“Tell us everything,” said Miss Mason.
It came then, an odd little story, scrappily told. Her name was Pippa. She had lived in Paris with Madame Barbin. Madame Barbin washed clothes till they were white—oh, but very white. Pippa had posed for artists. She loved Madame Barbin, but she had died—a year, perhaps two years, ago. Madame Fournier had taken care of her then. She did not like Madame Fournier, who was cross. Then Madame Fournier had brought her in a ship to England. Perhaps that was a year ago. Anyhow, it was cold weather. They had lived in different houses, and finally at Mrs. Higgins’ house, and Pippa had posed for different artists in London. Some time in the summer, Madame Fournier had gone away, leaving Pippa with Mrs. Higgins. She had not come back. Mrs. Higgins was angry—very angry, according to Pippa. She beat her occasionally, but not always very badly. Bruises were likely to be seen on one who poses for “the altogether.” Lately, however, Mrs. Higgins had been too angry to remember that fact. Hence the bruises of the previous evening. In reply to further questioning it was found that Pippa knew no one she had ever called father or mother. There were only Madame Barbin, Madame Fournier, Mrs. Higgins, and the names of quite a good many well-known artists for whom she had posed. She also stated that she washed herself every morning, though Mrs. Higgins said it was “un’ealthy.” And she washed and dried her underclothes when Mrs. Higgins was away at the public-houses, where she spent most of her time.
“Yes,” Miss Mason nodded. “The child is clean, at all events.”
And then suddenly at the end of the recital, Pippa swayed a little sideways, and if Barnabas had not sprung forward she would have fallen on the hearthrug. As it was, she lay in his arms, her face dead white against the scarlet folds of silk. In a word, Pippa had fainted.
Barnabas laid her flat on the hearthrug and opened the door and windows. Miss Mason fetched brandy and a large cut-glass bottle of smelling-salts, which she held to the child’s nose, making a curious clucking sound with her tongue, and lamenting that there were no feathers handy to burn. But presently, in spite of the lack of feathers, Pippa opened her eyes.
Then Barnabas put a question.
“When did you last have food?” he asked, watching her.
Pippa put up a small hand to her forehead and pushed back the dark hair.
“Yesterday,” she said feebly. “Bread and treacle”—she rolled the r’s in a funny way—“at dinner-time.”
“And nothing since then!” cried Miss Mason in horror. “Oh! that Mrs. Higgins!”