Complete weird tales of.., p.887
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 887
He stepped aside into the bracken, courteously, in deference to Sister Eila, and lifted his hand to his shako in salute. But when he caught sight of Warner he stepped forward with a quick, boyish smile and held out his hand.
“Do you remember me? — D’Aurès? This is Monsieur Warner, is it not?”
They exchanged a handclasp; Warner presented him to Sister Eila.
“This is exceedingly nice,” said the American cordially. “We — Sister Eila and I — are returning to the Château. I hope you will come with us.”
“If I may venture to pay my respects — —”
“You will be welcome, I know.” He added, laughing: “Also, the ladies will be most interested in the fate of their horses and their automobiles.”
The Vicomte d’Aurès reddened, but laughed:
“The Countess was most gracious, most patriotic,” he said. “But one could expect nothing less from a De Moidrey. Nevertheless, I felt like a bandit that evening. I left them only a basket wagon and a donkey.”
“Which have been greatly appreciated, Monsieur,” said Sister Eila, smiling. And she told him about the removal of Captain Gray from the school to the Château.
“Oh, by the way,” exclaimed D’Aurès, “we have a British aviator with us — a friend of yours, Sister Eila, and of Mr. Warner.”
“Halkett!”
“Yes, indeed. It appears that Captain Halkett has specialized in this region, so he has been assigned to us. I have the honor of a personal acquaintance with him.”
“Where is he?” asked Warner.
“He is near here somewhere. His machine, a Bristol, is to be parked with ours on the plateau yonder. I think they are erecting the hangars now.”
They entered the wicket of the lodge gate and advanced along the drive toward the house.
Warner said:
“All this movement means the invasion of Alsace-Lorraine, I take it.”
D’Aurès nodded.
“Could you give me an idea of the situation as it stands, Captain?”
“I can only guess. Briefly, we are moving on Strassburg from the Donon peaks to Château-Salins. As I understand it, our armies now stretch from the Sambre to the Seine, from the Meuse to the Oise.
“I can tell you only what is gossiped about among cavalry officers. We believe that we are leading a great counter-offensive movement; that it is our General Joffre’s strategy to drive the Germans out of upper Alsace, block Metz and Strassburg, and, holding them there in our steel pincers, let loose our army on their flank and rear.”
“And Longwy? And this drive just north of us at Ausone?”
D’Aurès smiled.
“Can you still hear the cannonade?”
They halted to listen; there was no longer that deadly rumor from the north.
“Verdun and Toul are taking care of that raid, I think,” said D’Aurès pleasantly. “It comes from Metz, of course. Verdun must look out for the country between it and Longwy, too. That is not our route. Ours lies by Nancy toward Vic and Moyenvic, and through Altkirch to Mülhausen, and then—” he laughed— “it does not become a Frenchman to prophesy or boast. There were too many dreamers in 1870.
“I am telling merely the gossip of our camps. It is human to gossip when the day’s work is over. But for the rest — route step and plod ahead! — That is what counts, not bragging or splendid dreams.”
When they reached the terrace Warner fell back to speak to Asticot.
“I’ve arranged for you at the Golden Peach. Madame Arlon knows.” He handed Asticot a key. “There’s plenty to do in my studio down there. Get some wood and make cases for my canvases. Cover the chassis with toile and prime them with white lead. Use an ivory palette knife and let them have the sun when there is any and when there is no wind and dust. That will keep you busy until I send for you. Do you comprehend?”
“Yes, M’sieu’.... May I not walk behind M’sieu’ when he takes the air?”
Warner scowled at him, but he looked so exactly like a shiftless, disreputable and mongrel dog who timidly desires to linger, yet is fearful of a kick, that the American laughed.
“A fine bargain I have in you!” he said. “You prefer rambling to work, it appears!”
“I prefer the vicinity of M’sieu’,” said Asticot naïvely.
“Go back to the inn and see if you can do an honest hour’s work!” retorted Warner; and he turned and rejoined Sister Eila, who had taken D’Aurès up the steps of the terrace.
It appeared that the ladies were on the north terrace. On the way through the hall, Sister Eila excused herself and mounted the stairs for a look-in on Gray. At the same moment, Peggy Brooks came out of the billiard room, saw D’Aurès, recognized him.
“Oh,” she said, extending her hand, “I am so glad you have come back! How is my Minerva runabout?”
“I’m sorry I don’t know,” he replied, blushing; “I didn’t steal it for myself, you see.”
“You didn’t steal it! It’s a gift. It’s mine to give. I give it to you! My sister took all the credit of giving away the horses and cars. But I insist on your having my Minerva runabout. It’s a charming car. You’ll fall in love with it if they let you drive it. Come out to the terrace and speak to my sister and to my dearest friend, Philippa Wildresse.”
Warner, much amused to observe the capture of this young man, followed them out to the south terrace.
He certainly was an ornamental young man of enchanting manners, and his popularity was immediate.
To Warner Philippa came presently:
“Where have you been?” she asked. “And couldn’t you have taken me?”
“Dear child, I was out before sunrise prowling about the hills with that vagabond at my heels — Asticot.”
“What did you see?”
“Uhlans on Vineyard Hill, across the Récollette. Wildresse was with them.”
“He!”
“Yes, the miserable spy! If he’s not gone clear away some of D’Aurès’ men had better try to round him up and get rid of him.... After that, Sister Eila and I went to the school. More Uhlans came sniffing around, but they cleared out in a hurry when our cavalry appeared. Our artillery shelled the Germans out of the Esser quarries — you must have heard the firing?”
“Yes. We all thought that the Germans had arrived. Poor Mr. Gray looked so disgusted!”
“Philippa, Halkett is here somewhere.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed happily.
“He’s here with his machine — an aëroplane of sorts — Bristol, I believe. No doubt he’ll come up to the house when he has a chance. I suppose Sister Eila has gone up to tell Gray.”
They had strolled around to the eastern parapet and now stood looking out over the tree tops.
“What has happened at Ausone?” she asked. “The cannon have stopped firing.”
“I saw Ausone burning from Vineyard Hill. It’s all knocked to pieces, Philippa. What I think has happened is this: troops from Verdun and Toul — perhaps from Chalons — have entered Ausone in time to save the fort. I suppose our infantry are intrenched along the Récollette and that there is going to be more fighting in Ausone Forest, which must be full of Germans.”
“You don’t think they’ll come here?”
“I don’t know. The army which you see below us everywhere in the valley is probably on its way to invade Alsace. D’Aurès thinks so. I suppose this line will be defended. We shall hear more cannonading, I fancy. Anyway, they are digging trenches to fall back on.”
“Where?”
“Along the Récollette.”
From where they were leaning on the stone balustrade, they could see pontoons spanning the river. Across them troops and wagons were passing; through every ford cavalry were splashing; the quarry bridge and road were packed with motor trucks escorted by cavalry; and on the Saïs highway artillery was still passing toward Ausone.
Her cheeks framed by her hands, elbows on the parapet, Philippa gazed at the moving host below. She wore a thin white gown; a scarf fell from her shoulders; her thick, beautiful hair was full of ruddy gleams, accenting the snowy neck and throat.
“If I set up my easel will you let me have a try at you?” he asked.
“Yes, but you’ve had no luncheon. I’ll bring you something, and you can arrange your canvas while I’m gone.”
But they found Sister Eila had arranged for him to lunch with Gray, so he sat with that battered and patient Englishman, chatting, watching the troops in the valley from the open window, and lunching comfortably.
Sister Eila glanced in, smiled, then went lightly away toward the eastern wing of the house, where fresh consignments of bandages were to be sterilized and stored in Red Cross boxes — gauze rolls, plugs for bullet wounds, body bandages, fracture bandages, arm slings, rolls of unbleached muslin, of cotton, of gauze.
As she passed the open door of the chapel, she halted, faced the altar and made her reverence. Then, crossing herself, she rose erect, turned to continue her way, and encountered Halkett face to face.
A bright flush leaped to her cheeks; his own face reddened to his hair under the bronze coat of tan.
“I am so glad to see you,” she said steadily, offering her hand. “We heard you were in Saïs with your aëroplane. How did you happen to come into the east wing? It must have been closed when you were here before?”
“I have never before been in this house. I saw you cross the court as I mounted the terrace steps.” He tried to ease the constraint in his voice. “I wanted to speak to you — first of anybody — in Saïs.... Are you well?”
“Perfectly. And you, Captain Halkett?”
“You seem thinner. You do not spare yourself.”
“We scarcely have time to think of ourselves,” she said, smiling. “I am trying to fit up a little hospital here; Madame de Moidrey offers the house.”
“I understand that my friend, Captain Gray, is here?”
“Poor boy! I must not detain you any longer. You will desire to pay your respects to Madame de Moidrey and her sister and to the beautiful Miss Wildresse — —”
“Philippa! Here?”
“You know her? Is she not lovely? I find her charming. And — so should all young men,” she added with a little laugh. “Therefore — I shall no longer detain you, Captain Halkett — —”
“May I — hope to see you again?”
“I hope so, indeed,” she replied cheerfully. “Do you remain for a while in Saïs?”
“For a while, I think.”
There fell a silence, which became a little strained. Sister Eila looked up at him from lowered eyes; then her face went white and she laid her hand flat against the chapel wall beside her, as though for support.
“Then — if I may hope to see you again — inspect your hospital, perhaps — —”
She nodded, still leaning on the chapel wall.
So he went away swiftly, very straight in his field uniform, and she saw him cross the court, head erect, looking directly before him as though he saw nothing.
An immense fatigue seemed to weight her; still supporting herself against the wall, she turned and looked at the chapel door. Even on that grey day the light within was golden from the old glass.
Into that mellow stillness crept Sister Eila, her young head drooping, the metal crucifix swinging at her girdle from its rosary of wooden beads.
The painted saints stared at her; the painted angels all stood watching her; the Mother of God looked out from the manger, brooding, preoccupied, wonder-eyed; but the Child at her breast was smiling.
Then down on her knees fell Sister Eila; her slim hands clasped, clung, tightened, parted, and covered her face convulsively.
Very far away in the valley a trumpet spoke.
CHAPTER XXXII
WARNER BEGAN THE full-length portrait — which has now become famous under the title “Philippa Passes” — in the main hall of the Château.
A clear light fell through the northern and eastern windows; from the golden gloom above generations of De Moidreys looked down upon the fair girl who stood in their great hall as tranquil and unconscious as though born within the carved gray walls which they had built or added to in years long dead.
He had chosen for the pose a moment when, as she was in the act of passing in front of him, a word from him had checked her and caused her to turn her head.
There he held her as she had paused, poised on the very edge of motion, her enchanting head turned and the grey eyes meeting his.
Already on his canvas he had caught her; an odd sensation of cold, clear-minded exaltation seemed to possess him as he worked — a calm, strange certainty of himself and of the work in hand.
There was no hesitation, no doubt within him, only a sustained excitement under unerring control. He knew what he wanted; he knew that he was doing methodically what he wanted to do with every unhurried brush stroke.
There was no halting, no searching, no checks; his mind had never been so absolutely in control of his hand; his hand never so automatically obedient, his intelligence never before so clear, so logical, so steady under the incessant lightning of inspiration.
Conscious of the tremendous tension, he knew he was equal to it — knew that no weakness of impulse or of sentiment could swerve him, unsteady him, meddle with his brain or his nerves or his hand.
Nothing could stop him from doing what he had to do, nothing could tamper with this newborn confidence which had suddenly possessed him with its unlooked for magic.
He was painting Philippa as he had known her from the beginning; as he had prophesied; as she had been revealed — a young girl with grey eyes and chestnut hair, fine of limb, with the shadow of a smile on her wistful lips, and “her soul as clean as a flame.”
So certain was he of what he was about that to Philippa he seemed to work very leisurely, wiping brush after brush with unhurried deliberation, laying on stroke after stroke with that quiet decision which accumulates and coördinates component parts into a result so swiftly that an ensemble is born as though by magic.
A few great pictures are painted that way; myriads of bad ones. If he thought of this it did not trouble him. Already, on his canvas, the soul of a young girl was looking at him through those grey eyes; on the fresh lips, scarce parted, hovered the shadow of a smile, virginal and vague.
He felt the splendid tension; experienced the consciousness of achievement, steeled every nerve, wiped his brushes with deliberation, drew them across the edges of the colors needed, scarcely glancing at his palette, laid on the brush stroke with the precision of finality.
From where he had slung his tall canvas between two ancient, high-backed chairs as an improvised easel, he could see the northern terrace and the people gathered there — Madame de Moidrey in animated conversation with Halkett; Peggy knitting fitfully and looking over her clicking needles at the youthful Vicomte d’Aurès, who had pushed aside the tea table in order to obtain an unobstructed view of this American girl who was making his boyish head spin.
Beyond them, on a steamer chair, lay Gray. Sister Eila sat beside him sewing. There was conversation between them and Madame de Moidrey and Halkett — across and across, cat-cradle fashion — but it passed through Peggy and D’Aurès unheeded, as wireless in the upper air currents; and the Countess glanced occasionally at her sister or let her eyes rest on D’Aurès now and then with a pleasant, preoccupied air, as though considering other things than those which were passing under her pretty nose.
From time to time Philippa came around to where Warner stood before his canvas, and remained beside him in silence while he studied what he had done.
Once he looked up questioningly; the girl took possession of his right arm with both of hers and rested her cheek lightly against his shoulder. No words could have praised or reassured him as eloquently. And he understood that what he had done was, to her, worthy of all she believed him to be — matchless, wonderful, and hers.
The light had failed a little in the early August sky, but the clouds had cleared and the sun glittered in the west. There was light to work by, yet.
He clothed his canvas in a mystery of cobweb shadow: behind her there was a dull gleam of duller tapestry; delicate half-lights made the picture vague, so that the “clean flame” of her seemed the source of all light, its origin, making exquisite the clear, young eyes.
He knew that what he had painted was already a fit companion to be placed among the matchless company looking down on them from the walls through a delicate bloom of dust.
What he had done belonged here, as she herself belonged here between these old-time walls and the ancient roof above. And every corridor, every room, every terrace, would be the sweeter, the fresher, for her lingering before she passed on her life’s journey through an old and worn-out world.
“Philippa passes,” he said, thinking aloud.
She looked up, smiled.
“Only where you lead her, shall Philippa pass,” she murmured.
“It is to be the title of your portrait.... Would you care to look at it now? There is not so much more to do to it, I think....”
She came around and stood silently beside him.
“Is it you?” he asked.
“My other self.... I had not supposed you knew her — so deeply — so intimately — more intimately than I myself seem to know her.”
He laughed gently.
“Heart of a child,” he said, half to himself.
“Heart of a man,” she answered. “What have I done to deserve you? How can you be so patient with me? ... You, a man already grown, distinguished, ripe with wisdom.... I don’t know why you should annoy yourself with me.... It is too wonderful — why you should be my friend — my friend — —”
“There is something far more wonderful, Philippa — that you should be my friend. Didn’t you know it?”
She laughed.
“I wonder if you know what I would do for you? There is nothing you could ask of me that I would not do — —”
She ceased, her voice threatening unsteadiness, but her eyes were clear and she was smiling.
