Part 153

Warner began the full-length portrait--which has now become famous under the title "Philippa Passes"--in the main hall of the Chateau.

A clear light fell through the northern and eastern windows; from the golden gloom above generations of De Moidreys looked down upon the fair girl who stood in their great hall as tranquil and unconscious as though born within the carved gray walls which they had built or added to in years long dead.

He had chosen for the pose a moment when, as she was in the act of passing in front of him, a word from him had checked her and caused her to turn her head.

There he held her as she had paused, poised on the very edge of motion, her enchanting head turned and the grey eyes meeting his.

Already on his canvas he had caught her; an odd sensation of cold, clear-minded exaltation seemed to possess him as he worked--a calm, strange certainty of himself and of the work in hand.

There was no hesitation, no doubt within him, only a sustained excitement under unerring control. He knew what he wanted; he knew that he was doing methodically what he wanted to do with every unhurried brush stroke.

There was no halting, no searching, no checks; his mind had never been so absolutely in control of his hand; his hand never so automatically obedient, his intelligence never before so clear, so logical, so steady under the incessant lightning of inspiration.

Conscious of the tremendous tension, he knew he was equal to it--knew that no weakness of impulse or of sentiment could swerve him, unsteady him, meddle with his brain or his nerves or his hand.

Nothing could stop him from doing what he had to do, nothing could tamper with this newborn confidence which had suddenly possessed him with its unlooked for magic.

He was painting Philippa as he had known her from the beginning; as he had prophesied; as she had been revealed--a young girl with grey eyes and chestnut hair, fine of limb, with the shadow of a smile on her wistful lips, and "her soul as clean as a flame."

So certain was he of what he was about that to Philippa he seemed to work very leisurely, wiping brush after brush with unhurried deliberation, laying on stroke after stroke with that quiet decision which accumulates and cooerdinates component parts into a result so swiftly that an ensemble is born as though by magic.

A few great pictures are painted that way; myriads of bad ones. If he thought of this it did not trouble him. Already, on his canvas, the soul of a young girl was looking at him through those grey eyes; on the fresh lips, scarce parted, hovered the shadow of a smile, virginal and vague.

He felt the splendid tension; experienced the consciousness of achievement, steeled every nerve, wiped his brushes with deliberation, drew them across the edges of the colors needed, scarcely glancing at his palette, laid on the brush stroke with the precision of finality.

From where he had slung his tall canvas between two ancient, high-backed chairs as an improvised easel, he could see the northern terrace and the people gathered there--Madame de Moidrey in animated conversation with Halkett; Peggy knitting fitfully and looking over her clicking needles at the youthful Vicomte d'Aures, who had pushed aside the tea table in order to obtain an unobstructed view of this American girl who was making his boyish head spin.

Beyond them, on a steamer chair, lay Gray. Sister Eila sat beside him sewing. There was conversation between them and Madame de Moidrey and Halkett--across and across, cat-cradle fashion--but it passed through Peggy and D'Aures unheeded, as wireless in the upper air currents; and the Countess glanced occasionally at her sister or let her eyes rest on D'Aures now and then with a pleasant, preoccupied air, as though considering other things than those which were passing under her pretty nose.

From time to time Philippa came around to where Warner stood before his canvas, and remained beside him in silence while he studied what he had done.

Once he looked up questioningly; the girl took possession of his right arm with both of hers and rested her cheek lightly against his shoulder. No words could have praised or reassured him as eloquently. And he understood that what he had done was, to her, worthy of all she believed him to be--matchless, wonderful, and hers.

The light had failed a little in the early August sky, but the clouds had cleared and the sun glittered in the west. There was light to work by, yet.

He clothed his canvas in a mystery of cobweb shadow: behind her there was a dull gleam of duller tapestry; delicate half-lights made the picture vague, so that the "clean flame" of her seemed the source of all light, its origin, making exquisite the clear, young eyes.

He knew that what he had painted was already a fit companion to be placed among the matchless company looking down on them from the walls through a delicate bloom of dust.

What he had done belonged here, as she herself belonged here between these old-time walls and the ancient roof above. And every corridor, every room, every terrace, would be the sweeter, the fresher, for her lingering before she passed on her life's journey through an old and worn-out world.

"Philippa passes," he said, thinking aloud.

She looked up, smiled.

"Only where you lead her, shall Philippa pass," she murmured.

"It is to be the title of your portrait.... Would you care to look at it now? There is not so much more to do to it, I think...."

She came around and stood silently beside him.

"Is it you?" he asked.

"My other self.... I had not supposed you knew her--so deeply--so intimately--more intimately than I myself seem to know her."