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.