The Girl Philippa
"You probably did some very serious thinking, too."
Halkett nodded. He remembered that part vividly--the thinking part. He
recollected perfectly where his thoughts were concentrated as he came
fluttering down out of the sky. But on whom they were centered he never
would tell as long as he lived.
Sister Eila came in.
Halkett placed her; she and Philippa exchanged faint smiles; then the
two men resumed their seats.
"Monsieur Bolton is now asleep," she said, speaking to Halkett and
looking at her plate. "Tomorrow we shall move him to the east wing of
the Chateau. We shall have many wounded tomorrow, I believe."
"Yes. Sister Felicite told me," said Warner. He looked at her for a
moment. "Are you well, Sister Eila?"
"Why, yes; I am perfectly well."
"You look very pale. Do you ever find time to sleep?"
"Sufficiently, thank you," she replied, smiling. "You know we are very
tough, we Sisters of Charity. There is a saying that nothing but death
can kill a Grey Sister."
Warner laughed, Halkett forced a smile.
"I think," added Sister Eila, "that British airmen ought to be included
in that proverb. Don't you, Mr. Halkett?"
"Nothing can kill me," he said. "I'm even wondering whether old man
Death could do the job."
Philippa turned to Warner:
"Isn't the conversation becoming a trifle grim for our reunion?"
They all smiled; Philippa fed tidbits to Ariadne, who had forsaken a
well-garnished platter on the floor to sit up beside Philippa and pat
her gown from time to time with an appealing paw.
"That's very human," commented Warner. "Ariadne wants only what is not
meant for her."
"I can understand her," said Halkett carelessly. "May I smoke, Sister
Eila? Do you mind, Philippa?" He struck a match: "With your
permission," he said, and lighted his cigarette as Linette entered with
coffee.
"Yes," he said musingly, "it seems to be the game in life--to desire
what is not meant for one. The worst of it is that philosophy doesn't
help one to understand and become reconciled."
Sister Eila said, looking at her plate:
"Religion helps."
"Only a favored few, Sister."
"Yes, for everybody the refuge of faith is waiting."
"Belief may explain; but it can not reconcile," rejoined Halkett
quietly. "Except for the mystery of God, there is no other mystery like
man. None has yet explained him; not even himself. If his riddle is
ever to be solved, I don't know when that will be, unless it is to
happen after death."
There was a silence.
Halkett spoke again:
"Unbidden love comes; it abides as long as it chooses--a day, a
lifetime--and after life, perhaps. But if it chooses to go, no one ever
born can control its departure.... This is one mystery of man--only one
among many.... I believe something of this sort occurred to me while--"
he laughed--"I was coming a cropper in the sky this morning."
Sister Eila's eyes were fixed on space; Halkett laid aside his cigarette
and picked up Ariadne.
"Well, old lady," he said, "there is only one solution to everything; go
on with the business in hand and do it as thoroughly as your intellect
permits. Your business, I suppose, is to look ornamental, have kittens,
and catch mice. _Bonne chance_, little lady!"
He set her on the table and she marched gingerly among the coffee cups
toward Philippa.
Sister Eila rose; all followed her example.
Halkett, looking around at them, said pleasantly:
"It was a happy thought--this reunion. I had meant to say good-by
tonight at the Chateau----"
"Tonight!" exclaimed Warner.
"Yes. Orders have come. An automobile arrives later, to take me to the
railroad station at Dreslin. My wrecked machine has gone----" He looked
smilingly at Sister Eila: "What's left of me is to follow tonight, it
seems.... And so I shall go over to the Chateau, now, I think, and make
my very grateful adieux, and have a last word with Gray. Shall I say
good-by to you now? Will you be here when I return in an hour?"
Philippa said in a low voice:
"We are going to walk in the garden. Look for us there."
He turned to Sister Eila.
"I shall be with my sick man," she said smilingly. Her face was deadly
white.
So Halkett took his cap and went away up the road all alone, and Sister
Eila mounted the stairs to inspect her patient.
As Warner stood for a moment by the open door looking after Halkett, a
familiar voice came to his ears--the voice of Asticot, bragging of his
prowess and cheerfully predicting even greater glory for himself.
"Nonsense!" came the voice of Linette, sharply. "You had nothing more to
do with the taking of that spy than had Ariadne!"
"M'amzelle! It was I who accomplished that! Behold your Asticot, a
hero, modest and humble----"
"Tiens! You are not _my_ Asticot! Be kind enough to remember that!"
"M'amzelle, you know me----"
"No, I don't!"
"But you are perfectly at liberty to become acquainted with me----"
"I do not desire to!"
"My master, M'sieu' Warner, trusts and respects me. He is the most
wonderful gentleman in the whole world, M'sieu' Warner. And he believes
in me!"
"_I_ don't!" retorted Linette.
Asticot heaved a terrific sigh:
"And I with thirty thousand francs which I have labored to save--fruits
of my toil--souvenirs of years of self-denial----"
"What! Thirty thousand francs! Bah! Thirty thousand debts, you
mean----"
"I mean nothing of the sort," said Asticot simply. "If you doubt my
word, I will show them to you some day. Linette, you know me----"
"I tell you I don't!"
Warner could hear Magda laughing, and Madame Arlon making caustic
comments concerning the financial solvency of Asticot and the manner in
which he wore his hair.
"As for that," rejoined Asticot, "I can trim my hair to please
Linette----"
"That," exclaimed Linette, exasperated, "is impossible! Only a machine
that will trim your neck close to your shoulders might interest me,
Monsieur Asticot!"
"Woman!" said Asticot, unruffled. "Tenez, M'amzelle! _That_ is what I
think of woman--charming, capricious, enchanting woman! I salute your
incomparable sex!" And Warner heard him kiss his own palm with a
vigorous smack.
"Imbecile!" cried Linette. "Put on a uniform before you have the
impudence to make love to an honest girl!"
"I am going to," said Asticot triumphantly.
Warner closed the door, turned back into the hallway, and entered the
little dining room. Philippa was no longer there; so he went through
the house into the dark garden, where the air was sweet with the perfume
of clove pinks and lilies.
She was there, a pale shape in the darkness, moving slowly among the
flowers. As he came up she lifted her head and looked at him, her grey
eyes still vague with memories which the place evoked.
And, after a few moments' wandering along the paths with him:
"Why are you so silent?" she asked.
"I thought perhaps I might disturb your thoughts, Philippa."
"You are always part of my thoughts. I have no thought that I would not
share with you.... But--you have never understood that."
"I understand you, Philippa."
"Do you?"
"Yes. You are everything a woman should be; nothing a woman should not
be. That is my understanding of you."
She shook her head gently:
"That is an impossible woman. You are kind to me in your thoughts.
And--you have not understood me after all."
"What have I not understood, Philippa?"
"My--my heart and mind."
"Both are wonderful, matchless----"
"You are wrong! There is your mistake. They are not wonderful; and
both may be matched by the hearts and minds of any woman! ... Has it
never occurred to you that I am very human?"
He remained silent; they walked on for a while, turned, and retraced
their steps along the border of clove pinks.
"Have you gone over all your papers?" he asked in a hesitating voice.
"Yes."
"Is there anything I can do to help you--advise--aid----"
She turned almost impatiently:
"Always you are thinking of my well-being, my worldly benefit. It is
for that you give me your companionship, your protection. I--I don't
know--sometimes I think I have never been--so--lonely----"
Her voice broke; she turned sharply from him and stood with slender
hands clenched in the starlight.
"Philippa?" he said gently, in his kindly, even voice. And it seemed to
break the barrier to her reserve.
"Oh!" she faltered. "--It is something else a woman--hopes
for--something different--when her heart--is empty----"
He dared not understand her, dared not touch her. He heard himself
saying: "There is nobody but you, Philippa," and dared not speak--dared
not say what he should have said before either he or she had learned who
she really was.
Perhaps a faint idea of what held him to an aloofness, a formality
unaccustomed, occurred to her during the strained silence. Perhaps she
divined, vaguely, what might be in his mind.
After a while she turned, not looking at him, and took his arm! It was
the first time she had done so since that day when he painted her.
Even yet she could scarcely realize, scarcely comprehend the great
change which had come to her. She knew it was true; she understood that
it must be the truth--that she was no longer nameless--not the
foundling, not the lonely child of chance who had looked out blankly
over the world, without aim, without interest, having nothing to expect,
nothing to hope for from a world which had not even bestowed upon her a
name.
And now--now, suddenly hazard had snatched aside that impenetrable
curtain which, as long as she could remember, had hung between her and
all that she desired most passionately to know.
From the loose, half palsied lips of a murderer had fallen the words she
had never expected to hear. He had gone to his death, shambling,
doddering, mumbling to himself. But the papers which had belonged to
him had confirmed every word he uttered.
She knew now who she was, Philippa de Chatillon. She knew how her mother
had died; and her father.
As yet, the wonderment of it all had not been too deeply embittered by
the tragedy. It was still only wonder, and a striving to realize--a
dream, strange, terrible, beautiful by turns; but still a dream to her.
Something far more real, more vivid, more vital, possessed her. She
knew it; felt it always now. The consciousness of it shared with her
the veiled emotions which the solving of her life's mystery evoked.
As she stood there in the brilliant starlight, both arms wound around
one of his in the old, unconscious way, Halkett came into the garden,
walking swiftly:
"The car is here. Don't come to the door. I had rather say good-by and
God bless you here in this garden--where I first knew you,
Philippa--where you and I became friends, Warner.... So--good-by. If I
come out of it, I'll come to you--to both of you, I hope."
"Yes," said Philippa calmly.
He took her hand, held it, looked at Warner, and took the hand he
offered.
"Good-by!"
"Good-by!"
He turned and walked swiftly into the house. As he passed the stairway,
he saw Sister Eila standing there as white as death.
They looked at each other in silence; she laid one hand on the banisters
as though to steady herself. With the other she held out to him a
flower.
When he had gone with his flower, and when the whir of his motor car had
died away in that silent house, she turned to ascend the stairs again,
stumbled, dropped by the rail, and lay there huddled in a heap, both
hands pressed desperately over her quivering face.
Then in the room above, the sick man groaned; and she straightened up
and rose as though a trumpet had sounded. And slowly, steadily, she
mounted her Calvary, drying her eyes naively and like a little girl who