and
without any great difficulty:
--were followed from New York by this man, Halkett, and a companion of
his named Gray. Disembarking at Antwerp and going immediately to room
No. 23 in the Hotel St. Antoine, according to instructions, we walked
directly into a trap, prepared for us, no doubt, by a wireless message
sent from the steamer by the individual, Halkett. Schmidt was knocked
flat on his back and lay unconscious; me they hurled violently on the
bed; my face was covered with a pillow, my legs and arms held as in a
vise, while they ripped my clothing from me and then literally tore it
to shreds in their search for the papers I carried.
In the lining of my vest they found the information and drawings which
we had been at such pains and danger to secure from the Yankee War
Department. And now the Yankee Government will find out who has been
robbing it.
Unless we can overtake these individuals, Halkett and Gray, the loss to
us must be irreparable, as we dared not study the plans and formula on
board ship, nor even venture to trust in the security of our stateroom,
believing that British agents might be on board and watching. God knows
they were.