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.