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 [pg 221]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 [pg 223]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 [pg 224]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 [pg 225]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 [pg 226]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 [pg 230]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.
