Complete weird tales of.., p.865
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 865
“Linette is making her comfortable. When Madame Arlon returns from Nancy I shall tell her to look out for the child. She’s in her room, unpacking, I suppose.”
“Did she even bring her boxes?” asked the Englishman, greatly amused.
“Yes, she did. And I don’t know what on earth she intends to do for a living when I go back to Paris. I’m sorry for her, but she can’t expect me to travel about France with her — —”
He checked himself abruptly; Halkett also looked up.
The girl Philippa had entered the further end of the garden.
She came slowly forward through the rosy evening light, straight and slim in her girlish gown of white, unrelieved except by a touch or two of black, and by the coppery splendor of her hair.
She halted in the path a little way from the arbor, evidently aware that somebody was within.
“Are you there, Monsieur Warner?” she asked in her sweet, childish voice.
He got up with a glance of resignation at Halkett, and went to meet her. Halkett, from the arbor, noticed the expression of her face when Warner appeared, and he continued to observe the girl with curious attention.
She had instinctively laid her hands in Warner’s, detaining him naïvely, and looking up into his face with an honesty too transparent to mistake.
“I miss you very much,” she said, “even for a few minutes. I hastened my toilet to rejoin you.”
“That is very sweet of you, Philippa — —” He didn’t know what else to say; felt the embarrassment warm on his face — chagrin, shyness, something of both, perhaps — and a rather helpless feeling that he was acquiescing in an understanding which already was making him very uneasy.
“Come in to the arbor,” he said. “Mr. Halkett is there.”
She slipped her arm through his. Halkett saw both their faces as they approached, and, watching Warner for a moment, he felt inclined to laugh. But in this young girl’s eyes there was something that checked his amusement. A man does not laugh at the happy and serious eyes of childhood.
So he rose and paid his respects to Philippa with pleasant formality; she seated herself between the two men.
The last pink rays of the sun fell across the little iron table, flooding the garden with an enchanted light: already the evening perfume of clove pinks had become exquisitely apparent; a belated bumblebee blundered out of the reseda and, rising high in the calm air, steered his bullet flight into the west. Ariadne, on the table, stretched herself, yawned, and looked about her, now thoroughly awake for the rest of the night.
“Minette!” murmured Philippa, caressing her and laying her cheek against the soft fur.
“You are sunburned,” remarked Halkett.
“And badly freckled, Monsieur — —” She looked mischievously at Warner, laughed at their secret agreement concerning cosmetics, then turned again to Halkett:
“You have heard, I suppose, of the happy understanding between Mr. Warner and me?”
“I think so,” said Halkett, subduing an inclination to laugh.
“The future, for me, is entirely secure,” continued Philippa happily. “I am permitted to assist Mr. Warner in his art. It is a very wonderful future, Mr. Halkett, destined for me without doubt by God.” She added, half to herself: “And a lifetime on my knees would be too short a time to thank Him in.”
Both men became silent and constrained, Warner feeling more helpless than ever in the face of such tranquil confidence; Halkett remembering what Warner had once said about the soul of Philippa — but still pleasantly and gently inclined to skepticism concerning this fille de cabaret.
Philippa, leaning forward on the table between them, joined her slender hands and looked at Warner.
“It is pleasant to be accepted as a friend by such men as you are,” she said thoughtfully.... “I have met other gentlemen of your station in life, now and then. But their attitude toward me has been different from yours.... I once supposed that, in a cabaret, all men resembled each other where women were concerned. I have been very happily mistaken.”
Warner said:
“A man scarcely expects to see more than one sort of woman in a cabaret.”
“Yet, you were not astonished to see me, were you?”
“Yes,” he said, “I was astonished.”
“You did not seem to be.”
Warner glanced at Halkett:
“Do you remember what I once said about Philippa’s soul?”
The Englishman smiled at Philippa:
“As soon as Mr. Warner saw you he said to me that your soul was as clean as a flame.... I was slower to understand you.”
The girl turned swiftly to Warner:
“What a heavenly thing for a man to say about a woman! And my lips painted scarlet — and I a caissière de cabaret — —” Her voice broke childishly; she sprang to her feet and stood looking through the starting tears at the last level rays of the sun.
Standing so, unstirring till the tears dried, she presently turned and resumed her chair; and, after a few moments’ silence, she dropped her elbows on the table again and clasped her hands under her chin.
She said, not looking at either of the men:
“I have thought of becoming a nun. But it is too late. Cloisters make awkward inquiries and search records; no Sisterhood of any order I ever heard of would admit to a novitiate any girl who has served five years where I have served.... And so — until I saw you — I did not know what was to become of me — —”
She lifted her grey eyes to Warner. They were starry with recent tears. Her chin rested on her clasped hands, her enchanted gaze on him.
Halkett was first to move and make an effort:
“Yes, it was perhaps time to cut away,” he muttered. “Anything we can do — very glad, I’m sure.”
“Certainly,” said Warner. “There are a lot of agreeable young women in my class who will be interested to know you when they return from Ausone day after tomorrow — —”
Philippa turned swiftly toward him:
“I do not wish any woman to know what I have been! You wouldn’t tell them, would you?”
“No, of course not — if you feel that way,” he said. “Only I — it occurred to me — some protection — some countenance — understanding — from other women — —”
“I desire none. I want only your friendship.”
“But how am I going to explain you — —”
“You are a painter. I am your model. Is not that sufficient explanation?”
“Yes — if you desire to be so regarded — permanently — —”
“I do. My privacy will then remain my own. I permit nobody to invade it — excepting you.”
“Very well, if you feel that way.... Only, you are — attractive, Philippa — and I am rather afraid you might not be understood — —”
She shrugged her shoulders:
“For five years I have not been understood. Do you know that men have even thrown dice for me, so certain were they that they understood me? I am accustomed to it. But I am not accustomed to women — I mean to your kind. I distrust them; possibly I am afraid of them. Anyway, their interest in me would be unwelcome. It is your friendship I want. Nothing else matters.”
“You are wrong, Philippa. Other things do matter. No woman can go it alone, disdainful of other women’s opinions.”
“I have always been alone.”
Warner said patiently:
“I should not do anything without first consulting you.”
“I feel very sure that you would not.” She smiled at him trustfully, her cheek on her linked fingers; then her gaze grew absent. The last sun ray lingered on her hair, turning it to fiery bronze. Under it her grey eyes gazed absently into the future, filled now, for her, with iridescent castles and peopled with vaguely splendid images — magic scenes that young and lonely hearts evoke out of the very emptiness of their isolation.
And in the center of the phantom pageant always appeared Warner, her friend, endowed with all the mystery and omniscience with which a young girl’s heart invests the man who first awakens it to irregularity — who first interferes with the long monotony of its virgin rhythm.
Halkett, a little keener of the two — a little more sensitive, if more reticent — said pleasantly:
“Perhaps you might prefer to dine out here with us, Philippa. The Ha — the class, I mean — banquets and carouses in the dining-room, when it is here.”
“Of course I wish to dine with you! I said so to Linette before I came out here. It is all arranged.”
Halkett laughed. At the same moment, Linette came out with the tray.
A bright afterglow still lingered in the zenith when their leisurely dinner had ended; and in the garden the mellow light was beginning to make objects exquisitely indistinct.
Halkett, smoking in silence, was evidently thinking about his friend Gray, for, when Linette came to remove the cloth and coffee cups, and to say that some gentlemen on motor cycles were at the garden gate inquiring for Mr. Halkett, the young Englishman rose with a quick sigh of relief and walked swiftly to the heavy, green door under the arch in the garden wall.
As he laid his hand on the latch, he turned toward Warner:
“I’ll bring Gray in directly,” he called back; and opened the door and stepped out into the dusk.
At the same instant Warner rose to his feet, listening; then he ran for the green door. As he reached it, the heavy little door burst open; Halkett sprang inside, slid the big iron bolt into place, turned and warned the American aside with upflung hand.
“Keep Philippa out of range of the door!” he called across the garden, drawing his automatic at the same time and springing backward. “Don’t stand in a line with that green door — —”
A volley of pistol shots cut him short.
CHAPTER XII
THE GREEN DOOR in the garden wall had been perforated by a dozen bullets from outside before the first heavy crash came, almost shaking it from its hinges.
Warner had already whipped out his own automatic; Halkett pushed him aside across a flower bed.
“Keep out of this!” he said. “It’s my affair — —”
“I’m damned if it is!” retorted Warner. “I’ll settle that question once for all!” And he leveled his automatic and sent a stream of lead through the green door in the wall.
No more blows fell on it, but all over it, from top to bottom, white splinters flew while bullets poured through it from outside.
“You are wrong to involve yourself,” insisted Halkett, raising his voice to dominate the racket of the automatics. “They want only me.”
“So do I, Halkett. And I’ve got you and mean to keep you. Blood is the thicker, you know.”
Philippa came from the arbor, carrying the badly frightened cat with difficulty.
“Is it really war?” she asked calmly, while Ariadne alternately cowered and struggled.
“Just a little private war,” said Halkett. “And you had better go into the house at once — —”
“You and I should go, also,” added Warner, “if there are more than two men out there.”
“I saw at least half a dozen beyond the wall. You are quite right, Warner; we couldn’t hope to hold this garden. But I dislike to go into a strange house and invite assault on other people’s property — just to save my own hide — —”
“Keep out of range!” interrupted Warner sharply, taking him by the arm and following Philippa around the garden toward the rear of the house.
The back door was iron, armed with thick steel bolts; the neighborhood of the quarry rendering such defenses advisable. Warner shot all three bolts, then passed rapidly through the kitchen to the front door and secured it, while Halkett went to the telephone. The nearest gendarmes were at Ausone.
Linette, the chambermaid and waitress, and Magda, the cook, had followed Halkett and Philippa from the pantry through the kitchen to the front hallway. They had heard the noisy fusillade in the garden. Curiosity seemed to be their ruling emotion, but even that was under control.
“Is it the Prussians, Messieurs?” asked Linette calmly. “Has the war really begun?” Her face, and Magda’s too, seemed a trifle colorless in the failing evening light, but her voice was steady.
“Magda,” said Warner, “the men outside our garden who fired at Mr. Halkett are certainly Germans. He and I mean to keep them out of this house if they attempt to enter it. So you and Linette had better go very quietly to the cellar and remain there, because there may be some more firing — —”
“I? The cellar! When Prussians are outside!” exclaimed Magda. “Ma foi! I think Linette and I can be of better use than hiding in the cellar. Linette! Set water to boil in both kettles! I have my dishes to wash. The Prussians had better not interfere with me when I have dishes to wash!”
“Keep away from the windows,” added Warner to Linette. “There are iron bars on all the lower windows, aren’t there?”
“Yes, Monsieur Warner. If the front door holds, they cannot get in.”
Halkett, at the telephone, called back through the dim hallway to Warner:
“Somebody has cut the telephone wire. I can’t do anything with the instrument!”
Philippa, still clasping Ariadne, had betrayed no sign of fear or excitement.
“If somebody would tell me what to do,” she began — but Warner quickly drew her into the office of the inn, which was really the inner café and bar.
“Stay here,” he said. “Those men outside might open fire on us at any moment. Don’t go near a window. Do you promise?”
The girl seated herself obediently and began to stroke the cat, her eyes serenely fixed on Warner.
Halkett had gone to the floor above to lurk by one of the windows giving on the garden. When Warner came up with a box of cartridge clips, the Englishman, filling his pockets, remarked quietly:
“They’re over the wall already, and dodging about among the fruit trees — four of them. There were two others. Perhaps you had better keep an eye on the front door, if you really insist on being mixed up with this mess I’m in.”
“Do you suppose those fellows will be silly enough to attack the house?” asked the American incredulously.
Halkett nodded:
“They are desperate, you see. I can understand why. They know that war is likely to be declared within the next few hours. If they don’t get me now they won’t stand much chance later. That’s why I’m prepared for anything on their part.”
Warner walked swiftly back toward the front, cutting the cords of the latticed window blinds in every room, so that they fell full length.
“No lights in the house!” he called down over the banisters; “and keep away from the windows, everybody! Philippa, do you hear me?”
“I understand; I shall tell them to light no candles,” came the untroubled voice of Philippa.
“Are you all right down there?”
“Yes, I am. But the cat is still quite frightened, poor darling.”
In spite of his anxiety, Warner laughed as he reloaded.
Outdoors there still remained sufficient light to see by. Flat against the wall, pistol in hand, he cautiously reconnoitered the dusky roadway in front of the house, then, leaning further out, he ventured to look down between lattice and sill at the doorstep below. A mound of dry hay had been piled against the door.
“Get out of there!” he shouted, catching a glimpse of two shadowy figures skulking toward the doorway arch.
His reply was a red flash which split the dusk, another, and another; the window glass above him flew into splinters under the shower of bullets; the persiennes jerked and danced.
But the men who stood pouring bullets in his direction had been obliged to drop double armfuls of faggots. One of these men, still firing as he ran, took cover behind a poplar tree across the road; the other man flattened himself against the wall of the house, so far under the door arch that no shot could reach him from an upper window unless the marksman exposed himself.
Standing so, he lighted a chemical match and tossed it, flaring, on the heap of hay piled high against the door; and almost at the same instant a boilerful of hot water splashed through the bars of the lower window beside him, scalding and soaking him; and he bounded out into the road with a yell of astonishment and pain.
The hay, instantly on fire, sent a cloud of white thick smoke billowing along the façade of the house, then burst into flame; but Linette and Magda dashed water on it from the lower windows, and the red blaze leaped and died.
Then, from the rear of the house, the dry rattle of Halkett’s automatic broke out, and the pattering racket of pistol shots redoubled when other automatics crackled from the garden. Thick as hailstones pelting a tin roof the bullets clanged on the iron rear door, filling the house with deafening dissonance.
Halkett, peering out through his lattice into the dusk, ceased firing. A few moments longer the door reëchoed the bullets’ impact; then all sound ceased, the silence still vibrating metallic undertones.
Prowling from window to window, Warner, pistol lifted, peered warily from the shelter of the lowered lattice blinds.
One man still crouched behind the poplar tree; the other, he thought, was lying in the long grass of the roadside ditch.
“Are you all right, Halkett?” he called back through the stinging fumes of the smokeless powder which filled the hallway.
“Quite fit, thanks. How is it with you?”
“Still gayly on the job. I didn’t hit anybody. I didn’t try to.”
“Nor I. Did you ever see such obstinacy and determination? Very German, isn’t it?”
“Perfectly.... They’re keeping rather too quiet to suit me. What do you suppose they’re up to?”
But neither he nor the Englishman could discover any movement or hear any sound around the house. And it had now become too dark to see anything very clearly.
Philippa appeared mounting the stairs, looking for Ariadne who had scrambled out of her arms during the fusillade.
Warner nodded to her from where he was standing guard. She came up quietly behind him, stood for a moment with both hands around his left arm — a silent figure in the dusk, friendly as a well-bred dog, and as winningly unconscious of self. Her cheek, resting lightly against her hands, where they clasped his arm, pressed a trifle closer before she went away.
