An odd idea persisted that the graciousness was not entirely on her own part; that there was something even more subtle than graciousness on the part of this girl, whose delicate hands lay, cool and smooth, within her own.
It was not manner, for there was none on Philippa's part; not reticence, for that argues a conscious effort or a still more conscious lack of effort. Perhaps, through the transparent simplicity of the girl, the older woman's intuition caught a glimpse of finer traditions than she herself had been born to – sensed the far, faint ring of finer and more ancient metal.
And after a moment she felt that courtesy, deference, and propinquity alone held Philippa's grave grey eyes; that the soul which looked fearlessly and calmly out of them at her could not be lightly flattered or lightly won; and that, released from their conventional duty, those clear eyes of grey would seek their earthly idol as logically as the magnetic needle swings to its magnet.
Very subtly, as she stood there, the sympathy of the older woman widened to include respect. And, unconsciously, she turned and looked at Warner with the amused and slightly malicious smile of a woman who detects in a man the characteristic obtuseness from which her own and feminine instinct has rescued her just in time to prevent mistakes.
Then, turning to Philippa, she said:
"Our family of three is a very small one, dear, but I think it is going to be a happy one… What was that song that you and Peggy were trying when we came in?"
"It is called 'Noblesse Oblige,' Madame. It is a very ancient song."
"It is as old as the world," said the Countess. "Peggy, will you try the accompaniment? And will you sing it, Philippa?"
"If you wish it, Madame."
The Countess de Moidrey stepped aside and seated herself; the grey eyes left her to seek and find their magnet; and, having found it, smiled.
As for the magnet himself, he stood there deep in perplexity and trouble, beginning slowly to realize how profoundly his mind and affections had already become involved in the fate of a very young girl, and in the problems of life which must now begin to threaten and confront her.
"Namur, Liége —
Le dur siége
Noblesse oblige
sang Philippa —
"Namurois, Liégeois,
La lois des Bois
Exige
Noblesse – noblesse oblige – "'
The Countess de Moidrey rested her face on her hand, looking curiously at the young girl from whose lips the old phrase fell so naturally, so confidently, with such effortless and inborn understanding —noblesse – noblesse oblige.
CHAPTER XXIII
Philippa's trunk had gone to the Château des Oiseaux, and the Inn of the Golden Peach knew her no longer.
Warner, who usually adored the prospect of a month all alone after his class had left for the season, found to his surprise that he was experiencing a slight sense of loneliness.
The inn, the garden, seemed to him uncommonly still; and at first he thought he missed the gallinaceous chatter of the Harem, then he was very sure that he regretted Halkett acutely.
Ariadne, sitting in the sun by the deserted summer-house in the garden, always greeted him with a plaintive little mew which, somehow or other, sounded to him pointedly reproachful.
The cat evidently missed Halkett, perhaps Philippa. Warner remembered that he had been requested to be polite and agreeable to Ariadne, and, whenever he recollected these obligations, he dutifully hoisted the animal to his shoulder and promenaded her. For which, no doubt, the cat was grateful, but as she was also beginning to shed her coat in preparation for a brand-new set of winter furs, Warner found the intimacy with Ariadne slightly trying.
There were no other guests at the inn. Now and then during the next three or four days officers stopped their automobiles for a few moments' refreshment, or to replenish their gasoline tanks. But early one morning a big motor truck, driven by a little, red-legged, boyish pioupiou, and guarded by three others, equally youthful, took away the entire supply of gasoline and ordered Madame Arlon to remove the sign advertising it.
They drove away through the early autumn sunshine, singing the "Adoro," not the one best known, but that version attributed to the Scottish Queen, and they looked and sang like three little choir boys masquerading in the uniforms of their fathers.
Warner had been sketching in the meadow across the road that day, feeling restless and unaccountably depressed. It was one of those still, hazy mornings in early August, when the world seems too quiet and the sky too perfect for inaction or repose.
He had pitched his easel near the river, perhaps because it remained busy; and where, if any troops or military trains passed along the quarry road, he could see them. Also, from there he could look down over the road hedge and see the motor cycles whiz by and military automobiles with a streak of crimson, turquoise and silver uniforms in the tonneau.
But none came. Two or three gendarmes, with white and yellow trappings, passed toward Ausone at a gallop while he sat there, but across the river nothing stirred save a kestrel soaring.
According to the Petit Journal d'Ausone of the day before, war had already burst over eastern Belgium full blast and the famous forts so long celebrated as impregnable were beginning to crumble away under an avalanche of gigantic shells.
As he sat there under the calm sky, painting leisurely, relighting his pipe at intervals, he tried to realize that such things as bombardments and sieges and battles were going on to the north of where he was – not so very far north, either. But he could not seem to grasp it as an actual fact. For the monstrous and imbecile actuality of such a war seemed still to remain outside his comprehension; his intelligence had not yet accepted it – not encompassed and digested the fact – and he could not get rid of the hopefully haunting feeling that presently somebody or something somewhere or other would stop all this amazing insanity, and that the diplomats would begin again where they had left off only a few days ago.
It was the illimitable proportions of the calamity – the magnitude of the catastrophe – the cataclysmic menace of it that still left his mind slightly stunned, as it had paralyzed the minds of every civilized human being, and suspended for a space the power of thought in the world.
As yet, all these enormous, impossible threats of governments and emperors seemed to be some gigantic, fantastic, and grotesque hoax which the sovereigns and chancelleries of Europe were playing in concert to frighten a humdrum world out of its five dull wits.
And yet, under the incredulity, and the mental obscurity and inertia, deep within the dazed hearts of men a measured and terrible pulse had already begun to throb steadily, with an unchanging and dreadful rhythm. It was the clairvoyant prophecy of the world's subconscious self stirring, thrilling to that red future already breaking, and warning all mankind that the day of wrath had dawned at last.
But to Warner the most unreal part of it all was not the dusty fantassins in column, slouching forward toward the north – not the clinking, jingling cuirassiers on their big battle horses, not the dragoons riding with rapt, exalted faces under forests of tall lances, not the clanking artillery, the heavy military wagons and motor trucks, nor the galloping gendarmes which passed the inn every hour or two.
What had become suddenly unreal to him was the green and sunlit serenity of the world itself – the breeze ruffling the clover, poppies glowing deep in fields of golden wheat and barley, the melody of the flowing river, the quiet blue overhead, the tenderness of leaf and blossom, and the blessed stillness of the world.
Relighting his pipe, he looked at the swallows soaring and sailing high above the Récollette; noticed butterflies hovering and flitting everywhere; heard the golden splashing of the river, the sigh of leaves and rushes. The word "war" still remained a word to him, but in the sunshine and the silence he began to divine the immobility of menace – something unseen and evil which was quietly waiting.
Ariadne had come across from the garden, ostensibly to hunt meadow mice, really for company.
Sniffing and snooping around his color box, she got one dainty whisker in the ultramarine, and had enough of art. So she went off, much annoyed, to sit by herself in the grass and do some scrubbing. After a while the fixed persistency with which she stared across the meadow attracted his attention and he, also, turned and looked that way.
As he saw nothing in particular to stare at, he presently resumed his sketching and his troubled thoughts. The latter concerned the girl Philippa. Not since he had taken her to the Château had he seen her. And that was four days ago.
He didn't know exactly why he had not strolled over. Possibly a vague idea that he had better not interfere to distract the girl's attention from her first lessons in the refinements of existence had kept him away from her vicinity.
He didn't even know that he had missed her; he knew only that for some occult reason or other he had felt rather lonely lately.
He painted away steadily, pausing to relight his pipe now and then, and all the while Ariadne, never stirring, stared persistently across the landscape, neglecting her uncleansed whisker.
Suddenly, with a little mew of recognition and greeting, she trotted forward through the grass; and the next moment two soft hands fell lightly upon Warner's shoulders from behind.
"Philippa!" he exclaimed, enchanted.
"Oh, Jim!" she cried joyously, abandoning both hands to him as he sprang to his feet and faced her.
She was so eager, so pretty in her unfeigned delight, as though it had been four years instead of four days since they had seen each other; and he seemed to feel something of this, also, for he held her hands closely and laughed without any apparent reason for mirth – unless the sheer contentment of contact and possession be a reason.
"Are you well and happy, Philippa?"
"Yes, I am happy enough up there. But, oh, how dreadfully I have missed you, Jim – may I call you Jim? – I do to myself – "
"Of course!"
"I think of you that way – so it came very naturally to my lips – if you really don't mind? And besides, I am so happy to be with you… Peggy Brooks and I were looking over maps in the library – you know, the Petit Journal says that the Prussians are firing enormous shells into Liége – and so Peggy and I were down on our knees over the maps of Belgium. Oh, dear! You know, it isn't so very far from us here if you take a ruler and measure by scale… And it seemed to sober us both – we had been laughing, I don't remember exactly what about – but studying the map made us both serious, and Peggy went upstairs to talk it over with the Countess, and I felt that I couldn't stand being away from you for a single minute longer!"
"You dear child!"
"So I asked Peggy to ask Madame de Moidrey if I might pay you a little visit, and she said, 'Of course.' So I came as fast as I could – " She laughed and made a sweeping gesture with both arms outflung: "And here I am! Are you contented?"
She stooped and stroked Ariadne, looking up to smile at him.
"Careful of her whisker; there is blue paint on it," he warned Philippa; but the girl wiped off the ultramarine with a green leaf and took the cat to her heart, covering her with caresses and murmuring endearments.
"Jim, dear, what do you think?" she asked presently.
"About what?"
"About the war?"
He said gravely:
"I don't quite understand how those magnificent Belgian forts are being knocked to pieces – if what the paper says is true. I supposed them to be among the strongest fortifications in the world."
"Madame de Moidrey says they are. Her husband, the late Count Victor, was an artillery officer. And she told Peggy and me that the Count de Moidrey had always said they were the very strongest forts in the world."
"Something's gone wrong; that is evident," said Warner. "But not with you, Philippa," he added, smiling at her. "I never saw you looking as well; and that's a tremendously fetching frock you're wearing."
It was a white outing gown of serge, and the girl wore white stockings and tennis shoes, and a soft white hat – a boyish headgear which became her enchantingly.
"Peggy gave it to me," she said. "It is very American, isn't it?"
"It's adorable on you. Do you like Peggy Brooks?"
"Yes."
"And Madame de Moidrey?"
"Yes, I do – rather."
"Not entirely?"
"Jim – "
"What?"
"Yes, I – yes, I do like her… But I don't do much to earn my wages. And that troubles me."
"Your salary?"
Philippa laughed:
"Wages, salary – what does it matter what you call them, when both merely mean pay for work performed… I should like to do something for Madame de Moidrey in return. But she has many servants and a maid and a housekeeper. I thought I was to read to her, write letters for her, amuse her. But she sometimes reads to me and she and Peggy are teaching me to play tennis – " Philippa held out one narrow foot for his inspection. "And yesterday she ordered a horse for me, as well as for herself and her sister, and I wore one of Peggy's riding habits – knee breeches and boots, Jim; and they set me on a horse! That is the way I am earning my wages at the Château des Oiseaux!"
"Why complain?" he asked, much amused.
"Because I am unable to return such favors – "
"Don't worry; whatever they do for you brings its own recompense."
"How?"
"Has it never occurred to you that your society is agreeable, interesting, amusing, and desirable?"
"No," she said, honestly surprised.
"Well, it is! People like you. You yourself amply recompense anybody for anything done for you, by accepting the attentions offered."
"Do you think of me in that way?"
He hadn't quite understood until then that he did feel that way about her, but he felt it now so strongly that it seemed as though he had always been of that mind.
"I've always thought so," he said. "There is never a dull moment with you, Philippa. No wonder people seek you and like you and pet you!"
Philippa blushed and tried to smile, then for a moment she buried her flushed face in Ariadne's fluffy fur until her cheeks cooled.
"If," she said, "I had a home and an income, however tiny, I should not feel at all embarrassed by courtesies from others, because I should, in my turn, offer the best I possessed. But, Jim – a homeless girl – with all that I have been – endured! – I don't know – but I should feel more comfortable if I could be of some service in return for all that these very kind Americans offer me."
She placed Ariadne on the grass, turned and looked down at the river.
"There is my punt," she said. "Isn't it curious to remember that you and I first became friends in that boat? It seems to have happened very long ago, when I was a child… You made me wash my face; do you remember?"
"I do," he replied gayly. "You looked like a schoolgirl made up for the part of Jezebel."
She blushed and hung her head. Presently her lowered eyes were raised to him in a distressed, questioning way, and he came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders.
"I never thought ill of you, Philippa – never doubted you were anything except what you really are."
She looked up into his eyes:
"I don't know what I really am. But I am beginning to understand that I can be whatever you desire. Also, I am beginning to understand how generous you have been to me in your thoughts. Both you and Mr. Halkett had every reason to think lightly of the caissière of the Cabaret de Biribi, with her painted lips and cheeks and her easy manners – " She shrugged. "And perhaps, but for the grace of God and you, I should have become what I appeared to be… Let us sit in the punt. Shall we?"
They went down to the river together, Ariadne marching at their heels with tail erect, and the girl stepped aboard and seated herself in the stern which, afloat, swung in the limpid eddy among the tall, green rushes.
When Warner also was seated, at her feet, she drew from the pocket of her white serge jacket a letter, and, leaning over him, opened and displayed it.
The letter was written in French on common writing paper, in a perfectly legible but uneducated hand.
MADEMOISELLE [it began],
You are watched and your present whereabouts is known. You are warned to keep your mouth shut. Any treachery, even any slight indiscretion on your part, will be fully revenged by those you betray.
The wages of a traitor are death. Be advised in time. Return to your duty while there is yet time and your present ingratitude will be forgiven.
Make up your mind at once. There is no time to waste. What is to happen shall happen! It is coming very fast. It is almost upon us.
The safety which you suppose that the present condition of affairs guarantees you is but momentary. Peril threatens you; certain punishment awaits you. Documents in possession of those whom you threaten to betray are sufficient to condemn you now.
And more than that: we hold over you the power of life and death; and shall hold it, no matter what happens in Ausone!
Either way we can destroy you.
Return to us, therefore; accept forgiveness while there is yet time. You know who has caused this to be written. Therefore, enough!
Return and find security; remain to betray us and you shall be shot!
When Warner finished reading this outrageous missive, he looked up into Philippa's undisturbed face, and she smiled.
"When did you receive this?" he demanded.
"It came in the noon mail yesterday."
"Of course it's from Wildresse."
"Of course," she said simply. "What do you think of it?"
"I think very little of it," he replied. "Threatened people are good insurance risks. If he could have harmed you, he'd not have troubled to write you about his amiable designs on you… It's a pity – a great pity, Philippa – that we dare not call in the police."
"If I have written, innocently, the things he says I have written and signed, it might go hard with me if he were arrested," she said.
"I know it. It can't be done – at any rate, it can't be done yet. If there were anywhere you could go – any frontier that might be a barrier of safety for you! But all Europe seems to be involved – all neutral frontiers violated – even the Grand Duchy has become a German thoroughfare… Let me think it over, Philippa. I don't know how dangerous to you that miserable rascal can become… But Halkett was right: as long as you are in France, it won't do to denounce Wildresse."
"You understand, Jim, that I am not alarmed," she said gently, watching his anxious and clouded features. "I know that. I think I have reason to bear testimony concerning your courage – "
"I did not mean it in that way – "
"I understand, dear. Those who amount to anything never have to say so. I know you are not afraid… Shall I keep that letter for you?"
She handed it to him. He pocketed it and sat for a while in silence, his brooding eyes on the blue distance.
Finally, with an effort, his face cleared, and he said cheerfully:
"It is the strangeness and unreality of these last few days which depresses everybody. As a matter of fact, the war has lent a certain almost dignified terror to the attitude and the petty operations of a very vile and squalid band of malefactors in a small, provincial town.
"These fellows are nothing but cheap dealers in blackmail; and the last thing they'd do would be to invoke the law, of which they stand in logical and perpetual fear.
"No, no! All this hint of political and military vengeance – all this innuendo concerning a squad of execution, is utter rot.
"If they've dabbled in the bartering of military information, they'll keep clear of anything resembling military authority. No; I'm not worried on that point… But I think, if Madame de Moidrey cares to ask me, that I should like to be a guest at the Château des Oiseaux for the next few days."
"Jim!" she exclaimed, radiant.
"Do you want me?" he asked, pretending astonishment.
And so it happened that after luncheon Warner locked up his room and studio in the pretty hostelry of the Golden Peach, gave orders for his trunk to be sent to the Château, and started across the fields toward the wooded heights, from whence had come over the telephone an amused voice inviting him to be the guest of the Countess de Moidrey.
When he arrived, Madame de Moidrey was sewing alone on the southern terrace, and she looked up laughingly and extended her hand.
"So you're in the web at last," she said. "I predicted it, didn't I?"
"Nonsense, Ethra. I came because Philippa has received a threatening letter from that scoundrel, Wildresse."
"I know. The child has told me. Is it worth worrying over?"
"Not at all," said Warmer contemptuously. "That sort of thing is the last resort of a badly frightened coward. Only I thought, considering the general uncertainty, that perhaps you and Peggy might not be displeased to have a rather muscular man in the house."
"As a matter of fact, Jim, I had thought of asking you. Really, I had. Only – " she laughed – "I was afraid you might think I was encouraging you in something else – "
"See here, Ethra! You don't honestly suppose that there is anything sentimental in my relations with Philippa, do you?"
"Isn't there?"
"No," he said impatiently.
Madame de Moidrey resumed her sewing, the smile still edging her pleasant lips:
"She is very young yet, in many things; all the enchanting candor and sweetness of a child are hers still, together with a poise and quiet dignity almost bewildering at moments… Jim, your little, nameless protégée is simply fascinating!"
He spoke quietly:
"I'm only too thankful you find her so."
"I do. Philippa is adorable. And nobody can make me believe that there is not good blood there. Why, speaking merely of externals, every feature, every contour, every delicate line of her body is labeled 'race.' There is never any accident in such a result of breeding. In mind and body the child has bred true to her race and stock – that is absurdly plain and perfectly evident to anybody who looks at her, sees her move, hears her voice, and follows the natural workings of her mind."
"Yes," said Warner, "Halkett and I decided that she had been born to fine linen and fine thoughts. Who in the world can the child be, Ethra?"
Madame de Moidrey shook her head over her sewing:
"I've found myself wondering again and again what the tragedy could have been. The man, Wildresse, may have lied to her. If some day he could be forced to tell what he knows – "
"I have thought of that… I don't know, Ethra… Sometimes it is better to leave a child in untroubled ignorance. What do you think?"
"Perhaps… But, Jim, there is no peasant ancestry in that child, I am sure, whatever else there may be."
"Just rascally aristocracy?"
The Countess de Moidrey laughed. She had married for love; she could afford to.
"I am Yankee enough," she said, "to be sensitive to that subtle and indescribable something which always characterizes the old French aristocracy. One is always aware of it; it is never absent; it clings always as the perfume clings to an ancient cabinet of sandalwood and ivory.
"And, Jim, it seems to me that it clings, faintly, to the child Philippa… It's an odd thing to say. Perhaps if I had been born to the title, I might not have detected it. What is familiar from birth is rarely noticed. But my unspoiled, nervous, and Yankee nose seems to detect it in this young girl… And my Yankee nose, being born republican, is a very, very keen one, and makes exceedingly few mistakes."
"You intend, then, to keep her as a companion for the present?"
"If she will stay. I don't quite know whether she wants to. I don't entirely understand her. She does not seem unhappy; she is sweet, considerate, agreeable, and perfectly willing to do anything asked of her. She is never exacting; she asks nothing even of the servants. It's her attitude toward them which shows her quality. They feel it – they all are aware of it. My maid adores her and is forever hanging around to aid her in a hundred little offices, which Philippa accepts because it gives pleasure to my maid, and for that reason alone.
"I tell you, Jim, if anybody thinks Philippa complex, it is a mistake. Her heart and mind are virginal, whatever her experience may have been; she is as simple and unspoiled as the children of that tall young King yonder, Albert of Belgium – God bless him! And that is the truth concerning Philippa – upon whom a suspicious world is going to place no value whatever because no rivets, ecclesiastical or legal, have irrevocably fastened to her the name she bears in ignorance of her own."
Peggy Brooks, a dark-haired, fresh-faced girl, came out on the terrace, nodded a familiar greeting to Warner, and looked around in search of Philippa.
Her sister said in a low voice:
"Peggy is quite mad about her. They get along wonderfully. I wonder where the child is? She expected you."
"Ethra," said Peggy, "I've given her one of my new afternoon gowns. I made her take it, on a promise to let her pay me out of her salary. Mathilde is fussing over her still, I suppose." And to Warner: "I'm painting a head of her. She sits as still as a statue, but it's hopeless, Jim; the girl's too exquisite to paint – "
"I mean to try it some day," said Warner. "The way to paint her, Peggy, is to try to treat her as the great English masters of portraiture treated their grand ladies – with that thoroughbred loveliness and grace – just a dash of enchanting blue sky behind her, and the sun-gilded foliage of stately trees against it, and her scarf blowing free – " He laughed. "Oh, I know how it ought to be done. We shall see what we shall see, some day – "
He ceased and turned his head. Philippa stepped out upon the terrace – the living incarnation of his own description.
Even Peggy caught her breath as the girl came forward.
"You beautiful thing!" she exclaimed. "You do belong in a golden frame in some great English castle!"
Philippa, perplexed but smiling, acknowledged Madame de Moidrey's presence and Peggy's, then turned to Warner with hand extended, as though she had not taken a similar leave of him an hour or two before.
"Everybody is so generous! Do you admire my new gown? Peggy gave it to me. Never have I possessed such a ravishing gown. That is why I am late; I stood at my mirror and looked and looked – "
She turned swiftly to Peggy: "Dear, I am too happy to know how to say so! And if Madame de Moidrey is contented with me – "
"You are too lovely for words, Philippa," said the Countess. "If Mr. Warner paints you that way, I shall wish to have the picture for myself."
"Aha!" exclaimed Warner. "A commission!"
"Certainly," said the Countess. "You may begin as soon as Philippa is ready."
"Very well," said he. "If I paint the picture, you promise to hang it in the Château as a memento of Philippa, do you?"
"I do."
"Then there'll be no charge for this important major operation. Philippa, will you take ether tomorrow morning?"
The girl laughed and nodded, looking up at him from where she was seated beside the Countess, examining the sewing.
"Could I not do this for you, Madame?" she said.
"But I like to sew, Philippa."
The girl smiled, then a slight sigh escaped her. The Countess looked up at her, and Philippa smiled again, saying:
"There seems to be nothing within my power to do for you, Madame."
"There is something," said Madame de Moidrey under her breath.
"What, if you please?"
"I want you to like me, Philippa… And if some day you could learn to love me, that would be the rarest gift that could be offered me."
The girl's grey eyes widened in utter surprise; suddenly they sparkled with tears, and she bent her head swiftly and touched the elder woman's hands with her own.
"Madame," she whispered, "you overwhelm me with your kindness… If only I could express my gratitude – "
She checked herself as Maurice, the head gardener, appeared, hat in hand, deep anxiety stamped on his seamed and sunburnt features.
"Pardon, Madame la Comtesse – there is a great fire somewhere in the north. I thought Madame should be told – "
"A fire? What is it? The forest, Maurice?"
"Oh, it is very far away, Madame. Perhaps it is a forest on fire… But there is a sound, too. One may see and hear from the northern terrace when the wind sets in."
"Is it as far away as Ausone?"
"Farther, Madame."
The Countess glanced at Warner, rose, retaining Philippa's hand.
"Thank you, Maurice," she said over her shoulder, and, passing her arm through Philippa's, she entered the house, followed by Warner and Peggy.
"What do you suppose alarms old Maurice?" whispered Peggy.
But Warner, vastly troubled, made no answer.