"Irish – but brought up in France." … Her face grew graver; she said very quietly: "Is it true there is any danger of war? The children are talking; it is evident that the quarrymen must be discussing such things among themselves. I thought I'd ask you – "
"I'm afraid," he said, "that there is some slight chance of war, Sister."
"Here in France?"
"Yes – here."
"It is Germany, of course?"
"Yes, the menace comes from – " he cast a quick glance toward the east, " – from over there… Perhaps diplomacy may regulate the affair. It is always best to hope."
"Yes, it is best always – to hope," she said serenely… "Thank you, Mr. Halkett. Mr. Warner is a friend of mine. Perhaps you may have time to visit our school with him."
"I'll come," said Halkett.
She smiled and nodded; he opened the heavy green door for her, and Sister Eila went out of the golden world of legend, leaving the flowers and young trees very still behind her.
CHAPTER VI
Warner discovered him there in the garden, seated once more on the stone trough, the grey cat dozing on his knees.
"Hello, old chap!" he said cheerfully. "Did you sleep?"
Halkett gave him a pleasant, absent-minded glance:
"Not very well, thanks."
"Nor I. Those damn nightingales kept me awake. Has your man arrived?"
"Not yet. I don't quite understand why."
Warner sauntered up and caressed the cat.
"Well, Ariadne, how goes it with you?" he inquired, gently rubbing her dainty ears, an attention enthusiastically appreciated, judging by the increased purring.
"Ariadne, eh?" inquired Halkett.
"Yes – her lover forsook her – although she doesn't seem to mind as much as the original lady did. No doubt she knows there's a Bacchus somewhere on his way to console her."
The other nodded in his pleasant, absent-minded fashion. After a moment he said:
"I've been talking to a Sister of Charity here in the garden."
"Sister Félicité?"
"No; Sister Eila."
"Isn't she the prettiest thing!" exclaimed Warner. "And she's as good as she is beautiful. We're excellent friends, Sister Eila and I. I'll take you over to her school after breakfast."
"It's the Grey Sisterhood, isn't it?"
"St. Vincent de Paul's Filles de la Charité; not the Grey Nuns, you know."
"I supposed not. Of course these nuns are not cloistered."
"They are not even nuns. They don't take perpetual vows."
Halkett looked up quickly.
"What!" he demanded.
"No. The vows of these Sisters of Charity are simple vows. They renew them annually. Still, it is a strict order. Their novitiate is five years' probation."
"Oh! I supposed – " He remained silent, his thoughtful gaze fixed on space.
"Yes, our brave gentle Sisters of Charity remain probationers for five years, and then every year they renew their vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. The annual vows are taken some time in March, I believe. They have no cloister, you know, other than a room in some poor street near the school or hospital where they work. Did you ever hear the wonderful story of their Order?"
"No."
So Warner sketched for him the stainless history of a true saint, and of the Filles de St. Vincent de Paul through the centuries of their existence; and Halkett listened unstirring, his handsome head bent, his hand resting motionless on Ariadne's head.
A few minutes later a fresh-faced peasant girl, in scarlet bodice and velvet-slashed black skirts, came out into the garden bearing a tray with newly baked rolls, new butter, and café-au-lait for two. She placed it on the iron table in the little summerhouse, curtseyed to the two young men, exchanged a gay greeting with Warner, and trotted off again in her chaussons– the feminine, wholesome, and admirable symbol of all that is fascinating in the daughters of France.
Halkett placed Ariadne on the grass, rose, and followed Warner to the arbor; Ariadne tagged after them, making gentle but pleased remarks. There was an extra saucer, which Warner filled with milk and set before the cat.
"You know," he said to Halkett, "I like to eat by myself – or with some man. So I have my meals served out here, or in the tap room when it rains. The Harem feeds itself in the dining-room – "
"The what?"
"My class, I mean. An irreverent friend of mine in Paris dubbed it 'the Harem,' and the title stuck – partly, I suppose, because of its outrageous absurdity, partly because it's a terse and convenient title."
"They don't call it that, do they?"
"I should say not! And I hope they don't know that others do. Anyway, the Harem dawdles over its meals and talks art talk at the long table where Madame Arlon – the Patronne – presides. You'll have to meet them."
"Do you criticise your – Harem – this morning?" inquired Halkett, laughing.
"Yes; I give them their daily pabulum. Do you want to come about with me and see how it's done? After the distribution of pap I usually pitch my own umbrella somewhere away from their vicinity and make an hour's sketch. After that I paint seriously for the remainder of the day. But I'll take you over to Sister Eila's school this morning if you like." He fished out a black caporal cigarette and scratched a match.
Halkett, his cigarette already lighted, lounged sideways on the green iron chair, his preoccupied gaze fixed on Ariadne.
"Annual vows," he said, "mean, of course, that a Sister renews such vows voluntarily every year; does it not, Warner?"
"Yes."
"They usually do renew their vows, I suppose."
"Almost always, I believe."
"But – a Sister of Charity could return to the – the world, if she so desired?"
"It could be done, but it seldom is, I understand. The order is an admirable one; a very wonderful order, Halkett. They are careful about admitting their novices, but what they regard as qualifications might not be so considered in a cloistered order like the Ursalines. The novitiate is five years, I believe; except for the head of the order in Paris, no grades and no ranks exist; all Sisters are alike and on the same level." He smiled. "If anything could ever convert me to Catholicism, I think it might be this order and the man who founded it, Saint Vincent de Paul, wisest and best of all who have ever tried to follow Christ."
Ariadne had evidently centered her gentle affections upon the new Englishman; she trotted at his heels as he sauntered about in the garden; she showed off for his benefit, playfully patting a grasshopper into flight, frisking up trees only to cling for a moment, ears flattened, and slide back to earth again; leaping high after lazy white butterflies which hovered over the heliotrope, but always returning to tag after Halkett where he roamed about, a burnt-out cigarette between his fingers, his eyes dreaming, lost in speculations beyond the ken of any cat.
The Harem came trooping into the garden, presently, shepherded by Warner. They all carried full field kit – folding easels, stools, and umbrellas slung upon their several and feminine backs; a pair of clamped canvases in one hand, color-box in the other.
Halkett was presented to them all. There was Miss Alameda Golden, from California, large, brightly colored, and breezy; there was Miss Mary Davis, mouse-tinted, low-voiced, who originated in Brooklyn; there was Miss Jane Post, of Chicago, restlessly intense and intellectually curious concerning all mundane phenomena, from the origin of café-au-lait to the origin of species; and there was Miss Nancy Lane, of New York, a dark-eyed opportunist and an observer of man – sometimes individually, always