Farther out in the green countryside he no longer looked up and back. Philippa still lay huddled at his feet, looking up out of grey eyes that quivered and winced sometimes, but always opened again, steady and clear with faith.
On the Ausone road fugitives from every farm and hamlet were afoot again, but he could not see them very distinctly through the dust that hung there. Also clouds now obscured the declining sun; the world had turned grey around them; and the Recollette flowed away ahead with scarcely a glimmer on its tarnished flood, save where a dull and leaden sparkle came and went along the water weeds inshore.
It was as though the subtle poison of war itself had polluted material things, killing out brightness and health and life, staining sky and water and earth with its hell-distilled essence.
Then a more concretely sinister omen took shape, floating under the trees in a deep, still cove--a dead cavalry horse, saddled and bridled, stranded there, barely awash; and a hooded crow already walking busily about over the level gravel of the shoal.
As they neared Sais, the quarry road across the river became visible. Dust eddied and drifted there, and he could distinguish the slanted lances of cavalry in rapid motion and catch the muffled roar of hoofs.
They were galloping north, a dusty, interminable column enveloped in an endless grey cloud of their own making in the thickening evening mist already hanging palely over land and water.
There was scarcely a tint of color left in the east, and that vague hue died out under clotted clouds as he looked.
And after a while he was aware of a vague rumor in the air, which seemed to come from the east--a vibration, low, indefinite, almost inaudible, yet always there to challenge his attention.
The Vosges lay beyond; and the Barrier Forts.
Duller and duller grew the twilight. He drove the punt forward into dusky reaches shrouded in mist, where not a ripple glimmered, and the trees and river reeds stood motionless in the fog.
There were no stars, no lights ashore. On his left he could hear the unbroken trample of cavalry riding north; far beyond, the air was heavily unsteady with the dull rumor beyond the hills; behind him the shriller tumult had died away and the deadened booming of the guns sounded like the heavy thunder of surf on sand.
Philippa had risen to a sitting position, and now she was lying back comfortably extended among the cushions.
They exchanged a few words; her voice was calm, cheerful, untroubled. She offered to take the punt pole; said that at first she had felt more bewildered and dazed than frightened; explained that real fear had first possessed her when the dead and bloody swan floated past, and that then she had been horribly afraid of the sky noises--the shrieking, hooting, whistling approach of the unseen.
He had been under fire in the Balkans; Lule Bourgas had blunted for him the keener edge of terror. And now, still thoroughly stirred, only the excitement of the past hour remained and stimulated him.
"It's war all around us now," he said, driving his punting pole steadily and straining his keen eyes into the shadows beyond. "There are stirring days ahead for France in this region, I fear; the Barrier Forts are far away and there is nothing in the north to hold the deluge breaking over Luxembourg into Belgium.
"A great war is beginning, Philippa; the greatest that the earth has ever faced.... I never supposed that I should live to see such a war--the greatest of all wars--the last _great_ war, I think.
"If I were anything except a useless painter, I'd go into it.... I don't know what good I'd be to anybody. But if anybody wants me----"
"We both can offer ourselves," said Philippa.
"Dear child! I'd like to catch _you_ wandering into this sort of----"
"I shall volunteer if you do!"
"You shall _not_! You'll go to Paris with Madame de Moidrey--that's what you'll do!"
"Jim, that is absurd. If I'm wanted I shall volunteer for hospital service, anyway. And if you offer yourself I shall wait until I find out where you are to be sent, and then I shall beg them to take me at the nearest field ambulance."
"No good, Philippa. They do that sort of thing in romances, but in real life a course of hospital training is required of volunteers."
"I can scrub floors and sew and cook," she said serenely. "Do they not need such people?"
"There's no use discussing it," he said. "Only trained women will be wanted--tolerated; and I suppose only trained men. The amateur nurse and warrior were utterly and definitely discredited in South Africa. There'll be no more of that. There's no room for us, Philippa; the firing line would reject me with derision, and the base hospital would politely bow you out." He laughed rather mirthlessly. "There remains for us," he said, "the admirable, but somewhat monotonous thinking-roles of respectable citizens--items in the world-wide chorus which marches harmlessly hither and thither during the impending drama, and forms pleasing backgrounds for the principals when they take their curtain calls."
She felt the undertone of slight bitterness in his voice; understood it, perhaps, for, when the punt was turned and driven gently ashore among the foggy rushes, she retained the supporting arm he offered, clung to it almost caressingly.
"I know you," she murmured, as they mounted the grassy bank together; "you have no need to tell me what you are--dearest, noblest, best among men."
He answered almost impatiently:
"I don't want you to think that of me! You must not believe it, Philippa. Keep your head clear, and your judgment independent of that warm, sweet heart of yours. I'm a most ordinary sort of man, little distinguished, not in any way remarkable----"
"Don't!" she said. "You only hurt me, not yourself. Of what use is it saying such things to a girl when the whole world would be a solitary place if you were not in it--if your living mind did not make the earth a real and living place to me!
"I tell you that, to me, life itself--the reality of the living world--depends on you. If you die, all dies. Without you there is nothing--absolutely nothing!--Not even myself!"
Calm, passionless, clear, her voice serenely pronounced and emphasized her childish creed. And, impatient, restless, disturbed at first, yet in this young girl's exaggerated and obstinate devotion he found no reason for mirth, no occasion for the suppressed amusement of experience.
He said:
"I can try to be what you think me, Philippa. Yours is a very tender heart, and noble. Perhaps your heart may gradually lend me a little of its own quality, so that the glamour with which you invest me shall not be all unreal."
There was a short silence, then Philippa laughed. It was a sweet, happy, confused little laugh. She made an effort to explain it.
"The greatest thing in the world," she said--"the _only_ thing!"
"What, Philippa?"
"Our friendship."
It was still early evening as they entered the house together and traversed the hall to the north terrace.
The Countess de Moidrey, a book on her lap, was seated by a lighted lamp in the billiard room, gazing out of the open windows, through which the thunder of the cannonade, wave after wave, came rolling in from the north.
"Madame--" began the girl timidly.
"Philippa!" she exclaimed, rising.
The girl came forward shyly, the unuttered words of explanation still parting her lips; and the Countess de Moidrey drew her into her arms.
"My darling," she whispered unsteadily, "my darling child!"
Suddenly Philippa's eyes filled and her lips quivered; she turned her face away, stood silent for a moment, then slowly she laid her cheek on the elder woman's breast, and a faint sigh escaped her.
Madame de Moidrey looked at Warner over the chestnut head in its velvet bonnet, which lay close and warm against her breast.
"Jim," she said, "they told me where you had taken this child. Can you imagine what my state of mind has been since that horrible uproar began over there in Ausone?"
"I must have been a lunatic to take her," he admitted; but Philippa's protesting voice interrupted, unruffled, childishly sweet.
"The fault was mine, Madame. I was very willful; I made him take me. I'll try not to be willful any more----"
"Darling! He ought to have known better. Do you understand how far you have crept into all our hearts? It was as though a child of my own were out there among the cannon----" She bent and kissed the girl's flushed cheek. "I'm not inclined to forgive Mr. Warner, but I shall if you want me to. Now, run up stairs, darling, and speak to Peggy. She's still sitting at her bedroom window, I fancy, watching those dreadful flashes out there, and perfectly miserable over you----"
"Oh!" cried Philippa, lifting her head. "You all are so sweet to me--so dear! I shall hasten immediately----" She stooped swiftly and touched her lips to the hands that held and caressed her, then turned and mounted the stairs with flying feet.
Warner gazed rather blankly at Madame de Moidrey.
"I must have been crazy to risk taking her. But, Ethra, I hadn't any reason to suppose there was any danger."