The Girl Philippa
hills beyond the Recollette. Patrols rode slowly on the Sais highway;
wagons still rolled eastward through the sunset light, or went into park
in sheltered places; few cyclists went south, fewer still whizzed by
into the north and east.
Just at sunset a squadron of hussars passed the lodge gate, walking
their horses. An officer turned his mount, spurred through the open
gate, and galloped up the drive to the Chateau.
He dismounted at the foot of the terrace; his horse stood, turning a
beautiful, gentle head around toward the distant gate where his comrades
were slowly passing.
His rider, mounting the terrace steps two at a time, encountered Madame
de Moidrey and Warner, paid his respects almost breathlessly, but with
perfect restraint of an impatience impossible to conceal.
"And Captain Halkett?" he inquired. "I hear that he was not injured
when his biplane came down into the river?"
"He was stunned, that's all," said Warner quietly. "His mechanic was
badly bruised, but not seriously. The plane is a wreck."
The Vicomte d'Aures stood a moment, twisting one glove between his
fingers, then, with winning dignity, but turning very red, he said to
the Countess:
"I have come also to make my adieux to--Peggy--if I have your
permission----"
The Countess nodded:
"She is in there.... You have my permission ... and approval."
He saluted her hand very simply, straightened up, took faultless leave
of Warner, turned, and entered the house. Peggy rose from the music
stool and came toward him in the dim rose light. They met as naturally
and unconsciously as two children; he took both her hands; she released
them and drew them around his neck and laid her face against his breast.
They had only a few moments.
Ethra de Moidrey and Warner saw his departure from where they were
strolling along the parapet of the lily garden. He left the park at a
fast gallop, never turning to look back. Twilight swallowed the
gallant, gay young figure. For a few moments the double gallop of hoofs
sounded through the evening air, then died away.
The Countess, seated on the parapet, laid her hand appealingly on
Warner's sleeve:
"Jim, do you like him?"
"He's all right, Ethra. If I had a younger brother I should wish him to
be like that boy."
"Yes.... He is nice.... He is going into battle.... That is hard....
Poor little Peggy. Womanhood comes swiftly when it comes, Jim. The
reagent is sorrow. We all pass that way, we women. Sorrow is the
philosopher's stone.... Else we remain only children until we die."
Warner gazed at the dusty glory still glowing above the western hills:
"What a day it has been!" he murmured.
"God guide those men who are riding into the east," said she. "What a
strange day it has been, Jim! Did you understand that painful incident
between General Delisle and General Count Cassilis?"
"Perfectly. The Russian Military Observer was given his conge. Did you
not see what happened? The rattle of the volley that ended Wildresse
meant also the end of the world for Count Cassilis.
"I saw General Delisle walk across the terrace and say something to
Cassilis in a low voice. I saw the Russian's face. It was like death.
The end was also in sight for him. He knew it. He knew what his
dismissal from French division headquarters meant. He knew he must go
home. He knew that his arrest would follow the instant he set foot
across the frontier of his own Empire.
"But his good manners did not desert him. You saw him take his leave,
stiff, correct, calm as though the ceremony meant nothing to him except
familiar routine.
"There was no exchange of handclasps, nothing of cordiality, merely the
faultless observance of convention. Then he went away."
"He is a traitor?" she asked, in an awed voice.
"Undoubtedly. Think what it has meant--think what it would have meant
to this army if his treachery had not been discovered!--A spy at
headquarters! But his own Emperor will punish him. As surely as I stand
here, Ethra, that man is doomed to die on the scaffold. He knows it....
Did you notice him light a cigarette when he got into his limousine? I
could not keep my eyes off him--that man already practically dead--that
traitor impassively saluting the hussars' fanion as his automobile
rolled by! And even while I looked at him I seemed to see him suspended
there in his shroud, a dead weight on the gibbet, turning gently in the
morning breeze--God! The fellow got on my nerves!--Knowing the guilt
that lay black within him--the murders in Sofia----"
"Horrible," said the Countess with a slight shiver. "And the man,
Wildresse--did it--with those dreadful hands of his. I thought I should
faint when he was telling of it--what he did in the bedroom--"
She shuddered, rose abruptly:
"Philippa is in her room, still poring over those papers. I can't bear
to leave the child all alone, and yet it seems like intrusion to disturb
her. Could you take her for a little walk, Jim, before dinner?--Take
her out of her room--out of the house for a while? I'm afraid she's
remembering that murderer's confession. She ought not to brood over such
things."
"Yes, I'll try to take her mind off it. Suppose I walk down to the inn
with her! Halkett's there. It might divert her; she's fond of him."
He smiled slightly. "There's a cat there, too. It will seem like old
times--she and Halkett and Ariadne and I together at the Golden Peach.
I believe it will divert her."
"Why not remain and dine there with Mr. Halkett, as you used to, in your
somewhat unconventional way?" suggested the Countess, smiling. "I am
very sure that would appeal to Philippa."
"I'll ask her," nodded Warner.
They walked slowly into the house together. Gray lay in the corner of
an upholstered lounge beside a lighted lamp, a book open on his knees,
his cheek resting on his hand.
At the sound of their approach he looked up quickly, and his face
brightened.
"I thought I wouldn't read any further," he said frankly. "We have
enjoyed so much reading it together. Do you mind going on with it to
the end?"
The Countess laughed and a pretty color rose in her cheeks.
"Do you think," she said, "that I expect to spend the remainder of my
days reading romances with you?"
And, as Warner turned and mounted the stairs:
"Besides," she added, "there is really nothing more to read in that
silly novel."
"Why not?" he inquired, his face expressing candid disappointment.
"Because they have already fallen in love," she explained carelessly.
"And the end of such a proceeding is always obvious, Mr. Gray."
She glanced up at the stairs. Warner had disappeared.
After a moment, casually unconscious, she seated herself on the broad,
upholstered end of the lounge, looking down over his shoulder at the
open book on his knees.
"In fiction," she remarked, "there is only one end to such
situations.... But, if you like, I don't mind beginning another book
with you, Mr. Gray."
Her hand, which rested among the cushions, supporting her, happened to
come within the range of his wandering vision. He looked at it for a
little while. Presently he placed his own over it, very lightly.
Neither moved. But it was a long time before he ventured to turn his
head and look up at the woman with whom he had read through his first
long love story. She had read such stories before, understood something
of their tricks, their technique, their reality, and their romance. And
had supposed there was nothing further for her to learn about them and
that her interest in them was dead.
"If you don't mind," he said, "reading on with me, for a while----"
"I might tire."
"Try not to."
Her flushed face became thoughtful. Already the prospect of reading
another romance with him seemed interesting.
Warner and Philippa, silently descending the stairs together, glanced
around at the two figures together there under the lighted lamp.
The Countess was saying calmly:
"We might as well finish the love story we have begun, if you really
insist on following through to the conventional end."
"Yes," he said. "I do insist. Let us follow through together--to the
end."
Philippa, slim and white, moved silently through the house beside
Warner, out across the terrace and down to the drive.
The last hint of color had died out in the west. Below, in the valley,
no searchlights flooded the river; only a moving lantern here and there
glimmered through the misty dusk.
"It will be jolly," he was saying, "for us to dine again together before
Halkett leaves. Don't you think so, Philippa?"
"Yes. When is he going?"
"Tomorrow, I believe. They are sending the wrecked machine to Verdun by
rail. I suppose he'll follow in the morning. What a miracle that he
was not killed! They say the big Bristol behaved exactly like a
wing-tipped grouse when the shrapnel hit her--coming down beating and
fluttering and fighting for equilibrium to the end. It was the skill of
his pilot that brought her safely wabbling and planing into the river,
where she waddled about like a scotched duck."
"Was the pilot badly hurt?"
"Not badly. Sister Eila is looking after him. They're going to bring
him up to the Chateau hospital in the morning. He's at the inn now."
"Why didn't they bring any wounded to us, Jim?"
"The ambulances from Ausone and Dreslin took them. I believe we are to
expect fifty wounded tomorrow. Sister Felicite was notified after our
ambulance returned from the Bois d'Ausone."
Twice they were halted, and the permit from General Delisle which Warner
carried was minutely inspected by flashlight. Then they moved on slowly
through the fragrant night toward the unlighted windows of the Golden
Peach.
There, as in the Chateau, all lights were masked by shutters and
curtains, so that no night visitor soaring high under the stars might
sight anything at which to loose the tiny red spark--that terrible,
earth-shattering harbinger of death and annihilation.
At the front door they knocked; Linette welcomed them into a darkened
hall, but as soon as the door was closed again she brought out a lamp.
Madame Arlon followed, delighted that they were to dine there with
Halkett.
He was somewhere about the garden, she said, and Sister Eila was
upstairs with the wounded pilot.
Moving along the familiar path in the garden, they presently discovered
Halkett seated alone in the little arbor, with Ariadne dozing on his
lap.
"We've come to dine with you, old fellow!" said Warner. "--Philippa and
you and I and Ariadne again. Does the idea appeal to you?"
"Immensely!" He had saluted Philippa's hand and had offered her the
cat, which she took to her breast, burying her face in the soft fur.
"Darling," she murmured, "it is so nice to have you again! One needs
all one's old friends in days like these."
They returned to the house, Philippa walking between the two men,
caressing Ariadne, who acknowledged the endearments with her usual
enthusiasm.
Dinner was all ready for them in the little room by the bar: a saucer
was set beside Philippa's chair for Ariadne; Linette went upstairs to
summon Sister Eila, and returned with word that she would be down after
a while, and that dinner was not to wait for her.
Warner said to Halkett:
"How did you feel when you were falling, old chap?"
"Not very comfortable," returned the other, smiling.
"You thought it was all up with you?"
"On the contrary, I realized it was all down."
Philippa smiled faintly.
"You didn't expect to come out alive?" inquired Warner.
"I didn't think of that. Bolton, my pilot, said: 'I'm trying to make
the river, sir.' I was attempting to find out how badly we were
damaged. It seemed an age; but we both were busy."