The Girl Philippa
were passing south, piled with bedding and with children, the mother or
father of the brood doing the rowing or poling.
The quarry road on the other side of the river was too dusty and too far
away to permit a distinct view of what was passing there. Without the
help of his field glasses, Warner merely conjectured that cavalry were
moving northward through the dust that hung along the river bank.
But the spectacle on the Ausone road below was ominous enough. The
northern countryside was in flight; towns and villages were emptying
themselves southward; and the exodus had merely begun.
He went back to his room, shaved, bathed, dressed in knickerbockers and
Norfolk, and, scribbling a note for Madame de Moidrey, pinned it to his
door as he closed it behind him.
On his way through the lower hall, somebody called him softly, and he
saw Philippa in the music room, carrying a tray.
"Did you think I was going to let you go out without your breakfast?"
she asked, smiling. "I have prepared coffee for us both, you see."
He thanked her, took the tray, and carried it out to the terrace.
There, as the sun rose above the bank of mist and flashed out over miles
of dewy country, they had their breakfast together--a new-laid egg, a
bowl of cafe-au-lait, new butter and fresh rolls.
"May I go with you?" asked the girl.
"Why--yes, if you care to----"
She said seriously:
"I don't quite like to have you go alone on that road, with so much
confusion and the air heavy with the cannonade----"
His quick laughter checked her.
"You funny, absurd, sweet little thing!" he said, still laughing. "Do
you expect to spend the remainder of your life in seeing that I don't
get into mischief?"
"If you'll let me," she said with a faint smile.
"Very well, Philippa; come along!" He held out his hand, laughing; the
girl clasped it, a half humorous, half reproachful expression in her
grey eyes.
"I don't mind your laughing, as long as you let me be with you," she
said.
"Why, Philippa!" he said gayly. "What possesses you to be afraid that
anything is likely to happen to me?"
"I don't know what it is," she replied seriously. "I seem to be afraid
of losing you. Let me be with you--if it does not annoy you."
"You dear child, of course it doesn't annoy me. Only I don't want you to
become morbid over the very nicest and frankest of friendships."
They were passing the garage now; he dropped her hand, asked her to wait
for him a moment, turned into the service drive, went toward the stable.
A sleepy groom responded to the bell, unlocked the doors, and fetched
the key to the harness room.
Warner said to the groom:
"Give that fellow in there his breakfast and turn him loose. Tell him
I'll kill him if I ever again catch him hanging around here."
The groom grinned and touched his cap, and Warner turned on his heel and
rejoined Philippa.
They had to awaken the old lodge keeper, who pulled the chain from where
he lay in bed.
Through the wicket and across the road they went, over a stile, and out
across country where the fields flashed with dew and the last shreds of
mist drifted high among the trees of the woods which they skirted.
Philippa wore her peasant dress--scarlet waist and skirt with the full,
fine chemisette; and on her chestnut hair the close little bonnet of
black velvet--called _bonnet a quartiers_ or _bonnet de beguin_--an
enchanting little headdress which became her so wonderfully that Warner
found himself glancing at her again and again, wondering whether the
girl's beauty was growing day by day, or whether he had never been
properly awake to it.
Her own unconsciousness of herself was the bewitching part of
her--nothing of that sort spoiled the free carriage of her slender,
flexible body, of the lovely head carried daintily, of the grey eyes so
clear, so intelligent, so candid, so sweet under the black lashes that
fringed them.
"Very wonderful," he said aloud, unthinking.
"What?" asked Philippa.
He reddened and laughed:
"You--for purposes of a painter," he said. "I think, if you don't mind,
I shall start a portrait of you when we return. I promised Madame de
Moidrey, you know."
Philippa smiled:
"Do you really suppose she will hang it in that beautiful house of
hers--there among all those wonderful and stately portraits? Wouldn't
that be too much honor--to be placed with such great ladies----"
"The dead De Moidreys in their frames need not worry, Philippa. If I
paint you as you are, the honor of your presence will be entirely
theirs."
"Are you laughing at me?"
He looked up sharply; the girl's face was serious and rather pale.
They were traversing a corner of a woodland where young birches
clustered, slim and silvery under their canopy of green which as yet had
not changed to royal gold.
He picked up her hand as they emerged into the sunlight of a field,
raised it, and touched his lips to the delicate fingers.
It was his answer; and the girl realized instantly what the
old-fashioned salute of respect conveyed; and her fingers clung to his
hand.
"Jim," she said unsteadily, "if you knew--if you only could realize what
you have done for me--what you are doing for me every moment I am with
you--by your kindness, your gentleness, your generous belief in me--what
miracles you accomplish by the very tones of your voice when you speak
to me--by your good, kind smile of encouragement--by your quiet patience
with me----"
Her voice broke childishly, and she bent her head and took possession of
his arm, holding to it tightly and in silence.
Surprised and moved by her emotion, he found nothing to say for a
moment--did not seem to know quite how to respond to the impulsive
gratitude so sincerely exaggerated, so prettily expressed.
Finally he said:
"Philippa, I have nothing to teach you--much to learn from you. Whoever
you are, you need no patronage from anybody, no allowances, no
concessions, no excuses. For I never knew a cleaner, braver, sweeter
character than is yours, Philippa--nor a soul more modest, more simple
and sincere. What does it matter how you come by it--whether God gave
it, or whether what you are has been evolved by race--by generations of
gentle breeding?
"We don't know; and _I_, for one, don't care--except for any
satisfaction or consolation it might afford you to know who you really
are.
"But, for me, I have learned enough to satisfy myself. And I have never
known a lovelier character than is yours, Philippa; nor a nobler one."
She continued walking beside him, clinging very tightly to one of his
arms, her head lowered under its velvet bonnet.
When she looked up at last, her eyes were wet with tears; she smiled
and, loosening her clasp, stretched out her hand for his handkerchief.
"The second time I have borrowed from you," she managed to say. "Do you
remember--in the boat?"
He laughed, greatly relieved that the tense constraint was broken--that
the tension of his own emotion was relaxed. For he had become intensely
serious with the girl--how serious and how deeply in earnest he now
began to realize. And whether his own ardent tribute to her had
awakened him, while offering it, to all that he was praising, or whether
he had already discovered by cooler research all that he now found
admirable in her, he did not know.
They came to a hedge; she returned his handkerchief, placed her hand in
his, mounted the stile with lithe grace, and he climbed up beside her.
Below them ran the Ausone road, grey with hanging dust; and through the
floating cloud tramped the fugitives from the north--old men, old women,
girls, little children, struggling onward under their burdens, trudging
doggedly, silently southward.
Philippa uttered an exclamation of pity as a man passed wheeling a
crippled child in a wheelbarrow, guiding it carefully along beside a
herd of cattle which seemed very difficult to manage.
For a few minutes they stood there, watching the sad procession defiling
at their feet, then Warner jumped down to the high, grassy bank, lifted
Philippa to the ground--which was not necessary, although he seemed to
think so, and the girl thanked him very sweetly--and then they went
forward along the hedge of _aubepine_ until, around the curve of the
road just ahead, he caught sight of the school.
"We can enter by the rear and keep out of that crowd," he said to
Philippa. "You don't know Sister Eila, do you?"
"No."
"Nor Sister Felicite?"
"No, Jim. Are they nuns?"
"Sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul. Here is the garden gate. We can go
through the kitchen."
But before they had traversed the little vegetable garden, Sister Eila
came to the kitchen door.
Warner said:
"Sister Eila, I am so glad that you are to know my friend, Mademoiselle
Philippa Wildresse, who, as I am, is a guest of Madame de Moidrey at the
Chateau."
Sister Eila came forward, her clear eyes on Philippa, took the girl's
offered hand in both of hers, stood silent for a moment, then turned to
Warner.
"It was most kind of you to bring her, Mr. Warner. I hope that we shall
become friends--" turning to Philippa--"if you also wish it."
Philippa's grey eyes looked steadily at Sister Eila.
"Yes, I do," she said in a low voice.
Sister Felicite appeared from the schoolroom, greeting and presentation
were made, and then the elder Sister took Philippa away to the
schoolroom where recitations were in progress; and Sister Eila led
Warner through the kitchen, up the uncarpeted stairs, and into a room
where, on an iron bed, a man lay.
He was young, fair-haired, and very pallid under his bandage, and the
eyes he turned on Warner as he entered were the eyes of a sick man.
Sister Eila seated herself on a stool which stood beside the bed; Warner
drew up the only other chair and sat down.
The young man turned his hollow eyes from Warner and looked
questioningly at Sister Eila.
"Yes," she said, "this is Mr. Warner, an American, who is Mr. Halkett's
friend. You may trust him; Mr. Halkett trusted him."
Warner said with a smile, and leaning toward the sick man:
"Is there anything I can do for you? Halkett and I became the very best
of friends. I should be very glad of the opportunity to do anything for
his friends--" he hesitated, smiled again--"or for any British officer."
"I'm Gray," said the man on the bed, in a weak voice.
"I think Halkett was expecting somebody named Gray the first night he
spent at the Sais inn. Was it you?"
"Yes."
"I think he telephoned you."
"Yes. You are Mr. Warner?"
"I am."
"Halkett spoke of you--your kindness."
"Oh, it was nothing----"
"I know what it was," said Gray quietly. "How much did Halkett tell
you?"
"About what?"
"About me."
"Very little, Mr. Gray. I understood that you were to come to Sais on a
motor cycle, carrying with you a very important paper. Halkett waited
day after day. He seemed to be under a very great strain. All he said
to me was that something serious must have happened to you, because the
paper you carried was necessary to supplement the one he carried."
"And Halkett has gone!"
"Yes. But somehow or other he got possession of the paper you had in
your charge--or a copy of it."
Gray's youthful face quivered with excitement.
"How did he get it?" he asked.
"A messenger came. Halkett was alone. The messenger pretended to come
from you, and he gained Halkett's confidence by giving him the paper you
carried, or a copy of it.
"The moment Halkett was off his guard, the fellow knocked him
insensible, and would have robbed him of both papers if a young girl--a
Miss Wildresse--had not tackled the fellow, and held him off with
magnificent pluck until I came in and found what was going on. Then the