But upon his mind the impression she left began to develop more slowly--the impression of a young girl--"clean as a flame," as he had once said of her--a lovely and delicate personality absolutely in keeping with the silken boudoir gown she wore--in keeping with the carven and stately beauty of her environment in this ancient house.
Philippa not only fitted into the very atmosphere of such a place; it seemed as though she must have been born in it, so perfectly was she a harmonious part of it, so naturally and without emphasis.
Centuries had cooerdinated, reconciled, and made a mellow ensemble of everything within this house--the walls, the wainscot, mantels, lusters, pictures and frames, furniture and dimmed upholstery.
In the golden demi-light of these halls Philippa moved as though she had known no other--and in the sunlight of music room or terrace she belonged as unquestioned as the sunlight itself; and in lamplit spaces where soft shadows framed her, there also she belonged as certainly as the high, dim portraits of great ladies and brave gentlemen peering down at her through their delicate veils of dust.
Thinking of these things beside the open window of his bedroom, he looked out into the south and east and saw in the sky the silvery pencilings of searchlights on the Barrier Forts, shifting, sweeping in wide arcs, or tremblingly concentrated upon the clouds.
There was no sound in the fragrant darkness, not a breath of air, not a leaf stirring.
His inclination was not to sleep, but to think about Philippa; and he sat there, a burned-out cigarette between his fingers, his eyes fixed so persistently on the darkness that after a while he became conscious of what his concentration was delicately evoking there--her face, and the grey eyes of her, shadowy, tender, clear as a child's.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
Warner awoke with a start; somebody was knocking on his door. As he sat up in bed, the solid thudding of the cannonade filled the room--still very far away, but deeper and with a heavier undertone which set the windows slightly vibrating.
The knocking on his door sounded again insistently.
"All right!" he called, throwing on a bathrobe and finding his slippers.
The rising sun had not yet freed itself from the mist that lay over hill and plain; wide, rosy beams spread to the zenith and a faint glow tinged the morning fog, but the foreground of woods and fields was still dusky and vague, and his room full of shadows.
He tied the belt of his robe and opened the door. In the semi-obscurity of the corridor stood Philippa, hair disordered, wrapped in her chamber robe.
"Jim," she said, "the telephone in the lower hall has been ringing like mad. It awoke me. I lay and listened to it, but nobody seemed to hear it, so I went down. It's a Sister of Charity--Sister Eila--who desires to speak to you."
"I'll go at once--thank you, Philippa----"
"And, Jim?" She was trotting along beside him in her bare feet and bedroom slippers as he started for the stairs. "When you have talked to her, I think you ought to see what is happening on the Ausone road."
"_What_ is happening?" he demanded, descending the stairs.
She kept pace with him, one hand following the stair rail:
"There are so many people and carts and sheep and cattle, all going south. And just now two batteries of artillery went the other way toward Ausone. They were going at a very fast trot--with gendarmes galloping ahead to warn the people to make room----"
"When did you see this?"
"Now, out of that window as I stood knocking at your door."
"All right," he said briefly, picking up the telephone. "Are you there, Sister Eila? Yes; it is Warner speaking."
"Mr. Warner, where can I communicate with Captain Halkett?"
"I don't know, Sister."
"Could you find out?"
"I haven't any idea. He has not written me since he left."
"He left no address with you?"
"None. I don't imagine he knew where he could be found. Is it anything important?"
"Yes. I don't know what to do. There is an Englishman--a soldier--who has been hurt and who says he must send word to Captain Halkett. Could you come to the school?"
"Of course. When?"
"Just as soon as you can. I am so sorry to awaken you at such an hour----"
"It's quite all right, Sister. I'll dress and go at once.... And tell me, are there a lot of people passing southward by the school?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Warner, ever since dawn. Everyone is leaving Ausone and the villages along the Recollette.... I must not use the telephone any longer. I had permission to use it only because the business was of a military nature. Come as soon as you can----"
The connection was abruptly broken--probably by some officer in control.
Warner rose; Philippa had vanished. He walked out to the music room, opened the long windows, and stepped through them to the south terrace.
The muffled roll of the cannonade filled his ears. Except for that dominating and unbroken monotone, the sunrise world was very still, and mist still veiled the glitter in the east.
But below in the valley of the Recollette, the road lay perfectly distinct in the clear, untinted and transparent light of early dawn.
Along it people and vehicles swarmed, moving south--an unending stream of humanity in pairs, in family groups, their arms filled with packages, parcels, bundles tied up in sheets, and bedquilts.
Peasant carts piled with dingy household effects bumped and jolted along; farm wagons full of bedding, on which huddled entire families clasping in their arms cheap wooden clocks, earthen bowls, birdcages, flowerpots, perhaps a kitten or a puppy; and there was every type of vehicle to be seen--the _charrette a bras_, the _tombereau_ dragged by hand, dilapidated cabriolets, wheelbarrows, even baby carriages full of pots and pans.
Here and there some horse, useless for military purposes, strained under a swaying load, led by the head; sometimes a bullock was harnessed with a donkey.
Companies of sheep dotted the highway here and there, piloted by boys and wise-looking, shaggy dogs; there were dusty herds of cattle, too, inclined to leisurely straying but goaded continually into an unwilling trot by the young girls who conducted them. On the river, too, boats were passing south, piled with bedding and with children, the mother or father of the brood doing the rowing or poling.
The quarry road on the other side of the river was too dusty and too far away to permit a distinct view of what was passing there. Without the help of his field glasses, Warner merely conjectured that cavalry were moving northward through the dust that hung along the river bank.
But the spectacle on the Ausone road below was ominous enough. The northern countryside was in flight; towns and villages were emptying themselves southward; and the exodus had merely begun.
He went back to his room, shaved, bathed, dressed in knickerbockers and Norfolk, and, scribbling a note for Madame de Moidrey, pinned it to his door as he closed it behind him.
On his way through the lower hall, somebody called him softly, and he saw Philippa in the music room, carrying a tray.
"Did you think I was going to let you go out without your breakfast?" she asked, smiling. "I have prepared coffee for us both, you see."
He thanked her, took the tray, and carried it out to the terrace.
There, as the sun rose above the bank of mist and flashed out over miles of dewy country, they had their breakfast together--a new-laid egg, a bowl of cafe-au-lait, new butter and fresh rolls.
"May I go with you?" asked the girl.
"Why--yes, if you care to----"
She said seriously:
"I don't quite like to have you go alone on that road, with so much confusion and the air heavy with the cannonade----"
His quick laughter checked her.
"You funny, absurd, sweet little thing!" he said, still laughing. "Do you expect to spend the remainder of your life in seeing that I don't get into mischief?"
"If you'll let me," she said with a faint smile.
"Very well, Philippa; come along!" He held out his hand, laughing; the girl clasped it, a half humorous, half reproachful expression in her grey eyes.
"I don't mind your laughing, as long as you let me be with you," she said.
"Why, Philippa!" he said gayly. "What possesses you to be afraid that anything is likely to happen to me?"
"I don't know what it is," she replied seriously. "I seem to be afraid of losing you. Let me be with you--if it does not annoy you."
"You dear child, of course it doesn't annoy me. Only I don't want you to become morbid over the very nicest and frankest of friendships."
They were passing the garage now; he dropped her hand, asked her to wait for him a moment, turned into the service drive, went toward the stable. A sleepy groom responded to the bell, unlocked the doors, and fetched the key to the harness room.
Warner said to the groom:
"Give that fellow in there his breakfast and turn him loose. Tell him I'll kill him if I ever again catch him hanging around here."
The groom grinned and touched his cap, and Warner turned on his heel and rejoined Philippa.