i feel,” said barnabas, “that some one ought to pat me on the back. i set out to do something, and i did it. it is a pleasant sensation.”
“unaccustomed?” asked miss mason, with mock sarcasm.
they were both in her studio the day following the return of the donkey-party. they were awaiting the appearance of andrew mcandrew, to whom barnabas had written to come to the studio at four o’clock. pippa had been taken by jasper to call upon his wife.
miss mason had announced bridget’s advent to beaufort street to the assembled party the previous evening. they had taken the announcement without undue surprise. their minds were too big and straightforward to dream of questioning. since jasper had chosen to keep the fact of his marriage secret it was entirely his own affair. they merely rejoiced that he was now, as miss mason told them, unfeignedly happy.
“aurora,” continued barnabas, “has gone down to stay with her own people for three weeks, while the banns are being called. she left this morning, and alan is writing to her at the moment. their pet names for each other are sweetest and boysie. i suppose the pendulum was bound to swing pretty far in the direction of rank sentimentality. it’ll steady again presently.”
“you swung it,” said miss mason dryly.
“and i’m proud of the fact,” said barnabas.
there was a knock at the door.
“if that’s mr. mcandrew,” said miss mason, relapsing into her gruffest manner, “you’ll have to do the talking, because i can’t.”
“mr. mcandrew,” said sally, opening the door.
andrew came in, a great loose-limbed fellow, with mouse-coloured hair, and oddly earnest eyes in a snub-nosed, wide-mouthed face.
“awfully glad to see you, mcandrew,” said barnabas warmly. “let me introduce you to miss mason.”
the two shook hands and andrew sat down. his glance wandered round the studio till it reached the “winged victory.” his eyes rested on it with pleasure as on some familiar friend.
“ay,” he said, “but yon’s a fine bit o’ wor-rk.”
“you’re fond of sculpture,” said miss mason shortly.
“’deed,” said andrew, “i like it weel.”
“do you do anything yourself in that way?” asked miss mason.
andrew shook his head. “i’ll no be havin’ the [pg 235]time,” he said, “for mair than juist dabblin’ wi’ a bit o’ clay.”
“would you like to give your time to the work?” asked miss mason.
“’deed an’ i wad.” there was a simple earnestness about the words infinitely more convincing than any lengthy assurance of the fact.
“well,” said miss mason gruffly, “let’s have some tea.”
during the meal barnabas did most of the talking, andrew replying in short sentences. miss mason was practically silent. when it was finished miss mason looked across at barnabas.
“better tell mr. mcandrew our idea,” she said.
so, very straightforwardly, barnabas told andrew miss mason’s scheme for the wonderful chance. when he had ended andrew looked at him with an expression of dumb happiness in his eyes.
“you’ll be meanin’——?” he said. “you were thinkin’ to offer the chance to me?”
“if you care to take it,” said barnabas. “what do you think?”
“i’m maist obleeged,” said andrew, and he lapsed into silence.
“very well, then,” said miss mason gruffly, “it’s settled. mr. kirby will make all arrangements with you.” and she too became silent.
it was not at all the kind of interview barnabas had intended. he felt miss mason to be almost tiresomely gruff, and his protégé almost ungrateful.
at last andrew heaved himself out of his chair.
“i’ll be leavin’,” he said. he held out his hand to miss mason. “i’m maist obleeged,” he said again.
“that’s all right,” said miss mason gruffly.
barnabas went out into the little garden with andrew.
“miss mason doesn’t mean to be abrupt,” he said. “it’s merely her manner. she finds it difficult to express——”
andrew turned on him. “man, d’ye think i dinna ken. d’ye think ‘i’m maist obleeged’ told juist all that was in ma heart. i cud e’en ha’ knelt an’ ha’ kissed the hem o’ her skir-rt. an’ gin i had i’d ha’ been sobbin’ like a wee bit wean.” andrew swallowed once or twice fiercely.
then he saw the little faun.
“ay,” he said, “yon’s bonny. i wad like fine to make a figure to stand in t’ auld lady’s garden, but aiblins she like it a wee bit draipit.”
“charity,” laughed barnabas, “colossal and in many robes.”
“huh!” said andrew scornfully, “it’s ha’ gran’ figure o’ charity i was thinkin’ o’, but juist a wee figure o’ smilin’ love wi’ his hands held oot to draw folk to his hearrt.”
and a year later such a little figure did stand—not in the garden—but in a corner of miss mason’s studio.
when andrew had gone barnabas went back into the studio.
“we disappointed you,” said miss mason. “that boy’s no more good at expressing his feelings than i am.”
“i understand,” said barnabas lightly. “he managed though to say a bit more in the garden. by the way,” he went on, “no one has called to claim the ring yet, i suppose?”
“no,” replied miss mason. “it’s a queer ring.”
“yes,” said barnabas. but for some reason he still did not say where and when he had first seen it.
