The Girl Philippa
billiard room, saw D'Aures, recognized him.
"Oh," she said, extending her hand, "I am so glad you have come back!
How is my Minerva runabout?"
"I'm sorry I don't know," he replied, blushing; "I didn't steal it for
myself, you see."
"You _didn't_ steal it! It's a gift. It's mine to give. I give it to
_you_! My sister took all the credit of giving away the horses and
cars. But I insist on your having my Minerva runabout. It's a charming
car. You'll fall in love with it if they let you drive it. Come out to
the terrace and speak to my sister and to my dearest friend, Philippa
Wildresse."
Warner, much amused to observe the capture of this young man, followed
them out to the south terrace.
He certainly was an ornamental young man of enchanting manners, and his
popularity was immediate.
To Warner Philippa came presently:
"Where have you been?" she asked. "And couldn't you have taken me?"
"Dear child, I was out before sunrise prowling about the hills with that
vagabond at my heels--Asticot."
"What did you see?"
"Uhlans on Vineyard Hill, across the Recollette. Wildresse was with
them."
"He!"
"Yes, the miserable spy! If he's not gone clear away some of D'Aures'
men had better try to round him up and get rid of him.... After that,
Sister Eila and I went to the school. More Uhlans came sniffing around,
but they cleared out in a hurry when our cavalry appeared. Our
artillery shelled the Germans out of the Esser quarries--you must have
heard the firing?"
"Yes. We all thought that the Germans had arrived. Poor Mr. Gray
looked so disgusted!"
"Philippa, Halkett is here somewhere."
"Oh!" she exclaimed happily.
"He's here with his machine--an aeroplane of sorts--Bristol, I believe.
No doubt he'll come up to the house when he has a chance. I suppose
Sister Eila has gone up to tell Gray."
They had strolled around to the eastern parapet and now stood looking
out over the tree tops.
"What has happened at Ausone?" she asked. "The cannon have stopped
firing."
"I saw Ausone burning from Vineyard Hill. It's all knocked to pieces,
Philippa. What I think has happened is this: troops from Verdun and
Toul--perhaps from Chalons--have entered Ausone in time to save the
fort. I suppose our infantry are intrenched along the Recollette and
that there is going to be more fighting in Ausone Forest, which must be
full of Germans."
"You don't think they'll come here?"
"I don't know. The army which you see below us everywhere in the valley
is probably on its way to invade Alsace. D'Aures thinks so. I suppose
this line will be defended. We shall hear more cannonading, I fancy.
Anyway, they are digging trenches to fall back on."
"Where?"
"Along the Recollette."
From where they were leaning on the stone balustrade, they could see
pontoons spanning the river. Across them troops and wagons were passing;
through every ford cavalry were splashing; the quarry bridge and road
were packed with motor trucks escorted by cavalry; and on the Sais
highway artillery was still passing toward Ausone.
Her cheeks framed by her hands, elbows on the parapet, Philippa gazed at
the moving host below. She wore a thin white gown; a scarf fell from
her shoulders; her thick, beautiful hair was full of ruddy gleams,
accenting the snowy neck and throat.
"If I set up my easel will you let me have a try at you?" he asked.
"Yes, but you've had no luncheon. I'll bring you something, and you can
arrange your canvas while I'm gone."
But they found Sister Eila had arranged for him to lunch with Gray, so
he sat with that battered and patient Englishman, chatting, watching the
troops in the valley from the open window, and lunching comfortably.
Sister Eila glanced in, smiled, then went lightly away toward the
eastern wing of the house, where fresh consignments of bandages were to
be sterilized and stored in Red Cross boxes--gauze rolls, plugs for
bullet wounds, body bandages, fracture bandages, arm slings, rolls of
unbleached muslin, of cotton, of gauze.
As she passed the open door of the chapel, she halted, faced the altar
and made her reverence. Then, crossing herself, she rose erect, turned
to continue her way, and encountered Halkett face to face.
A bright flush leaped to her cheeks; his own face reddened to his hair
under the bronze coat of tan.
"I am so glad to see you," she said steadily, offering her hand. "We
heard you were in Sais with your aeroplane. How did you happen to come
into the east wing? It must have been closed when you were here
before?"
"I have never before been in this house. I saw you cross the court as I
mounted the terrace steps." He tried to ease the constraint in his
voice. "I wanted to speak to you--first of anybody--in Sais.... Are
you well?"
"Perfectly. And you, Captain Halkett?"
"You seem thinner. You do not spare yourself."
"We scarcely have time to think of ourselves," she said, smiling. "I am
trying to fit up a little hospital here; Madame de Moidrey offers the
house."
"I understand that my friend, Captain Gray, is here?"
"Poor boy! I must not detain you any longer. You will desire to pay
your respects to Madame de Moidrey and her sister and to the beautiful
Miss Wildresse----"
"Philippa! Here?"
"You know her? Is she not lovely? I find her charming. And--so should
all young men," she added with a little laugh. "Therefore--I shall no
longer detain you, Captain Halkett----"
"May I--hope to see you again?"
"I hope so, indeed," she replied cheerfully. "Do you remain for a while
in Sais?"
"For a while, I think."
There fell a silence, which became a little strained. Sister Eila looked
up at him from lowered eyes; then her face went white and she laid her
hand flat against the chapel wall beside her, as though for support.
"Then--if I may hope to see you again--inspect your hospital,
perhaps----"
She nodded, still leaning on the chapel wall.
So he went away swiftly, very straight in his field uniform, and she saw
him cross the court, head erect, looking directly before him as though
he saw nothing.
An immense fatigue seemed to weight her; still supporting herself
against the wall, she turned and looked at the chapel door. Even on
that grey day the light within was golden from the old glass.
Into that mellow stillness crept Sister Eila, her young head drooping,
the metal crucifix swinging at her girdle from its rosary of wooden
beads.
The painted saints stared at her; the painted angels all stood watching
her; the Mother of God looked out from the manger, brooding,
preoccupied, wonder-eyed; but the Child at her breast was smiling.
Then down on her knees fell Sister Eila; her slim hands clasped, clung,
tightened, parted, and covered her face convulsively.
Very far away in the valley a trumpet spoke.
*CHAPTER XXXII*
Warner began the full-length portrait--which has now become famous under
the title "Philippa Passes"--in the main hall of the Chateau.
A clear light fell through the northern and eastern windows; from the
golden gloom above generations of De Moidreys looked down upon the fair
girl who stood in their great hall as tranquil and unconscious as though
born within the carved gray walls which they had built or added to in
years long dead.
He had chosen for the pose a moment when, as she was in the act of
passing in front of him, a word from him had checked her and caused her
to turn her head.
There he held her as she had paused, poised on the very edge of motion,
her enchanting head turned and the grey eyes meeting his.
Already on his canvas he had caught her; an odd sensation of cold,
clear-minded exaltation seemed to possess him as he worked--a calm,
strange certainty of himself and of the work in hand.
There was no hesitation, no doubt within him, only a sustained
excitement under unerring control. He knew what he wanted; he knew that
he was doing methodically what he wanted to do with every unhurried
brush stroke.
There was no halting, no searching, no checks; his mind had never been
so absolutely in control of his hand; his hand never so automatically
obedient, his intelligence never before so clear, so logical, so steady
under the incessant lightning of inspiration.
Conscious of the tremendous tension, he knew he was equal to it--knew
that no weakness of impulse or of sentiment could swerve him, unsteady
him, meddle with his brain or his nerves or his hand.
Nothing could stop him from doing what he had to do, nothing could
tamper with this newborn confidence which had suddenly possessed him
with its unlooked for magic.
He was painting Philippa as he had known her from the beginning; as he
had prophesied; as she had been revealed--a young girl with grey eyes
and chestnut hair, fine of limb, with the shadow of a smile on her
wistful lips, and "her soul as clean as a flame."
So certain was he of what he was about that to Philippa he seemed to
work very leisurely, wiping brush after brush with unhurried
deliberation, laying on stroke after stroke with that quiet decision
which accumulates and cooerdinates component parts into a result so
swiftly that an ensemble is born as though by magic.
A few great pictures are painted that way; myriads of bad ones. If he
thought of this it did not trouble him. Already, on his canvas, the
soul of a young girl was looking at him through those grey eyes; on the
fresh lips, scarce parted, hovered the shadow of a smile, virginal and
vague.
He felt the splendid tension; experienced the consciousness of
achievement, steeled every nerve, wiped his brushes with deliberation,
drew them across the edges of the colors needed, scarcely glancing at
his palette, laid on the brush stroke with the precision of finality.
From where he had slung his tall canvas between two ancient, high-backed
chairs as an improvised easel, he could see the northern terrace and the
people gathered there--Madame de Moidrey in animated conversation with
Halkett; Peggy knitting fitfully and looking over her clicking needles
at the youthful Vicomte d'Aures, who had pushed aside the tea table in
order to obtain an unobstructed view of this American girl who was
making his boyish head spin.
Beyond them, on a steamer chair, lay Gray. Sister Eila sat beside him
sewing. There was conversation between them and Madame de Moidrey and
Halkett--across and across, cat-cradle fashion--but it passed through
Peggy and D'Aures unheeded, as wireless in the upper air currents; and
the Countess glanced occasionally at her sister or let her eyes rest on
D'Aures now and then with a pleasant, preoccupied air, as though
considering other things than those which were passing under her pretty
nose.
From time to time Philippa came around to where Warner stood before his
canvas, and remained beside him in silence while he studied what he had
done.
Once he looked up questioningly; the girl took possession of his right
arm with both of hers and rested her cheek lightly against his shoulder.
No words could have praised or reassured him as eloquently. And he
understood that what he had done was, to her, worthy of all she believed
him to be--matchless, wonderful, and hers.
The light had failed a little in the early August sky, but the clouds
had cleared and the sun glittered in the west. There was light to work
by, yet.
He clothed his canvas in a mystery of cobweb shadow: behind her there
was a dull gleam of duller tapestry; delicate half-lights made the
picture vague, so that the "clean flame" of her seemed the source of all
light, its origin, making exquisite the clear, young eyes.
He knew that what he had painted was already a fit companion to be