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 [pg 265]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 [pg 269]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 [pg 276]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.