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, Liege--
Le dur siege
Noblesse oblige
sang Philippa--
"Namurois, Liegeois,
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 Chateau 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 Recollette; 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 Chateau 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 Liege--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 Chateau 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 caissiere 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 Chateau 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 Chateau, 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 protegee 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 Chateau 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.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
Below the carved stone balustrade of the north terrace acres and acres of tree tops--oak, beech, birch, and fir--spread away on every side. This was the Foret des Oiseaux.
Beyond the dense green surface of the tree tops, which was so compact that it resembled a wide and gently rolling plateau, the country stretched away toward Ausone. Here and there some distant farmhouse window sparkled in the sun; set amid banks of velvet green the Recollette glittered like severed fragments of a silver thread.
Bathed in a mauve haze the Ausone Fort stood out on its conical, tree-clad hill; beyond it other hillocks rose, lilac-tinted silhouettes against the horizon.
Turquoise, palest violet, tender green and gold, the country lay revealed under the August sky, peaceful, glimmering, silent.
And across this dainty harmony of color was smeared a somber, discordant smudge, staining the delicate haze of amethyst, defiling the pure sky--a wide, high area of dirty smoke, leaning from the perpendicular toward the east, spilling its dun-colored vapor downward over the pale aquarelle of hill and river and valley.
"The Alcyon Forest is afire!" exclaimed the Countess in a low voice.
"It is much farther away," said Warner.
A sudden breeze sprang up, blowing in their faces over the swaying tree tops.
"Listen!" said Philippa, touching her lips with one finger.
From an infinite distance the wind carried with it a deadened thumping sound, now regular as the dulled rolling of drums, now softly irregular, with intervals of stillness, then again spasmodic, muffled, almost inaudible.
"Are they threshing anywhere near us?" asked the Countess of her sister. "What is that pumping sound?" She turned to Warner, who made no reply.
"Do you know what it is, Jim?" demanded Peggy Brooks uneasily.
"I'm not absolutely sure.... I'll be back in a moment----" He turned and went swiftly into the house.
Philippa, leaning on the balustrade beside the Countess, said very quietly:
"I know what that sound is. I have heard it before from the outer boulevard in Ausone, when the grand maneuvers were going on."
The Countess said:
"I was afraid it was that."
"Drums?" asked Peggy Brooks.
"Cannon," said Philippa.
Warner came back with his field glasses.
Studying the horizon, he spoke at intervals in his pleasant, undisturbed voice:
"They have cleared the Ausone Fort; the flag, the semaphore, the signal tower--all are gone; there is nothing to be seen there except trees.... It looks like any hill now; nothing is stirring on it.... This glass brings the smoke much nearer, but it is impossible to guess what is on fire.... I don't think it's a forest.... I'm afraid it is a village."
He offered the glass to the others; each took a turn and made out nothing new until Philippa, gazing above the discoloring stain of smoke, spoke to Warner in a low voice and handed him the glasses.
For a few moments he stood rigid, his field glasses poised at an angle; then, still watching at the same angle, he said:
"You are perfectly right, Philippa; two aeroplanes are soaring between the smoke and the Ausone Fort."
One by one the others searched for the distant sky craft and discovered them.
They were still at it when tea was served, and, by that time, the deadened drumming sound had become unmistakable, increasing in volume with every lightest puff of wind, and, when the breeze died out, still filling the ears with its steady thudding.
Also, the dirty smoke-smear had spread, polluting the tender northern sky, and new centers of infection had appeared here and there amid the green landscape--dark spots of smoke which, at first, appeared insignificant and motionless, which were bigger in ten minutes, which in half an hour had become volumes. Yet their actual growing process was not perceptible, so gradually the looming spots assumed the threatening proportions of gloom.
Warner, his teacup on his knees, bracketed the field glasses on the aeroplanes once more, and was startled at their nearness.
Almost at the same instant a dry crack, like the breaking of a stick, sounded, coming from the direction of the distant fort--another, another, others following in quicker succession. And, watching, he saw below the aeroplanes a dotted line of tiny white spots, growing in length for a while, then maintaining its length as the rearward dots vanished and new dots of cottony white were added to the other end.
Higher and higher rose the aeroplanes above the white wake of exploding shells, bearing eastward now, sheering widely, as a pair of soaring hawks sweep swiftly into vaster circles as they mount into the dazzling blue.
"The fort is using its sky-guns," remarked Warner.
They all took turns watching the fleecy clots of smoke appear, linger, dissolve in mid-air. Long after the aeroplanes had disappeared in the sky, the high-angle guns continued their distant, rattling fusillade.
"What do you think is happening out there?" asked the Countess. "You have seen war, Jim. Have you an idea what the smoke and cannonade mean? Is a German army coming?"
Warner said:
"They are shelling villages to the north of us--perhaps trenches, too. I don't know what troops we have there.
"Probably their cavalry screen has come into contact with ours, and I should say that we are retiring. But you can't tell yet."
"It's the invasion, then," said the Countess calmly.
"It's a raid, anyway."
"A raid on Ausone?"
"Probably. The railroad there is always important--much more so than the Ausone Fort. I'm afraid that fort doesn't amount to very much as fortifications are classed now."
The spectacle from the north terrace had become very disquieting. All the horizon was now obscured by smoke, and its dirty shadow dulled the distance and invaded the middle distance, hanging from west to east like a sooty veil suspended across land and sky. There was, however, nothing else to see, not a glimmer of flame, nothing stirring on the hill where, unseen, the Ausone Fort crouched above the green valley of the Recollette. But the deadened mutter of the cannonade continued unbroken along the horizon, never ceasing now, not even when the light wind changed.
Peggy's curiosity was satisfied; she had taken jealous possession of Philippa, with a side glance at Warner out of brown eyes not entirely devoid of malice, and the two were in the billiard room, which opened from the northern terrace, for the purpose of Philippa's education in the game of French billiards.
The Countess set her teacup aside and picked up her sewing.
"I don't intend to be driven out of my home," she remarked.
He lighted a cigarette and looked curiously into the north.
"Whether it's to be the wretched story of 1870 again or not," she went on, "I shall not be frightened away from this house.
"This is my home. I came here a bride; my dear husband died under this roof; all I care for in the world, all I hold most dear, most intimate, is here, Jim. I shall not go."
He said gravely:
"I hope the necessity may never arise, Ethra."
"It will not. Are the Germans really barbarians? What object could they have in injuring this old house? What good would it do them or their country to disturb us here? If they come, we can't defend ourselves. What is there for us to do except to submit? But I shall not go away and leave this place to the mercies of their filthy soldiery."
Warner said nothing. There were many contingencies overlooked by this determined lady--circumstances which might mean ruin to the house--if, for instance, a retreating army chose to defend the Chateau. But he remained silent, not caring to trouble her with the possibilities of eventualities.
"I had rather you stayed, if you don't mind, Jim," she said, sewing away serenely.
"Certainly."
The steady thud of the cannonade had now assumed a more substantial rumbling sound.
Now and then separate shocks were audible, as though great pieces, occasionally, were discharged singly, dominating the duller monotone of lesser caliber.
He kept his eyes pretty constantly on the horizon line of smoke, evidently expectant of some new development, now and then fancying that it had become visible, as the calm sky became suffused with the delicate pastel hues of early evening, and the first bat zigzagged among the potted orange trees on the terrace.
And presently, in the early dusk, it became visible--first merely as a dull tint reddening the distant smoke, then as a faint, ruddy line of light, shifting, twinkling, sinking, flaring palely, then more redly as the summer dusk deepened and possessed the silent world around them.
From northwest to southeast ran the flicker of the guns, with now and then a wider flare and a deeper accent dominating the measured monotone.
Five fires were burning, also: two from hamlets or nearer groups of buildings belonging to some big farm; the other three conflagrations were farther distant, and much greater, as though three considerable villages and their environs were in flames.
Philippa and Peggy came to the long, open windows from moment to moment, standing there, cue in hand, to look out at the reddening sky.
It was still not too dusky to see fairly well, and the lamps had not yet been lighted in the house, excepting the luster over the billiard table, when a footman appeared on the terrace, dignified, correct, unruffled:
"The driveway and circle, Madame la Comtesse, are full of cavalry. Their officers are dismounting; the troopers have gone into our stables and garage."
The Countess rose quietly, and Warner stood up in silence.
"What cavalry is it?"
"Ours, Madame. They have taken out the three automobiles and all the horses."
"Thank you." And, to Warner: "Would you mind coming with me, Jim?"
They entered the billiard room and traversed the house to the southern terrace.
Drive and circle were swarming with the pale blue dolmans of hussars moving in and out of the fan-shaped glare of electric torches, some mounted, their lances held perpendicularly in the stirrup boots, others afoot, leading up horses from the Chateau stables, pushing the three automobiles along the garage drive, dragging vehicles of every description by hand--hay wagons, farm wagons, long unused and old-fashioned family carriages with the De Moidrey crest on their panels.
Several officers in turquoise and silver, standing on the terrace, surveyed the proceedings below, one of them turning the brilliant light of his breast torch upon one spot after another and scarcely raising his voice as he directed operations.
There was very little noise, no confusion; everybody seemed to know what was to be done.
As the Countess de Moidrey and Warner came out upon the terrace, the officers heard them, turned, saluted, and one of them, a slim, handsome youth most beautifully molded into his uniform, came forward, crimson cap in hand, bowing with a grace indescribable.
"Madame de Moidrey," he said, "we very deeply regret the military necessity which temporarily deprives you of your cars and horses, but the Government requires us to ask them of you and to offer you a receipt----"
"The Government is welcome, Monsieur," she said earnestly. "If the Government will accept what I have to offer as a gift, it will honor me sufficiently without offering any receipt or promise of indemnification."
"Countess," said the youthful soldier, bowing, "it is the answer any soldier of France might expect from one who bears the name of De Moidrey. Nevertheless, Madame, I am required to leave in your possession a receipt for what you so graciously permit me to requisition.... Permit me, Madame----" He drew from his dispatch pouch the papers, already filled in, signed and stamped, and presented them with a bow.
And, smilingly, Madame de Moidrey tore them across, again and again, and dropped the fragments upon the terrace.
"Monsieur," she said, "may I not offer you the hospitality of the house--some little refreshment for you and for your men?"
"Madame, we are overwhelmed, but our orders permit us no time."
Warner said quietly:
"If you could spare a moment, Captain, there is something I should like you to see from the north terrace." And to the Countess: "May I take him? I think he ought to see what we have seen."
Madame de Moidrey said:
"By all means, Jim."
And the two young men went swiftly through the house and out on the north terrace.
"Ha!" exclaimed the officer, as the rumble of the cannonade struck his ears, and he looked out on the dark circle of the horizon, all sparkling and lighted up with the ruddy flicker and flare of the guns.
"A raid?" asked Warner quietly.
"I don't know. Villages are afire yonder. Have you seen anything that might be of importance to us, Monsieur?"
"Two aeroplanes. The Ausone fort fired at them with sky-guns. They went east."
"Biplanes?"
"Monoplanes, I think. I am not sure."
"Square-tipped ailerons? Could you see?"
"They were shaped exactly like kestrels."
"Ah! Taubes! Many thanks, Monsieur." He stared out across the darkness. "Yes, it's warming up out there. Well, sir, I must go. And thank you again for your kindness----" He fumbled in his dolman, produced his cardcase. "May I be permitted to present my cards to Madame de Moidrey? Thank you--if you would be so amiable----"
They retraced their steps through the house, encountering Peggy Brooks in the hallway, who received a most ceremonious bow from the youthful hussar, and who acknowledged it with an enchanting inclination of her pretty head.
Within a few feet of the front terrace, the young officer suddenly halted.
"Monsieur," he said, very red, "it would seem, perhaps, more courteous for me to leave my cards for all the ladies of the household. Would it not--under such unusual and unfortunate circumstances as those of this evening?"
Warner looked at him gravely; he was very young, very ceremonious, very much flushed. Was it possible that Peggy Brooks had bowled over this young gentleman with her first smile?
"I think," said Warner, very seriously, "that it might be considered obligatory for an officer who takes away all the horses and motor cars to leave his card for every lady in the family. There are," he added, "three."
Afterward, when the officer had taken his leave, and his escort of hussars had trotted away with the horses, wagons, and automobiles, Warner, much amused, related to the Countess the incident of the cards; and he distributed them at dinner, reading the name engraved on his own with some curiosity.
"Well, Peggy," he said, "you did murderous work with your smile this evening."
She answered calmly:
"I hope so. He was exceedingly nice looking."
"Le Vicomte d'Aures," nodded Warner, "Captain of Cavalry! Very polite, that youngster; very prolific of visiting cards. You should have seen him blush, Peggy."
"I did. I repeat that he is a nice boy, and I hope he comes back and steals something else."
Philippa laughed; the Countess smiled indulgently upon her younger sister, and gave the signal to rise.
"The family comes from the West, I think," she remarked to Warner, as she took his arm. "Goodness, Jim, what a nuisance!--Not a horse in the stable, not a car to move about in. It looks to me as though we were marooned here.... But I am very happy to think that I could do even a little for our Government. I wish I could do more."
"You may have plenty of chances, Ethra," he said.
They walked through to the north terrace and stood for a while watching the conflagrations on the horizon.
The vast, slightly curved line of flickering points of fire no longer twinkled and played through the darkness, and the muttering of the cannonade had ceased. Only the three incendiary foci reddened the sky, their illuminated vapors billowing up and spreading away for leagues to the eastward.
There was a mist this night, delicately veiling the tops of the forest trees, and the perfume of lilies from the gardens saturated the night air.
Usually, when foggy conditions prevailed over the valley of the Recollette, the lights of Ausone were visible as a pinkish tinge in the sky. But this night no such tint was apparent; no signal lamps sparkled from the fort, not a light glimmered in the vast black void beyond, where miles and miles of darkness stretched away unlighted even by the wastes of star-set firmament above.
Ethra de Moidrey shrugged her pretty shoulders and turned back toward the billiard room, whither Peggy Brooks had already repaired for practice.
Philippa, remaining beside Warner, stood watching them through the lighted windows.
She was wearing her first evening gown--one of Peggy's gifts--a dainty affair of palest blue; and her full, smooth cheeks and throat accented the slim immaturity of her arms and shoulders.
She looked up, smiled faintly, and moved nearer with that unconscious instinct of youth for seeking contact where confidence and trust is placed. Her slim fingers, touching his, nestled into his hand with an eloquence unmistakable of innocent possession satisfied.
"You are only a very little girl yet, aren't you, Philippa?" he said, smiling, but touched by the youth of her and her frail shoulder resting lightly against his own.
"I know I am, Jim. I seem to be growing younger under the warm shelter of your kindness--under the security of this roof and the quiet sense of protection everywhere.
"It is as though I had been arrested in development since I left school--as though youth and growth had stopped and only my mind had continued growing older and older and more tired during these last six years--dull, bewildering, ignoble years--lonely, endless years that dragged their days after them like a chain, heavier, heavier----"
She pressed a little closer to his shoulder:
"I had nobody. Do you understand? I seem to know right from wrong, but I don't know how I know it. Yet, I am old in some things--old and wearied with a knowledge which still, however, remains personally incomprehensible to me. It's just a vast accumulation of unhappy facts concerning life as it is lived by many.... I always knew there were such people as you--as these dear and gentle friends of yours; I never saw them--never saw even any young girls after I left school--only the women, young and old, who came to the cabaret, or who came and went through the Ausone streets, or who sat knitting and gossiping under the trees on the quay."
She laid her cheek against his shoulder with a little sigh.
"You are very wonderful to me," she murmured, partly to herself.
The night air had become a little fresher: he thought that she should have some sort of wrap, so they entered the billiard room together, where Peggy, awaiting her shot, slipped one arm around Philippa's waist, detaining her to caress her and whisper nonsense.
"You beautiful child, I want you to stay with me and not go star-gazing with that large and sunburnt man. You'll stay, won't you, darling? And we'll go to the library presently and find a pretty red and gold book full of armorial designs and snobbish information; and we'll search very patiently through those expensively illuminated pages until we find a worthy family called D'Aures----"
"Oh, Peggy!" said Philippa. "Would you really take so much trouble?"
"Rather!" said Peggy coolly. "I mean to write him some day and find out how he is treating my pet Minerva runabout which he had the audacity to appropriate without thanking me."
Philippa laughed rather shyly, not entirely comprehending the balance between badinage and sincerity in Peggy's threat, but realizing that any freedom she permitted herself was her prerogative.
Warner, lingering at the other door, caught Peggy's eye.
"You can't have her, Jim!" she said with emphasis, and drew her closer.
So Warner went on to find a wrap for her, and entered the music room.
The next moment he halted, rigid, astounded.
Peering through the windows into the room were the dirty countenances of Asticot and Squelette, their battered noses flattened white on the glass, their ratty eyes fixed on him.
*CHAPTER XXV*
That the precious pair believed Warner to be paralyzed with terror was evident.
As long as he remained motionless they glared at him, their faces and spread fingers flattened against the windowpane. Then, the next instant, he was after them at one bound, jerking open the glass door, out across the terrace where the two young ruffians, evidently surprised and confused by his headlong behavior, parted company, Squelette digging up gravel in his headlong flight down the drive, Asticot darting across the lawn where, beyond the stables, a hospitable tangle of shrubbery seemed to promise easy escape.
But Asticot was awfully wrong; in the darkness he rushed full speed into an elastic barrier of mesh wire which supported the hedge of sweet peas separating garage and stables; and as he rebounded, Warner caught him and coolly began to beat him up.
The beating was deliberate, methodical, and merciless; the blows fell with smart cracks upon the features of Asticot, right, left, sometimes hoisting him off his large, flat feet, sometimes driving him dizzily earthward; but another blow and a savage jerk always brought him up to be swung on again, battered, knocked flying, and finally smashed into merciful insensibility.
Asticot was in a dreadful mess as he lay there on the grass. Vignier, the chauffeur, and a stable lad, Henri, had appeared with a lantern at the debacle of Monsieur Asticot.
Warner, breathing rapidly, waited a few moments to recover his breath.
"Take him into the harness room and lay him on a blanket," he managed to say. "Keep your eyes on him, Vignier, until I return. There's another of them, but I'm afraid he's cleared out."
As a matter of fact, Squelette had cleared out. He must have scaled the wall somewhere, for the gates were locked, and the old lodge keeper was evidently asleep.
The lad, Henri, came up, armed with a stable fork, and followed by the head gardener, Maurice, shouldering a fowling piece and marshaling in his wake half a dozen others--grooms, under-gardeners, and a lad or two employed about the place.
They beat the shrubbery for an hour; then Warner left them to explore the wooded strip along the base of the wall with their flashlights and lanterns, and went back to the stable where lay Asticot, badly in need of bandages and protracted repose.
Vignier met Warner at the stable door.
"Has he come to?" inquired the latter, who had begun to feel a little worried.
"Monsieur Warner, that voyou is a most frightful wreck. Out of neither eye is he able to perceive me; what he wears upon his shoulders does not, to me, resemble a head at all."
"He is conscious, then?"
"Entirely. He lies upon his blanket and inquires for you at intervals."
"What?"
"It is true. 'Oh, my mother!' he whimpers. 'What a horrible beating I have had from that American! Oh, my sister, I am battered into a boudin! Ou est-il, donc, ce Monsieur sans remords? I have need of conversing with him. I wish to behold him who has brought me to this pitiable ditch of misery! I do not desire another beating! It is I, Asticot, who informs you!' And that, Monsieur Warner, is what this voyou affreux continues to repeat in the harness room where I have locked him in. Would Monsieur care to inspect the swine?"
Warner nodded and entered the stable; Vignier fitted a key to the harness room and opened the door.
A lantern burned there brightly. Under it squatted Asticot on his blanket. Neither eye was entirely closed, for there was a ratty glitter under the puffed lids, and he lost no time in whining out that he did not desire to be beaten any more by "that gentleman there"--pointing a shaking finger straight at Warner.
"Vignier," said Warner, "bring me a chair, close the door, and then go and find something to bandage this rascal. Bring a tub and hot water, also!"
And when the chair was fetched and the door closed, Warner seated himself and surveyed the battered ruffian with grim satisfaction.
"You murderous young sewer rat," he said calmly, "out with the whole business, now! Do you hear? I meant to catch one of you and find out for myself what you're up to. Now, tell me, and tell me quick, and don't lie, or I'll start in on you again----"
He half rose from his chair, and Asticot shrieked.
"What were you doing here?" snapped out Warner.
"M-m'sieu'--it was but a peaceful reconnoissance in search of--of information----" stuttered Asticot in terror.
"What information?--You rat!"
"M-m-m'sieu'--I swear to you on the cross of my mother----"
"Stop that! Go on! Go on faster! What information?"
"T-t-to f-find out if l-la fille, Philippa, had taken refuge with M-madame la Comtesse----"
"Who wants that information?"
"I s-swear to you----"
"Quick! Who wants it!"
"Monsieur Wildresse----"
"Why?"
"Je n'en sais rien----"
"You lying Apache! Why?"
"M'sieu', he pays us, the Squelette and me, to do his jobs for him, but he has never made confidants of us. I swear it. I don't know why he desires to seize the girl, Philippa!"
"He does mean to seize her, then?"
"Alas----"
"Does he?"
Asticot's entire body jerked from sheer fright.
"Yes--yes, he does! God knows it is not in me to lie to M'sieu'. God knows I do not ever desire another beating such as M'sieu' has been pleased to bestow upon me. I affirm it--I, Asticot--that I am the devoted servant of M'sieu' and will most thankfully betray anybody to him----"
"Be quiet!"
"M'sieu' does not believe me! Yet, I speak only truth. I will diligently serve M'sieu' if he permits----"
"Serve me? Why?"
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu', have I not been most horribly beaten by M'sieu'? I, Asticot, who am not unacquainted with the Boxe and the Savate--I have been rendered insensible! With weapons? No! Without weapons! Yes, with the empty hands of M'sieu'. Why should I not admire? Why should I not experience gratitude that I am alive? Am I an imbecile to court further destruction? Non, alors; I am not crazy. God forbid I should ever again experience the hand of M'sieu' upon my coat collar! And if----"
"You listen to me!" interrupted Warner. "Vermin of your sort that Wildresse hires for a few francs stand no chance when military law is proclaimed. Either side would push you against a wall on sight. Do you understand?"
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu'----"
"There are just two safe places for you: Biribi or prison. Which do you prefer?"
"I? Oh, my God! I have served in the Battalion de Biribi! Not that, M'sieu'----"
"All right; La Nouvelle----"
Asticot emitted a muffled shriek, huddled his ragged knees within his arms, and sat rocking and whimpering and blubbering with fright under the lantern until an impatient gesture from Warner startled him dumb.
"Like all your kind, you don't like to be hurt, do you?" inquired Warner, disgusted. "Yet, for twenty francs--for ten--yes, for five--you could be hired to do murder; couldn't you?"
"I--I would b-be happy to do it for nothing to oblige M'sieu'----"
"I haven't a doubt of it. The only thing you understand is fear.... Where is Wildresse?"
"M'sieu' doubtless knows."
"Never mind what I know. Answer!"
"Le vieux----"
"Who?"
"Le Pere Wildresse--he has taken to the woods----"
"Where?"
"Le foret d'Ausone."
"Why?"
"It is because of the girl Philippa. It is evident to Squelette and to me that he fears her. Why? I tell you frankly I do not know. If I knew----"
"Go on!"
Asticot turned his battered visage toward Warner. A leer stretched his swollen mouth.
"If we knew what he is afraid of, Squelette and I, we would make him sing!" he said coolly.
"Blackmail him?"
"Naturally."
"I understand. And if you ever had a chance to get behind my back with a thoroughly trustworthy knife--eh, Asticot?"
"No," said the ruffian naively, "I should be afraid to do that." He squinted silently at Warner out of his puffy eyes for a few moments, then, shaking his head: "No," he repeated; "never again. I should make of the job only a bungle; I should be too horribly afraid."
Warner got up from his chair.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I shall go with you to the Forest of Ausone and you shall find the Pere Wildresse for me and I shall have a little chat with him."
"Do you mean to slay him, M'sieu'? It would be safer, I think. I could do it for you, if you wish, when his back is turned. When one is annoyed by anybody, it saves much trouble to knock him on the head at once. If I could once get him down," he added cheerfully, "I would take him by both ears and beat his head on the ground until his coco cracked."
"Really?"
"Certainly. Supposition that an individual bores M'sieu'. What to do? M'sieu' reflects; M'sieu' rubs his head in perplexity--crac! There is his devoted friend, Asticot! Why had you not before thought of your humble friend and grateful? Asticot! To be sure! A word to him and the job is done, discreetly, without any tapage. And M'sieu', contented, I trust, with his honest and devoted Asticot, may remember in his bounty that times are hard and that one must eat and drink--yes, even poor Asticot among the rest."
