Complete weird tales of.., p.894
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 894
“Horrible,” said the Countess with a slight shiver. “And the man, Wildresse — did it — with those dreadful hands of his. I thought I should faint when he was telling of it — what he did in the bedroom—”
She shuddered, rose abruptly:
“Philippa is in her room, still poring over those papers. I can’t bear to leave the child all alone, and yet it seems like intrusion to disturb her. Could you take her for a little walk, Jim, before dinner? — Take her out of her room — out of the house for a while? I’m afraid she’s remembering that murderer’s confession. She ought not to brood over such things.”
“Yes, I’ll try to take her mind off it. Suppose I walk down to the inn with her! Halkett’s there. It might divert her; she’s fond of him.” He smiled slightly. “There’s a cat there, too. It will seem like old times — she and Halkett and Ariadne and I together at the Golden Peach. I believe it will divert her.”
“Why not remain and dine there with Mr. Halkett, as you used to, in your somewhat unconventional way?” suggested the Countess, smiling. “I am very sure that would appeal to Philippa.”
“I’ll ask her,” nodded Warner.
They walked slowly into the house together. Gray lay in the corner of an upholstered lounge beside a lighted lamp, a book open on his knees, his cheek resting on his hand.
At the sound of their approach he looked up quickly, and his face brightened.
“I thought I wouldn’t read any further,” he said frankly. “We have enjoyed so much reading it together. Do you mind going on with it to the end?”
The Countess laughed and a pretty color rose in her cheeks.
“Do you think,” she said, “that I expect to spend the remainder of my days reading romances with you?”
And, as Warner turned and mounted the stairs:
“Besides,” she added, “there is really nothing more to read in that silly novel.”
“Why not?” he inquired, his face expressing candid disappointment.
“Because they have already fallen in love,” she explained carelessly. “And the end of such a proceeding is always obvious, Mr. Gray.”
She glanced up at the stairs. Warner had disappeared.
After a moment, casually unconscious, she seated herself on the broad, upholstered end of the lounge, looking down over his shoulder at the open book on his knees.
“In fiction,” she remarked, “there is only one end to such situations.... But, if you like, I don’t mind beginning another book with you, Mr. Gray.”
Her hand, which rested among the cushions, supporting her, happened to come within the range of his wandering vision. He looked at it for a little while. Presently he placed his own over it, very lightly.
Neither moved. But it was a long time before he ventured to turn his head and look up at the woman with whom he had read through his first long love story. She had read such stories before, understood something of their tricks, their technique, their reality, and their romance. And had supposed there was nothing further for her to learn about them and that her interest in them was dead.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “reading on with me, for a while — —”
“I might tire.”
“Try not to.”
Her flushed face became thoughtful. Already the prospect of reading another romance with him seemed interesting.
Warner and Philippa, silently descending the stairs together, glanced around at the two figures together there under the lighted lamp.
The Countess was saying calmly:
“We might as well finish the love story we have begun, if you really insist on following through to the conventional end.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do insist. Let us follow through together — to the end.”
Philippa, slim and white, moved silently through the house beside Warner, out across the terrace and down to the drive.
The last hint of color had died out in the west. Below, in the valley, no searchlights flooded the river; only a moving lantern here and there glimmered through the misty dusk.
“It will be jolly,” he was saying, “for us to dine again together before Halkett leaves. Don’t you think so, Philippa?”
“Yes. When is he going?”
“Tomorrow, I believe. They are sending the wrecked machine to Verdun by rail. I suppose he’ll follow in the morning. What a miracle that he was not killed! They say the big Bristol behaved exactly like a wing-tipped grouse when the shrapnel hit her — coming down beating and fluttering and fighting for equilibrium to the end. It was the skill of his pilot that brought her safely wabbling and planing into the river, where she waddled about like a scotched duck.”
“Was the pilot badly hurt?”
“Not badly. Sister Eila is looking after him. They’re going to bring him up to the Château hospital in the morning. He’s at the inn now.”
“Why didn’t they bring any wounded to us, Jim?”
“The ambulances from Ausone and Dreslin took them. I believe we are to expect fifty wounded tomorrow. Sister Félicité was notified after our ambulance returned from the Bois d’Ausone.”
Twice they were halted, and the permit from General Delisle which Warner carried was minutely inspected by flashlight. Then they moved on slowly through the fragrant night toward the unlighted windows of the Golden Peach.
There, as in the Château, all lights were masked by shutters and curtains, so that no night visitor soaring high under the stars might sight anything at which to loose the tiny red spark — that terrible, earth-shattering harbinger of death and annihilation.
At the front door they knocked; Linette welcomed them into a darkened hall, but as soon as the door was closed again she brought out a lamp.
Madame Arlon followed, delighted that they were to dine there with Halkett.
He was somewhere about the garden, she said, and Sister Eila was upstairs with the wounded pilot.
Moving along the familiar path in the garden, they presently discovered Halkett seated alone in the little arbor, with Ariadne dozing on his lap.
“We’ve come to dine with you, old fellow!” said Warner. “ — Philippa and you and I and Ariadne again. Does the idea appeal to you?”
“Immensely!” He had saluted Philippa’s hand and had offered her the cat, which she took to her breast, burying her face in the soft fur.
“Darling,” she murmured, “it is so nice to have you again! One needs all one’s old friends in days like these.”
They returned to the house, Philippa walking between the two men, caressing Ariadne, who acknowledged the endearments with her usual enthusiasm.
Dinner was all ready for them in the little room by the bar: a saucer was set beside Philippa’s chair for Ariadne; Linette went upstairs to summon Sister Eila, and returned with word that she would be down after a while, and that dinner was not to wait for her.
Warner said to Halkett:
“How did you feel when you were falling, old chap?”
“Not very comfortable,” returned the other, smiling.
“You thought it was all up with you?”
“On the contrary, I realized it was all down.”
Philippa smiled faintly.
“You didn’t expect to come out alive?” inquired Warner.
“I didn’t think of that. Bolton, my pilot, said: ‘I’m trying to make the river, sir.’ I was attempting to find out how badly we were damaged. It seemed an age; but we both were busy.”
“You probably did some very serious thinking, too.”
Halkett nodded. He remembered that part vividly — the thinking part. He recollected perfectly where his thoughts were concentrated as he came fluttering down out of the sky. But on whom they were centered he never would tell as long as he lived.
Sister Eila came in.
Halkett placed her; she and Philippa exchanged faint smiles; then the two men resumed their seats.
“Monsieur Bolton is now asleep,” she said, speaking to Halkett and looking at her plate. “Tomorrow we shall move him to the east wing of the Château. We shall have many wounded tomorrow, I believe.”
“Yes. Sister Félicité told me,” said Warner. He looked at her for a moment. “Are you well, Sister Eila?”
“Why, yes; I am perfectly well.”
“You look very pale. Do you ever find time to sleep?”
“Sufficiently, thank you,” she replied, smiling. “You know we are very tough, we Sisters of Charity. There is a saying that nothing but death can kill a Grey Sister.”
Warner laughed, Halkett forced a smile.
“I think,” added Sister Eila, “that British airmen ought to be included in that proverb. Don’t you, Mr. Halkett?”
“Nothing can kill me,” he said. “I’m even wondering whether old man Death could do the job.”
Philippa turned to Warner:
“Isn’t the conversation becoming a trifle grim for our reunion?”
They all smiled; Philippa fed tidbits to Ariadne, who had forsaken a well-garnished platter on the floor to sit up beside Philippa and pat her gown from time to time with an appealing paw.
“That’s very human,” commented Warner. “Ariadne wants only what is not meant for her.”
“I can understand her,” said Halkett carelessly. “May I smoke, Sister Eila? Do you mind, Philippa?” He struck a match: “With your permission,” he said, and lighted his cigarette as Linette entered with coffee.
“Yes,” he said musingly, “it seems to be the game in life — to desire what is not meant for one. The worst of it is that philosophy doesn’t help one to understand and become reconciled.”
Sister Eila said, looking at her plate:
“Religion helps.”
“Only a favored few, Sister.”
“Yes, for everybody the refuge of faith is waiting.”
“Belief may explain; but it can not reconcile,” rejoined Halkett quietly. “Except for the mystery of God, there is no other mystery like man. None has yet explained him; not even himself. If his riddle is ever to be solved, I don’t know when that will be, unless it is to happen after death.”
There was a silence.
Halkett spoke again:
“Unbidden love comes; it abides as long as it chooses — a day, a lifetime — and after life, perhaps. But if it chooses to go, no one ever born can control its departure.... This is one mystery of man — only one among many.... I believe something of this sort occurred to me while—” he laughed— “I was coming a cropper in the sky this morning.”
Sister Eila’s eyes were fixed on space; Halkett laid aside his cigarette and picked up Ariadne.
“Well, old lady,” he said, “there is only one solution to everything; go on with the business in hand and do it as thoroughly as your intellect permits. Your business, I suppose, is to look ornamental, have kittens, and catch mice. Bonne chance, little lady!”
He set her on the table and she marched gingerly among the coffee cups toward Philippa.
Sister Eila rose; all followed her example.
Halkett, looking around at them, said pleasantly:
“It was a happy thought — this reunion. I had meant to say good-by tonight at the Château — —”
“Tonight!” exclaimed Warner.
“Yes. Orders have come. An automobile arrives later, to take me to the railroad station at Dreslin. My wrecked machine has gone — —” He looked smilingly at Sister Eila: “What’s left of me is to follow tonight, it seems.... And so I shall go over to the Château, now, I think, and make my very grateful adieux, and have a last word with Gray. Shall I say good-by to you now? Will you be here when I return in an hour?”
Philippa said in a low voice:
“We are going to walk in the garden. Look for us there.”
He turned to Sister Eila.
“I shall be with my sick man,” she said smilingly. Her face was deadly white.
So Halkett took his cap and went away up the road all alone, and Sister Eila mounted the stairs to inspect her patient.
As Warner stood for a moment by the open door looking after Halkett, a familiar voice came to his ears — the voice of Asticot, bragging of his prowess and cheerfully predicting even greater glory for himself.
“Nonsense!” came the voice of Linette, sharply. “You had nothing more to do with the taking of that spy than had Ariadne!”
“M’amzelle! It was I who accomplished that! Behold your Asticot, a hero, modest and humble — —”
“Tiens! You are not my Asticot! Be kind enough to remember that!”
“M’amzelle, you know me — —”
“No, I don’t!”
“But you are perfectly at liberty to become acquainted with me — —”
“I do not desire to!”
“My master, M’sieu’ Warner, trusts and respects me. He is the most wonderful gentleman in the whole world, M’sieu’ Warner. And he believes in me!”
“I don’t!” retorted Linette.
Asticot heaved a terrific sigh:
“And I with thirty thousand francs which I have labored to save — fruits of my toil — souvenirs of years of self-denial — —”
“What! Thirty thousand francs! Bah! Thirty thousand debts, you mean — —”
“I mean nothing of the sort,” said Asticot simply. “If you doubt my word, I will show them to you some day. Linette, you know me — —”
“I tell you I don’t!”
Warner could hear Magda laughing, and Madame Arlon making caustic comments concerning the financial solvency of Asticot and the manner in which he wore his hair.
“As for that,” rejoined Asticot, “I can trim my hair to please Linette — —”
“That,” exclaimed Linette, exasperated, “is impossible! Only a machine that will trim your neck close to your shoulders might interest me, Monsieur Asticot!”
“Woman!” said Asticot, unruffled. “Tenez, M’amzelle! That is what I think of woman — charming, capricious, enchanting woman! I salute your incomparable sex!” And Warner heard him kiss his own palm with a vigorous smack.
“Imbecile!” cried Linette. “Put on a uniform before you have the impudence to make love to an honest girl!”
“I am going to,” said Asticot triumphantly.
Warner closed the door, turned back into the hallway, and entered the little dining room. Philippa was no longer there; so he went through the house into the dark garden, where the air was sweet with the perfume of clove pinks and lilies.
She was there, a pale shape in the darkness, moving slowly among the flowers. As he came up she lifted her head and looked at him, her grey eyes still vague with memories which the place evoked.
And, after a few moments’ wandering along the paths with him:
“Why are you so silent?” she asked.
“I thought perhaps I might disturb your thoughts, Philippa.”
“You are always part of my thoughts. I have no thought that I would not share with you.... But — you have never understood that.”
“I understand you, Philippa.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. You are everything a woman should be; nothing a woman should not be. That is my understanding of you.”
She shook her head gently:
“That is an impossible woman. You are kind to me in your thoughts. And — you have not understood me after all.”
“What have I not understood, Philippa?”
“My — my heart and mind.”
“Both are wonderful, matchless — —”
“You are wrong! There is your mistake. They are not wonderful; and both may be matched by the hearts and minds of any woman! ... Has it never occurred to you that I am very human?”
He remained silent; they walked on for a while, turned, and retraced their steps along the border of clove pinks.
“Have you gone over all your papers?” he asked in a hesitating voice.
“Yes.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you — advise — aid — —”
She turned almost impatiently:
“Always you are thinking of my well-being, my worldly benefit. It is for that you give me your companionship, your protection. I — I don’t know — sometimes I think I have never been — so — lonely — —”
Her voice broke; she turned sharply from him and stood with slender hands clenched in the starlight.
“Philippa?” he said gently, in his kindly, even voice. And it seemed to break the barrier to her reserve.
“Oh!” she faltered. “ — It is something else a woman — hopes for — something different — when her heart — is empty — —”
He dared not understand her, dared not touch her. He heard himself saying: “There is nobody but you, Philippa,” and dared not speak — dared not say what he should have said before either he or she had learned who she really was.
Perhaps a faint idea of what held him to an aloofness, a formality unaccustomed, occurred to her during the strained silence. Perhaps she divined, vaguely, what might be in his mind.
After a while she turned, not looking at him, and took his arm! It was the first time she had done so since that day when he painted her.
Even yet she could scarcely realize, scarcely comprehend the great change which had come to her. She knew it was true; she understood that it must be the truth — that she was no longer nameless — not the foundling, not the lonely child of chance who had looked out blankly over the world, without aim, without interest, having nothing to expect, nothing to hope for from a world which had not even bestowed upon her a name.
And now — now, suddenly hazard had snatched aside that impenetrable curtain which, as long as she could remember, had hung between her and all that she desired most passionately to know.
From the loose, half palsied lips of a murderer had fallen the words she had never expected to hear. He had gone to his death, shambling, doddering, mumbling to himself. But the papers which had belonged to him had confirmed every word he uttered.
