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.