Complete weird tales of.., p.877
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 877
“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.
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 Forêt 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 Récollette 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 aëroplanes 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.
