diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/63045-8.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/63045-8.txt | 8753 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 8753 deletions
diff --git a/old/63045-8.txt b/old/63045-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 49f351e..0000000 --- a/old/63045-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8753 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Aunt Olive in Bohemia, by Leslie Moore - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Aunt Olive in Bohemia - - -Author: Leslie Moore - - - -Release Date: August 26, 2020 [eBook #63045] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA*** - - -E-text prepared by D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/auntoliveinbohem00mooriala - - - - - -AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA - -by - -LESLIE MOORE - -Author of "The Cloak of Convention" and -"The Notch in the Stick" - - - - - - -Hodder & Stoughton -New York -George H. Doran Company - -Copyright, 1913 -by George H. Doran Company - - - - - TO - MY MOTHER - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE BEGINNING OF THE FAIRY TALE 11 - II. ANCIENT HISTORY 19 - III. THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS 28 - IV. THE COURTYARD 40 - V. IN BOHEMIA 51 - VI. THE FAUN IN THE GARDEN 58 - VII. THE SIX ARTISTS OF THE COURTYARD 63 - VIII. A MAN'S CONSCIENCE 71 - IX. VISITORS 85 - X. THE CASA DI CORLEONE 93 - XI. A MEETING 104 - XII. PRINCESS PIPPA AWAKES 118 - XIII. AT THE WORLD'S END 136 - XIV. VARIOUS MATTERS 150 - XV. A QUESTION OF COLOUR 161 - XVI. THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS AGAIN 168 - XVII. THE DUCHESSA ENTERS A KINGDOM 176 - XVIII. BARNABAS SCHEMES WITH CUPID 181 - XIX. THE INTERFERENCE OF A FAIRY GODMOTHER 188 - XX. THE HEART OF NATURE 204 - XXI. THE RING OF EROS 212 - XXII. AN OLD MAN IN A GARDEN 218 - XXIII. ANDREW MCANDREW 233 - XXIV. THE CRUELTY OF THE FATES 238 - XXV. IN YORKSHIRE 250 - XXVI. PIPPA'S MOTHER 259 - XXVII. MICHAEL MAKES MUSIC 279 - XXVIII. THE PEACE OF THE RIVER 284 - XXIX. SOME TWISTED THREADS 287 - XXX. KNOTS UNTIED 292 - XXXI. THE TUNE OF LOVE 299 - XXXII. A WEDDING DAY 304 - XXXIII. A GIFT FROM THE DEAD 308 - XXXIV. THE MUSIC OF TWO COURTYARDS 313 - - - - - AUNT OLIVE IN - BOHEMIA - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE BEGINNING OF THE FAIRY TALE - - -Once upon a time, as the fairy tales have it, there was a certain -country town. It was a sleepy little town, where few things happened. -It was like a dog grown old and lazy with basking in the sun, -undisturbed by motor-cars and modern rush. An occasional event like -a fly, and as small and insignificant as that insect, would settle -momentarily upon it. For an instant it would be roused, shake itself, -and promptly go to sleep again. - -The houses in the town were all alike--small, detached, and built of -red brick. They were named after the shrubs and trees that grew in -their gardens. There was the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, the Laurels, the -Yews, the Poplars, and many others. - -One May morning, when the flowers on the laburnum trees were hanging -in a shower of golden rain, and the pink and white blossoms of the -hawthorn bushes were filling the air with a sweet and sickly scent, -a single cab, drawn by a horse as sleepy as the town to which it -belonged, drove up the small, clean street, and turned in at the gate -marked the Poplars. - -Two small children with satchels on their backs paused to peep up the -drive. They saw two black boxes being hoisted by the driver on to the -roof of the cab. There was nothing, one would think, of vital interest -in the sight, but it proved more attractive than the thought of lesson -books and school-room benches. They remained to gaze. - -In a couple of moments a woman came through the front door. She was -clad in a black cashmere dress of ample folds, partly hidden by a -blade satin jacket, with large, loose sleeves. A wide, white linen -collar adorned with a small black velvet bow surrounded her neck; a -mushroom-shaped hat, also black, was tied by broad strings beneath her -chin. In one hand she held a large and tightly rolled umbrella, in the -other was a black satin bag drawn up by a cord. It bulged in a knobby -fashion. It had evidently been stuffed to the extent of its capacities. - -The woman spoke to the driver, then got into the cab. He climbed to the -box, flicked his whip, turned the horse's head, and drove once again -through the gate. - -The children scuttled to one side, and the cab drove up the street. - -Its occupant sat upright within it, clutching tightly at the umbrella -and the black satin bag. Little thrills of happiness were running -through her. The May wind blowing through the window fanned her face, -bringing with it great puffs of scent from the hawthorn bushes. -Sunshine sparkled on the roofs of the houses, birds were singing in the -gardens past which she drove. It was a day alive with gladness, warm -with the breath of spring, fresh with the sense of youth. And the woman -within the cab, whose heart, in spite of her sixty years, was as young -as the heart of a child, participated in the gladness. - -She watched the people in the streets walking leisurely in the -sunshine. She saw the shops with the tradesmen standing idle in the -doorways. At the fishmonger's only there was a little air of bustle, -where a maid in a neat print had run in to buy a couple of soles for -lunch. - -The woman pulled out her watch--a huge affair in solid gold, attached -to a black hair chain. For a moment she glanced at it anxiously, then -returned it to its place with a little sigh of relief. The horse still -trotted on its slow unhurried way. More shops were passed, then more -houses. Finally the cab drew up with a little jerk. - -The driver got down and opened the cab door. - -"Here we are, ma'am; and twenty minutes to spare. I'll call a porter." - -While the boxes were being taken from the cab Miss Mason opened the -black satin bag. From it she extracted a ten-shilling piece. - -The boxes were wheeled towards the platform. - -"I've no change, ma'am," said the cabby. - -"That's all right," said Miss Mason hurriedly. - -The cabby stared. "You're very good, ma'am." - -"It's all right," said Miss Mason again. - -Ten shillings was a small amount to give a man who had driven her a -mile towards happiness. She followed the porter on to the platform. - -"Victoria, second class," she said to the man at the ticket office. - -"Return or single, ma'am?" he demanded. - -"Single," said Miss Mason firmly. - -She took the little piece of cardboard from him and thrust it up her -glove. She loved the feeling of it. It was her passport to freedom. - -She watched the boxes being labelled. They were new boxes and hitherto -guiltless of station labels. When she had seen them firmly attached, -and had been solemnly assured by the porter that the paste was both -strong and adhesive, she turned her attention to the bookstall. After -a few moments' survey she moved away hurriedly. The pictures on the -covers of some of the books distressed her, especially one of a young -female with red hair and very insufficient orange attire. For a moment -Miss Mason blushed. But she forgot the objectionable book in looking -along the shiny rails in the direction from which the train must arrive. - -The sudden ringing of a bell made her jump. - -"Train's signalled, ma'am," said the porter. "She'll be here in five -minutes now." - -"You'll be sure and put in my boxes," said Miss Mason. - -"Sure, ma'am. Corner seat facing the engine, did you say?" - -"Y-yes; a seat somewhere," stammered Miss Mason. The near approach of -the train was making her feel nervous. - -"All right. I'll see to it. Second class I think you said." - -There was a distant whistle; next, the panting as of some great beast, -and an engine with its tail of carriages steamed into sight. It drew up -slowly at the platform. - -"Here y'are, ma'am. Carriage all to yourself. Boxes will be in the -front part of the train. Thank you kindly, ma'am. Anything I can get -for you? Paper or anything? Window up or down? Will put in the boxes -myself. Good morning, ma'am." - -A tip proportionate to the fare Miss Mason had paid the cabby was -responsible for this burst of eloquence. - -In spite of the porter's assurance that he would see to the boxes -himself, Miss Mason stood with her head through the carriage window -till she had seen them actually deposited in the guard's van. Then she -sat down in the corner of the carriage. - -The porter reappeared. - -"They're in, ma'am. You're off now." - -There was a gentle vibration through the train, and the platform -began to recede. The one woman left on it--a stout woman who had been -seeing her daughter off on her way to service--waved a large white -pocket-handkerchief. Its fluttering was the last thing Miss Mason saw -as the train left the station. - -She heaved a little sigh. - -She found she was still clutching the large umbrella. She laid it now -upon the seat beside her. She was almost too excited to think of the -happiness before her. She hardly wanted to do so. It was almost too -overpowering. She would realize it by degrees. At the moment there were -a thousand trivial delights around her. - -She examined the carriage in which she was seated. The number on the -door was seven hundred and seventy-seven. Miss Mason had a secret -partiality for certain numbers, seven being her favourite. She was -seven years old when she had her first silk frock. It was a blue and -white check frock, and her hair--Miss Mason at that time wore it in -two plaits--had been tied with blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up -to date, the happiest year of her life. But more of that year anon. -At twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of Miss Stanhope's -library. At thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. At -forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given her the watch she now wore. At -fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers. -Trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed -landmarks in Miss Mason's. - -She again looked approvingly at the number. From it she turned to a -contemplation of the photographs which adorned the walls. They were -the usual kind of photographs found in railway carriages--seaside -promenades, ruined castles, lakes with mountains beyond. Miss Mason -read the names below them with interest. She looked at the gas-globe -in the roof of the carriage, with its black cover which could be drawn -over it if the passengers found the light troublesome. She looked at -the emergency cord which was to be pulled down to attract the attention -of the guard in case of accident. She noted that the penalty for its -improper use was five pounds. It seemed to Miss Mason a large sum to -pay merely for pulling a little piece of string. She wondered if anyone -had ever been bold enough to pull it without necessity. - -After gazing at it for two minutes with a certain amount of awe, she -put her arm through the padded loop by the window, and looked out at -the scenery past which they were flying. - -There were fields in which sheep and cows were solemnly munching the -fresh grass; there were hedges covered with the fairy snow of the -hawthorn blossoms; there were woods of larches, oaks, and beeches, -and among them the darker green of firs; there were streams rippling -golden-brown past meadow banks and clumps of rushes; there were -children swinging on gates and waving cap or handkerchief as the train -rushed by. She saw market carts and occasionally a dogcart on roads -running by the railway, and now and then a solitary cyclist, all going -at a snail's pace so it seemed compared with the rate at which she -herself was travelling. They passed houses with trimly-kept gardens -alive with flowers; cottages with strips of vegetable gardens where -from lines attached to posts stuck among the cabbages washing was hung -out to dry. The May breeze swung the clothing to and fro, ballooning -it momentarily to ridiculous shapes, fluttering red petticoats, white -tablecloths, and blue blouses, like the waving of coloured flags. - -Again the joyous note of youth and gladness sounded in Miss Mason's -heart. She gave a queer little gruff laugh. - -"Wonderful!" she thought. "Like the fairy tales I used to read when I -was little. Now I'm part of the fairy tale. Can hardly believe it. Yet -it's true." - - - - -CHAPTER II - -ANCIENT HISTORY - - -Outwardly Miss Mason was not unlike certain pictures of the fairy -godmother who escorted Cinderella to the ball. Being a fairy godmother, -no doubt that old lady's heart was every bit as young as Miss Mason's, -so the similarity may very likely have extended still further. - -Of the fairy godmother's previous history there is no known record. -Miss Mason's history was the public property of the little town in -which she lived. It is not unduly lengthy. It also cannot be termed -exciting. - -Miss Mason became an orphan at the age of five. Her mother had been a -pretty Irish girl, only daughter of a penniless Irish gentleman; and -not having had enough of poverty in her own home, she gave her heart -to one, Dick Mason, a struggling painter, who was as ugly as he was -gay and light-hearted. In spite of poverty she had seven years of such -happiness as falls to the lot of few women. Then Dick was killed riding -a friend's young unbroken mare, and a month later his wife followed -him; dying--if such a complaint truly exists--of a broken heart. - -Their one child, Olive, was left penniless, and with only one relation -in the world--a Miss Stanhope, a wealthy and eccentric cousin of her -father's, who was at this time a maiden lady of thirty. - -A sense of duty as stern and uncompromising as Miss Stanhope's own -appearance induced her to offer the child a home. Duty also prompted -her to look well after her physical welfare, and educate her in -a style befitting a young woman of gentle birth. Miss Stanhope's -views on education were decided and not at all involved. Every lady, -she averred, should be able to speak French fluently, make her own -underclothes, and be conversant with the writings of the best authors. -Music--which she disliked--was left outside the category. She provided -the child with a French governess, who was a beautiful needlewoman. The -introduction to the authors would come later. - -Olive remained under Madame Dupont's tuition for twelve years. When she -was seventeen she was sent to "finish her education" at Miss Talbot's -select Academy for Young Ladies at Brighton. This year was the happiest -in Olive's life. Not only was there a daily walk on the esplanade, -from whence she gazed for the first time in her life at the marvel of -the sea, but also she was permitted to take drawing-lessons. She had -inherited three things from her father, the first being his plainness -of feature, the second his youthful heart, and the third his passion -for drawing. - -An extremely inefficient but well-meaning young man of impeachable -character visited Miss Talbot's Academy for Young Ladies twice a week, -and instructed the pupils in this art. Chalk drawings from casts -were the style in vogue. It was considered an extremely advanced -style. The chalk was kept in small glass tubes, it was shaken on to -a pad, and applied to the paper with leather stumps, in the manner -known as stippling. The poverty of the instruction, the horribly -inartistic results produced, were unrecognized by Miss Mason. Chalk -representations of plaster pears, apples, and floreate designs were -produced by her at the rate of one a fortnight, and were laid carefully -away in a large portfolio with tissue paper between to keep the chalk -from rubbing. - -Among the pupils at Miss Talbot's Academy had been a girl--one Peggy -O'Hea. Her father was a portrait painter of some note. Miss Talbot had -hesitated at introducing this girl; daughter of a Bohemian--all artists -were Bohemian in Miss Talbot's eyes--into her select establishment, -but the fact that her father was a yearly exhibitor at that most -respectable institution the Royal Academy, and that her uncle was a -Dean, induced Miss Talbot to overlook Bohemia. She kept, however, a -strict guard over Miss O'Hea's conversation with the other pupils, -a guard Peggy invariably evaded; and curled up on her bed in her -nightdress, her arms clasped round her knees, she would hold forth -in glowing terms regarding her father's studio and the artists who -frequented it. She had in her secret heart a distinct contempt for the -chalk drawings; but she was a generous little soul, and refrained from -putting her thoughts into words. - -From her glowing descriptions, the word studio came to sound in Miss -Mason's ears with a note akin to magic, while no one guessed the dreams -of art and artists, of the mad sweet land of Bohemia, cherished by the -ugly girl who was known in the school as "that awkward Olive Mason." - -At the end of the year Miss Mason returned home, to find her presence -almost hourly required by Miss Stanhope, who had developed into what -is usually termed a _malade imaginaire_. Her only recreations were -gardening, and later--when at the age of twenty-seven she was allowed -free access to the library--reading. In these two occupations she was -able to forget the monotony of the days. - -Children who peeped through the gate on sunny mornings saw a small -shrunken woman with a thin peevish face sitting on the lawn or in the -veranda, according to the season, while Miss Mason was busy in the -flower-beds, her grey dress tucked up over a black and white striped -petticoat, goloshes on her feet, a large black hat tied on her head, -and gauntlet gloves covering her hands. The progress of fashion being -outside the strictly limited circle of Miss Mason's life, she had -adopted a costume of her own device, which costume she found both warm -and comfortable, and it never varied. - -The children who peeped through the gate grew to be men and women; -their children peeped in like fashion, and still the same order of -things endured at the house named the Poplars. - -During these years Miss Mason made one friend. It was curious, though -perhaps not out of keeping with Miss Mason's character, which was now -almost as original as the garments she wore, that the friend should -be a child of ten years old. She had come to live with her parents at -the small town in which Miss Stanhope resided. The child's paternal -grandmother had been a friend of Miss Stanhope's youth. That statement -in itself had a flavour of respectability about it. Armed with a letter -of introduction from the grandmother--Mrs. Quarly--the parents ventured -to call upon Miss Stanhope. She received them graciously enough, and a -week later Miss Mason was ordered to return the visit. - -It was then that she met little Sybil Quarly, who promptly took an -unaccountable, but very strong, liking to her. In a short time Sybil -learnt which were the hours spent by Miss Mason in the garden, and from -that moment those hours saw a fair-haired child in short petticoats -busy in the flower-beds with her. To an onlooker Miss Mason's manner -would have appeared almost surly, but Sybil, with the infallible -instinct of childhood, recognized the tenderness beneath the gruff -exterior. The two became fast friends. - -For seven years Sybil helped Miss Mason pull up weeds, destroy -slugs, bud roses, and take cuttings of carnations. She called her -"Granny," and she confided all her childish woes and griefs to her. -Her parents were conventional people, also they were somewhat strict -and unsympathetic. They did not in the least understand Sybil's timid -nature. Miss Mason saw, to her sorrow, that the child was being driven -to subterfuge and petty untruth by an overharsh system of treatment. -But she was powerless to do anything. Mrs. Quarly would have resented -the smallest interference. For seven years Miss Mason gave the child -all the tenderness at her disposal. At the end of that time Sybil's -parents left the little town and took her to Pangbourne. - -During the next three or four years Sybil and Miss Mason kept up a -fitful correspondence. From much that the girl left unsaid Miss Mason -felt that she was not happy. Had she herself been gifted with the -pen of a ready writer, she might indirectly have sought the girl's -confidence, but neither written nor spoken words came easily to her. -There were times--and those when she most longed for the power of -speech--when she felt herself possessed of a dumb dog. She wrote and -told Sybil that the roses were in bloom, that she had pickled a hundred -and fifty slugs in salt and water after one shower of rain, that the -Shirley poppies they had planted one year were spreading like weeds -over the garden. She heard from Sybil that she had made a few new -friends, among them one, Cecily Mainwaring, who lived in London, and -that she stayed with her occasionally. Her letters, however, gave mere -facts; there was no hint as to her thoughts, or whether she were happy -in her new surroundings. And Miss Mason longed to ask her, yet all the -time she could write of nothing but pickled slugs and the blight on -rose-trees. And after four years Sybil's letters suddenly ceased. Miss -Mason wrote three times and received no answer. Then she, too, stopped -writing. And thus the years, as far as Miss Mason was concerned, rolled -on. - -But, at last, one sunny morning when a boy and girl approached the gate -they saw no one in the garden, and the blinds in the house pulled down. -Old Miss Stanhope had died quietly in her sleep that morning, and after -forty-three years Miss Mason had deserted the flower-beds. She was -sitting in the desolate drawing-room, unable yet to grasp the meaning -of the one really important event which had occurred in her life since -she was five years old. - -Four days later Miss Stanhope's will was read. Miss Mason had been left -sole heiress to an income which amounted to something like fifteen -thousand a year. No one but Miss Stanhope herself and her trustees had -had the smallest conception of her wealth. The terms of the will, which -appeared in the local papers, had the effect of taking every one's -breath away. - -Miss Mason spoke to the lawyer regarding it. - -"Can't spend anything like that amount a year," she said gruffly. -"Don't know how Miss Stanhope managed to. Much rather you gave me one -thousand and looked after the rest. Shan't find it easy to spend one." - -Mr. Davis stared for a moment. Then he suddenly realized--and by a -marvellous leap of intelligence on his part--that Miss Mason was under -the impression that he would yearly press fifteen thousand sovereigns -into her palm. The question of banks and cheque-books had not presented -itself to her mind. - -During the next half-hour Henry Davis found himself explaining matters -to Miss Mason much as he would have explained them to a child of -twelve. Miss Mason grasped the situation instantly. - -"Then before you go you'd better show me how to draw a cheque," -she said. "Think that was your expression. I'm not imbecile, though -when a woman of sixty doesn't know the first principles of banks and -cheque-books you might think she was." - -It was after Mr. Davis had left that Miss Mason gradually began to -realize what Miss Stanhope's death and her newly-acquired wealth would -mean. She had lived so long in one groove that the possibility of -change had never actually occurred to her. At first she had felt almost -stunned. But suddenly, in a flash, she saw a new life before her. Every -dream of her seventeenth year could be fulfilled. It found expression -in one short sentence: - -"Shall go to London and take a studio." - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS - - -Miss Mason was sitting in the lounge of the Wilton Hotel. Mr. -Davis--the lawyer--had given her the name of this hotel, telling her -that it was both quiet and comfortable. - -A tiny cloud had arisen in Miss Mason's mind. It partially eclipsed the -sunshine of her morning mood. She knew vaguely what had caused it. - -She had changed her dress on her arrival, donning a black satin gown -made in precisely the same style as the cashmere. A lace collar took -the place of the linen one. A cameo brooch, large, and set in gold as -massive as her watch, superseded the black bow. Miss Mason never wore -jewellery except in the evening. - -She had dined excellently at a small table in a room adorned with -water-colour drawings. Between the courses she had found herself -admiring them. She was so intent on them that at first she did not -notice the covert smiles which two girls were directing towards her -table. When she did, the smiles began to make her feel uncomfortable. -At first she wondered if her cap were crooked, or her brooch unpinned, -but gradually it dawned on her that it was just she herself who was -affording them amusement. - -Miss Mason had finished the last morsels of her gooseberry tart -hurriedly, had swallowed her glass of light wine, and gone out into the -lounge. She told herself that she was an old fool to worry over the -little incident, but it had caused a vague anxiety in her mind. - -She took up a number of the "Graphic" and began turning the pages. -The style of the advertisements displayed within its covers had made -her previously imagine the periodical to be exclusively intended for -feminine perusal. She had been slightly alarmed before dinner to see -a stout elderly gentleman studying it profoundly. A momentary idea -took possession of her as to whether it was not her duty to go up to -him and warn him regarding the nature of some of the contents, but as -she saw it was the middle of the book he was studying, she concluded -that someone had already given him a delicate hint regarding the -advertisement pages. All the same, she could not imagine the editor of -the paper to be a modest man. - -One or two people had come into the lounge for coffee after dinner, but -they had left it again, and, at the moment, it was deserted save for -Miss Mason and one other woman. - -There was something about the woman that attracted her attention. -It was not merely her beauty, but something in the graceful way in -which she was sitting in her chair, and in her manner of speaking to -the waiter who brought her coffee. Miss Mason found herself watching -her. She liked the ivory whiteness of her skin, the vivid red-brown of -her hair, and the expression in her eyes. Her dress, too, which was a -curious deep blue, pleased her immensely. - -Suddenly the woman looked up. She saw Miss Mason's eyes fixed on her, -and she smiled. There was something so frank and spontaneous about the -smile that Miss Mason found herself smiling too. - -"We have the place to ourselves," said the woman. "Every one else has -departed for different theatres. I should have gone myself if I hadn't -an appointment with a friend of mine." - -"Never been to a theatre in my life," said Miss Mason. "Lack of -opportunity, not prejudice." - -"If you really care to have the opportunity it is certain to present -itself sooner or later," replied the woman calmly. "It's only a -question of the intensity of wishing." - -Miss Mason leant a little forward. - -"Doesn't the opportunity sometimes arrive too late?" - -The question was put almost involuntarily. It was one she had been -asking herself for the last three-quarters of an hour--ever since her -somewhat hurried exit from the dining-room; and the question did not -refer merely to the opportunity of visiting the theatre. The woman -understood. - -"That raises rather a fine point of question," she replied. "Can it -be fairly said that one has been given the opportunity if it is truly -impossible to accept it, which I imagine 'too late' would signify?" - -Miss Mason did not reply at once. She wanted to tell this woman about -the little cloud which had covered the brightness of her sun, the -insidious little doubt which had crept into her mind. Yet she hardly -knew how to begin. - -The woman waited. She was one of those to whom confidences are given. -If she had said anything at that moment the sentence Miss Mason was -slowly preparing in her mind would never have reached her lips. It came -suddenly and jerkily, it was spoken, too, almost below Miss Mason's -breath. - -"Isn't one ever too old? Have waited a long time for the chance of -happiness. Got it now. But perhaps I am too old." A slow painful flush -had mounted in Miss Mason's face with the words. - -The younger woman turned quickly towards her. - -"Too old for happiness!" she cried, with a little laugh. "Never! If -happiness has come to you, welcome her with both hands; and with every -kiss she gives you years will roll away from your heart. Happiness is -like the spring, which wakes the world to brightness after a dreary -winter." - -Miss Mason gave a little choke. - -"Felt like that myself in the train this morning. Forgot I was sixty. -Thought it was splendid to be alive. Was going to enjoy myself. Was -so glad thinking about it thought everybody would be glad too. Can't -explain very well, but felt quite young. Thought all the young things -in the world would let me watch their happiness, and I'd be happy in my -own happiness and theirs. Didn't want to interfere with them, or try to -mix myself up with them. Just wanted to be a kind of onlooker. Never -thought they'd stop to laugh at me--make quiet fun of me, I mean. Made -me feel very old. Silly nonsense, of course. Oughtn't to care. Am -old." - -The woman looked up quickly. She had noticed the little scene in the -dining-room. - -"Age has nothing to do with the matter," she replied quietly. "There -is no reason why you should not enjoy yourself enormously. The dullest -person I know is a young man of twenty-three, and one of the gayest is -an aunt of mine who is seventy-five. Happiness is a gift of the gods, -and is bestowed by them irrespective of age." - -"Think so?" said Miss Mason. - -"I am sure of it." - -Again there was a silence. Then, quite suddenly, Miss Mason began to -tell the woman the story of her life. She told it badly. For the last -forty years at least Miss Mason had talked little. Miss Stanhope had -never cared to encourage conversation other than her own. A daily and -minute recital of her own imaginary ailments had sufficed her. That had -been a subject which had never palled. - -"And the summary of it all is," ended Miss Mason, "that my life has -been utterly narrow." She stopped and looked at the woman. There was -something half humorous, half pathetic, in the expression in her eyes. - -"I think," said the woman slowly, "that one is too ready to use the -term 'narrow' for lives and opinions which have not covered, as we -imagine, a great deal of ground. Sometimes I think 'concentrated' would -be a better word to use for them. I know that people who have darted -hither and thither from one place to another, and from one excitement -to another, often talk about 'living' and the broadness of their lives. -But I fancy that if one could go up in a kind of mental aeroplane and -look down upon those lives, one might see that their grooves, though -they took an intricate pattern, were possibly narrower than some of -those which have gone along one straight and monotonous course." - -"Think so?" said Miss Mason again. Then she smiled half-shamefacedly. -"There's one thing--in spite of all the monotony, I've never been able -to get rid of my belief in kind of fairy tale happenings. Utterly -ridiculous, of course." - -The woman laughed, a low clear laugh, which pleased Miss Mason -enormously. - -"Now we're on ground with which I'm far more familiar," she replied. -"I was trying to get hold of words and expressions before which were -rather outside my vocabulary, and I fear I sounded a little stilted in -consequence. But fairy tales! Why life is a fairy tale. Bad fairies and -wicked magicians get mixed up in it of course, or it wouldn't be one, -but there are good fairies and all kinds of unexpected and delicious -happenings right through it in spite of them. There's often, too, a -long journey through a wood. You've been through yours. What do you -hope to find on this side?" - -"A studio," said Miss Mason promptly. This woman was making it -extraordinarily easy for her to tell her fairy tale. "Have wanted one -ever since I was seventeen, and I think almost before that. Perhaps -because my father was an artist." - -"And now you'll take one?" - -"Have come up to look for one," said Miss Mason. "Am going to look at -pictures too. There's the National Gallery, the Tate Gallery, and the -Academy. Used to read about them. Later I shall go abroad. Thought -I'd better get used to going about in England first. Have read a lot -about pictures. Used to take in a magazine called 'The Studio.' Saw it -advertised once and sent for it. Miss Stanhope used to make me a small -allowance. She was kind really, though didn't always understand." - -"The kindest people don't always understand," said the younger woman -quickly. "Are you going to take an unfurnished studio? and will you -have some of the furniture sent up from your old home?" - -There is a curious luxury in speaking of the details of a cherished -scheme, and especially to one who has never before found a sympathetic -audience. This the woman knew when she put the question. - -Miss Mason gave a little laugh. - -"Wouldn't ask that if you'd seen the furniture. Was so used to it it -was a wonder I still went on thinking it hideous. I think it was after -I'd been away from it for a year and came back to it that I knew how -terrible it was. After that it remained terrible. It will all be sold. -Have arranged for that. Couldn't stay with it any longer than was -necessary. Don't care what becomes of it now." - -Miss Mason was feeling so light-hearted again she was almost reckless. - -"Then you'll buy new things?" asked the woman. - -"Yes. Soft colours--blues and greens. Love blue. Your dress is lovely." -The words were jerky but genuine. - -"It's my favourite colour," said the woman. - -Miss Mason looked in the direction of a mirror near her. She could see -both their figures reflected in it. Again a little wistful look crept -into her eyes. - -"I suppose," she said suddenly, "that it was my dress those two girls -were laughing at. Perhaps it is queer. Never thought of that before. -Couldn't change now, any more than I could change my skin." - -She stopped, then looked directly at the woman. - -"I suppose people will always laugh at me?" she queried. "I suppose -those girls were right to laugh. I am queer." - -There was a moment's pause. Then the woman in the blue dress spoke -deliberately. - -"I am going to ask you a question which may sound rather conceited," -she said. "Which would you value most--my opinion or the opinion of -those two girls?" - -"Yours," said Miss Mason promptly. - -"Then I am going to tell you exactly what I think, and you must forgive -me if what I say sounds impertinent. I don't think you are the least -queer. I think you are quaint and original. Any artist would infinitely -prefer your method of dressing than the method chosen by the older -women of the present day. I think it quite possible that you will find -a few people will laugh at you, for, as I've already said, in this -fairy tale world there are bad fairies, and, worse still, stupid ones. -But they don't count, because they aren't worth consideration, at least -not as regards their opinion of our actions." She spoke the words -slowly and simply, almost as she would have spoken them to a child. - -Again there was a silence. - -"Where will you take your studio?" asked the woman suddenly. - -"Chelsea," said Miss Mason. "Whistler lived there." - -"Conclusive," laughed the woman. - -"Want it to be a nice studio," said Miss Mason. "Rent won't matter. -Miss Stanhope left me a lot of money. Can't spend it all." - -"Now the fairy tale progresses," said the woman joyfully. "Plenty of -money and fairy tale ideas are the happiest of combinations." - -Miss Mason laughed. - -"Glad I met you," she said. "Feel like I did when I came up in the -train this morning." - -"Our meeting was evidently part of the fairy tale," said the woman. -"Now I must go and get my cloak. It's five minutes to nine." - -She went towards the stairs. Miss Mason watched her ascending them. - -A moment after she had left, a man came into the lounge. He was wearing -a thin dark grey overcoat, and held a flat black hat in one hand. -Miss Mason had never before seen an opera hat. She looked at it with -interest. From it she looked at the man. He was tall and distinctly -aristocratic-looking. Miss Mason noticed that he wore a small moustache -and imperial. - -She heard a step on the stairs. The woman in the blue dress was coming -down again. She had a black satin cloak round her. - -"Christopher, darling," she cried, "is that you? I'm beautifully -punctual." - -He went up to her and kissed her hand. There was something charming in -the courtliness of his manner. Miss Mason, who had been momentarily -shocked by the "darling," felt it somehow explained by the subsequent -action. - -"One moment, and I'll come," said the woman. - -She crossed to Miss Mason. The man waited for her. - -"I shan't be home till midnight," she said, "and I'm leaving for Italy -at an unearthly hour to-morrow morning. But I am sure one day we shall -meet again. Good-bye." - -"Good-bye," said Miss Mason. "Hope you'll enjoy yourself." She longed -to say something more, but the words failed her. - -She watched her rejoin the man and leave the lounge. It seemed -extraordinarily empty after her departure. - -"Don't suppose she'll ever lack friends," said Miss Mason to herself, -"but if ever she did need one----" She left the rest of the sentence -unspoken in her mind, and finding the place a little lonely went up to -her own room. - -It was not till she was in bed that she realized that she had no idea -of the woman's name. It also never dawned on her to ask the hotel -management for it. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE COURTYARD - - -Dan Oldfield was standing in front of an easel on which was a minute -canvas. The scene depicted thereon was a pastoral of Mesonnier-like -detail. At the moment Dan was engaged in painting lilac flowers on a -green and white dress. The original dress was on a lay figure before -him. - -The studio in which he was working was one of seven enclosed in a -courtyard. Two of the studios had small gardens in front. Standing in -one of the gardens it was easier to imagine oneself in the depths of -the country than in the midst of London. The roll of the traffic in the -King's Road was just sufficiently remote to sound not unlike the roar -of the sea. - -There were lilac bushes and laburnums in the gardens. A thrush sang in -one of the laburnum trees in the spring, and a robin in the winter. The -robin was very tame. It had established a visiting acquaintance with -all seven studios. There was a certain amount of jealousy among the -inhabitants when occasionally for a week at a time, it would show a -marked preference for one studio. On the whole its affections were most -deeply centred on studio number seven. At the moment this studio was -empty. - -Dan painted in the lilac flowers carefully, using extremely small -brushes. Every now and then he stepped back from his work to judge of -the effect. Any onlooker uneducated in the mysteries of art would have -imagined the use of a magnifying glass a more desirable method to study -the effect. Dan was evidently not of that opinion. He had just finished -painting in the yellow heart of the thirteenth flower when the sound of -the wheels of some large vehicle entering the courtyard struck upon his -ears. - -"What's that!" he said carelessly, and he crossed to the window. - -A large pantechnicon had drawn up opposite studio number seven. Men had -already run round to open the doors at the back of the van. It was full -of furniture. - -"Good Lord!" ejaculated Dan. - -He put his palette and brushes down on a table, and standing on a chair -poked his head through the upper part of the window. A large roll of -blue drugget and a dark oak easel were being carried up the small -garden path. Two men were hauling a Chesterfield sofa from the van. - -"Good Lord!" said Dan again. - -He withdrew his head from the window, descended from the chair, and -came out of his studio into the courtyard. The sunshine, which was -brilliant, shone on his untidy red hair. He looked like a slightly -worried giant. - -The Chesterfield was reposing momentarily on the stones of the -courtyard. The men were wiping their foreheads. The day was warm. - -"Studio let?" demanded Dan. - -"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Bringing in the furniture, sir. Nice day, -but warm." - -"Who's taken the studio?" demanded Dan. - -"Can't remember the lady's name at the moment, sir. Elderly lady with -grey hair. Saw her when----" - -"An old lady!" interrupted Dan. His voice held at least three notes of -disgust. - -"Yes, sir, she----" - -But Dan had vanished up the garden path of studio number six, had -banged on the door, and entered without waiting for permission. - -A man in his shirtsleeves was standing before an easel. A nude model -was half sitting, half lying, on the platform. - -"I say, Barnabas," he began. Then he saw the model. "Morning, Tilly. -Sorry I interrupted." - -"Oh, it's all right," said the man addressed, good-humouredly. "I -thought it was your fairy footfall before I heard the knock. What's -the trouble? Have you stuck the Messonnier painting on an envelope in -mistake for a postage stamp and put it in the pillar-box? You'd better -take a rest now, Tilly, while Mr. Oldfield disburdens his mind." - -The girl stretched herself in a lazy panther-like fashion, and taking a -faded purple dressing-gown from the model stand flung it round herself. - -"Studio number seven's let," said Dan. - -"Well, why shouldn't it be?" said Barnabas imperturbably. "It's been -vacant six months. It's a pleasant studio; large, well-ventilated, -drains in perfect condition, an ideal----" - -"Oh, shut up, Barnabas," said Dan. "It's let to an old woman." - -"What?" - -"An old woman," repeated Dan bitterly. - -For a moment Barnabas looked utterly taken aback. Then he shook his -head. - -"Bad news indeed, my child. For the last five years at least we've been -a pleasant little coterie of seven undeniable geniuses all of the male -sex. Then Ashton left us. Why on earth didn't your friend Shottover -take the place? I thought you said he was going to." - -"So I thought," replied Dan gloomily. "He's such a vacillating ass. I -told him he'd lose it if he didn't hurry and make up his mind. Now he -has lost it, and we've an old woman coming to plant herself among us. -It isn't that I dislike women----" - -Barnabas grinned suddenly. - -"What's funny?" asked Dan. - -"Your unnecessary statement, my child." - -"Well, it's true." - -"I know. There was so remarkably little need to state the fact." - -"But," went on Dan firmly, "I don't like old women." - -"There are exceptions," said Barnabas solemnly. "My paternal -grandmother----" - -"Bother your paternal grandmother. I tell you the studio's let to an -old woman, and they're taking in the furniture now." - -Barnabas moved towards the door. - -"Let's have a look at it," he said. "I wonder what her taste in studio -furniture is like." - -He went out into his little garden, Dan following him. A dark oak -bookcase and an oak chest were being removed from the van. - -"By Jove, the ancient lady has got taste!" said Barnabas. "Genuine old -stuff, or my name's not John Kirby." - -The two stood together in the garden on the little gravel path, looking -across a bed of forget-me-nots and a small fence at the working men. - -Barnabas--his real name was John Kirby, but he had first been nicknamed -the Comforter, and finally Barnabas, the Son of Consolation, by his -fellow-artists--was a tall man who would have looked even taller if it -had not been for the huge frame of the man beside him. - -"I wouldn't mind that bit of furniture myself," said Barnabas, as a -beautiful corner cupboard was unearthed from the van. "Hullo! what's -this? 'The Winged Victory,' by Jingo! _and_ a pedestal. Here's art -and no mistake. Pictures, too. Here, you," he called to the two men -who were carrying them, "allow us momentarily to cast our eyes upon -those treasures. Ye gods and little fishes! a Nicholson, a Pryde, two -Sickerts, and a genuine Bartolozzi print. The ancient lady evidently -possesses not only taste but cash--hard coin of the realm, my child." - -"Those old fogies always have tons of money," grunted Dan. - -Three large wooden packing-cases were now carried towards the studio. - -"Be careful with the unpacking of those," said the man who was -evidently the chief in command. "Old blue Worcester dinner service, -sir," he explained in an aside to the two who were looking over the -fence. - -Dan groaned. - -"Pure swank on her part," said Barnabas sorrowfully. "What have the -fleshpots of Egypt in common with the earthenware and bread and cheese -of Bohemia. Why didn't she take up her abode in the fashionable -quarters of Kensington." - -"Turn a Park Lane house into a studio," said Dan. - -"Have you any idea," asked Barnabas, addressing himself to the -man in command, "when the fortunate possessor of these rare and -valuable articles intends to take up her residence in this charming -domicile?--in other words, when does the elderly lady come in?" - -"To-night, sir, about seven o'clock, I think. Our orders are to have -everything ready before six, even if we had to put on extra hands. But -it will be ready easily, bless you, even to the making of the beds -and final sweeping, which my wife's seeing to. There's not above four -or five hours' work here. There ain't none of the little whatnots and -ornaments to unpack what ladies usually carries about." - -Barnabas looked at Dan. - -"To-night!" he said meaningly. "And you have one of your famous parties -on! To-night the old lady will sleep--if she can--lulled by the sound -of hilarious laughter, the twanging of banjos, ribald songs, and all -the other pleasant little noises which are an invariable accompaniment -to one of your mad entertainments. Shall you be busy to-morrow?" he -asked the man. - -"Yes, sir; we're moving a family into Elm Park Gardens." - -Barnabas shook his head. "That's unfortunate. You'll doubtless be -required here. The old lady will be making a hasty exit. The old blue -Worcester dinner service will be repacked less carefully--there won't -be time for care--the corner cupboard and the Chesterfield sofa, to -say nothing of the Winged----" - -"Ass!" said Dan. "What is the use of talking rot about it. We shall -have complaints from the owner of the studios about the noise we make. -I know what it will be." - -"A new set of regulations à la German," said Barnabas. "No pianos -before seven or after ten. Lights out at eleven. We shall become a set -of model young men who will work quietly all the week and go to church -on Sundays. Hullo, here's Jasper. Let's tell him the pleasing tidings." - -The door of another studio had opened, and a slight, dark man with a -somewhat ascetic and rather discontented-looking face came out in the -sunshine. - -"What's going on here?" he demanded. - -"We're studying the preface to a little book called 'From Wildness to -Decorum,'" answered Barnabas gravely. "The first chapter will no doubt -be named 'Hints from the Ancients to Young Men--on Deportment.'" - -"Do you ever talk sense?" asked Jasper. "I suppose someone has taken -this studio." - -Dan imparted the information they had lately received. - -"So there's no more fun for us poor young fellows, and we'll grow like -the good artists grow," chanted Barnabas. - -"I don't see why you should imagine that because this lady has -taken the studio that she should necessarily object to any of our -amusements," said Jasper seriously. "Besides, I hardly think it is -kind----" - -Barnabas gave a little chuckle of laughter. - -"Dear child!" he said patting Jasper gently on the shoulder. "He's -learnt the first chapter of the little book by heart while we've been -grizzling in the garden. Entirely Dan's fault, my child. He interrupted -a busy morning, thereby causing me to view the whole world, and old -ladies in particular, in a pessimistic spirit. Let us be kind. We will -invite the old dame to your party, Dan. We'll sing songs suited to the -ears of age. We'll hire a harmonium for the evening, and----" - -"I wish you would occasionally be serious," interrupted Jasper half -impatiently. "Of course we should have preferred a man in the studio, -but I don't see why you and Dan need be so certain that a woman's -advent will interfere with us. Do the others know?" - -"Lord, no, my child," said Barnabas. "It would take an earthquake to -induce the other three to put nose beyond door or eye to window before -one o'clock. If Michael isn't at work on an illustration of a starved -child, he'll be writing an essay on 'Humour--Some more of its more -cynical aspects.' Alan will be painting a burning cross in the centre -of a crimson rose, and would regard the smallest interruption as the -highest form of sacrilege, and Paul will be doing such genuine good -work that it would be sacrilege to interrupt him." - -There was a moment's silence. Then Jasper spoke in the tone of one who -has been giving a subject close consideration. - -"You know, I don't think we ought to let the fact that a woman has -taken the studio arouse feelings of animosity in us towards her. She -is bound to have a studio somewhere if she wants to paint, and why not -among us? I think we should do our best to make her welcome." - -Dan swore softly beneath his breath. Jasper had moments of priggishness -that were almost beyond the patience of man to endure. Except when -these moods were on him he was not such a bad sort of fellow. - -Barnabas choked down a little laughter and a big bit of annoyance at a -gulp. - -"Right oh! my child. And now I must return to my studio, or Tilly will -have smoked all my cigarettes. I offered her one once, and henceforth -she has looked upon them all as her own especial property. Worst of -acting in a moment of ill-considered generosity. Dan, don't be boorish -any longer. I'll leave Jasper to read you a further homily on the whole -duty of man towards ancient ladies. So long, my children. Don't trample -down my forget-me-nots in your ardour." - -He gave them a cheerful nod and vanished within the studio. - -His departure left a curious blank. It gave something the impression -felt when the sun retires behind a cloud, or the sensation we -experience the first morning of work following a month's holiday. -People almost invariably felt this sensation when Barnabas left them. - -The two other men still stood a few moments longer watching the -unpacking of the van. Dan, however, had ceased to find the same -interest in the proceedings. He could no longer grumble with a free -mind. In the presence of Jasper his utterances would have taken on -an air of seriousness he was far from fully intending. Besides, his -proximity in this mood annoyed him. The minute lilac flowers, too, -required his attention. - -Jasper remembered that he also had left a model within his studio. -Besides, his latest resolution--among others--was not to waste mornings -unnecessarily. - -The two separated. The work of removing the furniture from the van -continued. - -A thrush, unheeding the presence of the men, settled in the laburnum -tree and began to sing. Perhaps it was an unconscious song of welcome -to the woman who would that evening enter the castle of her dreams. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -IN BOHEMIA - - -It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, and through one of the -windows of the newly-furnished studio a shaft of sunlight had found its -way. It formed a patch of light on the blue drugget on the floor, and -caught the corner of an oak dresser on which the old Worcester dinner -service was arranged. - -There were two figures in the studio, though to the eyes of mortals the -place would have seemed empty. The one was in a robe of white and gold, -the other in a dress of dull grey. The white-robed figure was sitting -in a large chair near an oak chest, on which was a Sèvres bowl. She -looked as if she had come to stay. There was an irresolute appearance -about the grey-clad figure. - -"I can't stay in this studio with you here," she said. - -"I know," said the white-robed figure. - -"It is my prerogative to be here," went on the grey-clad figure. "You -don't belong to age." - -The white-robed figure smiled. - -"You sit there," said the grey-clad figure, "as if the place belonged -to you." - -"It will," said the one in white. - -"You will not be able to stay," said the grey-clad figure warningly. - -"I shall stay till I am asked to leave. Then you can take my place." - -"That will be soon," said the grey-clad figure. - -"We shall see," said the figure in white. - -"I shall come back again," said the grey-clad figure, but the words -lacked confidence. - -"When you are asked," said the figure in white. - -"I am going now," said the grey-clad figure. "If I stay here any longer -with you I shall lose all my personality." - -And Doubt flew through the window. She hated passing through the shaft -of sunlight, but it was the only way out. But Joy remained in the -studio. - -The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. Its note was like the -bell of a miniature cathedral. There was the sound of wheels in the -courtyard. They stopped. - -The door opened and a woman in a black dress and wide mushroom hat -crossed the threshold. She saw the shaft of sunlight, the oak dresser -with its array of blue plates, and she looked towards the great chair -by the chest. Being a mortal she did not see the figure seated in it. - -But Joy came forward to welcome her. - - * * * * * - -An hour later Miss Mason was eating a supper of cold chicken, salad, -bread and butter, tinned peaches and cream. She was being waited on by -a little flower-faced girl in a blue print dress and a quaint cap and -apron. The little girl's name was Sally. - -She had been found through an advertisement, after Miss Mason had -visited registry offices innumerable, and interviewed cooks fat, cooks -scraggy, cooks superior, cooks untidy, cooks confident, and cooks -deprecating, none of whom had pleased her. The owners of the registry -offices had considered Miss Mason an impossible person. - -Sally's sole references had been that of her mother, the Sunday-school -teacher, and her own fresh little face. Miss Mason had fallen in love -with her on the spot. - -She arrived with a parcel under her arm five minutes after Miss Mason -had entered the studio. Her box was to come the next morning by the -carrier. - -Miss Mason finished her supper and Sally cleared the table. She then -vanished into the minute kitchen, out of which was an equally minute -bedroom. - -Miss Mason got up from her chair and went slowly round the studio. -She had spent three weeks of careful shopping. It was astonishing how -quickly she had found herself going from place to place, aided by -friendly policemen. Her purchases had been sent to a furniture agent -who was responsible for their arrangement in the studio. - -It was all exactly as she had imagined it would be. There were the -brown walls with the few pictures, the blue drugget on the floor, and -the old Persian rugs. There was the "Winged Victory" on its straight -pedestal in one corner. There was the dresser against one wall, -with the blue dinner service on its shelves. There was the bookcase -filled with books, the only reminder of her old life. There was the -Chesterfield sofa standing at right angles to the fire-place. There was -the corner cupboard, and a small cupboard with glass doors, in which -were a few bits of rare old china. There was the easel. There were a -few new canvases against the wall. There was a box full of oil paints. -There were charcoal sticks in another box--Miss Mason had found that -chalk in bottles was not the correct thing nowadays. There was a whole -ream of white Michelet paper. There was a sheaf of brushes in a green -earthenware jar. There was a large mahogany palette hanging on a nail. -It shone smooth and polished like a mirror. - -When she had been the round of the studio she sat down in the big chair -and looked at the empty Sèvres bowl. - -"Must buy pink roses for that to-morrow," she said. - -She leant back in the chair. The corners of her mouth were relaxed in -a little tender smile. Her eyes were shining. She heard the voices of -men crossing the courtyard. They were laughing. She laughed a little -herself. And over and over again in her heart the words of the lady in -the blue dress were sounding: - -"If happiness comes to you welcome her with both hands; and with every -kiss she gives you years will roll away from your heart. Happiness is -like the spring, which wakes the world to brightness after a dreary -winter." - -Sally came back into the studio. - -"Is there anything more I can do for you, ma'am?" - -"No, child. You'd better get to bed. Boiled eggs for breakfast." - -"Yes, ma'am. Good night." - -"Good night." There was a moment's pause. Sally had reached the door. - -"Got a young man?" Miss Mason's voice was so gruff that Sally's heart -beat uncomfortably. - -"Yes, ma'am; but----" - -"Does he live in London?" - -"Yes, ma'am." Sally was trembling a little. - -"Better write to-morrow and ask him to come to tea on Sunday. Suppose -there's room in that ridiculous kitchen for you both?" - -"Oh, yes, ma'am." Sally's voice was joyful. - -"Better buy some cake to-morrow. Gingerbread, plum cake, anything you -like. Don't loiter now. Get to bed like a good girl." - -And Sally fled, feeling that Miss Mason was a winged angel in an odd -disguise. - -Half an hour later Miss Mason herself went to her bedroom. It was -dainty and charming. The curtains before the window were white muslin, -with outer curtains of white dimity and borders of tiny pink rosebuds. -The quilt covering the bed was white like the curtains, it also had a -border of pink rosebuds. The carpet was cream-coloured, the furniture -Chippendale. - -When Miss Mason was ready for bed she knelt down, her hands folded on -the rosebud-covered quilt. The old petitions of childhood, still used -by the woman of sixty years, failed her for the first time. - -"God," said Miss Mason softly, "I am happy, and I thank You." - -That was all. - -She got into bed. For a long time she lay gazing into the darkness with -open eyes. She was too happy to sleep. She had become aware of sounds -she had heard at intervals during the evening almost without realizing -them--singing, the twanging of banjos, the sound of laughter. Now in -the darkness she heard them clearly. Her old eyes puckered at the -corners into little delighted wrinkles. - -Then suddenly she heard the notes of a violin. Miss Mason had no -knowledge of music, but even to her ignorant ears the hand was that of -a master. When it stopped there was silence. - -Presently she dozed. Much later she was awakened from a half-sleep -by laughter, footsteps, and louder singing. The words came to her -distinctly. - -She lay there smiling, a queer old figure in a white nightcap, one -rather bony hand beating time softly on the quilt. - - "For he's a jolly good fellow, - For he's a jolly good fellow, - For he's a jolly good fe-el-low, - And so say all of we." - -With a little sigh of supreme content Miss Mason uttered the one word: - -"Bohemia!" - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE FAUN IN THE GARDEN - - -Barnabas came into his garden in the early morning sunshine. His hair -was still a little wet, for he had only just had his bath. He was -wearing an old Turkish dressing-gown, purple bedroom slippers, and was -smoking a cigarette. - -A light wind was blowing through the courtyard. It scattered the pink -petals of a too full-blown la France rose upon the garden path. They -chased each other round in a little mad dance, first down the path, -then in circles at the foot of the statue of a little faun playing on -a long thin reed. The faun looked at them with mocking, laughing eyes, -while he piped to their dancing. - -A thrush in the laburnum tree looked at Barnabas for a moment, but as -it had already got used to the fact that he was neither a cat nor a boy -with a stone handy, it began to sing a sweet full-throated song. - -Barnabas fingered a la France rosebud. There were half a dozen little -green blights clinging to the petals. He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke -round it. The blights smiled at him, so to speak. It would require -something stronger than cigarette smoke to remove them from their -lodging. Barnabas let go his hold on the rosebud. - -"Hang it all," he said. "I daresay they're enjoying life and the -sunshine as much as I am. They don't seem to be hurting the roses, -anyhow." - -A couple of white butterflies flew into the garden. One of them settled -on the sleeve of his dressing-gown. Barnabas looked at it. It did not -move, only its wings quivered a little. - -"You morsel of life," said Barnabas, "you're enjoying yourself too." - -He felt a sudden odd remorse at the thought of other butterflies he -had long ago enclosed in wide-topped bottles filled with camphor, and -then pinned down on to pieces of cork. The destructive age had not -lasted long with Barnabas. His love of Nature was too whole-hearted and -genuine. - -The door of studio number seven suddenly opened, and Sally came out in -her blue print dress. She held a duster in her hand which she flapped -two or three times. The butterfly flew away to perch on the shoulder of -the faun. - -Sally paused for a moment to sniff the morning air. She did not see -Barnabas. She was feeling very happy. She was seventeen, it was eight -o'clock on a June morning, and last night she had written to her young -man--a stalwart coal-heaver. The letter had been written with a stubby -end of pencil on a scrap of paper. The envelope into which she had put -it had not stuck well. It had required much pressure from Sally's -thumb. The cleanest thumb will leave a mark on an envelope if it is -much rubbed on it. The envelope had looked a little dirty, and Sally -had sighed. She felt, however, that the words it contained would more -than make up in Jim's eyes for the smear. Later she would ask leave to -go out and buy a stamp. - -Then she saw Barnabas. Her work having lain hitherto in the kitchen -rather than in the upstair regions, she was not used to the appearance -of young men in Turkish dressing-gowns, and she blushed. - -"Morning," said Barnabas pleasantly, smiling at the girl. She made him -think of a wild-rose. - -"Good morning, sir," said Sally, and she dropped a curtsey. - -Barnabas looked at her with approval. - -"Where did you learn to make curtsies, child? I thought they'd gone -out of fashion with Bibles, brown sugar on bread and butter, and old -ladies." - -Sally dropped another curtsey from pure nervousness. - -"Please, sir, mother taught me, sir. She was still-room maid in a big -house before she married father. She said born ladies curtseyed to the -King and Queen, and we curtseyed to the born ladies--and gentlemen," -she added. - -"Then your mother, child, is not a Socialist," said Barnabas. - -"Please, sir, mother says," said Sally seriously, "that Socialism is -a lot of silly talk among discontented people who'd be discontented if -they had the moon to play with. She says Christ's socialism was love -and respect." - -Barnabas gave a low whistle. - -"Your mother must be a very remarkable woman," he said. - -There was a moment's pause, while Sally looked at him and at the white -butterfly which had returned to perch upon his sleeve. Then a sudden -spirit of mischief, born of the wind of the morning, took possession of -Barnabas. - -"I hope we didn't disturb your mistress with our singing last night," -he said. There was a little glint of gay devilry in his eyes. - -"Oh, no, sir," said Sally quickly. "I asked her ten minutes ago, sir, -and she said, 'Bless you, no, child. Enjoyed it. They sounded so -delightfully young and happy. Like to have that kind of lullaby every -night.'" - -Sally was an unconscious mimic. Barnabas got a sudden and not -inaccurate mental image of Miss Mason as she spoke the words. A -little pang of remorse, not unlike the pang he had experienced at the -thought of the butterflies, smote him as he remembered his half-joking -conversation with Dan. - -"Give your mistress my compliments, and tell her I am glad we didn't -disturb her. Also that I shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon -her at no very distant date." - -"Yes, sir," said Sally, and she turned back towards the studio. - -"By the way," said Barnabas, "what is your mistress's name?" - -"Miss Mason, sir," said Sally. She dropped a final curtsey and -disappeared within the studio. - -Barnabas lifted his arm with the butterfly on it, and brushed its wings -lightly against his lips. Apparently it appreciated the treatment, for -it remained passive. - -"Is it the influence of the morning, the wings of a white butterfly, or -the wild-rose face of that child?" said Barnabas. - -"I fancy I am going to fall in love with Miss Mason." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE SIX ARTISTS OF THE COURTYARD - - -That same afternoon the five other male occupants of the studios -dropped in to tea with Barnabas. They frequently did. They liked the -cakes he bought at a shop in the Fulham Road, and, incidentally, they -appreciated Barnabas himself. They had one and all announced their -intention previously. - -"Meaning me to buy cakes," said Barnabas. And he had sent his man to -the Fulham Road to make the purchases. - -Barnabas poured out the tea, which was drunk out of cream-coloured cups -with festoons of flowers on them. There were not enough chairs, but a -couple of packing-cases had been pressed into service, and they sat -round an oak table--gate-legged. Barnabas had picked it up for a mere -song at a filthy little shop in a back street. He was very proud of the -bargain. - -The six men were curiously dissimilar in appearance and in character. -One took in the outlines of that, as one took in their appearance at -the first glance. - -Next to Barnabas was Dan Oldfield, huge, red-haired, and -untidy-looking. He was one of a large family, and had begun his -artistic career at a suburban art school, where he had risen to the -post of pupil teacher, and later to that of assistant master. At -twenty-two he had been left three hundred a year by an uncle, and -had come to London to study at the Slade Schools. He was now thirty, -and had never lost the idea of minute finish inculcated in him at -the art school. It found expression in his tiny pictures of almost -miniature-like work, pictures which the palm of one of his huge hands -would have covered. - -Beside Dan was Jasper Merton, sallow, clean-shaven, discontented in -expression, his previous history unknown to the six studios. He painted -altar pieces at low rates for high churches in poor districts, which -paintings were usually the gift of benevolent and religiously-minded -spinster ladies. He looked--as Barnabas had once said--as if he were -wearing a hair shirt for the good of his soul, and as if the shirt were -an extra-prickly one. - -Beyond him was Alan Farley, who, like David of old, was "fair and of a -ruddy countenance." Nature had intended him for a cheerful soul, but -art of the ultra-mystic type had taken him prisoner. He painted shadowy -figures with silver stars on their brows, non-petalled roses, and -purple chalices; he read Swinburne and the poems of Fiona Macleod, and -talked about creative genius. - -"Creative genius!" Barnabas had said to him one day. "Man, you don't -understand the first principles of it. Your painting is pure slither. -Do you think creation is slither? It's travail, it's agonizing. What -does your work cost you? Nothing. An airy fancy, half an hour's mental -indigestion, and there's a canvas covered with purples, greys, and -greens. The colour's all right, but what on earth is the thing worth? -I'm not talking monetary jargon. You say that purple mass in the corner -is a veiled woman, and she's talking through opal mists to a silver -star. Who on earth's going to find that out unless you go round like -a kind of animated catalogue to your own pictures. Get hold of form, -man. Study it. Draw--draw--draw--till you can express ideas tangibly. -Leave poetry alone for a bit till you're honoured with the power of -understanding it. You're being mentally sensual and don't know it. You -talk of passion! Great Scot! You don't understand the meaning of the -word, nor the A B C of nature." - -And Alan had listened and taken the harangue meekly, though it had had, -apparently, little effect. - -Next to Alan was Paul Treherne, seated on a packing-case. He was a man -well above the medium height, and with a lean-limbed look about him. He -had grey eyes, sad--like his mouth, which was partly hidden by a small -moustache. Fate had started him in an office, which he hated. Later -she had taken him abroad, where he had lived in a tent and under the -open sky, where he had experienced hardships few men of his class have -known, and where he had three times been face to face with death. He -had looked at sunsets across open plains, and seen mountains bathed in -gold and purple, and the crimson fire of tropical evenings. He had seen -the blue shadows of palm trees on yellow sand; he had seen the scarlet -of pomegranate flowers, the gold of oranges against azure skies, till -his whole being was saturated in colour. And lastly he had returned to -England at the age of twenty-seven to find in the soft greys and lilacs -of smoky London an even more wonderful charm. He had then an income -of eight hundred a year, four of which he gave to his widowed mother, -who lived in a little house in Hampshire. He was at last able to turn -to art, which he had always loved passionately, and from his knowledge -of character gained through much experience of men and women, and -with his wonderful sense of colour, he took to portrait painting. He -now, besides his invested income, earned, at the age of thirty-seven, -about six hundred a year by his brush. He sang in an untrained mellow -baritone in a way that brought tears to one's eyes. - -Between Paul and Barnabas was Michael Chester, a small man, one -shoulder higher than the other, and with one leg shrunken and twisted. -He had had a pencil in his hand since babyhood. In illustration and -line work he excelled, though his choice of subjects was morbid. His -paintings of the river and grey London streets were beautiful. There -was something almost Whistler-ish about them. He had the heart of a -true poet, and the tongue of a cynic, and he played the violin like -a god. An ultra-morbidity regarding his own appearance had lost him -to the world as a public violinist. Nothing would have induced him to -mount a platform or enter a crowded drawing-room. The studios alone -were given the benefit of his talent. - -And finally, master of the ceremonies, seated on another packing-case -was Barnabas--tall, brown-haired, green-eyed, and sunny hearted, -outwardly indolent, and beloved of his fellow-men. He followed in the -footsteps of Paul as a portrait painter, though he was apt to say it -was "the devil of a way behind." - -The conversation during tea had somehow centred round a certain -unconscious old lady, who was at that moment cleaning oil paints from a -large mahogany palette, and looking with humorous disgust at a canvas -on which were large and unsteady blobs of pink paint above a smear of -green and gold. They were intended to represent pink roses in a Sèvres -bowl, but had failed horribly in the intention. - -The conversation had begun airily enough, five of the men taking part -in it, Barnabas alone being silent. After about ten minutes it began to -be slightly strained, and three of the men had more or less dropped -out of it. Dan had, however, continued to express his views somewhat -clearly and with a certain amount of gruffness. Jasper was being -annoyingly Christian-like in his attitude. - -"I intend to call on the lady, at all events," he said at last, with -exasperating decision. "After what you two fellows said yesterday I -felt that I at least----" - -"Not you only, my child," interrupted Barnabas good-humouredly, -speaking for the first time. "We're all going. We begin on Sunday." - -"Won't the lady be a trifle overwhelmed?" asked Paul. - -"I didn't mean all at the same time, or on the same day," explained -Barnabas. "I intended that we should go in detachments. I thought Dan -and I could begin--take the initial step, so to speak." - -"And who next?" asked Paul, smiling. - -"Jasper and Alan, as Jasper's so keen about it," said Barnabas. "Then -you and Michael." - -Michael looked at the tip of his cigarette through half-closed eyes. - -"You can leave me out of the little programme," he said. "I don't pay -calls." - -"And I'm calling on my great aunt's stepmother on Sunday," said Dan. -"Sorry, Barnabas, but it's a prior engagement." - -"You can send a wire to that purely fictitious person--if you know her -address--and put her off," replied Barnabas. - -"I'll be damned----" began Dan. - -Jasper got up from his chair. "I will leave you five to make your own -arrangements," he said. "I shall call upon Miss Mason at five o'clock -on Monday afternoon. If Alan comes with me I shall be pleased. I've got -an engagement now. Good-bye." - -He left the studio. There was a very slight and almost unconscious -movement of relief among the remaining men. - -"Your language jarred on his nervous susceptibilities, Dan," said -Michael. "And he thinks our attitude altogether unchristian." - -"Wish he'd get himself fixed up in one of the panels of his own -altarpieces, and carried off to the highest church in London," said -Dan. "It would be much the best place for him." - -"I'll not call with him," said Alan firmly. "If I do make a martyr of -myself it will be by myself or with one of you others." - -There was a silence. Then quite suddenly Barnabas told them of Miss -Mason's little speech to Sally. Somehow he had been unable to mention -it in Jasper's presence. - -Again there was a pause. Then Dan laughed. - -"You're confoundedly sentimental, Barnabas, my son. I suppose I'll have -to send that wire." - -Michael smiled, a queer twisted smile. - -"Barnabas has a curious faculty for keeping silence till the crucial -moment," he said. "He then makes some little trivial remark which -invariably manages to upset all our preconceived notions." - -"He is," said Paul, "as Dan says, a pure sentimentalist." - -The atmosphere had lightened. Jasper's departure and Barnabas' little -speech had had a curious effect upon it. A mental fog had previously -crept into the studio. It often found its way into the rooms Jasper -entered. Sometimes he seemed to leave it behind, but it generally came -to find him, creeping thin and ghostlike through the keyhole, through -the cracks in the doors, through the chinks in the windows, settling -thickly round him, and casting its gloom over the room and the other -occupants. - -And the gods of Joy and Laughter, who cannot breathe in such an -atmosphere, would silently depart. Now, however, they had found their -way back, slipping easily and gladly into the place they loved. - -When, half an hour later, Michael limped down the garden path with -Paul, he nodded in the direction of studio number seven. - -"Shall we say Tuesday afternoon for our call?" he asked carelessly. - -Paul had a momentary feeling of surprise. He did not show it. - -"Right," he replied equally carelessly. - -And the little faun laughed to hear them, and piped a madder dance -still to the rose-petals which had whirled below his pedestal at -intervals throughout the day. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -A MAN'S CONSCIENCE - - -Jasper Merton was a man who had been born with a curious kind of -conscience. He was perpetually looking at it, dusting it, and seeing -that it kept in what he considered perfect working order. In reality it -only worked spasmodically and at unexpected intervals. He possessed, -also, an enormous amount of that quality which is generally termed -artistic sensitiveness, but which is most frequently a polite and -pretty name for selfishness. He see-sawed between conscience and--it -must be given its right name--selfishness, in a manner which made -his life not only uncomfortable to himself, but almost equally -uncomfortable to others. - -He had, too, a skeleton which he kept in a cupboard, in other words, in -a small--a very small--house in Chiswick. That skeleton was a woman. -She was his wife, and a secret. - -None of his fellow-artists had ever dreamt of asking him if he were -married. It never dawned on them to ask a man, who was apparently a -bachelor and who obviously disliked the company of women, such a -question; and he had no near relations to trouble their heads about him. - -He was twenty-three when he married her, and she was eighteen. She was -a slight, fair-haired girl with blue eyes and a lovable nature. He had -worshipped her to the whole extent of his selfish disposition. At the -end of a year a child had been born to them. It had lived two years--a -toddling blue-eyed mite with fair hair like its mother. It had little -caressing ways and soft baby cooings of laughter. - -But one day the laughter had ceased, and from the nursery had come -sounds of a child in anguish. A basin of boiling water had been left -on the table by a careless nurse, and pulled over by a pair of small, -clutching hands. A week of horror had followed. The child had lived for -four days in agony, even drugs could not soothe its pain, or quiet the -terrible sobbing voice. Jasper had fled from the house. - -When he had returned his wife had met him white and tearless. - -"My baby's at peace, thank God," she had said. And then she had -laughed. She had not slept except from momentary exhaustion for four -nights and days. - -Later in the evening he had found her drunk in the dead child's room. -He had carried her from it and locked the door. - -In the morning she had come to him and had tried to speak. His look of -disgust had made speech impossible. - -"Jasper----" she had said brokenly. - -"I--I can't say anything," he had stammered. And he had gone from her. - -When he had returned in the evening it was to find her again drunk. -This time in the dining-room. - -That was the beginning. He had never been able to hide his disgust, his -love had been killed. Conscience, which held the word Duty before him, -spelling it with a capital, told him to make the best of things; his -sensitiveness shrank from the woman as from something loathsome. - -After the child's funeral she had pulled herself partially together, -and he had never found her in the same condition again. But she had -lost all her old charm. She grew listless in manner, slovenly and -untidy in dress. Now and then she would look at him with the eyes of -a dumb thing asking for help. He never saw her eyes. He had avoided -looking at them. The sight of her--her untidy hair, her neglected -dress--had offended his sensitive taste. Little by little they had -drifted mentally further apart. Finally they had separated. Even the -separation had been gradual. First he had taken his small house in -Chiswick and the studio in Chelsea, living at home, and going daily -to his work. She had known what the outcome would be, but had said -nothing. Later he had begun to sleep at the studio, returning only for -the week-end. He had spoken of the distance, making it an excuse. - -And now there was only occasional visits, prompted entirely by -conscience. He had left the studio to pay one of these visits that -afternoon. An extraordinary priggishness of manner towards his -fellow-men was an invariable preface to them. - -As the tram bore him into the suburbs he gave a little shiver of -disgust. The commonplace ugliness of the houses was an eyesore -to him. He pictured the inhabitants as dull, well-meaning, -ultra-respectable--leading a carpet-slipper, roast-beef, -little-music-in-the-evenings--kind of life. He thought of the men as -all old and fat, or young and conceited; of the women as thin and -careworn, or flashy and bejewelled. His mental pictures were either -extremely commonplace or extremely tawdry. - -Suddenly his conscience began to fidget. It was becoming uncomfortable. -What right had he to feel like that, it said. They were every bit as -good as he was. Who was he to sit in judgment on his fellow-men? - -He put the mental pictures aside. He said a little prayer for charity. -Then he looked at his conscience again, and satisfied himself that -he had swept away the dust specks which had caused it a momentary -uneasiness. - -But he never thought of the poetry that might be hidden away in the -lives passed within those ugly walls, nor listened for the old, old -tunes of love and sorrow, hope and fear, birth and death, that were -played for them as they were played for those who dwelt in infinitely -more picturesque surroundings. And if he had heard the music he would -probably have said that the metre was out of time, the notes old and -cracked, or thin and tuneless. - -At last he left the tram and turned up a side street. The houses in it -were small, red brick, and each of a pattern exactly like the other. -They stood a little way back from the pavement, separated from it by -a low brick wall on top of which was an ugly iron railing. Each of -the tiny plots of ground in front of the houses was divided from the -neighbouring plot by more iron railings. Some of the plots were merely -gravel, others grass, while a few had blossomed out into flower-beds -gay with flowers. - -He turned into one of the gravel plots and went up four steps to the -front door. He rang the bell. His face was perfectly expressionless. It -was like the face of a man who is self-hypnotized. - -"Your mistress in?" he said to the untidy woman who answered the door. - -"Yes, sir. Will you come into the sitting-room? I'll tell 'er." - -Jasper went into the sitting-room. He stood on the hearthrug in the -attitude of a stranger. The tea-things had not been cleared away, they -were still on the table, which was covered with a white cloth showing -various grease spots. The tea-things themselves were on a black tin -tray with the enamel scratched off in two or three places. There was a -loaf of bread on the table, a pat of soft-looking butter on a plate, -a pot of strawberry jam from which the spoon had fallen making a red -smear on the cloth, and a remnant of stale cake. - -The furniture in the room was not ugly, but the whole place had a -desolate look. A French novel in a yellow paper cover lay open face -downwards on a small table near the hearthrug. Jasper picked it up, -glanced at the title, and put it down again with a little movement of -disgust. - -The door opened and a woman came in. She was wearing a loose and rather -shabby brown dress; her hair, which was really a beautiful pale gold, -looked unbrushed and uncared for. She wore it parted and in an untidy -knot at the nape of her neck. The only neat thing about her were her -hands, which were small hands, the nails polished and manicured. - -"Oh, it's you, Jasper," she said, and she sat down. She did not even -offer to shake hands. - -"How do you do, Bridget," he said gravely. - -She laughed. "Is that a gentle reminder to me of my manners, or a query -as to my health? I'm all right, thanks." - -Jasper stood irresolute. This nonchalant attitude of his wife pained -him. She was usually more apathetic. - -"Won't you sit down," she said politely, "that is if you wish to stay -for your usual hour." - -Jasper put his hat and stick on the sofa and sat down on a chair near -the table. His eye fell on the tray. - -"Why don't you get a new one," he said half irritably, "or at least -cover it with a tea-cloth? I hate these black, scratched things. I -don't keep you short of money." - -She glanced towards the offending article. - -"You don't often see it, do you?" she queried. "I'm used to it; -besides, I haven't an artistic eye. Emma shall take it away if it -displeases you." - -She rang the bell, and the woman who had opened the front door appeared. - -"Take away the tea-things," said Bridget carelessly. "Mr. Merton -doesn't like to see them." - -The woman piled the things on to the tray, and gathered the cloth in a -bundle under one arm. She left the room with them. - -There was a silence. - -"Well," said Bridget encouragingly, "five minutes of the hour have -gone." - -Jasper moved impatiently. "I don't know what is the matter with you -this evening, Bridget. I don't know you in this mood." - -She raised her eyebrows with a slightly mocking expression. - -"Do you ever notice my moods? That is news to me. I was waiting for the -usual lectures." - -Jasper frowned. "I don't want to lecture you. I don't come here to -lecture you. I have only sometimes asked you to keep your hair tidy and -wear becoming dresses. There's nothing in the way of a lecture about -that." - -She shrugged her shoulders. "It's hardly worth while to trouble, is it? -No one sees me but you, and then only four times a year." - -"Your own self-respect----" he began. - -She looked at him. - -"I lost that," she said quietly, "long ago." - -"It is never too late," he said. There was now a touch of priggishness -in his manner. Conscience had given him a little push. - -"Isn't it?" she said. "I think it is. You showed me that." - -"I?" Jasper was frankly amazed. - -"Yes, you." - -"I don't understand what you mean. I tried to help you. I've begged you -again and again to dress decently, to care for your appearance. I----" - -"You left me." The words were perfectly quiet. They were the mere -statement of a fact. - -"I--I---- Our life together was a misery," he stammered. "I tried for -two years to help you. I----" - -"How did you try to help me?" she asked. "By talking calm platitudes -through a kind of moral disinfectant sheet--which you held between -us, unable, for all your high faluting words, to keep the disgust -out of your voice, the loathing out of your eyes. I had offended -your fastidious taste--yes, I know I had seemed horrible, that I was -horrible; but how ten thousand times more horrible do you think I felt -to myself? And yet I knew I had some excuse." - -"Excuse," he said sternly, strong in his moral self-righteousness, -"excuse for lying drunk in the room with our dead child." He shuddered. -The memory of the sight filled him with horror. - -She put her hand over her eyes. It was shaking. - -"Listen," she said, "you shall have the truth for once, though I am -not speaking it in justification of myself. Have you ever thought of -those four days and nights of torture, when every cry of anguish my -baby uttered was like a red-hot needle piercing my heart and brain? -Have you thought that there were moments when I felt in my wild misery -that I must fly from the sound of them, but that her baby-hands were -seeking mine, her voice calling in vain to me to help her. You shudder? -You shuddered then and fled. The sensitiveness of your nature could -not stand the sight and sounds of agony. When at last it ceased, and -reason told me my baby was at peace, I still heard her voice. The -doctor had sent me to bed. I could not rest. I got up. I saw you. You -went to your own room to weep. I had gone through the agony alone. I -was to go through the grief alone. I was faint when I took the brandy. -I did not know it would affect me as it did. I was worn out, and it -went to my head. I heard her voice again. I thought it real that time. -I stumbled upstairs to the room where you found me. In the morning I -remembered what had happened. I loathed myself. I came to you and saw -the same loathing in your eyes. The next few days I drank purposely to -gain oblivion, and I hated myself for doing it more than you can ever -have hated me. But one night I thought I saw my baby----" she paused. -"I never took the stuff again, though there were moments when I longed -for it. I wanted to ask your help, to tell you what I had suffered. I -could not. I saw the look in your eyes. It kept awake in me the memory -of that--that day. Only at night, in the darkness, I forgot it. I could -feel my baby in my arms, her hair against my lips----" - -She stopped. - -For a moment there was a dead silence: Jasper broke it. - -"I did not understand," he said. It was an admission on his part. At -the time she did not realize it. - -"Of course you did not," she said, and a trace of weariness had found -its way into her voice. "You would never understand what offended -your taste. For a crime alone you might find excuse, provided it -was sufficiently picturesque. For mere sordidness there is none in -your eyes. You said it was not too late. I say it is. For years your -refinement and your conscience have been at war. You have not had the -moral courage to leave me, nor the manhood to help me--to help me to -regain the self-respect I lost seven years ago. I am tired at last of -you, tired of these perfunctory visits. They can end." - -"What do you mean?" asked Jasper. - -"Simply that I don't want to see you again. You can't get a divorce--I -have at least been faithful to you; there is not even cause for a legal -separation----" - -"Bridget!" he cried, shocked. "I have never wanted----" - -She held up her hand. - -"Please don't protest, Jasper. Actions speak a good deal louder than -words. You have hated these four yearly visits quite as much as I have. -Your conscience has ordered you to make them. You have kept it quiet by -a quarterly journey to Chiswick. Your refinement has shrunk more each -time from the sight of me. The fact that Duty alone was urging you to -it has made it more difficult for you. Now it is I who say they must -cease." - -"You are my wife," he said stubbornly. - -She laughed. "You always had little sense of humour, Jasper, and -now I think that little must have died. You don't understand what I -mean? That shows it is quite--quite dead. I am now going to take all -responsibility off your shoulders by refusing to see you again." - -"And if I refuse?" - -"Then I shall go away where you cannot find me." - -For a moment he was silent. - -"How can you live if I don't know where you are?" he asked. "You have -no money of your own. I must send you some." - -"I know you have considered it your duty to make me an allowance," -she replied, "and in my candid opinion that is still your duty. If, -however, you persist in coming to see me I shall make it impossible for -you to send me money by going away where you will be unable to find me. -I can work. It might be better for me to do so. You can decide." - -"I shall send you the money," he said stubbornly. - -"And not attempt to see me--you promise?" - -"You force me into giving the promise. I can't let my wife work for her -living, or starve." - -She got up from her chair. - -"Very well, then, that is understood. I've taken you by surprise this -afternoon. I think I have surprised myself. At present you resent my -interference with your conscience. Later you will feel the relief. Now, -though your hour is not yet up, it would be wiser if we said good-bye." - -He got to his feet. The whole interview had been so unexpected he was -feeling a little dazed. - -"Good-bye, Jasper." She held out her hand. - -"Good-bye, Bridget." Then Conscience--the officious--spoke. Jasper bent -forward to kiss his wife. - -She drew back. - -"Isn't that rather ridiculous?" she asked, with a hint of sarcasm in -her voice. - -Jasper flushed. He hated anything approaching ridicule. He had taken -her word-slashings quietly. They had not yet even fully penetrated his -plate-armour of self-righteousness. - -"Just as you like," he said. "I only thought that as I was not seeing -you again----" - -"Three months or a lifetime! It doesn't make much difference to us, -does it?" - -He met her eyes. Beneath the look in them his own fell. For the first -time in his life he experienced something like genuine shame, not the -little meretricious prickings of conscience with which he was wont to -bewail his small or imaginary sins. To his great short-comings he was -blind. - -"You hate me?" he asked. - -"No," she said shortly, "for a wonder, I don't. Good-bye." - -He went to the door, opened it, and passed out. A second later she -heard the iron gate clang to, and his receding steps on the pavement. - -She stood for a moment listening, then turned towards the hearth. She -put her hand up to the mantelpiece and gripped it hard. - -"If only he had helped me," she said. "God, why didn't you let me die -with my baby?" - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -VISITORS - - -Miss Mason was sitting in her studio at four o'clock on Sunday -afternoon. She was reading a small, red-covered book, within whose -pages was enshrined a brief account of the life and work of Whistler. - -At intervals she looked up from her reading to glance round the studio -and smile. It was her dream incarnate. She had waited forty-three -years for its birth. She realized now that she had always wanted it, -had always believed in it. All through the old days in the rose-beds, -when she had pruned the trees, when she had grafted new buds, when she -had watched the flowers expanding, she had dreamt of this studio. Only -at moments it had looked real; generally it was far off and shadowy, -but always it had been before her, and something had whispered to her -heart, "Wait; one day it will come." - -And now it was no faint shadowy dream, but a living reality, and it -would bring more glorious realities in its train. Nothing could be too -wonderful to happen in the castle of her dreams. - -Again she looked round the studio, and again she smiled. She would -have liked to sing for happiness, only her voice was too gruff and -cracked. She would have liked to dance for joy, only her old legs were -too stiff. But she minded neither of these things, for her heart was -beating to a little gay secret tune in which joy and thankfulness were -woven in delicious harmony. - -From behind the door that led to the tiny kitchen she heard murmured -sounds and an occasional deep laugh. Sally's scrappy little note had -been answered by the appearance of Jim in his Sunday-best, shining -from the washtub, redolent of yellow soap, every trace of his black -weekday occupation removed. They were now cooing like a pair of young -turtle-doves in a cage. - -Suddenly Miss Mason was startled by a knock. - -A moment later the door which led from the studio to the little -vestibule opened, and Sally announced: - -"Mr. Kirby and Mr. Oldfield." - -Miss Mason's heart fluttered. It is an odd emotion, and now nearly -out of fashion. It belonged to the days of "Cranford," "Evelina," and -"Sense and Sensibility." Now all emotions are big and passionate, or -calm and well-controlled. There are few gentle excitements left. - -In spite of the fluttering, Miss Mason rose to her feet, a quiet -dignified old figure. - -"I am very pleased to see you," she said, and she gave them each her -hand with the air of a queen. "Sally," she said, "bring tea." - -She sat down again. There was a little pink flush in her cheeks. For -forty-three years she had spoken to no man of her own class except the -vicar and doctor. The interview with Mr. Davis being purely on business -did not count. - -Barnabas and Dan put their caps on the oak chest beside the Sèvres bowl -which was filled with the pink roses with whose portraiture Miss Mason -had so sadly failed. Then they sat down. - -There was a moment's pause. Even Barnabas' mental picture of Miss -Mason--a picture supplied by Sally's unconscious imitation of her--had -not quite come up to the quaintness of the reality. He felt that he -had suddenly stepped back at least a century. There was about the -atmosphere a hint of potpourri and long ago half-forgotten days that -are laid up in lavender. There was a completeness about the whole -thing--from the oak dresser with its blue plates, the Sèvres bowl and -the pink roses, to the woman in her voluminous black dress, wide white -collar, and abundant grey hair covered with the finest of old lace -caps--a completeness that only an artist could fully realize, though -most people would have felt. - -She was so extraordinarily ugly too. No ordinary commonplace plainness -of feature, but downright ugliness, yet without the smallest trace of -repulsiveness in it. It was a fascinating kind of ugliness, and the -eyes in the ugly face--they alone were really beautiful--shone like -bits of red-brown amber. It is a colour rarely seen. - -Barnabas broke the silence. - -"Your studio," he said, "is charming. Dan and I watched the furniture -coming in on Thursday morning. If it is not impertinent of me, may I -congratulate you on it?" - -"Glad you like it," said Miss Mason. "It's the first studio I've ever -seen, but it's the kind I always wanted. Have always pictured studios -in my mind like this one." - -"You're lucky in your mental images," said Dan. "If you saw ours----" -he broke off and shrugged his shoulders. - -"But perhaps," said Miss Mason anxiously, "yours is the real thing, and -mine----" - -"Yours," said Barnabas, "is the dream to which we aspire, and to which -we cannot achieve. When you see ours--and we hope you will honour -us with your presence--you will realize how very far short of our -aspirations they must fall." - -"But," said Miss Mason almost wistfully, "you paint real pictures in -them." - -"Try to do so," said Dan gruffly, "and a few of us succeed. Even in -that most of us fail as we fail in our furniture. Paul and Michael are -our geniuses." - -"Paul and Michael?" queried Miss Mason. - -"Mr. Treherne and Mr. Chester," explained Barnabas. "They live in -studios numbers one and three respectively. Jasper Merton has number -five, Alan Farley number four, Dan number two, and mine is number six, -next door to you." - -"The garden with the faun," said Miss Mason. - -"The garden with the faun," replied Barnabas. And then he got up to -move a table for Sally, who had come in with the tea-things, blue -willow china on a tray covered with the daintiest of damask cloths. She -brought in more dishes with cakes and bread and butter, and a copper -kettle which was singing its heart out on a little spirit lamp. Then -she left the room. - -Miss Mason warmed the teapot and the tea-cups, measured the tea, and -filled the teapot with boiling water. Then she took up the sugar-tongs. - -"Sugar?" she asked. - -"One lump each," said Barnabas. - -She put the little cubes into the cups, poured in milk and tea, and -handed the cups to the men. - -"Help yourselves," she said. Then she looked up and smiled. - -"Am quite delighted to see you," she said, "but you'll have to do the -talking. Don't suppose I've spoken more than six words a day for the -last twenty years, till the last three weeks. Then it has been entirely -about furniture. I've got out of the way of conversation." - -"Barnabas will supply the need," said Dan. "He has the biggest flow of -conversation I've ever met. Only it's largely nonsense." - -"Should like nonsense," said Miss Mason. "Never talked nonsense in my -life." - -"No?" queried Barnabas politely, his eyes twinkling. - -Then they all three laughed. And in the laugh Miss Mason forgot that -she was trying to hide her shyness, for it suddenly disappeared, and -there was nothing left to hide. She forgot that she had never set eyes -on the men till ten minutes ago. She was no longer a hostess trying -to feel at ease with strangers. She was just a happy woman talking to -two happy men, the difference in age forgotten. Such a magic god is -laughter. - -And before an hour was over Miss Mason felt that she knew all about -them. Not the things in which some people consider the knowledge of -their fellow-men to consist--their father's profession, their mother's -family, their relationship to various grandees, the towns in which they -have lived, the schools at which they have been educated, the number of -their brothers and their sisters, all of which, if you come to think of -it, are pure accidents, and have nothing to do with the man himself. - -It was none of these things Miss Mason learnt. She found out that -Barnabas had a universal love for nature and his fellow-men, in fact, -for everything alive; and that his heart was as sunny as his laugh. -And that Dan's rather gruff manner hid a heart as tender as a woman's. -There were a thousand minor characteristics she would discover by and -by, but these were the salient facts, and showed the true man. - -When they said good-bye it was with a promise from her to visit their -studios, and with an assurance from them that the other four men were -going to call on her. - -They did--Jasper Merton the next day alone; Paul, Alan, and Michael -on the Tuesday. Barnabas and Dan had broken the ice for her, and Miss -Mason received them with little trepidation. Having come once they came -again. - -And not one of them guessed in what a curious way the influence of the -quaint old lady was to be woven into the lives of at least three of -them. For the Three Fates, who sit all day long spinning in three great -black chairs, are strange and ancient dames, and they saw in Miss Mason -a kindred spirit. In fact, they laughed to think of her likeness to -them as she sat in the carved oak chair in her studio with her knitting -in her hands. - -And Miss Mason took one and all of the six artists of the courtyard -to her heart and loved them spontaneously as a mother loves her sons. -But Jasper she guessed was unhappy, and she was sorry for him, and she -was a tiny bit afraid of Michael's tongue and Alan she did not quite -understand, and Paul she was as proud of as if he were truly her son, -and Dan gave her a delightful feeling of being protected, he was so -big, but Barnabas--though she loved them all--took the first place in -her heart. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE CASA DI CORLEONE - - -"Christopher, darling," said the Duchessa di Corleone in honeyed -accents, "I want you to find an artist for me." - -"By all means," replied Christopher. "Where did you lose him?" - -"My dear Christopher," said the Duchessa, "he is not lost, because -he has never been found. You are to find him--a pleasant, clever, -interesting artist." - -She was sitting in the drawing-room of her house on the Embankment. The -windows looked on to the river which she loved. The room was full of -flowers which she also loved. She arranged them herself in a room off -the dining-room, and carried them upstairs in her arms like children. -Every one who loves and arranges flowers knows that in their transit -from one place to another the whole carefully-careless effect of their -arrangement may be spoiled. Therefore from the moment of entering -the strings that tied the great bundles fresh from Covent Garden, to -the moment of placing the vases in the drawing-room, no hand but the -Duchessa's touched the flowers. And there was no flower in existence -whose colour could jar in the room which was a harmony in pale -lavender. To have to exclude a flower on account of its colour would -have been to Sara di Corleone like shutting the door on a child because -its face was ugly. And being the very essence of womanhood she could -have done neither. - -"And when the artist is found," queried Christopher, "may I ask what -are your intentions towards him? I have a conscience, Sara, though you -may not realize the fact, and if you wish to inmesh the young man in -your silken toils merely for the pleasure of seeing him wriggle, then I -fear duty will oblige me to refrain from helping you in your search." - -Sara smiled. "I want him," she said, "to paint my portrait." - -"It sounds dangerous--for the artist," said Christopher. "May I further -ask to whom the portrait is to be presented?" - -"To the Casa di Corleone on the banks of Lake Como," said Sara quietly. - -Christopher looked enquiring. - -"You have never seen the place," said Sara, "but I have told you about -it." - -"You have," said Christopher. - -"One day," pursued Sara, "you must come with me to see it. Then I think -you will understand. I want you to see the courtyard with its orange -trees and fountains, the little naked marble fauns and the nymphs who -stand among them glistening in the sunlight. I want you to see the -rooms full of shadows and great patches of sunshine; and the gallery -with its pictured men and women of the house of Corleone, the dark-eyed -haughty women--beauties every one of them--the gay young men and the -courtly old ones. I want my portrait to be among them." - -"Yes," said Christopher. - -"It isn't conceit," said Sara. "At least I don't think it is. I love -that place, Christopher. It seems as if it belongs to me--had always -belonged to me; I mean, long before I knew Giuseppe. I want to think -that in the years to come my picture will be hanging there, looking -down into the old hall, and that when the door is open I shall catch -a glimpse of the courtyard bathed in sunlight, see the gleam of -golden oranges and white marble figures, and hear the plashing of the -fountain. It's just a fancy." - -"A fancy," said Christopher, with a little gesture, "as charming as -yourself." - -Sara laughed. "Christopher, I love you. And you ought to have lived in -the days of Queen Elizabeth, or, better still, at the Court of France." - -"I appreciate your affection," said Christopher. "One day when we are -both in a mad mood we will run away together, and pick oranges from the -trees in the courtyard of Casa di Corleone. And we will play at ball -with them across the fountain--golden balls tossed through a shower of -silver. The idea appeals to me." - -"I am glad Casa di Corleone is mine," said Sara, "though mine with -reservations." - -"There was no entail on the estate?" asked Christopher. - -"No; I don't understand the ins and outs of the matter, but it was my -husband's to do with as he pleased." - -"It was thoughtful of the Duca to leave it to you," said Christopher. -"He might have turned it into a home for stray dogs. There are a good -many in Italy, aren't there?" - -Sara had scarcely heard him. - -"I liked Giuseppe," she said pensively. "But," she added, "better when -he was alive. I feel slightly irritable now when I think of him. I -dislike feeling irritable. It is a prickly sensation and doesn't suit -me." - -"The will?" asked Christopher. - -"Exactly. The will." - -"But," asked Christopher, "you are not thinking of again entering the -holy bonds of matrimony?" - -"Nothing," Sara assured him, "is further from my thoughts. But--if I -wanted to!--Think of it, Christopher! I lose every centesimo--every -single centesimo _and_ Casa di Corleone. Fancy parting with it! -Besides, there is that ridiculous letter." - -She looked at him, mock-tragedy in her eyes. - -"I never heard of any letter," said Christopher. - -"Didn't you?" she asked. "It was almost the most provoking thing -Giuseppe did. It roused my curiosity--I am curious. Christopher--with -one hand, and took away every possibility of my satisfying it with the -other. I can quote the last phrases of the will verbatim." - -She leant back in her chair, her eyes half-closed, and spoke slowly. - -"And I further decree that if my wife Sara Mary di Corleone, _née_ de -Courcy, shall again enter the married state, that she shall immediately -forfeit all the money and estates herein willed to her, and shall have -no further claim upon them whatsoever. And that they shall, in the -case of her marriage, pass into the possession of my nephew, Antonio -di Corleone. And I leave in the hands of my executors--before herein -named--a letter, sealed and addressed to my wife the above Sara Mary di -Corleone, _née_ de Courcy, which letter, in the event of her marriage, -shall be given into her hands one hour precisely after the ceremony -has taken place. In the event of her demise without re-marriage, the -said letter shall be destroyed unopened by and in the presence of the -executors above-named. Written by me this fourteenth day of January," -etc., etc. - -Sara opened her eyes and sat up again. - -"It was all signed and witnessed just a year before he died. It's all -horribly correct. Fixed up as firmly as yards of red tape can tie it. -And if I marry I lose every centesimo and my beloved Casa di Corleone, -and if I don't marry I shall never see the inside of that letter. Did -you ever know such a trying situation for a luxury-loving and curious -woman in your life?" - -"I fancy," said Christopher, "that the curiosity does not trouble you -greatly." - -"It does not," she confessed. "But the will! You must allow that -is annoying. It puts my mind and my affections in a kind of mental -strait-jacket. Every time I see a charming man----" - -"Me, for instance," said Christopher. - -"No, mercifully not you," said Sara. "We are one of the few exceptions -that prove the generally accepted rule of the non-existence of -platonic friendship between men and women. You are the most delightful -combination of friend and father-confessor that ever existed, -without--Heaven be praised--a trace of the lover. Where was I before -you interrupted?" - -"Looking at a charming man," said Christopher. - -"Oh, yes. Whenever I see a charming man I have to tell myself to be -careful, to run no risk of my heart getting in the smallest degree -involved. I call up mental pictures of coffers upon coffers--thousands -of them--crammed with centesimi. I shut my eyes and see the courtyard, -the oranges, and the marble fauns, then I open them and look at the -charming man and feel more secure. But I daren't run the tiniest risk -for fear of the consequences. I can't--" she almost wailed the words, -"I can't even flirt." - -"As your father-confessor," said Christopher, "I am glad to hear it." - -"But think," she protested, "what I lose." - -"I think," said Christopher, "what the man would lose, and have a -fellow-feeling for him." - -"You're very unsympathetic," said Sara. - -"On the contrary, I am very sympathetic--towards the man, who, but for -the late Duca's will, might be wriggling, as I said before, in your -silken toils." - -There was a silence. - -"Christopher," said Sara, suddenly and quite seriously, "do you think I -shall ever marry again?" - -"I most certainly hope you will," replied Christopher. - -"And lose Casa di Corleone and the coffers of centesimi!" she -exclaimed. Then again she was back to the serious mood. "Why do you -hope so, Christopher?" - -For a moment Christopher was silent. Then he spoke. - -"Because, my dear, I know you and your capabilities. One day you will -realize the gift you have in your possession, and in giving it away you -will be one of the happiest women on God's earth." - -She looked at the fire. - -"I wonder," she mused. "I didn't give very much to Giuseppe." - -"You liked him," smiled Christopher. - -"He was a dear," said Sara. "He was extraordinarily considerate, and we -were always beautifully polite to each other. But----" - -"Exactly," said Christopher. "But---- One day a force will take you -prisoner. Gifts will be showered on you, and you will shower gifts, and -that little word of three letters, which stands for so much, will have -no place in your vocabulary." - -"And I shall give up everything?" she queried below her breath. - -"You will give up everything, because you will have gained everything," -he said. - -"How do you know all this?" she asked. - -Christopher lifted his shoulders the tiniest fraction. - -"There is some knowledge," he said, "which is born in one, and of which -one need no experience in this incarnation. Probably I brought mine -with me from the experience of ages long ago." - -Again there was a silence. - -Outside there was a clack of horses' hoofs, the roll of carriages, -the hoot of taxis, all the sounds of London to which one grows so -accustomed that one hears them even less than one hears the humming of -insects in a sunny garden. And away below the window was the river, -gliding grey and noiseless to the sea. - -It was a November day with a hint of fog in the atmosphere. A fire was -burning in the room in which the two were sitting, and great yellow -chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight were in bowls set on the tables. - -And in the silence the woman was looking almost for the first time -into her heart with a kind of wonder for what she might find hidden -there. And the man, whose nature was one of queer self-analysis, was -marvelling that his feeling towards the woman near him held nothing -but strong affection and a curious interest in her vivid and unusual -personality. Perhaps the cause lay in the fact that he had known her -from childhood, and seen her gradual development. She had never flashed -unexpected and meteor-like across his path. - -Suddenly she looked up at him with one of her individual smiles--a -smile that lit up her eyes before it found its way to her lips. - -"We have wandered a long way from my request," she said. - -"To find an artist for you?" said Christopher. "Oh, I know a man." - -"Yes?" she asked, all interest. "What is he like?" - -"Clever," said Christopher, "pleasant, and--yes, I think you'll find -him interesting. I think those were your three requirements." - -"What is his name?" - -"His name," said Christopher, "is Paul Treherne, and he lives at a -studio about ten minutes' walk from here." - -"Paul Treherne," she said slowly, dwelling on the words. "I like that -name. Is he as nice as his name?" - -"I shall leave you to judge," replied Christopher. - -"You had better bring him to see me," she said. "To-morrow at tea-time -will do. You can ring me up in the morning and tell me if he is coming." - -"Very well." He glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece, a -beautiful little French clock. The hands pointed to half-past three. - -"I must go," he said. "I've an appointment at my club. I'll go round to -the studio first." He got up from his chair. - -"Then you can telephone from the club," said Sara. "I am not going out -again till this evening." - -"Very well." He held out his hand. - -"I hope he will be able to come," said Sara. "I like his name." - -"You are not to fall in love with him," said Christopher warningly, "or -let him fall in love with you." - -"I wonder," said Sara. - -"Remember Casa di Corleone and the golden oranges." - -Sara smiled. - -"I thought," she said, "that one day I was to forget them." - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -A MEETING - - -There comes a day in the lives of some of us when everything appears as -if it were pursuing its ordinary and normal course. We get up in the -morning and go through the usual routine--bath, dressing, breakfast, -all the little accustomed trivialities which have happened thousands of -times in our lives already, and which will doubtless happen thousands -of times again. We feel gay or dull as we have felt thousands of times -before, and we think, or we don't think, of the various occupations -that will go to make up our day, and we never guess that before sunset -we shall have our hand on a door--a door that when opened is to lead -the way into clouds of sorrow, or gild our life suddenly with the -radiant light of joy. So silently do the fates work, so secret do they -keep their intentions from us. - -Paul got up that morning as usual at seven o'clock. He had his usual -cold bath, which most people would have found uncomfortably chilly on -a November morning, but in which Paul found merely a refreshing sting. -He rubbed himself dry while humming an air from "The Arcadians," -and then put on his clothes. He went into his studio and found his -usual breakfast of coffee and rolls ready for him. While he ate it he -looked into a neat brown pocket-book to refresh his memory as to his -engagements for the day. - -A small girl was coming to sit for him at ten o'clock. Her name was -Marjorie Arnold. She was possessed of personality and a fascinating -dimple. He had caught the personality, but the dimple had hitherto -eluded him. It was extremely fleeting in its appearance. He hoped to -catch it and place it on canvas that morning. - -There was only one other entry for the day--"4.15. C.C." It meant that -Christopher Charlton was coming for him that afternoon, and would -take him to call on the Duchessa di Corleone, who desired to have her -portrait painted. - -He felt a certain amount of interest as to the Duchessa's appearance, -but it was only an interest he had felt dozens of times before -concerning possible commissions. Christopher had said she was -good-looking. So were a good many people who were no use to Paul -as subjects. He painted only those who interested him. From the -others--and there were many--he politely evaded accepting commissions. -He was very much an artist, was Paul. And for this reason partly his -income was considerably below the amount his genius warranted. The -other reason was that there were many people who did not consider his -portraits to be likenesses. - -At ten o'clock the child appeared with the nurse, who was dismissed for -a couple of hours, and armed with brushes and palette Paul set to work -to catch the fleeting dimple. - -The child--she was five years old--was in a solemn mood. Smiles, and -with them the dimple, had temporarily vanished. She was a quaint little -thing with red hair and freckles, and a fascinating ugliness generally -termed the _beauté de diable_. - -Paul told her half a dozen stories, including "The Three Bears", "The -Frog Prince", and Rudyard Kipling's "Stute Little Fish." But neither -the squeakiness of the little bear, the faithlessness of the princess, -nor the sufferings of the whale when the shipwrecked mariner danced -hornpipes in his inside had any effect on the dimple. - -"Suppose," said Paul at last, "that you tell me a story." - -The face was even more solemn. - -"I don't know one." - -"Make up one," suggested Paul. - -There was the ghost of a smile, then solemnity. The flash of hope Paul -had experienced died away. - -"Onst upon a time," she began gravely, "vere was a little dog _an'_ a -little duck. An' vey grewed wings, an' vey flewed up an' up an' up to -heaven to God." - -There was a pause for effect. - -"What a height," said Paul admiringly, watching her face. "What -happened next?" - -"When vey got vere," went on the voice solemnly, "you bet vey wanted to -see round. But God said, 'Not to-day, I guess I'm busy. It's my last -day up here.' It was. 'Cos ve next day--God died. Isn't vat a nice -story?" - -No trace of a dimple. Paul was exasperated. - -"Not a bit a nice story," he said sternly. "And God couldn't die." - -She put her head on one side and looked at him. - -"Well, not weally, of course. But ve little dog an' ve little duck had -never _seen_ anybody die, an' vey wanted to. So God showed them." She -was laughing at him now in childish triumph, a very imp of mischief. - -"Eureka!" cried Paul. And his brush flew to the canvas. Such are the -trials and triumphs of portrait painters. - -"Come and look at it," said Paul after ten minutes. - -She scrambled down from the chair and platform and came round. A small -mocking face of pure wickedness looked at her from the canvas. Her own. - -"Do you see it?" said Paul, pointing at it with his brush. "And but -for your profane little story there would never have been exactly that -expression on your face. We wait for our moments, we artists, and we -catch them--sometimes. And now," he continued, "you can have a stick -of chocolate and brown your face up to the eyebrows with it. I have -finished your portrait, and therefore done with you. I don't care what -happens to you now." - -That was Paul. During the time of painting he sought for intimate -knowledge of his subjects. Every tiniest characteristic, every -fleeting expression, were noted and stored up in his memory. He could -almost have told you their life history from his minute observation -of faces. He knew his subjects as few of their intimate friends knew -them. He guessed their hidden secrets with a power that was almost -uncanny--secrets known only to their own souls--and put the secrets -on his canvas. And it was for this reason that many people did not -consider the portraits to be likenesses. He painted the real person, -not merely the mask they wore to the world at large. - -This fact had been particularly emphasized in his portrait of a certain -statesman--one Lord St. Aubyn. The statesman has nothing to do with the -rest of this story, but the incident as far as Paul is concerned is -interesting. - -St. Aubyn was a man who was much before the public, and no less than -five portraits of him had been commissioned by different societies -as a token of their personal gratitude. Four of these, but for the -individuality of technique, might have been replicas one of the other, -and gave instant satisfaction alike to donors and public. - -They showed a man with regular features and deep-set eyes, leaning -to the accepted military type, a resolute mouth, and a certain air -of distinction and command. One felt that a sculptor of the "classic -convention" would have expressed the type even more admirably. Reserve -was there, but with no hint of mystery or evasion; intellectuality, but -little imagination. - -The fifth portrait by Paul was, one would have said, of another man. It -was a picture that seemed alive with a strange and slightly repellent -magnetism, for the eyes smiled at a stranger with a baffling mockery; -they seemed to invite and yet defy his judgment--to taunt him with his -impotence and read the soul behind them. - -It had been received on exhibition with a storm of outspoken criticism; -while the Benevolent Trustees who had commissioned it, though -refraining from audible dissatisfaction, had maintained so eloquent a -silence at their private view, glancing at each other with liftings -of eyebrows and pursing of lips, that Paul had flung round upon them -and relieved their embarrassment by declaring the contract to be null -and void. No reasons were asked for or given; the action was taken -as a tacit admission of failure. Yet Paul himself had seemed not -ill-satisfied, and had met the chaff which had greeted him from many -of his circle with equanimity. - -Landor, one of the circle, whose portrait of St. Aubyn in the previous -Academy had been hailed as a most masterly piece of work, had ventured -a serious protest. - -"My dear fellow," he had said one evening, "you're letting your -imagination play tricks with you. It's becoming an absolute disease. -I made a most careful study of the man--made him give me innumerable -sittings, and I pledge you my word that I put everything into the face -that I could find. You had three sittings, and God only knows what -you've put there." - -Paul had smoked for a few moments in silence. - -"Perhaps you've hit it," he had said. "I've nothing to say against your -'Portrait of a rising Statesman.' It's a fine piece of work. But you -know all about the Factories Sanitation Amendment Act, and I can read -Sub-section Ten in your handling of the chin. Now I don't read the -papers, and I know nothing of the man. I tried to get at him and he -shut the door in my face. Yet something came through the keyhole and -the cracks by the hinges, and I have painted that. And, as you say, God -only knows what I've put in his face; I don't. And in spite of that--or -perhaps because of it--what I've put there happens to be the truth." - -"But what have you done with the picture?" Landor had asked. "The -Benevolent refused it, didn't they?" - -"Now you're getting coarse," had been Paul's reply. "We agreed to -differ as to its suitability." - -"Then where is it?" - -"In St. Aubyn's study, I believe," had been the careless reply. - -"He bought it, then?" - -"I gave it to him." - -Landor had looked at Paul, and had refrained from putting further -questions. There had been an expression in Paul's face which might have -made them appear an impertinence. - -The gift of the picture had come about in rather a curious way. - -Paul never let his sitters see unfinished work, and St. Aubyn had left -town immediately after the third sitting, and had not returned till the -exhibition was over. Then he had gone to Paul's studio and had seen the -picture. He had made one remark, but that was eloquent. - -"How did you find out?" he had said. - -Paul had looked at him, and the next moment the mask had been on again, -and he had been talking business. - -"You've sold this portrait, haven't you?" he had asked. - -"Unfortunately not," Paul had replied. "It seems to give offence to -your numerous admirers." - -"Then, if you will allow me, I should like to become the purchaser," -had been the reply. - -Paul had looked at him. - -"It's not for sale," he had said. - -St. Aubyn had bowed and taken up his hat without so much as looking -disappointed. - -"But I'll send it round to your house to-morrow," Paul had said. - -St. Aubyn had refused. He had talked polite platitudes regarding the -value of the work. - -"Now you're talking Stock Exchange," Paul had told him. "The latest -marked quotation is absolutely nil. No one will look at it. As a piece -of property it is worthless. As a revelation----" he had stopped. - -St. Aubyn had smiled. "I deal in revelations--professionally," he said. - -That had told Paul the secret he had already guessed. - -"What a head-line for the evening papers," he had said whimsically. "'A -Peer's Secret! Threatened Exposure by Eminent Artist!' But I'm not a -blackmailer, and I don't take hush-money. The picture is yours or no -one's." - -They had argued a little more. At last St. Aubyn had taken it. - -"And about the inscription?" It had been Paul's parting shot. "From a -painter to a----?" - -St. Aubyn had shaken his head. - -"Experience is against endorsements, however cryptic, on secret -documents," he had said. "Sooner or later the cipher is sure to be -read." - -And he had gone away, leaving Paul the sole possessor of his secret, a -secret which Paul had summed up in one brief sentence addressed to a -Chinese idol on his mantelpiece. - -"The man, God help him, is a poet." - -A month later he had received a small volume of poems addressed in a -hand in which he had already received three short notes agreeing to -sittings. The verses--true poetry--were written under a _nom de plume_. -What St. Aubyn's reason was for keeping his poetical talent a secret -from the world Paul never knew. The volume came to him in silence from -the author; he respected the silence, attempting no word of thanks. And -the secret his insight had wrested from the man went with other secrets -somewhere away in the hidden recesses of his mind, while his work alone -absorbed him. - -He never pursued his knowledge of men and women further. It -sufficed--or seemed to suffice him--to portray that knowledge on -canvas, and leave it for those to read who had the heart to do so. -As he had passed before among men and women of varied nationalities, -making no real friends, so he passed now among varied types, noting -them, painting them, and dismissing them, still making no friend. The -lonely reserve he had gained in his wanderings pursued him now. He -could not throw it off. Barnabas and Dan were nearer true friendship -with him than any, and more because they had silently accepted him for -their friend than from any advance on his part. It seemed that he could -make none. The solitude of the plains, the loneliness of big spaces, -seemed to have claimed his spirit. - -And so he painted portraits, from statesmen to small girls, gaining -intimate knowledge of them, while no one yet had learnt to know the -real Paul. - - * * * * * - -It was very much later in the day, long after Marjorie had departed led -by an indignant nurse muttering to herself regarding the carelessness -of "them artists," for not only Marjorie's face, but her best white -dress was covered with various smears of brown chocolate--it was long -after this that Paul looked once more at his pocket-book. He looked -at it to make sure that the hour Christopher would arrive for him -was four-fifteen, and not four o'clock. The former was there plainly -inscribed, written by Paul with a small gold pencil. - -There were just two entries for that day--Friday, November 27th, "M.A. -10 o'clock" and "4.15 o'clock. C.C." Little did Paul think as he looked -at it that he would treasure that small page as one would treasure -one's passage to heaven. - -Christopher arrived at the studio punctually to the second, and found -Paul ready for him. The two turned into Oakley Street and came down -towards the Embankment. It was already past sunset, and the houses and -river were shrouded in a soft mist. They reached the house near Swan -Walk and went up the steps. - -"The Duchessa di Corleone at home?" asked Christopher of the footman -who opened the door. - -"Will you come this way, sir," was the answer, and he led them up the -wide shallow stairs. He threw open a door. - -Paul saw a room of pale lavenders, with the chrysanthemums like patches -of sunlight. A woman rose from a chair by the fire and came forward to -greet them. The window was behind her as she came forward, and the room -being in twilight he could not see her face distinctly, but he saw the -outlines of her graceful figure, and caught the glint of her red-brown -hair. - -She held out her hand. - -"It is very charming of you to come and see me, Mr. Treherne," she -said. "Pietro, the lights." - -Paul heard the sound of three or four tiny clickings near the door, -and the room became full of a soft mellow light. Had the light been -a trifle brighter, or her voice a shade less natural, the whole -thing might have verged on the theatrical. As it was, it was simply -a revelation to Paul as, for the first time, he saw the Duchessa di -Corleone. - -She stood before him smiling--a smile that just lit up her eyes and -trembled on her mouth. He saw that her skin was smooth like ivory, -that her lips were crimson like wine beneath oiled silk, that her hair -was the colour of a chestnut newly wrested from its sheath. - -All this Paul saw almost without realizing it. For suddenly his heart -heard a tune--one that is played silently throughout the ages, and to -most of us the hearing of the tune comes slowly and gradually, a note -at a time. But to a few--as to Paul--it comes suddenly, played in full -melody. He felt vaguely that he had been waiting for that tune all his -life, listening for it on the plains, in the silence of the night under -the stars. - -But he merely bowed and said in the most ordinary and conventional -voice in the world: - -"It was very good of you to ask me to come and see you." - -For Paul did not yet know the meaning of the tune. In his lonely -life he had never before even heard an imitation of it. And because -the music was very strange and very beautiful he listened to it with -something like awe. - -And then he heard Christopher's voice. - -"I ought to have told you, Sara, that Mr. Treherne is an artist of -strange moods, and that sometimes he refuses--in the most polite and -diplomatic way, of course--to accept commissions." - -The Duchessa looked at Paul. - -"I don't think Mr. Treherne will refuse to paint my portrait. At least -I hope not." - -"I shall be honoured to paint it," Paul replied. - -The words were conventional. Since he intended to accept the commission -it was very nearly the only phrase he could have used, yet there was -something in his utterance of the words that seemed just to lift them -from the commonplace. Perhaps it was the direct way in which he spoke -them. Paul had generally a very direct manner of speech. - -Anyhow, Sara glanced at him, and an indefinable something in his eyes -caused an odd little movement in her heart. The room in which they were -sitting seemed suddenly brighter, the chrysanthemums a more beautiful -colour, the logs on the fire more than usually crackly and pleasant. -For so it is that two people who are complete strangers to each other -sometimes meet and in some subtle way, and without realizing it at the -time, the whole world has altered for them. And the invisible gods -laughed softly, and the grim old fates smiled, and drew two threads of -their weaving, which had hitherto had nothing to do with each other, a -little closer together. - -Before Paul left the house on the Embankment it was arranged that the -Duchessa should come to his studio the following morning at eleven -o'clock for her first sitting. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -PRINCESS PIPPA AWAKES - - -Miss Mason threw a large shovelful of coal on to the fire, then turned -to Barnabas, who was sitting astride on a chair, his arms resting on -its back, and looking at her with a slight twinkle of amusement in his -eyes. - -"It's all very well for you to smile, Barnabas," she said -energetically, "but if my model hadn't failed me, do you suppose for -one moment that I should allow you to be sitting there wasting my -morning, and incidentally wasting your own?" - -"No waste, dear Aunt Olive," said Barnabas imperturbably. He had calmly -given her the title one day, and it had been adopted by the five other -artists of the courtyard. It had pleased Miss Mason immensely, though -she occasionally pretended to look upon it as an impertinence. "No -waste, dear Aunt Olive. The enormous benefit I invariably derive from -your conversation is of incalculably greater advantage to me than the -time I should otherwise spend in dabbing paint on canvas. The canvas is -always destroyed at the end of two hours, unless the subject happens -to be a commission. Your conversation abides for ever engraven on my -memory." - -"Barnabas, you're a fool," retorted Miss Mason. "Besides, if you were -not here I should paint a still life." - -"Oranges against a green or blue earthenware jar--I know," said -Barnabas sorrowfully. "Dear aunt, _cui bono_? You have dozens of -oranges already on canvas, to say nothing of the blue and green jars. -You could paint them in your sleep. Why make another representation of -them?" - -"Don't mock at my work," said Miss Mason severely. "You have a lifetime -before you, and can afford to waste mornings. I cannot. Remember my -age." - -"I'll try to do so, since you wish it," returned Barnabas. "It is, -however, the one thing I invariably forget." - -"Nonsense," said Miss Mason. "However, if you won't go, where is my -knitting? I can't sit entirely idle." - -She took a bundle of white woolwork from a side table. Two steel -knitting-needles were stuck into it. She sat down in the big oak chair -by the fire, and in a moment the needles were clicking busily. She -looked more like one of the three Fates than ever. And somewhere away -in a back street a scrap of humanity must have heard the clicking -needles, and a thread of white wool must have stretched out invisibly -to draw it towards the hands that held them. Though at the moment Miss -Mason knitted serenely unconscious of the fact. - -Barnabas watched her in silence. - -"For the poor?" he asked politely, after a couple of minutes. - -"Babies," said Miss Mason shortly. "They get little enough welcome, -poor mites; but knowing that a white jacket with a bit of blue ribbon -run through it is waiting for them, helps the mothers to look forward -to their advent with a certain degree of pleasure. It's curious, the -effect of little things." - -"I should hardly have thought----" began Barnabas. - -"Of course you wouldn't," interrupted Miss Mason. "You've never had a -baby. Neither have I, for the matter of that." - -She looked up and caught Barnabas' eyes fixed on her. - -"Barnabas, you're disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "I never know what I say -when I begin to talk to you." - -"Therein lies the charm of your conversation," he assured her. "It is -always so unpremeditated." - -"Huh!" said Miss Mason, and she returned to her knitting. - -She looked exactly the same as she had looked six months previously, -except that there was a new and curious radiance about her eyes. They -looked as if they were absorbing happiness, and giving it forth again -in actual light. Also her black dress had given place to a grey one. - -The style being unprocurable at any modern shop, she had engaged -a sewing-woman to make it for her. The woman was firmly persuaded -that Miss Mason was quite mad, but finding her an extremely generous -customer, she was perfectly ready to seam grey cashmere into any -pattern Miss Mason might require. She had once gone so far as to -announce that the costume was picturesque. Something in her manner as -she made the statement had annoyed Miss Mason. - -"Picturesque! Nothing of the kind!" Miss Mason had retorted. "It is -serviceable and comfortable, and suited to a woman of my age. Some -women of sixty make fools of themselves in a couple of yards of silk -nineteen inches wide. I make a fool of myself in twelve yards of -cashmere forty inches wide. That's all the difference. But I prefer my -own folly." And the sewing-woman had retired crestfallen. - -"I saw Paul yesterday," remarked Barnabas after a moment. - -"I like him," said Miss Mason succinctly. - -"So do I," returned Barnabas. "He is so refreshingly clean. He always -looks as if he had just completed a toilette in which baths, aromatic -soap, and hair-brushes had played an important part." - -"Yet he manages to escape looking shiny," said Miss Mason. - -"We all take baths," went on Barnabas thoughtfully; "at least, I hope -so. But with the majority of people one has to take the fact of their -scrupulous cleanliness more on faith than by sight. With Paul it is so -extraordinarily apparent." - -"What is he doing at the moment?" asked Miss Mason. - -"Painting the portrait of a certain Duchessa di Corleone. I happened -to see the lady leaving the studio. She is remarkably beautiful. Paul -has the devil's own luck. I have to spend my time painting middle-aged -women with hair groomed by their maids till they look like barbers' -blocks, or pink-cheeked girls with a perpetual smile." - -"Don't paint them if you dislike doing it," said Miss Mason. - -"Dear Aunt Olive, I must." - -"No such thing. You have an excellent private income." - -"I grant you that. It is, however, not the point. I am a portrait -painter. It is my _métier_. To be a portrait painter one must paint -portraits. The two things are inseparable." - -"Paint models, then," said Miss Mason. "Choose your subject." - -"It is not the same thing," replied Barnabas gravely. "A model who -is paid for sitting does not rank with a creature who pays one to -immortalize their material features on canvas. To say I have a model -coming to sit for me this morning is nothing. To say the Lady Mayoress -of So-and-So comes to my study at eleven o'clock this morning is -quite another matter. At first your fellow-artists say, 'Pure swank -on his part.' But when eleven o'clock arrives, and with it the Lady -Mayoress in a gold coach with four horses and velvet-breeched lackeys -with cocked hats--why, then the whole thing assumes totally different -proportions. I am regarded in a new light. I become a person of -importance among my fellow-men. I gaze upon a double chin, boot-button -eyes, and a smile that won't come off, enduring mental torture thereby, -in order that later I may strut from my studio with an air of swagger, -and hear myself spoken of as 'John Kirby, the portrait painter.' And -once more I ask you, how can one attain to the distinction of portrait -painter if one does not paint portraits?" - -"Barnabas, you're ridiculous," said Miss Mason. "You talk of nothing -seriously, not even your art which you love. But if you could be -serious for ten minutes, I'd like to ask you about a scheme I have in -my mind." - -There was a little hesitancy in the last words. Barnabas looked up -quickly. - -"I'm attending," he said gravely. - -"You know," said Miss Mason quietly, "that for a woman who spends as -little as I do I am very rich." - -Barnabas nodded. "I thought you must have a good bit of money," he -said, glancing round the studio. - -Miss Mason followed the direction of his glance. - -"That was rather--what you would call a splurge--on my part," said Miss -Mason. "Fact is, I have about fifteen thousand a year. If I spend two -in the year it will be all I shall do." - -"Yes," said Barnabas gravely. - -"Of course," went on Miss Mason, growing gruffer as she became more in -earnest, "I've told you how much I care for art. Suppose I inherited -the love of it from my father. See now, it's little use loving it if -one doesn't get the chance to work when one's young--I mean as far as -one's own creation is concerned. Get a lot of pleasure dabbing paint -on canvas, making pictures of oranges, and drawing charcoal heads. But -the time's past for me to do anything serious in that line. Glad you're -honest enough not to contradict me. Been thinking, though, that there -must be others who would like the chance. Care so much myself, would -like to help them." She stopped. - -"A ripping idea," said Barnabas warmly. - -"Thought," went on Miss Mason, "that if five thousand pounds a -year went for that purpose it'd be something--give twenty would-be -artists the chance, anyhow. Each would-be artist to have an income -of two hundred and fifty pounds for five years while they are -studying--longer if you thought well. Then another to take their place. -Want them to be people who'd really care. Love the work. Want you to -help me. Don't rush the matter. If you can find the right people let me -know. You're a young man. Would like to appoint you as my executor in -the scheme. You could carry on the work. Would like, though, to see it -started." Miss Mason looked anxiously at Barnabas. The little speech -had cost her a great effort. It was the outcome of the thought of many -weeks. - -Barnabas met her look. "There's nothing I should like better than to -help you in the scheme," he said warmly. "It's fine. By Jingo! Twenty -men to have their chance every five years. Think of it!" - -"Am ready to include women too," said Miss Mason, "as long as"--she -continued, getting gruffer than ever--"they aren't giving up other -duties to it. Might find some women glad to have a chance too. Would -have liked it myself. You go about among people. Can let me know later. -Don't rush it." - -"It's fine," said Barnabas again. "Aunt Olive, you're a brick!" - -The boyish compliment brought the colour to Miss Mason's cheeks. - -"Glad you like the idea," she said. - -A sudden gust of wind tore round the studio, and a torrential shower, -half of sleet, half of hail, beat down upon the skylight. - -"Abominable weather!" said Miss Mason, clicking her knitting-needles -furiously. She did not even now guess how near to her the scrap of -humanity had been drawn by the thread of white wool. - -"We have much for which to be thankful," began Barnabas piously, "a -blazing fire, a roof----" - -His further reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door. - -"See who it is, will you?" said Miss Mason. "Sally is busy. If it is a -beggar send him or her away. I don't encourage them." - -Barnabas grinned broadly, knowing the untruth of the statement. He -heaved himself off the chair and went towards the door. - -There was a moment's parley. Then he returned, followed by a small and -weird figure. Its sex was indistinguishable. A man's coat frayed and -torn reached to the top of a pair of patched boots many sizes too large -for the feet they covered, a man's slouched hat hid nearly the whole of -the face. - -"It says it is a model," announced Barnabas. "Its language is a mixture -of French and broken English." - -Miss Mason let her knitting fall. - -"A model!" she exclaimed, looking at the odd creature. - -The figure in the old coat saw the fire. It made an instant dart -towards it. - -"Ah!" The sigh was one of intense satisfaction. The hands, hidden by -the frayed coat-sleeves, were held out towards the leaping flames. - -"You're cold?" asked Miss Mason quickly. - -The figure nodded its head. - -"Who sent you to me?" she demanded. - -"Personne. But I know Keetie Jenkins 'as been model for you. She tell -me you ask 'er when you bring ze baby ze white jacket. Mrs. Jenkins 'as -taken Keetie away, so I tink I do instead of Keetie." - -"Huh," grunted Miss Mason. "Haven't seen you yet. So the Jenkinses have -gone, have they? That accounts for Kitty failing me this morning. They -might have taken the trouble to let me know." - -The small figure by the fire raised its head quickly. Miss Mason and -Barnabas had a glimpse of a pointed chin and a scarlet mouth. - -"Mrs. Jenkins she is too un'appy. You see Georgie 'e is dead." - -"Georgie! Never heard of him. Who was he?" demanded Miss Mason. - -"'Er little boy." The reply came seriously. "'E die of doing too many -lessons. Mrs. Jenkins say Keetie not die zat way. She 'as gone to ze -country, where ze 'spectors not so 'ticular, she say." - -"A unique death," remarked Barnabas gravely. "I don't fancy many little -boys die of that complaint. Have you ever posed before?" - -"Mais, oui." The head was nodded vigorously. "Sall I pose for you?" - -"Don't know what you're like yet," said Miss Mason. - -"There is a proverb, O infant," supplemented Barnabas, "which -instructs one never to buy a pig in a poke. Acting on that principle, -it is impossible for us to decide on a model attired as you are. -Therefore----" he broke off. - -"Oh, my tings," she nodded gravely. "I take zem off." - -The figure tossed the slouched hat on to a chair. It was followed by -the coat and the boots, which later were kicked off, disclosing bare -feet small and well-arched. - -There stood before them a slip of a girl-child, in a faded green frock, -black hair cut square on the forehead and at the nape of the neck, -after the fashion of some mediæval page, the face white, with pointed -chin and geranium-coloured mouth, eyes grey with pupils large and very -black. She might have been about nine years old. - -She raised her hands to the back of her neck, unfastening mysterious -strings. Before Miss Mason was aware of her intention, she slid -suddenly out of her clothes and stood on the hearthrug before them, -naked as the day on which she was born. - -"_Bien?_" she queried. - -Miss Mason gave a faint shriek. - -"Barnabas, turn your back and leave the studio at once. I never paint -a nude model. It is against all my principles to do so. Put on your -clothes again at once, child. Barnabas, stop laughing. I know you're -perfectly brazen on the subject. Remember, in spite of my age, I'm an -unmarried woman." - -Barnabas picked up a piece of scarlet silk drapery from the model stand -and flung it round the child, who was looking from him to Miss Mason in -astonishment. When she was enveloped in its folds he spoke. - -"Miss Mason, my child, is not used to seeing little girls in their -birthday attire. It surprised her. She has a penchant for petticoats -and frocks, to say nothing of stockings. She might, however, be -persuaded to paint you draped as you now are. You look, by the way, -uncommonly like a scarlet poppy." - -The child looked gravely at Barnabas. - -"She not paint se altogezzer?" she demanded. - -"Precisely. She does not paint what the immortal Trilby termed 'the -altogether,' which phrase you have just made your own." - -The child nodded her head. - -"Mais, oui. Some peoples zey do not. I hear Monsieur Thiery say one -time it _toute à fait extraordinaire_ zat some peoples 'shamed to look -at ze greatest 'andiwork of God. I did not know, me, zat ze peoples who -live in ze _vrais ateliers_ zey tink it shame." - -"We all have our little prejudices," said Barnabas lightly. "Naked -little girls is apparently one of Miss Mason's." - -He smiled whimsically at that lady. - -"Shall we paint this infant?" he asked her. "Can the woolly jackets be -put on one side, and may I fetch my palette?" - -"If you like," said Miss Mason shortly. "It's nice of you not to laugh -at my prejudices, Barnabas." - -"There are moments when I rather like them," he assured her. And he -vanished from the studio. - -When he returned it was to find Miss Mason kneeling by a low chair on -which the child was seated. The red silk was off the shoulders, and -Miss Mason was sponging an ugly bruise on the child's back. She turned -her head as Barnabas entered. - -"Look at this," she said in a low, indignant voice. - -"Who did it?" asked Barnabas. - -"Some brute she calls Mrs. Higgins." Miss Mason's voice augured ill for -that lady, had she been at hand. - -"Mrs. 'iggins drunk," said the child patiently. "She often drunk. Ver' -drunk last night." - -Miss Mason put some ointment on the bruise, and covered it with a piece -of soft linen. Then she wrapped the red silk again round the child. She -sat down in the big chair and drew the child to her. - -"Now, little one," she said, speaking in French, "tell us all about -it." - -"Oh!" cried the child rapturously, "you speak French." Her face had -gone crimson with excitement. - -"Tell us everything," said Miss Mason. - -It came then, an odd little story, scrappily told. Her name was Pippa. -She had lived in Paris with Madame Barbin. Madame Barbin washed clothes -till they were white--oh, but very white. Pippa had posed for artists. -She loved Madame Barbin, but she had died--a year, perhaps two years, -ago. Madame Fournier had taken care of her then. She did not like -Madame Fournier, who was cross. Then Madame Fournier had brought her -in a ship to England. Perhaps that was a year ago. Anyhow, it was -cold weather. They had lived in different houses, and finally at Mrs. -Higgins' house, and Pippa had posed for different artists in London. -Some time in the summer, Madame Fournier had gone away, leaving Pippa -with Mrs. Higgins. She had not come back. Mrs. Higgins was angry--very -angry, according to Pippa. She beat her occasionally, but not always -very badly. Bruises were likely to be seen on one who poses for "the -altogether." Lately, however, Mrs. Higgins had been too angry to -remember that fact. Hence the bruises of the previous evening. In reply -to further questioning it was found that Pippa knew no one she had -ever called father or mother. There were only Madame Barbin, Madame -Fournier, Mrs. Higgins, and the names of quite a good many well-known -artists for whom she had posed. She also stated that she washed -herself every morning, though Mrs. Higgins said it was "un'ealthy." And -she washed and dried her underclothes when Mrs. Higgins was away at the -public-houses, where she spent most of her time. - -"Yes," Miss Mason nodded. "The child is clean, at all events." - -And then suddenly at the end of the recital, Pippa swayed a little -sideways, and if Barnabas had not sprung forward she would have fallen -on the hearthrug. As it was, she lay in his arms, her face dead white -against the scarlet folds of silk. In a word, Pippa had fainted. - -Barnabas laid her flat on the hearthrug and opened the door and -windows. Miss Mason fetched brandy and a large cut-glass bottle of -smelling-salts, which she held to the child's nose, making a curious -clucking sound with her tongue, and lamenting that there were no -feathers handy to burn. But presently, in spite of the lack of -feathers, Pippa opened her eyes. - -Then Barnabas put a question. - -"When did you last have food?" he asked, watching her. - -Pippa put up a small hand to her forehead and pushed back the dark hair. - -"Yesterday," she said feebly. "Bread and treacle"--she rolled the r's -in a funny way--"at dinner-time." - -"And nothing since then!" cried Miss Mason in horror. "Oh! that Mrs. -Higgins!" - -But Barnabas was already in the kitchen issuing commands to Sally. - -"Bread, Sally, quick. Cut it in small pieces and put them in a saucepan -with lots of milk. Is there a good fire? Yes. Ever made bread and milk -in your life before?" And Sally flew round. - -Ten minutes later Barnabas and Miss Mason were feeding a small famished -girl, who was looking at them as if they were gods from another world, -and at the bread and milk as if it were the nectar and ambrosia they -had brought with them. - -And when the blue basin was empty Barnabas lifted Pippa in his arms, -and guided by Miss Mason, carried her into the inner room, and laid her -like a little broken poppy in Miss Mason's bed. Together they tucked -her in, and saw the white eyelids close slowly over the great grey eyes. - -Then they went out into the studio. And Barnabas threw the man's coat -and hat, and the old boots into a corner. The other garments he put on -the model stand. - -"I shall come back by and by," he said, "and see how the small creature -is getting on." - -He looked in twice during the day to find that she was still asleep. It -was after sunset when he came the third time, and it was to find her -sitting near the fire eating a delicious brown egg and slices of bread -and butter, while Miss Mason was telling her that most entrancing of -fairy tales--"The Sleeping Beauty." - -Barnabas sat down and waited. Every now and then he looked at the child -with a puzzled expression in his eyes. Suddenly he threw back his -head. He very nearly whistled. Something that had eluded him had been -discovered. - -The egg and the story were finished. There came a silence. - -The child's eyes wandered round the studio. They lighted on the faded -green dress lying on the model stand. A queer little look of sadness -that should be foreign to a child's face crept back into her eyes. - -She slid down from her chair, and stood solemnly before Miss Mason. - -"I tank you bof ver' much," she said, with a quaint air of courtesy. -"But now I put on zem tings and go back to Mrs. 'iggins." - -She smiled a brave little smile, sadder than any tears or protests. - -Barnabas felt a sudden odd grip at his throat. Miss Mason spoke -suddenly and firmly. - -"No," she said, "you are not going back to Mrs. Higgins." - -The child looked at her with wondering eyes. - -"You mean----?" she said. - -"That you are going to stay here with me," said Miss Mason decisively. -"Barnabas, you must help me to arrange it." - -The child's face quivered. - -"Oh!" she cried, with a laugh that held a sob, "I tink I like dat -Princess. She sleep and sleep, and she wake up when ze Prince kiss her, -and ze world all ver' 'appy. And I so 'appy just all ze same, wisout no -Prince kiss me." - -And then Barnabas did a queer thing. He put his arm round the child and -kissed her lips. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -AT THE WORLD'S END - - -Barely half an hour after Miss Mason's sudden decision Barnabas set out -for a small and rather unwholesome street somewhere in the direction of -the World's End. It was given by Pippa as the locality in which Mrs. -Higgins had her residence. - -It was not entirely on Miss Mason's account that Barnabas was anxious -to make further enquiries regarding the child. As he walked along the -King's Road, with its pavement slippery and muddy from the feet of many -passers-by, his mind travelled back to memories which Pippa's face had -awakened in him. - -They were memories some fourteen or fifteen years old, of the time -when he was a young art student. A scene he had almost forgotten -came clearly back to him. He saw a big class-room full of easels and -men working and smoking. He saw himself, very young, very full of -enthusiasm, yet at the moment very full of despair. He saw himself -looking with disgust at his own somewhat feeble attempt to reproduce on -canvas the figure of the nude model who was standing on the platform -before him. He saw the master coming near, and heard his words. They -were few but sarcastic. He had felt that the whole room was listening -to them. First an insane desire to sink into the floor had overwhelmed -him, then a feeling that he had better take his canvas and brushes -and fling them into the river. It had been mere presumption on his -part to dream of art as a career. He had seen the other figures in the -room through a kind of hazy blur. The voice of the master as he went -from easel to easel had come to him as through cotton-wool. He did -not notice that almost equally sarcastic remarks were being levelled -at the other canvases, and were being received by their owners with -indifference or with good-humoured laughter. He had heard the door -close presently as the master left the room. Then he heard a voice at -his elbow--a curiously musical voice: - -"It's a pity Saltby looks upon sarcasm in the light of instruction in -art. He can paint quite decently himself, but he has no more notion of -teaching than a tom cat." - -Barnabas remembered that he had turned to look at the speaker, and had -seen a dark foreign-looking man standing beside him. The man had looked -at him sharply. - -"That fellow has worried you," he said. "They're just calling rest. -Come along out and have a smoke." - -Barnabas remembered following him into the corridor. He remembered -the curious feeling of restful strength the man had given him as they -walked up and down together. - -"I'm going to give you a bit of advice," he had said suddenly. -"Remember this, that the opinion of one man, even if he happens -to be your master, counts for nothing. The moment you touch any -art--painting, sculpture, music, or literature--you're laying yourself -open to criticism, and you'll find any amount of it adverse. Don't let -it discourage you. If you've got the inner conviction that you can do -something, forge ahead and do it. Don't be damped by adverse criticism. -If you can learn from it, learn; but don't let it kill the germ of -belief in yourself." - -"But can't one be mistaken in the belief that one can do something?" -Barnabas remembered asking. - -"If you are mistaken you'll find it out for yourself," the man had -replied earnestly. "My dear boy, the men who can't, and never will, -do anything are those who are so cocksure of themselves that they are -impervious to sarcasm and every adverse criticism under the sun. It -simply doesn't hurt them. It does hurt us. It touches us on the raw. -But we've got to go on. You felt like chucking the whole thing just -now. I'll be bound it wasn't exactly that your self-vanity was wounded, -but because you felt that it had been utterly presumptuous of you ever -to have attempted to lift your eyes to the Immortal Goddess. My dear -boy, she loves men to look at her and worship her, from however far -off. It's those who say they are paying her homage, but who all the -time are looking at and worshipping themselves, for whom she has no -use. Go on worshipping her. Keep big ideas before you and one day you -may get near the foot of her throne. It's not given to many to touch -her knees. But to worship at the foot of the throne is something. Why, -even to look at her from afar is worth years of struggle. Saltby keeps -one eye on her I grant, but he keeps the other on himself, and it makes -him the damned conceited and sarcastic ass he is...." - -Barnabas seemed to hear the voice distinctly, to feel the magnetism of -the man who had spoken the words so many years ago. - -He remembered later in the evening hearing two students speaking of the -man. - -"Kostolitz is a weird chap," one had said; "mad as a hatter." - -"Spends half his time like a tramp," said the other, "going around the -country and writing poetry, and the other half in sculpting. Every now -and then he takes it into his head to come in here and draw a bit. He -says it freshens him up to see beginners on their way to fame." - -Barnabas remembered that Kostolitz had come to him at the end of the -morning and had suggested their walking back to Chelsea together. It -had been the beginning of their friendship. - -The man's face came persistently before him this evening as he pursued -his way towards the World's End. - -Other little speeches of his returned to his mind. "I love colour," he -seemed to hear him saying, "but I can't work in paints. They aren't -my medium. I want to get to the solid. Give me a lump of clay and I'm -happy. It's nonsense to say there's only colour in actual coloured -things. There is colour in everything--words, music, thoughts--the -world's steeped in colour if you can only see it. Why, man, it may -seem odd to you, but people even give me the sense of colour. Perhaps -it's the old Eastern idea of auras, I don't know. Anyhow, that idea -is too mixed up with spiritualism and closed rooms to appeal to me. -Give me the open air, the sunshine, flowers, and singing birds. I can -believe in fairies, gnomes, the People of the Wind, and the People of -the Trees, anything that is of the Spirit of Nature. There they sit -together--Nature and Art--the two great goddesses, bless them; and -men try to separate Art from Nature. They can't, man, I tell you they -can't." - -Barnabas could almost see the man's eyes--passionate grey eyes--fixed -on him as he remembered the words. And it was the memory of those -eyes that Pippa's eyes had awakened in him, and with their memory had -brought the other scenes before him. The memory had awakened as he had -watched her listening entranced to the story of "The Sleeping Beauty." -He had seen the eyes of his friend Kostolitz looking at him from the -small pale face, and suddenly he had seen the whole wonderful likeness -the child bore to the man. Kostolitz was dead, had been dead now many -years. Had he left behind him this scrap of humanity, holding perhaps a -spirit as poetical and intense as his own, to battle with the world? If -it were so, for the sake of that friendship, it must be protected. And -something told Barnabas that he was not mistaken in his belief. - -He turned now into the small dark street. He found the house whose -number Pippa had given him, and knocked on the door. It was opened by a -large, slatternly woman with a watery eye. - -"That you, Pippa?" she exclaimed. "'Ere, you come in, and I'll give you -somethink staying hout like this." - -Then she saw Barnabas. Visions of N.S.P.C.C. inspectors rose suddenly -before her mind. Mrs. Higgins quailed inwardly. - -"Well?" she asked, and her voice was truculent because her spirit was -quaking, "and wot can I do for you, sir?" - -"Am I," asked Barnabas suavely, "addressing Mrs. Higgins?" - -"That's my nime," replied the lady, arms akimbo. - -"I believe," continued Barnabas, still suavely, "that you have had -charge of a child--a little girl named Pippa." - -"I 'ave," said Mrs. Higgins defiantly, "and a more hungrateful, -huntruthful, little baggage I hain't never set heyes on. Hif you 'ave -hanythink to say about 'er, per'aps you'll kindly step hinside." - -Barnabas stepped into the small passage. It was ill-smelling, redolent -of dirt and boiled cabbage. Mrs. Higgins herself breathed gin. She was, -however, at the moment tolerably sober. - -"I understand," said Barnabas, "that she came here with a Madame -Fournier." - -Mrs. Higgins blazed. "She did. A French 'uzzy wot took and disappeared -last June, leaving me with 'er child. Friend's child she called it. -I know them gimes. Just about as much a friend's child as Madame 'ad -a right to 'er title or 'er ring wot she wore so conspikus, I'll be -bound. Leaving me with the child on me 'ands, wot I kep' from charity, -and never so much has a penny piece to pay for 'er keep but wot she -gets from them hartists as she goes to." - -"Then the child," asked Barnabas, "is no relation of yours?" - -"Relation of mine!" cried Mrs. Higgins indignantly and virtuously. -"Do yer think hif she belonged to me as I'd allow 'er to be standing -naked fer men to look at. I'm a respectable woman, I am, I thanks the -Halmighty." Mrs. Higgins ended with a loud sniff. - -Barnabas suddenly felt a sensation of almost physical nausea. He seemed -to hear Kostolitz's voice begging him to leave the place, to get away -from the filth of the atmosphere, and above all never to let the child -return to it. - -"Then," said Barnabas decisively, "you will no doubt be glad to be -relieved from the burden of maintaining her. She will not return here, -and she will be provided for." - -Mrs. Higgins gasped at the suddenness of the statement. She felt -something like dismay. She saw Pippa's earnings, which had added -largely to her weekly income, disappearing in the distance. - -"And 'ow about the hexpense I've been put to!" she exclaimed. "Yer -don't feed a growing child for six months fer nothink, and me as kind -to 'er as hif I'd been 'er own mother." Mrs. Higgins began to sob here, -moved to tears by the memory of her own tenderness. - -Barnabas' mouth set grimly. - -"I think, Mrs. Higgins," he remarked, "that the less you say about your -treatment of the child the better. As far as her keep is concerned her -own earnings have no doubt paid you more than adequately for the food -you have given her. As however you will lose them in the future----" - -He pulled two sovereigns from his pocket. - -"Take these," he said briefly, "and good evening." - -He turned from the house leaving Mrs. Higgins gaping and astonished. -It is a mercy when the Mrs. Higginses of the world can be thus easily -disposed of. - -Barnabas walked away down the street, marvelling at the fact that man -had originally been created by God in His own image. - - * * * * * - -He went straight back to studio number seven, where he found Miss Mason -anxiously awaiting him. He sat down and gave her a brief account of his -search and its results, omitting, however, a description of the dirt -and smells. - -"And so," he ended, smiling, "you mean to keep this waif?" - -"I couldn't let her go," said Miss Mason. "Did you see her eyes?" - -Barnabas had. But the look in them had hurt him too much for him to -care to think about it. So he merely said lightly: - -"Where is she now?" - -"Asleep on half a dozen cushions and among blankets on the floor of -my room. She has had a bath and been wrapped again in that red silk. -She'll have to live in it till I can get her some more clothes. I've -burnt the others, and put the hat, coat, and boots in the dust hole. In -spite of her poor little attempts at cleanliness, one never knows." - -"One does not," said Barnabas grimly, thinking of the house she had -come from. "May I smoke?" he asked. - -"Certainly," said Miss Mason. She liked the scent of tobacco in her -studio. She felt it to be part and parcel of Bohemia. - -There was a long silence. - -Miss Mason was thinking of the child lying asleep in the next room. She -had an odd feeling that the Fates had sent Pippa directly to her that -she might in a way atone to herself for her own lonely childhood by -making this morsel of humanity happy. She had already begun to weave -the dreams that are woven by fairy godmothers. - -And Barnabas' thoughts had again travelled back to his friend -Kostolitz, and the thoughts made his eyes grave and a little sad. - -"I am going over to Paris to-morrow," he said suddenly, breaking the -silence. - -"Yes?" queried Miss Mason. - -"You know that oil-portrait that hangs by my mantelpiece?" he asked. -"Doesn't a likeness strike you?" - -Miss Mason looked up. She felt suddenly a little anxious. - -"Of course," she said slowly. "I never thought of it before. It's the -image of Pippa." - -Barnabas nodded. - -"I saw it when I came back into the studio and found her at tea." - -There was a pause. - -"Who is the portrait?" asked Miss Mason. - -"A man I knew long ago," said Barnabas. "His name was Philippe -Kostolitz. He was a strange man--an Hungarian. He was a true vagabond, -yet certainly of good birth. I knew nothing of his people, if he had -any. He was half gipsy and wholly artist. The statue of the little faun -in my garden is his work. He gave it to me. We were great friends." - -"Ah," said Miss Mason softly. "And where is he now?" - -Barnabas made a swift sign of the cross. He had been baptized a -Catholic, and in spite of his present rather Pagan views regarding life -he had retained this beautiful custom. There was an innate instinct of -reverence in Barnabas. - -"In Paradise I hope. He was killed nine years ago in a railway -accident. It was a horribly prosaic ending for a man whose whole nature -was the essence of poetry." - -Miss Mason was silent. After a moment she spoke. - -"Then you think that Pippa----" she broke off. She was looking straight -at Barnabas. - -"I don't know," he said bluntly. "The likeness is extraordinary. In -Paris I might find out something from the artists for whom she posed. I -know one or two of them personally." - -"Thank you," said Miss Mason. "The journey, of course, will be my -affair." - -"That," said Barnabas, "is pure nonsense. If Pippa--you see, Kostolitz -was my friend." - -"But I wish it," said Miss Mason. And something in her voice made -Barnabas give way. - -Ten minutes or so later he left the studio. - -Before Miss Mason put out her light that night she went across to the -heap of cushions and blankets and looked at Pippa. She touched her -cheek gently with one wrinkled hand. It was long before Miss Mason -slept. She lay awake listening to the regular sound of the child's -breathing. - - * * * * * - -The morning, with the variability of English weather, broke still and -sunny, a touch of frost in the air. - -Barnabas looked in at Miss Mason's studio before he left for Paris. - -He found that lady sitting in her chair knitting. Pippa was curled up -on the hearthrug, the red silk tightly swathing her slim body. A pair -of shoes and stockings of Sally's, many sizes too big for her, covered -her feet. She was watching Miss Mason with the eyes of an adoring puppy. - -She scrambled to her feet as she saw Barnabas. - -"Ah!" she cried, a note of great pleasure in her voice. "It is ze so -sunny Monsieur. I wis you good morning." - -Barnabas came over and stood on the hearthrug. - -"I'm just off," he said. - -"I knew you'd look in," said Miss Mason. "I waited for you before going -out to buy garments." - -"Going away?" asked Pippa, looking at him with troubled eyes. She had -had experience of people who went away and did not return. - -"Only for a few days, and mainly on business which concerns you, little -one," he replied. - -Pippa gave a relieved sigh. - -"Come back ver' quick," she said. And then suddenly: "What is your -name?" - -He laughed. "You must call me Barnabas," he said. - -She nodded her head. "Monsieur Barnabas," she said slowly. Then she -turned to Miss Mason "What sall I call you?" she asked. - -A sudden little tender thought sprang into Miss Mason's mind. She put -it aside. - -"You can call me," she said rather gruffly, "Aunt Olive." - -Again the child nodded her head. "Aunt Oleeve and Monsieur Barnabas, -c'est bon." She looked an odd little elfin figure as she stood there -watching them. - -"I must be off," said Barnabas. "I've no time to lose." - -Pippa came to the door with him. - -"Bon voyage," she cried, waving her hand. And then suddenly she saw the -marble faun in the next garden. - -"Ah!" she cried. "Quel beau petit garçon!" She darted down one path and -up another. - -The last thing Barnabas saw, as he looked back before leaving the -courtyard, was a poppy-coloured figure standing in the wintry sunshine -beside a white marble faun. The child had her arms familiarly round the -faun's neck. - -He painted that picture later when the days were warmer. It was a -picture that was to travel far away from England, and it was to keep -alive in the heart of a woman the memory of a secret--a secret of three -weeks of glorious happiness and a strange regret--a secret known only -to herself and to three other living people. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -VARIOUS MATTERS - - -And so Barnabas departed to Paris in the attempt to find some clue -regarding the scrap of humanity which the Fates had led to Miss Mason's -studio. It was not that Miss Mason cared in the smallest degree what -her parentage was. She was just a lonely little soul needing love, -and so Miss Mason had taken her into her arms and into her big heart. -Dan had once said of Miss Mason, and only shortly after making her -acquaintance: - -"I veritably believe that woman has the biggest hands, the biggest -feet, and the biggest heart of any woman in Christendom." And the more -he knew of her the more convinced he felt of the truth of his statement. - -But even a big heart is not entirely sufficient guarantee for taking -possession of a small girl. One can no more pick one up and keep -it than one can pick up a valuable ornament and place it on one's -mantelpiece. At any rate, if one did there would always be the -uncomfortable feeling that the rightful owner might one day walk -casually up to it and say: - -"That is mine." - -Barnabas understood this, and therefore he had gone off to Paris to see -if there were any likelihood of a rightful owner turning up one day to -claim Pippa. It was wiser that Miss Mason should not get too attached -to her possession before he had made sure on that point. Also there was -the memory of Philippe Kostolitz. - -But while he was gone Miss Mason petted the child to her heart's -content, bought dainty undergarments and charming frocks, and played -that delightful game of "mother," which is a game all women have played -throughout eternity at some time in their lives, even if it is only -played with a rag doll wrapped in a shawl. - -And while she was playing, and while Pippa was enjoying the game almost -as much as she was and revelling in frilly petticoats, long black -stockings, buckled shoes, and soft green frocks--green seemed to belong -to her, for some reason, as a matter of course--the other five artists -of the courtyard were living their lives, painting their pictures, -smoking their pipes, and being happy or miserable according to their -moods. - -And it is perhaps safe to say, though a great pity to have to say -it, that Jasper's mood of the last six months had been one of utter -depression. - -At first, when he had walked away from the ugly little house in -Chiswick, he had felt--in spite of the shock he had received at -Bridget's unexpected attitude towards him--a certain exultation in -the thought that duty would never compel him to take that route again. -He told himself that he rejoiced in his freedom, but after a day or so -he had found it necessary to emphasize that point to himself with a -certain degree of insistence. Phrases she had used began to return to -his mind at odd moments. In the midst of painting an angel's wing, or -trying to concentrate on the beatific expression of some saint's face, -he would suddenly hear her voice: - -"I wanted to ask your help, to tell you what I had suffered. I could -not." - -And again, when painting some piece of flame-coloured drapery, he would -hear the words: - -"How did you try to help me? By talking calm platitudes through a kind -of moral disinfectant sheet which you held between us----" - -And yet again, as he tried for the strength of courage in the face of -the warrior angel, he would hear her saying: - -"You have not had the manhood to help me." - -It angered him that she should come between him and his work. He had -loved it. He had felt a kind of mystical joy in it, in the knowledge -that his work would adorn the houses of God, and that the saints he -painted would look down upon the altar where the priest commemorated -the Great Sacrifice. Sometimes in his more intense moments he had -fancied himself an incarnation of one of the old painters who -portrayed for sheer love of God dancing saints garlanded with flowers. -He did not know that his own work lacked that child-like joy, and that -its asceticism was hard and cold. - -But now the memory of the house in Chiswick, which he used to banish -easily from his thoughts, came again and again before his mind -to prevent him working. He began to leave his studio and go for -long walks, only returning when it was too dark to paint. And his -fellow-artists wondered what possessed him, and would have welcomed one -of his priggish speeches rather than this moody silence. - -And Alan Farley, the other artist who fancied himself a mystic, painted -a few pictures when the inspiration was upon him, pictures which -remained to adorn his own studio walls, as they were incomprehensible -to any one but himself and to one other--a girl, Aurora Castleton, in -whom Alan found a kindred soul. They frequented each other's studios, -and talked of "the true spirit," and "the deeper meaning," and "the -virtue of symbolism," and lamented that the public were too blind -to realize the inner beauty which they were kindly interpreting for -them on canvas. They found, however, a great deal of consolation and -pleasure in each other's society. And a Small Boy with drooping wings -sat mournfully in a corner and heard them talk, knowing that he alone -could give them the true key to the meaning of Beauty--a key that the -most ignorant could understand. But they refused to look at him. Even -his arrows were useless, for the cloak of High Art with which the two -had surrounded themselves seems to be the one thing that is impervious -to them. - -And Dan plodded on with his Messonier-like paintings and missed -Barnabas a good deal, in spite of the fact that he had been gone barely -three days. And Michael did wonderful line work, and wrote little -cynical essays for a small magazine that scoffed at love as sentimental. - -But Paul was absorbed in his portrait of the Duchessa, and in the -wonderful music his heart heard, the meaning of which was beginning to -dawn on his soul. - -The Duchessa had given him her own ideas regarding the portrait the -first morning she had come to the studio. She had told him about the -Casa di Corleone, and the courtyard with the golden oranges and marble -fauns and nymphs, and the gallery where her portrait was to hang. - -"I want it," she had said, "to be a wee bit--just the weest bit in the -world--flaunting. The women of the House of Corleone are haughty and -disdainful. They are too proud to show their feelings. If they ever -loved the courtyard and the sunshine, they would have scorned to show -it. They have scorned me often for loving it. I have seen--you may -laugh at me if you like--their lips curl when my heart has danced for -joy as I have stood in the gallery and watched the sunlight stream -through the big hall door. I can't hang there meekly accepting their -scorn. I want to defy them. They may think the place theirs, and be -calmly satisfied in their possession of it, and they may look upon me -as an alien. But it is mine, mine, mine. I want them to know it--not -aggressively, you realize--but with just the tiniest bit of assurance -that there's no mistake at all." - -And Paul had responded to her mood as a violin responds to the -master-hand that draws the bow across its strings. He had sketched her -in on the canvas almost as she had spoken the words, standing there -with her head just a trifle thrown back, a little gleam of fascinating -devilry in her eyes. - -They had nearly come to loggerheads regarding her dress, however. She -wished it to be scarlet, in contrast to the black dresses and sombre -colours of the haughty ladies already in the gallery. Paul wished it to -be blue. In the end she had had her will. It was not often that Sara, -Duchessa di Corleone, failed in accomplishing it. - -Perhaps the most noticeable characteristic of Sara was her vivid -magnetism. Every separate burnished hair of her head seemed to possess -it. Her eyes possessed it, her smile possessed it, her voice--a low -contralto--possessed it. Her presence dominated a room the moment she -entered it, even if she did not speak a word, and Sara possessed a -curious gift for silences. They were sudden and unaccountable silences, -more disconcerting and full of magnetism than speech. She lapsed into -them often with Paul. They came as a sudden and odd interruption to her -flow of sparkling talk. She had a trick of making the most ordinary -words sparkle. Water, after all, is only water, but it can look very -different in sunshine from beneath a grey sky. - -And perhaps for the first time Paul found himself at a loss to read -the character she presented to him. Probably because he could not -appreciate it sufficiently calmly. The music in his heart distracted -him, and the tune was clearer and sweeter when she was near. He knew -its meaning now, and it filled him with happiness and pain--happiness -because it is the most beautiful music in the world to those who hear -it, and pain because it somehow seemed to emphasize his own loneliness. -And because he had always been lonely a certain feeling had come to him -of being not wanted. It was not exactly diffidence, not the outcome -of shyness, but merely a certainty that he made no difference to the -scheme of happiness in others; in fact, that it probably worked more -easily without him. He could not imagine himself as essential to -anyone, and never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined himself -as essential to the woman who had suddenly become the centre of his -universe. - - * * * * * - -One evening Barnabas returned and walked into Miss Mason's studio. He -came right over to the fire and sat down. - -"Well?" she said, looking at him very anxiously. The game of "mother" -can gain an extraordinary fascination in a very few days. - -"I have found out one thing," said Barnabas, "that is a curious -coincidence at all events. The child's real name is Philippa." - -"Ah," said Miss Mason slowly. - -"I went to different studios," went on Barnabas, "but the artists knew -nothing beyond the fact that the child had lived with Madame Barbin. -Then I went to the houses she had tenanted. The neighbours told me -she was a kind old soul, and two of them at least averred that they -remembered the advent of Pippa to the house when a baby of a few weeks -old. They declare that an English lady brought her to Madame Barbin, -and that Madame Barbin received money for the child's keep. Madame -Fournier was a relation of Madame Barbin's--a niece, they believed. -They did not know where her home was beyond that it was somewhere -in Brittany. She came occasionally to visit Madame Barbin, and was -with her when she died. Their theory is that Madame Fournier took -possession of the child in order to receive the allowance made for her. -It was sent to Madame Barbin, and she returned a receipt and statement -that the child was alive and well. That, at least, is the neighbour's -story. But they had no notion from whom the money came. The people -who sent it must certainly have trusted Madame Barbin implicitly. -According to the neighbours, she deserved the trust. Madame Fournier -no doubt took on the job and abandoned the child as soon as she could -conveniently do so. To receive the money without having to provide for -the child has evidently appealed to her mind as a method of procedure -more advantageous to herself." - -Barnabas stopped. - -"And how did you find out that the child's real name was Philippa?" -asked Miss Mason. - -"A woman named Madame Paulet volunteered the information," said -Barnabas. "She told me that Madame Barbin had said that the child had -first been christened Philippa according to the rites of the English -Church. But being a devout Catholic, Madame Barbin evidently didn't -trust to an English baptism. She had the child re-baptized. I saw -the priest who performed the ceremony. She was then, he said, about -two months old. Madame Barbin had told him that she did not know the -name of the child's parents. She received money quarterly for her -maintenance. She did tell him the name of the woman who sent it, but as -it was told under the seal of confession he couldn't have given it to -me even if he had remembered it. But he had forgotten." - -There was a short silence. - -"Then," said Mason slowly, "Pippa is a Catholic." - -"Yes," said Barnabas. "You are sorry?" - -"I am old-fashioned," said Miss Mason. "But after all it is the same -God we worship." - -"And if," said Barnabas, "she is Philippe's child, as I believe, he -would be glad. He was a devout Catholic with a strange mixture of -Paganism. I believe that for him the altars of Pan and Christ were -built side by side." - -Miss Mason looked at Barnabas with a little twinkle in her eyes. - -"You'll have to take her to church," she said. - -Barnabas laughed. "You think that after all there may be some advantage -in her baptism?" - -Again there was a silence. Then Barnabas spoke. - -"If Philippe were her father, and I can't help feeling sure of it, he -must have died some months before her birth. Possibly before he knew -that she was even thought of." - -And then Miss Mason put a question, one which had been in the minds of -both of them throughout that conversation at least, but, being a woman, -it was she who voiced it. - -"I wonder," she said quietly, "who was her mother?" - -"Exactly," said Barnabas. - -And because he had loved Philippe Kostolitz he said no more. But his -eyes again grew sad. For Barnabas held very straight views on some -subjects, and he dreaded lest the whiteness of his friend's honour had -been in the smallest degree smirched. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -A QUESTION OF COLOUR - - -Pippa became part of the life of the six artists of the courtyard, -and they all wondered, if they ever thought about the matter at all, -however they had managed to get on without her. - -She seemed to belong in some special way to Barnabas. That fact was -one of mutual recognition. Michael found himself stopping suddenly -in the middle of his cynical little speeches when she was present. -It is impossible to be cynical with a child's eyes fixed on one, -drinking in every word. Dan kept her supplied with chocolates, and -gave her a grey kitten. Jasper painted her a picture of the Blessed -Virgin. It was the first painting he had done for weeks past without -the memory of the house in Chiswick coming as an interruption to his -thoughts. The picture, too, held a tenderness not seen in his previous -paintings. Paul, for a wonder, allowed her to see his unfinished -work, and found amusement in her naïve criticisms. One criticism--to -be related presently--was somewhat of a revelation. Alan studied her -deeply, saying that the innocent unfolding of a child's mind was one -of the greatest marvels of creation. Her remarks on colour honestly -interested him. And in them Barnabas felt more than ever convinced that -she was the child of his friend Philippe Kostolitz. - -She used to announce quite gravely that people were like colours. Miss -Mason she designated as "couleur de rose." Barnabas himself she said -was gold "all sparkling like sunshine." Paul she insisted was like -the purple light that fell across the river at night. Dan was green -like the leaves of chrysanthemum foliage. Alan was the colour of the -sea. Michael was grey and red. And she refused to assign any colour to -Jasper. But when coaxed by Barnabas she confessed it was because he was -quite grey, and no pretty colour at all. - -One day about the middle of February Pippa lunched with Paul. He -announced that he wished her to see the portrait of the Duchessa di -Corleone. The Duchessa herself, who had been away since Christmas, was -coming for what would probably be a last sitting at two o'clock that -afternoon. - -"Well?" said Paul, standing near the luncheon table while Pippa gazed -upon the portrait, "what do you think of it?" - -Pippa wrinkled up her forehead. - -"I don't know," she said slowly, and she came across to the table -looking at Paul with perplexed eyes. - -"Evidently," said Paul, a trifle disappointed, "it doesn't meet with -your approval." - -"I don't know," said Pippa again, still looking puzzled. And then she -saw the luncheon table. "Chicken and meringues"--she rolled the "r" in -her funny way--"how lovely!" - -"The lunch," said Paul, "unquestionably appeals to you far more than -the portrait." - -Pippa did not reply. But during the meal she kept looking from the -portrait to Paul, as if she might find in his face some explanation of -her perplexity. - -They were drinking their coffee, which Pippa loved, when Paul's man -announced the Duchessa. - -The whole atmosphere of the studio seemed suddenly to sparkle with her -entrance. Paul sprang to his feet. There was a light in his eyes of -which the meanest intelligence might have recognized the interpretation. - -"I am punctual to the moment," she said. "And how are you? It is six -weeks since we've met." Then she saw Pippa. - -"And who," she asked, "is this?" - -"Pippa," said Paul gravely, "may I introduce you to the Duchessa di -Corleone." - -Pippa held out her hand. - -"Pippa?" queried the Duchessa, with the tiniest and most adorable lift -of her eyebrows. - -"Just Pippa," said Paul. - -Sara sat down. "Finish your coffee," she said. "And may I have a cup?" - -Paul seized the kettle. It was the first time she would have partaken -of food or drink in his studio. It marked, in his mind, an epoch. - -"Don't make fresh coffee," she begged. - -"It is a pleasure," he said. "It is one of the few achievements of -which I am justly proud." - -Pippa was gazing at the Duchessa with wide grey eyes. The perplexity in -them had vanished. - -"Well, Pippa," asked Sara, "and what do you think of my portrait?" - -"I know now," said Pippa firmly. "Ze couleur is wrong." - -Paul, who was stirring the coffee in a jug, paused a moment to look at -her. - -"The colour?" he queried. - -Pippa nodded. "The picture," she said, "is red. She"--Pippa looked at -the Duchessa--"is blue. Oh, but very blue, like--like zat." She pointed -towards a sapphire vase on Paul's mantelpiece. - -Paul and Sara looked at each other. There was the tiniest--just the -very tiniest--look of triumph in Paul's eyes. - -Sara laughed outright. "Mr. Treherne," she said, "aren't you longing to -say 'I told you so'?" - -"I think," replied Paul, "Pippa has said it for me." - -Sara turned to Pippa. - -"Then," she said, "it is the colour of the dress that is wrong?" - -Again Pippa nodded. - -"Sometimes ze dresses zey not matter," she said thoughtfully, "but for -you ze real--oh, but it hurt." She clasped her hands against her heart -with a little tragic gesture. - -"What's to be done?" asked Sara as Paul handed her the coffee. - -"Re-paint the dress, and the whole portrait if necessary," he replied -promptly. - -"Oh, but the time, and your trouble!" cried Sara. "I couldn't think of -it. Besides, it was my own fault," she added contritely. - -It struck neither of them as odd that they should so implicitly accept -Pippa's criticism. - -"I shall only," said Paul, "be doing what I originally wished to do, if -you will forgive me for saying so. The question is whether you will be -too bored with further sittings?" - -A faint rose-colour stole over the ivory of the Duchessa's face. - -"On the contrary," she said lightly, "I shall be very happy. I -have"--she paused the merest fraction of a second--"not been bored at -all." - -She drank her coffee and put down the cup. Pippa got up from her chair. -She knew the moment to make herself scarce. Long acquaintance with -studios and the work of artists had taught her. - -She held out her hand to the Duchessa. - -"I like you," she said. "I like you ver' much. Please come to tea wis -me one day--you and Monsieur Paul." - -"But," said the Duchessa, "Christopher is coming for me at half-past -three." - -Paul's face, which had been very gay, fell suddenly. Christopher's name -troubled him. He was on such delightfully--for him--easy terms with the -Duchessa. - -"But bring Monsieur Christopher too," said Pippa calmly. - -The Duchessa looked at Paul. - -"But where does she live?" she asked. "And may we accept this -invitation wholesale?" - -"By all means," Paul assured her. "Pippa lives in studio number seven -with Miss Mason, don't you, Pippa? And we all invade that studio at any -hour. Miss Mason ties up cuts, finds new servants for us when our old -ones get out of hand, administers hot concoctions of her own brewing -when any of us have colds, in short, mothers us all round. And Pippa -gives us excellent advice as to the colour of our socks and ties. We -really don't care to think of what we were before Aunt Olive and Pippa -took us in hand." - -"So you will come?" said Pippa, standing near the door. - -Paul went over to open it for her. - -"Yes, we'll come," he said. - -"The Duchessa, you, and Monsieur Christopher," said Pippa gaily. - -"Oh, yes," said Paul, an odd inflexion in his voice, "no doubt Monsieur -Christopher will come too." - -He held the door open, and Pippa went out. - -Then he came back to the Duchessa. She had heard the inflexion in his -voice, and a little light of comprehension had sprung to her eyes. - -"Ah!" she breathed softly to herself. Then she looked up at Paul. - -"And now," she said, "are you ready for the metamorphosis--to re-paint -me as a blue lady?" - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -THE LADY OF THE BLUE DRESS AGAIN - - -And so it was that Pippa's impulsive invitation brought the lady of the -blue dress once more into Miss Mason's surroundings. - -And with her advent came one of the brightest threads which the Fates -were using to weave into the hitherto sombre pattern of her life. For -there is never any knowing what the Fates will do. For years the woof -of their weaving may be utterly grey, but if the warp has kept firm -and strong they may suddenly take the brightest colours--a very crazy -patchwork of them--and weave them into the most intricate and curious -pattern imaginable. And because the strength of the warp of this life -pleased them, they were now choosing the most fantastically coloured -threads in the weaving of the woof. - -Pippa told Miss Mason of the invitation she had issued, and then went -to wash her hands and brush her hair. There was no need to change her -dress. She had already put on her prettiest frock to lunch with Paul. - -Just before half-past three there was a knock at the door. Pippa looked -up expectant. But it was only Barnabas. - -"Hullo!" he said, coming in and seeing the tea-things on the -table--Sally would be occupied with hot cakes at the last -moment--"you're expecting company." - -"The Duchessa di Corleone, Monsieur Paul, and Monsieur Christopher," -Pippa told him. - -"Shall I be in the way?" asked Barnabas, looking at Miss Mason, "or may -I stay?" - -"You are never in the way," said Miss Mason decisively. - -Pippa sat down near him and slid one hand into his. And Miss Mason -looked at them, and thought that only a year ago, and perhaps at that -very hour, she had been sitting in a stiff drawing-room furnished with -hideous chairs and ornamented with wax flowers under glass shades, -listening to a long and minute account of Miss Stanhope's ill-health, -sleeplessness, and want of appetite. And because the contrast was so -very great, her eyes grew a trifle misty with unshed happy tears, and -she said a little prayer, that was certainly more Catholic than her -distinctly Broad Church views realized, for Miss Stanhope's present -welfare. - -And then suddenly voices were heard outside the studio, a woman's voice -which Miss Mason seemed to recognize, and a man laughing. - -The next moment Sally opened the door. Her eyes were round with awe. - -"The Duchess----" the next words were indistinguishable--"Mr. Charlton, -and Mr. Treherne," she gasped. Already in her mind she was telling Jim -that she had had the honour of ushering a real live Duchess into the -studio. - -The Duchessa di Corleone came into the room. Then she gave a little -exclamation of astonishment and went forwards with outstretched hands. - -"My fairy godmother!" she cried. And she was nearer truth than she had -any idea as she spoke the words. - -"The lady in the blue dress!" said Miss Mason, her face radiant with -pleasure. - -"So you two know each other," said Paul. - -"We met--when was it--last May?" said Sara. "May I introduce Mr. -Charlton." And the man whom Miss Mason had seen in the lounge of the -Wilton Hotel bowed. - -"It is," said the Duchessa when she was seated, and after Barnabas had -been introduced, "quite the most unexpected and delightful meeting. It -was not till I was on my way to Italy that I remembered I had never -asked your name." And then she told the others of their first meeting. - -"And has it all," she asked, "been just as delightful as I prophesied?" - -"More delightful," said Miss Mason promptly. She was looking at -Christopher. She remembered the "Christopher, darling," and her mind, -woman-like, was keen on the secret of a romance. - -Sara saw her glance. By a flash of intuition she guessed something of -what was passing in Miss Mason's mind. It gave her an opportunity she -had been looking for during the last hour and a half. - -"Christopher came to fetch me that evening to take me to an At Home, -I remember. He is an extraordinarily useful person. I have known him -since I was ten years old." - -The words were addressed to Miss Mason. They were intended for another -occupant of the studio. - -"I remember," said Christopher, "our first meeting. It was, I think, -unique." - -"In what way?" asked Paul. - -"The Duchessa and her parents," said Christopher, "had taken a house -in Devonshire, at Salcombe, as a matter of fact, where I then lived. -My mother, being of a hospitable turn of mind, and also of opinion -that young men should make themselves generally useful, sent me across -the road to enquire of Captain and Mrs. de Courcy if I could be of any -assistance to them. I went. I found the Duchessa seated on the veranda -on an overturned flower-pot. She was engaged in teaching 'nap' to -three small boys who had come in from the next door garden, also with -hospitable intentions. I found Mrs. de Courcy disentangling silver -forks from among her evening frocks; they had been packed among them -for safety----" - -"Mamma was always under the impression that everybody was going to -steal everything," interjected the Duchessa. - -"Captain de Courcy," went on Christopher, "was extracting tin-tacks -from the kitchen coal-scuttle, into which they had been upset by the -Duchessa in her frantic questing for playing-cards." - -"And did you," asked Miss Mason grimly, "assist him?" - -"I extracted two tacks," continued Christopher reminiscently. "Then I -heard the Duchessa laugh. Have you ever heard her? I went out on to the -veranda. First I looked at her, then I turned another flower-pot upside -down and sat upon it. I tried to instruct her in a few of the correct -rules of 'nap.' She cheated, I remember, abominably. She has, in fact, -cheated throughout her life." - -"Indeed, I have not," said Sara indignantly. There was a dimple at the -corner of her mouth. - -"You have," said Christopher calmly. "You have cheated the Fates every -time they dealt the cards of fortune against you. It's a trick many -of us would give our eyes to learn. They deal her black cards, heigh -presto! the Duchessa has changed them to red ones. They deal her low -dull cards--the Duchessa holds aces and Kings, particularly," ended -Christopher severely, "Kings!" - -"Christopher," said Sara sweetly, "is given to exaggeration." She -was first the tiniest bit annoyed. Christopher's last word savoured -somewhat of an accusation of flirting. No woman cares to be accused of -that pastime before a man in whom she is feeling--well, certainly more -than just a careless interest. Besides, the music Paul had been hearing -during the last ten weeks had begun to reach the Duchessa's ears, -though as yet quite faintly. The slight implication of flirting came as -a discord to the tune it was playing. - -"The late Duca di Corleone might certainly be termed a King," protested -Christopher, "while the Casa di Corleone and the coffers of centesimi -are most assuredly many aces." - -"Yes," agreed the Duchessa. "You, however, said 'particularly Kings.'" - -"My mistake," said Christopher politely. "I should have said -particularly aces." - -The Duchessa made a little gracious gesture of forgiveness. Paul had -been stroking a small grey kitten--gift of Dan to Pippa--during the -little conversation, and was apparently entirely engrossed in the -kitten. But he had heard every word, and Christopher's intimacy with -the Duchessa was seen by him in a new and far more satisfactory light. - -"But now," said the Duchessa, addressing herself to Miss Mason, "I want -to hear everything you have been doing since last May." - -Miss Mason glanced around the studio. - -"Got a studio," she said. - -"And also," said Barnabas, "she has adopted six nephews and one niece." - -"Me," said Pippa, who was gazing at the Duchessa with fascinated eyes. - -Sara smiled. She looked at Paul and Barnabas. - -"I imagine," she said, "that these are two of the nephews. Where are -the others?" - -"In their studios," said Barnabas. "Aunt Olive doesn't keep all her -nephews on the premises. They are the six artists of the courtyard." - -"Oh," said Sara, with a low laugh, "then you, too, have a magic -courtyard." - -"Where is yours?" asked Pippa. - -And the Duchessa told her, bringing the sunshine of Italy and the -gleam of golden oranges into the studio, bathing it in their light and -colour. And Paul listened as he listened always when she spoke, loving -the sound of her voice and the magic of her words. - -Suddenly as she ended they heard the sound of a violin. It came from -across the courtyard and through the partly open window. - -"Hush!" said the Duchessa, and she raised her head listening. - -When the last sad notes had died away, she looked across at Paul. - -"Who is it?" she asked softly, her eyes full of tears, for the sad -bitterness of a troubled heart had wailed through the music. - -"Michael Chester," said Paul quietly. - -"And why," asked the Duchessa, "is he not taking London by storm?" - -"Because," said Paul, "he is a cripple." - -"Ah!" said the Duchessa. She had no need to ask more, for the music had -told her the rest. - -After a time she left, promising to come again. As she went into the -courtyard with Paul and Christopher she looked towards the window from -whence the sounds of the violin had proceeded. - -"I wonder," she said, "if one day he will play for me." - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -THE DUCHESSA ENTERS A KINGDOM - - -February gave place to a stormy March, which ushered itself in angry -and tempestuous. By the end of the month it was tired of its anger, and -throughout April was like a child promising with smiles and tears to be -good. In May it fulfilled its promise. The month was all sunshine, with -soft winds and blue skies. The parks were alive with flowers, women -donned their brightest dresses, and London looked like a great living -nosegay. - -And with the spring the Music of the Heart was playing so loudly for -the Duchessa that she wondered Paul could not hear it too, and many -times she longed to bid him listen. - -The portrait was finished, and was in her drawing-room till later in -the year when she would take it with her to Italy, where it would hang -in the gallery like a great glowing sapphire among the sombre and -haughty ladies of the House of Corleone. - -She saw Paul from time to time. He came to her flat, and she went to -his studio. And Michael had been persuaded to come and play for her. -And having come once he was ready to come again. He made music sad -and gay, and in her presence it lost much of its bitterness. Only when -he was alone bitterness returned, and with it a desperate and pathetic -note of yearning. For with the beauty of the Duchessa Michael realized -more terribly that he was not as other men, though with the curious -instinct possessed by the man-creature of hurting himself, he loved -to be near her and look at her. And in his heart he laughed cynically -at Paul, seeing that he had but to put out his hand and grasp the -wonderful jewel of her love. But having been lonely all his own life he -understood better than anyone Paul's hesitation, even while he laughed. - -And one day when the morning sunshine was more radiant than ever, and -the whole earth seemed singing the Benedicite, Sara wandered across one -of the bridges that span the river and found herself in Battersea Park. -And the lilacs were a mass of purple flowers, and the laburnums hanging -in showers of golden rain, and the tulips were flaunting their gaudy -colours, and the birds singing full-throated songs of joy. - -She sat down on a bench near a great bed of golden tulips and looked -at them. And the colour took her back to Italy, and the courtyard of -Casa di Corleone and the golden oranges, and she knew now the truth -of Christopher's statement that one day she would be ready to forget -them. And a little prayer rose up in her heart, a prayer that perhaps -hundreds of women were praying at that moment before flower-decked -altars, but which Sara addressed to the bed of golden tulips. - -"Ah, Madonna Santa," she prayed, in the language she had learned to -love, "let him tell me." - -And then she looked up and saw Paul coming towards her. - -"I knew I should find you here," he said quietly, and he sat down -beside her. - -And the tulips became a mass of blurred gold, and the Music of the -Heart rang so loudly in her ears that for the moment the song of the -birds was drowned. - -"I have waited a long time," said Paul, "but I cannot wait any longer. -I love you, Sara." - -She turned towards him, and there was an adorable little sob of -happiness in her voice. - -"But, Paul, dear," she said, "why didn't you tell me long ago?" - -And Paul put both his arms round her, and knew that his loneliness was -ended. - -There are some hours which pass like moments, so swiftly are they borne -on the wings of joy. And in those hours Paul and Sara told each other a -hundred little things they had quite possibly said many times before, -but which had suddenly taken on a new meaning and a great tenderness. -But for the most part they were silent, listening to the Music of the -Heart, which was playing now in the completest harmony. - -At last, however, they grew alive to the fact that the morning was very -far advanced, and that they were both hungry. For, with joy be it said, -both Paul and Sara were most delightfully human. - -As she got up from the bench Sara looked at the bed of tulips. - -"I want one of those," she said. - -Regardless of the little square board which forbade the foot of man to -desecrate the grass with his tread, Paul went across to the flower-bed. -He returned with a great golden tulip on a long pale green stem. He -gave it to her. She looked down into the shining petal-chalice. - -"I shall always love yellow tulips now," she said. - -Together they set off homewards, the Duchessa carrying the flower like -a queen carrying a golden-headed sceptre. - -And verily she was a queen, for she had that morning entered her -kingdom--the kingdom of a man's heart. - - * * * * * - -Of course, she went back to lunch with him at the studio, and equally, -of course, there happened to be no food but bread and cheese and -tomatoes. She refused to be taken to a restaurant, and Paul's man was -sent out to buy spaghetti, with which and the tomatoes and cheese Sara -made a true Italian dish, cooking it on a gas stove. - -And it was when they had eaten that and were drinking their coffee, in -the making of which Paul excelled, that Sara suddenly exclaimed: - -"Now I shall know what is in the letter." - -And then she had to tell Paul about the late Duca's will and the -letter. Paul listened. - -"But, dearest," he said, when she had ended, "do you realize what you -are giving up? I am a poor man, and you will lose everything." - -But Sara replied in the words of Christopher: - -"On the contrary, Paul, dear, I gain everything." - -And Paul took her hand and kissed it. - -After that they talked about the future. No one was to be told of their -happiness yet, except Christopher and Paul's mother. They would keep -it a secret known only to those four. In June Sara was going to Italy, -when she would take her portrait and leave it in the gallery. In July -she would return for Paul to claim her completely. - -"But at least I shall know," she ended, "that my portrait is in the -gallery, and that I love the place ten thousand times more than those -haughty ladies who will now, I suppose, look upon it as entirely their -own." - -"And loving it like that you give it up?" said Paul. - -"For you," answered the Duchessa softly. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -BARNABAS SCHEMES WITH CUPID - - -And while the Music of the Heart was making incessant melody for Paul -and the Duchessa, the Small Boy with drooping wings was still sitting -disconsolate in the corner of Aurora's studio. His arrows being useless -he had tried whispering secrets to her, but delightful whispers of -flower-scented nights, country lanes aglow with wild roses, kisses, and -even cuddling babies fell on deaf ears. She heard nothing but the call -of the false goddess whom she had erected in the place of the glorious -goddess who sits so near to Nature. - -One day early in June Aurora was in a particularly dissatisfied mood. -The model, Tilly, who posed not only for Barnabas, but for many other -studios, had been distinctly rude that afternoon. - -Aurora had found inspiration lacking, and had told Tilly she could -go. It had been the signal for a tirade on Tilly's part. She had -spoken her mind freely, with contemptuous words regarding artists who -achieved nothing, and whose pictures, even when completed, were so -incomprehensible that they could find no place in any gallery. Aurora -had told Tilly not to come near her studio again. But her words had -held a sting which hurt. Aurora was near tears. - -Then she remembered that Alan was coming to tea that afternoon and -bringing Barnabas with him. She dried her tears on her painting-apron -and put the kettle on the hob. - -And perhaps it was the suspicion of tears that Barnabas saw when he -and Alan arrived, or perhaps it was an imploring whisper from the -discordant Boy, or perhaps it was merely the sunshine and his own -exuberant spirits, but, at any rate, he had, what the Boy considered, a -heaven-born inspiration. - -"I think," he said suddenly, addressing himself to the square patch -of blue seen through skylight, "that studios are distinctly stuffy -this weather. Let's all go and paint out of doors a bit--be vagabond -artists." The thought of Kostolitz came into his mind with the words. - -"Permanently?" asked Alan, "or by the day?" - -"Oh, for about three weeks or so," said Barnabas. "You, Aurora, Dan, -and me. I'll make Dan come too. I'll hire a coster cart and donkey -to carry our painting materials, a few provisions, and a small tent -for Aurora to sleep in. We three can sleep in the open. Let's," ended -Barnabas slyly, "study Art in Nature." - -"The symbolism of Nature," murmured Alan dreamily. - -"Or Nature without the symbolism," said Aurora. "I'm tired of -symbolism." Her voice was almost petulant. - -The Small Boy in the corner perked up. Barnabas grinned gently. - -"To-day," he announced, "is Tuesday. Let us start on Thursday." - -"Yes," said Aurora firmly, "I want to get away from everything." -Her eyes took in the studio and her own High Art productions in a -comprehensive sweep. "For a time," she added, seeing that Alan was -looking reproachful. - -Barnabas promulgated a few further ideas on the subject, and they all -three studied a large cycling map of Aurora's which had small country -lanes plainly marked on it. - -"Bring the map," said Barnabas, as he rose to take his leave. "And -Thursday, remember, at my studio, at ten o'clock." - -He went round to see Miss Mason that evening to tell her of the plan. -Pippa, in a purple dressing-gown, listened entranced. She had been -given a quarter of an hour's grace from bed on account of Barnabas' -arrival. - -"So," ended Barnabas, "on Thursday at ten o'clock we start off to study -Nature. I've already hired a donkey and cart. To-morrow I buy a tent -and a few other things." - -Pippa gave a huge sigh. - -"How lovely!" she said. "Just you, and Monsieur Dan, and Monsieur -Alan, and Mademoiselle Aurora. Just you four. I s'pose ze tent will be -quite tiny. Only just big enough for Mademoiselle Aurora. Not a teeny -bit more room in it. Not even enough room for Mimsi"--Mimsi was the -grey kitten--"and most certainly not enough room for--for me." - -Barnabas laughed. He looked at Miss Mason. The idea conveyed by Pippa -in this flagrant hint had occurred to him. - -Pippa heard something in the laugh that made her heart beat hopefully. - -"I am," she said reflectively, "not very big. Or," she continued, "a -cart would be a _very_ nice ting to sleep in. I wonder what it feels -like to sleep in a cart." - -"Time you went to bed," said Miss Mason grimly. - -Pippa got up reluctantly. "Bon soir, Monsieur Barnabas," she said, -with a little sigh. "I wonder if Mademoiselle Aurora can darn holes -in men's socks. Madame Barbin taught me to darn--oh, but to darn very -beautifully. Much walking will no doubt make many holes." - -Barnabas telegraphed a question to Miss Mason. - -"You'd get tired walking," said Miss Mason gruffly. - -Pippa looked dubious. "I am not ver' 'eavy. I could perhaps ride in ze -cart just sometimes. Besides," she ended hopefully, "it is ver' good -to be tired. One sleep well at night." - -"Well, go to bed and sleep well now," said Miss Mason. - -Pippa sighed again heavily. - -"Good night, Aunt Oleeve, good night, Monsieur Barnabas." She went away -sorrowfully. - -"Do you think she might come?" said Barnabas. "I'd take great care of -her." - -"You'll tire her out, and she'll be a trouble to you," said Miss Mason. -She was hating the thought of parting with the child. - -"Not a bit," said Barnabas. "The question is, will you spare her?" - -Miss Mason laughed. - -"You've a genius for hitting the truth full on the head, Barnabas. -I suppose I must. She'd adore it, and the open air life would be -excellent for her." - -And so it was arranged. And the tour in the donkey-cart was to be -fraught with a curious little incident which was to lead infinitely -further than anyone could imagine. - - * * * * * - -Thursday dawned bright and sunny under a cloudless sky. - -The donkey-cart was outside Barnabas' studio, and Pippa in a green -dress and rough straw hat trimmed with daisies was feeding the animal -with sugar. She had instantly christened him Pegasus, for though he -was not a winged horse he was most unquestionably a magic steed. - -Painting materials, a hamper of provisions, and the tent were packed -into the cart. Pippa climbed in. Seated on the luggage she held the -reins. Barnabas took hold of the bridle. - -The men were in tweed knickerbocker suits and soft felt hats. Aurora -was in a blue serge skirt, a white blouse, scarlet tie, and a blue -sun-bonnet. She felt that the attire was suited to the part of a -vagabond. - -The other three artists of the courtyard were there watching them and -offering advice. Paul, in his own happiness, felt in entire sympathy -with their gaiety. Jasper and Michael felt somehow rather out of things. - -"You ought to have had the cart meet you somewhere," said Miss Mason. -"You'll be mobbed." - -"Not a bit of it," said Barnabas cheerfully. "Dan's size is protection -enough for the lot of us. Good-bye, Aunt Olive. Ta-ta, you fellows. -We're off to study Nature. We'll write our comments to you and post the -letters at country post offices." - -Pippa flicked the whip and Pegasus walked gravely out of the courtyard. -And the little faun in the garden played a gay tune on his pipe. The -youthful spirits of the departing cavalcade appealed to him. - -And Miss Mason went back to her studio, and for the first time since -a year ago she felt a little lonely, for both Barnabas and Pippa had -gone, and the Duchessa di Corleone was on her way to Italy with the -portrait. - -But the Fates had another thread in readiness, and she was not to feel -lonely long. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -THE INTERFERENCE OF A FAIRY GODMOTHER - - -Pippa had been wont to haunt Jasper's studio a good deal. His pictured -saints appealed to her imagination. She loved the brilliance of their -robes and the gold of their backgrounds. - -Colour appealed to her, as already seen, enormously, though she had no -power with brush or pencil herself. If she was ever to find expression -for the thoughts and fancies which filled her brain she would possibly -one day find it in writing. Beauty of language already moved her -profoundly, and she would listen by the hour to anyone reading poetry -aloud. - -Jasper missed the child almost more than Miss Mason did. He seemed -to have nothing to fill up the gap she left in his life, and his old -restlessness in a measure returned. He took to dropping in at Miss -Mason's studio at odd hours, in order, so it seemed, to talk about -Pippa, though he would often sit moody and silent. He would stare at -the picture of Pippa wrapped in scarlet silk, her arms round the faun's -neck, which picture Barnabas had painted about a month previously, and -which now hung in Miss Mason's studio. - -And one evening after looking at it for a long time he made a sudden -remark--a remark that seemed forced from him. - -"If Stella had lived she would have been nearly the same age as Pippa." - -Miss Mason looked up quickly. - -"Who," she asked, "was Stella?" - -"My little girl," said Jasper shortly. - -"Ah," said Miss Mason. And then she added quietly, "and your wife died -too?" - -"No," said Jasper, "she is alive." - -There was a silence. The studio window was wide open, and the evening -sunlight was streaming in. From one of the trees in the garden a thrush -was singing a song of love and happiness. - -"Perhaps," said Miss Mason suddenly, "you would care to tell me about -it." - -And Jasper told her. He told her the whole story, omitting nothing; -though, wonderful to relate, making no excuses for himself. - -"I suppose," he ended, "that Bridget lost all interest in life, and -I was always wanting her to be something she had lost the power of -being. And I got disheartened because she could not adapt herself to my -pattern." - -For a moment Miss Mason did not reply. She did not care to say that -it had been largely Jasper's fault that his wife had lost interest in -life. After a moment she spoke slowly. - -"I think," she said, "it is always dangerous to try and cut people to -our own pattern. We are so terribly apt to cut the cords of love first." - -"I know," said Jasper, "and now it is, as she said, too late." - -"It is never too late," said Miss Mason energetically. "Why don't you -go and see her?" - -"I gave her my word of honour that I would not." - -"Pooh!" said Miss Mason. "It is sometimes infinitely more honourable to -break one's word than to keep it. This is a case in point. Do you still -care for your wife?" - -Jasper hesitated. "I care for my memory of her as she was when I first -married her--before the child died. I know after that at first I was -disgusted. But that passed, especially later when I saw less of her. -Then at the bottom of my heart I wanted to get back to the old footing. -Somehow it seemed impossible. Before I saw her I felt I loved her, but -the sight of her untidiness and the sordidness of the surroundings -killed it. It would be killed again if I saw her now. It's no use -pretending otherwise." - -"Why don't you take her out of her surroundings then?" asked Miss Mason. - -Jasper looked up quickly. "It's no use," he said. "I love her now, -but if I went down there the feeling would die away. When I see her -slovenly and untidy it seems to kill my affection. I can't help it. -Even when I was a child I could not eat the food I most liked if it -were served in a careless fashion. I have honestly tried to fight the -feeling. It is, however, part of my physical nature, and I can't rid -myself of it." Jasper's voice was quite humble and genuine. - -Miss Mason's brain was working rapidly. "I suppose Chiswick is rather a -commonplace neighbourhood," she remarked. "Foolish of you to choose it -in the first instance. Where did you say the house was?" The question -was put indifferently. - -Jasper mentioned the street and number. Miss Mason appeared hardly to -have heard it. She seemed engrossed in her own thoughts. - -Jasper stayed a little longer in the studio. It was, in a sense, a -comfort to have spoken of the story, and yet it had brought the memory -of the last seven years almost too vividly before his mind. - -When he got up to go Miss Mason held out her hand. - -"Good night," she said. "Don't feel too miserable. Things often turn -out better than one expects." - -And when he had gone she sat a long time in her big chair, her -brain full of the wildest and most exciting plans, in which she was -establishing herself as proxy to the Fates. And the Fates laughed, and -gave the threads of two lives temporarily into her hands for her own -weaving. - -The next morning Miss Mason told Sally to order a taxi to be at the -studio at eleven o'clock. - -"If I'm not taken there quickly," she said to herself, "my courage will -fail me, and I shall come home again." - -And she went over in her mind many sentences she had been carefully -preparing during the long hours of a sleepless night. - -One of them began rather like an old-fashioned letter. "My dear Mrs. -Merton, I have ventured to call upon you in order to discuss a matter I -am sure you must have very much at heart, namely, the welfare of your -husband Jasper Merton." She had repeated it a good many times to make -sure she had it verbatim. - -There were other phrases such as, "Pardon what may appear an -unwarrantable interference on my part." And, "The mutual interest -we both must feel in one for whom you have a wifely love, and I the -affection of friendship." - -She felt she had them all glibly on her tongue, when the hoot of the -taxi outside the studio warned her of its arrival. - -"If I am not back to lunch, Sally," said Miss Mason, with the air of -one embarking on some dangerous enterprise from which she might never -return, "run out and buy a chop for yourself, and we can have the steak -this evening. And give Mimsi a piece of boiled whiting and a saucerful -of milk." - -She got into the taxi, tightly clutching her black satin bag, and sat -down in one corner. It was the first time she had driven in a taxi, -and she felt a trifle nervous. But for her desire to arrive at her -destination before she had time to change her mind about going, she -would undoubtedly have taken a four-wheeler. - -The speed of the vehicle seemed excessive, but as other taxis passed -them going at an even greater rate, she made up her mind to hope for -the best. She did, however, put up a small mental prayer for safety. - -In spite of the rate at which they were travelling they seemed a long -time in getting to their destination. At last Miss Mason began to feel -uneasy. She had heard of people being kidnapped and murdered on account -of their money, and though she had only put ten shillings worth of -silver and one sovereign in her purse, the chauffeur might think her -worth infinitely more. - -She decided to ask him how much further they had to go. She noticed a -long tube hanging from the front window. It was no doubt a whistle. She -took it up and blew gently down it. There was no sound. She collected -the whole force of her lungs and blew violently. The chauffeur, feeling -a sudden and unpleasant draught at the back of his neck, looked round. -He saw Miss Mason purple in the face from her efforts, and the -speaking tube at her lips. Fearing apoplexy he stopped the taxi and -came to the door. - -"Wot is it, mum?" he asked. - -"I only wanted to know if we were near the address I gave you?" she -said breathlessly. "I think this whistle must be out of order, I can't -make it sound." - -The chauffeur grunted. "That ain't no bloomin' whistle-pipe. That -there's a speakin' toob," he remarked scornfully. "Be at Oxford Road in -five minutes now." - -He shut the door with a bang and climbed back to his seat. - -"Whistle!" he said to himself. "Whistle! Thought there was a bloomin' -draught. The old party must 'ave fair busted 'erself." - -Miss Mason sank back in her corner and began to repeat the sentences in -a rapid whisper. - -In less than five minutes the taxi stopped before a small house divided -from the pavement by a gravel plot. - -The chauffeur got down and opened the taxi door. - -"'Ere y'are, mum," he said. - -Miss Mason got out, paid the man, crossed the gravel plot, and mounted -the steps. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. - -"Is Mrs. Merton at home?" she asked of Emma, who opened the door. - -"Yes'm. Will you come inside'm?" She showed Miss Mason into the dismal -little parlour. "What name shall I say, 'm?" - -"Mrs. Merton won't know my name," said Miss Mason desperately. "But ask -her if she will speak to me for a few moments." - -Emma left the room breathing heavily as she moved, and Miss Mason sat -very upright on the little sofa, her hands still clutching the black -satin bag. Her eyes took in the whole room. She saw the dingy and -torn tablecloth, the rather dirty chintz covers to the chairs, and -the distinctly dirty muslin curtains to the windows. A mantel-border -which covered the chimney-piece had come unnailed at one side, and -was hanging in an untidy festoon. The carpet was faded, and crumbs -scattered from the last meal were below one of the chairs. There was -a large Japanese fan in the fender before the empty grate; its edges -were broken and torn. It was also considerably fly-marked. Miss Mason -could understand Jasper's feelings very well. She saw what the place -must mean to a man of his fastidious instincts. It might be that he -was largely to blame that it had ever reached such a state, but having -reached it it was almost unavoidable that he should shrink from it. - -A step on the stairs made her start. She clutched more tightly at the -bag and began murmuring "unwarrantable intrusion," "mutual interest," -in a spasmodic fashion, her eyes fixed on the door. - -Suddenly it opened, and a woman in a rather soiled white dress came -into the room. She made Miss Mason think of a faded lily. - -The woman looked with something like amazement at the odd figure in the -mushroom hat, grey dress, and wide white linen collar, seated on the -sofa clutching a black satin bag. - -Miss Mason got to her feet. "My dear," she began, but the rest of the -sentence was lost. "I'm downright nervous," said Miss Mason, with one -of her gruff little laughs, "and you'll think me an interfering old -fool, but I was bound to come." - -Bridget looked at her. "There isn't," she said with a note of anxiety -in her voice, "anything wrong with Jasper?" - -"Oh, no," said Miss Mason quickly, "but I was talking to him last -night." - -"Ah!" said Bridget. - -"And----" said Miss Mason, and stopped. It seemed entirely impossible -now to put her ideas into words. It is one thing to have marvellous -and fairy tale schemes in one's mind, and plan all kinds of wonderful -arrangements during the magic hours of the night. It is quite another -to find words for them in broad daylight and in a rather sordid little -parlour, especially when they seemed to resolve themselves into the -rather impertinent statement that Jasper would love his wife if she -brushed her hair. It is hardly a suggestion one can make in cold blood -to a complete stranger. "I just came," ended Miss Mason helplessly. - -She looked through the window wondering how she could best make her -escape, and wishing with all her heart that she had kept the taxi. - -It was Bridget herself who came to the rescue. - -"I suppose," she said slowly, "that Jasper told you our story--it's a -sordid little story, isn't it--and you wanted to help?" - -Miss Mason nodded. Something in Bridget's eyes made her own fill with -tears. She forgot her desire to run away. She felt that she was near a -dumb animal in pain. - -"Tell me," said Bridget, "what Jasper told you?" - -Very stumblingly Miss Mason gave her some idea of the conversation. -She wanted her to know the truth, yet dreaded to hurt her more than -necessary. - -"Then Jasper does care a little," said Bridget wonderingly. "But all -this----" She looked round the dingy room. "What was your idea when you -came to me?" she asked simply. - -"Great interference on my part, no doubt," said Miss Mason gruffly. -"Began to make up a plan. Thought if he was to see you again in a -pretty room and a pretty frock----" she stopped. - -Bridget glanced down at her own dress. "Yes?" she said again. She had -reddened slightly. - -"Can tell me to go if you like," said Miss Mason. "Had no business to -come. But thought---- My dear. I just planned to take you to a pretty -room and bring Jasper to you." - -Bridget looked at her. "I don't know who you are," she said -impulsively, "nor anything about you. But you are a dear." - -"Then you're not angry?" asked Miss Mason. - -"I want," said Bridget, in a muffled voice, "to cry. But I'm not going -to. What were your plans? I'm sure you'd made some." - -And then Miss Mason unfolded all the schemes she had planned during the -night hours. They were of a little flat somewhere in Chelsea not too -far from the studios. The drawing-room was to be furnished in shades of -brown and cream, and it was to be filled with roses in slender glass -vases and china bowls. And there was to be a woman among the flowers, -and Jasper coming in to find her. - -"But I haven't the money for that," said Bridget. "And I can't ask -Jasper for any more." - -"But I have," said Miss Mason bluntly. "My dear, I'm an old woman. Is -it worth while to you, for your husband's sake, to give me the pleasure -of arranging it?" - -Bridget bit her lip. She tried to speak, but no words would come. - -"Don't try to say anything," said Miss Mason. - -"I--I----" began Bridget. And, somehow, the next moment she was down -on her knees by Miss Mason, who was soothing her with little odd -articulations and pattings as she had soothed Pippa one night when she -had awakened from a bad dream. - -"I'm sorry," said Bridget at last, sitting up and pushing back her hair -from her face, "but it's all been so lonely. At times I've felt that -just for something to do I could be bad--really bad, you know. Anything -for excitement, and to forget my own thoughts. At first I used to hate -myself. Then I tried to hate Jasper, but I didn't--I didn't. I--I loved -him all the time. You see, he gave me my baby. But I was so lonely and -miserable I wanted to be wicked, only I remembered my baby, and----" - -"I know, my dear," said Miss Mason. - -"Have you been lonely?" asked Bridget. - -"Utterly lonely, my dear, for fifty-five years at least, ever since my -parents died. And only women can understand the loneliness of women. -Men have their pipes, and they can always swear a little, which must at -times be an enormous help." - -"But you're not lonely now?" asked Bridget. - -Miss Mason smiled, a little glad smile. "My dear, I am so utterly -happy now that I long for every one else to be happy. It was that that -made me so sorry for you and Jasper, and made me want to come and -see you. And now I want you to come and have some luncheon with me -somewhere--you'll have to tell me where--and then we'll go and look at -flats." - -Bridget got up from the floor. - -"It's all too wonderful," she said, "and I don't know that I've the -right to let you help me." - -"Nonsense," said Miss Mason gruffly. "Might just as well say I've no -right to ask you to give me the pleasure of doing a little thing like -this; but I'm going to ask you, all the same. Now go and put on a hat." - -Bridget left the room. In a few moments she came down in a dark blue -linen coat and skirt, and a black straw hat swathed with rose-coloured -silk. She had brushed her hair and looked a different being. - -"Can we get a four-wheeler?" asked Miss Mason. "Came in a taxi, but -didn't enjoy it." - -"There's a train and an omnibus," said Bridget, "that will take us to -Notting Hill Gate, and we can get any amount of cabs from there." - -So for the first time in her life Miss Mason mounted to the top of an -omnibus and thoroughly enjoyed it. She peered over garden walls as -they passed, and did her best to look through windows, and made up -a good many quite fascinating stories about the inhabitants of the -houses--stories very different from the mental pictures of the very -same lives that Jasper had been wont to paint. In Miss Mason's stories -there was always a mother--a mother clasping the downy head of a -new-born baby to her heart; a mother watching the first toddling steps -of a tiny child; a mother hearing a little white-nightgowned figure -lisp a childish prayer. The father in these stories--of course there -was a father--took an extraordinarily back seat. - -Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a question from Bridget. - -"How did Jasper come to tell you our story?" she asked. - -"We were looking at a picture of Pippa," replied Miss Mason quietly, -"and he said that little Stella would have been nearly the same age." - -Bridget nodded. For a moment she was silent. Then she spoke again. -"Who," she asked, "is Pippa?" - -"My little girl," said Miss Mason promptly. "At least, she came to me -out of the Nowhere last December, and now she's mine." - -"A Christmas gift," said Bridget. - -Miss Mason nodded. "I like to hear you say that," she said. "I gave -Pippa her first Christmas tree. It was my first for the matter of that." - -And then they fell to talking about Pippa and Stella, after the fashion -of women who love children, each capping the other with a new anecdote. -But after a time Miss Mason was left to do most of the talking, for -Bridget suddenly found her voice fail her. - -"Pippa," said Miss Mason, "has true inventive genius. One night last -January I told her to say her prayers before she got into bed. She -announced that she'd already said them. 'Where?' I asked. 'In my baf,' -she replied, 'much warmer.' I couldn't help feeling there was a good -deal to be said in favour of the bathroom on a cold winter's night. But -all the same, I told her she was irreverent to say her prayers lying -down. I knew she'd said them that way. She always ends her ablutions -with lying full length in the water. Whereupon she remarked in an -aggrieved voice, 'Turned over on my front, anyhow.'" - -"True prostration in prayer," laughed Bridget. "I shall love Pippa." - -Already it was almost impossible to believe Bridget to be the same -apathetic woman who, slovenly and untidy, had entered the dingy little -parlour barely two hours previously. After lunch and on the way to some -flats in Beaufort Street she was almost radiant. - -"We will put things through as quickly as we can," said Miss Mason. "I -hate loitering when one has set out on a piece of business." And in her -heart she was longing to get Bridget away from the dismal surroundings -of her present home without a moment's delay. She would have liked to -take her to her own studio, only there was no second bedroom, and also -Jasper would have seen her. - -After a little search Miss Mason decided on a flat she thought would -do. It was on the third floor, and consisted of a dining-room, a -drawing-room, four bedrooms, a servant's room, a bathroom, and kitchen. - -"What do you think of it?" asked Miss Mason. "It's for you to say as -you'll be living in it." - -"It's heavenly," said Bridget ecstatically, "but really there are an -unnecessary number of rooms." - -"Not at all," said Miss Mason firmly. "I hope you'll be here a long -time, and--one never knows," she ended significantly. Which little -speech caused Bridget to blush crimson. - -"The rent," said Miss Mason, "is my affair for the first year, at all -events, till you've got rid of the house in Chiswick. And the furniture -will be my wedding present, as I didn't happen to know you when the -ceremony took place." - -And Bridget, her eyes full of happy tears, put her arms round Miss -Mason and kissed her. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THE HEART OF NATURE - - -During the next three weeks the two conspirators were wildly busy. -Money is a key which smooths many difficulties, and the path before -them was triumphantly easy. - -Jasper found Miss Mason a little hard to understand during these days. -She had a way of looking at him and then giving vent to odd little -chuckles of laughter. He hoped she was not becoming childish. - -She received several letters from the donkey tourists. One, received -about the tenth day, told her that another of her schemes was on the -way to be started. - -"We are," wrote Barnabas, "enjoying ourselves immensely. The weather is -glorious, and Pegasus a model of well-behaved donkeyness. He certainly -deserves wings, even though he hasn't got them. But I heard Pippa -telling him in a consoling voice the other day that when he reached -heaven he'd be provided with a pair of beautiful white ones. I fancy -she sees in herself a female Bellerophon soaring aloft and through -golden streets on a grey donkey. If the golden streets are anything -like as beautiful as the country lanes through which we are driving we -shall be happy. I wish you could see them--the lanes, I mean. They are -a bower of fairy delight. Wild roses, honeysuckle, and meadow-sweet -seem to vie with each other in filling the warm air with perfume. -Larks--I never knew before that the world held so many--sing to us from -heaven, the sweetest feathered choristers. Last night a nightingale -sang to us in the light of a full moon. It was the first Pippa had -heard. There was something almost terrifying in her rapture. She -feels almost too keenly. She is, however, absolutely in her element, -and if I had ever felt any real doubt about her being the child of -Kostolitz I should only have needed to see her out here to convince -me. At times she finds the most adorable bits of language in which to -express her emotions. But then it is always some little thing like -the colour of a flower-chalice or the glint of the kingfisher's blue. -We saw one the other day. It skimmed up a bit of transparent water -and perched on a piece of stick in midstream. Pippa and I watched it, -holding our breath. All at once something--I don't know what--startled -it. There was a streak of iridescent colour and it had gone. But it -left us both with the joyous feeling of discovery. The bird is too -rare and too beautiful to leave one entirely unmoved. Pippa could -talk of that incident. It is the bigger aspects of Nature that hold -her dumb. We came to a wood one evening--pines, straight and solemn -as the aisles of a cathedral, the setting sun slanting down the long -spaces. Pippa's face was a marvel. She just put her hand up to her -throat and held it there as if it ached with the beauty of the thing, -and then she made the sign of the Cross. It was holy ground, though -there had been no priestly ceremonial to proclaim it so. Only the -wind was there to whisper a benediction, and the trees themselves -were like priests scattering the incense of their fragrant breath. -The very memory of it brings thoughts of poetry to my mind. But again -to Pippa. She's yours, and I want you to know her as I'm seeing her -now, for it's the essence of her--the spirit of Kostolitz I'm seeing. -A long line of cawing rooks, whether at sunset or against the blue -sky, affects her strangely. It seems to make her unutterably sad. -Temporarily only, I am glad to say, for she is the gayest of children, -and delights in the smallest of pleasures--namely, a pennyworth of -bull's-eyes and sticks of pink-and-white striped stuff which we buy -from extremely minute shops, whose windows are crammed below with -apples--foreign, of course--and nuts. Above the apples and nuts are -rows of glass bottles full of pear-drops, lemon-drops, peppermints, and -barley-sugar, also sugar candy the real article, rough and scrunchly -on a string. And somewhere in the window, very inconspicuous, is -a slit through which one can drop letters--the sweetstuff shop is -always the post office. But sweets evidently take decided precedence -over such minor considerations as letters and postage stamps. There -is always a garden leading up to the shop, and it is always crammed -with flowers, the stiff old-fashioned kind--sweet-williams, stocks, -marigolds, mignonette, asters, and such-like. There are bushes, too, -of lavender, and lad's-love. I painted one of them, but somehow did -not hit it off. I've made another sketch, though, of a pond, a willow, -meadow-sweet, and blue hills, which pleases me quite a lot. In fact, -I was so absorbed in it that I lost Pippa. You needn't be anxious, -because she is found again, and with her something you wanted, namely, -the first candidate for your School of a Wonderful Chance. I had just -finished my sketch, and having come back to the practicalities of life -realized that Pippa had been absent for two hours. When lo! and behold -she appeared, and with her a loose-limbed fellow of about twenty. When -he fills out he will rival Dan in size--but that is beside the mark. - -"'Barnabas,' she cried--ceremony and with it the Monsieur has lapsed -into disuse in the open air--'do look at ze lovely little figure 'e -'as made. 'Is name is Andrew McAndrew.' And she rolled her r's with -gusto. Well, it is pleasant to think that Pippa should be the one to -find your first candidate, and it is curious to think it is one who, if -I am not much mistaken, will one day be a great sculptor. The little -figure of a young girl, made from the clay of the river, was to my mind -simply a marvel. I learnt his story. I'll not give it in the broad -Scotch in which he told it, for it would take you your whole time to -make it out. He lived in London--Bayswater way--with a widowed mother, -whom he supports by typing in a stuffy little office which he loathes, -though he has not been without hope that 'Aiblins the gud Lorrd would -find a way out for him one o' these days.' Whenever he has any spare -time he models in clay, which mercifully is an inexpensive material. -He has at the moment a week's holiday, during which he is tramping the -country, sleeping under a hedge or at the foot of a hayrick, eating -bread and cheese like any tramp, and enjoying himself finely--as we -are. Pippa, it appears, watched him at work, herself hidden, like the -fairy she is, in a mass of meadow-sweet. Suddenly she appeared from -among it, and they entered into a conversation which must have been -curious, conducted in a broad Scotch on his side, and in broken English -on hers--though her English is progressing rapidly. Anyhow, she made -him understand she was out with a party of artists. He was all agog -to meet us, and she brought him along. He will join us for the next -three days, instead of making his way again in the direction of London -as he had intended, and we've arranged between us to send him back by -train. As soon as I'm at my studio again he will look me up, and I'll -bring him along to see you. I've given him no inkling of the Wonderful -Chance before him. That is for you to do. But he's one of the right -ones for it and no mistake. You won't mind if we keep on the tour till -the end of June, will you? Cupid is sitting gaily in the donkey-cart -alongside Pippa, and though Aurora and Alan don't quite realize his -presence yet, they soon will discover him, and will no doubt bring -him back as a permanent guest to London. That, of course, was my main -idea when I proposed the tour. High Art, thank goodness, is getting -wan and pale. She had almost her death-blow the other day when Aurora -made a daisy-chain with which she adorned Alan, and he fell into a pond -dabbling after tadpoles for Pippa. We fished him out and wrapped him -in a rug, while we spread his clothes in a buttercup field to dry. The -warmth of their gold was enough to dry them, let alone the sun. I heard -Cupid chuckling, the rogue! We miss you a lot, and the best thing we -have to look forward to on our return is your welcome...." - -Miss Mason put down the letter with a little sigh of happiness. Her -heart felt nearly as warm and sunny as the buttercup field. - -Then she set out to meet Bridget at Storey's in Kensington High Street. - - * * * * * - -Exactly three weeks after Miss Mason's peregrination to Chiswick she -put a request to Jasper. - -"I want," she said, in as careless a voice as she could assume, "to -call on a friend of mine this afternoon, and I want you to come with -me." - -Jasper looked dismayed. "I should be delighted," he said mendaciously, -"only calling isn't a bit in my line." - -"It's quite near at hand," said Miss Mason; "only at a flat in Beaufort -Street, and I particularly want you to meet my friend." - -"Very well," said Jasper, suppressing a sigh. - -"We'll start," said Miss Mason, "at half-past three." - -At the hour appointed Jasper appeared. - -"You had better call a taxi," said Miss Mason. She felt it impossible -to walk. She would have run all the way, a proceeding which would have -undoubtedly have astonished Jasper. - -As the taxi drew up at the door of a block of flats in Beaufort Street, -a woman looked for a moment from a window. As she saw the two figures -get out she drew back into the room. Her heart was beating so loudly -she could almost hear it. - -Miss Mason rang the bell of the flat. - -"Your mistress at home?" she said to the dapper little maid who opened -the door. - -"Yes'm. What name 'm?" - -"Miss Mason and Mr. Merton," said Miss Mason firmly. - -They went into the bright little passage, and the maid threw open the -door of the drawing-room. - -"Miss Mason and Mr. Merton," she announced. - -A woman in a pale green dress came forward to meet them. - -Jasper stared. - -"Jasper," she said, with a little shaky laugh, and she held out both -her hands. - -"Bride!" he exclaimed, and it was nearly seven years since she had -heard that name. - -Miss Mason went quickly from the room, and closed the door softly -behind her. - -It was nearly an hour before they realized her absence. Then Bridget -started up from the sofa. - -"Aunt Olive!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Jasper, isn't she a dear! I must go -round and find her." - -"She'll be back at her studio by now," said Jasper calmly. - -"I'd quite forgotten her," said Bridget contritely. "Oughtn't we to -go----" - -"Presently," said Jasper. "Come back to me now. I want you. Aunt Olive -will understand." - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE RING OF EROS - - -Far away from London Pippa was swinging on a gate. Her dress had become -rather faded from much sunshine, and her straw hat had been baked quite -brown. She had it well pulled down to shade her eyes, so that it hid -the upper part of her face. - -An hour ago Pippa had been crying, and for the reason that the -purple-shadowed landscape had refused to be interpreted on canvas -through the medium of paints and brushes and her own little brown right -hand. Barnabas at her earnest request had lent her the materials. It -was not the first time she had tried with them. He had watched her in -silence as she messed away with the paints. Suddenly she flung the -canvas face downwards on the grass and burst into tears. - -"What is it, Kiddy?" asked Barnabas, putting his arm round her. - -"It's all out vere," she said, nodding towards the sunny landscape, -"and I can see it, and I want to tell it to myself and ozzer peoples, -like you tell your pictures, and I can't--oh, I can't." She rubbed her -tear-stained face up and down on Barnabas' coat-sleeve in an access of -despair. - -"But, childie," expostulated Barnabas, "one can't 'tell pictures,' as -you say, all in a moment. One has to learn." - -Pippa shook her head. "Not me," she said. "I shall never learn. I can't -ever tell pictures. And it's all here," she put her hand to her heart, -"and I want to say it so badly." - -For a minute Barnabas was silent. Then he spoke. - -"Once," he said, "there was a boy who saw that the world was very -beautiful and he wanted to tell his own beautiful thoughts about it to -himself and to other people. One day he heard a man playing the violin. -And the man made the violin speak so that in its music it said the most -wonderful things. It told about the moon shining on a sleeping sea, and -the secrets the little waves whispered to the shore. It told of silver -streams whose banks were starred with primroses, and it told of great -forests where the trees were standing dark and still in the purple -night waiting for the first rosy flush of dawn. It told of the laughter -of little children, and the songs young mothers sing to their babies. -All these things the music of the violin told, and the boy listened, -and said to himself, 'I will play the violin, for I know now the way I -can tell my thoughts to the world.'" - -Pippa was listening entranced. "Had he got a violin?" she asked. - -"No," said Barnabas, "but someone gave him a violin, and he had -lessons, and he practised for many hours, but the violin would not -speak his thoughts in the way he wished it to. And one day the great -violinist he had first heard play came to the house. He listened to the -boy playing but he didn't say very much. You see, he was a big man, and -the big men never discourage the little men. Remember that, Pippa, my -child. Well, when the boy had finished playing, the Master just wagged -his shaggy great head to and fro and said, 'Um, um, um. The lad's got -something to say, but----' and then he went away. But he came again to -see the boy. And that time he didn't ask him to play, but he just sat -talking to him. And while he talked the boy was playing with a piece of -clay, for he was very fond of making figures out of it." - -"Like Andrew," said Pippa. - -"Yes, like Andrew. Well, while the Master talked the boy went on doing -something with the clay, and suddenly the Master saw that it was a -likeness of himself the boy had made. 'Let's have a look at that, -boy,' he said. The boy, feeling very shy and crimson, pushed it over -to him. The Master stared at it for a minute, then he thumped his hand -down on the table. 'Du lieber Gott!' he exclaimed in a huge big voice -that made the boy tremble, 'I knew the boy had something to say, -and behold,' he pointed at the clay, 'here is the language in which -he shall say it. My son,' he went on, 'you have the ear to hear the -language of music, and you have the heart to understand it, but you -have not the hand to make it speak yourself. In it you understand the -thoughts of others, but in this earth you shall tell your own. If you -live you will be a great man.' And he held out his hand to the boy, -who took it and kissed it, because he was so very happy. It's a true -story," ended Barnabas, "because the boy himself told me, only he was a -man when he told the story." - -Pippa nodded her head up and down. "I like dat," she said. "One day -p'raps I find a language. What was ze boy's name?" - -"The boy's name," said Barnabas, "was Philippe Kostolitz, and he made -the little faun which you love, and which is in my garden." - -"Oh!" said Pippa, with a delighted sigh. Her tears were completely -forgotten. Twenty minutes later she was swinging on the gate. - -Barnabas was sitting in the shadow of a hedge near her, painting a -buttercup field and a copse of birches beyond. Dan was lying flat on -his back smoking. Andrew had gone back to London. And Aurora and Alan -were off on some business of their own. Pegasus, tethered to a long -rope, was contentedly eating thistles. - -Pippa watched the birds and butterflies, which were many, and the -by-passers, which were few, as she swung. An old man passed and called -good afternoon in a cheery voice. A trap with a hard-worked young -doctor in it drove by, and he smiled as he saw Pippa. Then there came -a cart driven by a man, and with a boy of about fifteen sitting on the -tail-board, his legs swinging. He made a grimace at Pippa as he passed, -and Pippa--be it told with sorrow--put out her tongue at him. There was -something of the gamin about Pippa which was never wholly eradicated. -And after the boy there passed a young gipsy woman carrying a baby. -Pippa gave her a three-penny bit. The woman looked hard at her. - -"Ah," she said, "there's some of our blood in your veins, and you -have the sad eyes and the lucky smile of those who are born to many -happenings. The Lord keep you, little lady." And she passed on her way. -And after she had gone there were only the birds and butterflies for -quite a long time. - -Suddenly Pippa heard the distant hoot of a motor-car. Barnabas, who had -finished his painting, came to the gate and leant over it with her. The -motor hove in sight, a great crimson Mercedes, travelling fast. - -Pippa waved her hand as it passed. The occupants of the car, a man and -a woman, saw the child, and the gaiety of the sunshine being in their -hearts they waved in response. The woman, who was swathed in a purple -motor veil, waved an ungloved hand. Pippa saw the flash of diamonds on -it. Also as she waved something fell, but the car rounded a bend in the -lane and was out of sight almost before Pippa and Barnabas realized it. - -Pippa scrambled over the gate. There was something lying in the dust, -which she picked up. She came back slowly to Barnabas. - -"Look," she said, "what a queer, pretty ring." - -A ruby was set in it, on which was engraved a little figure of Eros -holding a circle and trident. The stone and its setting was undoubtedly -very ancient. The ring itself probably Georgian. - -She held it out to Barnabas. He took it from her. - -"Ah," he said slowly, and he looked from it in the direction the car -had vanished. - -He had seen the ring before on the hand of Philippe Kostolitz. - -"May I keep it?" asked Pippa. - -"No, little thief," said Barnabas. "The owner will miss it and perhaps -come back for it. In any case we shall have to try and find out who she -is, and return it." - -And he slipped the ring into his coat-pocket. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -AN OLD MAN IN A GARDEN - - -It is strange how a name long unspoken and unheard, once coming again -within one's ken, comes again and again before one, and in the most -unlikely and unexpected ways. - -For over nine years Barnabas had not chanced to hear his friend's name -mentioned, and now there was first Pippa and her wonderful likeness -to him, and then the incident of the ring, both of which had served -to remind him vividly and bring the name before him. But the third -incident was to be a good deal stranger, in fact it was to savour -somewhat of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." - -They stopped for their noon halt one day in the shade of a small -coppice. A little beyond it they could see the roof and chimneys of a -house surrounded by a high wall. Before settling down to lunch Barnabas -strolled towards it and walked round the wall. There was no means of -seeing over, and the only entrance was through a small green wooden -door, which was shut. Ivy grew up the wall outside, and had Barnabas -felt disposed he might have climbed up by it and peered over. It was, -however, too hot for such exertion. Also if there were anyone in the -garden and he were seen, his position would have been, to say the least -of it, undignified. He strolled back to the copse and to the lunch -which the others had unpacked. - -"Where 'ave you been?" asked Pippa. - -Barnabas nodded in the direction of the house. "Down there," he said. - -"What's inside?" demanded Pippa. - -"Don't know," said Barnabas, attacking the leg of a chicken; "couldn't -see over." - -Pippa's eyes became far off and dreamy. "_Quel domage!_ You couldn't -climb, ze wall ver' much too 'igh?" - -"It wasn't the question of the height of the wall, but my dignity," -returned Barnabas. "What would I have looked like if I'd been caught?" - -"Funny," smiled Pippa, her eyes dancing with amusement. - -"I've no desire to look funny," said Barnabas. "Toss me over that -bottle of cider, like a good child, and look out for flying corks. I do -my best, but this weather makes the stuff too fizzy for anything." - -Pippa tossed the bottle and retired gravely behind Barnabas while he -manipulated the cork. Then she returned to her seat near him. - -"I do wonder what's inside," she said. - -"Cider," said Barnabas, pouring it into a glass. - -"Not the bottle, _méchant_, the wall," announced Pippa. - -"Oh, the wall! I don't know; nothing, I daresay." - -"An Ogre," said Aurora. She and Alan and Dan had been too busy feeding -to enter into the conversation before. - -Pippa elevated her chin. "_Je ne suis pas une bébé, moi._ I know, but -quite well, vere are no Ogres." - -"Lions, then, Miss Curiosity," suggested Alan. - -Pippa turned her shoulder towards him. "_Imbécile_, it is not a -menagerie, but I have no interest in it, _moi_. If you wish to discover -you can go and look for yourself." And she proceeded to eat chicken -delicately and haughtily with her fingers, disdaining further mention -of the house within the wall. - -After lunch they all lay down in the shade of the trees and went to -sleep, lulled by the sleepy, liquid note of the wood-pigeons, and the -humming of bees. - -Barnabas was the first to awaken. When he did he discovered that Pippa -was absent. He came out of the copse and looked down the little lane -that ran between the trees on one side and a stretch of moorland on the -other. To the left it would come out on the main road, to the right it -led to the wall-enclosed house. - -Seeing no sign of the child, and not caring to coo-ee to her on account -of disturbing the sleepers, he went down towards the house, thinking -it more than likely, from her remarks at lunch, that she had gone to -investigate the place herself. - -"Daughter of Eve," said Barnabas to himself, as he strolled down the -sunny lane, watching the butterflies flitting over the moorland. - -He reached the garden wall and had strolled round two sides of it when -he suddenly came to a standstill, arrested by the sound of Pippa's -voice from inside the garden. - -He paused to listen. He could hear her words distinctly. She was -narrating to some one the story of Philippe Kostolitz which he had told -her only a couple of days previously. - -"And so," Pippa ended, in her clear voice, "I am looking for my -language. What is yours?" There was a note of shameless coaxing in the -words. - -"That," returned a deep voice. - -"What, ze garden?" came Pippa's reply. - -Barnabas put one foot on a stout branch of ivy, and clinging to another -branch above him, heaved himself noiselessly to the top of the wall. - -Then he saw Pippa. She was seated on a garden bench, her hat in her -hands, and on the bench beside her was an old man. His beard, long and -snow-white, reached almost to his waist. His hair, also snow-white and -very thick, glistened in the sunlight, for his head was uncovered. -His clothes, Barnabas saw, were dark and well-cut, and his voice was -peculiarly melodious and refined. - -"Well, upon my word!" ejaculated Barnabas, quite forgetting that he was -speaking aloud. - -The old man looked up. "Ah," he said, with a quaint smile, "so you, -too, have found the ivy route." - -"You don't mean to say Pippa climbed up here?" exclaimed Barnabas, -absolutely forgetful of his own rather curious position. - -"But I did," cried Pippa joyfully, "and he saw me, and asked me to come -in and see ze garden. But did you ever see such a garden?" - -"Never!" said Barnabas enthusiastically, surveying it from his post of -vantage. - -Smooth lawns with close-clipped edges, and flower-beds a mass of colour -met his eye. There were larkspurs tall and slender, from sapphire -blue to turquoise. There were great tree lupins, there were roses of -every shade and shape imaginable. There were crimson and blue salvias, -scarlet and white phloxes, borders of African marigolds--a blaze of -orange; and there was a great bed of hollyhocks, among whose silken -flowers butterflies innumerable were hovering. In the middle of the -lawn was a marble basin full of crystal water, on whose edge white -pigeons were preening themselves, and a couple of gorgeous peacocks -spread tails of waking eyes to the sun. - -"Will you not," said the old man courteously, "follow Pippa's example -and enter the garden by the door? You will find it unfastened." - -Barnabas slithered down off the wall and came round to the green door. -He felt as if he were suddenly walking into a fairy tale garden in -which nothing that might happen would surprise him. - -The old man came forward to meet him. - -"I hope," he said courteously, "that the child's absence has not caused -you anxiety. I found a pleasure in her conversation, and forgot that -time was passing." - -"Not at all," Barnabas assured him. "I had only just missed her. I -came to look for her, and heard her voice. Forgive my unceremonious -appearance." - -The old man smiled. "It was as delightful as her own," he said. - -There was a little silence. Barnabas looked towards the house. It was -Elizabethan in structure, with walls stained to a variety of different -colours by wind, sun, rain, and time. Roses wreathed the latticed -windows, and up one side of the house a great wistaria climbed, -covering part of the roof and losing itself among the chimney-stacks. - -"Will you come inside?" said the old man. "There is something I would -like the child to see." - -Barnabas assented. The three sleepers in the coppice were forgotten. -The fascination of the place and the old man's strange and courtly -personality was upon him. - -The old man had led the way into the house. They went into a square -hall, dark and cool. The floor was of inlaid wood highly polished, the -walls oak and hung with pictures. They passed through the hall, and -the old man led the way through an arched doorway and down two steps -into a room which to the mind of Barnabas belonged most assuredly to -the ancient stories of the "Arabian Nights." In shape it was circular, -and hung with draperies of a curious deep blue, like the colour of the -sky at night. The floor was also polished and covered with a few old -Persian rugs. There was an oak table at the far side of the room, three -large oak chairs, and a kind of divan covered in sapphire-blue silk and -worked with tiny crescent moons and stars. - -But the arresting note of the room lay in a marble statue on a -pedestal. It would be hard to say wherein exactly the extraordinary -fascination of it lay. But Barnabas looked at it almost spellbound. -The old man motioned to them to sit down, and seated himself. - -"That statue," he said, "was given me by a friend of mine. He used to -pass many months with me at a time. He loved the quietude of these -surroundings as I love them. At the back of the house I had a studio -built for him where he worked. When he was not working he sat in the -garden. He loved it. He used to say he loved the flowers both in -sunlight and in moonlight, or drenched in tears of rain. He said the -Spirit of the Garden moved among them. That was the Figure he made of -Her. Look at it well," he went on, with a grave earnestness. "Is it not -wonderful?" - -"Wonderful!" echoed Barnabas from his heart. - -"It is to me," said the old man quietly, "a perfect embodiment of -an inspiration. So much is often lost. First the inspiration-flash -has to become articulate--to be shaped in the brain--before the hand -even starts to fashion it. It loses enormously in the process. To -me that is one of the few things that has not lost. It is the first -inspiration-flash embodied in marble. It has never been exhibited. My -friend had a curious dislike to exhibiting his work. He was a strange -man." - -He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Pippa was lying back in her -chair, her hands tucked under her chin--a usual attitude of hers. She -was gazing at the statue with wide grey eyes. Barnabas had a certain -presentiment of a name that would shortly be mentioned. - -"Would you like to see the place where he worked?" asked the old man -suddenly. - -Barnabas got up from his chair. Pippa came across to him and slid her -hand into his. Her imagination was vividly at work. - -They left the circular room and went down a passage. The old man took a -key from his pocket and unlocked a door. - -"This is the place," he said. - -It was a large room, well lighted. There were plaster casts of heads -on various shelves, and several plaster plaques hanging on the walls. -At one side of the studio Barnabas saw the plaster figure of a little -faun. It was the same as the marble faun in his garden. Pippa did not -notice it. She was gazing at a figure, enveloped in an old sheet, which -was on a stand in the middle of the room. - -"It was the last piece of work he started here," said the old man, -pointing to it. "It has remained just as he left it. Nothing has been -moved. I dust the place myself. No one ever entered it but my friend -and I and the workmen he employed. They were always foreigners, and -came from a distance. But now no one enters but I. You are the first to -come into the place." - -"And," said Barnabas, speaking in a low voice, "you brought us in here -because of Pippa?" - -Pippa had wandered to the far side of the room. - -"How did you know?" asked the old man. - -"Because Philippe Kostolitz was also my friend." - -"Ah!" said the old man softly. "And where," he asked, "did you find the -child?" - -"She came to us," said Barnabas, "out of the Nowhere." - -The old man smiled. "Planted there I fancy by Philippe." Then their -eyes met. "So you saw the likeness too?" - -"I did," said Barnabas. - -"That was the reason," said the old man, "that I liked to talk to her. -She reminded me of him. He came and went from here as he chose. It was -on one of his tramps that he wandered in. The door in the wall is never -locked. I found him looking at the butterflies among my hollyhocks. He -was a lad of twenty at that time. It is twenty-five years ago." - -"Yes?" said Barnabas. - -"Pippa's voice," went on the old man, "is charming. I liked to hear it. -She has a way of looking up at one when she talks that reminds me of -our friend. She told me a delightful little story about a sculptor." - -"The story," said Barnabas, "was true. And the sculptor was Philippe -Kostolitz." - -"Truly," said the old man, "I might have guessed it." - -And again he lapsed into silence. Suddenly he roused himself. - -"But you will have fruit and cake and something to drink," he said. "I -was forgetting my manners." - -"We have only just lunched," said Barnabas. - -"But fruit," the old man insisted, "at least fruit. I hold the Eastern -ideas of hospitality. Those to whom I feel friendly must eat in my -house." - -He led the way back into the hall and signed to them to sit down. -Then he clapped his hands three times. An Indian, brown as mahogany, -in loose trousers, white shirt, and turban, answered the summons. He -salaamed, his face as impassive as a mask. - -The old man said something to him in a language neither Barnabas nor -Pippa understood, though Barnabas guessed it to be Hindustanee. - -"He has served me," said the old man, "for fifteen years. He is -faithful as a dog." - -"Do you live here always?" asked Barnabas. - -"I have lived here," said the old man, "for thirty years. Up till the -age of forty I travelled far. Then I came here to peace--my thoughts, -my flowers, and my books. I have a few friends who come to see me, and -they are always welcome." - -He mentioned three or four names. Among them Barnabas recognized the -name of a famous statesmen and a well-known singer. - -The Indian returned with a tray, on which was a dish of strawberries, -some wafer biscuits, a glass of milk, and two empty tumblers, and three -small decanters, which he placed on a table. - -The old man helped Pippa to strawberries and gave her the glass of -milk. Then from the three decanters he mixed a drink for Barnabas and -himself. - -"Excellent!" said Barnabas as he tasted it. - -"My own brewing," said the old man. - -While they ate the fruit he talked to them of his travels. Each little -narrative he told was well-turned and concise, the language he chose -was poetical. - -All at once he got up and went into an inner room. He came back with -the most exquisite little Russian icon. He gave it to Pippa. - -"Will you have it," he asked, "in memory of your visit here?" - -Pippa was covered with rosy blushes of delight. - -"_Mais, je vous rémerce mille fois_," she said. "Barnabas, isn't it -beautiful, but, oh, very beautiful?" - -"It's very good of you," said Barnabas. "You've given a great deal -of pleasure." And then quite suddenly, and for the first time, he -remembered the three sleepers in the wood, who doubtless had long ago -awakened. He signed to Pippa, who got up. The old man took them into -the garden. At the green door he held out his hand. - -"Will you come again and see me?" he said. "I live, as you see, alone -among my flowers. Ali looks after my bodily needs, and I have a man who -helps me in my garden. I do not, as a rule, see people--beyond the few -friends I mentioned to you. But it would give me great pleasure if you -will come. My name is Adam Gray, and my house is called The Close." - -And Barnabas promised that one day they would come again. - -So they left the enchanted garden and went up the lane among the -butterflies. - -"I feel as if I'd been dreaming," said Pippa thoughtfully. - -"Exactly, my dear," said Barnabas. "It's what we've both been -doing--dreaming a very fantastic Arabian Night's dream, which nobody -would believe if we told it to them." - -And then from afar an extremely wakeful Dan saw them and hailed them in -wrathful accents. - -"Where on earth have you two been?" he cried. "We've been hunting for -you for the last hour and a half." - -"We've been in a fairy tale," said Barnabas, as he reached him, "where -clocks and watches are not admitted, and where turbaned Indians bring -red, white, and green drinks in cut-glass decanters, which when mixed -together is drink fit for the gods. Now let me help you to harness -Pegasus. And if you'll leave off staring I'll tell you about it, only -Pippa knows you won't believe it." - - * * * * * - -Miss Mason, in her studio in London, received a registered packet from -Barnabas. She opened it, and found inside a letter and a curious signet -ring. - -"We are on our way home," wrote Barnabas. "Cupid has triumphed and -is holding the reins of Pegasus. Pippa, Dan, and I are taking back -seats. Kisses and moonlight--there's a full moon--predominate, and I -saw Aurora hugging a rosy-cheeked baby in a cottage garden. High Art -gave one groan and expired. She has never, never moved again. The -call of wedding bells is bringing us back to London. You may expect -us on Friday. I am enclosing a ring which was dropped from a passing -motor-car. Fortunately I saw the number. It was a London car. I am -advertising for the owner of the ring in various London papers, and -have given your studio as the address to which to apply, though I gave -my own name. Therefore I send you the ring. You will, of course, take -the name and address of the claimant. Dan and I will be glad to be home -again. Though Nature in her present sunny mood is extraordinarily -entrancing, there is a good deal to be said in favour of spring -mattresses...." - -Miss Mason looked at the ring, turning it curiously in her hand. Then -she put it away in a little carved box which she locked. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -ANDREW MCANDREW - - -"I feel," said Barnabas, "that some one ought to pat me on the back. I -set out to do something, and I did it. It is a pleasant sensation." - -"Unaccustomed?" asked Miss Mason, with mock sarcasm. - -They were both in her studio the day following the return of the -donkey-party. They were awaiting the appearance of Andrew McAndrew, to -whom Barnabas had written to come to the studio at four o'clock. Pippa -had been taken by Jasper to call upon his wife. - -Miss Mason had announced Bridget's advent to Beaufort Street to the -assembled party the previous evening. They had taken the announcement -without undue surprise. Their minds were too big and straightforward to -dream of questioning. Since Jasper had chosen to keep the fact of his -marriage secret it was entirely his own affair. They merely rejoiced -that he was now, as Miss Mason told them, unfeignedly happy. - -"Aurora," continued Barnabas, "has gone down to stay with her own -people for three weeks, while the banns are being called. She left -this morning, and Alan is writing to her at the moment. Their pet -names for each other are Sweetest and Boysie. I suppose the pendulum -was bound to swing pretty far in the direction of rank sentimentality. -It'll steady again presently." - -"You swung it," said Miss Mason dryly. - -"And I'm proud of the fact," said Barnabas. - -There was a knock at the door. - -"If that's Mr. McAndrew," said Miss Mason, relapsing into her gruffest -manner, "you'll have to do the talking, because I can't." - -"Mr. McAndrew," said Sally, opening the door. - -Andrew came in, a great loose-limbed fellow, with mouse-coloured hair, -and oddly earnest eyes in a snub-nosed, wide-mouthed face. - -"Awfully glad to see you, McAndrew," said Barnabas warmly. "Let me -introduce you to Miss Mason." - -The two shook hands and Andrew sat down. His glance wandered round the -studio till it reached the "Winged Victory." His eyes rested on it with -pleasure as on some familiar friend. - -"Ay," he said, "but yon's a fine bit o' wor-rk." - -"You're fond of sculpture," said Miss Mason shortly. - -"'Deed," said Andrew, "I like it weel." - -"Do you do anything yourself in that way?" asked Miss Mason. - -Andrew shook his head. "I'll no be havin' the time," he said, "for -mair than juist dabblin' wi' a bit o' clay." - -"Would you like to give your time to the work?" asked Miss Mason. - -"'Deed an' I wad." There was a simple earnestness about the words -infinitely more convincing than any lengthy assurance of the fact. - -"Well," said Miss Mason gruffly, "let's have some tea." - -During the meal Barnabas did most of the talking, Andrew replying -in short sentences. Miss Mason was practically silent. When it was -finished Miss Mason looked across at Barnabas. - -"Better tell Mr. McAndrew our idea," she said. - -So, very straightforwardly, Barnabas told Andrew Miss Mason's scheme -for the Wonderful Chance. When he had ended Andrew looked at him with -an expression of dumb happiness in his eyes. - -"You'll be meanin'----?" he said. "You were thinkin' to offer the -chance to me?" - -"If you care to take it," said Barnabas. "What do you think?" - -"I'm maist obleeged," said Andrew, and he lapsed into silence. - -"Very well, then," said Miss Mason gruffly, "it's settled. Mr. Kirby -will make all arrangements with you." And she too became silent. - -It was not at all the kind of interview Barnabas had intended. He felt -Miss Mason to be almost tiresomely gruff, and his protégé almost -ungrateful. - -At last Andrew heaved himself out of his chair. - -"I'll be leavin'," he said. He held out his hand to Miss Mason. "I'm -maist obleeged," he said again. - -"That's all right," said Miss Mason gruffly. - -Barnabas went out into the little garden with Andrew. - -"Miss Mason doesn't mean to be abrupt," he said. "It's merely her -manner. She finds it difficult to express----" - -Andrew turned on him. "Man, d'ye think I dinna ken. D'ye think 'I'm -maist obleeged' told juist all that was in ma heart. I cud e'en ha' -knelt an' ha' kissed the hem o' her skir-rt. An' gin I had I'd ha' been -sobbin' like a wee bit wean." Andrew swallowed once or twice fiercely. - -Then he saw the little faun. - -"Ay," he said, "yon's bonny. I wad like fine to make a figure to stand -in t' auld lady's garden, but aiblins she like it a wee bit draipit." - -"Charity," laughed Barnabas, "colossal and in many robes." - -"Huh!" said Andrew scornfully, "it's ha' gran' figure o' Charity I was -thinkin' o', but juist a wee figure o' smilin' Love wi' his hands held -oot to draw folk to his hearrt." - -And a year later such a little figure did stand--not in the garden--but -in a corner of Miss Mason's studio. - -When Andrew had gone Barnabas went back into the studio. - -"We disappointed you," said Miss Mason. "That boy's no more good at -expressing his feelings than I am." - -"I understand," said Barnabas lightly. "He managed though to say a bit -more in the garden. By the way," he went on, "no one has called to -claim the ring yet, I suppose?" - -"No," replied Miss Mason. "It's a queer ring." - -"Yes," said Barnabas. But for some reason he still did not say where -and when he had first seen it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -THE CRUELTY OF THE FATES - - -The Duchessa di Corleone was on her way back from Italy. She had said -good-bye with a little pang to the gallery, and to the courtyard with -its golden oranges and marble statues, but once on her way to England -the thought of Paul completely obliterated any trace of sorrow. She was -joyfully ready to give up everything--the Casa di Corleone, her house -on the Embankment, and her thousands a year for the man who had taken -her heart into his keeping. - -Throughout the journey her heart sang little songs of happiness, which -had as their refrain the one word, "Paul." The express train rushing -across the country bathed in the July sun could hardly carry her with -sufficient swiftness. When, at last, Calais was reached and she was on -board the boat she felt happier. - -With the cliffs of Dover in sight her heart was singing a Te Deum. Till -that moment she had felt that some accident might happen to prevent her -getting to him. Now, in less than four hours she would be in his studio. - -She had written to tell him not to meet her at the station. She wanted -their first meeting to be alone, without the eyes of curious porters -upon them. - -"Just you and I together, my darling," she wrote. "I can see the room -in my mind, and you coming forward to meet me. There has not been a -moment day and night when you have been absent from my thoughts. Our -love transfigures everything for me. Life has become a magic book on -every page of which your name is written...." - - * * * * * - -That letter had reached Paul in his studio the morning of the day Sara -would arrive. And now, an hour before her arrival, he was sitting with -it crumpled tightly in his hand, his eyes staring blankly before him. - -The Fates had struck suddenly, dealing sorrow as they had dealt joy, -silently and swiftly. That very morning he had heard of the complete -failure of the Mexican bank in which his money was invested. - -At first the news had stunned him. In the afternoon he had gone down to -a friend in the city to make fuller enquiries. He found his worst fears -realized. His income, which altogether had amounted to about fourteen -hundred a year, had been suddenly reduced to less than half. In fact, -to merely the six hundred or so he earned by his painting. - -Paul went back to his studio and sat down trying to realize what it -would mean. And because he was a man whose steady grey eyes had always -looked facts clearly in the face, he even took pencil and paper and -jotted down certain figures. But the sum total always remained the -same--his marriage with Sara had become impossible. - -He never for an instant did her the wrong of thinking that his loss of -income would make any difference to her love for him. He believed in -her love as implicitly as he believed in his own. That, however, did -not alter the one fact that marriage was out of the question. Even if -he reduced his mother's allowance by a hundred a year--which, however, -he had no intention of doing--the three hundred left him would not -justify him taking any woman to wife, and assuredly not a woman like -the Duchessa di Corleone. He knew the impossibility of transplanting a -hot-house flower to the open air of a wintry garden. The thing could -not be done. No amount of care could save it; it must die. - -And with the irony of fate, this news had reached him by the very same -post as her letter. - -He took it again from his pocket and re-read it. A spasm of pain that -was almost physical pierced him. His hand tightened on the paper till -it was crumpled and twisted. And in less than an hour she would be in -the studio with him. - -"My God," said Paul to himself, "the Fates are very cruel!" - -And then because throughout the day his first thought had been of Sara -he began to plan how best to break the news to her. He determined -that for a few hours at least she should not know. She should have -the complete joy of the meeting unmarred. They were going out to dine -together. When they returned to the studio it would be time enough to -tell her. With the decision all the old quiet endurance he had learnt -through days and nights of hardship came back to Paul. He would hide -the knowledge of their parting in his own heart. Till he bade her -good-bye that evening she should never guess what the world would -really mean to them both. - -Something caught at his throat and a mist swam before his eyes. He got -up and began to walk quickly up and down the room. Every now and then -his hand, still holding the letter, clenched tightly. - -Suddenly he realized what he held. He stopped in his walk and put -the letter on the table. He smoothed it out tenderly, as if it had -been some living thing he had injured. He folded it and put it in his -pocket-book. And once more he began his walk. - -The whole place seemed full of her presence. Everything reminded him -of her, the chair in which she sat, the glass at which she had been -wont to arrange her hat when she was sitting for him, the vases on a -bookshelf, for which she insisted that he should buy flowers. There -were flowers in them to-day, real crimson roses--General Jacqueminot, -with its sweet old-fashioned scent. For the future they would remain -empty. It would be useless to buy flowers if she was not to see them. -It seemed to him as if his whole life he had been doing everything for -her, and that now nothing would seem worth while. He caught at his -underlip with his teeth, biting it hard. It seemed as if he were being -asked to bear more than human strength could endure. Then all at once -he stopped in his walk, for the hoot of a taxi near at hand struck on -his ears. - -A moment later he heard a light step crossing the courtyard. The door -opened. She was in the doorway--radiant, living. - -"Paul." - -"My beloved." - -She was in his arms. He was holding her as if he would never let her go. - - * * * * * - -Love, so say the chroniclers--and wrongly--is blind. It is keen-sighted -as an eagle, which from afar discerns objects invisible to the sight of -man. - -When Paul at last held Sara away from him, she looked into his eyes, -and though he had hidden his sorrow deep down in his heart she saw -suddenly into the depths, and her own heart momentarily stood still. -But also with her love and her quick woman's instinct she saw that it -was something he wished to keep hidden, and so she did not ask him then -what it was he was hiding from her, but smiled at him, and in her turn -hid what she had guessed. - -So throughout the evening the two played a game of pretence, she -knowing that they both were playing it, and he--man-like--believing -that he was the sole performer. - -They went to an hotel together and dined, and listened to a band which -was making music, and they talked nonsensically about the food they -were eating and the people they saw, and all the time her heart was -crying to him to drop the terrible mask of gaiety and tell her his -sorrow. But as she saw he meant to play the game she told him of her -journey, and the portrait that was hanging in the gallery, and she said -that she had kissed the fauns good-bye. And then quite suddenly she -stopped, because she saw a look of such pain come into his eyes that -for the moment she was dumb, and pretence seemed useless. But almost at -once he laughed and made some little light speech; and she laughed too, -and bravely, because she knew he wished it. - -But when at last they were back in the studio she could play the -terrible little game no longer. And he too knew that the moment had -come for it to cease. - -"Paul," she said steadily, "what is it?" - -"You guessed?" he asked. - -"My dear," she said, with a sad laugh, "I knew at once." - -"Then the harlequin game has been no good," he said. And so he told -her. And when he had ended there was a long silence. - -Sara was the first to break it. - -"There is no need for me to tell you," she said, "that this makes no -difference to our love." - -"But," said Paul, and in spite of himself his voice was bitter, "it -does to our marriage. There is no way out." - -And with the words silence again fell. And in the silence Sara felt a -slow hatred of Giuseppe creep into her heart. He could have made this -happiness possible to her, and he had made it impossible. - -She did not dream of suggesting that they should marry in spite of -everything. She knew it would be mere mockery to do so. But her heart -rebelled fiercely against fate and against the late Duca di Corleone. -It was the arrant selfishness of his deed that angered her. She had -been his wife faithful and courteous when he was living, and in return -he claimed her life when he was dead, or made a pauper of her. - -She got up from her chair and began to move about the room. In mind and -body she felt like a caged animal beating against the bars which kept -it from freedom. - -She paused near the window. Paul saw her figure silhouetted against the -night sky. He watched her. And suddenly her love for Paul and every -fighting instinct within her rose up against the injustice of the -Fates. Defiance of their decree and intense love overwhelmed her. - -"There--is a way," she said slowly. She did not turn her head. Paul saw -her profile immovable against the square of grey-blue window. - -He got up from his chair and came across to her. He took her hand and -held it hard against his lips. - -"You honour me, Beloved," he said. "But it cannot be." - -She turned towards him then. - -"Why not?" she cried almost fiercely. "We love each other. Is not that -enough? Let us defy Giuseppe. Do you think I care what the world would -say of me?" - -"But I care," said Paul simply. - -"More than you care for me?" she asked. - -"Beloved," said Paul huskily, "it is because I love you--because you -are more than the whole world to me that I cannot let there be the -smallest stain upon your honour. I--my God, how I worship you!" The -words came from him like a cry. - -"Ah, Paul." The bitterness in her heart had melted, and with it her -strength. He held her in his arms. - -"Was--was I horrible?" she asked. - -He kissed her lips fiercely. "You were wonderful, my darling. God knows -the generosity of women. But there are some sacrifices a man cannot -accept." - -"It would have been none," she whispered. - -He held her closer. "You think not now, my darling. But later---- -Dearest, I could not bear to see your whiteness stained by the mud the -world would throw at you." He kissed her eyes and hair. - -"What is to be the end of it?" she asked. "What must we do?" - -He laughed sadly. "There is only one thing left for us to do--we must -say good-bye." - -She put her arms round him. "Ah, not that, Paul--not that." - -"But listen, dearest," he said. "We've got to look at things as they -are. There is no profession open to me in which I am likely to make -more than I can by my painting. I have lost every penny of capital. -God! how sordid it seems that the lack of money should keep us apart. -But there it is. It may be years before I make more, though Heaven -knows I'd paint every commonplace creature in creation in return -for shekels now. I hate my own fastidiousness. I've lost dozens of -commissions and made not a few enemies. It will take ages to make up -for my folly. At the best it must be years before I have anything like -a decent income." He stopped. He had loathed having to speak the bare -commonplace facts. - -"I will wait," she said. - -"Dearest," he said, and his voice was shaking, "it would not be fair to -let you. There will be other men, rich, who----" - -She interrupted by a gesture. - -"Do you count my love as little as that?" she said. "Cannot you -understand that there is nothing in the world for me but my love for -you and your love for me. If you believe as I do that we belong to each -other for time and eternity, then how can you----?" She could get no -further. He stopped her with such kisses that she was frightened at his -vehemence. - -"Enough," he said. "We belong to each other. One day I will claim you." - -"And till then?" she asked. - -"For a time," he said steadily, "we must not meet. It is--wiser not." - -"Because--of what I said?" she asked. The crimson colour had covered -her face and neck. - -"No," he answered quietly, "but because I am only a man, and very -human." - -And there was something in his voice that told her not to gainsay him. - -"But at least we will write," she said. - -"No." - -"Why not?" - -"It would be almost the same as seeing you. There would come a day when -the sight of your writing would shake my resolve. You, if you wrote, -could only tell me all that was in your heart. What use else to write? -I should hear your heart calling mine, as mine will call to you. And -then one day my resolution would fail. And if it did I should hate -myself, and count myself unworthy to come near you again." - -"Then never, dear heart," she whispered. - -And there was a little silence too sad for words or tears. It was Sara -who broke it. - -"Christopher used to say," she said, with a little shaky laugh, "that -I could cheat the Fates. This time I cannot. They have dealt me a hand -full of little spades, and every one of them is digging the grave of my -happiness." - -"Ah, my dearest," he said. - -She disengaged herself gently from him. - -"And since for a time at least we both must die," she said, "we had -better die at once. A lingering death is so painful." Her voice shook. -"Good-bye, Paul. Don't come with me. I want to go home alone." - -"Good-bye, Beloved." - -Again their eyes met. And he caught her to him. She felt his body -shaking. - -"Paul," she whispered. - -"Beloved." - -And then he took her to the door and held it open for her. She went out -through the courtyard in the twilight of the summer evening. - -And the little faun, holding his pipe to his lips, made no sound, for -he knew at that moment no music however tender could bring comfort to -her heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -IN YORKSHIRE - - -Away in Yorkshire, on a fell-side, a woman was sitting on a grey stone -and looking at the landscape before her. - -Below her, some couple of hundred feet, ran a little brown stream, -on the banks of which a man in tweed clothes was walking. He held a -fishing-rod, and every now and then he paused to cast a fly upon the -water with a light and dexterous hand. - -The woman watched him idly. Later he would join her by a clump of trees -near the stream, and they would have luncheon together. The man's name -was Luke Preston, and he was her husband. They had been married exactly -a fortnight previously, and were now spending part of their honeymoon -in Yorkshire. - -The landscape, and particularly the sight of the distant figure by the -stream, gave her a great sense of rest. In some ways Luke was like the -fells around her she thought--very big, very silent, and very enduring. -It was the unwavering assurance of Luke that had first attracted him to -her. There was something so unswerving about his point of view. It was -so direct. There were never more than two ways in his mind--the right -and the wrong; never more than two colours--black and white. There were -no little chance bypaths, and no shades of grey admissible. Because of -this some people found Luke lacking in subtlety, but to the woman he -had married it constituted a strength which she found very pleasant. - -All her life she had been swayed by varying moods. Actions seldom -appeared to her in a light of her own opinion. They became black, -white, or various shades of lighter or darker grey as they were -presented to her by the minds of others. There was one episode only in -her life in which she had resolutely adhered to her own determination. -And that episode was one she wished to forget, or to remember only as a -dream, and not as a time connected with her own waking self. - -It had all happened a good many years ago, and some people have a -curious faculty for disconnecting themselves mentally from their own -past actions. Sybil Preston was one of these. During the years that had -elapsed since the episode she had had one thing only to remind her of -it--a quaint signet ring, with which she had never had the courage to -part. - -On the way up to Yorkshire, the very day of her wedding, she had lost -it. She fancied it must have slipped from her finger as she had waved -to a small girl swinging on a gate. But she had not discovered her -loss till the evening when they had stopped for the night at an hotel. -In a sense she regretted the loss, yet on the other hand she could not -help feeling it a relief. She regarded it in a way as a kind of omen--a -sign that the past was banished forever, especially as the loss had -occurred on the very day she had entered her new life. - -The episode was known only to herself and to one other living person--a -woman friend of hers. She had no smallest fear but that Cecily -Mainwaring had kept silence regarding it--would always keep silence. -She was a woman with extraordinary strength of character and great -reserve. She had always been a staunch friend of Sybil's. Sybil herself -had sometimes marvelled that in this matter she had been able to stand -firm against Cecily's opinion; in fact, to persuade her to her own -point of view regarding it. Though, to be strictly truthful, Cecily -had never adopted Sybil's point of view, she had acted contrary to her -own judgment, and purely from her unswerving friendship to Sybil. They -had never again referred to the matter. Sybil had seen considerably -less of Cecily after it. She had never felt entirely comfortable in -her presence. Cecily's eyes were too terribly truthful. They were not -unlike Luke's eyes. - -Sybil, sitting up on the moorland, heaved an enormous sigh of relief -at the thought that he could never have the smallest suspicion of that -episode. She knew that deceit of any kind was the one thing Luke could -never forgive. She knew, however, that she was perfectly safe. She -would soon be safe herself from all memory of it. To-morrow they were -returning to London, and a month hence they were sailing for India. -Luke was in the Indian Civil Service, and would be returning after a -year's leave. For some years at least they would be out of England, and -there would be no chance of meeting Cecily, who just served to remind -her of things she now wanted to forget entirely. - -And then she saw her husband winding in his line and waving to her. She -got up and went down the side of the fell towards him. - -"Been lonely, little girl?" he asked, putting his arm round her. "I've -got five beauties. We'll have them for supper to-night. Now come along -and have some lunch. I'm simply ravenous." - -"So am I," laughed Sybil. "What a glorious place it is, and how -delicious the air is, and how utterly happy I am." - -"Darling," he said, and bent to kiss her. - -They walked towards the clump of trees where Luke had left a knapsack -containing various eatables. They were simple enough--a couple of -packets of sandwiches, a couple of pieces of cake, and a flask of -claret. He was not the man to burden himself with unnecessary food. - -Sybil sat down on the grass, leaning back against a tree-trunk. - -"I wish we could stay on here," she said. "It would be infinitely -pleasanter than going back to town." - -"Infinitely," said Luke, taking a great bite of chicken sandwich. - -"Then why not write and tell your people that we can't come, and that -we're staying on here." - -Luke laughed. "Because, darling, there is no earthly reason beyond our -own inclination to prevent us going back to London. And I promised my -parents that we would come to them during the last part of July. They -go down to Henley in August, and their cottage is too small to take us -in there." - -Sybil pouted. "Can't you get out of it, though?" she said. "I could -sprain my ankle, or break my leg, or something, and be unable to -travel." - -Luke frowned. "I don't like to hear you say that, Sybil. Of course you -don't mean it, but that you should even suggest in fun that you could -make an untrue statement----" - -Sybil interrupted him quickly. "Of course I didn't mean it, Luke -darling. It was only rather a stupid bit of nonsense. I wouldn't break -our promise for worlds, and you know I love your people. It was just -the thought of this heavenly place that tempted me. Besides, I have you -to myself up here. I'm not sharing you with anyone." - -The last two sentences were the outcome of genuine affection on Sybil's -part. She was honestly devoted to her big husband. And though at times -she would have preferred him to be a little less literal, his strength -and assurance of purpose, as already mentioned, appealed to her -enormously. - -Her last two sentences, in fact her whole speech, pleased Luke. He -patted her hand and looked at her with tender eyes. He loved her from -the very bottom of his extremely truthful heart. He had placed her -carefully on a little pedestal of his own building, and her first -remark had distressed him, as it had caused her to sway a trifle -unsteadily on the same pedestal. - -As soon as they had finished lunch he returned to his fishing, and -she strolled across some fields to a little pond in a bit of heathery -moorland, where she found some sundew and a bog violet. - -It was nearly seven o'clock before they went back to the little white -cottage in the small village. They found that the evening post had come -in, and with it a couple of letters and a London paper. - -"Wonder why this has been sent?" asked Luke, opening it. "We've been -eschewing London papers since we've been up here. The 'Yorkshire Post' -is quite good enough on a holiday." He turned the pages. "Oh, it's -Talbot's wedding"--Talbot had been his best man. "Ah, well, that kind -of rigmarole will interest you far more than me. I've no use for other -people's weddings. I'm quite satisfied with my own. Eh! little girl?" - -Sybil laughed, returned his kiss, and went upstairs to take off her hat. - -Later in the evening she took up the paper, and because she had nothing -else to read she studied the pages rather carefully. Suddenly an -advertisement caught her eye. She read it slowly, then put down the -paper. It told her that her ring had been found, and that she could get -it by applying at a certain address. - -For a moment she decided that she would take no notice of the -advertisement. Then it occurred to her that there might be the smallest -element of risk in leaving the ring in other hands. It was certainly -unique, and once seen not likely to be forgotten. No doubt other people -had seen and observed it long before it had come into her hands--people -who had known its previous owner. - -They were going back to London to-morrow. If Luke saw the advertisement -he would at once recognize it as a description of the ring she had -worn. She had told him that Cecily had given it to her. He had -mentioned it once to Cecily as her gift to Sybil. Sybil remembered the -tiny trace of scorn in Cecily's eyes at the lie, though she had not -contradicted the statement. - -If Luke saw the advertisement he would promptly go and fetch the ring -for her, and then there was no knowing whether he would not learn -something of its previous history. She knew it was ridiculous to -imagine such a thing, and yet she felt that she dared run no tiniest -risk. - -Whoever had found the ring was advertising the fact assiduously, for -the loss was now a fortnight old. They might continue to advertise. The -moment she got back to London she would go to the address given by Mr. -Kirby and claim the ring. And perhaps on the way out to India she would -drop it overboard. She wanted to forget. Whatever Sybil's faults and -weaknesses she was genuinely in love with Luke. - -She crumpled the paper in her hand, managing to tear the advertisement. -She would run no risk. - -Luke looked up with a big yawn. - -"Read the account of the wedding?" he asked. "They were going to -Biarritz, weren't they?" - -"Yes," said Sybil. - -"Ah, well, I want all I can get out of old England. I don't have too -much of her. And now, little girl, how about bed?" He heaved himself -out of his chair. - -"By the way," he said suddenly, "did you read the account of the -exhibition of pictures at the Grafton Galleries? I see there's a -portrait exhibited there by a fellow named John Kirby." - -Sybil thought of the advertisement and her heart stood suddenly still, -then began to race furiously, though she had no real notion why it was -doing so. - -"Do you know the man?" she asked carelessly. - -"We were at school together," said Luke. "I've seen him occasionally -since then. He took up painting. I haven't looked him up this time or -let him know I was in England--don't know why. If I've time I might -look him up before I leave." - -The simple statement troubled Sybil. She felt that she must get the -ring from Mr. Kirby before her husband should see him. She had no -reason for feeling this, but the idea was strong upon her, though she -told herself it was entirely absurd. - -"You're looking tired, little girl," said Luke solicitously. "Hope you -didn't overwalk to-day?" - -"Oh, no," she said lightly. "I'm sleepy, that's all. I'll go up now and -leave you to have your last pipe in the garden." - -She left the room and Luke strolled into the garden, where he smoked -under the quiet stars, and sniffed the night air, and watched the light -in Sybil's room with a feeling of great content. The world, in his -opinion, was an extraordinarily pleasant place. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -PIPPA'S MOTHER - - -Miss Mason was in her studio having tea. Barnabas was with her. He -invariably dropped in at tea-time unless he was giving a tea-party on -his own account. - -Pippa had gone with Alan to look at flats. The occupation was an -intense joy to her. If he had decided on all the flats on which she had -set her heart he would have taken at least a dozen, and he and Aurora -would have lived in one at a time during each of the twelve months of -the year. Hitherto, notwithstanding Pippa's enthusiasm regarding them, -he had not found one that quite came up to his requirements. Tea being -finished, Barnabas lit a cigarette. - -"I must take you to call on Mrs. McAndrew soon," said Barnabas. "She -and Andrew have got a minute flat quite close to his studio. She's a -delightful old lady. You will like her, and her Scotch is, if anything, -broader than Andrew's. I've never seen a fellow so gloriously happy as -he is. We look upon you, Aunt Olive, as a kind of fairy godmother, who -has only to touch people's lives with a magic wand to ensure their -happiness." - -Miss Mason laughed gruffly. - -"That," she said, "is quite the nicest thing I've ever had said to me. -I know my own life has been a kind of glorious fairy tale lately." - -"Life," said Barnabas, "is a fairy tale, if only one can believe it." - -"But," said Aunt Olive, "one comes in touch with bad fairies on -occasions." - -"I know," nodded Barnabas gravely. "But I fancy there are some people -who have the magic wand that can transform them into good ones." - -"It's a comfortable belief," said Miss Mason. - -Sally opened the studio door. - -"A lady to see Mr. Kirby, ma'am," she said. "She says she has come -about an advertisement of a ring." - -"At last," said Barnabas, and he got up. - -"Show her in," said Miss Mason. And the next minute Sybil Preston -entered the studio. Halfway into the room she stopped. - -"Granny!" she exclaimed. - -Miss Mason got up from her chair. - -"Bless me!" she said in an excited voice, "it's little Sybil Quarly. -Sally, bring fresh tea at once." - -Sybil sat down by the table in a chair put for her by Barnabas. - -"Of all the extraordinary things," she laughed, "that I should walk -quietly into this studio and find you. It must be fifteen years since -we met." - -"And eleven since I heard from you," said Miss Mason. - -Sybil flushed faintly. "I'm a shocking letter writer," she said. "I -never write letters. But indeed I had not forgotten you." - -"Of course not," said Miss Mason. "So the ring is yours. Just fancy -that through your losing it, and Mr. Kirby's advertisement, we should -meet again. I've got it quite safely for you." She got up and took it -from a small box. "Here it is." - -Sybil held out her hand for it. Suddenly she became aware that Barnabas -was watching her. - -"I believe," she said to him, with a little nervous laugh, "that you -know my husband, Luke Preston. He was speaking of you only the other -day, and saying that he must look you up." - -Barnabas smiled. "What, old Luke!" he exclaimed. "Of course I knew him. -We were at school together." - -"Then you are married?" said Miss Mason. - -"Barely three weeks ago. We went to Yorkshire for part of our -honeymoon. It was on the way up I lost my ring. We were quite rural -up there, and saw no papers but the 'Yorkshire Post.' It was only by -chance that a London paper was sent us, and I saw the advertisement, so -I----" - -She broke off. She had suddenly seen the picture of Pippa standing by -the faun. Both figures were life-size. - -"Who," she asked, "is that?" Her eyes were dilated, her breath coming -quickly. - -"That is Pippa," said Miss Mason; "a little girl I have adopted." - -Barnabas was again watching Sybil. - -"She is," he said quietly, "extraordinarily like a man I once knew, a -great friend of mine--Philippe Kostolitz." - -Sybil stared at him with wide eyes. There was a trace of fear in them. - -"You knew Philippe?" she said. - -"Yes," said Barnabas, still quietly. - -Miss Mason's keen old eyes looked from one to the other of them. - -"And what, my dear," she said, "did you know of him?" - -Sybil gave a little sob. "He--he was my husband," she said. - -There was a dead silence in the room. Then Miss Mason put a question. -It seemed forced from her: - -"Did you have a child?" - -Sybil bowed her head. - -"Shall I go away?" asked Barnabas. - -"No, stay," said Sybil. "I suppose you guessed something the moment I -came to claim the ring. Since you knew Philippe you must have known -it belonged to him. You had better hear the story. God knows what I -am going to do now." Her lips quivered. She looked like a piteous, -frightened child. - -"My dear," said Miss Mason gently, "if there is any way in which we can -help you, we will. Tell us as much as you can." - -Sybil drew a long breath. She looked at Miss Mason. She tried to forget -that Barnabas was present, though she wished him to remain. - -"You know," she began, "that we went to live at Pangbourne. A year -after we went there I met Philippe. He was staying with some friends -near us. We saw a good bit of each other one way and another, and--and -we began to care.... - -"My mother must have guessed it, for she suddenly began to prevent -my seeing him. But one day he came straight to my father and said he -loved me.... My father was furious. He said he would never hear of his -daughter marrying a vagabond artist, a man who spent half his life on -the roads like any tramp, and the other half in a studio messing with -common clay. You know my father never did like art, and he looked on -all artists with contempt. He never believed that they were gentlemen. -You know, he never believed that anyone who did anything for their -livelihood was one. And he couldn't conceive it possible that the love -of the work and not money was Philippe's motive in his art. At any -rate, he sent Philippe away. I was quite miserable, but hadn't the -courage to gainsay him, and my mother was quite as bad.... - -"Six months later I was staying with some friends in Hampshire for -a fortnight. I was to go on from there to another friend--Cecily -Mainwaring--for a month. Cecily lives in London. One day while I was in -Hampshire I was out for a walk alone, when I met Philippe.... - -"Oh, it's no use my trying to tell you how glad I was to see him. When -he knew I was staying at Andover he remained in the neighbourhood, and -we used to meet almost daily. I'd always gone for long walks alone. We -used to spend hours together in Harewood Forest, and he used to make -all kinds of plans. First he wanted me to defy my parents and run away -with him and marry him. But I hadn't the courage. I said that perhaps -in time they'd consent. Then he thought of another plan and begged me -to consent to it. We were to be married and keep it a secret from my -people. I was to spend a month with him in some little country place -instead of staying with Cecily. Then I was to go home, and he was to -come down and use all his influence with my parents, and if it failed -we would have to tell them. He begged me so that at last I consented. -At the back of my mind I thought that if my parents were still obdurate -I could persuade Philippe not to tell them. At least I'd have a month -with him. I wasn't nineteen, and I never though of what--what might -happen...." She stopped, her face crimson. - -"Yes, dear?" said Miss Mason gently. - -"Philippe went away then to make arrangements, and I stayed on three -days longer with my friends. I left them ostensibly to go to Cecily. I -met Philippe instead.... We were married at a tiny church. He had got -a special license. He didn't like it not being his own church, but as -I was a Catholic it would have been difficult to arrange that. At all -events, the marriage was legal, and he thought that perhaps we'd be -married again in his own church when my parents knew. But of course -that didn't trouble me. We went to Wales together, to a little village -there. Any letters that might be written to me went to Cecily. I wrote -to her and told her I was on a motor tour with friends and my visit to -her must be postponed; that I wasn't sure when I could come home to -her. And I asked her to keep any letters for me till I came. Cecily was -quite unsuspecting, and did so. - -"I was gloriously happy with Philippe. Occasionally I was frightened -at what I had done, but when he was with me I only thought about him -and my happiness. One day he went into Shrewsbury by train.... I -was going with him, but I had such a bad headache that at the last -moment I persuaded him to go alone. He was to have come back at seven -o'clock in the evening.... He didn't come, and I got uneasy. I went -down towards the station.... Then I heard there had been a frightful -railway accident only three miles outside the station.... I went to -the place.... I don't know how I got there. Ever so many people were -going.... They carried the people from the train to cottages and -barns.... I found Philippe in one of them...." Sybil's voice shook and -she stopped. - -"We know, dear," said Miss Mason. "Don't try to tell us." - -There was a little silence. At last Sybil went on: - -"When I saw that he was dead I suddenly realized what I had done. I -knew there was no one to stand between me and my parents' anger.... -And then men came who began to ask questions of the people present ... -wanting them to identify...." Again Sybil stopped. - -"I ran away," she went on pitifully. "I couldn't bear to be asked -anything. I thought perhaps no one would ever know. I thought it would -be so much easier if they didn't.... I got back to the cottage and -packed a few things.... All the people were out at--at the place. We -had given them an assumed name. I thought they'd never know who we -were.... Of course, afterwards they knew about Philippe, I suppose, -when he was identified. I saw in the papers that letters were found -on him.... Someone went there, a friend of his. I've forgotten the -name...." - -"I went," said Barnabas. "It is strange that there was no mention of -you. I suppose the people at the rooms where you stayed wished to keep -out of being questioned, so did not come forward. However, that's no -matter now." - -"I left money to pay for our lodging," went on Sybil, "and just ran -away. I walked a long distance to another little station and took a -train to Hereford. From there I went to London. I got there in the -early morning. I waited about in the station till nearly lunch-time. -Then I drove to Cecily's flat. I had sent my luggage--at least most -of it--to her from Andover. I'd only taken a little box and a handbag -to Wales. I left the box behind at the rooms. There was nothing in it -that could betray my name. I took the handbag away with me. When I saw -Cecily I just said that the tour had ended unexpectedly, and that I -hadn't been well. I stayed with her a week. That week and the three -weeks in Wales just made up the month I was supposed to be with her. -Then I went home.... - -"It's no use trying to explain what I thought, nor how wretched I was. -I don't think I quite knew myself. It didn't seem I who was acting, -but just something or somebody outside myself. If I really thought of -anything it was only that I could never face my parents' anger. So -all the time I was planning and thinking how best to behave that they -should never know. It sounds dreadful now, but then it didn't seem fair -that I should only have three weeks' happiness, and for that bear the -whole brunt of their anger alone. I soon found that I need not fear -them guessing. They never suspected that I had not been with Cecily -the whole time.... As the weeks passed I began to think myself that -everything that had happened had been a dream.... It wasn't exactly -that I forgot Philippe, only I tried to pretend it had never been a -reality.... And then all at once I realized that it wasn't a dream ... -that it never had been ... and no amount of thinking could turn it into -one.... I used to pass whole nights of terror wondering what I could -do.... If I had only told my parents at once it would have been so much -easier.... Even though they would have been terribly angry, at least I -was married to Philippe.... But now I felt I could never tell them.... - -"At last I thought of Cecily. I wrote to ask her to let me stay with -her. I went; and then I told her everything.... Cecily was very good to -me. She begged and implored me to tell my people, but I wouldn't, and I -cried so much she thought I'd be ill, and at last she promised to help -me and do everything I wanted.... We went over to France. My father -was quite willing for me to travel about with Cecily, and kept me well -supplied with money. We were in France moving about in different places -the whole winter. In March we took rooms at St. Germain.... It--it was -there the child was born.... I wouldn't see it.... I didn't even want -to know if it were a boy or a girl ... but Cecily would tell me. She -had it christened Philippa.... I didn't want to see it because I didn't -want to get fond of it. The nurse thought it was just queerness on my -part because I was so weak. Cecily arranged everything. Just after the -nurse left, and when I was well enough to travel, she took the baby -away.... I was so glad when it went. Its crying always reminded me -that it was there. It made me remember, and I wanted so dreadfully to -forget.... - -"When Cecily came back to me alone I told her we'd never speak of it -again.... We never have.... I sent her money.... My father always gave -me a good dress allowance. Out of that I paid for the child.... I -wanted it to be in France. I couldn't bear to think of it speaking with -a common English accent...." - -Barnabas, who had been looking on the ground during most of the -recital, now looked up quickly. What an extraordinary anomaly the woman -was. She could banish from her mind all memory of the man she had -loved, she could forsake the child he had given her, and yet she could -not bear the thought of its learning to speak with a common accent. - -"Have you," asked Miss Mason, "any idea where the child was left?" - -"In Paris," said Sybil quickly. "Cecily told me the name of the woman -when she came back. I didn't want to know, but I wasn't able to stop -her. It was Madame Barbin." - -Miss Mason sighed. "Then," she said, "there is no question but that the -child who came to my studio last December is your daughter." - -Sybil looked at the picture. "She is exactly like Philippe," she said. -"Tell me how she came to you." - -So Miss Mason told the story. - -"I must write to Cecily and tell her to stop sending money to Madame -Fournier," said Sybil when she had ended. - -Again there was a long silence. It was broken by Sybil. - -"What am I to do?" she said. "I never told Luke I'd been married -before. He knows nothing. And now for the first time in my life I want -my little girl. It's odd, isn't it?" - -Miss Mason looked straight before her. Her face had paled a little, and -her voice was not quite steady as she answered: - -"You must tell him now." - -Sybil drew in her breath quickly. "I can't do that. You don't know -Luke. He'd never forgive me--never. And I love him." - -"My dear," said Miss Mason quietly, "are you sure he wouldn't? -Remember, he loves you, and love----" - -"Ah," said Sybil, with a little laugh that was almost a sob, "you're -a woman. Men aren't like that. At least, Luke isn't. If he knew I had -deceived him he wouldn't love me any more." - -Miss Mason looked at Barnabas. Perhaps a man's judgment in the matter -would be of use. - -"Mrs. Preston is right," said Barnabas. "If she had told him before she -married him it would have been different. Now---- You see, I know her -husband." - -"But----" said Miss Mason, and stopped. She did not know what to say. -For her own sake she wanted silence. Yet to her candid mind further -deceit was terribly distressing. - -Sybil looked from one to the other of them. She felt almost as if she -were in the presence of a jury awaiting their verdict. - -"May I," said Barnabas, "say just how the situation strikes me?" - -"Please do," said Sybil quietly. She leant back a little in her chair. - -"It seems to me," said Barnabas, "that you cannot only look at the -right or wrong of the matter entirely from your own point of view. -There are two other people to be considered--your husband and the -child. Knowing Luke I fear it is a matter in which he would not forgive -the deceit. He is not a man who would see any extenuating circumstances -in the case. He would not even understand your having been first -persuaded into a secret marriage." - -"Can you understand it?" asked Sybil quickly. There was a little flush -of colour in her face. - -"I can," said Barnabas. "I can see the whole situation very -clearly--your fear of your parents' anger and Philippe's persuasions. -It would not be easy for a woman who loved Philippe to withstand him. -I, who knew him, can understand that. Luke did not know him?" - -"Yes?" said Sybil as he stopped. She looked at him intently. "But," she -went on, "you don't understand the rest of my action?" - -"Frankly, no," said Barnabas. "I can't understand your silence -afterwards when it came to your desertion of his child. I have, though, -no right to sit in judgment on anyone; and please understand that I'm -not judging you. But I am quite sure that Luke would not take a lenient -view. If he forgave at all--and I honestly doubt his forgiveness--duty -would make him offer the child a home. In fact, he would probably -insist on your having the child with you. But," and Barnabas' voice was -firm, "he would never, forget. And, however strong his sense of duty, -there would always be a barrier between him and the child. It would -not be good for her. Also there is no question but that your husband's -confidence and happiness would be destroyed." He stopped. He felt every -word he had said. He was sorry for the woman, but Luke and Pippa could -not be sacrificed, and to speak now would mean the sacrifice of both -their lives. - -"Then----?" asked Sybil, her eyes upon the ground. - -"In my opinion," said Barnabas, "having kept silence, you owe it to -your husband to keep silence still; in fact, for ever. The child has a -home now, and one who cares for her. For her sake, too, I do not think -you should run the risk of taking her to a home where she would be -unwelcome. She is extraordinarily sensitive. She would feel it now, and -more as she grows older." - -Sybil looked towards the picture. It showed the child in three-quarter -face. "But I want her now," she said. "She looks such a darling." - -Barnabas suppressed a slight movement of impatience. Sybil's sole -thought was of herself and her own wants. - -"Then you are prepared," he asked, "to tell your husband everything? To -lose his confidence and his love, and kill his happiness, and, quite -possibly, have him to go away from you, merely making you an allowance. -For he is quite as likely--and I believe more likely--to do that than -accept the charge of the child. Which do you want most--your child -whom you have never seen or your husband?" - -"Oh, I want Luke," said Sybil quickly. "At least, I think so." - -Barnabas felt considerably like shaking her. He was determined that if -he could prevent it she should not spoil two lives. He had no belief in -weak and tardy confessions that advantage no one. He made an appeal to -her better self--if it existed. - -"Then," he said, "have the strength and courage to keep silence. Even -if you do want your child now, have the pluck to renounce her for her -sake and Luke's. Remember, that payment of some kind is always demanded -sooner or later for any debt we owe. This is your payment." - -Sybil looked silently towards Miss Mason. - -"He's right," said Miss Mason. "I hadn't seen things quite in that -light. Also, I was afraid of having my judgment biassed by my desire to -keep the child." - -Curiously enough throughout the conversation neither Miss Mason nor -Barnabas had spoken of Pippa by name. Instinctively they both felt -that to do so would be to suggest an intimacy to which Sybil was not -entitled. - -Sybil looked at the floor for a few moments without speaking. Then she -raised her head. - -"Very well," she said, "I will not tell Luke. He may come to see you, -Mr. Kirby. If he does please don't tell him of my visit here. But of -course you won't. And," she went on, with a little pleading note in her -voice, "please, you two, don't despise me more than you can help. Some -people seem born strong and not afraid. I've always been a coward. I -think perhaps if my father and mother had been a little more lenient -with me when I was a child it would have been different. But I was -timid, and dreaded being shut up in the dark. So I used to fib to get -out of punishment. And after a time I thought nothing of not speaking -the truth to them. But I suppose you can't understand that." - -"I can understand very well," said Miss Mason. She had known the -parents. - -And Barnabas felt a sudden pity for the woman, who in spite of her -thirty-two years looked little more than a girl. She was of the fragile -flower-like beauty that would no doubt appeal to a man of the strength -of Kostolitz. At the moment Barnabas himself would have protected her -rather than have blamed her. - -All at once Sybil spoke timidly. "Where is she?" she asked, nodding -towards the picture. "Could I see her for a moment?" - -Miss Mason hesitated, doubtful of the wisdom of the proceeding. "She's -out now," she said. - -Sybil gave a tiny sigh. "Well, perhaps it's better not," she said. -"I'd have promised not to tell her. Of course, I don't suppose anyone -would trust me very easily who knew everything. But truly she shall -never know about me. And I'll never tell Luke either. I see that you -are right. I owe it to him now to keep silence. I'll try to make him -very happy. And--and I'll take wanting my little girl as a punishment. -I know I deserve to lose her, and I see that it is impossible for me to -have her and keep Luke's confidence. I should quite spoil his life and -his belief in every one. If only I had been brave long ago I might have -had my little girl and Luke too. But I will keep my word now." She said -it all like a child promising to be good. - -"I know you will, my dear," said Miss Mason gently. She was desperately -sorry for Sybil, and terribly grieved at the whole situation. Yet she -too saw that silence was now the only possible thing for them all. And -in the end it would be happier for Sybil too. Possibly she would always -now wish for her child and regret her loss. But it would be a tender -regret, though sad. And she would keep Luke's love. - -And then suddenly from the courtyard they heard a child's voice. Sybil -flushed and looked at Miss Mason with pleading eyes. - -"I'll bring her," said Barnabas. Wisdom or not, he could not have -resisted Sybil's face. - -"We've found a flat, really and truly," she cried, as she met Barnabas -in the garden. "It is beautiful, but quite beautiful." - -"More beautiful than the others?" laughed Barnabas. "But come in now -and behave pretty. Aunt Olive has a lady to tea with her." - -Pippa came into the room. Her extraordinary likeness to Kostolitz made -Sybil catch her breath. For a moment she did not trust herself to speak. - -"Ah!" cried Pippa, with quick recognition. "It is ze lady of ze car. -Did you give her ze ring?" - -Sybil held out her hand. "Yes, dear," she said, "I've got it. I'm -glad you found it and kept it for me." She held the child's hand -tight. Pippa looked at her with her great grey eyes, so like the dead -sculptor's. Memories rushed over Sybil. The days in the forest, the -days in the little Welsh village crowded back to her mind. She could -almost hear Kostolitz's voice, hear his gay laugh, and his words of -passionate love. Her throat contracted and tears filled her eyes. -Suddenly she got up. - -"I'd better go now," she said. Her voice shook a little. Then an -impulse moved her. She held out the ring to Pippa. "Will you have it?" -she said. "I'd like you to keep it." - -"For me?" said Pippa, her face crimson. - -"May she?" said Sybil to Miss Mason. - -"Yes," said Miss Mason. - -Sybil looked again at the picture of the child. - -"I suppose I oughtn't to ask," she said, "but it would remind me. I -don't want to forget now. Not that I ever shall." - -"I'll send it to you," said Miss Mason. "Barnabas won't mind, will you, -Barnabas? Just a gift from an old friend, you know." - -Sybil's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you," she said. Then she bent -and kissed Pippa. "Good-bye, little one." - -Barnabas went to the door with her. - -"I couldn't stay any longer," she said. "Good-bye." - -And she went away in the sunshine, past the little faun in the next -garden, and so out of the courtyard, and out of the lives she had -momentarily entered. - -When she had disappeared Barnabas looked at the little faun. - -"It was the only way," he said. And his heart was sad for the man who -had been forgotten by the woman he had loved. And he wondered if he -knew everything now. If he did he would probably understand so fully -that he would forgive fully. And then Barnabas went back into the -studio. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -MICHAEL MAKES MUSIC - - -During August Miss Mason took Pippa down to a little seaside place in -Devonshire. She chose it because its name--Hope--appealed to her. - -Pippa adored it. She loved the quaint cottages, and the beach with the -tarred nets spread out to dry, and the kindly fishermen who took her -out in their boats, and who talked to her in a dialect she could hardly -understand. But she understood their kindness, and they understood her -smiles, so they got on very well together. - -Barnabas came down for a fortnight, and Pippa met him at the station, -a thin slip of a child, her face bronzed with the sun and sea air, -and her eyes holding the hint of mystery he had seen in the eyes of -Kostolitz. - -They bathed together, they caught prawns in seaweedy pools in the -rocks, they sat in the shadow of the cliffs and watched the sea-gulls -and the white-sailed boats on the blue water. - -And during these days Barnabas found in Pippa something that he had -not found before--not even during the June days when they had wandered -through the lanes with Pegasus. He found in her Woman and Companion. -She ceased to be merely Child. He saw the spirit of Kostolitz in -her mysterious eyes. She showed it to him in a hundred ways--in her -clear joyous love of Nature, in her fanciful imaginings and delicate -thoughts, in her quick insight into everything that was beautiful. And -with it all she was a child, too, with a child-like simple faith and -trust that was to be her heritage throughout her life. And because -there was this trait also in Barnabas they found in each other the most -perfect companionship. - -Miss Mason watched them together, helped them prawn, and was radiantly -happy. She cared not at all for the occasional smiles her quaint figure -and costume provoked from other visitors to the place. And because -Pippa was enjoying herself enormously she remained at Hope throughout -September as well. - -The Duchessa di Corleone too had left London during August. She -wandered from place to place trying to find forgetfulness and not -succeeding. - -In September she returned to town. She never went near the studios now, -but Michael came often to see her, and used to make music for her. In -it she found some consolation. And Michael loved to come to her house, -though the sight of her always gave him pain. - -One day after he had been playing to her, and they were having tea -together, he suddenly looked up at a picture of St. Michael that hung -in her drawing-room. - -"Queer," he said, with a little twisted smile, "that my people should -have chosen to name me after the warrior angel." And he glanced from -the strength of the pictured figure at his own shrunken limbs. His -voice was so bitter that Sara could find no reply. - -"Just a moment's carelessness on the part of a nursemaid," went on -Michael. "She dropped me when I was a baby. You see the result. It -makes it difficult to believe in an over-ruling Providence, doesn't it? -My guardian angel must have been peculiarly inattentive at the moment." - -"I think," said Sara slowly, "that there are times in the life of every -one when it is very difficult to have faith. Yet, if one loses it one -loses all happiness." - -"I lost both long ago," said Michael. "It's an irony of fate to be -born with an acute sense of the beautiful, and to see one's own -repulsiveness." - -Sara looked up quickly. - -"But you are not repulsive," she said. - -"Bah!" said Michael. "Look at me! Women are only kind to me out of -pity." - -Sara looked straight at him. "There you are quite wrong," she said -decisively. "I don't feel the smallest pity for you in the sense you -mean. Your face is quite beautiful, and your music----" she stopped. - -"But my body," he said. - -"Yes," said Sara calmly, "I grant you that it is extremely trying for -you to be lame, and you must often wish to be strong and big. But you -need not think it makes the smallest difference in our affection for -you." She again looked steadily at him as she spoke. - -Michael looked away from her. "But no woman could love me--they would -shrink from me," he said. And his face flushed hotly. - -"Not at all," said Sara. "There again you are quite wrong. I grant that -there is a certain type of woman who is entirely attracted by sinews -and muscles in a man. But most assuredly there are others." - -There was a silence. Then Michael spoke again. His voice was very low. - -"You--you could never care?" he said. - -Sara's eyes filled with quick tears. "Not in the way you mean," she -said gently; "but not because of the morbid reason you have suggested. -I--I love some one else." - -"Paul?" he asked. - -Sara bowed her head. - -Michael was silent. "But if you did not," he asked suddenly, "would you -have thought it horrible of me to tell you that I love you--not quietly -and calmly, but--but as a man loves a woman?" - -"I should have been honoured to hear it from you," said Sara. - -Michael looked across at her with a strange smile. - -"Thank you," he said. "I shall not tell you how--though you know it. -Nor shall I ever tell any other woman what I have told you. You will -still let me come and see you?" - -"You must come," said Sara quickly. "I should miss you dreadfully if -you didn't. During these last weeks your visits have been my greatest -pleasure. When I hear the front door bell ring I listen. And when I -hear the pad of your crutch on the stairs I am happy, and I say to -myself, 'It is Michael.'" - -It was the first time she had used his name. For a few moments Michael -did not trust himself to speak. When he did his voice was light. - -"I shall hate my crutch no longer," he said, "since its sound has given -you happiness. Do you know you have quite suddenly brought back faith -to me. I thought it was dead. Now I will play for you again." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -THE PEACE OF THE RIVER - - -After Michael had left, Sara went to the window and stood looking out -at the trees on the Embankment. The heat of the summer had already -caused their leaves to turn yellow. - -Beyond them she could see the river. It always held a note of peace -for her. Rivers and lakes had the power to speak to her. She loved -their calm quietude, though she had seen lakes lashed to fury by the -wind. But it was a different kind of anger from the anger of the -sea. The cruelty of the sea hurt her--its restlessness, its turmoil, -its never-ceasing demand for lives. Even when it was quiet it was -treacherous. Its smiling surface was nothing but a lure, for it held -terrible secrets in its heart. - -But the quiet of the river always soothed her. She knew it in all its -moods--under grey skies, and under blue skies, in the crimson and -purple of sunset, in the amber grey and rose of dawn. She knew it at -the full flood of its waters, and at ebbing tide. In all its moods she -loved it, and she loved her house, yet she felt that she could not stay -there much longer. - -With the end of October she would go away to Italy for the winter. -Everything here reminded her of Paul. She did not want to forget him, -yet the sight of the streets in which they had walked together, the -hotels at which they had dined, the theatres to which they had been, -only served to emphasize her present loneliness. - -Christopher was the only person who, till to-day, had known of her -unhappiness. Ever since he first knew her, when she was ten and he was -two-and-twenty, she had come to him with her joys and griefs. There was -a curious faculty for sympathy in Christopher. It made him the popular -barrister he was, especially with women. It was easy to tell him -things. Had he been a priest he would undoubtedly have been much sought -in confession. He had heard many stories, both sordid and pitiful. -Somehow he seemed always able to separate the sin from the sinner. One -knew instinctively that he had no scorn for the latter, any more than -a doctor scorns a patient who comes to him with a disease to be cured. -He had, too, been instrumental in preventing several divorces, and -in giving men convicted of theft a second chance without the stigma -of prison attaching to them. And curiously enough he had never been -disappointed in those for whom he had pleaded for leniency. There was -nothing weak about Christopher. There had been certain cases he had -refused to accept--cases in which he knew the guilt to be a fact, and -in which justice could only be avoided by a direct wandering from the -truth, even though he knew that by one of his impassioned speeches -he could most probably have saved the victim from the law, and have -established a great reputation for himself. In spite of his sympathy, -he took a strangely impersonal view of things in general, and his -sympathy, though very real, was never allowed to bias his judgment. - -He agreed fully with Paul's decision that he and Sara should not meet, -and he offered a silent sympathy which Sara found very comforting. -After she had once told him about the parting she had not again spoken -directly of it. She could not talk of it. She could only try to live -her life as best she might in the hope that one day.... - -But that day seemed very far off and dim. - - * * * * * - -And in his studio Paul was working with a grim, dogged determination. -And every week he wrote cheerful letters to his mother, in one of which -he had just said that his marriage was postponed for a time; and he -never for a moment let her guess the trick fate had played him. - -And so September passed, and it drew on towards the middle of October. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -SOME TWISTED THREADS - - -"Barnabas," said Miss Mason one day--it was the fourteenth of -October--"what's the matter with Paul?" - -She was in Barnabas' studio when she put the question. - -"Ah," said Barnabas, "you've seen it too." - -"One must be blind not to see it," said Miss Mason. "I felt something -was wrong before I went away, and since I've been back I've been sure -of it." - -For a moment Barnabas did not reply. "I know part," he said after a -minute, "and the rest I can guess. You know he has lost a good bit of -money?" - -"Humpt!" said Miss Mason. "I didn't know. So that's the trouble." - -"Partly," said Barnabas. "I think the other part is the Duchessa." - -"You mean----?" said Miss Mason. - -"Paul was in love with her," said Barnabas. - -Miss Mason looked at him. Then she nodded her head two or three times. -She suddenly realized that the Duchessa, who used frequently to come -to the courtyard, had not been there during the last three weeks -of July, nor during this first fortnight in October. Of August and -September she had, of course, no record. - -"I see," she said. - -"I think," went on Barnabas, "that if this money loss had not -intervened they would have followed the example of Aurora and Alan." - -"She cared for him then?" asked Miss Mason. - -"I have never seen two people more in love with each other," said -Barnabas. "They evidently did not wish, at the moment, to make the fact -public. But seeing them together, as I occasionally did, one must have -been blind not to have realized it." - -"Ah," said Miss Mason. "Then she is unhappy, too?" - -"I have happened to meet her twice," said Barnabas. "She acts very -well. But the spring of life has gone." - -"But she has money," said Miss Mason. "Surely----" - -"If she marries again she loses every penny," said Barnabas. "I learned -that quite by chance one day from Charlton." - -Miss Mason made a curious sound with her tongue. It can only be -described as clucking. - -"The world," she said, "can be curiously contrary at times. I'm very -glad I asked you." - -Then she went back to her studio and sat down for a long time in her -big arm-chair to think. - -And the Three Fates watched her. For when Miss Mason sat in her chair -with just that particular expression on her face, it meant that she was -not over-pleased with their weaving, and that she wished to unravel -and re-weave their latest pattern to a fashion more according to their -mind. And the Three Fates looked at each other, and they nodded their -three old heads, and waited with amusement in their eyes to see what -she would do. As a matter of fact they had made this particular bit of -muddle in their weaving on purpose that she might have the pleasure of -putting it straight. - -But it was a bit of straightening about which Miss Mason felt a trifle -nervous. Her fingers itched to be at the threads, unravelling and -untwisting the knots, yet somehow she felt a little frightened to begin. - -It was quite three hours before she made up her mind. Then she suddenly -crossed to her writing-table and wrote a letter to Mr. Davis who had -rooms in Gray's Inn. In the letter she stated that she wished to -see him at eleven o'clock precisely the following morning on urgent -business. - -And as she folded and sealed the letter the Three Fates laughed. For -Miss Mason had put her fingers on the first knot. - - * * * * * - -"It is," said Mr. Davis, "a most unusual proceeding." - -It was twelve o'clock on the following morning. He had been talking to -Miss Mason for an hour, or rather she had been talking, and it was the -third time that he had made the above statement. - -"All the same," said Miss Mason firmly, "it is my wish. And I -understand that I have absolute control over my capital." - -"Absolute," said Mr. Davis regretfully, looking at her with a kind of -mild protest through his spectacles. - -"Very well, then," she went on, "have the deeds, or whatever you call -them, drawn up immediately. I will come down to your office the day -after to-morrow to sign them. I shall bring them away with me, and -post them to you the moment I wish the matter put in full train. Is -everything perfectly clear?" - -"Perfectly," said Mr. Davis. "Of course, if there had been trustees----" - -"But there aren't, thank goodness," said Miss Mason. "Remember, ten -o'clock Friday morning I'll be with you." - -Mr. Davis found himself dismissed; and he left the studio wondering how -a woman who eighteen months ago did not know how to fill up a cheque -should suddenly have become so remarkably decided regarding business -matters, and utterly refuse to listen to common-sense statements on his -part. - -As soon as he had gone Miss Mason wrote to Sara. - - "My dear Duchessa," she wrote, "will you do an old woman a favour and - come to tea with her on Friday next at four o'clock. I want to see you - on a particular matter. If you are engaged on Friday will you very - kindly appoint some other hour on which you can come to see me. - - "Yours very sincerely, - "OLIVE MASON." - -She sent the note by Sally, telling her to wait for an answer. In half -an hour Sally returned with it. Miss Mason opened it with fingers a -little shaky from anxiety. She read it slowly. - - "My dear Aunt Olive.--Thank you for your letter. I will be with you on - Friday next at four o'clock. My love to you and Pippa. I hope you both - enjoyed your holiday in Devonshire. - - "Very sincerely yours, - "SARA DI CORLEONE." - -It had cost Sara something to write that letter. It would bring back -memories of joy and pain for her again to enter the courtyard. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -KNOTS UNTIED - - -On Friday afternoon at half-past two Barnabas took Pippa to feed the -monkeys and other animals at the Zoological Gardens. It was by Miss -Mason's special request. - -During the time that elapsed between their departure and four o'clock -Miss Mason was distinctly restless. She began to sew at some fine -white cambric into which she was putting her most beautiful stitches. -When she had returned from Hope, Bridget had told her of a Secret that -was to arrive in the spring--a secret which if it was a boy was to be -called Oliver, but Bridget hoped it would be Olive. She and Jasper were -beamingly happy. - -Miss Mason put in a few stitches, but she found it impossible to sit -still. She dropped the work into a basket, got up from her chair, and -began to walk up and down the room. Then she would suddenly sit down -and begin to sew again. - -"I'm an old fool," she said. "I can no more help interfering than I -can help breathing, and yet I'm as nervous as a cat." And she began to -watch the clock anxiously. - -It had just chimed the hour in its silvery tone when Sally opened the -door. - -"The Duchessa di Corleone," she said. She had learnt the name by now. - -Sara came into the room. She was in a dark blue dress, and because the -day was keen, though bright, she was wrapped in dark sable furs. - -"My dear," said Miss Mason, "I am quite delighted to see you. Sally, -bring tea." - -Sara sat down and loosened her furs. Miss Mason looked at her. Her -face was paler than even its usual worry warranted. It had lost the -under-glow of warmth, and her eyes looked dark and sad. - -"Did you have a good time in Devonshire?" she asked. - -"Delightful," said Miss Mason. "A few people grinned fatuously when -they saw my old figure skipping over the rocks. But I said to myself, -'The Duchessa wouldn't see anything to laugh at,' and so I didn't care." - -Sara smiled. "You still remember our conversation long ago?" - -"I've never forgotten it," said Miss Mason emphatically. "I fancy if I -had not seen you that evening I should have given up all my dreams and -have gone back to the old house for the rest of my life. And what a lot -I should have missed if I had." - -"And what a lot a great many people would have missed," said Sara. -"You've woven yourself into a good many lives. Why, dozens of babies -would have been minus white woolly jackets, while several bigger babies -would have lost a good deal of happiness." - -"Nice of you to say so," said Miss Mason. And she began to pour out tea. - -For the next twenty minutes they talked of little things--the visit to -Devonshire, the donkey-tour, the flat Aurora and Alan had taken, and -Pippa at present feeding the animals at the Zoo. Sara talked lightly -and even gaily. As Barnabas had said, she was a good actress. It was -not till the meal was finished, then Miss Mason spoke on the subject of -her heart. - -"My dear," she then said suddenly, "what is the matter?" - -Sara flushed. "I can't talk about it," she said. She made no attempt at -denial. - -"I don't really want you to tell me," said Miss Mason, "because I know. -But I think I can find a way out of the difficulty." - -Sara gave a little sad laugh. "If you can you are clever. I've thought -and thought, and can see none." - -Miss Mason coughed. "It's all perfectly simple, really," she said, -"only I don't quite know how to begin to tell you. It seems to me that -money is the most difficult thing in the world to talk about." She took -two envelopes from the table. "Will you, my dear, read the contents of -those. It seems to me the simplest way." - -Sara took the envelopes--long ones--and drew out the parchment -contents. She read slowly. At first she could hardly grasp their -meaning, it had been so unexpectedly presented to her. - -At last she looked up. Her face was quivering. - -"But--but--I simply couldn't----" - -"But, my dear, why not?" said Miss Mason. "Will you look at the whole -thing reasonably. If I chose to bequeath certain sums of money to you -and Paul at my death I presume you would not feel it incumbent on you -to refuse them. Why shouldn't you accept them now?" - -"But----" began Sara again. And she stopped, looking from the documents -she held to Miss Mason. - -"I know," said Miss Mason, "that people often feel a kind of pride -about accepting money, though why on earth they should calmly take it -from dead people and refuse to accept it from living ones, I can't -imagine. Of course their argument might be that dead people can't use -it themselves. That would be true. But then this special living person -can't use all hers. Let me just put things clearly to you. I have a -capital that brings me in fifteen thousand a year. Five thousand a year -I am devoting to a certain scheme in which Barnabas is helping me. I -wish to make over sufficient capital to you and Paul to bring you in -two thousand five hundred a year each. That will leave me with five -thousand a year for my own use. My dear, I don't even spend that." - -"But charities----" began Sara vaguely. - -"Pooh!" said Miss Mason. "I'm sick of them. If you'd written as many -charitable letters as I have you'd have had enough of charities. I -wrote hundreds for Miss Stanhope. She always filled in the amount she -gave herself. I never knew what it was. But I can give to all the -charities I want out of five thousand. Now, my dear, will you agree. -Will you give me the pleasure of your acceptance and allow me a few -more years on this extremely pleasant planet in which I can see your -happiness, instead of waiting till I'm dead and coming then to drop a -few grateful tears and white flowers on my grave. I'd infinitely prefer -the former I assure you." - -Sara gave a little half-laughing sob. "I accept with all my heart," she -said, "and I don't know how ever I am to thank you." - -Miss Mason grunted. "Now there's another thing," she said, "please -don't try. Do think if you can that the money just happened into the -bank without any human agency. If you're going to keep an eternal -feeling of gratitude before your mind it will spoil everything. I want -to be able to quarrel with you and Paul and scold you as much as I -like, and if I felt that gratitude was preventing you from answering -me back it would destroy my whole pleasure in the proceeding. Besides, -my dear, if there is any debt owing it is I who owe it. I've never -forgotten the hope you gave me the first evening we met." - -Sara stretched out her hands with a little laugh of pure happiness. It -was the first time she had laughed like that for three months. - -"And I tried to sermonize a little," she cried. "And then we got -on to fairy tales, and I was happier. Oh, isn't life a fairy tale! -And if we told all the dull, prosaic people of the truly delightful -and unexpected things that happen wouldn't they say that it was all -made-up, and far-fetched, and things like that. When it is just that -they are too stupid to see the happenings, and too heavy and dull to -look over the wall in which they have enclosed themselves. I can't tell -you how happy I am. And will you think me a pig if I run away for a -little while and tell Paul?" - -She got up from her chair, radiant, vital, as she had been on the day -she had first entered the studio. - -"My dear," said Miss Mason, "if you hadn't said you were going I should -have sent you." - -Sara held out both her hands. "It seems," she said, "as if I were -taking it too quietly, and as if I ought to have protested more. But -after everything you said I really couldn't. It was all so absolutely -true. And we'd both so much rather have you here seeing our happiness -in your wonderful legacy, than that we should go to a grave to thank -you, and lay that white flower tenderly on the grass." - -Miss Mason gave a gruff laugh. "You can't conceive," she said, "what -pleasure you've given me." Then quite suddenly she took Sara in her -arms and kissed her. - -"Now, my dear," she said as she released her, "do, for goodness' sake, -go and make that poor Paul happy." - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - -THE TUNE OF LOVE - - -Paul had gone on bravely with his life. He knew that when Sara had gone -out of his studio into the summer night she had taken something away -with her, the something that was the best part of himself. But with -what remained to him he had set himself to face the lonely months ahead -of him. Each morning as he woke he told himself that he would work for -her. It was the only thing that made work possible to him. - -His joy in art had been sufficient for him until he met her. Her coming -had increased it ten-thousandfold, as it had increased his whole joy in -life and in beauty, giving it a meaning he had never before realized. -And when she went she had taken it away, leaving him with nothing but -the husk. - -In spite of his courage, loneliness at times seemed as if it must -overwhelm him, for now it was unlike his former loneliness. Before, he -had not known what it was to have the perfect companionship of a woman. -Now he had known it and lost it. And the years before him stretched -very grey. He tried to see a gleam of gold in the future, but it was -too far off for him to perceive it by sight; he could only tell himself -in faith that one day it would dawn through the greyness. But however -strong the spirit may be to have faith, the flesh after all is human -and weak, and his loneliness pressed hard upon him. During the last -weeks, too, he had had only one commission--an uninteresting one, -which he had nevertheless accepted. He would now, as he had said, have -painted anyone however commonplace. But the work had not taken him in -any degree out of himself. - -On the afternoon of the fourteenth of October he was sitting alone in -his studio. It had been a bad day for him--one of the days that come to -all artists when hand and brain alike refuse to work, when inspiration -is lacking, and it seems as if her light had departed for ever. - -He looked round the room. There was rather a neglected appearance about -it. He had given up his man as an extravagance he could not possibly -afford, and he was on the look-out for a tenant for his studio, meaning -to move into something much smaller. Yet, in spite of the neglected -look of the studio, Paul himself was as well groomed as ever. Personal -cleanliness was an ingrained characteristic of him. It belonged to him -as much as it belonged to the French aristocrats who manicured their -nails while waiting in the Bastille for the tumbrils that would take -them to the scaffold and the embrace of the guillotine. - -After a time he got up from his chair, and taking the kettle from the -stove, he made some tea. As he did so he thought of the many times Sara -had had tea with him since the day in Battersea Park. - -Everything he did or thought reminded him of her. The tiniest and most -trivial details recalled her--even a thing as insignificant as the -crack in the table. He remembered seeing her run her finger along it -one day when she had been sitting in the chair opposite to him, which -chair was now empty. The tea-cups reminded him. He had bought them -specially for her. Before that he had only possessed two cracked ones -and a tumbler. Even one of the cracked ones was precious, because from -it she had drunk a cup of coffee the day Pippa had lunched with him and -he had decided to re-paint her dress. - -"My God!" said Paul to himself, "joy was so near me, and now I must -pass, at the best, years of my life alone." - -He looked across at the vases on the bookshelf. They had never held -flowers since the day thirteen weeks ago when they had been full of -crimson roses. They and the blue vase on the mantelpiece, to the colour -of which Pippa had likened Sara, were covered with dust. Paul felt -suddenly as if, in spite of his efforts, dust were settling on his -heart. - -And then all at once he heard a slight sound. It was a woman's step in -the courtyard. Paul caught hold of the arm of his chair and gripped it -hard. His face had gone quite white. - -The door opened. - -"Paul," said a voice. - -The next moment she was in his arms and he was sobbing like a child. - -"Don't, dear heart, don't," said Sara, her voice shaking. - -He put her in a chair and sat down by the table. - -"You shouldn't have come," he said brokenly. - -She went over to him and knelt beside him. - -"But, dearest, listen," she said, taking both his hands, "I have come -to tell you of joy." - -Paul stared at her half bewildered. "What do you mean?" he said. - -"Listen," she said. "It's all so wonderful I can hardly believe it -myself. But it's all true--true--true!" - -"Tell me, quickly," said Paul, putting his arms round her. - -And as many weeks ago he had had to tell her bad news, so she now told -him news of joy. She told him everything, all Miss Mason's quaint -and excellent reasons for their acceptance of this happiness with no -thought of false pride to intervene. - -"You will accept, Paul?" said Sara, as she finished. - -Again the man's eyes were full of tears. "Beloved, I must. My love for -you would sweep away all pride. But I think with a gift offered in that -way one need have none. My God, it's wonderful!" - -And so she still knelt beside him, and he held her in a kind of dumb -ecstasy, as if he feared to move and find it was only a dream. And the -music of the Heart which had long held such a throb of pain now rose -loud and glorious, filling the whole studio. - -"Beloved," said Paul at last, "let us go together and find Aunt Olive." - -So they went out into the purple dusk, in which a light wind was -scattering the last few golden leaves from the trees, letting them -float gently to the courtyard. - -And the little faun saw them coming, and the tune he played to welcome -them was the sweetest, purest Tune of Love. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - -A WEDDING DAY - - -And so the knots the Fates had twisted were unravelled, and the threads -re-woven into the beautiful pattern of joy and gladness, love and -friendship. - -One day Paul took Sara down to Hampshire to see his mother, a -white-haired old lady with a wrinkled face and a peaceful mouth, and -eyes like Paul's. She took Sara at once to her heart. - -"Dearie," she said, "my boy has had a lonely life, and I thank God he -has found a woman like you to fill it." - -And Sara in her turn loved the old lady, not only for Paul's sake, -but for her own. And she loved the little cottage where she lived, -and she loved the old-fashioned garden with its box-edged paths, -and flower-beds in which a few late autumn flowers still lingered. -The rooms in the cottage were small, but all as dainty and clean as -porcelain, and fragrant with the scent of lavender and potpourri. She -showed Sara the bedrooms with their old chintz curtains before the -casement windows, and the frilly dressing-tables, and white-valanced -beds. They had each the effect of a Dresden china Shepherdess--the -tiniest bit stiff, but extraordinarily dainty. She showed her her store -cupboard with its pots of jam, marmalade, and pickles, and she promised -her a recipe for curing hams and another for making oat cake. - -And Sara told her how to make spaghetti, and told her it was the first -dish she had ever cooked for Paul. And in the evening when they went -away she took with her a great bunch of Michaelmas daisies. And Mrs. -Treherne kissed her and blessed her, for she knew that the next day she -was to be Paul's wife. - - * * * * * - -The reception was to be held in Miss Mason's studio by special request -from Paul and Sara. Sara felt that already the house on the Embankment -was hers no longer. - -There were to be few guests at the wedding--only the other artists of -the courtyard, Bridget, Christopher, Andrew, and the two executors of -Giuseppe's will, who would bring with them the important letter whose -secret would be at last disclosed. The journey and the fatigue of the -ceremony, however quiet, would have been too much for Mrs. Treherne. -Sara's own father and mother had been dead several years. Christopher -was to give away the bride, and Barnabas was to be best man. - -And so the day dawned, a still, November day of soft mists and a pale -blue sky--a tender day full of peace and happiness. - -Christopher went to the house on the Embankment to fetch Sara. She was -waiting in the drawing-room for him, in a sapphire-blue dress, a large -black hat, and her soft sable furs. - -"Ready?" said Christopher, smiling. And they went down the stairs -together. - -Pietro was in the hall. His face was radiant with pleasure. Paul and -Sara had arranged to keep him in their service. - -"Good-bye," said Sara. "We'll let you know when we return to London. -You will of course hand over the keys of the house to the executors -when they ask for them." - -"Yes, Your Grace. Good fortune and happiness to your Grace." - -"Thank you, Pietro," said Sara. And then she passed through the door -he held open for her, and went down the steps to the taxi, Christopher -following. - -"Christopher," said Sara a moment or two after they had started, -"you've been a very good friend to me, and I'd like to thank you." - -"No occasion to do so," said Christopher imperturbably. "The friendship -has been mutual, and I hope will still continue." - -"Of course," said Sara. "That was one thing I wanted to say to you. My -love for Paul doesn't make the least difference in my friendship for -you. You will be exactly the same to me, as I shall be, I hope, to -you." - -"Agreed," said Christopher, holding out his hand with a smile. But he -knew that it never would be quite the same again. Her marriage with -Guiseppe had made no difference, her marriage with Paul would. And with -the knowledge Christopher had suddenly realized what he was losing. -He was like a man who had had a jewel in a box, looking at it always -in one position, and it was not till he took it in his hand to give -it to another that it suddenly flashed upon him in a new light, and -he saw colours and depths in it hitherto unperceived, and a longing -to keep it took possession of him. But the deed was already virtually -signed and witnessed, the power to keep it lost, and so he hid what -he was feeling, and his manner towards her held nothing but his old -courtliness, his old friendship. The pain the new knowledge had brought -him must be his alone. - -And as the taxi stopped at the door of the church he helped Sara to -alight, and gave her his arm to lead her up the steps, and up the aisle -to the other man who was waiting for her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -A GIFT FROM THE DEAD - - -Signor Bernardo Cignolesi took his watch from his pocket and looked at -Signor Manfredi Guido. - -"It is, I think, the exact hour," he said. - -They were small and dapper Italians, these two, who had been appointed -by the late Duca di Corleone as the executors of his will and the -keepers of the letter. - -The whole party was assembled in Miss Mason's studio. The wedding was -over. Paul and Sara had plighted their troth. The blessing upon them -had been pronounced. And when the last words of it had died away the -church had been suddenly filled with music, the notes of a violin -joyous and sweet, a wedding song for the two, a song that had never -before been played. - -It was Michael's tribute to them both. The organist alone had been -taken into the secret, and the man, who was a very true musician, -listened to the song with his eyes full of tears. - -"It is Michael," Sara had whispered. And no one had moved till the -music had ceased. - -But now they were all in the studio, eating wedding cake and drinking -champagne, which Pippa had never tasted before and which made her gasp. -She was wearing a little pendant Paul had given her. It was gold and -shaped like a tulip, and it held in its chalice a blue sapphire. - -And it was exactly an hour from the time the blessing had been -pronounced that Signor Bernardo Cignolesi said to Signor Manfredi Guido: - -"I think it is the exact hour." - -And Signor Manfredi Guido took a sealed envelope from his pocket, -and holding it in his hand the two crossed together to Sara, who was -standing by Paul, her radiance and magnetism filling the whole place. - -"Allow us," said Signor Guido, speaking for himself and his -co-executor, "to give into your possession the letter addressed to -you by the late Duca di Corleone. And now permit me to kiss your hand -and wish you all happiness, thanking you at the same time for your -hospitality." He raised her hand to his lips, and Signor Cignolesi -followed his example. Then bowing and smiling the two dapper little men -returned to their glasses of champagne. - -Sara broke the seal of the envelope and drew out the paper it -contained. It was a letter in the late Duca's handwriting, and -addressed to herself. - -She crossed slowly to Miss Mason's large oak chair and sat down while -she read it. - - "My dear," the letter began, "if ever you read this letter it will - be on the day that you have given yourself into the keeping of the - man you love. Therefore, will you permit me, from the regions of the - peaceful dead, to offer to you my felicitations? - - "It is possible that since my death there have been moments when you - have thought of me, if not with anger, at least with vexation. I knew - I ran the risk of incurring this sentiment on your part when I drew up - my will. - - "May I now give you my reasons and my excuse for my action? I will be - as brief as possible: - - "When you married me, my dear, you were able to bring me a certain - quiet affection, a very true courtliness, and an entire faithfulness. - Love had not entered your life. You did not, then, know its meaning. I - was not the man to teach you. I knew it, and yet I was selfish enough - to take you. My excuse is simply that I loved you. You gave me what - you had then to give, and it made me happy. If I longed for more I - knew it was not withheld, but simply, at the time, non-existent. - - "I realized, however, what one day you would have it in your power to - give. And knowing that, I determined that the best should come to you - and be asked of you. Hence my will. Total surrender of all worldly - possessions for love. Love seeking you for your sake alone. My dear, - was I wrong? I may have been. I leave it now for you to judge me. I - wanted you, because I loved you, to have the gift of love in your - life. - - "And now that you have it I, from the quiet regions to which I shall - have attained, send my offering to you and the man of your choice. - Signor Cignolesi will give you another packet. In it you will find a - deed leaving you the whole and sole possessor of the Casa di Corleone - on the banks of Lake Como. - - "You loved it, and I loved to see you there. If the spirits of the - departed are allowed to return to earth, mine will come there to see - you in your happiness. And remember, my dear, that in it I shall - rejoice, for I believe that the only thing that could mar the peace to - which, please God, I shall attain, would be your sorrow. - - "Therefore, my dear, live joyously in the Casa di Corleone. And when - on sunny days you sit in the shadow of the orange trees, and your - children come running to you across the courtyard, God grant that my - spirit may be there to see it. - - "And may His Blessing be upon you; and the Blessed Virgin and all the - Saints have you in their keeping, - - "GIUSEPPE DI CORLEONE." - -Sara looked up. Her eyes were misty. She signed to Paul to come to her. - -"Read it," she said. "Giuseppe was a generous man, and a very true -courtier." - -And when Paul had read it he kissed Sara's hand. Then he came back to -the table and every one saw that he had something to say. - -"My wife," he said simply, "has just received a gift from one who we -know is at peace. It is the gift of a home she loves--the Casa di -Corleone. And the offering comes from the Duca di Corleone." - -He bowed his head gravely, as did all the other occupants of the -studio, while Sara, Pippa, Barnabas, and the two dapper little -Italians, made the sign of the cross. And so they all for a moment paid -tribute to the memory of a true and generous man. - - * * * * * - -Then, of course, came a babel of congratulations, and Paul was called -upon for a speech. - -"Speeches," said Paul smiling, "are not very much in my line. My wife -and I thank you all very much for being here to-day, and we know -that throughout our lives we can count on the true friendship of all -present. There is one toast, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to -propose. It is to one who has been, and is, the best friend of many of -us. Ladies and gentlemen let us drink to Aunt Olive in Bohemia." - -And everybody got to their feet, and there was a good deal of applause, -and a good deal of laughter, but the eyes of some of them were a -little dim, as were the eyes of the old lady who sat there smiling, -and thanking God in her heart for His wonderful gifts of Love and -Happiness. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -THE MUSIC OF TWO COURTYARDS - - -And so it was that Paul and Sara did not spend their honeymoon in Paris -as they had at first intended, but travelled direct through without -stopping to the Casa di Corleone on the banks of Lake Como. - -It was in the purple and crimson of a sunset that Paul first saw the -courtyard, and the golden oranges among their dark green leaves, and -the marble fauns and nymphs, and heard the plashing of the fountain. -The crimson light from the sky was touching the white marble of the -figures, transforming them momentarily to the warm flush of life. Sara -and Paul passed between them and up the steps of the old house into -the great hall where the smiling Italian servants were ready to greet -them, and where from the gallery above the haughty ladies of the house -of Corleone looked down upon the two, and where from among them the -portrait of the now true owner of the place glowed like a great blue -sapphire. - -And a couple of hours later they came into the dining-room, where -shaded lamps filled the place with a soft mellow light, and shed their -glow on the white damask cloth, on the shining glass and silver, on -decanters of red wine, and on dishes of golden oranges. Soft-footed -low-voiced servants waited on them. It was a magic scene, over which -the gods of Love and Joy reigned supreme. - -And later still, the moon rose in the night sky, bathing the lake in -silver, touching the marble statues to unearthly whiteness, and finding -its way through a great window where two figures stood together looking -at its light upon the sleeping lake. Behind them the room was full of -flickering lights and shadows from a fire of fir-cones burning on the -hearth. - -And at last Sara turned from the strange beauty of the scene, and saw -Paul's eyes upon her. - -"Are you--content?" she asked. - -"Beloved of my heart," he said, and his arms closed round her. - -And so the Music of the Heart again filled the room, playing in -glorious and most perfect harmony for the two whom the Gods had blessed. - - * * * * * - -And far away in England, in a studio in another courtyard, Aunt Olive -was putting a question to Barnabas, while Pippa was lying asleep in the -inner room. - -"Now that Paul and Sara will have reached the Casa di Corleone," she -said, "and Alan and Aurora are cooing together, and Jasper and Bridget -have found happiness, I wonder what is going to become of you and Dan -and Michael." - -"You want to wind us up tidily, too," said Barnabas, smiling. - -"I was just wondering," she said. - -"Well," said Barnabas, "Michael has his music and his drawing, and, at -last, an ideal which will be his throughout his life. Dan will always -be what he is now--big, silent, making harmless love to all women (he -has been flirting disgracefully with Bridget, and Jasper has been -quite refreshingly jealous), and always he will be a staunch friend of -those who need him. And I, for the next few years, will turn my whole -attention to your candidates for the School of a Wonderful Chance, and -later----" he stopped. - -"And later?" asked Aunt Olive. - -"And later," said Barnabas, "I hope to ask you for Pippa." - -And through the half-open window the little faun heard the words. And -under the stars he piped a tune of the fairy tale of life, a tune of -love and laughter, whose notes reached the soul of the sculptor who had -fashioned him, and hearing the music he was glad. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note: - -Minor changes have been made to correct typesetter errors and to -regularize hyphenation; variant spellings have been retained. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT OLIVE IN BOHEMIA*** - - -******* This file should be named 63045-8.txt or 63045-8.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/0/4/63045 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you - are located before using this ebook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - |