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
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 delightful3 old lady. You will like her, and her Scotch4 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.
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 honeymoon6. 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——”
life-size.
“That is Pippa,” said Miss Mason; “a little girl I have adopted.”
Barnabas was again watching Sybil.
“She is,” he said quietly, “extraordinarily8 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?”
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 livelihood10 was one. And he couldn’t conceive it
possible that the love of the work and not money was Philippe’s motive11 in his art. At any rate, he
sent Philippe away. I was quite miserable12, but hadn’t the courage to gainsay13 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
obdurate14 I could persuade Philippe not to tell them. At least I’d have a [Pg 265]month with him. I
“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
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
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 frightful18 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 acting20, 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 implored21 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 recital22, now looked up quickly. What
an extraordinary anomaly the woman was. She could banish23 from her mind all memory of the man she had
loved, she could forsake24 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.”
“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
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
entirely28 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 extenuating29 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 persuasions30. 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 lenient31 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 impatience32. 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 considerably33 like shaking her. He was determined34 that if he could prevent it she should
not spoil two lives. He had no belief in weak and tardy35 confessions36 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 renounce37 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
Curiously39 enough throughout the conversation neither Miss Mason nor Barnabas had spoken of Pippa by
name. Instinctively41 they both felt that to do so would be to suggest an intimacy42 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
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.
see her for a moment?”
Miss Mason hesitated, doubtful of the wisdom of the proceeding44. “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
“I know you will, my dear,” said Miss Mason gently. She was desperately46 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 likeness47 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 passionate48 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.”
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
点击
收听单词发音
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1
aurora
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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3
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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4
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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7
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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10
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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13
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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15
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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16
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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17
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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biassed
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| （统计试验中）结果偏倚的，有偏的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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