The Girl Philippa
solitary asset of yours. There must never be any question of your moral
solvency through your friendship for me or mine for you. Do you follow
me?"
"Yes."
"Very well. It remains for us to find out how to remain friends without
hurting you and your prospects in a world, which, as I have explained,
is first of all an incredulous world, and after that the most pitiless
of planets. Do you still follow what I say?"
"Yes."
"Then have you any suggestions?"
"No, Warner."
"What would you prefer to do to support yourself?"
"Anything that permitted me to remain near you."
"I know, Philippa; but I mean, leaving me out of consideration, what do
you prefer to do?"
"I like everything--respectable."
"But what in particular?"
"I don't know; I like to keep accounts; I like to oversee and manage a
household.... I conducted all the departments of the Cafe and Cabaret
de Biribi--I was manager, housekeeper, general director; I hired and
discharged servants, looked after all marketing, all the linen and
tableware, kept all accounts and paid all wages.
"I know how to do such things and I like to do them. It was only the
other--the secret service--which sickened me. Of course it would have
been a great happiness to me if I had been employed in quiet,
respectable, and cultivated surroundings, and not in a public place
where anybody may enter and misbehave."
"I understand," he said thoughtfully. "If it is necessary, then, you
are competent to do your duty as housekeeper in a private house."
"I don't know; I should think so."
"And there is nothing else you prefer?"
Philippa shook her head. Then she picked up her knitting again,
settling herself on the edge of the bed, feet crossed, fingers flying,
delicate face bent gravely over her work. And all at once it seemed to
Warner that her peasant dress was not convincing; that this gay costume
of her province which she wore was only a charming masquerade--the
pretty caprice of a young girl born to finer linen and a purple more
costly--the ephemeral and wayward whim which once had been responsible
for the Little Trianon, and irresponsible to everything else except the
traditions of a caste.
"_Who_ are you, Philippa?" he asked curiously.
"I?" Her lifted eyes were level with his, very sweet and clear, and the
bright needles ceased clicking.
"Don't you know who you are?" he repeated, watching her.
"A foundling.... I told you once."
"Is that all you know?"
"Yes."
"Does _he_ know more than that?"
"He says he does not."
"You have no clew to your parentage?"
"None."
Her gaze became preoccupied, wandered from his, grew vaguely wistful.
"Out of the gutter," she said, without any bitterness in her emotionless
voice. "--Of which circumstance he has frequently reminded me." With
an unconscious movement she extended one exquisitely fashioned hand and
gazed at it absently; looked down at the slim foot, where on the
delicately arched instep a peasant's silver buckle glimmered.
Then, resting her grey eyes on him:
"If it really was the gutter, it is odd," she said, half to herself,
"because always that second self which lives within me goes freshly
bathed and clean and clothed in silk."
"Your second self?"
"My _real_ self--my only comrade. You know, don't you? When one grows
up alone there grows up with one an inner comrade--the truer self....
Otherwise the solitude of life must become intolerable."
"Yes, I understand."
"All lonely children have such a comrade, I suppose. Absolute
self-isolation seems unendurable--actually impossible for a human
being."
She resumed her knitting, meditatively, as a youthful princess might
pick up her embroidery.
"As for the gutter," she said, "--out of the common earth we came, and
we return to it.... Christ wandered, too, in very humble places."
*CHAPTER XX*
About noon a British soldier in uniform and mounted on a motor cycle
came whizzing up to the Golden Peach.
Warner was in his room writing to his bankers in Paris; Philippa, in her
room, was mending underwear; Halkett, who had walked to the school only
to learn that Sister Eila had gone to the quarries, came out of the
garden, where he had been sitting in silence with Ariadne.
The cyclist, a fresh-faced young fellow, saluted his uniform; Halkett
took the dispatches, read them, turned on his heel and went upstairs to
make his adieux. First he knocked on Philippa's door, and when the girl
appeared he took his leave of her with a new and oddly stiff deference
which seemed akin to shyness.
"I am so sorry you are going," she said.
"Thanks, so much. I shan't ever forget my debt to you. I hope you'll
be all right now."
"I shall be all right with Mr. Warner, always. I do hope we shall see
you again."
"If I come out of this----" He checked himself, embarrassed, then he
added hurriedly: "I'll look you up, if I may. I shan't forget you."
His vigorous handclasp almost wrung a cry from her, but she managed to
smile, and he went on down the corridor and knocked at Warner's door.
"Well, old chap, good-by and good luck!"
"What! Have your orders arrived?" exclaimed Warner.
"Just now. I've a motor cyclist below. He takes me behind him to
Ausone. From there I go by rail."
"I'm glad for your sake, Halkett; I'm sorry for my own. It's been a
jolly friendship."
"Yes, considering all the trouble I've put you to----"
"I tell you I liked it! Didn't I make that plain? I was in a rut; I
was turning into an old fluff before you came cannoning into me,
bringing a lively breeze with you. I've never enjoyed anything half as
much!"
"It's kind of you to take it so. You've been very good to me, Warner.
I shan't forget you--or the little lady yonder. I'm sure this doesn't
mean the end of our friendship."
"Not if it lies with us, Halkett. I hope you'll come through. Good
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