luck, old fellow."
"Thanks! Good luck and good-by."
Their gripped hands parted; Halkett turned, walked toward the stairs,
halted:
"I'll send for my luggage," he said.
"I'll look out for it."
"Thanks. And be civil to Ariadne. She's a friendly old thing!"
"I'll cherish her," said Warner, smiling.
So they parted. He took leave of Madame Arlon and reckoned with her in
British gold; Magda and Linette were made happy with his generosity.
Out on the roadside they saw him swing up behind the soldier cyclist. A
moment later there was only a trail of dust hanging along an empty road.
But Halkett had not yet done with Sais. At the school he dismounted and
ascended the steps.
The schoolroom was empty, the place very still. From a distance came the
voices of children. It was the hour of their noonday recreation.
He entered the quiet schoolroom. On the desk stood a vase of white
clove pinks. He took one, inhaled its fragrance, touched it to his
lips, turned to the door, and suddenly flushed to the roots of his hair.
Sister Eila, on the doorstep, turned her head and looked steadily at the
soldier cyclist for a moment. But a moment was enough.
Yet, still looking away from Halkett, she said in her serene young
voice:
"Your uniform tells me your errand, Monsieur Halkett. You have come for
your papers."
"If I may trouble you----" His voice and manner were stiff and
constrained.
She let her eyes rest on him for a moment:
"A British uniform is pleasant to see in France," she said. "One
moment----" She stepped past him and entered the schoolroom. "I shall
bring you your papers."
He walked slowly out to the road, holding in his hands, which were
clasped behind him, the clove pink. Standing so, he looked across the
fields to the river willows, from whence the shot had come. Slowly,
clear-cut and in full sunshine, the scenes of that day passed through
his mind. And after they had passed he turned and walked back to the
schoolroom.
Sister Eila was seated at her desk, the papers lying before her.
He took them, buttoned them inside his tunic. She sat looking across
the dim room, her elbow on the desk, her chin resting on her palm.
"There is no use trying to thank you," he said with an effort--and
stopped.
After a silence:
"You are going into battle," she said.
"I hope so."
"Yes--I hope so.... God protect you, Mr. Halkett."
He could not seem to find his voice.
Perhaps the silence became unendurable to her; she fumbled for her
rosary, lifted it, and took the metal crucifix between both hands.
"Good-by," he said.
"Good-by." Her eyes did not leave the crucifix.
He stood motionless, crushing his forage cap in his hands. The white
flower broke from its stem and fell to the floor. He bent and picked it
up, looked at it, looked at her, turned and went his way.
The crucifix in her tightening hand grew indistinct, blurring under her
steady gaze. In her ears still sounded the retreating racket of the
motor cycle; the echoes lingered, grew fainter, died out in the golden
gloom of the room.
Sister Eila extended her arms in front of her and laid her colorless
face between them. The room grew very still.
*CHAPTER XXI*
A line regiment came swinging along from the south, its band silent, but
the fanfare of its field music tremendously noisy--bass drums, snare
drums, hunting horns and bugles--route step, springy and slouchy,
officers at ease in their saddles: but, through the clinging aura of the
dust, faces transfigured, and in every eye a depth of light like that
which shines from the fixed gaze of prophets.
Rifles slung, equipments flapping, the interminable files trudged by
under the hanging dust, an endless, undulating blur of red and blue, an
immense shuffling sound, almost melodious, and here and there a
handsome, dusty horse pacing amid the steady torrent.
They occupied only half of the wide, military road; now and then a
military automobile came screaming past them with a flash of crimson and
gold in the tonneau, leaving on the retina a brilliant, glimmering
impression that faded gradually.
On the road across the Recollette, wagons, motor trucks, and field
artillery had been passing for hours; the barrier of dust had grown much
loftier, hanging suspended and unchanging against the hills, completely
obscuring them except for a blue summit here and there.
Fewer troops passed on this side of the river. A regiment of dragoon
lancers rode by about one o'clock--slender, nervous, high-strung
officers, with the horse-hair blowing around their shoulders from their
silver helmets; the sturdy, bronzed young troopers riding with their
lances swung slanting from the arm loops--and all with that still,
fixed, enraptured expression of the eyes, as though under the spell of
inward meditation, making their youthful features dreamy.
In some village through which they had passed, people had hung wreaths
of leaves and flowers around their horses' necks. They still hung
there, wilting in the sun; some, unraveled and trailing, shed dying
blossoms at every step.
From the garden wall where she sat knitting beside Ariadne, Philippa
plucked and tossed rose after rose down into the ranks of the passing
horsemen.
There was no pleasantry, no jesting, scarcely a smile on the girl's lips
or on theirs, but as each trooper caught the flung rose he turned his
helmeted head and saluted, and rode on with the fresh flower touching
his dusty lips.
And so they passed, squadron crowding on squadron, the solid trampling
thunder shaking the earth. Not a trumpet note, not a whistle signal, not
a voice, not a gilded sleeve upflung, not a slim saber lifted--only the
steady, slanting torrent of lances and the running glitter of slung
carbines, and a great flowing blaze of light from acres of helmets
moving through the haze, as in a vision of pomp and pageantry of ancient
days and brave.
Warner came across the fields swinging his walking stick reflectively as
the last peloton rode by.
Philippa looked down at him from her perch on the wall, and, unsmiling,
dropped him a rose.
"Thank you, pretty maiden," he said, looking up while he drew the
blossom through his lapel. "I have something to talk over with you.
Shall I go around and climb up to you, or will you come down and walk to
the river with me?"
"Either will be a pleasure for me. I desire only to be with you," she
said. So frank were her grey eyes that again the dull, inward warning
of his increasing responsibility to her and for her left him silent and
disconcerted.
In his knowledge of her undisguised affection, and of the glamour with
which he realized she had already innocently invested him, he began to
comprehend the power over her which circumstances had thrust upon him.
It was too serious a burden for such a man as he, involved too deep a
responsibility; and he meant to shift it.
"Come and walk with me, then," he said, "--or we'll take the punt, if
you like."
She nodded brightly, rolled up her knitting, looked around at the ladder
in the garden behind her, glanced down at him, which was the shorter
way.
"If I jump could you catch me?"
"I suppose I could, but----"
"Look out, then! Garde a vous!"
He managed to catch her and ease her to the ground, and, as always, she
took possession of his arm with both of hers clasped closely around it,
as though he meditated flight.
"While you are absent," she said, "my thoughts are occupied only with
you. When I have you by me"--her clasp tightened a little--"such
wonderful ideas come to inspire me--you can't imagine! I aspire to be
worthy of such a friendship; I feel that it is in me to be good and wise
and lofty of mind, and to think and believe generously.... Do you
understand me? ... Petty sorrows vanish--the smaller and selfish desires
and aspirations disappear. Into my spirit comes a delicious exultation,
as though being with you cleansed my heart and filled my mind with
ardent and noble thoughts.... I don't know whether you understand. Do
you?"
"I understand that you are a very generous friend, who believes that her
new friend is everything with which her youthful heart invests him."
"And you are!"
"I've got to try to be, now," he said, laughingly. "There is no
unhappiness like that of a broken idol."
"Do I regard you as an idol?"
"Not me, but what your charming fancy pretends is me. I dread the day
you find me out."
"You are laughing at me," she said happily, walking beside him with her
light, springy step. "You may make fun of me; you may say what you
will. _I_ know."
"I think _I_ do, too. And this is what I know, Philippa; you have
within you some very rare and delicate and splendid qualities. Also,
you are very young, and you need a guide----"
"_You!_"
"No."
"What! Of course it's you I need to guide me----"
"Listen. You need a woman--older than yourself----"
"Please!--Warner, my friend----"
"I want you to listen, Philippa."
"Yes."
They walked over the clover in silence for a few moments, then, glancing
at her, he unconsciously tried his power:
"You like and trust me, don't you?"
The girl lifted her grey eyes, and he looked straight ahead of him while
the flush lasted in his face.
He said:
"Because I like and respect you, and because you are my friend, I am
ambitious for you. I want you to have your chance. _I_ can't give it
to you, rightly. No man could do that very successfully or very
prudently.
"While you remain in my employment, of course, we shall see each other
constantly; when, eventually, you secure other employment, we can, at
intervals, meet. But, Philippa, I don't want that sort of chance for
you."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't. Let me tell you what I have done without consulting
you. If it meets with your approval, the problem of your immediate
future is in a fair way of being solved."
They had reached the bank of the little river: the punt was drawn up
among the rushes; they seated themselves without pushing off.
"Over beyond the woods, yonder," he continued, nodding his head, "is the
Chateau des Oiseaux--a big, old-fashioned country house. A friend of
many years lives there with her younger sister--Madame de Moidrey, the
widow of a French officer. When she was Ethra Brooks, a little American
girl, we were playmates. Her sister, Peggy, attends my painting class.
After Mr. Halkett left, I walked across to the Chateau des Oiseaux, and
I lunched there with Madame de Moidrey."
He hesitated: the girl looked up out of clear eyes that read him.
"Yes; I want you to walk over to the Chateau with me," he said. "Madame
de Moidrey has asked me to bring you.... And if she likes you, and you
like her, she might desire to have you remain as her companion."
The girl remained silent, expressionless. He went on, slowly:
"It would not be like securing employment among strangers. Madame de
Moidrey knows that we are _friends_.... And, Philippa, you are very
young to go into employment among strangers. Not that you cannot take
care of yourself. But it is not a happy experience. Besides, a
personal and sympathetic interest will be wanting--in the beginning at
least. And that will mean loneliness for you----"
"It will mean it anyway if I am to leave you."
"But I shall see you at the Chateau----"
"For a little while yet. Then you will be going back to Paris. And
then--what shall I do?"
The candid tragedy in her eyes appalled him.
"Dear child," he said, "your duties with Madame de Moidrey will keep you
too busy to think about anybody in particular. You will find in her a
friend; you will find happiness there, I am very certain----"
"If you wish it, I will go. But when you leave, happiness departs."
"Philippa, that is nonsense----"
"No... And I had supposed, if I earned my living, that you would permit
me to live with you--or near you somewhere.... Just to know you were
living near me--even if I did not see you every evening--would rest
me.... I had hoped for that, _mon ami_."
"Philippa, dear, it would not do. That is too Bohemian to be anything
safer than merely agreeable. But the surroundings and duties you are
going to have with Madame de Moidrey are exactly what you need and what
I could have desired for any friend of mine in your circumstances."
The girl's head began to droop, where she was seated on the stern seat
of the boat.
He said:
"The influences of such a house, of such a home, of such people, are far
better for you than to saunter out and face the world, depending for
companionship upon a man not yet too old to arouse that fussy world's
suspicion and perhaps resentment. You must have a better purpose in
life."
She remained silent for a few moments, then, not lifting her head, and
her slim hands nervously plaiting her scarlet skirt:
"Anywhere alone with you in the world would be a sufficient purpose in
life for me.... No matter how I earned my bread--if, when toil ended
with evening, you were the reward--and--consolation----" A single tear
fell, glittering; she turned her head sharply and kept it turned.
Deeply touched, even stirred, yet perfectly incredulous of himself, he
sat watching her, not knowing how best to meet such childish loyalty,
such blindly obstinate devotion.
Out of what had such a depth of feeling been born? Out of gratitude for
a pleasant and kindly word or two--an exaggerated sense of obligation
for a few services rendered--services that for sheer and loyal courage
could not match what she had done for Halkett?
And she seemed to be so sane, so clear-thinking, so competent in most
things! This girlish and passionate attachment to him did not conform
to other traits which made up her character and made of her an
individual, specific and distinct.
He said:
"If you were my daughter, and I were in straitened circumstances and
unable to be with you, I should advise you as I have."
Without turning, she answered:
"I am too old and you are too young for us to think of each other in
that way.... I am not a child.... I am unhappy without you. But I care
enough for you to obey you."
"And I care enough for you, Philippa, to remain in Sais as long as you
think you want me," he said.
"What!"
She turned, her glimmering eyes radiant, stretching out both hands to
him.
"You are so good--so good!" she stammered. "The Chateau will frighten
me; I shall be lonely. The world is a very large place to be alone
in.... You are so good!--Stay in Sais a little while yet--just a little
while.... I won't keep you very long from Paris--only let me know you a
little longer.... I couldn't bear it--so soon--the only happiness I
have ever known--to end--so soon----"
"You dear child, if I thought you really needed me----"
"No, I won't let you be more generous than that! Just a few days,
please. And a promise to let me see you again--something to
remember--to wait for----"
"Surely, surely, little comrade. You don't suppose I am going to let
you slip away out of my life, do you? And I don't understand why you are
in such a sudden panic about my going away----"
"But you _are_ going soon!--You were."
"How did you know?"
"Madame Arlon told me that you had already given conge. I didn't care;
I thought I was to go with you. But now that you wish me to go to the
Chateau--it--it frightens me."
He rose, stood looking at her for a moment, turned and paced the river
bank once or twice, then came back to where she was seated.
"Come up to the Chateau now," he said. "I give you this promise,
anyway; as long as you think you want me and need me in the world, you
have only to say so, Philippa. And if I cannot come to you, then you
shall come to me."
He hadn't quite analyzed what he was saying before he said it; he felt a
little confused and uncertain, even now, as to how deeply his promise
involved him. But even while he was speaking, a subtle undercurrent of
approval seemed to reassure him that he was not all wrong, not too rash
in what he promised. Or perhaps it was the very rashness of the impulse
that something obscure within him was approving.
As for the girl, she stood up, tremulous, deep-eyed, trying to smile,
trying to speak but failing, and only taking his arm into her possession
again and clasping it closely with a childishly unconscious and
instinctive sense of possession.
When she found her voice at last, she laughed and pressed her cheek
impulsively against his shoulder.
"Tiens!" she said. "Your Chateau and its chatelaine have no terrors now
for me, Monsieur.... Did you tell her who I am, and what I have been,
and all that you know about me?"
"Yes, I did."
She dropped his arm, but kept step close beside him.
"You know," she said, "it is odd--perhaps it is effrontery--I don't
know--but I, Philippa Wildresse--for want of another name--perhaps
lacking the right to any name at all--am tranquil and serene at heart in
the crisis so swiftly approaching."
"What crisis, Philippa?"
"My interview with a lady of the world, Monsieur--Madame la Comtesse de
Moidrey. The _caissiere de cabaret_ should feel very humble and afraid.
Is it effrontery? What is it that does not disturb me in the
slightest?"
"Perhaps it is that other comrade of many years, Philippa--your other
and inner self."
"It must be. For she could not hesitate to look anybody in the
face--that wonderful and other self--wonderful as a bright dream,
Monsieur.... Which is all she is, I know."
"You are wrong, Philippa: she is even more real than you. And some day
you shall be part of her. You are growing so every hour. And when that
finally happens, then this--all this--will become unreal."
"Not _you_."
"We shall see.... Here are the gates of the Chateau des Oiseaux. It is
you who enter, Philippa; but it shall be your inner and real self who
shall go out through the gates one day--God willing."
The girl smiled at him:
"They have but one soul between them," she said. "And that is yours and
God's, I hope."
*CHAPTER XXII*
Madame de Moidrey, strolling with Warner on the south terrace of the
Chateau des Oiseaux, glanced sideways at intervals through the open
French windows, where, at the piano inside, Philippa sat playing, and
singing in a subdued voice ancient folk songs of the lost provinces.
Peggy Brooks, enchanted, urged her to more active research through the
neglected files of a memory still vivid; Philippa's voice was
uncultivated, unplaced, but as fresh and carelessly sweet as a
blackbird's in May. Some of these old ballads she had picked up from
schoolmates, many from the Cabaret de Biribi, where clients were
provincial and usually sentimental, and where some of the ancient songs
were sung almost every day.
Madame de Moidrey had not immediately referred to Philippa when, with
Warner, she had strolled out to the terrace, leaving the two younger
girls together at the piano.
They had spoken of the sudden and unexpected menace of war, of the
initial movements of troops along the Sais Valley that morning; the
serious chances of a German invasion, the practical certainty that in
any event military operations were destined to embrace the country
around them. Warner seemed very confident concerning the Barrier Forts,
but he spoke of Montmedy and of Mezieres with more reserve, and of
Ausone not at all.
They promenaded for a few minutes longer in silence, each preoccupied
with anxious speculations regarding a future which began already to loom
heavy as a thundercloud charged with unloosed lightnings.
From moment to moment the handsome woman beside him glanced through the
open windows of the music room, where her younger sister and the girl
Philippa were still busily interested in working out accompaniments to
the old-time songs.
Philippa sang "J'ai perdu ma beaute":
"I have lost my beauty--
Fate has bereft me,
Fortune has left me,
None owes me duty.
I have lost my lover;
I shall not recover.
Our Lady of Lorraine,
Pity my pain!"
They paused to listen to this naive melody of other days, then strolled
on.
Madame de Moidrey said:
"She is very interesting, your little friend from Ausone."
"I am glad you think so."
"Oh, yes, there is no doubt about her being clever and intelligent....
I wonder where she acquired her aplomb."
"Would you call it that?"
Madame de Moidrey smiled:
"No, it is a gentler quality--not devoid of sweetness. I think we may
label it a becoming self-possession.... Anyway, it is a quality and not
a trait--if that pleases you."
"She has quality."
"She has a candor which is almost disturbingly transparent. When I was
a girl I saw Gilbert's comedy, 'The Palace of Truth.' And actually, I
believe that your little friend, Philippa, could have entered that
terrible house of unconscious self-revelation without any need of
worrying."
"You couldn't praise her more sincerely if you think that," he said.
"She offers virgin soil for anybody who will take any trouble with her."
"Oh," said Madame de Moidrey, laughing, "I thought I was to engage her
to aid me and amuse _me_; but it seems that _I_ have been engaged to
educate her in the subtler refinements of civilized existence!"
"Don't you want to?" asked Warner, bluntly.
"Dear friend of many more years than I choose to own to, have I not
enough to occupy me without adopting a wandering _caissiere de
cabaret_?"
"Is that the way you feel?" he said, reddening.
"Don't be cross! No; it isn't the way I feel. I do need a companion.
Perhaps your friend Philippa is not exactly the companion I might have
dreamed about or aspired to----"
"If you look at it in that way----"
"Jim! Don't be rude, either! I desire two things; I want a companion
and I wish to oblige you. You know perfectly well I do.... Besides,
the girl is interesting. You didn't expect me to sentimentalize over
her, did you? You may do that if you like. As for me, I shall consider
engaging her if she cares to come to me."
"She will be very glad to," he said, coolly.
Madame de Moidrey cast a swift side glance at him, full of curiosity and
repressed amusement.
"Men," she said, "are the real sentimentalists in this matter-of-fact
world, not women. Merely show a man a pretty specimen of the opposite
sex in the conventional attitude of distress, and it unbalances his
intellect immediately."
"Do you imagine that my youthful friend Philippa has unbalanced my
intellect?" he asked impatiently.
"Not entirely. Not completely----"
"Nonsense!"
"What a bad-mannered creature you are, Jim! But fortunately you're
something else, too. For example, you have been nice about this very
unusual and somewhat perilously attractive young girl. Few men would
have been so. Don't argue! I have known a few men in my time. And I
pay you a compliment."
She stopped and leaned back against a weatherworn vase of stone which
crowned the terrace parapet.
"Listen, Jim; for a woman to take into her house a young girl with this
girl's unknown antecedents and perfectly well-known past performances
ought not to be a matter of romantic impulse, or of sympathy alone. What
you tell me about her, what I myself have already seen of her, are
sufficient to inspire the interest which all romance arouses, and the
sympathy which all lonely youth inspires. But these are not enough.
"Choice of companionship is a matter for serious consideration. You
can't make a companion of the intellectually inferior, of one who
possesses merely the lesser instincts, of any lesser nature, whether
cultivated to its full extent or otherwise. You know that. We shun what
is not congenial."
He looked at her very intently, the dull red still flushing his face;
and she surveyed him critically, amiably, amused at his attitude, which
was the epitome of everything masculine.
"What are you going to do about her?" he inquired at last.
"Offer to engage her."
"As what?"
"A companion."
"Oh. Then you _do_ appreciate her?"
Madame de Moidrey threw back her pretty head and laughed with delicious
abandon.
"Perhaps I don't appreciate her as deeply as you do, Jim, but I shall
humbly endeavor to do so. Now, suppose, when you go back to the Golden
Peach, you send Philippa's effects up here, and in the meanwhile I'll
begin my duty of finishing Philippa's education--for which duty, I
understand, I'm engaged by you----"
"Ethra, you are a trump! And I don't really mind your guying me----"
"Indeed, I'm not guying you, dear friend! I'm revealing to you the
actual inwardness of this entire and remarkable performance of yours.
And if you don't know that you are engaging me to finish this young
girl's education while you're making up your mind about your sentiments
concerning her, then it's time you did."
"That is utterly----"
"Please! And it's all the truer because you don't believe it! ... Jim,
the girl really _is_ a pathetic figure--simple, sweet, intelligent, and
touchingly honest.... And I'll say another thing.... God knows what
mother bore her, what parents are responsible for this young thing--with
her delicate features and slender body. But it was not from a pair of
unhappy nobodies she inherited her mind, which seems to seek
instinctively what is fine and right amid the sordid complexities of the
only world she has ever known.
"As for her heart, Jim, it is the heart of a child--with one heavenly
and exaggerated idol completely filling it. _You!_ ... And I tell you
very plainly that, if I were a man, the knowledge of this would frighten
me a little, and make me rather more serious than many men are inclined
to be."
He bit his lip and looked out across the southern valley, where already
the August haze was growing bluer, blurring the low-hanging sun.
She laid a friendly, intimate, half humorous hand on his arm:
"In all right-thinking men the boy can never die. No experience born of
pain, no cynicism, no incredulity acquired through disappointment, can
kill the boy in any man until it has first slain his soul. Otherwise,
chivalry in the world had long since become extinct.
"You have done what you could do for Philippa. I am really glad to help
you, Jim. But from now on, be very careful and very sure of yourself.
Because now your real responsibility begins."
He had not thought of it in that way. And now he did not care to.
To sympathize, to protect, to admire--these were born of impulse and
reason, which, in turn, had their origin in unconscious condescension.
To applaud the admirable, to express a warm concern for virtue in
difficulties, meant merely sincere recognition, not the intimacy of that
equality of mind and circumstance which existed per se between himself
and such a woman as Madame de Moidrey.
The very word "protection" implies condescension, conscious or
unconscious. We may love what we protect; we never, honestly, place it
on a pedestal, or even on a mathematical level with ourselves. It can't
be done.
And so, in a vague sort of way, Warner remained incredulous of the
impossible with which Madame de Moidrey had smilingly menaced him.
Only, of course, she was quite right; he must not thoughtlessly arouse
the woman in the girl Philippa.
But there is nothing in the world that ought more thoroughly to arouse
the best qualities of manhood in a man than the innocent adoration of a
young girl. For if he could really believe himself to be even a shadow
of what she believes he is, the world might really become the most
agreeable of residential planets.
As Warner and Madame de Moidrey entered the music room through the open
French windows, Philippa turned from the piano and her soft voice died
out in the quaint refrain she had been accompanying.
She rose instinctively, which was more than Peggy did, having no
reverence for age in her own sister--and Madame de Moidrey came forward
and took the girl's slender hands in hers.
"Have you concluded to remain with me?" she asked, smilingly.
"I did not understand that you had asked me," said the girl gravely.
"I do ask you."
Philippa looked at Warner, then lifted her grey eyes to the elder woman.
"You are very kind, Madame. I--it will be a great happiness to me if
you accept my services."
The Countess de Moidrey regarded her, still retaining her hands, still
smiling.
"You have a very sweet way of making the acceptance mine and not yours,"
she said. "Let us accept each other, Philippa. Will you?"
"You are most kind, Madame----"
"Can kindness win you?"
"Madame, it has already."
The American widow of the recent Count de Moidrey felt a curious
sensation of uncertainty in the quiet self-possession of this young
girl--in her serenity, in her modulated voice and undisturbed manner.
An odd idea persisted that the graciousness was not entirely on her own
part; that there was something even more subtle than graciousness on the
part of this girl, whose delicate hands lay, cool and smooth, within her
own.
It was not manner, for there was none on Philippa's part; not reticence,
for that argues a conscious effort or a still more conscious lack of
effort. Perhaps, through the transparent simplicity of the girl, the
older woman's intuition caught a glimpse of finer traditions than she
herself had been born to--sensed the far, faint ring of finer and more
ancient metal.
And after a moment she felt that courtesy, deference, and propinquity
alone held Philippa's grave grey eyes; that the soul which looked
fearlessly and calmly out of them at her could not be lightly flattered
or lightly won; and that, released from their conventional duty, those
clear eyes of grey would seek their earthly idol as logically as the
magnetic needle swings to its magnet.
Very subtly, as she stood there, the sympathy of the older woman widened
to include respect. And, unconsciously, she turned and looked at Warner
with the amused and slightly malicious smile of a woman who detects in a
man the characteristic obtuseness from which her own and feminine
instinct has rescued her just in time to prevent mistakes.
Then, turning to Philippa, she said:
"Our family of _three_ is a very small one, dear, but I think it is
going to be a happy one.... What was that song that you and Peggy were
trying when we came in?"
"It is called 'Noblesse Oblige,' Madame. It is a very ancient song."
"It is as old as the world," said the Countess. "Peggy, will you try the
accompaniment? And will you sing it, Philippa?"
"If you wish it, Madame."
The Countess de Moidrey stepped aside and seated herself; the grey eyes
left her to seek and find their magnet; and, having found it, smiled.
As for the magnet himself, he stood there deep in perplexity and
trouble, beginning slowly to realize how profoundly his mind and
affections had already become involved in the fate of a very young girl,
and in the problems of life which must now begin to threaten and
confront her.
"Namur, Liege--
Le dur siege
Noblesse oblige
sang Philippa--
"Namurois, Liegeois,
La lois des Bois
Exige
Noblesse--noblesse oblige--"'
The Countess de Moidrey rested her face on her hand, looking curiously
at the young girl from whose lips the old phrase fell so naturally, so
confidently, with such effortless and inborn
understanding--_noblesse--noblesse oblige_.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
Philippa's trunk had gone to the Chateau des Oiseaux, and the Inn of the
Golden Peach knew her no longer.
Warner, who usually adored the prospect of a month all alone after his
class had left for the season, found to his surprise that he was
experiencing a slight sense of loneliness.
The inn, the garden, seemed to him uncommonly still; and at first he
thought he missed the gallinaceous chatter of the Harem, then he was
very sure that he regretted Halkett acutely.
Ariadne, sitting in the sun by the deserted summer-house in the garden,
always greeted him with a plaintive little mew which, somehow or other,
sounded to him pointedly reproachful.
The cat evidently missed Halkett, perhaps Philippa. Warner remembered
that he had been requested to be polite and agreeable to Ariadne, and,
whenever he recollected these obligations, he dutifully hoisted the
animal to his shoulder and promenaded her. For which, no doubt, the cat
was grateful, but as she was also beginning to shed her coat in
preparation for a brand-new set of winter furs, Warner found the
intimacy with Ariadne slightly trying.
There were no other guests at the inn. Now and then during the next
three or four days officers stopped their automobiles for a few moments'
refreshment, or to replenish their gasoline tanks. But early one
morning a big motor truck, driven by a little, red-legged, boyish
_pioupiou_, and guarded by three others, equally youthful, took away the
entire supply of gasoline and ordered Madame Arlon to remove the sign
advertising it.
They drove away through the early autumn sunshine, singing the "Adoro,"
not the one best known, but that version attributed to the Scottish
Queen, and they looked and sang like three little choir boys
masquerading in the uniforms of their fathers.
Warner had been sketching in the meadow across the road that day,
feeling restless and unaccountably depressed. It was one of those
still, hazy mornings in early August, when the world seems too quiet and
the sky too perfect for inaction or repose.
He had pitched his easel near the river, perhaps because it remained
busy; and where, if any troops or military trains passed along the
quarry road, he could see them. Also, from there he could look down
over the road hedge and see the motor cycles whiz by and military
automobiles with a streak of crimson, turquoise and silver uniforms in
the tonneau.
But none came. Two or three gendarmes, with white and yellow trappings,
passed toward Ausone at a gallop while he sat there, but across the
river nothing stirred save a kestrel soaring.
According to the _Petit Journal d'Ausone_ of the day before, war had
already burst over eastern Belgium full blast and the famous forts so
long celebrated as impregnable were beginning to crumble away under an
avalanche of gigantic shells.
As he sat there under the calm sky, painting leisurely, relighting his
pipe at intervals, he tried to realize that such things as bombardments
and sieges and battles were going on to the north of where he was--not
so very far north, either. But he could not seem to grasp it as an
actual fact. For the monstrous and imbecile actuality of such a war
seemed still to remain outside his comprehension; his intelligence had
not yet accepted it--not encompassed and digested the fact--and he could
not get rid of the hopefully haunting feeling that presently somebody or
something somewhere or other would stop all this amazing insanity, and
that the diplomats would begin again where they had left off only a few
days ago.
It was the illimitable proportions of the calamity--the magnitude of the
catastrophe--the cataclysmic menace of it that still left his mind
slightly stunned, as it had paralyzed the minds of every civilized human
being, and suspended for a space the power of thought in the world.
As yet, all these enormous, impossible threats of governments and
emperors seemed to be some gigantic, fantastic, and grotesque hoax which
the sovereigns and chancelleries of Europe were playing in concert to
frighten a humdrum world out of its five dull wits.
And yet, under the incredulity, and the mental obscurity and inertia,
deep within the dazed hearts of men a measured and terrible pulse had
already begun to throb steadily, with an unchanging and dreadful rhythm.
It was the clairvoyant prophecy of the world's subconscious self
stirring, thrilling to that red future already breaking, and warning all
mankind that the day of wrath had dawned at last.
But to Warner the most unreal part of it all was not the dusty
_fantassins_ in column, slouching forward toward the north--not the
clinking, jingling cuirassiers on their big battle horses, not the
dragoons riding with rapt, exalted faces under forests of tall lances,
not the clanking artillery, the heavy military wagons and motor trucks,
nor the galloping gendarmes which passed the inn every hour or two.
What had become suddenly unreal to him was the green and sunlit serenity
of the world itself--the breeze ruffling the clover, poppies glowing
deep in fields of golden wheat and barley, the melody of the flowing
river, the quiet blue overhead, the tenderness of leaf and blossom, and
the blessed stillness of the world.
Relighting his pipe, he looked at the swallows soaring and sailing high
above the Recollette; noticed butterflies hovering and flitting
everywhere; heard the golden splashing of the river, the sigh of leaves
and rushes. The word "war" still remained a word to him, but in the
sunshine and the silence he began to divine the immobility of
menace--something unseen and evil which was quietly waiting.
Ariadne had come across from the garden, ostensibly to hunt meadow mice,
really for company.
Sniffing and snooping around his color box, she got one dainty whisker
in the ultramarine, and had enough of art. So she went off, much
annoyed, to sit by herself in the grass and do some scrubbing. After a
while the fixed persistency with which she stared across the meadow
attracted his attention and he, also, turned and looked that way.
As he saw nothing in particular to stare at, he presently resumed his
sketching and his troubled thoughts. The latter concerned the girl
Philippa. Not since he had taken her to the Chateau had he seen her.
And that was four days ago.
He didn't know exactly why he had not strolled over. Possibly a vague
idea that he had better not interfere to distract the girl's attention
from her first lessons in the refinements of existence had kept him away
from her vicinity.
He didn't even know that he had missed her; he knew only that for some
occult reason or other he had felt rather lonely lately.
He painted away steadily, pausing to relight his pipe now and then, and
all the while Ariadne, never stirring, stared persistently across the
landscape, neglecting her uncleansed whisker.
Suddenly, with a little mew of recognition and greeting, she trotted
forward through the grass; and the next moment two soft hands fell
lightly upon Warner's shoulders from behind.
"Philippa!" he exclaimed, enchanted.
"Oh, Jim!" she cried joyously, abandoning both hands to him as he sprang
to his feet and faced her.
She was so eager, so pretty in her unfeigned delight, as though it had
been four years instead of four days since they had seen each other; and
he seemed to feel something of this, also, for he held her hands closely
and laughed without any apparent reason for mirth--unless the sheer
contentment of contact and possession be a reason.
"Are you well and happy, Philippa?"
"Yes, I am happy enough up there. But, oh, how dreadfully I have missed
you, Jim--may I call you Jim?--I do to myself----"
"Of course!"
"I _think_ of you that way--so it came very naturally to my lips--if you
really don't mind? And besides, I am so happy to be with you.... Peggy
Brooks and I were looking over maps in the library--you know, the _Petit
Journal_ says that the Prussians are firing enormous shells into
Liege--and so Peggy and I were down on our knees over the maps of
Belgium. Oh, dear! You know, it isn't so very far from us here if you
take a ruler and measure by scale.... And it seemed to sober us
both--we had been laughing, I don't remember exactly what about--but
studying the map made us both serious, and Peggy went upstairs to talk
it over with the Countess, and I felt that I couldn't stand being away
from you for a single minute longer!"
"You dear child!"
"So I asked Peggy to ask Madame de Moidrey if I might pay you a little
visit, and she said, 'Of course.' So I came as fast as I could----"
She laughed and made a sweeping gesture with both arms outflung: "And
here I am! Are you contented?"
She stooped and stroked Ariadne, looking up to smile at him.
"Careful of her whisker; there is blue paint on it," he warned Philippa;
but the girl wiped off the ultramarine with a green leaf and took the
cat to her heart, covering her with caresses and murmuring endearments.
"Jim, dear, what do _you_ think?" she asked presently.
"About what?"
"About the war?"
He said gravely:
"I don't quite understand how those magnificent Belgian forts are being
knocked to pieces--if what the paper says is true. I supposed them to
be among the strongest fortifications in the world."
"Madame de Moidrey says they are. Her husband, the late Count Victor,
was an artillery officer. And she told Peggy and me that the Count de
Moidrey had always said they were the very strongest forts in the
world."
"_Something's_ gone wrong; that is evident," said Warner. "But not with
_you_, Philippa," he added, smiling at her. "I never saw you looking as
well; and that's a tremendously fetching frock you're wearing."
It was a white outing gown of serge, and the girl wore white stockings
and tennis shoes, and a soft white hat--a boyish headgear which became
her enchantingly.
"Peggy gave it to me," she said. "It is very American, isn't it?"
"It's adorable on _you_. Do you like Peggy Brooks?"
"Yes."
"And Madame de Moidrey?"
"Yes, I do--rather."
"Not entirely?"
"Jim----"
"What?"
"Yes, I--yes, I do like her.... But I don't do much to earn my wages.
And that troubles me."
"Your salary?"
Philippa laughed:
"Wages, salary--what does it matter what you call them, when both merely
mean pay for work performed.... I should like to do something for Madame
de Moidrey in return. But she has many servants and a maid and a
housekeeper. I thought I was to read to her, write letters for her,
amuse her. But she sometimes reads to me and she and Peggy are teaching
me to play tennis----" Philippa held out one narrow foot for his
inspection. "And yesterday she ordered a horse for me, as well as for
herself and her sister, and I wore one of Peggy's riding habits--knee
breeches and boots, Jim; and they set me on a horse! _That_ is the way
I am earning my wages at the Chateau des Oiseaux!"
"Why complain?" he asked, much amused.
"Because I am unable to return such favors----"
"Don't worry; whatever they do for you brings its own recompense."
"How?"
"Has it never occurred to you that your society is agreeable,
interesting, amusing, and desirable?"
"No," she said, honestly surprised.
"Well, it is! People like you. You yourself amply recompense anybody
for anything done for you, by accepting the attentions offered."
"Do _you_ think of me in that way?"
He hadn't quite understood until then that he did feel that way about
her, but he felt it now so strongly that it seemed as though he had
always been of that mind.
"I've always thought so," he said. "There is never a dull moment with
you, Philippa. No wonder people seek you and like you and pet you!"
Philippa blushed and tried to smile, then for a moment she buried her
flushed face in Ariadne's fluffy fur until her cheeks cooled.
"If," she said, "I had a home and an income, however tiny, I should not
feel at all embarrassed by courtesies from others, because I should, in
my turn, offer the best I possessed. But, Jim--a homeless girl--with
all that I have been--endured!--I don't know--but I should feel more
comfortable if I could be of some service in return for all that these
very kind Americans offer me."
She placed Ariadne on the grass, turned and looked down at the river.
"There is my punt," she said. "Isn't it curious to remember that you
and I first became friends in that boat? It seems to have happened very
long ago, when I was a child.... You made me wash my face; do you
remember?"
"I do," he replied gayly. "You looked like a schoolgirl made up for the
part of Jezebel."
She blushed and hung her head. Presently her lowered eyes were raised
to him in a distressed, questioning way, and he came over to her and put
his hands on her shoulders.
"I never thought ill of you, Philippa--never doubted you were anything
except what you really are."
She looked up into his eyes:
"I don't know what I really am. But I am beginning to understand that I
can be whatever you desire. Also, I am beginning to understand how
generous you have been to me in your thoughts. Both you and Mr. Halkett
had every reason to think lightly of the _caissiere_ of the Cabaret de
Biribi, with her painted lips and cheeks and her easy manners----" She
shrugged. "And perhaps, but for the grace of God and you, I should have
become what I appeared to be.... Let us sit in the punt. Shall we?"
They went down to the river together, Ariadne marching at their heels
with tail erect, and the girl stepped aboard and seated herself in the
stern which, afloat, swung in the limpid eddy among the tall, green
rushes.
When Warner also was seated, at her feet, she drew from the pocket of
her white serge jacket a letter, and, leaning over him, opened and
displayed it.
The letter was written in French on common writing paper, in a perfectly
legible but uneducated hand.
MADEMOISELLE [it began],
You are watched and your present whereabouts is known. You are warned to
keep your mouth shut. Any treachery, even any slight indiscretion on
your part, will be fully revenged by those you betray.
The wages of a traitor are death. Be advised in time. Return to your
duty while there is yet time and your present ingratitude will be
forgiven.
Make up your mind at once. There is no time to waste. _What is to
happen shall happen! It is coming very fast. It is almost upon us_.
The safety which you suppose that the present condition of affairs
guarantees you is but momentary. Peril threatens you; certain
punishment awaits you. Documents in possession of those whom you
threaten to betray are sufficient to condemn you now.
And more than that: we hold over you the power of life and death; and
shall hold it, _no matter what happens in Ausone_!
Either way we can destroy you.
Return to us, therefore; accept forgiveness while there is yet time.
You know who has caused this to be written. Therefore, enough!
Return and find security; remain to betray us and you shall be shot!
When Warner finished reading this outrageous missive, he looked up into
Philippa's undisturbed face, and she smiled.
"When did you receive this?" he demanded.
"It came in the noon mail yesterday."
"Of course it's from Wildresse."
"Of course," she said simply. "What do you think of it?"
"I think very little of it," he replied. "Threatened people are good
insurance risks. If he could have harmed you, he'd not have troubled to
write you about his amiable designs on you.... It's a pity--a great
pity, Philippa--that we dare not call in the police."
"If I have written, innocently, the things he says I have written and
signed, it might go hard with me if he were arrested," she said.
"I know it. It can't be done--at any rate, it can't be done yet. If
there were anywhere you could go--any frontier that might be a barrier
of safety for you! But all Europe seems to be involved--all neutral
frontiers violated--even the Grand Duchy has become a German
thoroughfare.... Let me think it over, Philippa. I don't know how
dangerous to you that miserable rascal can become.... But Halkett was
right: as long as you are in France, it won't do to denounce Wildresse."
"You understand, Jim, that I am not alarmed," she said gently, watching
his anxious and clouded features. "I know that. I think I have reason
to bear testimony concerning your courage----"
"I did not mean it in that way----"
"I understand, dear. Those who amount to anything never have to say so.
I know you are not afraid.... Shall I keep that letter for you?"
She handed it to him. He pocketed it and sat for a while in silence,
his brooding eyes on the blue distance.
Finally, with an effort, his face cleared, and he said cheerfully:
"It is the strangeness and unreality of these last few days which
depresses everybody. As a matter of fact, the war has lent a certain
almost dignified terror to the attitude and the petty operations of a
very vile and squalid band of malefactors in a small, provincial town.
"These fellows are nothing but cheap dealers in blackmail; and the last
thing they'd do would be to invoke the law, of which they stand in
logical and perpetual fear.
"No, no! All this hint of political and military vengeance--all this
innuendo concerning a squad of execution, is utter rot.
"If they've dabbled in the bartering of military information, they'll
keep clear of anything resembling military authority. No; I'm not
worried on that point.... But I think, if Madame de Moidrey cares to ask
me, that I should like to be a guest at the Chateau des Oiseaux for the
next few days."
"Jim!" she exclaimed, radiant.
"Do you want me?" he asked, pretending astonishment.
And so it happened that after luncheon Warner locked up his room and
studio in the pretty hostelry of the Golden Peach, gave orders for his
trunk to be sent to the Chateau, and started across the fields toward
the wooded heights, from whence had come over the telephone an amused
voice inviting him to be the guest of the Countess de Moidrey.
When he arrived, Madame de Moidrey was sewing alone on the southern
terrace, and she looked up laughingly and extended her hand.
"So you're in the web at last," she said. "I predicted it, didn't I?"
"Nonsense, Ethra. I came because Philippa has received a threatening
letter from that scoundrel, Wildresse."
"I know. The child has told me. Is it worth worrying over?"
"Not at all," said Warmer contemptuously. "That sort of thing is the
last resort of a badly frightened coward. Only I thought, considering
the general uncertainty, that perhaps you and Peggy might not be
displeased to have a rather muscular man in the house."
"As a matter of fact, Jim, I had thought of asking you. Really, I had.
Only--" she laughed--"I was afraid you might think I was encouraging you
in something else----"
"See here, Ethra! You don't honestly suppose that there is anything
sentimental in my relations with Philippa, do you?"
"Isn't there?"
"No," he said impatiently.
Madame de Moidrey resumed her sewing, the smile still edging her
pleasant lips:
"She _is_ very young yet, in many things; all the enchanting candor and
sweetness of a child are hers still, together with a poise and quiet
dignity almost bewildering at moments.... Jim, your little, nameless
protegee is simply fascinating!"
He spoke quietly:
"I'm only too thankful you find her so."
"I do. Philippa is adorable. And nobody can make me believe that there
is not good blood there. Why, speaking merely of externals, every
feature, every contour, every delicate line of her body is labeled
'race.' There is never any accident in such a result of breeding. In
mind and body the child has bred true to her race and stock--that is
absurdly plain and perfectly evident to anybody who looks at her, sees
her move, hears her voice, and follows the natural workings of her
mind."
"Yes," said Warner, "Halkett and I decided that she had been born to
fine linen and fine thoughts. Who in the world can the child be, Ethra?"
Madame de Moidrey shook her head over her sewing:
"I've found myself wondering again and again what the tragedy could have
been. The man, Wildresse, may have lied to her. If some day he could
be forced to tell what he knows----"
"I have thought of that.... I don't know, Ethra.... Sometimes it is
better to leave a child in untroubled ignorance. What do you think?"
"Perhaps.... But, Jim, there is no peasant ancestry in that child, I am
sure, whatever else there may be."
"Just rascally aristocracy?"
The Countess de Moidrey laughed. She had married for love; she could
afford to.
"I am Yankee enough," she said, "to be sensitive to that subtle and
indescribable something which always characterizes the old French
aristocracy. One is always aware of it; it is never absent; it clings
always as the perfume clings to an ancient cabinet of sandalwood and
ivory.
"And, Jim, it seems to me that it clings, faintly, to the child
Philippa.... It's an odd thing to say. Perhaps if I had been born to
the title, I might not have detected it. What is familiar from birth is
rarely noticed. But my unspoiled, nervous, and Yankee nose seems to
detect it in this young girl.... And my Yankee nose, being born
republican, is a very, very keen one, and makes exceedingly few
mistakes."
"You intend, then, to keep her as a companion for the present?"
"If she will stay. I don't quite know whether she wants to. I don't
entirely understand her. She does not seem unhappy; she is sweet,
considerate, agreeable, and perfectly willing to do anything asked of
her. She is never exacting; she asks nothing even of the servants.
It's her attitude toward them which shows her quality. They feel
it--they all are aware of it. My maid adores her and is forever hanging
around to aid her in a hundred little offices, which Philippa accepts
because it gives pleasure to my maid, and for that reason alone.
"I tell you, Jim, if anybody thinks Philippa complex, it is a mistake.
Her heart and mind are virginal, whatever her experience may have been;
she is as simple and unspoiled as the children of that tall young King
yonder, Albert of Belgium--God bless him! And that is the truth
concerning Philippa--upon whom a suspicious world is going to place no
value whatever because no rivets, ecclesiastical or legal, have
irrevocably fastened to her the name she bears in ignorance of her own."
Peggy Brooks, a dark-haired, fresh-faced girl, came out on the terrace,
nodded a familiar greeting to Warner, and looked around in search of
Philippa.
Her sister said in a low voice:
"Peggy is quite mad about her. They get along wonderfully. I wonder
where the child is? She expected you."
"Ethra," said Peggy, "I've given her one of my new afternoon gowns. I
_made_ her take it, on a promise to let her pay me out of her salary.
Mathilde is fussing over her still, I suppose." And to Warner: "I'm
painting a head of her. She sits as still as a statue, but it's
hopeless, Jim; the girl's too exquisite to paint----"
"I mean to try it some day," said Warner. "The way to paint her, Peggy,
is to try to treat her as the great English masters of portraiture
treated their grand ladies---with that thoroughbred loveliness and
grace--just a dash of enchanting blue sky behind her, and the sun-gilded
foliage of stately trees against it, and her scarf blowing free----" He
laughed. "Oh, I know how it _ought_ to be done. We shall see what we
shall see, some day----"
He ceased and turned his head. Philippa stepped out upon the
terrace--the living incarnation of his own description.
Even Peggy caught her breath as the girl came forward.
"You beautiful thing!" she exclaimed. "You do belong in a golden frame
in some great English castle!"
Philippa, perplexed but smiling, acknowledged Madame de Moidrey's
presence and Peggy's, then turned to Warner with hand extended, as
though she had not taken a similar leave of him an hour or two before.
"Everybody is so generous! Do you admire my new gown? Peggy gave it to
me. Never have I possessed such a ravishing gown. That is why I am
late; I stood at my mirror and looked and looked----"
She turned swiftly to Peggy: "Dear, I am too happy to know how to say
so! And if Madame de Moidrey is contented with me----"
"You are too lovely for words, Philippa," said the Countess. "If Mr.
Warner paints you that way, I shall wish to have the picture for
myself."
"Aha!" exclaimed Warner. "A commission!"
"Certainly," said the Countess. "You may begin as soon as Philippa is
ready."
"Very well," said he. "If I paint the picture, you promise to hang it
in the Chateau as a memento of Philippa, do you?"
"I do."
"Then there'll be no charge for this important major operation.
Philippa, will you take ether tomorrow morning?"
The girl laughed and nodded, looking up at him from where she was seated
beside the Countess, examining the sewing.
"Could I not do this for you, Madame?" she said.
"But I like to sew, Philippa."
The girl smiled, then a slight sigh escaped her. The Countess looked up
at her, and Philippa smiled again, saying:
"There seems to be nothing within my power to do for you, Madame."
"There _is_ something," said Madame de Moidrey under her breath.
"What, if you please?"
"I want you to like me, Philippa.... And if some day you could learn to
love me, that would be the rarest gift that could be offered me."
The girl's grey eyes widened in utter surprise; suddenly they sparkled
with tears, and she bent her head swiftly and touched the elder woman's
hands with her own.
"Madame," she whispered, "you overwhelm me with your kindness.... If
only I could express my gratitude----"
She checked herself as Maurice, the head gardener, appeared, hat in
hand, deep anxiety stamped on his seamed and sunburnt features.
"Pardon, Madame la Comtesse--there is a great fire somewhere in the
north. I thought Madame should be told----"
"A fire? What is it? The forest, Maurice?"
"Oh, it is very far away, Madame. Perhaps it is a forest on fire....
But there is a sound, too. One may see and hear from the northern
terrace when the wind sets in."
"Is it as far away as Ausone?"
"Farther, Madame."
The Countess glanced at Warner, rose, retaining Philippa's hand.
"Thank you, Maurice," she said over her shoulder, and, passing her arm
through Philippa's, she entered the house, followed by Warner and Peggy.
"What do you suppose alarms old Maurice?" whispered Peggy.
But Warner, vastly troubled, made no answer.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
Below the carved stone balustrade of the north terrace acres and acres
of tree tops--oak, beech, birch, and fir--spread away on every side.
This was the Foret des Oiseaux.
Beyond the dense green surface of the tree tops, which was so compact
that it resembled a wide and gently rolling plateau, the country
stretched away toward Ausone. Here and there some distant farmhouse
window sparkled in the sun; set amid banks of velvet green the
Recollette glittered like severed fragments of a silver thread.
Bathed in a mauve haze the Ausone Fort stood out on its conical,
tree-clad hill; beyond it other hillocks rose, lilac-tinted silhouettes
against the horizon.
Turquoise, palest violet, tender green and gold, the country lay
revealed under the August sky, peaceful, glimmering, silent.
And across this dainty harmony of color was smeared a somber, discordant
smudge, staining the delicate haze of amethyst, defiling the pure sky--a
wide, high area of dirty smoke, leaning from the perpendicular toward
the east, spilling its dun-colored vapor downward over the pale
aquarelle of hill and river and valley.
"The Alcyon Forest is afire!" exclaimed the Countess in a low voice.
"It is much farther away," said Warner.
A sudden breeze sprang up, blowing in their faces over the swaying tree
tops.
"Listen!" said Philippa, touching her lips with one finger.
From an infinite distance the wind carried with it a deadened thumping
sound, now regular as the dulled rolling of drums, now softly irregular,
with intervals of stillness, then again spasmodic, muffled, almost
inaudible.
"Are they threshing anywhere near us?" asked the Countess of her sister.
"What is that pumping sound?" She turned to Warner, who made no reply.
"Do you know what it is, Jim?" demanded Peggy Brooks uneasily.
"I'm not absolutely sure.... I'll be back in a moment----" He turned
and went swiftly into the house.
Philippa, leaning on the balustrade beside the Countess, said very
quietly:
"I know what that sound is. I have heard it before from the outer
boulevard in Ausone, when the grand maneuvers were going on."
The Countess said:
"I was afraid it was that."
"Drums?" asked Peggy Brooks.
"Cannon," said Philippa.
Warner came back with his field glasses.
Studying the horizon, he spoke at intervals in his pleasant, undisturbed
voice:
"They have cleared the Ausone Fort; the flag, the semaphore, the signal
tower--all are gone; there is nothing to be seen there except trees....
It looks like any hill now; nothing is stirring on it.... This glass
brings the smoke much nearer, but it is impossible to guess what is on
fire.... I don't think it's a forest.... I'm afraid it is a village."
He offered the glass to the others; each took a turn and made out
nothing new until Philippa, gazing above the discoloring stain of smoke,
spoke to Warner in a low voice and handed him the glasses.
For a few moments he stood rigid, his field glasses poised at an angle;
then, still watching at the same angle, he said:
"You are perfectly right, Philippa; two aeroplanes are soaring between
the smoke and the Ausone Fort."
One by one the others searched for the distant sky craft and discovered
them.
They were still at it when tea was served, and, by that time, the
deadened drumming sound had become unmistakable, increasing in volume
with every lightest puff of wind, and, when the breeze died out, still
filling the ears with its steady thudding.
Also, the dirty smoke-smear had spread, polluting the tender northern
sky, and new centers of infection had appeared here and there amid the
green landscape--dark spots of smoke which, at first, appeared
insignificant and motionless, which were bigger in ten minutes, which in
half an hour had become volumes. Yet their actual growing process was
not perceptible, so gradually the looming spots assumed the threatening
proportions of gloom.
Warner, his teacup on his knees, bracketed the field glasses on the
aeroplanes once more, and was startled at their nearness.
Almost at the same instant a dry crack, like the breaking of a stick,
sounded, coming from the direction of the distant fort--another,
another, others following in quicker succession. And, watching, he saw
below the aeroplanes a dotted line of tiny white spots, growing in
length for a while, then maintaining its length as the rearward dots
vanished and new dots of cottony white were added to the other end.
Higher and higher rose the aeroplanes above the white wake of exploding
shells, bearing eastward now, sheering widely, as a pair of soaring
hawks sweep swiftly into vaster circles as they mount into the dazzling
blue.
"The fort is using its sky-guns," remarked Warner.
They all took turns watching the fleecy clots of smoke appear, linger,
dissolve in mid-air. Long after the aeroplanes had disappeared in the
sky, the high-angle guns continued their distant, rattling fusillade.
"What do you think is happening out there?" asked the Countess. "You
have seen war, Jim. Have you an idea what the smoke and cannonade mean?
Is a German army coming?"
Warner said:
"They are shelling villages to the north of us--perhaps trenches, too.
I don't know what troops we have there.
"Probably their cavalry screen has come into contact with ours, and I
should say that we are retiring. But you can't tell yet."
"It's the _invasion_, then," said the Countess calmly.
"It's a raid, anyway."
"A raid on Ausone?"
"Probably. The railroad there is always important--much more so than
the Ausone Fort. I'm afraid that fort doesn't amount to very much as
fortifications are classed now."
The spectacle from the north terrace had become very disquieting. All
the horizon was now obscured by smoke, and its dirty shadow dulled the
distance and invaded the middle distance, hanging from west to east like
a sooty veil suspended across land and sky. There was, however, nothing
else to see, not a glimmer of flame, nothing stirring on the hill where,
unseen, the Ausone Fort crouched above the green valley of the
Recollette. But the deadened mutter of the cannonade continued unbroken
along the horizon, never ceasing now, not even when the light wind
changed.
Peggy's curiosity was satisfied; she had taken jealous possession of
Philippa, with a side glance at Warner out of brown eyes not entirely
devoid of malice, and the two were in the billiard room, which opened
from the northern terrace, for the purpose of Philippa's education in
the game of French billiards.
The Countess set her teacup aside and picked up her sewing.
"I don't intend to be driven out of my home," she remarked.
He lighted a cigarette and looked curiously into the north.
"Whether it's to be the wretched story of 1870 again or not," she went
on, "I shall not be frightened away from this house.
"This is my home. I came here a bride; my dear husband died under this
roof; all I care for in the world, all I hold most dear, most intimate,
is here, Jim. I shall not go."
He said gravely:
"I hope the necessity may never arise, Ethra."
"It will not. Are the Germans really barbarians? What object could they
have in injuring this old house? What good would it do them or their
country to disturb us here? If they come, we can't defend ourselves.
What is there for us to do except to submit? But I shall not go away and
leave this place to the mercies of their filthy soldiery."
Warner said nothing. There were many contingencies overlooked by this
determined lady--circumstances which might mean ruin to the house--if,
for instance, a retreating army chose to defend the Chateau. But he
remained silent, not caring to trouble her with the possibilities of
eventualities.
"I had rather you stayed, if you don't mind, Jim," she said, sewing away
serenely.
"Certainly."
The steady thud of the cannonade had now assumed a more substantial
rumbling sound.
Now and then separate shocks were audible, as though great pieces,
occasionally, were discharged singly, dominating the duller monotone of
lesser caliber.
He kept his eyes pretty constantly on the horizon line of smoke,
evidently expectant of some new development, now and then fancying that
it had become visible, as the calm sky became suffused with the delicate
pastel hues of early evening, and the first bat zigzagged among the
potted orange trees on the terrace.
And presently, in the early dusk, it became visible--first merely as a
dull tint reddening the distant smoke, then as a faint, ruddy line of
light, shifting, twinkling, sinking, flaring palely, then more redly as
the summer dusk deepened and possessed the silent world around them.
From northwest to southeast ran the flicker of the guns, with now and
then a wider flare and a deeper accent dominating the measured monotone.
Five fires were burning, also: two from hamlets or nearer groups of
buildings belonging to some big farm; the other three conflagrations
were farther distant, and much greater, as though three considerable
villages and their environs were in flames.
Philippa and Peggy came to the long, open windows from moment to moment,
standing there, cue in hand, to look out at the reddening sky.
It was still not too dusky to see fairly well, and the lamps had not yet
been lighted in the house, excepting the luster over the billiard table,
when a footman appeared on the terrace, dignified, correct, unruffled:
"The driveway and circle, Madame la Comtesse, are full of cavalry.
Their officers are dismounting; the troopers have gone into our stables
and garage."
The Countess rose quietly, and Warner stood up in silence.
"What cavalry is it?"
"Ours, Madame. They have taken out the three automobiles and all the
horses."
"Thank you." And, to Warner: "Would you mind coming with me, Jim?"
They entered the billiard room and traversed the house to the southern
terrace.
Drive and circle were swarming with the pale blue dolmans of hussars
moving in and out of the fan-shaped glare of electric torches, some
mounted, their lances held perpendicularly in the stirrup boots, others
afoot, leading up horses from the Chateau stables, pushing the three
automobiles along the garage drive, dragging vehicles of every
description by hand--hay wagons, farm wagons, long unused and
old-fashioned family carriages with the De Moidrey crest on their
panels.
Several officers in turquoise and silver, standing on the terrace,
surveyed the proceedings below, one of them turning the brilliant light
of his breast torch upon one spot after another and scarcely raising his
voice as he directed operations.
There was very little noise, no confusion; everybody seemed to know what
was to be done.
As the Countess de Moidrey and Warner came out upon the terrace, the
officers heard them, turned, saluted, and one of them, a slim, handsome
youth most beautifully molded into his uniform, came forward, crimson
cap in hand, bowing with a grace indescribable.
"Madame de Moidrey," he said, "we very deeply regret the military
necessity which temporarily deprives you of your cars and horses, but
the Government requires us to ask them of you and to offer you a
receipt----"
"The Government is welcome, Monsieur," she said earnestly. "If the
Government will accept what I have to offer as a gift, it will honor me
sufficiently without offering any receipt or promise of
indemnification."
"Countess," said the youthful soldier, bowing, "it is the answer any
soldier of France might expect from one who bears the name of De
Moidrey. Nevertheless, Madame, I am required to leave in your
possession a receipt for what you so graciously permit me to
requisition.... Permit me, Madame----" He drew from his dispatch pouch
the papers, already filled in, signed and stamped, and presented them
with a bow.
And, smilingly, Madame de Moidrey tore them across, again and again, and
dropped the fragments upon the terrace.
"Monsieur," she said, "may I not offer you the hospitality of the
house--some little refreshment for you and for your men?"
"Madame, we are overwhelmed, but our orders permit us no time."
Warner said quietly:
"If you could spare a moment, Captain, there is something I should like
you to see from the north terrace." And to the Countess: "May I take
him? I think he ought to see what we have seen."
Madame de Moidrey said:
"By all means, Jim."
And the two young men went swiftly through the house and out on the
north terrace.
"Ha!" exclaimed the officer, as the rumble of the cannonade struck his
ears, and he looked out on the dark circle of the horizon, all sparkling
and lighted up with the ruddy flicker and flare of the guns.
"A raid?" asked Warner quietly.
"I don't know. Villages are afire yonder. Have you seen anything that
might be of importance to us, Monsieur?"
"Two aeroplanes. The Ausone fort fired at them with sky-guns. They
went east."
"Biplanes?"
"Monoplanes, I think. I am not sure."
"Square-tipped ailerons? Could you see?"
"They were shaped exactly like kestrels."
"Ah! Taubes! Many thanks, Monsieur." He stared out across the
darkness. "Yes, it's warming up out there. Well, sir, I must go. And
thank you again for your kindness----" He fumbled in his dolman,
produced his cardcase. "May I be permitted to present my cards to
Madame de Moidrey? Thank you--if you would be so amiable----"
They retraced their steps through the house, encountering Peggy Brooks
in the hallway, who received a most ceremonious bow from the youthful
hussar, and who acknowledged it with an enchanting inclination of her
pretty head.
Within a few feet of the front terrace, the young officer suddenly
halted.
"Monsieur," he said, very red, "it would seem, perhaps, more courteous
for me to leave my cards for all the ladies of the household. Would it
not--under such unusual and unfortunate circumstances as those of this
evening?"
Warner looked at him gravely; he was very young, very ceremonious, very
much flushed. Was it possible that Peggy Brooks had bowled over this
young gentleman with her first smile?
"I think," said Warner, very seriously, "that it might be considered
obligatory for an officer who takes away all the horses and motor cars
to leave his card for every lady in the family. There are," he added,
"three."
Afterward, when the officer had taken his leave, and his escort of
hussars had trotted away with the horses, wagons, and automobiles,
Warner, much amused, related to the Countess the incident of the cards;
and he distributed them at dinner, reading the name engraved on his own
with some curiosity.
"Well, Peggy," he said, "you did murderous work with your smile this
evening."
She answered calmly:
"I hope so. He was exceedingly nice looking."
"Le Vicomte d'Aures," nodded Warner, "Captain of Cavalry! Very polite,
that youngster; very prolific of visiting cards. You should have seen
him blush, Peggy."
"I did. I repeat that he is a nice boy, and I hope he comes back and
steals something else."
Philippa laughed; the Countess smiled indulgently upon her younger
sister, and gave the signal to rise.
"The family comes from the West, I think," she remarked to Warner, as
she took his arm. "Goodness, Jim, what a nuisance!--Not a horse in the
stable, not a car to move about in. It looks to me as though we were
marooned here.... But I am very happy to think that I could do even a
little for our Government. I wish I could do more."
"You may have plenty of chances, Ethra," he said.
They walked through to the north terrace and stood for a while watching
the conflagrations on the horizon.
The vast, slightly curved line of flickering points of fire no longer
twinkled and played through the darkness, and the muttering of the
cannonade had ceased. Only the three incendiary foci reddened the sky,
their illuminated vapors billowing up and spreading away for leagues to
the eastward.
There was a mist this night, delicately veiling the tops of the forest
trees, and the perfume of lilies from the gardens saturated the night
air.
Usually, when foggy conditions prevailed over the valley of the
Recollette, the lights of Ausone were visible as a pinkish tinge in the
sky. But this night no such tint was apparent; no signal lamps sparkled
from the fort, not a light glimmered in the vast black void beyond,
where miles and miles of darkness stretched away unlighted even by the
wastes of star-set firmament above.
Ethra de Moidrey shrugged her pretty shoulders and turned back toward
the billiard room, whither Peggy Brooks had already repaired for
practice.
Philippa, remaining beside Warner, stood watching them through the
lighted windows.
She was wearing her first evening gown--one of Peggy's gifts--a dainty
affair of palest blue; and her full, smooth cheeks and throat accented
the slim immaturity of her arms and shoulders.
She looked up, smiled faintly, and moved nearer with that unconscious
instinct of youth for seeking contact where confidence and trust is
placed. Her slim fingers, touching his, nestled into his hand with an
eloquence unmistakable of innocent possession satisfied.
"You _are_ only a very little girl yet, aren't you, Philippa?" he said,
smiling, but touched by the youth of her and her frail shoulder resting
lightly against his own.
"I know I am, Jim. I seem to be growing younger under the warm shelter
of your kindness--under the security of this roof and the quiet sense of
protection everywhere.
"It is as though I had been arrested in development since I left
school--as though youth and growth had stopped and only my mind had
continued growing older and older and more tired during these last six
years--dull, bewildering, ignoble years--lonely, endless years that
dragged their days after them like a chain, heavier, heavier----"
She pressed a little closer to his shoulder:
"I had _nobody_. Do you understand? I seem to know right from wrong,
but I don't know how I know it. Yet, I am old in some things--old and
wearied with a knowledge which still, however, remains personally
incomprehensible to me. It's just a vast accumulation of unhappy facts
concerning life as it is lived by many.... I always knew there were
such people as you--as these dear and gentle friends of yours; I never
saw them--never saw even any young girls after I left school--only the
women, young and old, who came to the cabaret, or who came and went
through the Ausone streets, or who sat knitting and gossiping under the
trees on the quay."
She laid her cheek against his shoulder with a little sigh.
"You are very wonderful to me," she murmured, partly to herself.
The night air had become a little fresher: he thought that she should
have some sort of wrap, so they entered the billiard room together,
where Peggy, awaiting her shot, slipped one arm around Philippa's waist,
detaining her to caress her and whisper nonsense.
"You beautiful child, I want you to stay with me and not go star-gazing
with that large and sunburnt man. You'll stay, won't you, darling? And
we'll go to the library presently and find a pretty red and gold book
full of armorial designs and snobbish information; and we'll search very
patiently through those expensively illuminated pages until we find a
worthy family called D'Aures----"
"Oh, Peggy!" said Philippa. "Would you really take so much trouble?"
"Rather!" said Peggy coolly. "I mean to write him some day and find out
how he is treating my pet Minerva runabout which he had the audacity to
appropriate without thanking me."
Philippa laughed rather shyly, not entirely comprehending the balance
between badinage and sincerity in Peggy's threat, but realizing that any
freedom she permitted herself was her prerogative.
Warner, lingering at the other door, caught Peggy's eye.
"You can't have her, Jim!" she said with emphasis, and drew her closer.
So Warner went on to find a wrap for her, and entered the music room.
The next moment he halted, rigid, astounded.
Peering through the windows into the room were the dirty countenances of
Asticot and Squelette, their battered noses flattened white on the
glass, their ratty eyes fixed on him.
*CHAPTER XXV*
That the precious pair believed Warner to be paralyzed with terror was
evident.
As long as he remained motionless they glared at him, their faces and
spread fingers flattened against the windowpane. Then, the next
instant, he was after them at one bound, jerking open the glass door,
out across the terrace where the two young ruffians, evidently surprised
and confused by his headlong behavior, parted company, Squelette digging
up gravel in his headlong flight down the drive, Asticot darting across
the lawn where, beyond the stables, a hospitable tangle of shrubbery
seemed to promise easy escape.
But Asticot was awfully wrong; in the darkness he rushed full speed into
an elastic barrier of mesh wire which supported the hedge of sweet peas
separating garage and stables; and as he rebounded, Warner caught him
and coolly began to beat him up.
The beating was deliberate, methodical, and merciless; the blows fell
with smart cracks upon the features of Asticot, right, left, sometimes
hoisting him off his large, flat feet, sometimes driving him dizzily
earthward; but another blow and a savage jerk always brought him up to
be swung on again, battered, knocked flying, and finally smashed into
merciful insensibility.
Asticot was in a dreadful mess as he lay there on the grass. Vignier,
the chauffeur, and a stable lad, Henri, had appeared with a lantern at
the _debacle_ of Monsieur Asticot.
Warner, breathing rapidly, waited a few moments to recover his breath.
"Take him into the harness room and lay him on a blanket," he managed to
say. "Keep your eyes on him, Vignier, until I return. There's another
of them, but I'm afraid he's cleared out."
As a matter of fact, Squelette had cleared out. He must have scaled the
wall somewhere, for the gates were locked, and the old lodge keeper was
evidently asleep.
The lad, Henri, came up, armed with a stable fork, and followed by the
head gardener, Maurice, shouldering a fowling piece and marshaling in
his wake half a dozen others--grooms, under-gardeners, and a lad or two
employed about the place.
They beat the shrubbery for an hour; then Warner left them to explore
the wooded strip along the base of the wall with their flashlights and
lanterns, and went back to the stable where lay Asticot, badly in need
of bandages and protracted repose.
Vignier met Warner at the stable door.
"Has he come to?" inquired the latter, who had begun to feel a little
worried.
"Monsieur Warner, that _voyou_ is a most frightful wreck. Out of
neither eye is he able to perceive me; what he wears upon his shoulders
does not, to me, resemble a head at all."
"He _is_ conscious, then?"
"Entirely. He lies upon his blanket and inquires for you at intervals."
"What?"
"It is true. 'Oh, my mother!' he whimpers. 'What a horrible beating I
have had from that American! Oh, my sister, I am battered into a
_boudin_! Ou est-il, donc, ce Monsieur sans remords? I have need of
conversing with him. I wish to behold him who has brought me to this
pitiable ditch of misery! I do not desire another beating! It is I,
Asticot, who informs you!' And that, Monsieur Warner, is what this
_voyou affreux_ continues to repeat in the harness room where I have
locked him in. Would Monsieur care to inspect the swine?"
Warner nodded and entered the stable; Vignier fitted a key to the
harness room and opened the door.
A lantern burned there brightly. Under it squatted Asticot on his
blanket. Neither eye was entirely closed, for there was a ratty glitter
under the puffed lids, and he lost no time in whining out that he did
not desire to be beaten any more by "that gentleman there"--pointing a
shaking finger straight at Warner.
"Vignier," said Warner, "bring me a chair, close the door, and then go
and find something to bandage this rascal. Bring a tub and hot water,
also!"
And when the chair was fetched and the door closed, Warner seated
himself and surveyed the battered ruffian with grim satisfaction.
"You murderous young sewer rat," he said calmly, "out with the whole
business, now! Do you hear? I meant to catch one of you and find out
for myself what you're up to. Now, tell me, and tell me quick, and
don't lie, or I'll start in on you again----"
He half rose from his chair, and Asticot shrieked.
"What were you doing here?" snapped out Warner.
"M-m'sieu'--it was but a peaceful reconnoissance in search of--of
information----" stuttered Asticot in terror.
"What information?--You rat!"
"M-m-m'sieu'--I swear to you on the cross of my mother----"
"Stop that! Go on! Go on faster! What information?"
"T-t-to f-find out if _l-la fille_, Philippa, had taken refuge with
M-madame la Comtesse----"
"Who wants that information?"
"I s-swear to you----"
"Quick! _Who_ wants it!"
"Monsieur Wildresse----"
"Why?"
"_Je n'en sais rien_----"
"You lying Apache! _Why_?"
"M'sieu', he pays us, the Squelette and me, to do his jobs for him, but
he has never made confidants of us. I swear it. I don't know why he
desires to seize the girl, Philippa!"
"He _does_ mean to seize her, then?"
"Alas----"
"_Does_ he?"
Asticot's entire body jerked from sheer fright.
"Yes--yes, he does! God knows it is not in me to lie to M'sieu'. God
knows I do not ever desire another beating such as M'sieu' has been
pleased to bestow upon me. I affirm it--I, Asticot--that I am the
devoted servant of M'sieu' and will most thankfully betray anybody to
him----"
"Be quiet!"
"M'sieu' does not believe me! Yet, I speak only truth. I will
diligently serve M'sieu' if he permits----"
"Serve _me_? Why?"
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu', have I not been most horribly beaten by M'sieu'? I,
Asticot, who am not unacquainted with the _Boxe_ and the _Savate_--I
have been rendered insensible! With weapons? No! _Without_ weapons!
Yes, with the empty hands of M'sieu'. Why should I not admire? Why
should I not experience gratitude that I am alive? Am I an imbecile to
court further destruction? _Non, alors_; I am not crazy. God forbid I
should ever again experience the hand of M'sieu' upon my coat collar!
And if----"
"You listen to _me_!" interrupted Warner. "Vermin of your sort that
Wildresse hires for a few francs stand no chance when military law is
proclaimed. Either side would push you against a wall on sight. Do you
understand?"
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu'----"
"There are just two safe places for you: Biribi or prison. Which do you
prefer?"
"I? Oh, my God! I have served in the Battalion de Biribi! Not _that_,
M'sieu'----"
"All right; La Nouvelle----"
Asticot emitted a muffled shriek, huddled his ragged knees within his
arms, and sat rocking and whimpering and blubbering with fright under
the lantern until an impatient gesture from Warner startled him dumb.
"Like all your kind, you don't like to be hurt, do you?" inquired
Warner, disgusted. "Yet, for twenty francs--for ten--yes, for
_five_--you could be hired to do murder; couldn't you?"
"I--I would b-be happy to do it for nothing to oblige M'sieu'----"
"I haven't a doubt of it. The only thing you understand is fear....
Where is Wildresse?"
"M'sieu' doubtless knows."
"Never mind what I know. Answer!"
"Le vieux----"
"_Who?_"
"Le Pere Wildresse--he has taken to the woods----"
"Where?"
"Le foret d'Ausone."
"Why?"
"It is because of the girl Philippa. It is evident to Squelette and to
me that he fears her. Why? I tell you frankly I do not know. If I
knew----"
"Go on!"
Asticot turned his battered visage toward Warner. A leer stretched his
swollen mouth.
"If we knew what he is afraid of, Squelette and I, we would make him
sing!" he said coolly.
"Blackmail him?"
"Naturally."
"I understand. And if you ever had a chance to get behind my back with
a thoroughly trustworthy knife--eh, Asticot?"
"No," said the ruffian naively, "I should be afraid to do that." He
squinted silently at Warner out of his puffy eyes for a few moments,
then, shaking his head: "No," he repeated; "never again. I should make
of the job only a bungle; I should be too horribly afraid."
Warner got up from his chair.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I shall go with you to the Forest of Ausone and
you shall find the Pere Wildresse for me and I shall have a little chat
with him."
"Do you mean to slay him, M'sieu'? It would be safer, I think. I could
do it for you, if you wish, when his back is turned. When one is
annoyed by anybody, it saves much trouble to knock him on the head at
once. If I could once get him down," he added cheerfully, "I would take
him by both ears and beat his head on the ground until his coco
cracked."
"Really?"
"Certainly. Supposition that an individual bores M'sieu'. What to do?
M'sieu' reflects; M'sieu' rubs his head in perplexity--crac! There is
his devoted friend, Asticot! Why had you not before thought of your
humble friend and grateful? Asticot! To be sure! A word to him and
the job is done, discreetly, without any _tapage_. And M'sieu',
contented, I trust, with his honest and devoted Asticot, may remember in
his bounty that times are hard and that one must eat and drink--yes,
even poor Asticot among the rest."
"Yes, Asticot. But after you're dead such necessities won't trouble
you."
"M-m'sieu'!"
"I've got my eye on you. Do you know what that means?"
Stammering and stuttering, the ruffian admitted that he did know.
"Very well. They'll bring you a tin tub full of hot water, some
clothing which I bestow upon you, some salves and bandages. Afterward,
they'll give you some straw to sleep on, and then they'll lock the door.
What I'll do with you or to you I don't know yet. But I'll know by
morning."
Vignier knocked at the door. Behind him came a stableboy with a tub.
"Take care of that rat," said Warner briefly; and went out into the
night.
His hands were slightly discolored, and one had bled at the knuckles.
He went directly to the room, changed his linen, made a careful toilet
with a grimace of retrospective disgust, then adjusting and brushing out
his crumpled attire, took a look at himself in the glass and discovered
no incriminating evidence of his recent pugilistic activity.
But when he went downstairs he discovered that the family had retired;
lights flickered low in the west drawing-room, a lamp remained burning
in the staircase hall, but the remainder of the house was dark.
As he stood at the drawing-room door, undecided whether to carry the
hallway lamp to the library and find a book, or to return to his room
and bed, a slight noise on the stairway attracted his attention.
Philippa, in boudoir robe and slippers, her chestnut hair in two braids,
sat on the carpeted stairs looking down at him through the spindles.
"What on earth are you doing there?" he demanded, smiling up at her.
"You have been away over two hours!"
"I know it: I'm so sorry----"
"You said you were going to find a wrap for me. You didn't return."
"I'm sorry, Philippa. I was detained at the garage--a matter which had
to be arranged with Vignier.... You should go back to bed."
"I was in bed."
"Why did you get up?"
"I wished to find out whether you had come in."
"But, Philippa," he protested laughingly, "you don't feel that you have
to sit up for me, do you?--As though we were ma----" He checked himself
abruptly, and she caught him up where he had stopped.
"Yes, I do feel that way!" she said emphatically. "When the only man a
girl has in the whole world goes out and doesn't return, is it not
natural for that girl to sit up until he does return?"
"Yes," he said, rather hastily, "I suppose it is. Speak low, or people
can hear you. You see I'm all right, so now you had better go to
bed----"
"Jim! I don't want to go to bed."
"Why not?" he demanded in a guarded voice.
"I am lonely."
"Nonsense, Philippa! You can't be lonely with real friends so near.
Don't sit up any longer."
She sighed, gathered her silken knees into her arms, and shrugged her
shoulders like a spoiled child.
"I am lonely," she insisted. "I miss Ariadne."
"We'll go and call on her tomorrow----"
"I want her now. I've a mind to put on a cloak and some shoes and go
down to the inn and get her."
"Come!" he said. "You don't want the servants to hear you and see you
sitting on the stairs when the household is in bed and asleep."
"Is there any indiscretion in my sitting on the stairs?"
"Oh, no, I suppose not!"
"Very well. Let me sit here, then. Besides, I never have time enough
to talk to you----"
"You have all day!"
"The day is not long enough. Even day and night together would be too
short. Even the years are going to be too brief for me, Jim! How can I
live long enough with you to make up for the years without you!" she
explained a trifle excitedly; but she subsided as he made a quick
gesture of caution.
"It won't do to sit there and converse so frankly," he said. "Nobody
overhearing you would understand either you or me."
The girl nodded. One heavy braid fell across her shoulder, and she took
the curling, burnished ends between her fingers and began to rebraid
them absently. After a moment she sighed, bent her head and looked down
at him between the spindles.
"I am sorry I have annoyed you," she whispered.
"You didn't."
"Oh, I did! It wouldn't do to have people think--what--couldn't be
true.... But, Jim, can't you forgive a girl who is entirely alone in
the world, clinging to every moment of companionship with her closest
friend? And can't you understand her being afraid that something might
happen to him--to take him away--and the most blessed friendship
that--that she ever even dreamed of in--in the dreadful solitude which
was her youth?"
"You dear child--of course I understand.... I never have enough of you,
either. Your interest and friendship and loyalty are no warmer than are
mine for you.... But you mustn't become morbid; nothing is going to
alter our regard for each other; nothing is going to happen to either
you or me." He laughed. "So you really need not sit up nights for me,
if I happen to be out."
She laughed too, framed her cheeks in her hands, and looked down at him
with smiling, humorous eyes which grew subtly tender.
"You do care for me, Jim?"
"Why should I deny it?"
"Why should _I_? I don't. I know I care for you more than everything
else in the world----
"Philippa!"
"Yes, Jim?"
"You know--people happening to overhear you might not understand----"