THE FAUN IN THE GARDEN
Barnabas came into his garden in the early morning sunshine. His hair
was still a little wet, for he had only just had his bath. He was
wearing an old Turkish dressing-gown, purple bedroom slippers, and was
smoking a cigarette.
A light wind was blowing through the courtyard. It scattered the pink
petals of a too full-blown la France rose upon the garden path. They
chased each other round in a little mad dance, first down the path,
then in circles at the foot of the statue of a little faun playing on
a long thin reed. The faun looked at them with mocking, laughing eyes,
while he piped to their dancing.
A thrush in the laburnum tree looked at Barnabas for a moment, but as
it had already got used to the fact that he was neither a cat nor a boy
with a stone handy, it began to sing a sweet full-throated song.
Barnabas fingered a la France rosebud. There were half a dozen little
green blights clinging to the petals. He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke
round it. The blights smiled at him, so to speak. It would require
something stronger than cigarette smoke to remove them from their
lodging. Barnabas let go his hold on the rosebud.
"Hang it all," he said. "I daresay they're enjoying life and the
sunshine as much as I am. They don't seem to be hurting the roses,
anyhow."
A couple of white butterflies flew into the garden. One of them settled
on the sleeve of his dressing-gown. Barnabas looked at it. It did not
move, only its wings quivered a little.
"You morsel of life," said Barnabas, "you're enjoying yourself too."
He felt a sudden odd remorse at the thought of other butterflies he
had long ago enclosed in wide-topped bottles filled with camphor, and
then pinned down on to pieces of cork. The destructive age had not
lasted long with Barnabas. His love of Nature was too whole-hearted and
genuine.
The door of studio number seven suddenly opened, and Sally came out in
her blue print dress. She held a duster in her hand which she flapped
two or three times. The butterfly flew away to perch on the shoulder of
the faun.
Sally paused for a moment to sniff the morning air. She did not see
Barnabas. She was feeling very happy. She was seventeen, it was eight
o'clock on a June morning, and last night she had written to her young
man--a stalwart coal-heaver. The letter had been written with a stubby
end of pencil on a scrap of paper. The envelope into which she had put
it had not stuck well. It had required much pressure from Sally's
thumb. The cleanest thumb will leave a mark on an envelope if it is
much rubbed on it. The envelope had looked a little dirty, and Sally
had sighed. She felt, however, that the words it contained would more
than make up in Jim's eyes for the smear. Later she would ask leave to
go out and buy a stamp.
Then she saw Barnabas. Her work having lain hitherto in the kitchen
rather than in the upstair regions, she was not used to the appearance
of young men in Turkish dressing-gowns, and she blushed.
"Morning," said Barnabas pleasantly, smiling at the girl. She made him
think of a wild-rose.
"Good morning, sir," said Sally, and she dropped a curtsey.
Barnabas looked at her with approval.
"Where did you learn to make curtsies, child? I thought they'd gone
out of fashion with Bibles, brown sugar on bread and butter, and old
ladies."
Sally dropped another curtsey from pure nervousness.
"Please, sir, mother taught me, sir. She was still-room maid in a big
house before she married father. She said born ladies curtseyed to the
King and Queen, and we curtseyed to the born ladies--and gentlemen,"
she added.
"Then your mother, child, is not a Socialist," said Barnabas.
"Please, sir, mother says," said Sally seriously, "that Socialism is
a lot of silly talk among discontented people who'd be discontented if
they had the moon to play with. She says Christ's socialism was love
and respect."
Barnabas gave a low whistle.
"Your mother must be a very remarkable woman," he said.
There was a moment's pause, while Sally looked at him and at the white
butterfly which had returned to perch upon his sleeve. Then a sudden
spirit of mischief, born of the wind of the morning, took possession of
Barnabas.
"I hope we didn't disturb your mistress with our singing last night,"
he said. There was a little glint of gay devilry in his eyes.
"Oh, no, sir," said Sally quickly. "I asked her ten minutes ago, sir,
and she said, 'Bless you, no, child. Enjoyed it. They sounded so
delightfully young and happy. Like to have that kind of lullaby every
night.'"
Sally was an unconscious mimic. Barnabas got a sudden and not
inaccurate mental image of Miss Mason as she spoke the words. A
little pang of remorse, not unlike the pang he had experienced at the
thought of the butterflies, smote him as he remembered his half-joking
conversation with Dan.
"Give your mistress my compliments, and tell her I am glad we didn't
disturb her. Also that I shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon
her at no very distant date."
"Yes, sir," said Sally, and she turned back towards the studio.
"By the way," said Barnabas, "what is your mistress's name?"
"Miss Mason, sir," said Sally. She dropped a final curtsey and
disappeared within the studio.
Barnabas lifted his arm with the butterfly on it, and brushed its wings
lightly against his lips. Apparently it appreciated the treatment, for
it remained passive.
"Is it the influence of the morning, the wings of a white butterfly, or
the wild-rose face of that child?" said Barnabas.
"I fancy I am going to fall in love with Miss Mason."