The Girl Philippa
_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