The Girl Philippa
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