The Girl Philippa
He smirked, doubtless picturing to himself his recent exploit, with
himself, Asticot, as the heroic center of a deed which evidently gave
him exquisite satisfaction.
He reached for the sack on the floor, squatted down on the rug in front
of Warner's chair, untied the sack, and drew from it bundle after bundle
of papers.
"His!" he remarked. "All private. I think, M'sieu', that a few of
these will do away with any necessity for ceremony when we catch
Wildresse."
He passed the packages of papers to Warner, who laid them on the table,
looking very serious.
What Asticot did not extract from the sack he had already removed and
hidden in the straw under his blanket in the harness room--a bag of
Russian gold coins and a bag of French silver money.
Now, however, he produced a pillowcase. There were old, rusty stains on
it, and in the corner of it a heraldic device embroidered.
Asticot deftly untied it and dumped out of it upon the floor a strange
assortment of things--toys, and picture books in French, articles of
clothing, ribbons, tiny slippers, the crumpled frocks and stockings of a
little girl, and fragments of a little cloak of blue silk edged with
swansdown, and a little hat to match.
"What in the world----" began Warner, when Asticot opened one of the
picture books and silently displayed the name written there--"Philippa."
"M'sieu', because you are fond of M'amzelle, when I discovered her name
in these books I brought everything as I found it--tied up in this
pillowcase--toys, clothing, all, just as I discovered it in the
safe--thinking perhaps to please M'sieu', who is so kind to me----"
"You did right! What are those things--photographs? Give them to
me----"
"M'sieu', they are the pictures of a little child. To me they resemble
M'amzelle Philippa."
Warner examined the half-dozen photographs in amazement. They were more
or less faded, not sufficiently to prevent his recognizing in them the
child that Philippa had once been. He was absolutely certain that these
photographs represented Philippa somewhere between the ages of five and
seven.
One by one he studied them, then turned them over. On every one was
written "Philippa," and the age, "four," "five," "six," on the several
pictures. All were written in the same flowing feminine handwriting.
The name of the photographer was the same on every picture, except on
that one where the age "six" was written. That photograph had been
taken in the city of Sofia in Bulgaria. The others bore the name of a
photographer in the French city of Tours.
Asticot, squatting on the floor cross-legged, watched him in silence.
Finally Warner said:
"Thank you, Asticot. You have behaved with intelligence. I double your
wages."
"M'sieu' is contented with his Asticot, grateful and devoted?"
"Indeed, I am!"
"Will M'sieu' permit me to go now?"
"Certainly. Do they feed and lodge you properly at the inn?"
Asticot murmured that it was heavenly, and hastily took his departure,
burning with anxiety concerning the safety of the treasure he had
concealed under the straw and blanket in the harness room.
As for Warner, he was intensely interested, excited, and perplexed.
Here, apparently, in this old, stained pillowcase which Asticot had
found in the private safe of Wildresse, were the first clews to
Philippa's identity that anybody, excepting Wildresse, had ever heard
of.
These photographs were without doubt photographs of Philippa as a child,
two taken in Tours, one in Sofia.
And the girl's name was Philippa, too----
Suddenly it occurred to him that, according to Wildresse, Philippa had
been left at his door as a Paris foundling--as an infant only a few
weeks old. So Wildresse himself might have named her. Perhaps his wife
had written Philippa's name on these pictures. And yet--how had Philippa
come to be in the Bulgarian city of Sofia? Was it possible that
Wildresse could ever have taken the child there?
He looked down at the toys, at the clothing. Had they belonged to
Philippa as a child?
Between his room and Gray's there was a pretty sitting room. He put
everything back into the pillowcase, went out into the corridor, found
the sitting room door open and the room full of sunlight.
A maid, who sat sewing in the corridor, went to Philippa's room with a
request from Warner that she dress and come to the sitting room.
Warner emptied the pillowcase on the center table, then, folding it,
gave it to the maid, who returned to say that Philippa was dressed and
would come immediately.
"Take this pillowcase to Madame la Comtesse," he explained. "Say to
Madame that there is a device embroidered on the case, and that I should
be infinitely obliged if Madame la Comtesse would be kind enough to
search for a similar device among such volumes on the subject as she
possesses."
The maid went away with the pillowcase, and a moment later Philippa
appeared, fresh, dainty, smiling, an enchanting incarnation of youth and
loveliness in her thin, white morning frock.
She offered her hand and withdrew it immediately, as though this slight,
new shyness of hers in his presence forbade that contact with him which,
before that day when he painted her, had never seemed to embarrass her.
He ushered her silently into the little sitting room; she went forward
and stopped by the center table, looking down curiously at the motley
heap of toys and clothing which covered it.
He watched her intently as she turned over one object after another.
Presently she glanced around at him interrogatively.
"Examine them," he said.
"What are they?"
"You see--a child's toys and clothing. Pick up that broken doll and
look it over carefully."
She lifted the battered French doll, examined it as though perplexed,
laid it aside, picked up a Polichinelle, laid that aside, looked at a
woolly dog, a cloth cat, a wooden soldier in French uniform with scarlet
cap askew and one arm missing.
"Well?" he asked.
"I don't understand, Jim."
"I know. Is there among these things any object which seems at all
familiar to you?"
"No."
"Nothing that seems to stir in you any memory?"
She shook her head smilingly, turned over the heap of garments, shifting
them to one side or the other, caught a glimpse of the little cloak of
pale blue silk and swansdown, lifted it curiously.
"How odd," she said; "I have----" She hesitated, looked intently at the
faded silk, passed one slim hand over the swansdown, stood with brows
bent slightly inward as though searching in her mind, deeply, for
something which eluded her.
Warner did not speak or stir; presently she turned toward him,
perplexed, still searching in her memory.
"It's odd," she said, "that I seem to remember a cloak like this.... Or
perhaps as a very little child I dreamed about such a pretty cloak....
It was long ago.... Where did you get it, Jim?"
"Do you seem to remember it?"
"Somehow, I seem to."
"Is there anything else there which appears at all familiar to you?"
She sorted over the toys and garments, shook her head, picked up a
picture book and stood idly turning the pages----
And suddenly uttered a little cry.
Instantly he was beside her; the page lay open at a golden scene where
the Sleeping Beauty had just awakened, and the glittering Prince had
fallen on one knee beside her couch.
"Jim! I--I remember that! It was all gold--all--all
golden--everything--her hair and his--and the couch and her gown and his
clothes--all gold, everything golden!
"I _know_ that picture. Where in the world did you find it? I was a
child--they showed it to me; I always asked for it----" She looked up
at him, bewildered.
"Turn the pages!" he said.
She turned; another soft little cry escaped her; she recognized the
picture, and the next one also, and the next, and every succeeding one,
excitedly calling his attention to details which had impressed her as a
child.
Of the other books she seemed to retain no recollection; remembered none
of the toys, nothing of the clothing except the faded silken cloak with
its border of swansdown. But this book she remembered vividly; and when
he showed her her name written in it she grew a little pale with
surprise and excitement.
Then, seated there on the table's edge beside her, he told her what
Asticot had told him and showed her the photographs.
She seemed a little dazed at first, but, as he continued, the color
returned to her cheeks and the excitement died out in her grey eyes.
"I cannot remember these events," she said very quietly.
"Is it possible he could have taken you to Bulgaria without your
recollecting anything about it?"
"I must have been very, very young." She sat on the table's edge,
staring at the sunny window for a while in silence, then, still gazing
into space:
"Jim.... I have sometimes imagined that I could remember
something--that I am conscious of having been somewhere else before my
first recollections of Wildresse begin. Of course, that is not
possible, if he found me, a baby, at his door----"
"He may have lied."
She turned slowly toward him:
"I wonder."
"I wonder, too."
After a silence she said, speaking with a deliberation almost colorless:
"Whether they were dreams, I am not quite certain, now. Always I have
supposed them to have been dreams--dreamed long ago.... When I was
very, very little.... About a lady with red hair--near me when I was
sleepy.... Also there comes a voice as though somebody were singing
something about me--my name--Philippa."
"Is that all?"
"I think so.... She had red hair, and her cheeks were warm and soft....
I was sleepy. I think she sang to me.... Something about 'Philippa,'
and 'dreamland.' ... The golden picture in that book makes me think of
her voice. The cloak with the swans-down reminds me.... Do you think
it could have been a dream?"
"God knows," he muttered, staring at the floor.
After a while he rose, drew a chair to the table, and Philippa seated
herself. Leaning there on one elbow, her cheek on her palm, she opened
the book she had remembered and gazed at the golden picture.
Warner watched her for a while, then went quietly out and along the
corridor to the hall that crossed it. Madame de Moidrey's maid
announced him.
"May I come in a moment, Ethra?"
"Certainly, Jim. It's all right; I'm in negligee." And as he entered:
"Where in the world did you find that soiled old pillowcase?"
"Did you discover the device embroidered on it?"
She pointed to a volume lying on her dressing table:
"Yes. The arms of Chatillon-Montreal are embroidered on it. It's
rather a strange thing, too, because the family is extinct."
"What?"
"Certainly. As soon as I found out what the device was, I remembered
all about the family. Sit down there, if you want to know. You don't
mind Rose doing my hair?"
"You're as pretty as a picture, Ethra, and you are perfectly aware of
it. Go on and tell me, please."
"It's a well-known family, Jim--or was. The early ones were Crusaders
and Templars, I believe. Their history ever since has been mixed up
with affairs oriental.
"There was a De Chatillon who had a row with Saladin, and I think was
slain by that redoubtable Moslem. The daughter of that De Chatillon
married a paladin of some sort who took her name and her father's
quarterings and added a blue fanion and a human head to them; also three
yaks' tails on a spear support the arms. Why, I don't remember. It's
in that book over there, I suppose.
"Anyway, it seems that some king or other--Saint Louis, I
believe--created the first son of this paladin and of the daughter of De
Chatillon a Prince of Marmora with the Island of Tenedos as his domain.
"Of course one of the Sultans drove them out. Fifty years ago the