far away from london pippa was swinging on a gate. her dress had become rather faded from much sunshine, and her straw hat had been baked quite brown. she had it well pulled down to shade her eyes, so that it hid the upper part of her face.
an hour ago pippa had been crying, and for the reason that the purple-shadowed landscape had refused to be interpreted on canvas through the medium of paints and brushes and her own little brown right hand. barnabas at her earnest request had lent her the materials. it was not the first time she had tried with them. he had watched her in silence as she messed away with the paints. suddenly she flung the canvas face downwards on the grass and burst into tears.
“what is it, kiddy?” asked barnabas, putting his arm round her.
“it’s all out vere,” she said, nodding towards the sunny landscape, “and i can see it, and i want to tell it to myself and ozzer peoples, like you tell your pictures, and i can’t—oh, i can’t.” [pg 213]she rubbed her tear-stained face up and down on barnabas’ coat-sleeve in an access of despair.
“but, childie,” expostulated barnabas, “one can’t ‘tell pictures,’ as you say, all in a moment. one has to learn.”
pippa shook her head. “not me,” she said. “i shall never learn. i can’t ever tell pictures. and it’s all here,” she put her hand to her heart, “and i want to say it so badly.”
for a minute barnabas was silent. then he spoke.
“once,” he said, “there was a boy who saw that the world was very beautiful and he wanted to tell his own beautiful thoughts about it to himself and to other people. one day he heard a man playing the violin. and the man made the violin speak so that in its music it said the most wonderful things. it told about the moon shining on a sleeping sea, and the secrets the little waves whispered to the shore. it told of silver streams whose banks were starred with primroses, and it told of great forests where the trees were standing dark and still in the purple night waiting for the first rosy flush of dawn. it told of the laughter of little children, and the songs young mothers sing to their babies. all these things the music of the violin told, and the boy listened, and said to himself, ‘i will play the violin, for i know now the way i can tell my thoughts to the world.’”
pippa was listening entranced. “had he got a violin?” she asked.
“no,” said barnabas, “but someone gave him a violin, and he had lessons, and he practised for many hours, but the violin would not speak his thoughts in the way he wished it to. and one day the great violinist he had first heard play came to the house. he listened to the boy playing but he didn’t say very much. you see, he was a big man, and the big men never discourage the little men. remember that, pippa, my child. well, when the boy had finished playing, the master just wagged his shaggy great head to and fro and said, ‘um, um, um. the lad’s got something to say, but——’ and then he went away. but he came again to see the boy. and that time he didn’t ask him to play, but he just sat talking to him. and while he talked the boy was playing with a piece of clay, for he was very fond of making figures out of it.”
“like andrew,” said pippa.
“yes, like andrew. well, while the master talked the boy went on doing something with the clay, and suddenly the master saw that it was a likeness of himself the boy had made. ‘let’s have a look at that, boy,’ he said. the boy, feeling very shy and crimson, pushed it over to him. the master stared at it for a minute, then he thumped his hand down on the table. ‘du lieber gott!’ he exclaimed in a huge big voice [pg 215]that made the boy tremble, ‘i knew the boy had something to say, and behold,’ he pointed at the clay, ‘here is the language in which he shall say it. my son,’ he went on, ‘you have the ear to hear the language of music, and you have the heart to understand it, but you have not the hand to make it speak yourself. in it you understand the thoughts of others, but in this earth you shall tell your own. if you live you will be a great man.’ and he held out his hand to the boy, who took it and kissed it, because he was so very happy. it’s a true story,” ended barnabas, “because the boy himself told me, only he was a man when he told the story.”
pippa nodded her head up and down. “i like dat,” she said. “one day p’raps i find a language. what was ze boy’s name?”
“the boy’s name,” said barnabas, “was philippe kostolitz, and he made the little faun which you love, and which is in my garden.”
“oh!” said pippa, with a delighted sigh. her tears were completely forgotten. twenty minutes later she was swinging on the gate.
barnabas was sitting in the shadow of a hedge near her, painting a buttercup field and a copse of birches beyond. dan was lying flat on his back smoking. andrew had gone back to london. and aurora and alan were off on some business of their own. pegasus, tethered to a long rope, was contentedly eating thistles.
pippa watched the birds and butterflies, which were many, and the by-passers, which were few, as she swung. an old man passed and called good afternoon in a cheery voice. a trap with a hard-worked young doctor in it drove by, and he smiled as he saw pippa. then there came a cart driven by a man, and with a boy of about fifteen sitting on the tail-board, his legs swinging. he made a grimace at pippa as he passed, and pippa—be it told with sorrow—put out her tongue at him. there was something of the gamin about pippa which was never wholly eradicated. and after the boy there passed a young gipsy woman carrying a baby. pippa gave her a three-penny bit. the woman looked hard at her.
“ah,” she said, “there’s some of our blood in your veins, and you have the sad eyes and the lucky smile of those who are born to many happenings. the lord keep you, little lady.” and she passed on her way. and after she had gone there were only the birds and butterflies for quite a long time.
suddenly pippa heard the distant hoot of a motor-car. barnabas, who had finished his painting, came to the gate and leant over it with her. the motor hove in sight, a great crimson mercedes, travelling fast.
pippa waved her hand as it passed. the occupants of the car, a man and a woman, saw the child, and the gaiety of the sunshine being in their hearts they waved in response. the woman, who was swathed in a purple motor veil, waved an ungloved hand. pippa saw the flash of diamonds on it. also as she waved something fell, but the car rounded a bend in the lane and was out of sight almost before pippa and barnabas realized it.
pippa scrambled over the gate. there was something lying in the dust, which she picked up. she came back slowly to barnabas.
“look,” she said, “what a queer, pretty ring.”
a ruby was set in it, on which was engraved a little figure of eros holding a circle and trident. the stone and its setting was undoubtedly very ancient. the ring itself probably georgian.
she held it out to barnabas. he took it from her.
“ah,” he said slowly, and he looked from it in the direction the car had vanished.
he had seen the ring before on the hand of philippe kostolitz.
“may i keep it?” asked pippa.
“no, little thief,” said barnabas. “the owner will miss it and perhaps come back for it. in any case we shall have to try and find out who she is, and return it.”
and he slipped the ring into his coat-pocket.
