The Girl Philippa
In the peaceful silence nothing stirred; there was no breeze, no sound
save the trickle of water among fern fronds.
Then, from nowhere apparently, into this golden tranquillity came a
nun--no, not a nun, but one of those Grey Daughters of St. Vincent de
Paul, who have "for their monastery the houses of the sick, for a cell a
hired room, for a cloister the city streets, for a veil modesty."
In her white _cornette_, or pointed coiffe, with its starched wings, her
snowy collarette, wide sleeves, grey apron, and grey-blue habit, she
became instantly the medieval incarnation which vitalized the old garden
and the ancient wall, so that the centuries they had witnessed were born
again there where their spirit had returned, clothed in the costume
which they had known so well.
The _soeur de charite_ had not seen Halkett; she passed lightly,
swiftly, along the flowering borders with scissors and ozier basket,
bending here to gather the white clove pinks, kneeling there to snip off
pansies.
And it was only when the grey cat leaped from Halkett's knees and
advanced toward the Sister of Charity with a little mew of recognition
that she turned, still kneeling, caught sight of Halkett, and remained
looking at him, one delicate white hand resting on the purring cat.
Halkett was on his feet, his hat under his arm, now, and he bade her
good-morning with that pleasant deference which marks such men
immediately for what they are.
She smiled faintly from the transparent shadow of her white _cornette_.
"Flowers are all so lovely," she said, "it is never easy for me to
choose. They are for my school, you know?"--with a slight rising
inflection. But evidently this young man did not know, so she added, "I
am Sister Eila," and smiled again, when it was apparent that he had
never heard of Sister Eila.
"I am English," he said, "--traveling through France on business. I
arrived last night to visit my friend, Mr. Warner. My name is Halkett."
She nodded and snipped a few more pansies.
"May I help you, Sister? If you don't mind telling me what flowers you
desire----"
"Merci, Monsieur. Pansies, if you please. The children see odd little
faces in their petals, and it amuses them."
Down on his knees beside the border, the grey cat seated between them,
Halkett picked pansies and laid them in rows in her ozier basket.
"Of course," he said, "your school is a charity school."
"For the poor, of course. My children are those of the quarrymen."
"You do not teach them alone?"
"Oh, no. Sister Felicite teaches with me. And then, of course, we are
together when, during the vacation, hospital service is required of us."
"Is there a quarry hospital?"
"Yes, Monsieur. It is more like an ambulance where first aid is given.
The hospital at Ausone takes our sick." Still kneeling, she looked up
at the slender fruit trees beyond, and the sunlight fell full on the
most exquisite young face that Halkett had ever seen. Whether it was her
unexpected beauty that gave him a little shock, or the sudden idea that
in her features there was a haunting resemblance to somebody he had
seen, perhaps met, he did not know.
Sometimes in the first glimpse of a face we recognize the living
substance of her to whom we have aspired, and of whom we have dreamed.
But she has never existed except in the heart which created her until we
unconsciously endow another with all we dreamed she was.
He went on gathering flowers to fill her basket.
"I wonder," she said musingly, "whether any of those apricots are ripe.
One of my children is convalescent, and she really needs a little fresh
fruit."
So Halkett rose, threaded his way through the flowers, and looked
carefully among the branches for a ripe apricot. He found two, and
Sister Eila laid them together in the corner of her basket, which was
now full.
He walked with her to the garden door, which was set solidly under an
arch in the wall. There she looked up, smiling, as she said in English:
"Is not our country of Sais very lovely, Mr. Halkett?"
"Yes, indeed, it is," he replied, also smiling in his surprise. "But,
Sister Eila, you are English, are you not?"
"Irish--but brought up in France." ... Her face grew graver; she said
very quietly: "Is it true there is any danger of war? The children are
talking; it is evident that the quarrymen must be discussing such things
among themselves. I thought I'd ask you----"
"I'm afraid," he said, "that there is some slight chance of war,
Sister."
"Here in France?"
"Yes--here."
"It is Germany, of course?"
"Yes, the menace comes from--" he cast a quick glance toward the east,
"--from over there.... Perhaps diplomacy may regulate the affair. It is
always best to hope."
"Yes, it is best always--to hope," she said serenely.... "Thank you, Mr.
Halkett. Mr. Warner is a friend of mine. Perhaps you may have time to
visit our school with him."
"I'll come," said Halkett.
She smiled and nodded; he opened the heavy green door for her, and
Sister Eila went out of the golden world of legend, leaving the flowers
and young trees very still behind her.
*CHAPTER VI*
Warner discovered him there in the garden, seated once more on the stone
trough, the grey cat dozing on his knees.
"Hello, old chap!" he said cheerfully. "Did you sleep?"
Halkett gave him a pleasant, absent-minded glance:
"Not very well, thanks."
"Nor I. Those damn nightingales kept me awake. Has your man arrived?"
"Not yet. I don't quite understand why."
Warner sauntered up and caressed the cat.
"Well, Ariadne, how goes it with you?" he inquired, gently rubbing her
dainty ears, an attention enthusiastically appreciated, judging by the
increased purring.
"Ariadne, eh?" inquired Halkett.
"Yes--her lover forsook her--although she doesn't seem to mind as much
as the original lady did. No doubt she knows there's a Bacchus
somewhere on his way to console her."
The other nodded in his pleasant, absent-minded fashion. After a moment
he said:
"I've been talking to a Sister of Charity here in the garden."
"Sister Felicite?"
"No; Sister Eila."
"Isn't she the prettiest thing!" exclaimed Warner. "And she's as good as
she is beautiful. We're excellent friends, Sister Eila and I. I'll
take you over to her school after breakfast."
"It's the Grey Sisterhood, isn't it?"
"St. Vincent de Paul's Filles de la Charite; not the Grey Nuns, you
know."
"I supposed not. Of course these nuns are not cloistered."
"They are not even nuns. They don't take perpetual vows."
Halkett looked up quickly.
"What!" he demanded.
"No. The vows of these Sisters of Charity are simple vows. They renew
them annually. Still, it is a strict order. Their novitiate is five
years' probation."
"Oh! I supposed----" He remained silent, his thoughtful gaze fixed on
space.
"Yes, our brave gentle Sisters of Charity remain probationers for five
years, and then every year they renew their vows of chastity, poverty,
and obedience. The annual vows are taken some time in March, I believe.
They have no cloister, you know, other than a room in some poor street
near the school or hospital where they work. Did you ever hear the
wonderful story of their Order?"
"No."
So Warner sketched for him the stainless history of a true saint, and of
the Filles de St. Vincent de Paul through the centuries of their
existence; and Halkett listened unstirring, his handsome head bent, his
hand resting motionless on Ariadne's head.
A few minutes later a fresh-faced peasant girl, in scarlet bodice and
velvet-slashed black skirts, came out into the garden bearing a tray
with newly baked rolls, new butter, and cafe-au-lait for two. She
placed it on the iron table in the little summerhouse, curtseyed to the
two young men, exchanged a gay greeting with Warner, and trotted off
again in her _chaussons_--the feminine, wholesome, and admirable symbol
of all that is fascinating in the daughters of France.
Halkett placed Ariadne on the grass, rose, and followed Warner to the
arbor; Ariadne tagged after them, making gentle but pleased remarks.
There was an extra saucer, which Warner filled with milk and set before
the cat.
"You know," he said to Halkett, "I like to eat by myself--or with some
man. So I have my meals served out here, or in the tap room when it
rains. The Harem feeds itself in the dining-room----"
"The _what_?"
"My class, I mean. An irreverent friend of mine in Paris dubbed it 'the
Harem,' and the title stuck--partly, I suppose, because of its
outrageous absurdity, partly because it's a terse and convenient title."
"_They_ don't call it that, do they?"
"I should say not! And I hope they don't know that others do. Anyway,
the Harem dawdles over its meals and talks art talk at the long table
where Madame Arlon--the Patronne--presides. You'll have to meet them."
"Do you criticise your--Harem--this morning?" inquired Halkett,
laughing.
"Yes; I give them their daily pabulum. Do you want to come about with
me and see how it's done? After the distribution of pap I usually pitch
my own umbrella somewhere away from their vicinity and make an hour's
sketch. After that I paint seriously for the remainder of the day. But
I'll take you over to Sister Eila's school this morning if you like."
He fished out a black caporal cigarette and scratched a match.
Halkett, his cigarette already lighted, lounged sideways on the green
iron chair, his preoccupied gaze fixed on Ariadne.
"Annual vows," he said, "mean, of course, that a Sister renews such vows
voluntarily every year; does it not, Warner?"
"Yes."
"They usually do renew their vows, I suppose."
"Almost always, I believe."
"But--a Sister of Charity _could_ return to the--the world, if she so
desired?"
"It could be done, but it seldom is, I understand. The order is an
admirable one; a very wonderful order, Halkett. They are careful about
admitting their novices, but what they regard as qualifications might
not be so considered in a cloistered order like the Ursalines. The
novitiate is five years, I believe; except for the head of the order in
Paris, no grades and no ranks exist; all Sisters are alike and on the
same level." He smiled. "If anything could ever convert me to
Catholicism, I think it might be this order and the man who founded it,
Saint Vincent de Paul, wisest and best of all who have ever tried to
follow Christ."
Ariadne had evidently centered her gentle affections upon the new
Englishman; she trotted at his heels as he sauntered about in the
garden; she showed off for his benefit, playfully patting a grasshopper
into flight, frisking up trees only to cling for a moment, ears
flattened, and slide back to earth again; leaping high after lazy white
butterflies which hovered over the heliotrope, but always returning to
tag after Halkett where he roamed about, a burnt-out cigarette between
his fingers, his eyes dreaming, lost in speculations beyond the ken of
any cat.
The Harem came trooping into the garden, presently, shepherded by
Warner. They all carried full field kit--folding easels, stools, and
umbrellas slung upon their several and feminine backs; a pair of clamped
canvases in one hand, color-box in the other.
Halkett was presented to them all. There was Miss Alameda Golden, from
California, large, brightly colored, and breezy; there was Miss Mary
Davis, mouse-tinted, low-voiced, who originated in Brooklyn; there was
Miss Jane Post, of Chicago, restlessly intense and intellectually
curious concerning all mundane phenomena, from the origin of
cafe-au-lait to the origin of species; and there was Miss Nancy Lane, of
New York, a dark-eyed opportunist and an observer of man--sometimes