They had to awaken the old lodge keeper, who pulled the chain from where he lay in bed.
Through the wicket and across the road they went, over a stile, and out across country where the fields flashed with dew and the last shreds of mist drifted high among the trees of the woods which they skirted.
Philippa wore her peasant dress--scarlet waist and skirt with the full, fine chemisette; and on her chestnut hair the close little bonnet of black velvet--called _bonnet a quartiers_ or _bonnet de beguin_--an enchanting little headdress which became her so wonderfully that Warner found himself glancing at her again and again, wondering whether the girl's beauty was growing day by day, or whether he had never been properly awake to it.
Her own unconsciousness of herself was the bewitching part of her--nothing of that sort spoiled the free carriage of her slender, flexible body, of the lovely head carried daintily, of the grey eyes so clear, so intelligent, so candid, so sweet under the black lashes that fringed them.
"Very wonderful," he said aloud, unthinking.
"What?" asked Philippa.
He reddened and laughed:
"You--for purposes of a painter," he said. "I think, if you don't mind, I shall start a portrait of you when we return. I promised Madame de Moidrey, you know."
Philippa smiled:
"Do you really suppose she will hang it in that beautiful house of hers--there among all those wonderful and stately portraits? Wouldn't that be too much honor--to be placed with such great ladies----"
"The dead De Moidreys in their frames need not worry, Philippa. If I paint you as you are, the honor of your presence will be entirely theirs."
"Are you laughing at me?"
He looked up sharply; the girl's face was serious and rather pale.
They were traversing a corner of a woodland where young birches clustered, slim and silvery under their canopy of green which as yet had not changed to royal gold.
He picked up her hand as they emerged into the sunlight of a field, raised it, and touched his lips to the delicate fingers.
It was his answer; and the girl realized instantly what the old-fashioned salute of respect conveyed; and her fingers clung to his hand.
"Jim," she said unsteadily, "if you knew--if you only could realize what you have done for me--what you are doing for me every moment I am with you--by your kindness, your gentleness, your generous belief in me--what miracles you accomplish by the very tones of your voice when you speak to me--by your good, kind smile of encouragement--by your quiet patience with me----"
Her voice broke childishly, and she bent her head and took possession of his arm, holding to it tightly and in silence.
Surprised and moved by her emotion, he found nothing to say for a moment--did not seem to know quite how to respond to the impulsive gratitude so sincerely exaggerated, so prettily expressed.
Finally he said:
"Philippa, I have nothing to teach you--much to learn from you. Whoever you are, you need no patronage from anybody, no allowances, no concessions, no excuses. For I never knew a cleaner, braver, sweeter character than is yours, Philippa--nor a soul more modest, more simple and sincere. What does it matter how you come by it--whether God gave it, or whether what you are has been evolved by race--by generations of gentle breeding?
"We don't know; and _I_, for one, don't care--except for any satisfaction or consolation it might afford you to know who you really are.
"But, for me, I have learned enough to satisfy myself. And I have never known a lovelier character than is yours, Philippa; nor a nobler one."
She continued walking beside him, clinging very tightly to one of his arms, her head lowered under its velvet bonnet.
When she looked up at last, her eyes were wet with tears; she smiled and, loosening her clasp, stretched out her hand for his handkerchief.
"The second time I have borrowed from you," she managed to say. "Do you remember--in the boat?"
He laughed, greatly relieved that the tense constraint was broken--that the tension of his own emotion was relaxed. For he had become intensely serious with the girl--how serious and how deeply in earnest he now began to realize. And whether his own ardent tribute to her had awakened him, while offering it, to all that he was praising, or whether he had already discovered by cooler research all that he now found admirable in her, he did not know.
They came to a hedge; she returned his handkerchief, placed her hand in his, mounted the stile with lithe grace, and he climbed up beside her.
Below them ran the Ausone road, grey with hanging dust; and through the floating cloud tramped the fugitives from the north--old men, old women, girls, little children, struggling onward under their burdens, trudging doggedly, silently southward.
Philippa uttered an exclamation of pity as a man passed wheeling a crippled child in a wheelbarrow, guiding it carefully along beside a herd of cattle which seemed very difficult to manage.
For a few minutes they stood there, watching the sad procession defiling at their feet, then Warner jumped down to the high, grassy bank, lifted Philippa to the ground--which was not necessary, although he seemed to think so, and the girl thanked him very sweetly--and then they went forward along the hedge of _aubepine_ until, around the curve of the road just ahead, he caught sight of the school.
"We can enter by the rear and keep out of that crowd," he said to Philippa. "You don't know Sister Eila, do you?"
"No."
"Nor Sister Felicite?"
"No, Jim. Are they nuns?"
"Sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul. Here is the garden gate. We can go through the kitchen."
But before they had traversed the little vegetable garden, Sister Eila came to the kitchen door.
Warner said:
"Sister Eila, I am so glad that you are to know my friend, Mademoiselle Philippa Wildresse, who, as I am, is a guest of Madame de Moidrey at the Chateau."
Sister Eila came forward, her clear eyes on Philippa, took the girl's offered hand in both of hers, stood silent for a moment, then turned to Warner.
"It was most kind of you to bring her, Mr. Warner. I hope that we shall become friends--" turning to Philippa--"if you also wish it."
Philippa's grey eyes looked steadily at Sister Eila.
"Yes, I do," she said in a low voice.
Sister Felicite appeared from the schoolroom, greeting and presentation were made, and then the elder Sister took Philippa away to the schoolroom where recitations were in progress; and Sister Eila led Warner through the kitchen, up the uncarpeted stairs, and into a room where, on an iron bed, a man lay.
He was young, fair-haired, and very pallid under his bandage, and the eyes he turned on Warner as he entered were the eyes of a sick man.
Sister Eila seated herself on a stool which stood beside the bed; Warner drew up the only other chair and sat down.
The young man turned his hollow eyes from Warner and looked questioningly at Sister Eila.
"Yes," she said, "this is Mr. Warner, an American, who is Mr. Halkett's friend. You may trust him; Mr. Halkett trusted him."
Warner said with a smile, and leaning toward the sick man:
"Is there anything I can do for you? Halkett and I became the very best of friends. I should be very glad of the opportunity to do anything for his friends--" he hesitated, smiled again--"or for any British officer."
"I'm Gray," said the man on the bed, in a weak voice.
"I think Halkett was expecting somebody named Gray the first night he spent at the Sais inn. Was it you?"
"Yes."
"I think he telephoned you."
"Yes. You are Mr. Warner?"
"I am."
"Halkett spoke of you--your kindness."
"Oh, it was nothing----"
"I know what it was," said Gray quietly. "How much did Halkett tell you?"
"About what?"
"About me."
"Very little, Mr. Gray. I understood that you were to come to Sais on a motor cycle, carrying with you a very important paper. Halkett waited day after day. He seemed to be under a very great strain. All he said to me was that something serious must have happened to you, because the paper you carried was necessary to supplement the one he carried."
"And Halkett has gone!"
"Yes. But somehow or other he got possession of the paper you had in your charge--or a copy of it."
Gray's youthful face quivered with excitement.
"How did he get it?" he asked.
"A messenger came. Halkett was alone. The messenger pretended to come from you, and he gained Halkett's confidence by giving him the paper you carried, or a copy of it.
"The moment Halkett was off his guard, the fellow knocked him insensible, and would have robbed him of both papers if a young girl--a Miss Wildresse--had not tackled the fellow, and held him off with magnificent pluck until I came in and found what was going on. Then the fellow cleared out--got clean away, I regret to say. That is how the thing happened. I'm very glad to be able to reassure you, Mr. Gray."
"Thanks, awfully. It's been hell not to know. You see, I was hurt; the beggars got me. I've been lying in a cottage down the road a bit--I don't know where. I was badly knocked out--knocked silly, you know--fever and all that.... I woke up the other day. Couldn't get the people to stir--tried to make 'em hunt up Halkett. They were just stupid--kind, but stupid. Finally one of their kiddies, who comes to school here, told Sister Eila that there was a sick _Anglais_ in his daddy's cottage--" He looked up at her as he spoke and she smiled. "--And Sister Eila, being all kinds of an angel of mercy, came all the way there to investigate.... And she wheeled me back here in a _charette_! What do you think of that, Mr. Warner?"